Sweet Dreams

Sweet Dreams

Completely deserted of human form. Foaming waves gashing and snapping at the shore as though trying to devour it, bite by savage bite. Angry slate clouds tumbling above threatening to burst and drop their booty on anyone caught beneath. Oscar too, can feel the tension as I unclip his leash and he bounds across the sand, barking crazily as he reaches the water, his huge russet frame contrasting against the murky depths.

I love the beach like this, no one else around and a storm on the rise. You can feel the zing in the air as the heavens build up strength. How small and inconsequential I feel, a tiny speck in the face of nature. I cast my eyes out to the horizon and watch spellbound as a jagged bolt of lightning sizzles into its watery grave. Glancing at my yellow oilskin coat, tatty jeans and wellingtons I suddenly feel oddly out of place and time. I should be wearing laced up black boots, a long grey robe and a crimson cloak, my face obscured by a velvet hood, thus blending in with my eerie gothic surroundings. My reverie is shattered as a bedraggled Oscar appears beside me nearly knocking me over with his blundering bulk, a ravaged piece of driftwood clenched in his slobbering jowls. I wrestle the stick from him and throw it as hard as I can towards the sea. He yelps with delight as the game begins. Over and over, he plunges himself into the churning water to retrieve and return his prize to me. My arm is starting to ache before his attention is caught by a small black object bobbing in the waves. Overcome with curiosity, I too, brave the sting of cold water up to my knees to pluck the briefcase from the swirling sea and carry it to dry sand. Squatting beside the case I see it looks in good condition, seemingly undamaged from the savage environment from whence it came. The case sports a combination lock and I fiddle inanely with the numbers for a short while before mentally acknowledging the chances of me striking the combo are extremely slim. Suddenly nervous I raise my head and scan the beach to see if anyone is watching me. There’s no one there but I become aware of the rapidly darkening sky and realise any second now the clouds will explode. I whistle to Oscar who is engrossed in a new game chasing waves. On my third whistle he reluctantly comes and we head towards my jalopy, the first heavy drops of rain hammering down just as he settles his wet heaving body into the back seat and we slowly drive the fifteen minutes it takes to reach the shabby little cottage I call home.

The chill’s setting in now and Oscar and I are both wet so my first job is to build a fire in my living room grate. Once the flames take hold Oscar, forever the shameless opportunist, plants himself on the rug, hogging the lions share of any possible warmth. But I have other things to do. I put on some dry track pants and scurry out to the shed, returning with a plethora of tools to tackle the task at hand. Sitting at the kitchen table, I pour myself a glass of cask red and set to work. Ten minutes later and eureka, I’ve done it. Miraculously, not a drop of salty brine inside the case but a parcel sitting tightly wrapped in green plastic. I lean back in my chair, take a gulp of my wine and ponder. Cocaine? Heroin? Not my scene so not much use to me. Taking the scissors, I snip the green plastic carefully away. Lo and behold, beautiful bundles of $50 notes, neatly secured with purple rubber bands. Luscious loot, gorgeous gravy, marvellous moolah and all mine. I take another gulp of wine, coming into funds is thirsty work, and set about the count. $20,000, I can’t believe it. Not a fortune to everyone but it’ll make a big difference to me. Sure, I could take it to the police but who’s going to claim it? The whole thing reeks of criminal activity. It’ll probably end up in some chief inspectors account paying for his latest holiday on the French Riviera. No, this is going towards my new pot-belly stove to warm up this freezing cottage. I might even take a little trip come summer, down the coast, see my sister in the big smoke. The possibilities whirl through my head, like trailers at the movies.

“Woohoo Oscar” I shout “how’s a new winter jacket and the biggest marrow bone I can find sound?”

At the mention of his name the great hound lifts his head and stares at me to see if there’s any treat on offer. Disappointed he lies back down and resumes his sleep. I navigate around him to turn the radio on. Party time. They’re playing that 80’s song by the Eurythmics “Sweet Dreams”. Talk about timely! I holler the lyrics while I cavort around the room. Tonight, I have all the moves. Exhausted I collapse in my chair with yet another glass of red in hand. My memory flashes back to the pub, around two years back, me asking around for a reasonably priced handyman to fix my rotting front step. Somebody suggesting Tom and then Tom suddenly appearing at my table, apologising for not having a business card on him.

“No worries” I mumble as I produce my black book from the depths of my handback, a book kept for that very purpose.

Ahh, he says, “the mysterious black book you ladies all seem to have” and he smiles.

And I’m gone… into another galaxy…stars, hearts, belly button fluff and lustful thoughts all tumbling around in the washing machine of my head. Me, trying to pretend the blush on my face was obviously due to the heat in the bar as I scribble his number down. And then he’s gone, across the room into the arms of the gorgeous girl with the painted lips and the cute butterfly tattoo on her perfect cleavage. So, I end up getting Harry, the whiskery old guy from down the road to fix my step because it all seems so horribly pointless.

Fast forward to two months ago when I spy Tom’s tall frame exiting the supermarket as I approach the register with my weekly bounty. Jan, the checkout chick with the bullish head and the slightly insane laugh leans forward conspiringly, clicking her long fingernails against the counter like a drum roll which she always does when she’s got something particularly juicy to impart.

“Poor Tom” she says, “that snooty tart he was with shot through with his best mate last month”. She clucks her tongue in disgust and adds “Men are such idiots around women like that”.

So more red wine and dancing tonight. In the morning I’m phoning my new handyman.