Little Spirit

Little Spirit

  By DaNeo Duran

  Text copyright © 2013 DaNeo Duran

  All Rights Reserved

  To Beverley for always believing in me and to you for taking the time to read this story. I hope you enjoy it.

  Table of Contents:

  Little Spirit

  Acknowledgements and legal bits

  About the author

  Excerpt from Johnny and The USed Wonz

  Thursday 2nd June 1983

  Having freeloaded from yacht-to-yacht throughout spring and into summer 1983 Katherine didn’t notice the motion or the waves slapping the hull as she stirred. Squeaking of fenders against pontoons and frapping chimes of neighbouring masts had evolved into relaxing overtures. She stirred enjoying the comfort of the bed sheets where she lay, beautiful but ever alone.

  Through sleepy eyes Katherine this time recognised the ultra-modern Italian bedroom. Some days she woke amongst traditional oak splendour or any other opulent variant. She recalled her friend John asking her to boat-sit his luxury motor cruiser whilst he got richer in London.

  Here in Saint Tropez holidays perpetuated and Katherine’s brimming social calendar meant she’d brunch later with the girls. But for now as the clock-radio read 5:30 her beauty-sleep resumed.

  * * *

  In England, an hour behind France, the electrical buzz from Danny’s decrepit amplifier drilled a hole through his hearing attacking the sleep that had, once again, overcome him whilst practicing guitar in bed. Hitting its power killed the drone. But before he’d rolled over a taxi’s breaks squealed below his window ruining the silence. Covering his face with fraying bed clothes he shielded his eyes from the still blazing ceiling light.

  * * *

  The taxi pulled away onto North London’s Chingford Mount Road, leaving Amy searching beneath the knickers in her handbag for keys. Looking up at the shared flat she saw Danny’s beaming light. Her heart leapt and sank at the prospect of seeing him. Sighing, she faced the flaky front door, aimed the key at the lock and drunkenly marched towards it.

  Inside using the woodchip walls as support she reached the landing.

  Fancying a hug she cooed, ‘Danny?’

  No response. Pushing his door she decided against crossing the Krypton Factor assault course of washing, dumbbells, records and guitar leads to where only dark hair protruded his orange quilt. Blowing a kiss towards his outlined brawny frame she flicked his light out.

  ‘Thanks Amy,’ the bed covers murmured.

  Bidding Danny goodnight she zigzagged across the threadbare living room carpet and passed the kitchen piled high with dirty pots and plates to the bathroom. As the shower warmed she furiously brushed her teeth of unfamiliar saliva before dumping cigarette-stinking jeans and T-shirt by the sink where along with the knickers from her handbag they’d stay until morning.

  In the shower she scrubbed her big-boobed too-curvy body of the night’s action as if to recover her lost virginity. Resembling Toyah Wilcox in the cult movie Jubilee, Amy’s non-willowy physique lacked the potency to stir Danny’s interest. Instead she made do with dozens of lesser men’s near meaningless fumbles.

  Eventually, with towel-wrapped hair, she retired to her own jumbled bedroom and wondered whether Calvin would return to the flat. She drifted to sleep intent on skipping the morning’s polytechnic lectures.

  * * *

  On the sand at France’s Bonne Terrasse beach the piercing sound of gulls searching for food had, along with the heat and chaffing sand, roused Calvin from his sleeping bag. Companionless on this the last full day of his escape he packed his rucksack before jogging along miles of shore. If Calvin’s legs worked hard against the energy-sapping sand his mind worked harder wrangling over which possible future he should choose once back in England.

  A balmy breeze dried him after he’d bathed in the Mediterranean. Dressed in his last clean clothes he headed to the nearby campsite for breakfast after which he used abysmal French to hire a pushbike from a man happy to look after and use his rucksack as collateral.

  Now, chewing Juicy Fruit gum Calvin pedalled along Route des Plages suntan cream in pocket, passport and money in plastic pouch. Having arrived from the west the previous day he headed north not knowing where that might lead or what the day would bring.

  Unfortunately Calvin’s buoyancy sank after some miles. His sun parched throat stuck like thistle to cotton wool. Ditching the gum on the barren road he turned towards the sign-posted Sainte Anne. Alas he found no refreshment but soon pressed on no longer concerned. A new coast loomed; Saint Tropez beckoned.

  * * *

  Waking late Katherine hastened, robe slipping to the shower room floor. She sighed. Despite her improved social standing in Saint Tropez, she shared her body with no one. Here both men and women flattered her resplendent 1950s silver screen appearance. They didn’t know she walked a knife-edge fastidiously avoiding controversy through the illusion of sexual apathy. But, lathering shampoo under the shower’s soothing touch she felt uncharacteristically vital. Manicured fuchsia nails thrilled skin; chasing suds as she longed for embrace.

  Back in the bedroom she applied makeup then stepped into a summer dress. Counting enough money for salad and just one round of drinks she snapped her purse shut, grabbed high heels and stepped onto the pontoon and into the sunshine to meet her friends.

  * * *

  Down in Saint Tropez Calvin headed for the marina wheeling the hired bike along Quai Suffren listening for tunes. Hearing The Police from a jostling yacht club’s bar he headed in.

  His aching backside celebrated the cooling relief of the white plastic furniture. Hoisting a foot over his knee he inhaled surrounding affluence. Sunlight danced around gleaming yachts. Ferraris rolled by; their toothpaste smiling drivers demonstrating how life could be with sufficient money. Apart from the waiter who seemed displeased to have someone of lesser means in his bar, Calvin suspected everyone to be as happy as they seemed.

  As The Police made way for Kim Wilde he asked the waiter, ‘Excuse-moi.’

  ‘Oui,’ he sneered.

  ‘Un limonade s’il vous plait.’

  ‘Une,’ the waiter said correcting him.

  ‘Non, deux, grand.’ Calvin clenched his teeth and looked away.

  Several songs rocked by before the waiter returned with two large glasses and the bill. Nice Rolex, Calvin thought noticing his wrist.

  Across the street a group of four ravishing women dressed to the nines headed his way. Calvin willed them to come in. They did. They commandeered the bar’s only available table, beside him. But, whether imagined or not, one woman made a point of turning her back on him.

  Dispirited Calvin tried ignoring them. Instead he contemplated whether riches start in the mind as the book he’d brought with him, Think and Grow Rich, stated. He considered what he’d seen of Saint Tropez, an unfurled carpet of wealth, contrasting to England with its public spending cuts where Thatcher busily wrote off a generation of school leavers; as industry rinsed away.

  He’d almost finished his first lemonade when his thoughts wavered sensing someone at the women’s table looking over. Being subtle he kept his sights fixed on a tall mast in the marina whilst turning his head. Only in the last instant did his eyes dart settling on the most beautiful woman he could ever remember seeing.

  * * *

  Katherine had sauntered behind her friends who’d seizing the club’s last empty table. Before she could take the remaining seat the waiter bounced out of nowhere.

  ‘Bonjour mademoiselles, comment mai je vous server?’

  His eagerness to assist weighed towards Katherine who elusively steered his attention to the girls; rejecting him sexually yet pulling him socially.

  He scurried off with their order leaving the g
irls chattering. Katherine noticed Elaine’s smile had her cheeks pushed so high she could hardly see. She suspiciously wondered why. Soon Katherine savoured the menu’s cheapest salad whilst the girls tucked into lavish dishes. Finally, Elaine served the appetite arresting news that Katherine had feared for some weeks.

  ‘Gareth’s asked me to marry him.’ Elaine’s previously concealed left hand appeared for all to adore the princess cut diamond. The table exploded into cheers and kisses for her closest friend. But though Gareth complimented Elaine perfectly, Katherine’s stomach twisted mocked by the ring’s ostentatious dazzle which seemed to understand that this event could end her time in Saint Tropez.

  Once the gushing subsided Katherine sat back exiting the conversation. The smile which would now appear false fell as worry rippled through her. Elaine detailed Gareth’s every romantic gesture ending with his transferring the ring past her lips during a passionate kiss.

  ‘Have you set a date?’ Abigail asked.

  ‘Not yet, but we fancy a June wedding.’

  ‘So, this time next year?’ Katherine asked her smile returning considering a twelve month reprieve.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where will you have it?’ Loretta asked.

  ‘Here in Saint Tropez of course,’ Elaine beamed.

  ‘Really, that’s wonderful.’

  Katherine weighed her options. ‘I’ll help find a church and venue if you like. I can ask some questions, gather ideas, then you and Gareth can choose the best one.’

  ‘Wow Katherine, that’d be brilliant.’ Elaine leant close and clasping her hand whilst Katherine wondered how finding the venue would help her case; she’d still have to buy a wedding gift. She groaned inwardly and after Elaine’s attention shifted she sat back letting the girls carry on their conversation.

  Looking passed Abigail she noticed a lonesome man; a shaggy sun-bleached blond. Strong with fair but tanned skin like a surfer he looked a little younger than her, twenty-two perhaps. His clothes suggested he’d be someone who financially had no business in a place like this. Yet Katherine detected self-respect in his demeanour. Seeing two drinks she wondered whether some girl had stood him up. The image hooked her distracting the force of the next piece of bad fortune.

  ‘You’re all to be bridesmaids,’ Elaine said.

  Abigail and Loretta half stood to hug the giddy Elaine. That confirms it, Katherine thought. I’m knackered.

  ‘Gosh, you don’t look well Katherine,’ Loretta said at Katherine’s delayed arrival to the huddle.

  ‘Right, you’ve scarcely touched your salad,’ Abigail agreed.

  Running with their misunderstanding of her health Katherine complained but assured them she’d be okay and again exited the conversation to resume gazing at the mystery man. His distinctive jaw line reminded her of Jim Morrison. She continued staring and, whilst considering her now numbered days in France, failed to notice her mystery man turning towards her. Without warning the deepest blue eyes locked on hers.

  Katherine tensed unable to move until he broke eye contact. When she exhaled she startled Loretta who touched her hand and said, ‘Darling you’re not yourself.’

  ‘Just lightheaded,’ Katherine said blushing and hoping Loretta hadn’t noticed the mystery man.

  ‘Are you up to shopping?’ Abigail asked.

  Never up to shopping with these girls Katherine played the ill health card they’d handed her.

  ‘I should give shopping a miss,’ she said sipping water.

  ‘Go to ours,’ Elaine said referring to the ketch her family had partially retired to. Katherine had spent many wonderful days and nights aboard that magnificent yacht.

  Katherine told them she’d head back to John’s cruiser leaving them to shop. She produced her purse with practiced timing allowing Elaine to beat her to paying the entire bill before saying their goodbyes, leaving Katherine in peace to regard the mystery man.

  Dreading expulsion from Saint Tropez, Katherine’s mind regressed to that of a lost kid in a crowd grasping at anyone who might help. Alone and yearning new company she watched the mystery man. Synchronising her body language to his she drank when he did and tapped a foot as he did to Duran Duran.

  * * *

  She looked at you, Calvin’s mind looped. The blood had evacuated his muscles when his eyes focused on the heart-stoppingly gorgeous woman. Her dazzling black eyes had registered surprise but Calvin doubted whether his paralysed face had reacted at all. His defensive subconscious had eventually caused him to drag his eyes away. Now numbly gripping his glass the sweet lemonade appeared flat; insipid as warm tap water.

  Surreptitiously he chanced another look. A vision of undulating lines and flowing raven hair soaked his mind redefining female perfection. Rubbing his face he could only guess why she’d been looking at him.

  Excitement redoubled when her friends left. Sensing her alone and looking over he tapped his foot to the music disguising his nervous leg shake. He closed his eyes endeavouring to fathom the situation when …

  Bump!

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, are you alright?’

  She’d risen to leave and walked directly into him. Calvin’s eyes popped.

  ‘Err … yeah …’ he stammered.

  ‘Great. Drink up and meet me at the end of, Le Quai d’Estienne d’Ovres in ten minutes.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Quai d’Estienne d’Ovres. Ask the waiter.’

  Without a backwards glance she left. Calvin watched, hypnotised by her swaying hips.

  A minute later he thought to check his watch. He’d leave at 12:13.

  Time dragged. At 12:11 he stood and approaching the waiter with the bill asked, ‘Ou eh key desty-endover silver play?’

  The waiter looked at the money, correctly guessing he’d have to answer the question first. ‘Le, Quai d’Estienne d’Ovres.’

  ‘Oui?’

  ‘It’s ze longest pier.’ He nodded towards the marina. ‘Over zare.’

  ‘Mercy,’ Calvin handed him the money plus tip.

  Leaving café and bicycle behind he crossed the road and, pointing to the longest pier called to a solitary fisherman, ‘Key desty-endover?’

  ‘Oui.’ He pointed towards a lighthouse.

  The drying coastal breeze eased the midday heat but with no sign of the femme fatale apprehension chilled Calvin’s nerves. Could this be a trap? Alert to danger each footstep seemed to push the lighthouse further away until, at last within twenty feet of the harbour mouth, he stopped. Though touristy families milled around he couldn’t see the person he wanted.

  * * *

  Beyond the meeting point, jagged rocks led to the marina’s water. Clambering over them Katherine had settled out of sight; safe from anyone that might have recognised her.

  Having succumbed to primal instinct and ‘accidentally’ bumping into the mystery man she’d waited but, with no watch could only gauge time against the marina’s passing boats. Her rational mind warned that the mystery man hadn’t agreed to follow. Can’t do anything about that now, she’d thought, mentally punishing herself as her thoughts jibed returning to ponder the effects of Elaine’s engagement.

  Another trawler bobbed by and Katherine called it quits. Standing up she looked and there, before her, the man she’d given up on wandered lost, gazing left and right.

  He spotted her and stepped around the wall’s ledges to greet her.

  Katherine smiled. ‘Thanks for meeting me. I wasn’t sure you’d come.’

  ‘I’m staggered you asked.’

  ‘Well, I wondered who you were.’

  ‘Calvin,’ he said extended his hand.

  ‘Katherine,’ she said taking it. ‘Pleasure meeting you.’

  His eyebrows rose, ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. Thought you might have been stood-up back there in the yacht club’s café. Actually I was starting to think you’d stood me up.’ Katherine smiled seeing his eyebrows rising higher. ‘Bet this seems pretty weird huh?’

 
; He paused, ‘Yeah.’

  She laughed and said, ‘Don’t worry you’re in safe hands. I thought this’d be more interesting than shopping with the girls.’

  Sitting together on sun baked concrete Calvin asked, ‘You chose me over shopping? And by interesting d’you mean not rich?’

  ‘You’re different, certainly.’

  Calvin nodded. ‘You make a habit of this?’

  ‘Picking guys up in a cafés?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No, never.’ Seeing Calvin untighten she relaxed straightening her dress but watching his roaming eyes. ‘It wasn’t that sort of pickup. You’re cute and I acted out of character but we’re just talking.’

  She saw him agree. She’d learned how to put most men down firmly without offence.

  Leading with questions she learned of Calvin’s week-long travel, that he played in a rock band called 10,000 Faces in London though his family came from Coventry and, as of the previous week, had a polytechnic degree.

  ‘So, back to England tomorrow. What then?’ she asked.

  ‘Either follow my heart but break my dad’s by retuning to London and making a go of the band or drag myself back to Coventry in favour of security and a pacified father.’

  ‘You’ve got to do what you want not what your dad wants.’ Katherine riled inwardly at the thought of her own father.

  ‘Rather do the band; become millionaires, live like this.’

  Katherine noted Calvin’s voice resonating as they focused on the next cruiser motoring by.

  ‘But?’

  ‘My dad’s no fool. He makes a good point. Bands scarcely succeed. And with unemployment as it is I should utilise the degree.’

  ‘Your band any good?’

  ‘Drummer’s the weak link. Brian Collins, no relation to Phil.’

  ‘Too bad. Who sings?’

  ‘Me and my mate Danny.’

  ‘You’ve got a good front man look.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Calvin said giving her his biggest smile. ‘Neither of us are great singers. We’re better harmonising than soloing.’

  ‘That’s what they say about Simon and Garfunkel.’

  ‘Exactly, yet we’re more like The Police.’

  ‘Ooh, I love The Police,’ Katherine said. ‘D’you do your own songs?’

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got loads.’

  ‘How’s the chemistry – d’you all get along?’

  Calvin shook his head. ‘Me and Danny get on great but the drummer’s not with us socially either.’