CHAPTER 7
That marked a new period in our lives, as that uncertainty I had picked up on steadily became more evident. Caro, it turned out, was a classic case of imposter syndrome, amazingly well concealed. While she was absolutely realistic about the allure of her rear view, she was far less confident about her worth as a person. She was never completely open about her history, but I worked out that she had stumbled out of a number of relationships, and assumed that each break-up had been down to her failings. She covered it up amazingly well, but in the end, she was always running to a timetable in her affairs of the heart: get what she could before the other person got fed up with her.

I heard the same phrase later, so many times, in so many variations: why are the good ones always so thick? It took a little while for me to spot it, despite the fact that I shared much of the same failings, but once I had worked out her blind spot, I resolved to do my best to steer her away from the edge of her fears.

She was always a creature of impulse, in the finest and most amazing of ways. Easyjet was just starting up in the eighties, and there is a rather well-known airport in Luton that was their home for quite a while. Caro knew my work pattern, and every now and again she would spot something in a Sunday newspaper supplement, or in one of the travel books she devoured, and we would be off for a weekend in a surprising place. I was collecting air miles on my credit card, so we had several summer holidays that involved flying somewhere and then using Interrail to make our way home, usually with only the vaguest of plans.

One classic trip was a flight to Rome, the home of the absolutely shit cup of tea, made with a glass, a teabag and water from the hot tap. We ambled and shambled through the amazing city for a few days before hitting the train north to the South Tyrol, Innsbruck, Lindau (one of her Sunday supplement spots) and couchettes from there back to Ostend and the Jetfoil back to the UK.

Lindau was so typical of her impulse trips, and I will never forget the amazing model railway society there. A huge hangar of a building, incredible track layouts, and a collection of utterly miserable middle-aged men who clearly resented having to let the paying public into their playground.

We learned how pizza varied across a variety of European countries, especially in Slovakia, where you had to pay extra to get tomato sauce on the base, and I realised with each morning how deeply I loved her. That had been confirmed as we stood on the Spanish Steps, arms around each other’s waist, while some random Italian man grabbed her bum. I don’t know quite how she took hold of his hand, and the only words I understood from her sharp comment in Italian were variations on ‘Cazzo’ and ‘Cornuto’, but he left in a hurry, and her smile (and, as she immediately confirmed, her bum) were all for me.

I had to challenge her after that display of fluency.

“You never told me you spoke Italian!”

One of her trademark grins.

“I don’t”

“Well, didn’t sound that way to me, or to him, from the look on his face”

“Nope. I just like learning bits of languages. The sweary bits. Want to hear some Spanish or Dutch rudery? Arabic?”

We made our way back to our hotel near Maria Maggiore, laughing like idiots for much of the way. That was yet another of my favourite memories of her.

In daily life, however, I was also bonding with Keith. Unfortunately for Keith, he wasn’t doing the same with several of our colleagues, which was far from a surprise, given the prevailing atmosphere in the place. A lot of it came down to one specific manager, the famously bipolar Doctor Derek and Mister Simes, but it led to so much fallout in terms of backbiting and snide remarks that it became a signature of the office environment. It wasn’t ‘turtles all the way down’, but snide remarks and petty points-scoring. Even on the ‘team nights out’ that I did my best to avoid, the atmosphere was unfailingly one of men keeping their heads above the notional water by climbing on the backs of others. Those that ended up drowning, who left the job for their health or their sanity, were laughed at as weaklings.

It was almost all men there, but the few women did their level best to outdo them in snark and snidery. I had been looking for a new post for some months when Keith arrived, but the job market was absolutely stagnant under That Woman. Keith was a life preserver, to keep the drowning analogy going, and a lifesaver for my social life.

He had initially found a half-decent flat just off Crawley Green Road, and once we had both realised that we shared an interest in folk music, it became a stop-off for me on the long walk back from the Red Lion to my own place.

That had been an unexpected meeting. Caro being on a late shift, I had turned up at the bar to get my first pint ready for the early floor spots, on the sensible basis that if a certain member was going to perform that evening I would need some analgesia, when Keith came and stood next to me. He looked more than a little surprised to see me.

“Thought you’d be down at the Plume with the rest”

“No, mate. This is my regular, at least this night of the week”

“This night… You here for the folk club?”

“Guilty as charged. You as well?”

“Yup. Got someone I want to hear; had some good reports. Trouble is, they do a lot of Welsh stuff”

I chuckled.

“And you don’t speak any?”

A broad grin.

“I may climb there a lot, but my Welsh is limited to please/thanks/two beers. That and some of the road signs, anyway. You heard them before?”

“Nope. Not that bothered if they turn out to be shite, though: still better than being down the Plume with that lot”

I realised I had most definitely shown him all of my cards, but I had a good feeling about him, and that was borne out over the next few months as we grew to know and like each other. The shit at work was so much easier to bear when I knew there was someone decent to talk to and share a raised eyebrow with when Doctor or Mister got even harder to tolerate. Life preserver, and indeed job preserver, that was Keith.

We became a threesome at the club whenever Caro was free, and then Penny made it four, as she seemed to find Keith’s arse as magnetic a feature as I did Caro’s grin-dimple; nobody at all was surprised when they moved in together in his flat, followed by a move out to Sundon Park and those walks out away from the plastic lager dispensary just around the corner from their 1950s semi.

Life was good, at least those parts that didn’t directly involve our workplace. We started planning weekends away, hen shifts allowed, and while the shorter ones usually meant time at the Peak gritstone edges, the longer ones usually meant North Wales. In both cases, as we men were both bikers, the accommodation was of necessity in whichever youth hostel was nearest. Carrying a full set of climbing gear along with camping equipment for two was never really an option, not if either of us wanted a modicum for comfort on or off the bike. The only time we managed to combine the two loads was when Alan and Auds joined us, their car becoming a joint asset, and those trips were almost always in either North Leas below Stanage or Little Willy’s below the east face of Tryfan.

The folk club became our other anchor in a town full of dark undercurrents and open nastiness, where every group seemed to hate every other one. I was most definitely looking for an exit strategy, but that went on hold the day Carolyn proposed to me.

“Mike, love?”

It was about four in the morning, and I was in that odd state of semi-waking that comes with knowing the alarm is going to go off, but not for at least another ninety minutes. I grunted out something approximating a working brain, and Caro snuggled closer to me as the rain rattled against the window and I realised the ride into work was going to be a miserable one.

“Was talking to Penny last week. She says she’s been dropping hints to Keith”

“Mmfff?”

“Yes. Exactly. Heavy hints. That suit still fit, or do we need to go shopping?”

“Gnumf?”

“Heavy hints, love. Keithy Boy needs to start paying attention, and you need to start writing a speech”

That one woke me up properly.

“Speech? You mean, as in wedding stuff?”

“As in hints he couldn’t miss, love. Not forever, anyway. Question has been popped and ring will be visible next climbing club night”

“Shit! He never said anything to me!”

“More important people to talk to. Pen, for one. She drops good hints, does Pen. I don’t do hints, never have”

I mumbled something about stretchy trousers and pool tables, and she poked me in the ribs.

“Those weren’t hints, they were hooks”

All of a sudden, I was wide awake, eyes and mind fully open.

“So what you’re saying is that you think we…”

Another dig in the ribs.

“Nope. None of that. Just need to know what date works best for you, marriage wise. Not taking no for an answer, and I don’t think ‘No’ is going to be anywhere in your thoughts. I know how well my hooks are set, Mike. Now, how much time before the alarm goes off?”

“About an hour and ten”

“Then we’ve got time for a shower afterwards. Come here, love”