Spitfire Roundabout Read online

  Spitfire Roundabout

  By Glenn McGoldrick

  Text Copyright @2018

  Glenn McGoldrick

  All Rights Reserved

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  Spitfire Roundabout

  It was a cold night, and my breath turned to mist as I watched her house. The living room blinds were closed, a bluish light flickering behind them; she’d be watching TV.

  I thought about knocking on her door, but let it go. Too soon.

  I spent the next day cleaning and vacuuming, moving bits of furniture around, getting the apartment just the way I liked it. A guy came to install broadband at 5 p.m., and when he was done I sent a few emails then drove to my parents’ house in Acklam for dinner.

  “Look at you, Phillip,” Mum said when she opened the front door. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  “It’s only been two years, Mum,” I said.

  “Stop fussing over him, Denise,” Dad said. “Come on in, son.”

  We sat at the kitchen table and chatted over dinner. Mum had a glass of wine and Dad had a pint of beer, but I had an orange juice.

  They both seemed in good health. My dad’s hair still grew thick, but now it was completely grey. It would be another thirty years before I turned seventy, but I wondered if I’d still have a full head of hair like him.

  I told them about my time in York.

  “Sounds like it went well for you,” Dad said, buttering his baked potato. “And you got a promotion too?”

  “Yeah, that’s partly the reason why I’m back,” I said. “There was an opening at Stockton branch.”

  “So you’ll be working back at Stockton again?” Mum asked.

  “Yeah. But now I’ll be the Head of Programming.”

  “That’s great,” she said. “When do you start?”

  “Next week. Probably Wednesday.”

  “Great,” Dad said. “So you’re home for good now?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I said, staring at the condensation on the side of his beer glass.

  “And you’re renting in Thornaby?” he asked.

  “Yeah. An apartment near the town centre. Just short term, until I get myself organised.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” he said.

  “Does Becky know I’m home?” I asked.

  He shook his head and said, “No, you said not to tell her.”

  I watched him as he raised his glass and sipped the ice cold beer.

  “Why you don’t want to tell your own sister you’re coming home,” Mum said, “I don’t know.”

  “Well,” I said, cutting up my chicken breast. “I thought it best that way.”

  “Why?” she asked, putting down her knife and fork.

  “She’d only tell Susan. You know how close they are.”

  “So?” she said. “What would that matter?”

  “Well, I was thinking of going to see Susan,” I said. “Surprise her, you know?

  “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, son,” Dad said.

  “Your dad’s right, Phillip. You’ve put all that behind you now.”

  “Well, I have, but…”

  “What?” they both asked.

  “It doesn’t mean I’ve stopped caring for her.”

  I drove home after dinner, staring out of the window until darkness. It looked like a nice night for a walk, so I put on my shoes and did just that.

  The night was cool and dry. I took Millbank Lane past the Police station, passing under the trees that lined the path.

  The pavement was cracked and uneven where the tree roots pushed through. I wondered if the roots caused the cracks, or just grew through the existing cracks.

  At the traffic lights I turned left onto Thornaby Road, and stopped when I got to the Airman Statue. It was there to commemorate Thornaby Airfield; a statue of an airman, bomber jacket over his shoulder, a hand shielding his eyes as he gazes skyward – what did he see?

  Further down the road I stopped by the Spitfire roundabout. About ten years ago they put a life sized replica of a Spitfire fighter on the roundabout, in memory of the Spitfires that took off from Thornaby airfield during the Second World War.

  The plane sits on struts ten feet above the roundabout, giving the impression of flying through the air; lit blue from underneath at night, it makes an arresting sight. But I’d always wondered what the point of it was.

  From the roundabout I cut into an alleyway and watched Susan’s house. There were no lights on, so after twenty minutes I walked home. My mind was ticking over, so I had a few cans of lager to help me relax. I went to bed around 2 a.m.

  I got up just before noon and spent an hour installing some new software on my laptops. Then I called work, to confirm my return date. I did a little more unpacking and arranging things, but by 5:30 p.m. the apartment was more or less how I wanted it.

  Sensing boredom setting in, I had the urge to get out of the house. So I went to see my old friend Chris.

  He lives in Cranwell Grove, so it took me about twenty minutes to walk there. He was very surprised to see me.

  “Jesus!” he said. “I didn’t know you were back, Phil.”

  “How’s the family?” I asked him as we sat in his living room.

  “They’re good. Jen’s took Erin to netball practice, so I figured I’d have a beer or two,” he said, raising his glass to me. “I don’t suppose you want one?”

  “Yeah, go on then. Why not?”

  He brought me a beer, and we talked about my time in York.

  “So it turned out OK for you then?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “When did you get back?”

  “Sunday,” I said. “I’m starting back at Stockton again next week.”

  “You’ll be round for a while then?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” I said. I took a sip of the beer. Nice and cold.

  “That’s good,” he said.

  “I’m hoping to speak to Susan.”

  He looked at me for a few seconds without speaking.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I actually saw her in the centre. About a month ago.”

  “Did you talk to her?”

  “Yeah, a bit.”

  “And? What did she say?”

  “About you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, she didn’t have anything nice to say,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the arms of the sofa.

  “Go on,” I said.

  “She said she didn’t want to see you again.”

  I drank some beer and thought about it.

  “She’s mad at me,” I said. “What else would she say? It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “I don’t know. She seemed pretty adamant about it.”

  “Well, she might feel different when we’ve had chance to talk.”

  “If you get the chance to talk,” he said.

  “Yeah, well,” I said. “She doesn’t have a boyfriend, does she?”

  “No, I don’t think so,” he said, and shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t heard anything.”

  The conversation drifted onto other topics. We had a couple more beers and talked about old friends and crappy football teams. His wife and daughter returned just before 10 p.m., and I left shortly after.

  I replayed the conversation with Chris as I walked home. Was it any surprise if Susan was still angry with me?

  I’d st
arted drinking more and more at work in Stockton. The stress, going out with colleagues for a few drinks, a couple of beers during lunch break, a quick vodka before I headed home.

  Just a little bit, a little drink, an inch here and there, none of the things being very much in themselves; but all of it together, well, that added up to really fucked.

  I found myself outside her house again, watching. Lights on. She was inside now. It used to be my home. Our home.

  We’d talked about kids. I could never get it together. Too busy drinking.

  My sex life went downhill, so I drank more. Susan got frustrated with me, no surprise. We drifted apart. She cheated, we argued, she said mean things, I slapped her. I was wrong, but I was angry. I was a drunken bum.

  After that it wasn’t the same. I felt awful. We spent less time together. Then work offered me a position in the York branch, and it seemed like a lifeline to me.

  “I’ve been asked to work in the York branch,” I said to her.

  “You should take it.”

  “OK. I will.”

  “Good,” she said, staring out of the living room window.

  And there I was, over two years later, stood outside in the alleyway, staring at the same living room window, wondering how it would all turn out.

  I stood there until my feet became cold, then walked home and had a couple of cans before bed.

  The weather’s been crappy today, so I haven’t been out yet. I flicked through the TV channels, but couldn’t settle on anything. So I lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling, as the rain hit the window. I sipped a beer and thought things over.

  I’d managed to get on top of the booze while I was in York. It was easy at first. I was so annoyed at myself, so ashamed of my behaviour, that the merest mention of booze pissed me off.

  After a couple of months, the anger wore off and it took a conscious effort of will to abstain. So I threw myself into work more, keeping busy, keeping the wolf from the door.

  I became more productive, more skilled, leading to promotions and raises. Two years later I’d secured myself a senior position back at Stockton branch.

  Now I’m back. I came back to see Susan, more than any other reason. Make a life with her again. And she’ll want the same, I think, once she sees how sorry I am, how I’ve changed, how I’ve beat the booze.

  So maybe tonight I’ll knock on her door, and we’ll take it from there. Maybe she’ll slam the door in my face. Maybe she’ll be angry with me. The truth is, I don’t know how she’ll react to seeing me. Kiss me or kill me. Maybe she’ll slap me.

  It’s stopped raining now. So, when I’ve finished this beer, I think I’ll take a walk.

  Thanks for reading!

  I hope you enjoyed my story.

  Please feel free to review this book on Amazon, and let me know your thoughts.

  Until next time.

  Glenn McGoldrick.

  If you enjoyed reading this story, then you might like to try a collection in the Dark Teesside series:

  UK: http://amzn.to/2ArCP96

  US: http://amzn.to/2hbkogy

 

 

  Glenn McGoldrick, Spitfire Roundabout

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