Ahead of his Time, Adrian Cousins [short story to read .txt] 📗

“Cool. Give her a call, and we can hook up!”

I turned to Jenny— “She’s ten! What’s she going to be like when she’s sixteen, for Christ’s sake!” I exclaimed.

“Darling, you should know!”

I looked at my truly wonderful daughter as she stood smiling down at us. “That’s what worries me!”

Back when I was in the throes of killing David Colney and worrying if I would have to wait years to discover if baby Beth was actually Beth, my best friend from back in 2019, I, of course at that point, had no definitive way of knowing. She had the same mother, the same birthday and the same name – but I could never be certain.

Looking up at my ten-year-old daughter, I was certain. She looked exactly how I remember Beth looking on that first day of school when old Bummer had forced me to sit next to her. Well, not exactly the same, because this version of Beth was confident, fun, loving and didn’t have a hint of anger. Nurture had won over nature. Jenny and I had a wonderful daughter that all too quickly, I was fully aware, some boy would ask to take her away from me. But she would be happy – I just knew it.

Roy was promoted in 1984 to an offensively sizeable comprehensive school in London. The education authority urged me to progress and thought I could take the City School in a new, modern direction. As I loved my job, I declined as I had no desire to take up the role which Roy had held for all those years. The stress had taken its toll on Roy and, although we were the same age, he looked at least fifteen years closer to a date with the grim reaper than I did. Mr Elkinson was appointed as Head, as he was in my day as a student there. He was still a quiet and unassuming man and very much left the school’s running to me, which I enjoyed without the pressure of the ultimate responsibility.

Don still lived at number ten. Although in his ninetieth year he was very spritely and had a caring neighbour called Jess, who always looked out for him. Jess didn’t wait for Patrick and, as the years slipped by, her unconditional love for the twin of Paul Colney faded.

Patrick was involved in a prison riot in 1979, resulting in two other inmates being shanked with a sharpened toothbrush. One of them died. Patrick was arrested for murder and convicted for a further twenty-two years to run consecutively to his sentence for attempting to murder Sarah Moore’s father. He would be in his fifties before he saw the outside world again.

Jess married in 1980. She met Colin at a party at our house that previous summer and, although he was twelve years older, they fell instantly in love. A whirlwind romance ensued, which I could easily empathise with. I met her mother, other Jason’s former lover only once, on Jess and Colin’s wedding day. It was an awkward encounter to say the least, so we didn’t converse much, and I didn’t have to pretend to be who she thought I was.

Jess’s daughter, Faith, and our Beth were bridesmaids at the wedding. Both little girls were beautiful in their tiny versions of Jess’s long flowing hippy-style wedding dress. Faith, as far as the whole world was concerned, was my granddaughter. Jenny, George and I knew differently, and I often silently thanked other Jason for this gift.

Colin adopted Faith, and the new Mr and Mrs Poole settled into their new married life. There had been nothing I thought would be an appropriate wedding present when reviewing the gift wish list. Assuming someone else would buy the Teasmade, Jenny and I presented them the keys to number eight on the Bowthorpe Estate.

51

Dad Dancing

Tonight’s event was the Fairfield District Council Summer Ball. Jenny said it was more of a party in a tent than a ball in a marquee, and there was no requirement to wear a black tie. Jenny was now head of Child Services, so tonight was a big deal as she and two other department heads would give a speech and conduct the prize giving.

The applause continued for over a minute, ending with a few cheeky wolf-whistles as Jenny finished her speech and left the stage. The disco restarted, causing hordes of now-pissed party revellers to stampede and swamp the dance floor as ‘Never Gonna Give You Up.’ pulsed out. A new song that had rocketed into the charts last week by a clean-cut young lad called Rick Astley.

I never danced. Although I’d perfected that demented baboon style dancing in my previous life, even that skill had now left my repertoire of bad moves. I was now only endowed with poorly choreographed dad-dancing abilities, and I thought the world was better off not witnessing them.

When the slow dances started, I would take my wife to the dance floor. Not that I was any good, but I could just about manage it without realigning Jenny’s toes. More to the point, I wasn’t allowing any other bugger to take her hand and whisk her around the makeshift wooden dance floor.

I gave Jenny a hug and kiss as she fell into my arms, relieved she’d delivered her speech and that particular nightmare was over.

“You were brilliant, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, darling. Thank God that’s over with!”

“Shall we get another drink?”

“Yes, darling. I need an ice-bucket full of G&T … I'm still shaking.”

I grabbed her hand, and we weaved our way through the crowd to the bar. Before we made it there, we both stopped near one of the back tables and observed an argument which appeared to be getting out of hand. Wearing a short black dress, a young slim blonde lady with her back to us was berating a bloke who was giving as good as he was getting. As we drew near, voices became raised above the music.

“Piss off, Paula.”