Chapter Ten Tom #2
He was probably in his fifties or sixties and he had shoulder-length dark brown hair and a white beard.
He was dressed in a worn flannel shirt, every button but the top one done up, with a tweed-like jacket over the top.
Tom crouched a small distance away, though there was little chance of the man noticing him.
He was completely in his own world. Tom waited, his camera pressed against his face, his hand on the lens.
Each time the man stopped to laugh to himself, Tom hit the shutter, taking stills.
It was after six in the morning and the sun was starting to rise behind the buildings that sat as the backdrop to the fountain, a warm yellow orb filling the sky.
Tom’s subject couldn’t see any of this because his back was toward it, but it made the image even more poignant as he sat there, resting against the fountain as the warm glow of light bounced off the high-rises and onto the ground around him.
Tom flicked back through the pictures he’d taken and got the same familiar rush he’d had at the ceilidh; as though he had
been present to capture a beautiful moment.
He approached the man, who stopped singing and fixed his eyes on Tom. They were sharp and focused.
“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” Tom started, realizing too late that he wasn’t entirely sure what he was going to say. “Do you
think maybe I could . . .” He looked around, spying a Pret. “. . . take you for breakfast?”
The man broke into a grin and Tom wished he’d had his camera ready. He had a couple of teeth missing and his eyes crinkled
at the corners.
“Stormy,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Tom,” Tom replied, shaking it. He had a fleeting thought. Did this count as doing something alone? But no, he was fairly
sure it was quite the opposite.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I took some photos of you,” Tom told him as they made their way from Trafalgar Square and to the
café opposite. A few people dressed in suits were walking in ahead of them.
Thank God that wasn’t the reason he got up early.
Tom would never have suited a smart office job.
His dad had said it to him from a young age and he’d been right.
He was always different, apparently, in that way.
Never aspired to go down the academic route.
“I was wondering if I could, perhaps, use them. For an exhibition I’m holding.
” It was only as he said it that Tom realized he was going to do what Daisy suggested.
He was going to contact the gallery she’d messaged him a photo of minutes after she got off the bus.
Stormy shrugged. “I’ll tell you after breakfast,” he said, a cheeky smile breaking out beneath his beard.
Tom sent out a silent prayer that he’d say yes. He’d be able to tell for sure when he got them onto his computer and further
still when they were edited and printed, but he was pretty sure he’d taken something he was really happy with. Something that,
when blown up and put on the wall of a gallery, might take people’s breath away.
“No problem,” he said instead.
Tom sipped his coffee as he watched Stormy make his way through a hot bacon baguette and a cup of tea.
“Why a sea shanty?” Tom asked, wrapping his hands around his mug.
“Worked on the yachts,” he said, a faraway look in his eyes. “I was the happiest deckhand you ever saw. It takes me back there.
If I close my eyes and sing it, right by that fountain, with the water running, I can feel it all.”
“What happened?” Tom asked.
“I guess you could say I chased my dreams so far I forgot what it was I wanted to hold on to, you know? Fell in love with a chief stewardess and worked my way up the ranks until I was captain. We were saving,” he said, raising his eyebrows.
“We were going to move to New Zealand, but the higher I went, the sadder I got. I liked the physical work of being a deckhand. I needed it. I lost it all,” he said, his eyes glazing over.
“If I’d just stayed on the deck, I bet you a thousand pounds I wouldn’t be here.
” He erupted into a raspy laugh, exposing his rotten teeth.
“Or I would bet it, if I had it. But if I had a thousand pounds, I wouldn’t be here either.
” He started laughing again, rocking forward on his chair.
“I’m so sorry,” Tom said.
“It was all for nothing, in the end,” he said. “Lost the job to booze. Lost the girl. Spent the money. Sometimes chasing it
all isn’t what it seems, especially if you’re not feeling it here.” He banged a fist against his chest as Tom watched, swallowing
down the lump in his throat. He’d been missing that feeling himself and he was only just starting to realize that.
“There I was thinking you were just singing a happy song,” Tom said.
“It’s happy sad,” he said, shrugging.
Tom nodded. “I guess a lot of things are. I’m actually thinking about an exhibition, exploring happiness,” he said, his brain
one step ahead of him. “It’s always more than that, isn’t it? Like, perhaps it’s a more complex emotion than I realized.”
He paused, thinking about Sophie. “I took some photos of my ex-girlfriend, thinking she was happy and when I zoomed in months
later, she was crying. Sad crying. The photos of you,” Tom added, signaling his hand toward Stormy. “I thought you were in a moment of ecstasy but I
took you at face value.” He stared at his mug, pulling at his lip. “So many of people’s battles are invisible unless we actually
speak honestly to one another.” God, where had that come from? And why was he sharing it with this man?
“Of course,” Stormy said. “No one can be happy one hundred percent of the time. You know what I wish I’d done, back when I
had more of a choice? I wish I’d just tried to be happier.
Permanent happiness sounds impossible, but being happier?
Maybe we can all do that.” He pulled up his sleeves, a mass of colorful tattoos exposed on each arm.
“And if I had, I wouldn’t have felt like I was failing.
I might not have turned to drink to solve it all for me.
” His eyes clouded over and Tom searched for the words that might make him feel better, but he wasn’t sure if he had them.
“Right now,” Stormy continued, “talking to you, I’m a bit happier, and that’s a good feeling.
Especially for a man in my position. So thank you. Thank you for that.”
He picked up his tea and made a loud slurping sound as Tom watched him, in awe of this man who could still be grateful for
things. Who could hold on to the good.
“Well, thank you,” Tom said, meaning it.
“And the laughter . . .” Stormy added, amongst chewing, “I make myself do it. I make myself do it every day until my body
thinks it’s the real deal. I learned it at this laughter therapy retreat.”
Tom shrank back in his seat, eyebrows furrowed. “Laughter therapy retreat?”
“It was part of one of my many rehabs. They teach you about how laughter improves sleep and stress and all that. You become
addicted to it. Much healthier addiction than booze.”
“I bet.” Tom was already loving so much about the idea of this exhibition, but mostly he was loving that it would provide
more experiences like this. Opportunities for him to be surprised by people.
“I like you,” Stormy said. “You can use my photo.”
Tom tried not to let the relief show on his face. “Thank you.”
“And if you sell it, I want a cut. You know where to find me.” He nodded toward the fountain.
And just like that Tom didn’t only have a photo for his exhibition, he had the idea for his solo activity to win back Sophie.
If a laughter retreat was good enough for Stormy, it was good enough for him.