The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene (34 page)

   The picture house was only half full and there was plenty of room to spread out, and as soon as the lights went down, from somewhere he plucked up the courage to throw his left arm up and around her neck and shoulders.

   Norma must have been impressed for she promptly cuddled into the feisty little bugger, as she reached out and clasped his right hand and set it down on her left breast. Kevin was amazed at that, the brazenness of it, and for a moment struggled for breath. He wanted to yell
Goal!
But that was impossible because she was now snogging him as if she’d just come out of the Gobi desert.

   The film hadn’t even started, they were still only half way through the ads and trailers, but they didn’t care. Gringo giggled to himself in his bed as he recalled his misspent youth. He could still remember that film now,
The Remains of the Day
it was called, yet to this day he could not tell you what it was all about, or even who was in it, because for the rest of the evening he had his hands full, with Norma Whitlock.

   Afterwards, they necked like French lovers in an X rated movie, standing up in the bus shelter, him with his back to the glass, her leaning hard against him. They let two buses go, she was aiming to catch the last one, and wouldn’t let him from her clutches until it came, and she didn’t much care if he missed his.

   Between breathless kisses she said: ‘What are you doing tomorrow?’

   ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

   ‘Do you want to see me again?’

   ‘Yeah. Course I do.’

   ‘I’ll meet you by the fountains at twelve. Don’t be late.’

   ‘I’ll be there.’

   Later, when he arrived home he desperately needed to change his pants.

The following day was Saturday and he arrived at the rendezvous at twenty minutes to twelve, the brisk wind occasionally sending fine spray in his direction, how different to his approach now, he mused:
keep them waiting.
She turned up at ten past the hour carrying a small overnight bag. He was sad to see the mini skirt gone; in its place a thick blue midi skirt that he hated, though he did take a shine to the black leather boots beneath.

   ‘Hiya Kevin.’

   ‘Hi Norma.’

   She stood quite still before him and then said: ‘Isn’t it customary to kiss one’s girlfriend when first meeting?’

   Kevin didn’t think she was his girlfriend, not in the true sense of the word, but was happy enough to seize her in his arms and do the deed, as they stood before the fountains and park benches housing coughing, sneezing, tramps and alkies, as the young couple embraced like long lost lovers, kissing and cuddling for several minutes, until one of the drunks eventually cursed them aloud, perhaps for reminding him of far happier times.

   When they finally came apart Kevin said: ‘What’s with the bag?’

   ‘I thought we’d take a hotel room,’ she said, breathlessly.

   Kevin’s mouth fell open. He’d never stayed in a hotel with a girl before; indeed he’d never stayed in a hotel room ever, other than with his parents. Then he remembered he didn’t have that much cash on him. Junior clerks were the lowest of the low when it came to a healthy payslip, but not for the first time she read his mind and said: ‘Don’t worry, Kevin, I’ll pay the bill, I’ll use my credit card, and if you’re really lucky, I’ll send you home before the midnight hour.’

   She must have seen the seeds of doubt still in his eyes on the whole idea because she said: ‘Of course if you are not up to it, not man enough...’

   ‘I am!’ he insisted. ‘Course I am.’

   She smiled into his boyish dark eyes and offered him her arm, and in the next minute they were walking in step, arm-in-arm across the public park towards the St John’s Hotel. He couldn’t wait to get there for he’d become overexcited, and was desperate to adjust his dress.

   The clerk smiled at the young couple booking in, honeymooners no doubt. God almighty, they looked younger with each passing season. He completed the room booking, swiped the credit card and then noticed just the one small bag.

   ‘Do you need a hand with your luggage?’

   Kevin didn’t know what to say. Thankfully Norma did.

   ‘It’s in the car,’ she said in a rush. ‘My husband will get it later,’ smiling down at Kevin, who had to fight himself not to blush.
In the car
, he thought, that would be a bloody miracle, seeing as we both came on the public bus service.

   The room was on the ninth floor. The hotel had only been built five years before so everything was still new and worked, and room 908, he could still clearly remember the number, no one would ever forget such a thing, was a large and expensive room that looked out across the city. Being Saturday it was available at a special discounted rate, not that Norma Whitlock gave a fig about that, because she had no intention of paying the credit card company, not one single penny. Zilcho!

   She opened the door and went inside and threw her bag in the corner and leapt onto the huge orange clad bed. Kevin gently closed the door behind him and stared down at Norma who was grinning up at him.

   She was lying on her back with her head on the pillows, her arms linked behind her neck, and when she stared up into his eyes, she couldn’t help thinking the poor love looked awfully nervous… but didn’t they always?

   Then she said: ‘I strongly believe the man should do the undressing.’

   ‘Yeah,’ said Kevin, through a dreadfully dry mouth, now standing at the foot of the bed, self consciously unbuttoning his shirt.

   ‘Not you, you pillock. Me!’

   ‘I know!’ he said, ‘I was just getting meself ready.’

   Despite his shaking hands off came the heavy skirt, he was glad to see the back of it, and that revealed the full extent of the amazing leather boots that went all the way up to her thighs.

   ‘God almighty! Where did you get a pair of boots like these?’

   ‘Special mail order job. Do you like them?’

   ‘They’re amazing!’

   ‘You can leave them on if you like.’

   ‘I will.’

   But Kevin was suddenly thinking of something else.

   ‘I haven’t brought any protection.’

   ‘Who cares! I don’t. I can’t wait to have kids. Always preferred bare back riding anyway.’

   ‘You’re amazing, Miss Whitlock.’

   ‘Everyone says that. Now come on, get on with it before I change my mind.’

   For the remainder of the day, and the next eight Saturday afternoons and evenings, Kevin furthered his education in the St John’s Hotel at the hands, and in the arms of Norma Whitlock. By then she had taught him almost everything she knew, and if truth be told, she was becoming weary of the kid, and more than that, she’d set her eye on another young man, a certain Leroy Watts, who was a year younger even than Kevin.

   Not long after that Kevin was out, and Leroy was in.

   No doubt a modern shrink would have a name for her extraordinary behaviour, somebody’s complex or other; they will call it. No doubt they will also be able to explain why she felt the need to attract and seduce young men, always younger and shorter than herself, men untouched by women, but Kevin never once regretted the hours he spent in the St John’s Hotel with Norma Whitlock. What healthy young man would?

   He’d had plenty of girlfriends before Norma, going right back to primary school, but they had only been kiss and cuddle girls, maybe a little touchy-feely girls, but nothing beyond that. Norma Whitlock opened his eyes as to what was possible. Norma Whitlock set him up for life and he would always be grateful, and would remember her forever.

   He lost touch with her after she hauled Leroy away to her wicked towers, though even that brief relationship was destined to run into troubled waters. Back then Norma had two obsessions in life, bedding young men, and spending other people’s money, and she soon exhausted her credit. The card was refused, and six months later Norma Whitlock became the youngest person in the county, up till that time, to be officially declared bankrupt. She didn’t care one jot about that either; and never returned a single penny. Three years later the American finance house gave up trying, and wrote off the entire debt.

Ten years after Kevin and Norma had danced their final Saturday away together in the St Johns, he bumped into her best friend who told him of how things had turned out. She said that after he’d left the hotel to catch the last bus home, Norma would buzz room service and order a sandwich, and compromise the startled bellboy. Apparently he was too good an opportunity to miss.

   A couple of years later Norma eventually caught the eye of one of the Carnac Welding directors, a chap called Harry Watley. He was in his early forties even back then, and this time the roles were reversed, it was he, the older man, seducing her.

   Her head was turned by his gleaming Jaguar with the aromatic white leather seats, and his fat kangaroo leather wallet. The fool even gave her a new credit card, and pretty soon after that, she fell pregnant. The only surprising thing about that was it hadn’t happened long before.

   They married and he bought her a brand new four-bedroom house in the suburbs with two pink en suites and in fair exchange, she presented him with four matching pink and unruly sons. Delivering four big boys into the world, demanding children who would drive their parents crazy, played havoc with her figure, and she never recovered that slim willowy look.

   Perhaps inevitably, Harry began looking elsewhere, and the gossip had it that he was about to shack up with this year’s model of Norma Whitlock, rumoured to be only twenty. Norma still has the house of course, and the hungry, untamed boys, who will forever drive her to distraction.

   Gringo found he was thinking more and more of Norma Whitlock, which wasn’t like him at all, and he had no idea why. The future is where happiness lies, for the past always seemed to be filled with melancholia, he knew that well enough, and it can never be any different, or so he thought at the time. He still had a lot to learn. These days Norma Whitlock never once thinks of Kevin Greene. She couldn’t even remember his name. Why on earth should she? He was no different to all the rest.

   Gringo tumbled into a deep sleep still thinking of his Saturday afternoons and evenings at play in the St John’s, and then he remembered that overnight bag she’d brought. Fresh clothes inside, you might think? Not a bit of it. The silly bitch had crammed the holdall with sandwiches and bananas and energy drinks, just in case he should begin to flag. Homemade cheese and bloody pickle sandwiches, for God’s sake. You couldn’t make it up. He began snoring loudly, but he wasn’t to enjoy his sleep for long.  

Gringo’s phone rang at 1.32am. He woke up after four rounds of heavy ringing and grabbed it while still half asleep. The same story unfolded. An American voice, an especially trained happy slappy Yankee voice, as she went through the preliminaries to ascertain which idiot was about to foot the bill for this long distance call.

   ‘Gringo?’

   ‘Yeah.’

   ‘Did I wake you?’

   ‘Yeah.’

   ‘Sorry.’

   ‘No worries, you can wake me any time,’ he mumbled, sitting up and rubbing his eyes and putting on the light.

   ‘Are you all right?’ she asked.

   She seemed to be pussyfooting around as to why she’d called, as if she had something to tell him, as if she were uncertain as to whether to tell him at all.

   ‘I’m fine. You?’

   ‘I’m all right.’

   She didn’t sound so certain. There was a short silence as if she was thinking of what to say next. He heard her sigh, imagining her lying on the bed high up in her eyrie in Lincoln Heights, New York. She wasn’t her usual perky self at all. There was something different about this call.

   Then she said: ‘Gringo, I’ve got something to tell you.’

   Bingo, Gringo! He knew it.

   When a young woman says:
Gringo, I’ve got something to tell you,
and especially if that woman was Glenda Martin, it meant one of four things.

  
Gringo, I’m pregnant.

   Gringo, I’m getting married.

   Gringo, we’ve got married.

   Gringo, I’ve decided I’m never coming home.

  
He just knew it. He hadn’t felt so certain of anything since he’d met and conquered Sarah Swift. If he had to pick a favourite of the four he would choose the first, it wouldn’t be the first time she would tell him such a thing.  The last occasion was after a holiday in Barcelona involving a brief holiday affair with some smart arsed Spanish waiter predictably called Pedro, though that thankfully proved to be a false alarm. Fact was, none of the four would have surprised him, and maybe it was a combination of several.

   ‘What is it?’

   And then she really did surprise him.

   ‘I’m thinking of coming home early.’