The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene (63 page)

   Gringo lay back on his bed; his hands linked behind his head, staring out at the blackness. He felt wonderful. He hadn’t felt this good in months. His mind was afire and he would not sleep until well into the small hours. How could he when she was back under his roof, sleeping only feet away?

   This time last week he had no idea where on earth she was living, or what she was doing. How things can change in a week. If she were to be believed, and he had no reason to doubt her, no one in the entire world knew she was sleeping in Gringo Towers, and that had to mean something, didn’t it? In the silence and darkness an hour drifted by.

   ‘Gringo,’ he heard her whispering.

   She was at his door.

   ‘Yep?’

   ‘I can’t sleep.’

   ‘I thought you’d be doggo.’

   ‘I am, but I have gotten used to sleeping with a man.’

   ‘And any old man will do?’

   ‘No-ooo,’ she said, not too upset at his sardonic words. ‘Don’t be like that.’

   ‘You’d better come in.’

   ‘Don’t put the light on!’

   ‘I’ve no intention of putting the light on.’

   ‘And no funny business.’

   ‘You should be so lucky. I never touch married women.’

   That was only a small lie, true Mel was married when he had done a little more than touch her, but she was separated now, and none of the others were married, at least not that he knew of.

   ‘All right,’ she said, and he heard her creeping around the side of bed and crawling into the space where he was holding up the duvet.

   She was naked. They both were.

   She cuddled into his chest and shoulder as his arm snaked around her neck and back, Gringo taking great care not to punch her on the nose in the blackness.

   ‘Thanks, Gringo,’ she whispered, settling into the bed, and the man.

   ‘What for?’

   ‘For everything.’

   He kissed her on the top of her head and noticed her breathing was already slowing, her muscles relaxing, her body preparing to shut down, as she tumbled into a deep and satisfying sleep; the first slumber of its kind she’d enjoyed for more than a week.

   ‘Sleep well,’ he whispered, ‘Princess,’ but by then she’d already gone.

He woke at eight on the dot. She was still in his bed, lying on her left shoulder, her back toward him. He kissed her gently on the backbone three times, following the vertebrae downward. She didn’t flinch, nor move a muscle, her breathing still long and deep and regular. She wouldn’t stir for another four hours.

   He pulled the duvet over her and slipped from the bed, dressed in silence, and tiptoed down the stairs to make breakfast. Scrambled eggs on toast, the Greene family special way; and today was right up there with the most special days he had ever known. He felt like singing, or whistling, but knew he mustn’t.

   She appeared just after twelve, his black robe wrapped tightly around her, her straight black hair criss-crossing her pale face every which way like a toddler’s drawing, or a sketch from a Japanese Manga comic, the bandage still in place, hiding her battered nose from closer inspection.

   ‘I’m sorry about that,’ she said, sitting at the table.

   ‘Don’t be. You must have been whacked.’

   ‘I was, maybe a little.’

   ‘Breakfast? Brunch? Lunch?’

   ‘What are you offering?’

   ‘Scrambled eggs on toast.’

   The mention of scrambled eggs reminded her of how ravenous she really was. She hadn’t eaten a thing for more than twelve hours and was ready to feast.

   ‘Let’s have it!’ she said, in an expectant and demanding way.

   ‘Let’s have it?’ he repeated, slightly reprimandingly. ‘Don’t you mean
I would love some scrambled eggs, Gringo
?’

   ‘Oh, I would love some scrambled eggs, Gringo,’ she said in a mocking mickey-taking voice, and then giggled so infectiously it forced him to laughter.

On Monday morning he cried off work and took her to see Doc Downton. Gringo waited outside as she went in and sat down.

   ‘So, you’re marrying our old friend Kevin Greene, I understand?’

   Glen’s mouth popped open and then she said, ‘Well, yes, that seems to be the way of it,’ eager not to give anything away.

   ‘I am so pleased,’ he said, as he gently removed the bandage. ‘It’s about time he was wed, high time he settled down. I am sure you will make him an excellent wife.’

   ‘Really?’

   ‘Oh yes. He’s a very lucky man.’

   ‘You think so?’

   ‘Yes I do. You are a striking young woman, if I may say. Honeymoon planned is it? Somewhere nice?’

   She said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Argentina.’

   ‘Really? How exciting. It’s a beautiful country.’

   ‘Is it? I’ve never been.’

   ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking, Miss Martin, but how did you come by this wound?’

   Doctor Downton had seen dozens of similar injuries, and knew well enough that most of them were the result of domestic violence.

   ‘You won’t believe it, but I…’ but before she could finish the sentence he did it for her.

   ‘Don’t tell me, you walked into a door?’

   Glen grinned. ‘How did you know?’

   ‘Through experience, Miss Martin, one learns strange things in this profession.’

   ‘Really? Yes well, it’s why I want to get the nose sorted as soon as possible. It wouldn’t do on the wedding photos, would it?’

   ‘No, you’re right, and I think we can do something for you, but there is good news and bad.’

   ‘Oh?’

   ‘The good news is I don’t think I need to re-break.’

   Glen nodded. ‘And the bad?’

   ‘It’s going to hurt like hell, when I reshape it, if that’s what you want me to do, or if you prefer, you could go to Princess Alexandra’s and undergo a small operation…’

   ‘No! No!’ she said. ‘Here and now. Let’s get it done, here and now. Get it over with.’

   That was Glen’s way. The courageous way. She would never postpone a thing if she could deal with it immediately.

   ‘Good girl,’ he said, washing his hands and admiring her spirit.

   She lay on the couch as he required her to do and in the next moment he was bending over her.

   ‘You will feel some pain but I shall be as quick as I can.’

   Glen grimaced and nodded for him to continue. He didn’t need asking twice. He grabbed her nose between forefinger and thumb, squeezed it hard, and yanked it into place.

   ‘Ow!!’ and she stifled a scream.

   The pain was excruciating as broken bone rubbed on broken bone, like angry tectonic plates on the move.

   ‘Sorry about that, Miss Martin.’

   Glen took a moment out. Her eyes were watering like crazy. She felt as if her eyebrows were standing on end. She wanted to swear, to yell out
Fuck Me!
at the top of her voice, though maybe people didn’t shout that kind of thing in the privacy of a Doctor’s surgery. He didn’t say anything else for a few moments; time enough for Glen to slowly gather her thoughts.

   ‘Is that it?’

   ‘Oh yes. A lot better already if I say so myself, here,’ and he handed her a mirror. She glanced at herself in the glass. Despite the swelling and colour it was sure as heck a lot better than a few days ago, though Gringo might think differently when he saw the carnage.

   ‘It will hurt for a good while, I can give you painkillers for that, but once the swelling goes down and it heals properly, it should be almost like new. I’ll want to see you again in a week or two.’

   ‘Thanks, doctor. That’s a relief, I can tell you.’

   ‘I can imagine. So, will it be long before we hear the patter of little Greene feet, do you think?’

   Glen pulled a face at the crazy notion.

   ‘No idea. We mustn’t take these things for granted, must we,’ she said, playing him along.

   ‘You are both in your prime, now is the time to produce children, when you are at your strongest, don’t believe all this trendy talk of later in life is best. I’ll tell you what later in life is, later in life and the odds are the train will have pulled out of the station, if you get my drift.’

   ‘I see. I’ll bear that in mind. Thanks doctor.’

   He sat down and fed intelligence into his computer and as he handed her the printed prescription he said: ‘Tell Kevin I shall be on the lookout for any more
walked into doors
injuries. I don’t want to see them again. Is that clear?’

   ‘Oh but…’

   ‘No buts, Miss Martin. No more of it. Nice to meet you. Have a great day.’

In the car going home she said: ‘You’ve got a big fan there, or at least you did have.’

   ‘What do you mean by that?’

   ‘He thinks you battered me. He’s marked your card.’

   ‘What! Didn’t you tell him it wasn’t me?’

   ‘How could I do that, Gringo? I said I walked into a door.’

   ‘That’s bloody great.’

   ‘Don’t worry, I think you are forgiven. He said in not so many words that you are a very naughty boy, and were not to do it again,’ and she giggled at her own little joke.

   ‘As if.’

   Then she said: ‘He really does think we are getting married, I mean…’

   ‘And what is wrong with that?’

   She didn’t say another word, neither pro nor against, and that confused him still further, and after that she changed the subject and began talking of the sisters.

Two weeks flew by, happily living together, her shopping in secret for the pair of them, cooking meals and coming to him every night, naked and tempting, and he would push his luck once or twice, only to be brought screaming back to earth with a firm: ‘No Gringo! No!’ as if she were reprimanding a naughty dog.
You must not do that!

   It was a familiar tone to him, it sounded exactly like his mother from years before when he’d flattened some of her best plants when playing in the garden, or when she discovered that one of her pet Spode plates was missing, presumed dead, or when he had ruined his best suit with thick bicycle oil all over the trousers. Kevin! she’d shout through the house, Kevin! It was exactly the same tone as Glenda used when he overstepped the mark. No Gringo! No! Bad boy!

   For his part he felt like the prize bull locked in the paddock overlooking the meadows where the in season cows grazed contentedly. He could see the main prize displayed before him, smell it, almost touch it, but still it evaded him. He could think of nothing else. He went off his food. She thought it was her cooking. He hated going to work and would rush home at the slightest pretence.

   If he didn’t have her soon he’d explode.

   If he didn’t have her soon he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.

Two further weeks went by and then one afternoon at work after thinking of her for a straight hour, he rang her. He dialled the number, let it ring three times, cut off, and rang again.

   ‘You don’t have to keep up with this ringing charade,’ she said, ‘I don’t care anymore who knows I am here.’

   That was new, and he wondered what it meant.

   ‘So what do you want?’ she said.

   ‘Oh nothing really, just to make sure you are all right.’

   ‘Of course I am all right. I have been writing again. It’s coming on well. I am fine Gringo, but I am glad you’ve rung. There’s something important I want to talk to you about.’

   ‘Oh yeah? Like what?’

   ‘I’m not saying, not now, not over the phone. I thought we’d sit down and talk it through when you come home tonight.’

   ‘Okay,’ he said slowly. ‘Any hints?’

   ‘Nope, no hints. I will see you later; we’ll talk then; bye,’ and whether he had finished or not was irrelevant because she’d put the phone down.

   That evening all pretence of making her wait went out of the window. He rushed home at the first available moment, almost knocking over a young mother wheeling a pram across the zebra crossing outside that supermarket.

   While still at work he’d explored in his mind countless theories as to what she might wish to discuss, and frighteningly most of the possibilities were dreadful, and by the time he arrived in the close, he’d convinced himself she was about to tell him she was heading home to daddy, and when she began talking it only served to confirm his worst fears.

   ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about this…’ she began, ‘this… situation. We can’t go on forever as we are.’

   Gringo went to speak but she held up her hand to silence him.

   ‘This morning I rang my dad and told him that Harry and I had separated, that I was back in the UK… here, staying with you for a few days, as friends, separate rooms, separate beds, no funny business, I was quite clear about that. He said, and I quote word for word:
If you ever touched a hair on my head he would come round and personally break your neck
, but don’t worry, Gringo, he’s said that many times before, and I don’t believe any necks have ever been severed, not to my knowledge. I told him I’d be home at the weekend… to visit, but afterwards I would be returning here, if that’s all right with you.’