I Want To Go To London

“This is not correct.” He said, abruptly thrusting the ATM receipt towards the unsuspecting bank clerk, who instinctively jerked her head back and away from the man’s outstretched hand. Regaining her composure, she patiently reached out, stopping the man’s trembling hand to remove the receipt.

Eying the slip of paper carefully, she looked up to see the man, red faced and jowls wobbling, his head shaking, ever so slightly, side to side. “Sir,” she said patiently, sliding a smooth smile on to her face. “That is your account balance. How might it be wrong?”

“No!” he said, the volume of his voice rising. “I only have my pension paid into that account, and I’m telling you it’s not right.”

She could see anger bubbling under the surface of this man, his deeply lined brow furrowing in the middle, accentuating his large bulbous nose which drooped a little at the end, his thin lips, ever so slightly parted, baring his teeth in a grimace.

“Ok,” she said, smiling once again at the man. “Let’s see what’s happened here.” Punching some numbers into the computer, her right eyebrow rose in an arch as she read from the screen.

“Mmm,” she said, “I’m just printing this list out for you Sir.” Turning slightly, she pulled a sheet of paper from the printer beside her desk. “I think you will find, you have had a lucky win.” She said, turning the paper around and facing it toward the man. “See,” she said, one long nailed scarlet painted finger pointing to a transaction on the mini-statement. “You must have won the lotto!”

The man, reaching to push his glasses further up towards the bridge of his nose, peered closely at the paper. Comprehension slowly appearing on his face as his eyebrows raised in surprise. Sure enough, Lotterywest had indeed deposited a large amount of money into his account.

Muttering his thanks without looking up, he clutched the mini-statement in his hand, turning away and walking out of the branch, the automatic sliding doors squealing as they opened and clunked closed behind him. He stood then, on the footpath exhaling slowly. Carefully he folded the paper and placed it into his pocket.

Removing his glasses, the fingertips of his free hand rubbing the crook of his nose, he shook his head and smiled, before turning on his heel and striding away, in the direction of the bottle shop.

So intent he was on reaching his destination, he very nearly bowled over a small giggling girl that ran out in front of him. “Ugh!” He grunted, nearly tripping over himself in an effort to step away and not touch the child. Her mother reached out, tugging the girl back to her side and looked after the man to apologise. His back was already to her and he was now several feet away. “Sorry!” she called after him, before quietly admonishing the still giggling little girl.

“Hmph, annoying kids,” the man spat under his breath as he strode away, not hearing the woman’s called apology.

The bottle shop, empty at this time of the morning, having only just opened for the day, stood pristine and glaring in the morning sun. Pushing through the door, he barely acknowledged the young shop assistant behind the counter who called a cheery welcome as he entered, before returning her attention to her phone.

He breezed past the specials and the bargain bins, barely glancing their way as he bee-lined for the red wine section. When he found his usual, he was surprised to see they too had a special offer, BUY TWO GET ONE FREE. It is my lucky day, he thought, bundling three bottles under his arm and heading back to the counter.

Once purchased, his wine now safely ensconced in a discreet shopping bag, thoughtfully provided by the shop assistant, he made his way across the road.

Entering his favourite second hand book store, which he always considered to be a fortunate location near to the bottle shop, he greeted the young woman behind the counter by name, before making his way towards the back of the store. Passing the faded wooden bookshelves which were lined with chipboard and offcuts of wallpaper, he found the newly acquired books, which were regularly placed in old milk crates at the back of the shop before being placed on the shelves for sale.

Fingering the line of books, he shook his head and grunted at the poor selection. He grumbled aloud as he stooped to look deeper into the crate. His finger coming to rest on a small black book, its moleskin cover rubbed smooth along the spine. Sliding the book out from between two well used and dog-eared paperbacks, he stood, feeling the cover of the book in his hand. Sliding the ribbon bookmark up, allowing the book to fall open at its place, a sentence, in curly girlish handwriting, sat at the top of the page, I want to go to London.

Flicking the pages between his fingers, there didn’t appear to be any more writing and he tucked the book under his arm before bending down to search through the rest. He became more and more disheartened with each of the books he came across, they’re all romance rubbish, he thought, finally settling on two Lynda La Plante books which he was sure he had already read.

Returning to the front of the store, he placed his books in front of Gretel, who smiled warmly at him and thanked him as he paid and left the store, heading for home. The package of books in his left hand now nicely balanced with the wine in his right.

His small house, located at the end of a cul-de-sac, was only a short distance from the shopping precinct. Entering the house through a side door, a small spring in his step, he placed the contents of his purchases on the kitchen bench.

Unpacked, the wine stood next to a ready and waiting wine glass, which he had freshly cleaned earlier that morning. He opened a bottle and poured, taking a long mouthful of the acrid liquid, sighing contentedly as he swallowed. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, enjoying the feel of the wine as it made its way through his body.

Gathering up the package of books, he took his glass and settled himself on the recliner in front of the TV in the sparsely furnished living room. Carefully, as he had had too many mishaps before, he placed the glass of wine on the side table and emptied the book package into his lap. Taking his glasses from his pocket, he almost missed the small folded up piece of paper that fell out, landing on top of the books. Chuckling softly, he opened up the folds carefully, and gazed at the paper for a few minutes, his mind whirring with the possibilities of what to do with such a great deal of money. He rested the paper in his lap and leaned back in his chair, the dark blue tweed touching his scalp between his thinning hair.

London, he thought, remembering the words inside the black book. “Well, that’s a start,” he said out loud, reaching for the small book and, once again, opening to the bookmarked page.

He fumbled for a biro, sitting on the table next to him, pausing briefly to take another gulp of wine, before starting to add to the list in the book.

Singapore

Canada

Switzerland

So intent he was on writing, he drank, oblivious, never registering one gulp from the next, as he listed the places in the world where he most wanted to visit.

Sitting back to deliberate whether he really wanted to see the pyramids or not, he reached once again for the glass, realising as he tipped the glass to his mouth that it was empty.

Grunting, he stood and headed to the kitchen for a refill. A little wobbly on his feet, he gripped the side of the kitchen bench for support and filled his glass, once again, to the brim. He briefly pondered if he had eaten breakfast that morning, but dismissed the thought almost as quickly as it had arrived. What did it matter? And, with nearly as much red wine splattered on the kitchen bench as there was in his glass, he returned to the living room.

Plonking heavily back into his seat, sloshing wine on the blue tweed by his right arm, he reached for the book and biro. Having decided that the pyramid decision could wait, he continued with his list, pausing again briefly at Venice. He had always thought Venice was about romance and couples and gondolas and he didn’t think it was for him. Perhaps if he had someone to go with, the thought.

He had led a relatively unremarkable life, although he had been married briefly, the marriage dissolving to chaos when his drinking and cantankerous brashness of his personality became all consuming. Most people, including his brothers and their families, avoided contact with him, his now constant irritability and argumentative nature off-putting to all.

Scratching out the word Venice, he looked up at the clock on the wall above the TV and almost gasped when he realised it was time for the midday news. Quickly reaching for the TV remote with one hand and his glass with the other, he switched the unit on and toggled the volume so he could hear it, settling back in his seat to watch.

He sat, transfixed, barely blinking, the reality of the world crashing down on his newly found dreams. Unlikely to have international travel for at least 2 years, said the broadcaster. Unless a suitable vaccine is found, the Government have declared that all non-essential international travel is now on hold until such time as the current health advice changes.

Shaking his head he took another large gulp from his glass, draining its contents, he sat unfocussed staring blindly at the TV.

After some time, his empty glass sitting loosely in his hand, he reached for the remote, turning the TV off.

Standing, he stumbled forward a step before regaining his balance and shuffling unsteadily into the kitchen. He closed his eyes as he took a large mouthful from his freshly topped up glass, the first bottle now laying empty in the sink. The second bottle stood next to the stained red ring of the previous, a dribble of wine running from its open rim to join the stain on the bench.

His mind felt empty, the dizziness of hope from the past hour or so now faded, replaced by a strangely comforting silence. He felt almost happy. Remembering his new books, he returned to the living room, taking the open bottle with him. Each step becoming heavier as he reached the recliner, falling backwards into the seat, his arms held aloft in a failed effort not to spill from his glass or the bottle.

The black book sat atop the stack of his new Lynda La Plante books and he looked at it, eyes narrowing, before picking it up and once again thumbing through the pages. To his surprise he found more writing, on the last page, I wish dad didn’t drink so much, it read.

“Ha!” he blurted, before hurling the book, frisbee style, towards the far wall. It hit with a soft thump, before sliding down behind a small bureau that held a framed faded picture of a young couple with a small child and a stack of well-read, dog eared, travel brochures.

He picked up the first of his two new books, cradling it in his hand, and started to read. Within minutes, he was snoring softly, lips parted, his teeth stained black from the wine. His empty glass lay in his limp hand, a small dribble of wine dripping onto his knee, staining his brown trousers.

(C) Helen Daniels 2021