the coach house

A short story by Martin Bradley

Chiswick, West London, held particular memories for the now middle-aged Blicton-on-Sea lad, Colin Baker. Those stolen weekends with Uncle Bill and Aunt Ivy in particular.

As Colin was growing (in the early 1960s), every now and then his parents, having had enough of parenting, would shove Colin onto a train from the small Essex seaside town of Blicton-on-Sea in the general hope that he might arrive at Liverpool Street Station (London) not too frazzled an hour-and-a-half later.

Generally Colin, who had soon deciphered the intricacies of Harry Beck’s London Tube Map (at twelve), could navigate his way via the Circle Line (from Liverpool Street), changing at Gloucester Road and finish his journey at Turnham Green Tube station on the District Line. It was there that, inevitably, partially bald, lanky and ramrod straight Uncle Bill would greet him with a big smile, while Aunt Ivy would be busy putting the kettle on for ‘a nice cuppa tea’ or three.

Uncle Bill was every inch the Scout Master and, with his very distinct view of the rights and wrongs of the world, the role of benign masterat-arms suited him, as did the slightly worried, constant short term memory loss suit Aunt Ivy and her generalised pottering about their quite spacious Chiswick flat. Together they were polar opposites, thus proving Robert Francis Winch’s findings that opposites attract.

Years later, and at the frequently disobliging seventy, Colin fancied himself somewhat of a magazine designer (having been trained in that craft some forty- five years earlier at Blicton School of Art & Design. It was in those scarce remembered days when ‘cut and paste’ was, quite literally, just that).

Secondary-school boy Colin, with a decent size chip on his working-class shoulder, could not believe his luck when his social media friend ‘Nushy’ (Indian artist et al aka Nushrratt Bose) had, while staying for a short spell in London, introduced him, virtually, to ‘The London Monthly Repository’ magazine (founded 1806).

Soon after, Colin had been tactfully summoned to The Coach House, Rupert Street, Chiswick (with its captivating Georgian architecture), by former Public-school boy Roger Percy, architect (FRIBA), owner and occasional Chief Editor of the aforementioned prestigious literary magazine. Ostensibly, it was for Roger to attend the celebration of Mid Summer via a garden party for ‘The London Monthly Repository’ its friends and supporters. Guess who was Oberon and who was Bottom. Actually there is no need to guess, that was rhetorical.

Percy had bought the (practically defunct) magazine some twenty years previously, with the misguided intention of returning that magazine to its halcyon days and, no doubt, furthering his own literary aspirations but, due to a vast array of other commitments, the monthly magazine had shortly become an ad hoc publication and then, mostly sporadic.

The experience of The Coach house, its occupants and the ghost of gentility was to prove, for Colin at least, intriguing or, at the very least, full of intrigue…

Colin mumbled in acquiescence.

“Good, excellent in fact. Glad to have you in the family, so to speak. As you know, I’m Roger. Roger Percy of the Northumberland Percys and, before that, 13th century France.” Without drawing breath Roger Percy continued “Here at The London Monthly Repository we’re a small team. We rub along quite nicely in fact. All are dedicated to the magazine, our child as it were, though in reality our great grandfather if you see what I mean.” Roger gushed on after a little chuckle.

Colin smiled and nodded a lot.

“So glad that you’re joining us, the last chap we, er... I’ll not dwell on that, Nushy can fill you in if you desire. Anyway, we’ll meet later, chat about your role etcetera. Is that alright?” it was a rhetorical question “I’m sure it is, Nushy tells me that you’re a decent chap and all that…”

“You’ve now met Roger. We go back twenty years, we are very much like brother and sister, though maybe husband and wife in some ways, but we do love each other.”

Colin’s heart sank.

“ You know that deep understanding that people can sometimes achieve, well we have that sort of thing going, difficult to explain really. He really is a beautiful man, musically talented, you must hear his violin, a wonderful poet and Indophile scholar too as well as his obvious talents in architecture.”

Colin was feeling all of two inches tall, and he was realising that the one thing a man doesn’t want to hear, is another man being praised to his face by the woman he fancies.

“Roger is still virile at this age, hence…. well I’ll get to that. There are alliances and allegiances in this tiny complement that you’ll need to be aware of.”

Colin’s interest was piqued but he, overall, still felt crestfallen.

The multi-talented Nushrratt Bose (known to her intimates as Nushy) was a shapely and petite Bengali actress who, though now approaching an age of gravitas and authority, in looks reminded Colin very much of the Bollywood actress younger Urmila Matondkar. The protean, and multitalented Nushy had been revealed to be a renowned artist and an accomplished poet et al, (and someone whom Colin not so secretly had a crush on). After a year of chatting on social media, Nushy had finally met Colin at London’s Turnham Green Tube station, by the flower stand. And, on the walk to the Rupert Street Coach House, she had begun to prep Colin about the magazine and it’s staff (but mostly about the staff).

After the one-sided conversation with Roger, Nushy led Colin up the steep staircase, brushing past ancestral paintings on the walls, and into the compact kitchen at the top of the house, luckily this was before lunch otherwise it would have been a bit of a crush with Roger’s other team, the architect services team microwaving their many and varied luncheons. bricklayer’s, Nushy continued her matter-of-fact diagnosis of The London Monthly Repository’s casual staff.

“I’ll take you downstairs to meet the lady of the house shortly, but a small word of warning Colin, you have to take her as you find her. Seriously, don’t have any expectations and you’ll be fine.”

Colin issued a quite involuntary “Huh!”

Later, downstairs, in the elegantly ‘cottage’ kitchen, toward the rear of the house and opening onto the garden where the celebratory party was to be held, stood a very pale, shapely platinum blonde and not unattractively tall elderly woman. She was fiddling with something Colin couldn’t see. The black of her Chanel ‘little black dress’ perfectly contrasted with the paleness of the woman’s skin.

“Who, he? I’ll deal with him later.” She looked, briefly, as if she was studying for Wilde’s Lady Bracknell and instantly sizing Colin (Jack as Earnest) up. The word flounced is inadequate to describe Ekaterina Rostov’s next move after Colin’s blatant dismissal and her quick exit from his company, but it will have to do.

“So” said Colin, staring in the woman’s wake, “no hello or handshake then, obviously.”

“I did warn you” ejected Nushy.

There was a faint whiff of Lily-of-the-Valley perfume (Dior Diorissimo Eau de Parfum) in the air, and then it was gone, as was the White Russian.

The party to celebrate English Summer, and incidentally the reinvigoration of The London Monthly Repository, began at 6pm. Ekaterina, a former ballerina, channeled Isadora Duncan replete with scarf. Colin unkindly hoped that she might reach the same fate as that unfortunate dancer. The spritely Ekaterina was followed by choreography of a Chinese leaning, as a Gaiaclad Chinese wood nymph twisted and turned on stage to pre-recorded music. But the real entertainment was in the audience.

At the party, which really consisted of those present talking about those who were not, Colin was introduced to a host of individuals whose names he instantly forgot. Nushy wandered away chatting to old friends and acquaintances, never letting an opportunity to network escape her. Occasionally Colin, who availed himself of each passing glass of wine, caught sight of Nushy’s illustrious Indian turban as she appeared here with a Duchess and there with a Countess, writer or some other in-crowd luminary and ‘friend’ of The London Monthly Repository.

The party was a grand affair, but in miniature and, when cornered, Colin talked horses. He dredged up the curry-combing and horse mucking-out days of his youth. This he tempered with what he had internalised from a former lover who had been a hippophile and a racing fanatic. Indirectly, Colin managed to name-drop

Every now and again, Nushy would resurface with someone in tow.

“Colin I’d like you to meet Leia, she’s part of our family here.”

Leia was tall for a woman. Her ‘Adam’s apple’ was quite prominent. Not quite knowing the formalities, Colin relaxed when she came in for a hug.

“Leia, so nice to see you, are you Chinese?”

“Actually I’m Malay. Leia Osman.” Then turning to Nushy “you didn’t tell me he was such a dish, where have you been hiding him?”

Colin smiled and blushed at one and the same time. Nushy, also smiling, put a well manicured finger to her lips “now that would be telling dear.”

As Leia wandered off. “Hands off she’s not your type, besides she’s spoken for.” Nushy mentioned with a big smile.

“Only admiring, and yes I realised, but who’s to say that I wouldn’t be tempted.”

“I do Colin, she belongs to Roger.” “Roger, I thought he was faithfully married to Ekaterina for decades.”

“Married, yes, faithful no.”

“Ah. Well, lucky Roger.”

“She’s only the latest. Earlier, the girl dancing in the green dress, Kaiting Chen, well she”s last year’s model.”

“What, you mean..”

“Roger cares for them all in his own sweet way. He rescued them.”

“Rescued?”

“From the hands of their respective pimps my dear.”

“Pimps?” Colin’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean they’re…”

“Whores, yes.”

“Okay, prostitutes, really?” Said Colin with genuine surprise.

“Were, but then nothing’s for certain is it?”

“Ekaterina too?”

“She was his first rescue.”

“And does Ekaterina know about the others? “Oh she has her own lovers too.” Colin looked on incredulously. “Ah”. And finally Colin was lost for words.

It wasn’t ‘rain stopped play’, but play stopped play. It was entertainment of a different sort. Football Finals dragged the willing and the unwilling away to strategically placed screens within The Coach House, allowing guests to peer at twenty-two men (in shorts) chasing a spherical object.

Colin and Nushy exited to The Tabard so that Nushy could watch the match in relative peace. Meanwhile Colin watched the watchers and downed a spicy tomato juice which wasn’t quite a ‘Bloody Mary’ but close enough. Nushy enjoyed her taste of The Black Stuff.

In the pub’s partially secluded nook, sitting in the wrong place meant that only half a TV screen could be seen. Colin sat in that place, allowing Nushy a clearer view of the screen. It wasn’t in any sense Colin’s sacrifice. His passion was in hating football.

Seated to one side, or rather partially seated as they were inclined to jump up and down at auspicious moments, sat four young girls as if chosen by some casting director for their representation of Britain’s ethnicities.There was an Indian looking female, a Latino, an AfroCarribean (with a Union Jack painted in her cheek) and a larger white friend, all engrossed in the game.

The night ambled on and, at match end, Colin and Nushy stood outside The Tabard and said their goodbyes. Colin closed for a goodnight kiss, but retracted just in time. He had had his signals crossed, but managed to retrieve a little dignity. Nushy turned, and began her return to her temporary small room at The Coach House. Colin stood watching, wondering if she would turn at any point. She did. He waved, then mooched to his double room next to Turner Green Tube Station.

That night Colin lay on the not so uncomfortable double-bed, listening to late night trains, thinking of Nushy. It was a delicate situation. Colin’s body revealed to him how it felt about Nushy, but it was proving far too difficult for him to bridge that chasm between friendship and, well, whatever.

Being a successful artist, for Nushy, meant being busy. Her time in London was divided between painting, cosying up to her collectors, advising on the magazine and trying to attend TV interviews, radio interviews, exhibitions and lunches with reporters. She had no time for a private life, much to Colin’s chagrin.

That evening, after dining with Nushy in an interesting Eritrean restaurant, each intimately eating with their fingers, hands occasionally touching and eyes flirting, alone Colin dragged his tired body to Liverpool Street Station and found a train waiting.

On the train back into the wilds of Essex, Colin had an hour and a half to consider his situation. Trying to build a relationship with Nushy would always be like chasing a willowthe-wisp, phantom, mirage. Her head was full of her plans, hopes and aspirations and his, full of her.

Realistically it had to change. Colin was no longer a young man of eighteen running after his soul mate. At seventy running was no longer an option. While Nushy had a future, Colin only had a past. Colin gazed out of the train window as the evening countryside lights blurred past. He thought about ships passing in the night.