Toby Part II

Part II

I think my boss will fire me if this goes on.  Late every morning.  However early I set the alarm for, I contrive to fiddle and faff my way to walk through the door seven minutes late and always as Clarissa happens to be walking past.  She dislikes me anyway and now I’m giving her an avenue of attack.  I must try harder.  I should take another route to work, one that avoids the park.  It’s this time of year that’s the hardest.  Croci, snowdrops, narcissi, the new lushness of the spring grass.  I can’t just walk past it. I have to stop and spend time with them whilst they are showing themselves to me.  That’s what I think when I’m sat on the bench in the morning, that they are there only for me.  Last week I became quite possessive when a boy of about five stopped with his mother to look at my flowers.  I wanted to shoo him away, gently but with definite intent.  The mother laughed as the boy stuck his nose deep into the delicate petals and did a huge comedy intake of breath.  I wasn’t laughing.  How dare he smear his schoolyard germs over innocent flora.  The mother turned towards me, still with half a laugh on her breath.  Her mouth straightened when her eyes met mine.  She took the boy’s hand and hurried him along.  I sat there for a while, feeling ridiculous that my heart had pounded at the playful antics of one so young.  I looked at my watch-seven minutes late.

 

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I’ve managed to avoid Clarissa all morning.  I keep expecting to hear her overly friendly tone brightly saying ‘Justine? Can I have a quick word, won’t take a mo’.  Usually I smile and say ‘Of course, shall I pop up to you in two?’ aping her faux chirp.  Today she has been in her office with a bookseller, no doubt cocking her head to one side and forcing her eyes larger than is likely to be comfortable at his every syllable.  Hopefully she will have forgotten my lateness by now.  I want to go to the park for lunch.  I won’t be late back.

 

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Justine sat on her usual bench.  The municipal gardeners sat in a patch of sun by the park hut.  An errant cat from one of the square’s houses sauntered out from behind a shrub and lay prostrate on the path that encircled the lawns.  The gardeners were not gardening-they smoked, laughed, read the paper, and chatted.  Justine felt the waft of last night’s football, Golden Virginia and the sexual predilections of Zoë from the Black Lion.  Her flowers were doing their lunchtime parade; still but for the wisps of breeze that rocked them gently.  Justine smiled at the spring rug of colour that was unfurled at her feet.  The bookshop and Clarissa seemed like another time in her life, a hazed memory from childhood where the details had been smudged and the faces smattered with pixels. 

 

The gardeners were on their feet, puffing out chests and reaching for tools.  Justine looked at her watch.  Everyone’s lunchtime was simultaneously over.  Her flowers would continue parading, though she would not be there to see them.  As she stood, she took one last look at them.  Over her shoulder there was a man.  He was crouched down at the edge of the floral ring.  His red, checked lumberjack shirt, that seemed as if it was meant for someone taller and stronger, clashed inelegantly with the yellow and white petals below him.  Justine stopped, mid stride and watched him.  He was smiling, no, beaming at the flowers.  His face was nearly as red as his big shirt and it was blotched and pitted.  Justine, usually so protective of her spot in the park, looked on with a half smile.  This man, with his greasy hair, tired eyes, scarlet skin and shirt was given permission to be the custodian of this place-at least till next time.