Through half closed eyes, Tom watched the young waitress stretch her arms high, her denim skirt lifting and showing the backs of pale knees as she placed a poster in the window of the café. North Sea Jazz Festival. Leaning back in his chair, he tapped a silent rhythm on the metal table. A few feet away, water made a soft lapping sound against a stone parapet and from the other side of the canal came the faint rise and fall of a clarinet.
He pulled at the zip of his anorak and loosened his tie. The day was warming up. A pleasure boat drifted past, its engine idling, its hull barely moving in the still water. Standing alone in the bow, a young boy raised his hand and, leaning forward, waved at Tom.
“Dag,” the boy shouted.
Tom half rose and, lifting his hand, waved back, just his fingers moving. “Hello,” he mouthed back and watched while the boat disappeared under the bridge. He sipped his wine, enjoying the sounds of Amsterdam: the distant rattle of bicycle wheels across the hump-backed bridge and the occasional grating of a wrought iron café chair rubbing against the paving stones.
As he dozed, he became aware of rustling movements and muted voices at the next table closer to the water’s edge. He looked sideways under his lids. It was a young couple. The man was laughing, the girl grinning back at him as he stroked her arm. She was pregnant, her body curved, her face flushed and luminous as the man touched her cheek. Tom turned his face away, hearing but not listening as their voices mingled with the sound of spoons against coffee cups and the clink of cutlery on plates. A single leaf caught on a sudden breeze landed on his table. Irritated, he brushed it away, scattering pigeons at his feet. He closed his eyes, settled in the chair and stretched out his legs, pulling at his trouser legs to show an inch of white flesh above his socks.
“Wake up Tom.”
He sat up straight. A sturdy black shoe was nudging his foot. Sandra was back. “Why did you do that?”
“What?”
“Kick my foot.” Tom flexed his fingers and sucked on his thumb. “Now you’ve given me pins and needles.”
“We’ve got things to do. Last day you know.”
“What things?”
“Oh Tom, do shut up. Don’t spoil it. Presents of course, stupid. We’ve got to buy presents.”
Sandra settled her ample bottom on the metal seat and ran her fingers through her short grey hair, blocking Tom’s view of the canal. The light bounced off her spectacle lenses and Tom wanted to tell her that those round frames had never suited her. Why the hell didn’t she listen?
Sandra raised her voice. “Come on, Tom. Move.”
Tom picked up his glass and drained it. He gestured towards her. Glancing down, Sandra buttoned her blouse where it gaped open.
“Sorry,” she said and took a small purse from a travel bag secured across her body. She licked a finger and began counting out a small wad of currency. “Twenty. Fifty. One hundred. You’re bone idle, Tom. You know that? Bone idle. Tom?”
Tom’s eyes were closed.
“And don’t have any more of that wine.”
There were damp patches under her arms. “Oh, well. Suit yourself.”
As she stood up, the strap of her bag caught on the back of an empty chair, tipping it over and sending it clattering onto the paving stones. Tom’s cheeks reddened. He was conscious of the couple at the next table grinning at each other over their coffee cups. He waited and when he was sure Sandra was well out of range, he opened his eyes and signalled to the waitress. He caught the scent of her perfume as she wiped the table in front of him. His eyes followed the swing of her silver blonde hair and rested on the curve of her breasts beneath her white shirt. He imagined her holding a microphone in some smoky basement bar. He would like to paint her, he thought, undo her buttons and ……. he ordered another glass of wine, a large glass of full bodied, top of the range Merlot.
Later, much later, the couple at the next table left, the woman’s milky smell drifting over Tom, her skirt brushing against his knee. Tom’s eyes filled with self-pity. He held up his hand for more wine but when it came, the glass felt cold and the liquid tasted sour on his tongue. Clouds were building in the sky and it was getting chilly. He looked at his watch. Had Sandra forgotten the time? She knew they had a plane to catch. Where was she, for Gawd’s sake? He swivelled round on his chair, overbalanced and righted himself, picked up his half-empty glass and drained it.
The pleasure boat was back, fuller this time as it was now late afternoon. He could see a young boy leaning over the rail and wondered if it was the boy he’d seen earlier. He watched as an adult held an arm protectively round the child, running a hand lightly over his windblown hair, smoothing it.
The wake of the boat trailed a ripple of grey water towards him. He rubbed his knuckles across his eyes and looked at his watch again. Where the hell was she? Faffing about as usual, he supposed. Great cart-horse, lumbering through the shops. Who did she think she was buying presents for anyway? They had no family.
The girl from the café was hovering again and Tom said Yes please he’d have a coffee and make that a brandy to go with it. Why not? Make that a large one, too, and keep all the change because you’re so bloody lovely. Oops, be careful, Madam will be back soon. Where the hell was she? Where had she got to?
The sun had shifted and clouds were racing across the sky. Tom felt a touch of dampness in the air. He could be getting a chill, he thought, as he zipped up his anorak. He rubbed his hands together and looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. Suppose something had happened. Oh Christ! Tom stood up, his shaking hands checking his wallet and his pocket. Then she was there, out of breath and carrying three large plastic bags full of shopping. Tom’s limbs were stiff with cold.
“Where’ve you been? You stupid woman! Spending money. Who do you think you’ve got to buy presents for anyway?”
He was frozen. It felt as if his legs might give way. He sat down. Sandra’s eyes watered and she lowered herself opposite him. Her nose glistened in the last remaining rays of the sun and her lips suddenly trembled.
“Who are the presents for?” he demanded. “Who have you got to buy presents for?” He leaned forward. “Tell me. Go on. Who have you got?”
She wiped her nose. “I’ve got you, Tom. I’ve got you.”
He looked across the table at her blouse gaping open and the dried lipstick edging her mouth. He thought he’d lost her. He leaned across and fastened a button.
“Yes, dear. And I’ve got you.”
He pulled at the zip of his anorak and loosened his tie. The day was warming up. A pleasure boat drifted past, its engine idling, its hull barely moving in the still water. Standing alone in the bow, a young boy raised his hand and, leaning forward, waved at Tom.
“Dag,” the boy shouted.
Tom half rose and, lifting his hand, waved back, just his fingers moving. “Hello,” he mouthed back and watched while the boat disappeared under the bridge. He sipped his wine, enjoying the sounds of Amsterdam: the distant rattle of bicycle wheels across the hump-backed bridge and the occasional grating of a wrought iron café chair rubbing against the paving stones.
As he dozed, he became aware of rustling movements and muted voices at the next table closer to the water’s edge. He looked sideways under his lids. It was a young couple. The man was laughing, the girl grinning back at him as he stroked her arm. She was pregnant, her body curved, her face flushed and luminous as the man touched her cheek. Tom turned his face away, hearing but not listening as their voices mingled with the sound of spoons against coffee cups and the clink of cutlery on plates. A single leaf caught on a sudden breeze landed on his table. Irritated, he brushed it away, scattering pigeons at his feet. He closed his eyes, settled in the chair and stretched out his legs, pulling at his trouser legs to show an inch of white flesh above his socks.
“Wake up Tom.”
He sat up straight. A sturdy black shoe was nudging his foot. Sandra was back. “Why did you do that?”
“What?”
“Kick my foot.” Tom flexed his fingers and sucked on his thumb. “Now you’ve given me pins and needles.”
“We’ve got things to do. Last day you know.”
“What things?”
“Oh Tom, do shut up. Don’t spoil it. Presents of course, stupid. We’ve got to buy presents.”
Sandra settled her ample bottom on the metal seat and ran her fingers through her short grey hair, blocking Tom’s view of the canal. The light bounced off her spectacle lenses and Tom wanted to tell her that those round frames had never suited her. Why the hell didn’t she listen?
Sandra raised her voice. “Come on, Tom. Move.”
Tom picked up his glass and drained it. He gestured towards her. Glancing down, Sandra buttoned her blouse where it gaped open.
“Sorry,” she said and took a small purse from a travel bag secured across her body. She licked a finger and began counting out a small wad of currency. “Twenty. Fifty. One hundred. You’re bone idle, Tom. You know that? Bone idle. Tom?”
Tom’s eyes were closed.
“And don’t have any more of that wine.”
There were damp patches under her arms. “Oh, well. Suit yourself.”
As she stood up, the strap of her bag caught on the back of an empty chair, tipping it over and sending it clattering onto the paving stones. Tom’s cheeks reddened. He was conscious of the couple at the next table grinning at each other over their coffee cups. He waited and when he was sure Sandra was well out of range, he opened his eyes and signalled to the waitress. He caught the scent of her perfume as she wiped the table in front of him. His eyes followed the swing of her silver blonde hair and rested on the curve of her breasts beneath her white shirt. He imagined her holding a microphone in some smoky basement bar. He would like to paint her, he thought, undo her buttons and ……. he ordered another glass of wine, a large glass of full bodied, top of the range Merlot.
Later, much later, the couple at the next table left, the woman’s milky smell drifting over Tom, her skirt brushing against his knee. Tom’s eyes filled with self-pity. He held up his hand for more wine but when it came, the glass felt cold and the liquid tasted sour on his tongue. Clouds were building in the sky and it was getting chilly. He looked at his watch. Had Sandra forgotten the time? She knew they had a plane to catch. Where was she, for Gawd’s sake? He swivelled round on his chair, overbalanced and righted himself, picked up his half-empty glass and drained it.
The pleasure boat was back, fuller this time as it was now late afternoon. He could see a young boy leaning over the rail and wondered if it was the boy he’d seen earlier. He watched as an adult held an arm protectively round the child, running a hand lightly over his windblown hair, smoothing it.
The wake of the boat trailed a ripple of grey water towards him. He rubbed his knuckles across his eyes and looked at his watch again. Where the hell was she? Faffing about as usual, he supposed. Great cart-horse, lumbering through the shops. Who did she think she was buying presents for anyway? They had no family.
The girl from the café was hovering again and Tom said Yes please he’d have a coffee and make that a brandy to go with it. Why not? Make that a large one, too, and keep all the change because you’re so bloody lovely. Oops, be careful, Madam will be back soon. Where the hell was she? Where had she got to?
The sun had shifted and clouds were racing across the sky. Tom felt a touch of dampness in the air. He could be getting a chill, he thought, as he zipped up his anorak. He rubbed his hands together and looked at his watch for the umpteenth time. Suppose something had happened. Oh Christ! Tom stood up, his shaking hands checking his wallet and his pocket. Then she was there, out of breath and carrying three large plastic bags full of shopping. Tom’s limbs were stiff with cold.
“Where’ve you been? You stupid woman! Spending money. Who do you think you’ve got to buy presents for anyway?”
He was frozen. It felt as if his legs might give way. He sat down. Sandra’s eyes watered and she lowered herself opposite him. Her nose glistened in the last remaining rays of the sun and her lips suddenly trembled.
“Who are the presents for?” he demanded. “Who have you got to buy presents for?” He leaned forward. “Tell me. Go on. Who have you got?”
She wiped her nose. “I’ve got you, Tom. I’ve got you.”
He looked across the table at her blouse gaping open and the dried lipstick edging her mouth. He thought he’d lost her. He leaned across and fastened a button.
“Yes, dear. And I’ve got you.”