Clarrie

Clarrie, 1933. The shop was still. The final rays of the summer sun beamed though the window, catching the sugar and flour in the air, casting giant shadows of Clarrie’s baked creations onto the floor and walls. He let out a sigh, blowing the leftover ribbon he’d tied a cake box with across the counter and onto the ground. Glancing at his watch, “Five o’clock. Time t’shut up shop” Clarrie said to himself. He hummed, gliding over to the shop door, flipping the sign to closed and pulled the cream blinds down with a dramatic woosh. He leaned against the door and inhaled the smell of sponge cakes and icing in the air and thought how much he loved this time of day; when the warm, treacle coloured light rolled into the shop, making him feel that all was right with the world. It was Saturday and George would be staying. Smiling to himself, he thought about last weekend. The memory was so vivid he could smell the jasmine scented twilight gently drifting through the net curtains, as he and George laid in bed drinking wine, both blissfully happy on their stolen evening. Lost in his memories, the clock upstairs chimed pulling Clarrie out of his thoughts. “Bugger. I’ve got to reckon up the day and get everything ready for tonight!” He quickly turned the key in the shop door, dashed to the till, its bell ringing in protest at being manhandled with such force, as he emptied the contents into a yellow bank bag. “There. I’ll sort all that out tomorrow. I’ve more important things to be getting done,” as he picked up the last two éclairs from under the counter and popped them in the kitchen. “We’ll have them after tea” he thought and made his way upstairs to put his favourite shirt on, mentally noting he needed to get some eggs from his chickens and a few flowers out of the garden.

“How’s tha’ doin’?” Bill shouted as he pushed his mower backwards and forwards along the same spot of lawn. Clarrie looked up, his trouser pockets full of eggs and his hands cradling a rainbow of dahlias. “Expecting company tonight?” as Bill gestured to the flowers. Clarrie stood up and looked at the dent his knees had made in his lawn and took a deep breath. He had never liked Bill. He owned the butchers two doors down and liked to know everyone’s business. He always seemed to be washing windows, mowing his lawn or fixing his car at inopportune moments. “Evening Bill. No. I just thought I’d brighten the place up a bit. Mam loved dahlias.” “That’s nice” said Bill, as he paused in his mowing, fishing a pack of Players out of his pocket and lighting one. “Only, I thought you’d had a caller these last few weeks,” as the last of the smoke billowed from his mouth. Clarrie’s heart began to beat harder as he felt a trickle of sweat make its way down his back. “Your eyes must be playing tricks on you, eh Bill?” said Clarrie, the hot weather felt even closer. “Mmmm” muttered Bill as he rolled up the sleeves of his work jacket and began to push his mower slowly up and down his lawn.

Clarrie walked towards his back door holding the bouquet to his face, breathing in the delicate fragrance of the blooms as the soft petals brushed his mouth. This quiet softness reminded him of George’s lips. Turning he glanced in the garden and thought “Not tonight, Bill. You won’t ruin it” and closed the door, locking him out of his thoughts.

He grabbed two vases from under the sink and held them up to the light checking for finger marks. Satisfied, he gave them a quick buff and tenderly arranged the flowers. His mind thought back to feeling the petals on his lips. His stomach flipped like a pancake, a smile spread over his face and he flushed with a blush that felt as hot as one of his ovens. He thought he would have never found someone to love and that loved him back. Washing the tomatoes, he looked up at the painting his mother had done before he was born – the park where she had met his father. “Just like us – we met there, too” thought Clarrie. It had been a quiet Sunday after church when he had met George. It started with a conversation on a sunny park bench. There was a discussion about cricket, how it had been particularly hot that year, laughing at the other’s jokes and the small touches that made Clarrie’s heart and soul vibrate. Since then they met every week. Sometimes in the park, where just sitting with each other was enough to make Clarrie’s stomach fizz. Other times they would share his home brew with bread and cheese. Occasionally, they would walk down the valley, hand in hand. There they would lie in the long grass, creating a world of their own, whilst they watched the clouds above their heads run across the sky and listened to the beck below them babbling at their feet. They had been together, in secret, for two frustratingly delicious years.

A knock came as Clarrie was drying his hands. His heart fluttered as he opened the door. The sun was low, so he lifted his hand to see the figure in front of him. Their faces beamed at each other. “Hello George” said Clarrie as he let him step into the kitchen. “Kiss for the birthday boy?” said George. He leaned over, placing his hand on George’s warm face and kissed him. “Happy birthday, love.” They stood, neither set of eyes leaving the other as they kissed again. “I’ve missed you” said George “I couldn’t wait for today. I told Joan I’ll be over at our Eddie’s playing cards. I said it’ll be an all night-er.” “Do you think you’ll be able to stay a bit in the morning?” “Aye, not too late. She’s off to an early service, so I’ll have to be back home by ten.” Clarrie looked at the floor in resignation and wished things could be different.

At first, he resented Joan, but as he’d gotten to know her, he’d grown to like her. She was kind, sharp as a knife and was always laughing. He still found it hard knowing she was with George every day; that she got to watch him shaving, drinking his tea, reading the papers and just being himself. He wondered if Joan really did know about him and George and was just turning a blind eye to it all. She wasn’t daft. George began to speak, pulling him out of his thoughts. “‘Ey, lad…don’t look like that. You know how it is…” as his sentence trailed off. Clarrie looked up and smiled softly. He didn’t want to spoil their time together and pushed the sadness out of his mind.

“Tea’s on the table. It’s only a salad with a bit of ham and a few eggs…” “That sound’s grand” said George, giving him a kiss on the cheek, then lips, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling Clarrie closer. Clarrie struck a match, lighting the candles as George poured him another beer. He could hear Bill putting away his lawnmower; the clattering interrupting the peace of the evening. “Cheers!” said George, his face bathed in delight. Their glasses clinked together as they both took long gulps. Clarrie put his glass down and cleared his throat. “I’ve got you a present” “You shouldn’t have. All the trouble you’ve gone to and being with you tonight is enough.” “It’s only something small. You don’t have to wear it all the time…I just wanted to get you something. From me. That feels like it’s…I don’t know, just…that it’s you and me.” He watched as George opened the box, revealing a gold ring with 12th July 1931 engraved on the inside. “It’s the date we first met in the park”.

George knelt in front of Clarrie and held his hands. “Clarrie. I’ve been thinking, we can’t keep on like this. I don’t want to. I love you. Maybe we could leave quietly with no fuss. Joan would come to understand. You could open another bakery, I could help. I know it would be difficult, but we could be together. It would just be us.” The room was still hot from the day and Clarrie felt overwhelmed. It was everything he wanted George to say. He looked around the room; the walls built from memories he and his mam had made and he knew he didn’t want to leave. He felt protected here. He thought how happy she would be that he finally had someone to love that loved him back. He felt the fear and excitement rising in his chest. He looked at George and said “Maybe we could be brave and stay. There’s room enough here for two.” “Aye, that there is” as one of their favourite songs began to play on the wireless. Clarrie took George’s hand for a dance. “People would talk.” “Aye, they would…let them” said George as he thought about this new prospect. “Your hand in mine, a cup of tea in bed, a kiss goodnight…” as their eyes met. They smiled, they kissed, they danced and they laughed as their shadows fell gently on the walls and were cast onto the soft grass outside.

Bill was in his garden shed cleaning the blades of his lawnmower as he heard the laughter from Clarrie’s house. He glanced up at the noise, reaching into his top pocket of his work jacket retrieving his glasses. He grimaced “that’s George Mort” he thought, lighting another cigarette and taking a long drag. The window framed the scene like a picture. Bill watched the spectacle play out as the smoke coiled around him. He took a final drag, stubbed the tab with his foot and strutted silently back to his house.

Clarrie was dreaming about his mother kneading bread in the kitchen. “Son, you need to give it a bit of welly, like this,” as she pounded the squashy dough with her fist. “Mam, are you sure…that hard?” “Yes!” as another large bang bounced off the gleaming kitchen. The sound hurt Clarrie’s ears. His mam was pummelling over and over, as his dream world blurred into the reality of Sunday morning. Realising the sound was someone battering on the door downstairs, he sat up in bed as the door gave way to shouts and a clatter of feet clambering up the stairs. George stirred from under the warm eiderdown, his hands rubbing his lips as his blond hair, disarrayed, fell into his eyes. George reached for Clarrie’s hand, kissed it and gently pulled him into an embrace as the bedroom door burst open, and four policemen surged into the room.

The kitchen was swathed in the smell of baking bread. Clarrie, sat on a rickety old stool watching his loaves as the light from the oven illuminated him; a beacon in the sea of blackness. He felt content. He pulled the oven door open, dragging the tray of silver tins away from the heat and slid them onto the cold worktop. He eased each loaf from its container and left them to cool. He pulled the cardigan his mam had made him around his slender frame, as he took the key from its hook on the wall and made his way into the shop. The frosty, grey half-light of a November morning greeted him. He pulled the blinds as they groaned back into their casings on the ceiling. Clarrie walked to the door, unlocked it and turned the sign to open, hurrying back to the kitchen to get his cakes and loaves. He was gently placing his goods on cool enamel trays when the shrill shop bell sounded the postman had arrived. He wiped his hands and made his way into the shop. “Morning, Ted.” “Ey up, Clarrie. Our Ida said to tell you those tea cakes were lovely.” Clarrie smiled. “Tell Ida thank you.” He reached down, deftly popping four rock buns into a paper bag and twisting it closed. “Have these on me.” “Still warm, an’ all! Thanks Clarrie. You’ve a letter today. ‘Ere you go. Take care!”

The handwriting was unmistakable. He’d started to receive them when he was in Pudley Prison. Every week, they came without fail. At first, he’d torn them up, enraged. As the year wore on, he opened them. They talked of apology, of regret, his mistake, the destroyed, disrupted and disarrayed lives. Clarrie gorged on the hate, sick to the stomach every time one of these offerings turned up. He had thought once he had served his sentence, the letters would stop. He reached into the counter drawer, his fingers rooting through the ribbons for his letter opener. He unfolded the off white parchment and began reading. Lost in the letter, Clarrie started as a steaming cup of tea rattling in its saucer was placed in-front him. “Looks serious” said George. Clarrie looked up, grimacing and said “He’s started with the letters again.” “Same thing?” “Yes. He’ll be turning up on the door step next.” “What are you going to do?” asked George Clarrie let out a sigh and raised his eyebrows. George straightened Clarrie’s cardigan and said “I used to think he ruined everything, but did it?” as he dropped a sugar lump into the steaming cup and began stirring “Bill was a snake. All that upset is behind us and it’s just thee and me.” The hypnotic rhythm of the spoon clinking on the side of the cup soothed Clarrie as he watched George’s mouth slowly break into a grin. “Thee and me, kid. Sat here, having a cup of tea.” George broke the digestive in half and dunked it in Clarrie’s tea and took a bite. In between mouthfuls he said “Let’s not leave the past eating us up. The only thing that should be eaten in this shop are your cakes” he said tenderly. Clarrie held George’s hand and felt a warm happiness flood his chest. Everything he had ever wanted was here. Smiles spread across their faces as the dawn crept into the cake shop. “Daft apeth” as George pecked Clarrie on the cheek and went back to the kitchen to check on the gingerbread in the oven.