My Sweet Valentine

I live on a boat, well I suppose I should call it a barge or maybe a narrowboat, being that they’re slightly different from just the usual boat, on the canal in a small market town called Hebden Bridge, in West Yorkshire. It’s been voted as “the fourth funkiest town in the world” which is so true as it’s packed with wonderful little shops bursting at the seams with quirky jewellery and vintage and there’s loads of really cool pubs and restaurants and music venues.

It’s surrounded by scenic walks; you can stroll along the river as it curls beside grassy banks or ramble through Hardcastle Crags. There’s a brilliant little village nearby called Heptonstall boasting two pubs and a beautiful church where the poet, Sylvia Plath, is buried, and there’s also Lumb Bank, a fine house, where Ted Hughes lived, a great poet but a lousy husband to Sylvia, apparently.

Under normal circumstances, I’d be impressed by this place no end but, in my present state of mind? Um, perhaps not! I dwell on my state of mind often, sometimes early in the morning sipping a hot strong coffee, gazing from my boat’s little porthole window at the still brown waters of the canal, watching the September mist hanging over it like a hazy ceiling, or watching the swans swim oh so regally, orange legs kicking, as ducks quack and naughty geese honk morning noon and night. I dwell on my state of mind at night as well, whilst sipping red wine from a great balloon of a glass as the half-light of the day lights up the inky sky twinkling with stars and the great globe of the moon as it shines like a lantern in the blackness.

Now just wait a minute. I’m getting carried away here and, before I go on with my story, I really ought to introduce myself. I mean I could be anybody couldn’t I? You need to know who I am, in fact, you deserve to know who I am. So here goes. My name’s Jenny, or Jennifer, as my mum used to call me when I was a naughty girl many moons ago, Jenny Clarke, and up until approximately a year ago, I was living with Dave, my boyfriend of two years. Dave Ledgard, IT Extraordinaire, in a three-bedroom semi in Todmorden, a place known as Tod to the locals.

I’d thought we were okay, happy even, until Dave told me he was applying for a new job. I was interested and excited, it being very well paid, creating flashing pound signs in my mind’s eye, as didn’t we always need the extra money? My mind roamed over all the things we could do with it, firstly a holiday, a hot sultry holiday, and then we could do repairs to the house, a new bathroom suite would be nice, a power shower, a tarmacked drive instead of the gravelly mess we had at the moment, until that is, he told me the job was in America. New York to be precise.

I remember I’d laughed and said, “Don’t be daft, Dave, you can’t go to America.”

“No,” he replied, “But we can!” He gave me a conspiratorial side-eyed wink.

I’d looked at him, surprised, I’d even giggled a bit, “I can’t go to America, Dave. In case you’ve forgotten, I happen to have a very pregnant daughter right here in Tod. Do you really think I’d want to go all that way and miss out on my first grandchild. Actually, this could be my only grandchild.”

“Nah, she’ll have more surely. You’ll have loads of grandchildren all clamouring for your attention. You wait and see.” He gave a decided “I’ve made my mind up” nod of the head.

“Dave,” I replied patiently, “Emma’s my only child, so exactly how many children do you think she’s going to have? And you saying I might have loads of grandchildren has made it worse, made it more impossible to leave here. Don’t you see?”

He gave a non-committal shrug, “Well, I’m still going to have a stab at this, Jen. Someday I’ll be too old, past it, you know what I mean.”

“We’re not even fifty yet,” I replied.

“Time flies,” he said with a grin, “Time flies, Jen, and before you know it, pouff, you’re gone.”

And then he did something unexpected, something out of character. He came close and pulled me into his arms, kissed my cheek, his lips soft and moist. I remembered the good solid warmth of his body pressed against mine and suddenly my heart sank, and I came back to the present, thoughts running through my head. “Had I made a mistake?” “What had I done, letting him go like that, all by himself.”

Gazing around, my heart sank even further, as I saw the inside of the boat as if for the very first time, the tiny kitchen cum sitting area, the curtained off bedroom, the small screened TV, my little pink CD player, my phone blank faced at my side. Poor and sparse as I thought back to the large open rooms of the semi I’d lived in before.

I felt as cold and as lonely as when Frank, my husband of twenty-five years, had died. Emma’s doting Dad. Without realising it, my life with Dave had brought me back to life. Oh God, what had I done? My heart raced and I put my hand over my mouth, trying to take long even breaths to calm myself. A voice brought me out of my reverie and, glancing up, I gazed straight into a pair of mossy green eyes and a mouth soft and pink that moved beautifully as he said, “Hi, is this your cat?”

“My cat? Why, yes.” I held out my arms to take her, my erratically beating heart temporarily forgotten, “Why? What happened?”

“Um, just had a feeling she was going to jump into the water and well, I picked her up before she had a chance.”

I laughed, “Yeah, she does that sometimes, but don’t worry, she’s a good swimmer.” And then to the cat, “Hey, Sydney, are you okay, girl?” She snuggled into my arms, simultaneously meowing and purring into my neck.

He laughed creating a myriad of wrinkles around his eyes and dimples too, one on either side of his mouth, “Sydney? You mean after the girl in “Scream? The film?”

“Well, yeah, but, not only that, I just really like the name, you know, especially for a girl …”

He nodded seriously, “Yeah, I like it too.”

“What’s your dog called?” I asked, noticing a great white fluffy ball sitting patiently at his side.

“Ah yes, please meet Ziggy Stardust in all his glory.” He gave a mock theatrical bow, pointing his fingers at the dog who gave me what could only be called a smile, all his little white teeth showing. I was charmed, but managed to tear my eyes away to say, “David Bowie, eh?”

“Oh yes, massive fan.”

“Me too. I saw him only once in concert, in the nineties. He was great but I really wished I’d seen him earlier, in the seventies maybe, when he was actually Ziggy … before he killed him off.”

“Yeah, well I did. Hey, don’t get jealous, will you?”

We grinned at each other, our eyes locking, his very green and mine, a strange colour, green flecked with yellowish bits, hazel, I think it’s called. My heart thumped so hard, right up into my ears, that surely, he could hear it? I felt sort of weak and watery, my knees bendy as pipe cleaners. What was wrong with me? Suddenly, my phone rang shrilly from my pocket, causing Sydney to tense up and jump, landing with a thump on the deck and then shooting off inside, to hide under the bed no doubt.

“Oh well,” I tapped my pocket, “I’d better go. Nice to talk to you, um?”

He nodded and smiled again, those very attractive wrinkles appearing again around his eyes, and the dimples either side of his mouth, “Andy Valentine, pleased to meet you, and?” He put his head to one side, a questioning look on his face.

“Really? Andy Valentine?”

Frowning, he said, “Yeah … how about you?”

My phone carried on ringing and ringing, a burring sound as it pulsated against my thigh. Retrieving it from my pocket, I glanced at the screen, the name “Dave” clearly visible. My heart thumped, “Why was he ringing me? Couldn’t he take to his new life? Was he coming back?”

“I’m Jenny Clarke. Look, I’m sorry but I really have to take this call.”

“Sure,” he grinned, “See you around, um, hopefully.”

I nodded and said, “Yeah,” as I rushed inside, putting my phone to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Wow, you took a long time. I thought you’d fallen in the water. Jenny, I can’t believe you’re living on a boat …”

“Dave? Are you okay. I mean, phoning all the way from America! It must be an emergency.” He laughed as I said, “We’ve been through this before. I like living here on the boat.” Peering through the window, I could just about make out the man called Andy Valentine slowly walking away, his stride long and loose, the smiling dog Ziggy padding at his side.

“Well, is there an emergency?” I giggled, “This call is so unexpected.”

“Nothing wrong, no emergency, Jenny, actually everything is very right. I’m sitting here in my office, looking from the window, a fabulous view of Manhattan spread out all around me. I can even see Central Park from here like a little green oasis in its concrete world. Now wouldn’t you like to see that sort of view from your window, Jen? Inspiration for your writing? Or are you happy with the murky brown waters of the canal at Hebden Bridge? Come on now, be truthful.”

I hesitated for a moment, gazing around again at the cluttered interior of the boat, the view of rippling canal water from the tiny porthole, the sound all-around of quacking ducks and irate geese, the graceful paddling of swans, the leaves on the trees whispering as they shivered in the breeze. I squeezed through the boat’s tiny doorway onto the deck and sat down on my one and only rickety deck chair, the sun warm on my shoulders.

“Jenny?”

“Yeah, sorry, I was trying to think of a good answer.”

“How about the truth?”

“I like it here, Dave. Yeah, okay, I’m living on a boat at the moment but, well,” I shrugged, “I like it here. That’s about it really.”

He sighed heavily as in the distance I heard the manic sound of a telephone ringing and ringing, “You know, Jen, I don’t know if I believe you but, I gotta go. My phone’s ringing. I’ll be in touch, yeah?”

“Okay, Dave, I …” There was a click as the phone disconnected so I clicked off too and carefully put my mobile back in my pocket, and stayed sitting there my face turned to the sun. The warmth burning into my skin was luxurious, as was the bright orange glow that blossomed at the back of my eyes. I was just about to tell Dave I missed him so, really, it was just as well, he’d rung off. I didn’t want him to sense a weakness in me, and think I couldn’t cope alone, that I regretted letting him go. Even though I did, sometimes.

My thoughts turned back to the man, Andy Valentine, and a hot tremor tore through my body as the thought, “He was flirting with me,” rushed through my mind. A sense of surprise overwhelmed me at the thought that a good-looking man would even bother with me at the moment, I was well aware of the shapeless sack I’d become since Dave had gone.

I saw myself in my mind’s eye, the overgrown bush of hair, lacking any discernible style, the ends dry and in dire need of a cut, the same old clothes day in and day out, creased denim shorts and a vest top for the heat, jeans, and a tee-shirt, a too big hoodie pulled over the top when it grew cold. Even my shoes were a mess, shabby trainers complete with frayed laces, that slopped around on my feet like boats.

And yet …I opened my eyes and gazed up at the great expanse of the sky, scattered with fluffy clouds that looked like comfortable fat cushions spread across a blue settee, Andy Valentine had flirted with me. Something I hadn’t even thought about happening after all the years first with Frank, and then Dave. A slow satisfied smile stole across my face as I closed my eyes and let go, dozing into the heat.

***

I’m a writer, of romance novels, my pen name Claudia Raines, (which incidentally my daughter, Emma, isn’t a big fan of), “Sounds too much like that old actor, Claude Raines, Mum.” She’s right, it does, but hey, what’s wrong with that, he was a great actor, so I’m not going to change it, it’s too late now. I’ve been published with that name (after many years and a ton of hard work), so I think it’s lucky, far luckier than plain old Jenny Clarke that’s for sure, or even when I’d used my married name of Smith. Yes, Smith. Can you understand now why I have a pen name, dear reader? The only thing is, romance writing is one of the worst professions to be in when you’re down and depressed, especially if you’ve got the blues because of your relationship, because of your other half, because of a man.

Your thoughts dry up, romance goes out of the window, so how can you write about it? How can you bear to write about happy couples, putting down in words that first all-important meeting, like a display of beautiful fizzing fireworks, the catastrophe half way through the story that almost splits them up, and the pure unadulterated making up at the end, bringing them back together again. So, I’m pretty much stuck at the moment, my living having dried up, a bank balance, once as healthy as a marathon runner, now at a very low ebb, and yet, my savings are untouched so far, which is how I want them to stay.

I need to get back into it, get focussed, after all I’ve a granddaughter now, baby Milly, who I want to spoil, who I want to buy things for, lots of toys, cute dresses and tiny shoes, ready and waiting for her very first steps. Emma’s visiting with Milly this afternoon but first of all, in my quest to get my thoughts running again, I’ve taken myself away from the boat and come to a nearby café, slap bang in the centre of Hebden Bridge, an old cottage facing onto the canal, my boat bobbing on the water only a stone’s throw away.

“Classy Coffee,” is a vibrant place, with a friendly feel, where I can sit, my laptop wide open in front of me, a cup of fragrant coffee at my side, hey, maybe even a pastry. I look around, my gaze taking in the bumpy white washed walls, at black and white pictures of a very old Hebden Bridge, as well as local quirky art, including drawings, paintings, and sculptures amassed on the deep window sills. I take in the beamed ceiling and the stone flagged floor where round wooden tables stand covered with red and white checked cloths, an empty wine bottle on each, candles dribbling wax stuck into each one.

The waitresses, wearing tight black skirts, half buttoned shirts, covered by long black aprons, their skin, particularly arms, necks and legs, decorated with colourful tattoos, walk quickly from table to table, holding trays high above their heads, theatrically depositing their contents onto each table, that are full of chattering people, eager for food and drink, for talk and gossip. The coffee machine whooshes steam and piped music flows delicately from hidden speakers.

I take a sip of hot strong coffee followed by a bite of the soft pastry and stare at the screen of my laptop, the title of the novel I’m trying to write in bold black letters right in front of my eyes, “Hidden Desires,” followed by the words, “Jeanette’s thoughts turned to last night, to Henry. She recalled his eyes, dark as sloes as they gazed into hers, the feeling of skin on skin, his kisses that rained passionately onto her lips …”

“Oh, what tosh,” I thought, as once again, I raised my coffee cup to my lips and took a long swallow, feeling its energy rushing through my veins, giving me a much-needed boost. With a quick press of the delete button, I erased the words about Jeanette and Henry, (Henry indeed, maybe Harry would be better? Or Josh, yes, with a sudden blinding knowledge, I knew he had to be called Josh) leaving just the title “Hidden Desires,” which gazed reproachfully at me from the screen, wanting I knew more words. “Explain yourself,” I could almost hear it say, “Come on Jen, explain yourself, reveal your hidden desires. Come on, write, get writing. Come on, surprise yourself, girl.”

“Oh dear,” I thought, “Where was my usual flair for words? This was the worst writer’s block I’d ever had!” I carried on berating myself, making God only knows what strange faces as I mumbled, when I sensed a presence at my side, a male presence, carrying a tray containing something that smelled delicious, hot and steaming on a plate, a silver teapot, with a matching tiny jug and a cup and saucer.

“Well, hi,” I said coming face to face with the man, Andy Valentine, his eyes green as grass, locking with mine.

“Would you mind if I shared your table?” he asked, shrugging and gazing self-consciously around, “Everywhere else is full.”

“Of course,” I said, ducking my head to hide a face that had begun to burn, my cheeks aflame, as my heart started to beat hard and fast at the thought of the last time I’d spoken with this man. What a weird effect he seemed to have on me. Hastily, I moved my laptop to one side, and pulled my mug towards me, as well as my plate with its half-eaten pastry. He smiled at me as he sat down, his dimples appearing as if by magic, his green eyes glittering in a band of sunlight that fell through the large plate glass window onto the table.

Carefully he put his tray down saying, “Well, it’s really good to see you again,” Seeming flustered, he blushed a little as he rambled on, “I was hoping to see you again and, oh, um, well, thanks for letting me share.” Smiling a little, he sat down and, slowly, shyly even, began to eat, nodding at the laptop, “Are you working? Sorry if I’ve interrupted you.”

I sighed, “I’m trying to work but, unfortunately, I’m not getting very far. A bit of writer’s block, I think.” Putting my arms above my head, I stretched, rolling my neck a few times to relieve the stiffness.

“Oh,” he put down his knife and fork and poured tea from the silver pot into his cup, adding milk and then maybe a grain or two of sugar, “You’re a writer? Wow.”

“Careful with the sugar, eh?” And then, “Yes, romance novels, and the romance just isn’t coming today.”

He laughed, “Yeah, I don’t like too much sugar, a grain or two is far too much, really.” He patted his slim stomach as our gaze met again whilst he sliced a piece of quiche and put it into his mouth, chewing and swallowing before saying, “Hmm, maybe you get your romance at home?” He gave me a sideways glance.

“Oh no,” I told him, “There’s none of that at home. I mean,” I stammered, “I live alone.” Once again, I felt a hot blush suffuse my face.

He nodded as he took another sip, “Oh, I see. It’s up to the imagination then?”

I smiled and laughed, “Yes, and I usually have quite a good one, but …”

“Not today?”

“No, not today.”

The people at the next table began to leave, their chairs scraping on the flagged floor, their voices loud with exclamations of thanks as they made their way out of the café, and the door pinged closed behind them. One of the waitresses swept in like a seagull, clearing the table of all its debris in the blink of an eye.

I gazed at him, Andy Valentine, secretly from the corner of my eye. He wore jeans with a black leather belt, a blue shirt tucked in, the top buttons of which were undone showing a good expanse of curly chest hair. His beard was black and stubbly sprinkled finely over his cheeks and chin and his lips looked soft and pink, his tongue flicking in and out as he ate and drank. My heart thumped like somebody banging a drum, Roger Taylor I hoped in his days as drummer with Queen.

Having finished his meal, he picked up his cup and sipped his tea, before asking casually, “So you’re not married then?”

“I was,” I told him, “But my husband died …”

“Oh, I’m sorry …”

For something to do I picked up the half-eaten pastry and nibbled at it nervously, “Oh, he’s been gone for more than ten years now but, well, it was very sad, he was too young to go really, only in his forties,” And then quickly, “I’ve had a boyfriend since but he lives in America now. He’s got a good job in New York.”

Before he could reply, before he could say once again that he was sorry, I said, “And you? Are you married?”

He shook his head, tiny little shakes, “No, I was but …” He hesitated but then said, “Any children?”

“Yes, a daughter, oh, and a granddaughter now. She’s only four months old. You?”

“No, but …”

“But?” The door pinged and a large group of young women sauntered inside, laughing and chattering in excited high-pitched voices, so I had to lean closer to hear him. The coffee machine whooshed again and the piped music became louder. I recognised it, the yearning soaring nostalgia of Barry White’s “Love’s Theme.”

He hung his head, staring at the red and white checked table cloth, seeming fascinated by his plate, his empty cup, as he spoke, “No, um, we’re divorced, I spent too much time searching for somebody.” He said this very quietly, and as he looked up, our gazes met, his eyes green and wet as moss as if he could burst into tears. I don’t know why but I snaked my hand across the table to touch his. He grabbed it tightly as if it were a life line, saying, “I’m sorry, I don’t usually talk about it, but …”

“You don’t need to talk about it if you can’t, or don’t want to,” I said softly.

“Oh, I do,” he replied, “I’ve carried it for so long,” He shook his head, staring into space, “I suppose I’m weary.” He stopped for a second and took a deep breath, “You see,” He fixed his gaze full on me, “I feel I’ve been searching for her all my life.”

Puzzled, I frowned and shaking my head slightly, said, “Who?”

“My daughter,” he replied and when I looked at him, frowning, not understanding, “She went missing, a long time ago, years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” and then glancing around, “From here, Hebden Bridge I mean?”

He shook his head as he took his hands from mine, searched through his pockets for a tissue that he used to blow his nose, “No, from Todmorden. I lived there then.”

“I grew up in Todmorden,” I told him as I waved to the waitress and asked for more drinks for both of us.

He shrugged, “Well, you may remember it then, it was a very high-profile case.” He spread his hands, widened his eyes, “In all the papers, on the TV, the radio. She went missing from her nursery.”

“Her nursery? Oh my God!” The waitress bustled to the table with steaming pots of tea and coffee, clean cups and saucers. We nodded our thanks as I poured the scalding liquid and Andy pulled his chair closer to mine and kept on talking, all the hurts and disappointments he’d endured over the years pouring out in a torrent. A fast-raging torrent that I thought would never stop.