Chapter 4 Bardy
BARDY
Age cannot wither her.
He makes a dash for the newly vacated table by the window. He nods at Lou above the heads of those queuing at the counter. Lou knows how he likes his coffee. Will get to him in time. He’s in no rush.
No Tay today. But then it would be too early. She would be at work at the call center.
The coffee machine blasts and screeches, and then comes the sharp rap of old coffee being discarded, the squeaky, metallic scrunch of new coffee being loaded.
Did anyone ever use a coffee machine as a musical instrument?
People used dustbins, didn’t they? Vacuum cleaners.
A mother pushes a toddler in a stroller past the steamy window.
Hard work against the wind. The child straining its body against the straps like an angry starfish caught in a net.
The boys had been like that. Fighting against everything.
Often without considering if they might like what was on offer. Stubborn.
God, he misses them.
He scans the café’s customers. There is a face he knows.
A nice face. What was her name? He had taught her girls.
All three of them. Husband was a bit of a jerk.
He remembers that. Had wondered what she was doing with him.
But then he often wondered what Hana saw in him.
What was her name? He’d heard something in the staff room about Mr. Whatever-it-is going off with some young American .
. . or was it Canadian? The girls he can remember: Jess .
. . Bella . . . and . . . Ellie. She’d been fun, Ellie.
Taken A-level English. Could have done something like journalism, but had gone for art . . . textile art, something like that.
Oliver! That’s it. Mrs. Oliver.
Bardy’s triumph quickly fades, and he is left with the dregs of disappointment. He’d really like to know what her first name is.
Some of his colleagues would never live where they taught. And he could understand that. Could never get away from the kids. And the families. Some of those families! They were enough to make you want to emigrate.
But he thought it had its advantages. You did know the families.
The good and the bad. Gave you some feel for what their home life was like.
Getting an English essay in on time might be the least of their worries.
And it wasn’t always deprivation that caused the problems. Some of the richest kids he’d taught had parents who were the biggest cokeheads.
Wanting to hang out with their kids’ friends.
He didn’t need Tay to tell him how deeply uncool that was.
At least he hadn’t inflicted that on his boys, even though he had taught them.
Bardy catches Mrs. Oliver’s eye and smiles.
He hopes she’s okay. The hair tells its own tale.
He’s seen her around town, head wrapped in a silk scarf.
He turns away and returns to thoughts of his boys.
He hopes that having him as a teacher wasn’t too hard for them.
He’s never really asked them, fearing the answer.
Still, when Ned came back during lockdown, it had been okay.
Tom smug in New Zealand. Hana back in Wales.
He wasn’t glad when Ned split up with his girlfriend, but he was pleased that he came home to him.
His girlfriend, Freyja, had wanted to be home with her family in Iceland.
Hana had never been quite sure about her—too needy, she’d said.
Hana didn’t have much time for needy. Which was odd when she was such a good foster mom.
So, Ned had come to him and they’d had an okay time, all things considered.
He sometimes wonders if Hana had put the idea in his head: “Your dad’s not doing so well . . .”
Bardy looks up, glancing in Mrs. Oliver’s direction.
Then he sees the woman beside her. He experiences her like a physical blow in his guts.
No time to tense. No time to prepare. How can such a petite woman pack such a punch?
But she is simply stunning. He tries to catch at her color.
A way to calm himself. To combat the ridiculous heart-hammering clamminess that has swept him.
But there is no color.
Instead, his mind is suddenly filled with the memory of a painting he once saw of a woman dressed entirely in cream, face half in shadow, light falling on just such a cheekbone.
He had headed into the gallery to escape the heat of the street.
He can’t recall where it was. Cairo? Istanbul?
The light diffuse, apart from pinpoints at his feet.
A scattering of stars from the grille set in the ceiling above his head.
Then, through the playful light, he had seen the painting.
The line of that cheekbone. Had wanted to reach out and touch it.
He starts to imagine the feel of this woman’s cheek under his fingers and is shocked by the sick sense of intrusion it brings.
Like some sad stalker. Instead, he stares deep into the cappuccino that Lou has just brought him.
He looks up quickly. He always drinks Americanos.
Lou is there at the women’s table, all Italian bonhomie.
The bugger is sucking his stomach in.
Lou won’t catch Bardy’s eye. Doesn’t even realize he has delivered the wrong coffee.
Silently laughing at Lou—and himself—helps Bardy.
It calms his breathing. He sips the wrong coffee.
What are he and Lou like? Acting like teenagers just because she is so .
. . He chances a quick glance at the woman.
She is talking to Mrs. Oliver, smiling, leaning in.
He hasn’t felt like this since Hana walked into his classroom all those years ago.
It had made some kind of sense then because the experience had been suffused in that glorious golden yellow.
It had been as if the color was signaling to him.
He lets his mind go blank. Searches. But still, there is no glimpse of a color.
There are many people who Bardy meets who have no link with a color.
In fact, most of them. For those that do, the color doesn’t come as an aura but something clean and clear—distinctly knowable in his mind’s eye.
His head is simply flooded with their color.
The color he experiences may change over time, but it is what it is.
It isn’t something he chooses, and it certainly has nothing to do with a person’s skin or hair coloring.
Knowing how “I see people in color” might sound, he has only ever told two people about his dubious gift.
It started around puberty. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with.
One day, he was letting a friend of his dad’s into the house, and the man brought with him a flood of lilac.
He was a big man too. Great bushy beard.
Then it was his English teacher, Ms. Abbot.
A rich, warm caramel. That hadn’t surprised him.
But it didn’t help with the other stuff that came with puberty.
Lou had spotted it. Well, not the erection.
But the fact that he carried his bag slung in front of him “like a girl.” Which was ironic.
Fuck. But what could he say? One look at Lou told him not to go there.
Best friend. Yes. But “Do you ever see people in color?” was not a conversation he wanted to have.
Well, not then. Not at thirteen. He had tried a few tentative inquiries with his art teacher, but he just thought he was making fun of him.
Maybe he should have tried Ms. Powell, the biology teacher. No chance of a boner in her class.
Dead slug gray.
He can’t imagine even Farrow & Ball wanting that one.
Over the years, he has researched synesthesia and knows it is often linked to music—has read that the composer, Sibelius, told his decorator to paint his stove F major.
Green, apparently. He once heard a woman on the radio talking about how each day of the week was a particular color—she seemed surprised that others didn’t see it that way.
He does remember that Monday was French navy.
And another time, he caught the end of a documentary where a musician said that when he was young and had gone to concerts, he presumed that when the orchestra started, and the lights were turned down, it was so the audience could see the colors.
Bardy knows he’s not musical. Just an ordinary man with a love of words.
With a weird way of seeing people. Still, he wishes this woman had a color. It might help.
She looks his way, and he quickly lowers his gaze, but not before he catches the gleam of an amber eye.
He is forcefully reminded of a curlew. Eye bright.
Feathers, lying soft, interlocking, layer upon layer of subtle, beautiful browns, creams, and sand.
A natural camouflage against the muted tones of the marsh.
Out there on the mudflats, she could disappear from view. Would be hidden.
Bardy feels shaken. He has no idea what is going on, so he hangs on to the one thing he does know.
He has had enough of his cappuccino. Remembers why he doesn’t ever order them.
He pushes the cup aside and goes to pay.
In the line, he wavers. He could go up and say hello to Mrs. Oliver.
Would that seem odd? She did smile back.
Seemed to recognize him. Before he can teeter one way or another off his tightrope of indecision, he spots the card.
The brightness of the orange breaks through his distraction.
He asks Lou.
Who doesn’t know much, but seems to think Tay might be behind it.
Bardy is just turning to leave when he hears the woman speak.
The slight accent fits. Scandinavian? He slows.
Maybe he’ll say something. He could mention Jolabokaflod.
What the hell is he thinking? Maybe he should just nod and smile.
But like the eight-year-old Jon he was—he bottles it.
Instead, he catches Mrs. Oliver’s eye. Looks at her for far too long and then bolts for the door, sure that Jess and Bella and Ellie’s mom must think her daughters’ old English teacher is completely mad.