Odd One Out

i) Straightforward compliment – e.g. ‘you look lovely’, delivered without looking down cleavage (if visible) or staring all round room as if at flitting bat.

ii) Simple, non-loaded starter topic of mutual interest – e.g. where did she eat out when she lived in Birmingham?/what’s her accommodation like in Shadley Oak? (compare and contrast briefly to own).

iii) Suggest looking at menus. Don’t close it after four seconds saying, ‘I always have steak,’ don’t wait for her to choose and then say, ‘I’ll have the same as her,’ to waiter. If she wants you to pick the wine, ask the waiter for suggestions. This is not a sign of ignorance/passivity.

iv) Try restarting conversation by asking about her job and then listening to the answer. Try to avoid talking about self unless asked, in which case talk away, but remember to leave gaps for her to speak. Ability to conduct a two-hour monologue is not one of the qualities women look for in a boyfriend.

v) The following are suggested light topics of mutual interest, which can be used to fill any gaps in the conversation (note each question has a follow-up question, to avoid the nightmare of one-word answers): What’s the last film she saw and why did she like/hate it? Has she ever had chickenpox and what was it like/how did she avoid it? Is she keeping in touch with friends from university, and what are her best friends doing now? Where did she grow up and what’s it like?

vi) If conversation completely grinds to a halt it is fully acceptable to smile at her and say, ‘Sorry, I sometimes get a bit tongue-tied on special occasions.’ She will find that flattering.

vii) Don’t get drunk. This is an absolute.

viii) Be yourself. Dull advice, but valid.

Paul refolded the list and put it back in his jacket pocket. Netta, at his request, had given him a crash course in date strategy and he’d been so impressed by her expertise that he’d ended up asking for written notes. ‘It’s having girls,’ she’d said. ‘You should hear them when they get home – “Oh my God, he talked to my tits all evening, he shouted ‘garçon’ at the waiter and thought he was being funny, he sank a bottle and a half of red by himself and then walked straight into the door on the way out.” They don’t want some show-off, they don’t want a comedy act, they want someone who’s interested in them and who’s good company. And you are,’ she’d added, and then – when he’d made some vague mumbling noises by way of reply – ‘and if she pays you a compliment, say thank you.’

He peered in through the half-open blinds at the empty interior of Le Chien Gris; he had arrived ludicrously early and was beginning to get cold as well as nervous. The restaurant was on a side street not far from the abbey and it looked reassuringly classy, with a handwritten menu in the window and well-spaced tables. Also in the window was a framed copy of the ‘new restaurant’ column of the Birmingham Evening Post, which had given it two asterisks. ‘The guinea fowl,’ he read, ‘was a little dry, but this was more than compensated for by the winy richness of the juniper-spiked reduction.’ On the other side of the glass a bored waiter caught Paul’s eye for the third time, and beckoned encouragingly. Faced with the choice of mouthing ‘I’ve got a reservation and will come in shortly’ or sitting at a table by himself for ten minutes, he took the third option and embarked on a brisk walk round the block.

After all the weeks of angst, arranging the date had been astonishingly straightforward. He had phoned Marianne at the newspaper and asked her if she would like to go out for a meal, and Marianne had said yes. Or, to be more precise, she had said, ‘Oh that would be nice, Alex told me that that restaurant was lovely when he went there with –’ and then Paul had been bleeped. He had decided, thinking about it afterwards, that the end of Marianne’s sentence would definitely have been ‘– with his wife,’ and then he had battened down his imagination and refused to speculate further. While still scabbed-up on the fifth floor he had tacked a private addendum to his ‘seize the day’ plan; it was a vow to stop ruminating endlessly on every gesture and syllable that Marianne let fall. There was to be no more inference, no more extrapolation; from now on if he wanted to clarify anything about their relationship, he would simply ask.

The wind started to gust as he walked away from the restaurant and he could feel his hair shrugging off the hasty attempt he’d made at mousse-assisted styling. After a long and gruelling Gorman ward round (‘Are we boring you, Dr Gooding? Or perhaps you’ve just been given a lovely new watch and you want to keep an eye on it.’) he’d had only thirty minutes to wash and change; this had been reduced to seven and a half after Armand had called round with a typed manuscript.

‘I’ve been working on the introduction to my lunchtime lecture tomorrow,’ he’d said, ‘but I would like to ensure that I’m –’ he’d paused slightly ‘– hitting the right note. If that’s a correct use of the phrase.’

‘Yes it is,’ said Paul. ‘I’m in the middle of drying my hair,’ he’d added unnecessarily, the damp towel drooping round his neck.

‘That’s absolutely no problem, I’m more than happy to read it to you.’ Armand had followed him back to the bedroom and positioned himself in the doorway. ‘OK to start?’

‘Armand, look, I’m getting ready to go out. I can’t guarantee my full attention.’

‘I don’t need any type of detailed analysis, I’d simply like you to pick up on anything that’s not absolutely clear to a British audience.’

‘It has a small stain on the collar. Welcome,’ he’d added, in declamatory style. ‘I feel honoured to be the first speaker in this series of lunchtime lectures, and I’ve chosen as my theme Transatlantic Differences in the Approach to Clerking Nonemergency Surgical Cases.’

‘Nothing, sorry.’ That, he realized, had been a pure Netta remark; they’d obviously been cooped up together too long.

‘I shall begin by outlining the basic clerking procedure in St Luke’s Hospital in Montreal, where I trained. As a Clanger I was often asked –’

‘A Clanger. Am I not using it correctly? You told me that it was a colloquial old English term for an apprentice.’

Sorting out that particular mess had taken far too long, and Paul had been simultaneously speed-walking and buttoning his cuffs when Gwyn had pulled his Suzuki into the kerb just outside the hospital gates and offered him a lift. As a result he had arrived at the restaurant with fifteen minutes to spare, and with Gwyn’s lucky rabbit’s foot in his pocket. ‘Though mind you,’ Gwyn had said, ‘our respective definitions of “getting lucky” might differ ever so slightly.’

The preprandial walk round the block took Paul past a row of souvenir shops and through an arch that led to the abbey moat. He had recently sent his grandmother a Sights of Shadley Oak tea towel for her birthday, but the swan-flecked, cornflower-blue water of the illustration bore absolutely no resemblance to the present leaden surface, roughened by the wind and bobbing with flotsam. No swans were visible, and most of the ducks were crammed onto a chain of concrete hexagons that acted as nesting sites. The remainder – a group of shabby adolescent mallards – were jockeying for space on a length of blue plastic sticking out of the water near the bank. As Paul passed them a squabble broke out, a flurry of shoving and quacking and then a sudden, startling rattle of pinions, and he flinched as three drakes, beak to tail, shot over his head, so close that he felt the breeze of their wings on his hair and heard the wet splatter of shit rain all around. He halted, his right foot an inch from the nearest olivaceous smear. In an instant the towpath had changed colour and texture and he was now standing in the middle of a faecal Jackson Pollock. With icy fatalism he began to examine himself. He checked his hands, he ran his fingers across his scalp, he took off his jacket and inspected it from every angle, he peered at the back of his trousers, he gazed down at his pristine shirt front and unsullied cuffs. In growing disbelief, he patted the clean contours of his face. They had missed; the buggers had missed. He had stood beneath a guano monsoon and emerged untouched. It was almost a miracle. It had to mean something. It had to be a good omen.

There was a mutter of distant thunder and he checked his watch and set off again, this time at a brisker pace. He overtook an ambling couple and then a group of furtive teenagers hunched over a shared bottle of vodka, and then he turned back towards the town centre through a second arch and saw coming towards him a familiar figure in a craggy red jacket. It was the first time that Paul had seen Netta’s brother without his shopping trolley and in its absence he was a fast if ungraceful walker, the swing of his arms slightly out of synch with the rhythm of his legs. He had the same curly hair and wide cheekbones as Netta, but he was currently looking agitated – a most un-Netta-like expression – and he seemed to be searching for something, his gaze flicking from side to side and his lips moving soundlessly; he passed Paul without making eye contact and continued along the path to the moat.

There was still no sign of Marianne when, with three minutes to spare, Paul arrived back at Le Chien Gris; he looked through the window, caught the waiter’s eye yet again and turned his attention to the menu. Crème brûlée, he noticed immediately; well that was a bonus – eating one of those had become a minor ambition since the night of the joint. Moreover, he saw, the main courses included rack of Welsh lamb, so he could do his bit for sheep farming at the same time. He had just shifted his attention to the starters when he heard a diffident cough beside him, and turned to see the elderly man who had twice delivered groceries to the flat during the plague week.

‘Yes. Hello.’ Paul shook the proffered hand with its delta of swollen veins and searched for the name. Ted. Fred. Ted. ‘Is it Fred?’

‘That’s quite all right.’ Ted gave a shy and toothy smile. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ he added.

‘I was only wondering if, by any chance, you’ve seen Netta’s brother this evening. Glenn.’

‘Hang on though, he was walking quite fast. He might have gone a long way since then. He didn’t have his trolley.’

‘Really?’ Ted looked troubled. ‘Oh, I would have thought … he was supposed to be joining a family get-together once he’d finished his round, you see. I thought I’d find him nearly at the Hall, but I’ve worked backwards from there and not managed to catch him. I wonder …’

Feeling vaguely guilty, Paul watched Ted walk away. There was another low grumble of thunder and, as if in reply, a volley of sarcastic quacks from the direction of the moat; no doubt 633 Squadron had returned, bomb bays reloaded. Ted disappeared around the corner of the side street, there was half a minute of emptiness and then Marianne rounded the same corner, beautiful in a blue jacket. She gave a little wave.

‘Oh,’ said Paul out loud, suddenly realizing something, suddenly visualizing the wire-ended blue plastic perch from which the ducks had launched themselves. ‘Bloody hell.’ He hurried towards Marianne. ‘Hi, look, I’ve just got to catch up with someone and tell them something, I won’t be a moment, I … I … You look lovely. Go on in, the table’s booked and everything, I’ll just be ten seconds, I’ll just be …’ it started to rain, ‘ten seconds. Or less.’ He jogged backwards for a few steps, smiling encouragingly at her startled face and then turned and legged it. Ted’s beige mackintosh was visible a hundred yards away, and Paul caught up with him just before he reached the moat.

‘I think,’ he said, between gasps, ‘I think I know what Glenn’s looking for. I think his shopping trolley’s in the moat, a couple of feet from the bank. I saw some ducks sitting on the handle but the water’s so muddy you can’t see the rest of it – it’s sort of … halfway along.’

‘Glenn may well have already found it and taken it out,’ said Ted. ‘These incidents happen to him from time to time. I’ll just go and check.’

‘I’m really sorry about that,’ said Paul, sitting down opposite Marianne. He brushed some droplets from his hair and wiped the back of his neck with a napkin; the window behind Marianne’s head was beginning to blur with rain.

‘Ten minutes, at least. Janice phoned literally as I was leaving the flat and she’s going through a terrible time, I couldn’t just leave.’

‘No,’ he agreed, wondering if he should know who Janice was. Perhaps she was the wife of the mysterious Alex, who had recommended the restaurant.

‘She told me that Greg’s threatening to leave if she doesn’t stop seeing Evan.’ No, not married to Alex then. Paul made a noise indicative of interest and Marianne continued speaking, and he looked at her lovely face, so animated, so friendly, so close to his own, and at the swatch of pale hair that swung around her jawline as she spoke. He had always liked that image; the first time he’d ever seen her she’d been at one end of a pub garden, chatting to another girl, and he had been at the other, nursing a sore head and a Sunday newspaper, and for a whole hour and a half he had sat and watched her talk, the light catching the curve of her hair. He was just about to ask, ‘Who’s Janice?’ when he saw Glenn walk past the restaurant window, still at the same fast pace, still without his trolley, his dark hair flattened by the rain.

‘Who’s Janice?’ asked Paul, determinedly ignoring the implications of what he’d just seen.

‘Oh.’ None the wiser he sat and looked at her again, and realized that he could skip item 2 on Netta’s list, that their conversation was flowing like liquid honey and that he could therefore go straight for the menu. He offered the top copy to Marianne and, as he did so, he saw Glenn walking past the restaurant again, this time in the opposite direction.

‘Nothing, I mean … look, I’ve got to go and tell somebody something.’ He got to his feet and she stared up at him, open-mouthed.

‘Somebody’s lost something, and I’ve got to go and tell them. Sorry, I know it sounds mad, it’s a bit complicated, I’ll explain when I get back. I won’t be very long, I promise – you can go ahead and order if you want.’ He caught the eye of the hovering waiter. ‘I’ll have the same as her.’

There was a large white shape on the water near the sub-merged trolley. In the half-light it took a moment or two for Paul to realize that he was looking at a sleeping swan, its neck a quiescent loop, its head tucked under its wing.

‘Is it safe, d’you think?’ asked Ted. ‘I believe they can be very fierce when roused.’

‘Well, hopefully it won’t wake up,’ said Paul. ‘Hey, Glenn, if we both hold onto the railing with one hand and grab the handle with the other, I think we can haul it straight out.’

‘I’m not keen,’ said Glenn. He had not climbed over the low railing to join Paul on the narrow strip of grass beside the water and in fact had backed off a few feet. ‘A swan can break a man’s arm with its wing.’

Paul looked at his watch; Marianne had now been sitting alone at their table for nearly seven minutes. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll give it one go on my own and if it doesn’t come out, I’ll … I’ll phone the council tomorrow. I’m sure they must have grappling equipment or something.’

‘No,’ said Glenn. ‘I think it would be much safer to retrieve it tonight. Someone might borrow it again.’

‘It’s all right for you,’ muttered Paul, eyeing the swan. He had always assumed that the wing + arm equation was a myth, but from this proximity it looked wholly believable, the twin muscular curves tense with latent power.

Glenn took a half step towards the water. ‘Last February I left the trolley on the pavement because I had to buy a second-class stamp in a shop to write to the local council and two boys borrowed it and threw it into a skip and I had to replace the nearside wheel because the axle was bent. I couldn’t use it for five days.’

‘OK, OK. I’ll give it a go.’ Paul grasped the railing and felt the crackle of rust and old paint beneath his fingers. Netta’s brother had greeted the sudden appearance of a complete stranger who knew both his name and the whereabouts of his trolley without visible surprise, but Paul’s phrase, ‘It’s about halfway along,’ had been dissected to such a degree (‘Is that halfway between the outer wall of Woolworths’ car park and the road bridge or halfway between the outer wall of Woolworths’ car park and the end of the footpath, or is it halfway …’) that he had ended up accompanying Glenn to the exact spot; they had found Ted standing guard nearby, taking what shelter he could beneath a canopy of dripping trees.

Paul reached out his other arm towards the handle. The swan, head still under its wing, suddenly hunched one shoulder and then relaxed again, the feathers fanning and closing like the blades of a Swiss army knife.

‘I’d offer to help,’ called Ted, ‘but I have to admit that my balance is not quite what it was …’

Paul braced himself and began to pull. The trolley moved sluggishly towards him, and then jammed on something underwater. He shifted his grip, and started to haul upwards. It was much heavier than he would have thought, and he half squatted to increase the leverage. There was a moment of stasis, and then a moment when the trolley seemed to be rising, sweetly and easily, and then a moment during which he realized that the edge of the bank had just given way and that he was dropping/had dropped/was now standing waist-deep in freezing water, both hands clutching the trolley as if about to do a little sub-aqua browsing.

A mini tidal wave slopped against the raw edge of the bank and then surged back again, rocking the water so that the swan bobbed like a bath duck. It uncoiled its neck and – eye level now – drew back its head like a cobra and hissed at Paul. He found himself scrabbling at mud, grabbing onto the railings while his feet treadled for purchase, pawing at the broken bank while behind him the mighty white bone-snappers flexed and cracked.

‘Be off with you,’ shouted an authoritative voice, and there was a discrete splash, followed by two or three more. Paul twisted his head round and saw the swan apparently under fire, the water around it leaping from the impact of a series of small missiles. It pecked ineffectually at the nearest, attacked the next with the same result and then turned and in a great flurry of legs and wings began its bounding take-off run, an inelegant stamping charge that changed quickly and imperceptibly into flight. It lifted away through the darkness and the furrow of white water settled into its former, rain-dimpled calm. Ted dropped the conkers he had been throwing and extended a hand over the railing.

‘Trolley,’ said Paul, in a voice he barely recognized as his own. ‘I’m bloody getting this bloody trolley out now if it’s the last bloody thing I do.’

In the absence of the swan Glenn helped assiduously, and within a couple of minutes both Paul and the trolley were back on the towpath.

‘It doesn’t appear to be damaged in any way,’ said Glenn, looking pleased.

‘Good,’ said Paul, grimly, gazing down at himself. Below the belt he was clean, if sodden; above the belt he was filthy, if dry. The effect might, objectively, have been quite amusing but neither Ted nor Glenn seemed to find it in the slightest bit funny, and for that Paul was grateful; it was nice, for once, not to be laughed at.

‘My flat’s just around the corner,’ said Ted, ‘and I could provide you with a change of clothing and then drive you home – Oh please,’ he added, at Paul’s half-hearted refusal, ‘it would be the very least I could do. After your kindness.’

‘I’ve got to go back to the restaurant first,’ said Paul, looking at his watch. He had left Le Chien Gris seventeen minutes ago; Marianne would think he had simply abandoned her. ‘I’ve got to go back and – and –’ What, precisely? Wave at her through the window? Squelch between the tables and sit down as if nothing had happened? Attempt an explanation that didn’t make him look like a third-rate clown? (‘Anyway, once I’d fallen in the water the swan suddenly woke up …’) Just the thought of the latter made him want to lie down and dissolve. ‘There’s probably no point,’ he said, hopelessly. ‘She’s probably gone by now. That’s it. I’ve had it.’

‘We could look in on our way,’ said Ted. ‘If you’d like to accept my offer, that is.’

‘I have to go for a meal,’ said Netta’s brother, rattling past at top trolley speed. ‘I’m late.’

She was still there – still there but no longer alone. She had joined a couple at another table and was chatting not only with them but also with the waiter, who instead of taking their orders was leaning against the wall with his arms folded and, it appeared, watching the play of light on Marianne’s hair while admiring the equanimity with which she had changed her plans and the social ease with – Paul stamped on the brake and brought the Speculation Special to a violent halt. There was to be no more supposition; the waiter was leaning against the wall looking rather glazed.

‘Er …’ It seemed the best offer currently available. ‘OK,’ he said, ungraciously, and Ted brushed the rain from the shoulders of his mac and entered Le Chien Gris.

Lurking beneath the awning, peering in through the gap between menu and newspaper clipping, Paul watched the mute explanation unfold. Ted began with a bow, and then spoke for some time, his hands gripping the back of an empty chair, his expression serious. Marianne said something in reply and then Ted bowed again, and as he walked away the heads of both women turned and looked wonderingly into the darkness.

‘Because you’d risked your life to help an innocent victim of crime,’ said Ted, as if stating the obvious.

‘Bloody hell,’ repeated Paul, reflectively this time. ‘That is just brilliant.’ He felt his mouth curve into an involuntary smile. ‘Brilliant.’

‘No more than the truth,’ said Ted, gravely. ‘And she told me that she very much looks forward to hearing from you again.’

‘Brilliant. You are brilliant. Listen, I didn’t thank you for chucking those conkers. You’ve got fantastic aim.’

‘I trained as a sniper during the war,’ said Ted, stopping at a doorway beside a newsagent’s and reaching into his pocket for a set of keys. ‘And here we are.’

It occurred to Paul as he stood naked in Ted’s tiny bathroom, drying himself with a lilac appliqued guest towel, that his host might be gay, and his first, venial, instinct was to check the lock; he felt instantly ashamed of himself – what was he expecting, the sudden appearance of a lust-crazed Ted in a studded codpiece? (‘Don’t you realize your power, Paul, you’re simply irresistible to gay men.’) – and he tried, in pointless recompense, to dress slowly and carefully. Finally he stared at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door: brown lace-up shoes, brown twill trousers, only slightly too tight, white shirt with a faint brown check, blue jumper that stretched smoothly over his tummy. He was looking at his own father, dressed for an NFU social evening. ‘Graham Gooding, Arrow Clough Farm,’ he barked, extending a hand to his reflection.

The flat was tiny and the kitchen no more than a screened-off corner of the living room. Paul sat in a winged armchair as Ted arranged biscuits on a plate and brought over a tray that bore, in addition to two mugs, a single balloon glass. ‘Will you take a brandy?’ asked Ted, holding up an impressively crusted bottle. ‘I think it might be wise, medicinally, after your soaking – although, of course, you’re the expert on these matters.’

The other armchair was so close that they sat with their knees practically touching, and a sudden, shy silence descended, broken only by the crunch of biscuits. Paul glanced around, searching for a topic of conversation; there was a piano on one side of the room, the top stacked with sheet music, and on the other, two shelf units, placed either side of the window. One was full of books, the other of knick-knacks – china and silver and odd miscellaneous items: there was a matchbox model of a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud and another of a Bentley, a polished regimental cap badge mounted on a little shield and next to it a photo of what looked like the cast of a play about gangsters.

‘Guys and Dolls, Leicester Haymarket, 1958,’ said Ted, following Paul’s gaze. He rose stiffly and reached over for the frame. ‘I was Nicely-Nicely Johnson,’ he said, pointing to the third gangster along. Paul studied the bulky figure with the unconvincingly vicious expression and the wooden machine gun. Only the teeth and the length of the face linked him to the old man in the opposite chair. ‘I was the understudy,’ said Ted, ‘but there was an outbreak of pinkeye and I went on four times. Or five, I think.’

‘Yes, for a while. Chorus, mainly. And character. But of course, it’s not a … a steady living. Thank goodness for these,’ he said, holding out his hands and miming an arpeggio. ‘I can still sing for my supper, so to speak.’

Out of politeness, Paul looked at the photo a moment longer and then stood to replace it. Next to it on the shelf was a more recent shot of Ted, a colour print taken in what looked like a church hall. He was seated at a piano, hands resting on the keys, while beside him a timid-looking elderly woman was pretending to act as a page turner. A second elderly woman was standing in the foreground, occupying centre stage in a pose that suggested she’d just heard the voice of God and was considering her reply. Behind the three of them, against the far wall, a row of small girls in tutus stood holding hands and pointing their toes.

‘It’s a publicity shot for the Devon School of Dance,’ said Ted. ‘Have you met Netta’s mother? The lady in the front?’

‘No, but I’ve spoken to her.’ He picked up the picture for a closer look. ‘There’s not a lot of resemblance, is there?’

‘Not a great deal, no,’ said Ted, ‘though of course they’re both very handsome women.’ He took the photo gently from Paul and studied it for a while. ‘So, are you going to see your young lady again?’ he asked unexpectedly.

‘She’s not really my young lady,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve hardly ever spoken to her, I just … fell for her and then hung around like an idiot for ages and ages. This was going to be the first time we’d ever had a proper conversation.’

‘It seems long to me,’ said Paul, ‘seeing as I haven’t made one inch of progress in the meantime.’

‘And there’s been not the slightest change in my feelings towards them,’ His tone was so light that it took a moment for Paul to register the import of the words.

‘You mean, you never got anywhere in all that time?’ he asked, incredulously.

‘– was somebody who had been ruled by her heart in the past and had made an unhappy choice and been badly wounded, and had decided not to …’ he tailed off, his baggy features pursed in thought. Paul took a slug of brandy.

‘As a matter of fact,’ said Ted, ‘I can remember her exact words, she said, “Ted, I never dwell on the past, but I do try to learn from it. From now on, my passion can only ever be for my work.”’

‘God,’ said Paul, chastened as much by the eloquence as by the sentiment. ‘And do you ever see her now?’

‘Oh, I see her all the time,’ said Ted matter-of-factly. ‘I’m still very much part of her life, which of course has many compensations. “Sweet is true love, tho’ given in vain”, as Tennyson said. “Love is not love which alters” – Shakespeare.’

‘“And after all, you’re my wonderwall”,’ said Paul. ‘Oasis. It’s a song that came out last year, a really great song,’ he added, at Ted’s enquiring look.

‘And after all, you’re my wonderwall,’ repeated Ted meditatively. ‘I’m not sure if I quite … is there a secondary meaning to the word wonderwall?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Paul. ‘I think it just rhymes with after all.’

‘Ah, I see.’ Ted looked at him kindly. ‘Of course, context is everything with lyrics. I’m sure it would be quite different if I actually heard the song.’ He took a final look at the photo and then placed it on the tea tray. ‘Now, another brandy?’

15