 Uncle Sneaker, posted
over a year ago
Prompted by a recent question in the main site area, I thought it might be nice to ask how some of the aunties (and others) first met their long-term partner (those who have one!). My tale is perhaps a little out of the ordinary, and I have left some of it out for reasons that should be obvious when you read it. I think some of you may find it amusing:
1978. A small town in East Germany.
The door burst open.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The voice was sharp and furious. And English.
I looked round, pausing what I was doing for a moment.
She looked completely wrong in this setting. The light was behind her, a single bare bulb hanging by a fraying flex in the passageway, but her long, red hair tumbling down around her shoulders, the knee-length skirt, the long legs and the accent that had more than a hint of an expensive English education were quite out of place in this type of establishment.
“I suppose it was your idea we should meet here?”
It was an accusation.
“No,” I protested. “I do what I’m told, just like you.”
She sniffed. “I doubt whether your orders included doing THAT.”
She indicated the semi-naked girl on the bed.
“You’re late. I was bored.” I was definitely on the defensive.
“I haven’t got all day,” she said haughtily. “You have some papers for me?”
“Of course.” I scrambled off the bed and reached for my trousers. It took only a second to retrieve the envelope from the back pocket. I held it out to her.
She was looking elsewhere. It was a minute or two before she looked up and met my eyes.
“I suppose,” she said slowly and deliberately with a quick glance downward again, “You’re going to tell me THAT is because you’re pleased to see me?”
As I tried to think of a suitable answer she snatched the envelope from my hand, spun round with a swirl of hair and anger, and marched purposefully from the room. The door at the end of the passageway slammed with a crash that made the walls shake and brought a sprinkling of dust and plaster down from the dilapidated ceiling.
********************************************************
That was the first time I met her. I did think of her afterwards, in embarrassment as much as anything else although she had been an attractive and impressive figure in that dirty room. The next time I saw her was some years later.
********************************************************
1984. South London, England
“...and this is Susan.”
“Nice to meet you.” I held out my hand politely, as one does at these functions. “Oh.”
I think the recognition was simultaneous, but we shook hands as though meeting formally for the first time, and our host moved on to someone else.
“You’re a bad man,” were her first words to me, after a quick glance around the room to see if anyone else was likely to be able to hear.
“It was a long time ago,” I pointed out. “I left that job four years ago. Are you still working for...?”
She shook her head. “No. I’m a writer now. Trying very hard to avoid writing anything that might fall foul of the OSA.” She laughed.
“I’m in transport,” I told her. “It’s nice to see you again.”
“Yes,” she replied musingly. “So... this time you ARE trying to tell me you’re pleased to see me?”
There was something decidedly wicked about her smile, and her brief downward glance left no doubt that she remembered our last meeting as vividly as I did.
“And you have the nerve to call ME bad?” I told her.
“If that German scrubber was the best you can do...” she said primly.
“I was bored. You were late.” I said.
“We’ve had this conversation before,” she replied. “Do you make a habit of screwing hookers?”
“That’s a blunt question.”
“I’m a blunt person.”
“Fair enough. No, it was a one-off,” I insisted. “As it happens, there hasn’t been anyone at all for the last four years.”
She raised her eyebrows disbelievingly. “In that job? You’re joking.”
“I’m not in that job,” I reminded her. “I’m in transport now.”
“Ah yes. You said. Very boring. So shall we go somewhere and find out just how pleased you are to see me?”
I nearly dropped my drink. “You don’t hang about!” I said, not particularly tactfully.
“I don’t make snap decisions,” she said severely. “In fact, I’ve been thinking about this one for six years, and so have you. I know my answer. What’s yours?”
She was absolutely right. The answer was, of course, a resounding YES.
Posted on 11 June 2008 @ 14:31 (London time) - permalink
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