Copyright © 2022 Alby Stone
The factory floor is not an ideal place for a creative mind. Insert a part, pull a lever, press a button; inspect, reject, adjust the machine if necessary, place the finished article in one container or another, depending on type and condition, repeat until it’s time to clock off. It doesn’t often call for innovation or inventiveness, and even the rare occasions when quick thinking is required are usually fleeting and unsatisfying. Only daydreams and unspoken plans relieve the monotony of the production line.
April May – her parents either secretly had a sadistic sense of humour or were oblivious to any future issues the name might cause their baby girl – had a plan. She looked at her watch, shut down the machine, heaved a sigh of relief, and went to wash her hands. Ten minutes later, swathed in a three-quarter length quilted jacket, thick woollen hat, boots, scarf and thermal gloves, bag slung over her left shoulder, she punched her time card and made for the exit. Outside it was dark, freezing cold and weirdly damp – that pervasive icy moistness characteristic of a British midwinter. April’s nose became uncomfortably cold almost instantly, and she tugged the hat down over her ears to keep the residual warmth of the factory sealed in as much as possible. Wishing the weather could more like the months that comprised her name, she walked as fast as she could to the bus stop, not so much because the bus was due – it was – but because she wanted to get out of that dreadfully chilly easterly wind.
The bus was much as could be expected for the time of year, packed with passengers in varying states of bloodstream chaos and reeking of beer and spirits and spices, all the flavours of festive breath. She stood on the lower deck, in a cluster of people close to the exit, too short to reach the handle straps but just tall enough to be in close proximity of the sweaty armpits of two men fortunate enough to be of greater stature. The windows were heavily fogged but someone wiped a clear patch in the condensation just in time for April to see her normal disembarkation point flash by without the bus even slowing. She felt a momentary flash of annoyance, then relaxed when she remembered this was not a routine journey. Everything was fine. Tonight she wasn’t going straight home from work. Tonight she was going to travel the full route into town. Tonight was the Friday before Christmas, and she had a hot date.
April didn’t know much about the man she was, hopefully, about to meet. A name, Nigel Goodman. An occupation, more or less, something in meteorological research, of all things. An age, two years older than her. A few hobbies and interests, the usual reading and cinema and art galleries, with some less predictable activities: rock climbing, ice skating, skiing. A photograph – and God, what a photograph! Nigel, standing next to April’s brother Gordon on a wintry beach, a New Year’s Day swim in Norfolk, the pair wearing only shorts and wild grins. Gordon, wiry and lean; Nigel, shorter and bulkier but seriously ripped. Pale face, and unspeakably handsome, even if his nose looked a bit on the long side and he was completely bald. Not that it spoiled his looks. In fact, it suited him, though April couldn’t explain why. It was hard to believe he’d wanted to meet her, and solely on the basis of the unflattering pictures on Gordon’s phone and a character sketch that probably left a lot to be desired, knowing her brother.
She paused outside the restaurant, suddenly nervous. This was the closest she’d ever been to a blind date and she had no idea of the etiquette, And what if she and Nigel simply didn’t get on? Politics? Religion? Taste in music? She knew couples who could disagree on anything, and she’d seen terrible rows erupt from innocuous remarks. What if just wasn’t very nice, despite Gordon constantly singing Nigel’s praises and telling her what a great guy he was? He might not like her clothes – she might not like his. There were so many ways the evening could go wrong. She swallowed hard, pushed the negative thoughts from her mind, and went in.
The restaurant was cool but not cold, and decorated with prints – Parisian scenes by Dégas, Toulouse-Lautrec and Manet and Renoir. A small bust of Napoleon frowned at one end of the bar, while a signed photograph of Zinedine Zidane adorned the other. A selection of Christmas decorations added seasonal atmosphere. The obligatory Christmas hits played at a discreet volume through concealed speakers.
And there was Nigel Goodman, sitting at a table just inside the door, in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, patiently watching and waiting. When he saw her, he smiled and stood, She extended a hand, expecting him to shake it, but he surprised her by raising it slightly, bowing, and kissing it. His lips were cold and dry, but soft. ‘April May,’ he said. ‘What a splendidly evocative name. It’s good to meet you at last. Gordon’s told me so much about you.’
She laughed uncertainly. ‘In that case I’m shocked that you’re here at all, Nigel.’
‘Please, just Nige.’ He smiled and waved his hand airily. ‘Oh, I understand sibling differences. Brothers rarely speak well of their younger sisters. I just chose to believe the exact opposite of everything he said. Please, sit.’
He helped her out of her coat, which he gave to the waiter to hang up, then moved the chair from under the table so she could sit down. A gentleman – an actual gentleman! April almost swooned. There were two small glasses on the table, one at each setting.
‘I took the liberty of ordering an apéritif,’ he said. ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Of course I don’t. What is it? I’m not much of a drinker but I do enjoy a couple of glasses of red on special occasions.’
‘I’m much the same.’ He poured a glass for himself and took a large mouthful. ‘This is called Suze, bitters flavoured with gentian. Picasso liked it so much that he painted a bottle. I take it French cuisine is acceptable?’
April couldn’t place his accent. Posh English, certainly, but with a hint of something exotic. She sipped her drink. ‘Mmm, this is really nice. Sorry, I hope you don’t think I’m rude, but are you French?’
He laughed. ‘What, with a name like Nigel Goodman? Well, I have some French ancestry – my forebears were from all over the place – but I’ve lived abroad a lot and I tend to pick up accents. In fact, I’ve just returned from a spell in the far north of Canada and some of my colleagues were from Quebec. That’s probably where I picked up any French nuances, and I suppose I did learn some of the language.’ He rubbed his nose. ‘Sorry if my nose is a bit red. I don’t have a cold or anything. The old carotte, as Gaston and Pierre called it, always gets like this in midwinter. Yes, I’m aware that it’s a bit long but I’m not at all self-conscious about it.’
She was horrified. ‘Oh, I didn’t mean to suggest…’
He laughed again. He seemed to find everything amusing. ‘Know yourself, be at peace with what you are, and hope for the same from others.’
‘That’s very – profound.’
‘It is? To be honest it seems to me to be nothing more than a good rule for living. Shall we order? You can tell me all about yourself while we wait for the food.’
Greg Lake’s song ended and was followed by Aled Jones. Nigel sighed happily. ‘I love this song. Reminds me of when I was young. Innocence lost and all that. Now tell me about yourself.’
April blushed. This was where he learned just how boring her life was. This was where he lost interest. ‘Well, I’m twenty-seven years old, single – obviously – with three GCSEs and a job in a factory making phone cases for the one and only UK producer. I’m the person who makes the holes that the USB cables and headphone jacks go in. It bores me to tears and the pay’s rubbish, but it’s a living. Not exactly important or high-powered.’
‘No,’ said Nigel earnestly. ‘Someone has to do it. Like most jobs. You shouldn’t think less of yourself because you’re not a stockbroker or a doctor or a lawyer or a politician. The people who sweep factory floors, collect rubbish or clean toilets are the ones who keep businesses and communities going. Those who make and maintain are more important than those who profit. And almost everyone has the potential to change their lives. What are your GCSEs in?’
‘English, domestic science and art. Bs in all of them. I didn’t take any others – the results would have been too embarrassing. I was going to sit the French exam but I was ill and it didn’t seem worth trying again.’
‘Don’t do yourself down. Maybe you’ll feel differently in the future. Perhaps you’re like me, a late bloomer.’
‘You? You sound like you’d have walked into a good university.’
‘Don’t let the accent fool you. I’m from a poor background and wasn’t interested in education until I was an adult. Fortunately, I’m a fast learner and prepared to work hard for what I want.’
‘What about your parents? Didn’t they try to push you? Mine always wanted me and Gordon to do better than they did.’
‘Not at all. My father was very down to earth, but lacked focus; and my mother always had her head in the clouds. They weren’t particularly interested in me or my needs. No, I’m more or less a self-made man. An autodidact.’
April blushed again. ‘I don’t know what that means,’ she confessed.
‘Self-educated. I obtained my qualifications when I was ready. Paid my way through uni by working two jobs, one in a meat packing factory at weekends and another restocking in Iceland in the evenings. Knuckled down, got a degree and went on to work for the Met Office in Scotland. Studied part-time for a Master’s, then went freelance.’
‘Why meteorology?’
He shrugged. ‘I’ve always been interested in the weather. And I seem to have a natural aptitude for it. Of course, it’s more important than ever now. I’ve spent the last few years studying changing weather patterns in the Arctic and Antarctic.’
‘That’s so interesting. Did you go to the North Pole?’
Nigel nodded. ‘And the South.’
‘It must have been really cold.’
‘I suppose so. I felt at home, though. The people I’ve worked with have been a good bunch. Dedicated, friendly, and a lot of fun. Those places are ideal for storing vodka at just the right temperature.’
‘My brother always keeps a bottle of Absolut in the freezer.’
‘Perhaps that’s why we got on so well,’ said Nigel, grinning impishly. ‘Right, have you decided what you’re having to eat?’
*
The food was excellent, though April could barely recall tasting it as she ate, even if it was her first real experience of la cuisine française. Coquilles saint jacques blurred into poulet provençale, which faded into fromage and on to crêpe suzette, with calvados as a digestif. The wine for the main course was a nicely chilled Eric Morgat Savennieres Fides – ‘The 2016,’ said Nigel, ‘an excellent year’ – and April enjoyed it even as she would have preferred something a little warmer. Nigel ate sparingly, exclusively salads, except for a double portion of lemon sorbet, which he scoffed with evident relish.
The conversation was fragmented, as dinner talk so often is, especially when the food is worthy of close attention.
‘Why rock climbing?’
‘I like a challenge, and it’s fun. Do you like music?’
‘Whatever’s on the radio, I suppose. Taylor Swift and Dua Lipa are good. You?’
‘Sibelius, Grieg, Tchaikovsky, Mussorgsky… And Christmas songs, of course. What’s your favourite film?’
‘Sliding Doors, I suppose. And anything with Daniel Craig. How about you?’
‘I rather like The Day After Tomorrow. Mind you, I’m not a big fan of science fiction. But I also like Ingmar Bergman and Andrei Tarkovsky.’
‘Do you like football?’
‘No. I detest sport.’
‘Me too. Gordon drives me mad going on about Chelsea.’
Finally, it was time for coffee. By now April wasn’t too surprised when Nigel ordered café glacé. ‘Do you ever eat hot food?’
He shook his head. ‘Unfortunately, it doesn’t agree with me. I’ll spare you the grisly details. Sad, but there you go. Believe me, I’d dearly love to be able to eat a steak fresh from the skillet, or a good hearty soup. Or drink hot chocolate, tea, coffee. But…’ He spread his hands, his expression wistful, resigned. ‘I guess I wasn’t made like other people.’
Two replete diners opened the door to leave. and April shivered as another icy blast struck her. It had been happening all evening and she was getting fed up with it. ‘Is that why you chose this table?’
‘Yes. I like this restaurant because even in winter they keep the heating low. They understand that being pleasantly cool is better than sweltering uncomfortably. The draught from the door opening and closing keeps me feeling nice and fresh. Tell you what, I’m going to have another iced coffee. Same again?’
April nodded, and Nigel beckoned the waiter. Il est né le divin enfant, someone warbled from the speakers. Nigel grimaced. ‘What a dreadful version,’ he muttered. They sat in silence, companionably yet also somehow awkwardly. April studied his face more closely. No eyebrows or lashes. Alopecia, she decided, like that swimmer her mother had told her about. Unusual, but not unheard of, and it made him seem more childlike, innocent. His eyes were a brown so dark they might as well have been black. The fresh coffee arrived, just as the French song gave way to Johnny Mercer and the Pied Pipers. ‘That’s more like it,’ said Nigel. ‘This is a good one.’ He smiled and shook his head. ‘Parson Brown, indeed! Circus clown! It’s so funny.’
April steeled herself. ‘Look, Nigel, don’t get me wrong…’
He smiled. ‘This is where you say you think I’m a pretty decent sort of person and – I hope – not too bad-looking, but we’re very different and it just wouldn’t work out, right?’
It was true. Nigel was handsome, good-humoured, cultured, kind and attentive, all that many women could wish for in a man. But he was a little too strange for April’s taste. Nice, but no. Embarrassed, she lowered her eyes and nodded curtly. ‘That’s okay,’ said Nigel. ‘I was thinking the same thing. I like you, April, but you’re right. We inhabit different worlds. I have enjoyed your company, though, and it’s been a very pleasant evening. I hope the food was to your satisfaction.’
‘Yes, it was lovely, thanks. And I have had a good time. Shall we go halves?’
‘No, this is my treat. I insist.’
April was secretly relieved. The price of the wine alone would have made a big hole in her wages, and she was sure a well-travelled meteorologist could bear the cost. ‘As long as I take care of the tip,’ she told him.
Nigel paid and they got ready to leave. ‘I’ll walk you to the bus stop,’ he said, when she explained that she wouldn’t be taking a taxi because the bus would drop her practically outside her front door – in reality it meant a walk of around two hundred metres, but that wasn’t far at all. It was cold, however, and it became clear that Nigel simply wasn’t dressed for the weather. He took a light summer jacket, white with black buttons, from the back of his chair and from a tote bag he extracted a scarf that must once have been bright red but was now faded and slightly ragged, along with a tatty straw boater. April raised an eyebrow. Fashion was clearly not one of Nigel’s interests, and his attire seemed nothing but an invitation to hypothermia.
‘Don’t you have a proper winter coat?’
‘This is fine,’ he replied. ‘Very pleasant indeed.’
Snow was falling when they came out of the restaurant, and it was settling. Nigel’s face lit up. ‘Splendid!’ He took a battered old briar pipe from his jacket and placed it in his mouth. ‘I don’t actually smoke it,’ he explained in response to April’s questioning look. ‘It just feels – well, right.’
The walk was exhilarating, the heavy snow and the Christmas lights transforming the world, making the town centre a magical place. The bus stop wasn’t far. When they reached it, they shook hands. ‘Thanks again for dinner,’ said April.
‘My pleasure. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you. Give my regards to Gordon. Tell him I’ll see him next year, same time, same place.’
‘I’ll do that, Nige. Oh, there’s my bus.’
He smiled – it seemed to be his default facial expression – and walked a couple of metres backwards. Then he spread his arms. ‘And have a lovely Christmas!’
With that, he turned and strode away. The bus door opened and April stepped aboard. As she found her travel pass she looked up and saw him walking through the winter wonderland until he seemed to melt into the thick, swirling snowflakes.