Content and Design by B46 Copyright ©2008
Extracts from Through Glass Eyes
Chapter: My Driver and His Wife
Roger Peter Bunting is an only child. His father, Alan, worked as a gardener for a small local municipality the entire duration of his working life. A reserved, unassuming and introspective man, Alan went about his business without much ambition beyond the day to day duties of his job. He was a home bird, often to be found enjoying carpentry activities in a creaky, shiplap shed at the bottom of his garden, was seldom seen in the local pub, and was in many ways an unremarkable citizen.
But Alan had a dark passion.
He was a closet Hell's Angel.
It had started in Alan's early teens. Alan's eldest brother Alf had spent several years in America as a hired hand after demobbing from the Parachute Regiment. Whilst working on a cattle ranch in Utah , Alf stumbled upon a local chapter of the Hell's Angels. Being a larger than life character, he'd fallen in with the chapter on account of his addiction to the adrenalin rush he'd missed since leaving the Paras. Alf also liked the unsavoury reputation that the Angels enjoyed (although in time he came to realise that this was perception rather than reality), and took pleasure in being part of a close brotherhood, something he'd had in his military years. He also fancied the blousy girls that hung around with the Angels and had taken up with and married a busty, five foot nothing, blonde hellcat called Gloria. They lived happily in a small, clapboard house in Bluffdale for a number of years until Gloria, out of the blue one day, announced to Alf that it was about time they thought about having children. Unfortunately for her kids were not in Alf's life plan, and he told Gloria so in no uncertain terms. Gloria shrugged, said nothing and simply shook her luxuriant, lacquered curls from side to side. The very next day he had an unexpected visit from the entire chapter. Their ultimatum was final - he wasn't welcome in the group and it wouldn't be wise for Alf to remain in their town in future. As tough a nut as he was, Alf took the wise course and departed. He never heard anything further from Gloria and he never rode with any Angels again. Word travels fast and it travels far.
Periodically, Alf sent letters back to his brother in England graphically describing his time with the Angels. Not without embellishment it may be said. The young Alan lapped up the stories, especially the vivid descriptions of the customised Harleys and Indians and the colourful and larger-than-life characters such as 'Redhat' Hank and 'Skunk' Cheroot that rode them on the dusty desert roads of Utah . He envied the carefree life of his uncle, and imagined himself the leader of a local chapter, replete with tasselled leathers and a booming, multi-coloured chopper. It was a dream he was determined to make reality.
When, in his mid twenties he was able to afford a decent bike - and one which was acceptable to the Angels - he joined a local chapter and was given the nickname 'Pruner' on account of his horticultural skills. For the next fifteen years Pruner rode with his chapter all over the UK , raising eyebrows and receiving fearful looks wherever they went. No one knew that really they were just a bunch of ordinary guys who liked to dress in worn, black leather and ride big, slow and noisy motorbikes. There were engineers, accountants, lawyers and even one professional footballer in the chapter. Who else could afford to join a HOG?
In his late twenties whilst on a week long ride, Alan met Irene, the receptionist in a small hotel in Derbyshire. Irene's hotel was tolerant of Angels and its pastoral setting became a regular meeting place for the growing number of chapters spreading throughout the country at that time. It wasn't exactly love at first sight, but the tall, willowy Alan and the quiet, sandy-haired Irene spent the week chatting to each other in the hotel bar long after she had finished her shift. At the end of the week they agreed to meet again soon.
It was the beginning of a courtship that was to last almost a decade, with Alan regularly commuting from his small cottage in the south-west of England to Irene's parent's home nestled among the rounded hills and gritstone escarpments of the Peak District. Finally, on Alan's thirty-eighth birthday he popped the question, and six months later they were married in a small church in a village just outside Barchester, and the Derbyshire lass took up residence in her new husband's home 'down south.' Within two months of marrying she found herself pregnant with Roger, who was to be their one and only child.
Alan never gave up riding with the Angels. In 1978, two days after his birthday, he dropped dead from a massive heart attack whilst on a ride. He was seventy-one years old.
Chapter: Magda
It all started one gloriously sunny morning in June.
Roger had been instructed to take Daisy for a walk along the towpath of the local canal. Daisy was a recent acquisition of Sylvia's, much to the unspoken annoyance of Roger who deep down detested dogs. As usual however, Sylvia got her way and he now found himself shambling along behind a rather excitable Springer spaniel.
Perhaps he should have put his foot down, but the heartbreaking memories of her inability to have a baby had again prevented him from doing so. Every time their friends with growing children expressed the joys of parenthood, he saw how much it broke Sylvia's heart knowing she would always remain childless. In his own mind he'd come to terms with the fact that he was destined never to be a father, but instead the husband of a pet collector. First it was Henry and now this blasted dog.
Of course, over the past few years the horse had been a great comfort and diversion for Sylvia who, every morning without fail, continued to attend to his needs at the stables. But even Roger and Henry weren't enough. She craved for the companionship of an animal at home. He knew the Springer was another child substitute.
"What a beautiful dog. What's her name?" Roger was shaken out of his cogitating by the unexpected question. He looked behind him to see a girl with a large black Labrador lolling on a lead she held in her hand.
"Down, Titan. Sit!" The big dog sat back on its haunches immediately at the sound of the girl's command. Not so with Daisy. She rushed forward to sniff at the sitting dog, forcing Roger to pull back hard on her lead.
"Whoa, whoa!" shouted Roger, using all his strength to drag Daisy away from the other dog. "Whoa, whoa there!"
This triggered a bout of giggling from the girl.
"Sorry," she apologised, covering her mouth with her hand, but to no avail. She continued to giggle uncontrollably.
"Is something the matter?" asked Roger putting on a superior tone of voice, at the same time sneakily scrutinizing himself to see what might be the cause of her amusement. No, a quick inspection revealed that his flies were zipped up.
"No, no...it's just..."
"Just what?"
"The way you said 'whoa', as if you were reigning in a mad horse." The fits of giggling began again. "Sorry, I just can't help it. It just sounds so, well...stiff."
"I'm not surprised," snorted Roger, still straining to control the excitable Daisy. "I haven't a clue how to handle dogs. Never had one before." Shrugging his shoulders he took in the appearance of the amused girl in front of him. He guessed she would be in her very early twenties, tall and slim. However, it was her clothes and unusual jewellery which struck him most.
From head to toe she was clothed completely in black. Nowhere did another colour break the dark expanse. She wore a pair of heavy black workman's boots, and he'd never seen a female wearing such boots before. Then he studied the jewellery she had on. It was chunky and in complete contrast to the stereotypical adornments that he imagined all women wore, given his knowledge of Sylvia's own jewellery box and the women at work. And her hair! It stuck straight out from her head at all angles like Dennis the Menace in the cartoons he'd been so fond of as a boy. He didn't think he'd ever seen such an unusual sight. Unusual, but not unattractive. Decidedly different, though.
Roger realised he was now staring rudely at the girl instead of concentrating on getting Daisy under control.
"Here, let me." The girl, who by now had stopped her giggling, stepped over to Roger and gently took the lead from his hand. Taking a rolled up newspaper from out of her shoulder bag she rapped Daisy sharply on the nose - just once. The startled dog yelped but the rap had the immediate effect of calming her down and she turned away and slunk off to hide behind Roger's legs. Handing the lead back to Roger, the girl replaced the rolled up newspaper in her bag.
"I think your dog needs a little discipline," she advised. "Otherwise I guarantee your life will become a misery. You have to show her who's boss, you know. Come Titan. Heel!" Off she went with the big dog trailing behind her.
As he continued on his walk with Daisy skulking beside him he couldn't help thinking of what had just happened. Reflecting on how his life had been dominated by females - first his mother, then his wife, and now - for God's sake - her dog, he wondered at approaching forty years of age how many more would treat him like an infant. Even the girl on the towpath had to show him how to control Daisy, as if he was clueless on the subject - which he was.
"That's it," he muttered to himself. "I'm going to take things into my own hands. They all think I'm helpless. Well, no more. I'm going to do something about it."
Quite what, he didn't know.
Chapter: Diwali
"Hi, Roger, how's things?"
Roger looked up from the drive, where he was on his hands and knees studiously pulling out tiny weeds from between the block paving using an ancient pair of tweezers. Beaming over the dense privet hedge at him was the upper two-thirds of the chubby, moustachioed face of Mr Kumar. Atop his head was a yellow and black baseball cap, with the word CAT emblazoned across the front.
"Hello, Gagandeep. Fine thanks. Just doing a bit of weeding before the weather gets too bad."
"Goodness gracious, terrible job. I don't know why we redid our drive. Much less trouble when the blasted thing was tarmac. I am correct in thinking you're regretting it also?"
"You know how it goes. Seemed like a good idea at the time."
"Yes. My thinking as well. Why don't you get someone to do it for you? My nephew Ranjeet has a landscaping business. I could get him to send one of his boys around if you wish. Very cheap, very good."
"Very kind of you, but I find it quite therapeutic, thanks. Off to the club again?"
"Oh yes, I am going there right now. But before I go Mrs Kumar has asked me not to forget to invite you to the party we are having. For Diwali."
The 'club' was the latest rung climbed on the social ladder of Mr Kumar. Proposed by the current Captain - one Graham Chowdhury, another distant relative - and seconded by Messrs Ronnie Ghoshdashtidar and Kenny Ramamurthy, he had recently applied for and been accepted into the once unassailable fortress that was the Royal Barchester Golf Club. No mean achievement it may be said as somehow he had managed to go from applicant to full member in less than six months. It usually took at least eighteen. Mr Kumar had very influential friends, including of course the Guntupallis.
"Who's Diwali? Is he a relative of yours?" It seemed as good a guess as any to Roger who had stood up and walked over to the dividing hedge in order to see more of his neighbour's face.
I wasn't alone in my ignorance of the word.
There was a chortle from the newly initiated member.
"Oh no, goodness gracious me! It is not a person, it is a festival. A very important one. And it will be a very special party we are having!" He wagged his finger at Roger. "Mrs Kumar has told me that she will not take 'no' from Mrs Bunting for an answer! And what Mrs Kumar wants, Mrs Kumar gets!" he stated, rolling his eyes and chortling.
For extracts from:
The Cigar Seed Uncle Mungo's Strange RequestContent and Design by B46 Copyright ©2008
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