CHAPTER 17 #2
She walked across the cattle grid and up over the hill onto the Downs.
Sofia wasn’t getting divorced, was she? Surely not?
Well, Pat was divorced, and children of divorced parents were statistically more likely to go the same way.
No. Pat dismissed the idea. Her voice hadn’t sounded upset or divorcey.
She walked on along the coastal path, which was clearer than usual.
Henry’s mother. Poor, poor Rebecca. What a call that had been.
There was something in her voice that clung to Pat like a fog, heavy and impossible to shake.
Suddenly it began to rain and hail. Pat looked up.
She’d been so absorbed in her thoughts and theories, concentrating on the footpath and the odd bits of litter that she’d been picking, she hadn’t noticed the weather, the clouds, the storm that had flown in from France.
No wonder the coastal path was empty; the sky was black and the heavens had truly opened.
It wasn’t a light drizzle that could be shrugged off, or even just fat raindrops; these were stinging pellets, ricocheting off the ground and bouncing off her shoulders like shrapnel.
She had been so distracted she’d come out in a T-shirt and the thin padded gilet that usually hung on the back of the door in the shepherd’s hut.
Where was she? She looked up and down the path as the rain hammered down, pouring off the end of her nose and running like a river down her spine and into her underwear.
It was biblical. It was the sort of storm people got lost in.
Through the curtain of rain, she made out the silhouette of the Beachy Head pub.
She’d walked that far? She hurried towards it as best she could through the heavy wet grass.
Her hip began to play up, but she made it to the car park.
She glanced at the chaplaincy next door to the pub, staffed every day of the year by people quietly keeping watch, looking out for those who’d run out of road.
Then she hurried into the Beachy Head and heard the door thud shut behind her.
She was dripping wet. Her white T-shirt clung to her like an elderly swimming costume, devoid of elastane.
The place was not quite packed, but there were plenty of walkers and tourists gathered around the tables, drinking Coca-Cola and trying to work out the time of the next bus back to Southbourne.
Pat walked slowly towards the bar, conscious that her trainers were seeping, squelching water with every step.
She found a high stool at the end, and waited, wiping the steam off her black-framed specs with a paper napkin she lifted from the pile in front of her.
The staff were busy – there was obviously something of a rush on – but she wasn’t in a hurry.
She was happy just to sit there, out of the rain, hoping to dry out a bit.
A youngish-looking man came to stand next to her.
Dressed in a black zip-up, with his hood pulled low over his head, he placed a hand on the bar.
Pat couldn’t really see his face, just his sharp nose, peeking out from underneath the hood.
She looked down at his hand. His fingernails were bitten painfully short, and the cuticles around the edge had been chewed, ripped, stripped off by his teeth.
‘Excuse me!’ he said, his partially bearded chin jutting out. ‘Excuse me!’ He waved a big pink fifty-pound note. ‘I’d like a double brandy.’
‘Double brandy?’ checked the old chap behind the bar, with a white beard and wisps of white hair attempting to cover his shiny domed head. ‘Courvoisier? On ice? Or as it comes?’
‘Yup,’ agreed the young man, ‘as it comes.’
Pat watched as he waited, shifting from one foot to the other, scratching his already sore-looking hands.
His brandy arrived and he picked up the glass, left the banknote on the bar.
‘Keep the change,’ he said, and walked over to an empty table in the middle of the room, where he sat down and stared at his drink.
The heavy cloud of sadness that accompanied him was overwhelming. Pat could feel it in her gut.
‘Excuse me,’ she said to the barman. ‘Please may I have two Cokes and a packet of crisps?’
Two minutes later, she arrived at the central table.
‘You might want a mixer with that,’ she said, placing one of the Cokes next to the young man’s untouched brandy.
He didn’t respond. His forearms formed a triangle in front of him on the table, and his head was bowed.
‘A packet of crisps might go down well too, if you fancy. Do you mind if I sit down?’
She didn’t wait for him to reply. She pulled out a chair and flopped down opposite him.
‘So,’ she began, ‘it’s pouring with rain outside, what’s the plan? Wait for it to stop, finish your drink and then go to the cliff? Or drink the brandy and go straight to the cliff and to hell with the rain?’
He still didn’t respond, but his head lifted, maybe just a centimetre.
Pat glanced round to see one of the chaplains walk through the door.
He met her eye for a split second, his benign face etched with concern.
Pat smiled at him and gave an imperceptible nod that told him she’d got this.
He backed off towards the bar, hovering. He was there if she needed him.
She opened the crisps. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, pushing them towards the young man. ‘I think these are stale. Just my luck.’
‘They’re cheese and onion,’ he replied quietly. ‘They always taste stale.’
‘Do they?’ asked Pat, helping herself to another. ‘The ones I really hate are prawn cocktail.’
‘I quite like those,’ he mumbled.
‘You can’t!’ She looked at him. ‘Prawn cocktail are the devil’s work. Do you want one of these?’
‘No.’
His head went down again. Pat paused and glanced over at the chaplain in his black shirt, white dog collar and yellow hi-vis jacket.
‘I always think someone doesn’t care very much about their future when they say “keep the change” after passing over a fifty-pound note. What’s in your future?’
The young man looked up at her then. ‘I have no future, no job. I live with my mum, no friends, no qualifications.’
Pat replied, ‘And since you told the barman to keep the change, no money either.’
He shrugged and looked away.
‘Tell me a bit more,’ she said.
‘About what? I have nothing else to say.’
‘Nothing at all?’
‘Well, there’s my mum.’
‘Tell me about her.’
‘She’d be better off without me.’
‘Your phone’s ringing.’
The young man took his phone out of his hoodie. ‘It’s her. It’s the twentieth time she’s phoned today.’
‘Answer it?’
‘No.’
‘D’you feel like this a lot?’
‘I feel awful all the time.’ His fingers played with the crisp packet as he spoke, his gaze fixed down.
‘Yeah, hard to go on when you feel like that.’ Pat paused, and then said, ‘When did you feel less awful?’
‘I think I was born like this. No good to anyone, no good to myself.’
‘Tough carrying that kind of belief around.’
‘It’s really hard.’
‘Yes, really, really hard.’
She left another long pause before saying, ‘When did you last feel OK?’
‘I used to play computer games, but what’s the point?’
‘They can distract you, I suppose, but they’re not very sociable.’
‘I haven’t got any friends.’
‘Except me and your mum.’
‘You’re not a friend.’
‘You’re right, but I’m trying.’
His phone went again. He looked at it, hesitating. Pat didn’t move, just watched him, calm and unwavering. Perhaps he could feel her focus pressing in. It was as if her stillness alone compelled him.
‘She doesn’t give up, does she?’ she said. ‘Answer it.’
He looked up at her, then, fingers shaking, brought the phone to his ear.
‘Hi, Mum … No, I didn’t, I was driving … Oh, you can see that I’m at Beachy Head. No, don’t worry … Yeah … I’m talking to a lady … A date?’ He looked at Pat with a hint of a smile.
‘She wants to know whether we’re on a date?’ Pat asked. ‘It’s too early to say as yet.’
‘She says it’s too early to know,’ he repeated into the phone. ‘Yes, that’s right … Yes, sorry about this morning … Yes, one of my moods … OK, see you tonight. I’ll be late.’
He ended the call, put his head in his hands and started crying in silence.
Pat said nothing, just gave his forearm a pat and waited.
‘She does care, you know,’ he said eventually.
Pat smiled at him.
‘Sometimes I think nobody does, but I just don’t let them in.’
‘Yeah,’ said Pat. ‘Do you want to get your change from behind the bar?’
‘Oh yes. Could you get it for me, my eyes must be red.’
Pat went to the bar and asked the barman for the change. The man obliged, and she returned to the table and passed it over.
‘I’m going to drive back to my mum’s now,’ the young man announced when she sat down again.
‘You OK to drive?’
‘Yeah, I’m good. I didn’t drink the brandy. Thanks for the Coke and crisps.’
‘You’re welcome. What’s your name?’
He put out his hand. ‘I’m Ben.’
‘Really nice to meet you, Ben,’ said Pat, and she meant it. ‘Promise me you’ll go to your GP tomorrow and tell them what happened today.’
‘Maybe. Oh, I don’t know. But thanks.’ He stood up and walked out of the pub.
The clouds had dissipated a bit. Pat went to the window and watched Ben get in his car and drive off.
‘Thank you.’ The chaplain had followed her to the window and was now standing behind her.
‘Oh! No worries. Did the barman call you?’ asked Pat.
‘Yes. When a punter hands over a large note and says “keep the change”, the staff always call us. I was watching you. Looks like you did a good job.’
‘I’m a psychotherapist.’
‘Oh, you are? You’re in the right place, then, or the wrong place.’ He sighed and stroked his neat moustache.
‘How long have you been here? Are you a volunteer?’
‘I’m a priest at a parish further down the coast, at East Dean, but I’ve been volunteering here for about fifteen years.’
‘And it’s busy?’