Hold Very Tight Please

by Allan Price

April 1st 1969, 8:00 a.m. Wind, flecked with rain, swept across the street. Derek was alone at the bus stop outside the park gates on Jessop Street, as he was every weekday morning at this time. At 35 he was already a relic. Just one look would certainly tell you as much. His squidgy and rather porcine physique wrapped tightly in a gray gabardine mackintosh, buttoned and belted and topped off with his usual brown trilby hat. Beneath the mac, he wore one of his two navy blue suits: one to clean, one to wear. His white nylon shirt, slightly yellowed at the collar and cuffs, was adorned, if we dare use that word, with a blue and white striped tie. Derek had survived the fashion revolution of the last nine years; in fact, he didn't even know it had happened. Thus, he presented a stoic figure as he waited patiently for the bus to arrive, but he did permit himself a quiet smile as it appeared in the distance. Another safety zone had been reached for the day. As the bus drew to a halt Derek alighted and was greeted by a warm smile from the conductress. "Take your pick duck," she said, gesturing towards a completely empty lower deck. Derek was thankful for the lack of people and chose a seat in the centre of the bus figuring that these were the safest in the event of tragedy striking on his ten-minute journey into town.

He settled in his seat and stared from the window as the rain-splattered world outside dragged itself into another day. His peace was broken by the cheery voice of the conductress who arrived at his side for his fare. "What's it to be my love?" she asked.

"Great Friar Street please." "One and ninepence lovely," she answered and Derek complied with a handful of change. "Queer old morning," she said, gazing out of the window and swaying against the gentle roll of the bus. "Can't seem to make its mind up whether to rain or not can it?" "Er ... no," replied Derek, trying not to show his embarrassment: conversations with the opposite sex brought him out in a cold sweat. The conductress however seemed intent on continuing, "Nights are drawing out though, nice to have some longer days." "Yes it is," agreed Derek but he'd no idea why, the length of daylight hours having no significance in his world. "I like to get in the garden after work," she said, "it helps me to relax and it passes the time. Do you like gardening? Sorry, I didn't catch your name?" "It's Derek and no I don't ... well I've never really tried it; gardening that is." He let his head drop a little as if in shame. "Your wife does it, does she?" The conductress had tilted her head so that Derek could not avoid eye contact. "No, my mom; I live with my mom." "That's nice. She's still pretty sprightly then, by the sound of it?"

Derek slowly found himself warming to the conversation, it was an alien experience but he liked it, and he began to open up. "She's pretty good for her age: she'll be 70 next month but she's always kept very active; says it's the best tonic." The conductress smiled again. "Well you tell your mom that I agree with her totally. I'm Joyce by the way." She held out her hand, a gesture that threw Derek into panic: he couldn't decide whether to shake it or kiss it. In the end he opted for the former. He then panicked in case his delay indicated reluctance. Joyce, however, seemed to understand. She took his hand warmly and smiled. "Nice to meet you dear." "You too ... er ... Joyce," stuttered Derek; he found it difficult to form the words, having been paralysed by this sudden and unfamiliar act of intimacy.

At this point, the bus drew to a halt and another passenger got on and immediately mounted the stairs. "Better go and sort him out," said Joyce pointing her finger skywards. "Yes, don't want him to get away without paying." It was only as Joyce began to turn away that Derek noticed that she was still holding his hand. She let it slip expertly, as if it was a skill she had practised many times. There seemed to be nothing clumsy or self-conscious about the way Joyce managed human contact and it filled Derek with awe. He watched her roll along the bus gripping the handrails one after the other rather like a monkey swinging from branch to branch. Then, as she turned to mount the stairs, she was able to see that Derek had been watching her. She gave him a cheeky smile and winked. Derek's normal response to such brazenness would have fallen somewhere between disgust and heart failure. Instead he waved. It was an instinctive gesture over which he seemingly had no control. He turned away and placed both hands firmly between his knees to keep them out of any further mischief. By the time he had gathered himself together it was his stop. Joyce was still upstairs and he wondered whether he would be able to escape before she returned. He also wondered whether he wanted to. As it happened, fate took a hand and by the time he reached the back of the bus Joyce was coming down. "Your stop duck," she said, "shall I see you tomorrow? I'll be on the same shift all week." Although there was a hint of invitation in her voice it did not register with Derek and he smiled and said "God willing" and got off the bus. Joyce noticed with some pleasure that there was a spring in his step as he made his way along the street and she waved once more as the bus overtook him. Derek waved back.

He spent the rest of the day at his desk, in what his mother called a 'fug'; his head was full of cotton wool and he could not concentrate on anything, unless it was Joyce. The image of her filled his head and nothing he tried to accomplish that day could force it out. Derek never thought about women. The younger men in the office would openly flirt with the secretaries or boast about their romantic encounters. They all seemed to have a well-established list of criteria to help them judge the attractiveness of almost any woman who passed their way. Derek had no such list and thus he could make little sense of what he felt. He couldn't even pass an opinion on whether Joyce was attractive compared to other women. He looked across the office at Mandy, one of the secretaries. She was tall and slender and always reminded Derek of a china doll, largely due to the fact that she covered all of her minor imperfections with a thick coating of makeup every morning before work. Her hair was always a sculptural triumph and never seemed to move, even in a breeze. Derek once touched it by mistake and remembered that it had the consistency of candyfloss. The other men in the office coveted her above all others. Joyce was certainly not like Mandy. She was not slim, but she had shape, Mandy was 'straight up and down,' to use one of his mother's favourite phrases. Joyce did not have candyfloss hair either, hers was thick and hung around her face in natural, auburn waves. Mandy was not a friend to wrinkles, yet Joyce seemed to wear those around her mouth with complete benevolence and made no attempt to hide them. They were, as Derek was later to discover, the natural by-product of her wonderful smile and it was the vision of that smile, above all else, which tortured him for the remainder of the day and secured for him a sublimely restless night.

He awoke next morning full of joy, he sang out loud as he dressed, causing his mother great consternation. "Derek," she said sharply, "what a racket, what ever's got into you?" "Nothing mom, just happy that's all." "Well keep it to yourself, you'll frighten the birds." He bolted his breakfast, causing more admonishment from his mother and then dashed out of the house into a bright but breezy spring day. His mother watched him from the window as he bounced down the street. She knew.

At the bus stop, alone as usual, he paced about impatiently until the bus appeared in the distance, whereupon his heart gave a great leap in his chest and commenced beating in an entirely different kind of rhythm. As the bus ground to a halt he saw Joyce, hand holding the stair rail, face brimming with smiles. "Good morning Derek," she said. "Isn't it just, Joyce," he replied with unrestrained gusto, "makes you glad to be alive doesn't it?" "It certainly does my love, it certainly does ... it's 'take your pick' again this morning, we've got the whole bus to ourselves." "I'll sit here," said Derek gesturing towards the bench seat by the door, "then we can chat." "I'd like that very much," said Joyce and she smiled. Soon they were floating on a wave of conversation and laughter. Every now and again Derek would make her laugh and Joyce would touch his hand softly and a shiver would run through his body as if he'd swallowed a whole glass of lemon juice in one gulp.

On Thursday morning during their little chat, Joyce seemed less assured than usual and Derek grew confused and anxious. Had he said something wrong? Had he upset her in some way? Neither of these was in fact the case: Joyce had something on her mind and Derek was about to find out what it was. "Listen, Derek," she said, "every Friday night I go out with my sister, we usually go for a meal and a drink at the pub." "That's nice," said Derek, still not aware of where the conversation was leading. "Well, the thing is, she can't make it tomorrow night and I wondered if you would like to come with me instead. It would mean we could have a longer chat for a change and get to know each other better ... what do you say?" Derek had no idea what he was going to say, but words came out of his mouth anyway. "Oh yes please," he blurted out. It was as if Joyce had asked a seven-year-old if he wanted to go to the fair; she expected him to start jumping up and down with excitement. "That's a date then," she said, "I'll meet you outside the Town Hall at 7:30."

By six o'clock on Friday evening Derek was a nervous wreck. He was filled with excitement and dread. He was excited about seeing Joyce but he dreaded telling his mother. He'd been trying since yesterday but the right moment had evaded him and now, as he listened to the sound of her preparing tea, was his last chance. He'd rehearsed the scene a million times but acting it out was a different matter. Since his early childhood, his mother had ensured that she had been the only woman in his life: she had groomed him perfectly for the role and she was not going to take kindly to any competition for Derek's affections. He took a deep breath and made his way downstairs to the kitchen.

"I've just started tea Derek, you can do those potatoes for me please," said his mother.

"I'm not in for tea tonight mom," he said almost in a whisper. There was a moment of silence. Derek waited for the explosion. "What time is this to tell me Derek, I've got liver for you." "Sorry mom, I've been meaning to mention it since yesterday." "Oh for goodness sakes Derek," she bayed, "you've known for 24 hours and wait until I'm preparing tea until you tell me." She sighed deeply; placed the knife she was using on the worktop, and turned to face him. "So ... where are you going?" she pursed her lips and folded her arms tight across her chest. "Just to the pub, with a friend." A friend is it, not one of those louts from the office I hope?" "No she's not from the office." Derek felt that his use of the personal pronoun might be a good way of slipping Joyce into the conversation almost unnoticed. But he was dealing with someone who could spot a breadcrumb on a sofa from twenty yards and his hopes were soon dashed. His mother's expression became suddenly stony, and all colour seemed to drain from her face. "Oh, so it's a woman is it." Her tone was spiteful and harsh. The way in which she'd said the word 'woman' reminded Derek of the attitude she adopted when talking about their Asian doctor or passing dogs that fouled the pavement. His pride hurt and his protectiveness toward Joyce now fully exposed, he picked up his mac and charged out of the door shouting, "Yes she's female ... is that a crime too?" It wasn't a question he wanted answered but as he slammed the door he heard his mother yell: "I hope she's not one of those trollops from the office."

Joyce was waiting on the steps of the town hall when he got there, but he almost walked past her. For some reason, Derek was looking for a woman dressed as a bus conductress and not someone in jeans and a short leather coat which was what Joyce had on. It was a revelation to him that someone could look so completely different. He, on the other hand, looked exactly the same. Although this surprised Joyce at first, she quickly decided that it was of no consequence, merely some significance, and she linked her arm through his and whisked him off in the direction of the pub. It was a dark room lit by amber coloured lights, which cast a warm glow over the polished tables and bar. It was not an environment Derek knew well and Joyce, sensing this, took quiet control. "Shall we have a drink first?" "If you like," said Derek. "I'm going to have a port and lemon, what will you have?" Derek thought for a moment and Joyce could see that he had no idea what to say. "Why not start off with a shandy and then we can have some wine with our meal?" "A shandy, yes, that'll be just the job, I'll have one of those." Joyce brought the drinks to the table and Derek took a sip from his and winced at the bitterness, causing Joyce to smile to herself. There followed a long but not embarrassing silence, which Joyce was the first to break. "You seem quiet Derek, are you alright?" "Had a bit of a tiff with mother," he said, raising his eyebrows as he did so. "She blew her top when I told her I was going out with a woman." "I expect she feels threatened by it," explained Joyce, "have you been out with girls before?" "No, you're the first one ... and the last by the looks of things. She made me lose my temper and I don't do that very often. It's not fair is it?" His tone was plaintive. "Not really, but she's had you to herself for a long time hasn't she?" "Well, yes, she has, and I'm beginning to feel it's been far too long." "Are you an only child Derek?" "Yes," he answered, "mom never wanted another after me, though my dad would've liked more. He would have liked you, my dad. He died when I was 27: a heart attack. He was mowing the front lawn. All mom could think about was the neighbours. She would have rather it had happened in the back garden instead."

The evening slipped by, they ate, drank some wine and talked about their respective lives. Joyce, Derek discovered, was the middle child of five and had been brought up in the warmth of a loving family who always looked out for one another but had now all gone their separate ways. She had a brother in Canada and two sisters who had produced children and made her a proud and much-favoured aunt. It was easy to imagine her in that role. In Joyce's world everyone seemed to have value, and Derek had never yet heard her say a bad word about anyone.

At the end of the evening, they shared the bill and walked back to the steps of the town hall arm in arm. Here, Joyce stopped and spoke. "I've had a lovely time Derek, can we do this again?" she pecked him on the cheek and squeezed his arm. "I'd like to Joyce ... but—" Joyce put a finger on his lips, "I know ... you don't know what to do about your mom, I understand." "It's just so difficult," he said, blushing to his roots. Joyce hugged him again, "Oh Derek, Derek, Derek," she said, and sighed deeply. She began to walk away but Derek shouted her name and she turned to face him once more." "It was nice," he said quietly, "thank you." She opened her handbag, and rummaged through the contents, finally taking out an eyebrow pencil. She walked back to where he stood. "This is not something I usually do, but seeing it's you." She took his hand and wrote something on the back of it. "That's my phone number ... if you change your mind."

"Is that you Derek," his mom shouted as the door clicked shut. "Yes it's me mom, I'm going to bed. Goodnight." Before he could escape upstairs she came out of the living room, her face still stony and pale. "The wanderer returns I see, had a good time have you?" "I don't want to talk about it mom, I'm going to bed." "Well that didn't last long did it, didn't take her long to see through you did it?" Derek looked at his mother in disbelief, there was no trace of emotion on her face, and her eyes met his without a hint of regret or embarrassment. He turned his face away and felt the cruel burn of tears just as he had so many times in the past. He threw his mac over the bannister and went upstairs determined that she would not see him cry. She didn't need to. He climbed the stairs to his room and plonked himself down on the bed. He looked at the back of his hand where Joyce had scrawled her number. He picked up the phone by the side of his bed and dialed.

Copyright © Allan Price 2003