Now
Ghosts of a past almost forgotten continued to whisper to Tom as he made his way along the uneven cobblestones of Wexford town. His feet ached with each step he made. He shivered as another cold rush of air bit his cheeks and nose. He watched the fur on Bette Davis’s body ripple. Sensing eyes on her, his faithful dog and companion paused mid-step and glanced his way.
‘That’s my gal,’ Tom murmured, gently ruffling her coat.
He forged ahead, walking towards South Main Street. When he arrived at Deerings Solicitors he paused for a moment to collect his thoughts. Intuitive to her master’s indecision, Bette Davis pulled on her leash, trying to move away from the possible danger that lurked on the other side of the door.
‘It’ll be fine,’ he said to Bette, more to reassure himself than her. Ben hadn’t recognised him. What if he turned him away? What if he said, ‘Too late, mate’?
He leaned his shoulder into the heavy wrought iron that led to the large open-plan reception area. They both scoured the room, Bette sniffing the carpeted floors and Tom noting that the previously magnolia walls of his memories were now dove grey. Accent mustard shades were evident in all the soft furnishings.
You trained me well, Cathy. Years later and he still recognised a well-placed scatter cushion.
A woman in her fifties with greying fair hair looked up. She was new. But there again Ben went through receptionists faster than Trump did his cabinet. She frowned as she watched Tom make his way towards her.
I’m making a lot of people frown today.
The woman’s eyes opened further, wide with shock when she realised that not only was a bedraggled man walking towards her but he had a dog by his side for good measure. It took her only a moment to recover and she stood up, leaning forward in consternation. She placed her two hands on the desk in front of her and said, ‘Get out. You’ve no business coming in here. And you certainly can’t bring that … that dog … into Mr Deering’s office!’ Her voice rose in indignation with each spoken word. Tom stood his ground. When she realised her words were falling on deaf ears, she moved towards them both, shooing them.
Tom sighed but it was a sigh of acceptance rather than annoyance. He took no offence from her reaction. He had long since hardened himself to the fact that people in the main judged others by their appearance. Looks matter. Clothes matter. It was difficult to ignore a person’s appearance and not make a snapshot social judgement. She was simply basing her opinion on how he presented himself to the world.
The receptionist filled in the blanks, as was human nature and without even knowing she had done so, decided that Tom was a down-and-out, possibly dangerous but at the very least, up to no good. Her eyes finished their inspection and his offence slid away, replaced by shame.
Tom’s voice was gruffer than normal. ‘I have an appointment.’ He made an effort to keep his gravelly voice low, soft and he hoped, calm. There was no satisfaction in frightening anyone, least of all this woman. The world they lived in, it often seemed like there was more evil than good to be found. He took a step backwards in an effort to reassure her, then continued, ‘I’m here to see Ben.’
‘That’s Mr Deering to you,’ she replied.
Tom pointed to his dog, who was sitting quietly by his side, enjoying the show. ‘I can’t leave Bette Davis outside. She doesn’t like to be on her own. She’s a good dog, though, house trained. And I can assure you that she doesn’t bite.’ He paused for a moment.
In for a penny in for a pound.
‘And, for that matter, neither do I.’
His statement threw the woman. A nod acknowledged his intended joke. ‘Your dog is called Bette Davis?’
‘Her big eyes made me think of the song. My wife sang it a lot,’ Tom said.
‘Well, her hair is almost Harlow gold, I suppose,’ she replied, referring to the song’s lyrics.
Tom searched her desk until he found a sign with her name on it. Janice Sutton.
‘What kind of a dog is she?’ Janice asked.
Tom shrugged. ‘I’m guessing she’s a labrador and red setter cross. But that’s just a guess.’
Janice nodded, taking in Bette’s strawberry-gold glossy coat and dark-brown eyes.
‘I’m not here to cause trouble, Ms Sutton. I just want to see Mr Deering.’
Janice felt herself soften. This man threw her. His voice didn’t match his appearance. She took a closer look. He was of indeterminate age, but she guessed in his sixties. She noticed that he didn’t look away; he accepted her scrutiny. In her two years as Mr Deering’s personal assistant she’d never been faced with a situation like this. Even if it were true that he did have an appointment, they couldn’t allow the dog in. Whatever next? Clients bringing their children to appointments?
Janice picked up her phone and pushed a button. ‘Mr Deering. Your five o’clock is here …’
Moments later, a door to the right of her desk opened and Ben walked out. The two men looked at each other, both sizing up the cut of the other. Tom thought he saw a flash of recognition but it was fleeting. It might have been from earlier on the street. Ben’s eyes rested on Bette Davis and he frowned again. Like before, he looked away. Tom felt disappointment nip him again.
Look at me, Ben. Don’t look through me. Look at me.
And he did just that. As if Tom’s thoughts had transmitted through the air between them in the office into his brain.
Ben moved closer and said, ‘I’m Ben Deering.’
‘I know who you are,’ Tom said. Look at me.
The penny dropped at last and recognition dawned on his friend’s face. ‘Tom?’