Chapter 8 Bardy
BARDY
I hope good luck lies in odd numbers.
He can’t believe Tay got Lou to come. Or that she came.
When the doors opened and he saw who it was, he experienced a wave of rich berry.
Or maybe that was Lou’s new sweater. It’s rare these days that experiences bring a color—usually just people—but this was special.
He was cheese-grinningly pleased to see them.
Ridiculous really. Five was okay. And he likes odd numbers in a group.
But seven is better. He can’t wait to hear what Lou is going to do.
He is now with them in the kitchen, bringing them up to speed with what he’s covered so far.
Which isn’t much. The others are enjoying coffee and cake around the table.
Most of it had come back to him. The teaching stuff.
Only one sticky moment when Pia asked him a question and he ended up talking at Kate.
But it got easier. And they’re all grand, a nice bunch.
Interesting what Linda said about the bananas.
He hasn’t met her before. Of course, Leonard has been known as an acquaintance for years.
Worked with him on loads of community projects.
During the pandemic, Leonard was so busy helping the town that he became known locally as the lockdown king.
But Linda? She’s different. And what a truly splendid color. A pleasure just to be near her.
Lou is moaning as he helps himself to another slice of lemon cake, “She wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“Not gonna lie, had to be done, Chad. Couldn’t let Bardy down.”
“What’s with this ‘Chad’ stuff? Chad this, Chad that . . . what?” He glares at Bardy, brushing cake crumbs from his cerise sweater. “What are you laughing about?”
It’s Tay who answers. “Well, Chad, it is what it is, but I thought we’d better come in case no one else did.”
Bardy slaps him on the shoulder, “It’s basketball club all over again.”
Luigi glares from one to the other in confusion, and looks like he is about to protest when Pia pops her head around the door. “I said I would get another slice of cake for Kate,” she says, heading for the counter.
“Yes, yes.” Luigi steps aside to make way, brushing nonexistent crumbs from his front.
“Great cake,” Bardy comments, as she cuts a piece.
Is that all he can think to say?
Pia smiles at them and leaves, Luigi and Bardy watching her retreating back.
Tay looks from one to the other. “Pia?” she says in wonderment. “Really?”
“What?”
“What?”
A couple of parrots.
Tay laughs. Which Bardy will take. It doesn’t happen that often.
“You two are total idiots,” Tay says with obvious relish and heads out to join the others at the table.
Bardy and Luigi exchange a glance. Jon and Lou. Twelve-year-old boys in old men’s bodies. “Nice jumper,” Bardy mutters as they follow Tay.
“It showed what you could do with a bit of organization. By pulling together . . .”
Bardy is half listening. He hopes Leonard doesn’t know he’s zoned out. The man deserves a bit of respect. He turned his electrical company into a hub. Was there for the town. In his element, organizing support, making PPE that actually worked.
“How about the logistics?” It’s a gift of a question. The least he can do for the lockdown king.
Leonard is off, and Bardy’s mind flits between the conversations around the table.
Pia and Linda talking beaches. Kate asking Luigi about Tina.
Brave? Or just the right thing to do? Tay not talking but Kate’s body language including her.
Pia joining in with Kate, then talking about Pisa with Lou.
Kate, now on Italian food with Linda. He remembers this.
A group in free-flowing chat. So much covered.
Tay is up and off to the telescope at the window.
Leonard’s eye follows her. He seems envious.
Anxious. Why is Leonard still stuck in lockdown? Most want to forget it.
“No, really, Linda! No!”
Bardy’s attention shoots back to Leonard. The words had burst from him.
Leonard colors and says more moderately, “No, no. Not the time or place, dear.”
Linda stares at him in amazement.
“No, sorry for that, folks.” Leonard tries to frown down his bemused wife.
Linda takes a deep breath. Bardy has an image of her cracking her knuckles.
She’s deciding: take him on or let it go.
She waits while Kate draws the others’ attention to a murmuration of dunlins cascading and careering across the deepening peach sky.
Leonard sees an escape and heads for it. “Not a murmuration. That term technically only applies to starlings.”
It seems that this convinces Linda. “What was that about, Leonard?” she asks, softly. But there’s grit mixed in.
Like Kate, Lou, and Pia, Bardy’s now watching the beach. But his ears are straining.
“I’m sorry, dear. I know with all those years of nursing, you are more open than most. But other people . . .” Leonard’s voice fails him.
In the same quiet tone, face close to her husband’s, Linda asks, “What did you think I said to Kate?”
“It’s just that you’ve only just met her . . .”
“What did you think I said?”
“It’s personal . . . not everyone . . .”
“What?” Just grit this time.
Leonard leans in and whispers something to his wife.
Linda’s laugh is explosive and delicious. Bardy thinks it suits her rich, rounded color. She is still laughing, shaking her head, then she grabs hold of Leonard’s hand. “I said ‘pasta bake,’ you ridiculous man, not ‘masturbate.’”
A laugh escapes Bardy.
“Quite,” Linda says, catching his eye.
Leonard pulls his hand away, flushing. “I am not ridiculous.” He sounds hurt.
Linda takes a deep breath and pats his hand. “I know you’re not. But you do need to wear your . . . hearing aids.”
Bardy can fill in the blank. Bloody hearing aids.
He turns and places his hands on the table, making a light patting sound, bringing the attention of the room back to him.
Once a teacher, always a teacher. He nods at Tay, who rejoins the group.
“Okay, shall we go round the table and talk about what we’re thinking of doing for the competition?
” Anxiety settles on the circle like a damp sea mist. He knew it would. “Shall I go first?”
Relief like a Mexican wave.
Every time.
“It won’t surprise you to hear that with a surname like mine, I like to spend my time . . . painting.” He joins in the laughter. “No, you’re right, it’s writing that I have a go at.”
My wife was the artist.
He doesn’t want this thought, but it does give him purchase. Dig in, just keep going.
“I’ve spent so much time with other people’s words. Years of teaching, plus reading pretty much anything I can get my hands on. But I do also write short stories.”
He doesn’t mention the poems he composes on his phone. He’s not sure what they’re all about. Apart from color. Today’s is inspired by the distinctive terra-cotta red of an old boat sail. The color of the local RSPB warden, Steve.
“I’ve never had anything published, and to be honest, I gave up trying some years ago. About the same time, I knew that even if I never saw a book of mine in print, I would still write.”
Tay says a name. Voice cracking. Like she has a cold.
It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t recognize the name.
He knows what it took for her to speak out in front of all these new people.
A girl of contrasts: mouthy if she knows you, otherwise shy and monosyllabic.
Except, it suddenly occurs to Bardy, that she must be okay at her job, too.
She’s been there well over a year. Still, he can see her nervously flicking her thumbnail against the underside of her finger.
It seems Pia does recognize the name.
“My nephew sent me a link to his music,” she nods, “he’s really good.”
Thank you, Pia.
Tay’s voice settles. “He said he plays because he has to. Making money is just luck.”
The door to the room slams open, and a tall woman in a long padded jacket and burgundy suede boots bundles in. She struggles to close the door with one hand while answering her phone with the other.
Bardy is irrationally angry. Like the woman has shoved Tay.
“I know we said Wednesday, but you are just going to have to change it. Is that so hard to understand!” The woman’s braying voice fills the room.
And it’s a big room. She is now attempting to unzip her jacket with one hand, while holding her phone to her ear with the other.
She dumps a bag she is carrying over her arm on the floor.
As she dances to shed her coat, she glances down at one of her boots, the sole of which is flapping like an open mouth.
“For Christ’s sake! Not again!” she cries, waving her foot up and down, making the sole flap some more.
“No! No, I wasn’t talking to you,” she barks dismissively before continuing, “it has to be Thursday so the electrician can be there. Were you not listening to me . . . ?” There is a pause, and glancing around the circle, Bardy sees all faces are turned toward the woman.
He turns back to the ranting woman, and all he sees is acid mustard. It is similar to the color of the coastal buses, although he doubts this woman uses public transit or is as useful.
“You really don’t have a leg to stand on, the project is running late as it is, and quite frankly, what other work you have is not my problem.” And with this, the woman hangs up.
Her manner changes. A switch. Now among friends.
Or perhaps not. Her appraising look sweeps them.
Acquaintances. But one up from builders.
“I’m sorry about that,” she proclaims, waving a dismissive hand.
She picks up her bag and limps forward, boot sole open-mouthed and flapping.
She glances down and gives an exaggerated, amused shrug.
“Is this the right place for the MACKL group?”
She’s going to mess it up.
He suddenly realizes the group is looking to him.
“Yes, this is our first meeting. Were you interested in joining?”
“Yes, I’m an artist. I sculpt. My husband said I should check you out. Thought there was no harm in coming along.”
Bardy can feel the group draw together. Solidarity.
Acid mustard? Really, the woman is almost diarrhea yellow.
He smiles. “Well, take a seat.” He introduces himself and the others. Then pauses.
It takes a while. But she gets there in the end. “Oh . . . yes. I’m Tash. What have I missed?”
“We were just going to go round and talk about what we might do for the competition.”
Tash pats the large bag beside her confidently. “Off you go then.”
Bardy wonders if he could write a short story about a woman who gets eaten by her boot.