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Vitae Lampada: Chapter 2
Page 1 of 2

"Afternoon, m'duck."

She said nothing. Hurtled past the hedge on that bike, though, saved him a bit of strimming by shaving off stray leaves. There was no slope on the road. To get up that kind of speed she have had to pedal like hell. Yet she sat straight as a board on the seat, arms stiff, mouth shut, eyes front. Only when she came level with his gate she glanced at him, then was gone.

He folded the chamois as if it were a dinner napkin, lined up the corners and smoothed the edge. Then he shook it out, surprised at himself. It was the look he couldn't leave alone. He tried to explain it away as confusion, in her rush, because she just wasn't sure she'd heard him. But no, she must have done. Coming down the pavement she'd have seen him a long way off; his size was hard to hide. And if she saw him she knew he would say something because that's what he always did. He liked to be neighbourly.

He had reversed the Audi into the drive to give it a clean. When she passed he was buffing the smears off the glass, laid out like a walrus across the windscreen, balanced on the toes of one foot. Her eyes met his and, of course, he could hardly shift his head let alone anything else. He got the full impact of her gaze, but not the message. And somehow it seemed critical. His mind went scrabbling for the reason, this important reason, which he felt would contain a word or words beginning with the letter A that religious types used to describe the end of the world. He managed 'anarchy', which wasn't what he wanted at all. It was the sort of thing the Reverend would know.

There, now he had that face swimming round his brain as well, adding to the problem. Did she object to being called 'duck'? At other times he might have called her 'hen', 'love' or 'chook'. Political correctness was such bollocks; it took away the options he had to be friendly but didn't give him new material. So he called every female 'duck', whether she was nine or ninety, beautiful or back of the queue? He'd been calling her that for months now; if she didn't like it she ought to have said.

Or maybe (once or twice he wondered, when she had stopped to chat) it bothered her that he never used her name. Truth was he couldn't remember. It was a coloured woman's name (not every coloured woman, in case the PC brigade tried to nail him for that. Just West Indians sometimes, like the woman in second floor underwriting was Chauncey). He started to fold the chamois again, then tossed it on the Audi's bonnet. It had sounded like Florence, but prettier. Loretta or Laura or Lindy Loo-see, if he'd only started that line sooner, they'd have laughed and laughed and she wouldn't have looked at him like that today. She might be a bit straight-laced but so was Eddie Fleming over the road and he could name all Eddie's grandchildren.

Just proved he was slipping. There was no use denying it: he had dropped a gear. He felt the change a year ago, but what are first signs by themselves? They last a day, and so get blamed on the weather or indigestion. Once excused they are as good as forgotten. It was only a few days ago he remembered last August, when he turned fifty, because it was so daft. Jenny had hired a band and a marquee, filled the house with people. It would never occur to her, or to anyone who had known him, to ask if he wanted a party. This is Trev Bayzlewicke we're talking about, for God's sake. If you see a six foot six bloke roaming his own garden in a lime green afro wig and an extra large t-shirt that reads, 'Golden Oldie' on the back, do you have to ask whether he's enjoying himself? He led the buffet queue, started the karaoke, sought out each guest to give them a bit of back-thumping chat. Yet all the while, jabbering away, he was counting off their names. Spoke with Carol and Wayne, remembered to ask Maggie about the baby, seen everyone from the office but Chris Miller - his 'drop by later' had better get sooner. It was as if, once he'd checked everyone off the list, he'd have the right to go upstairs and lock himself in the bathroom.