Beige Barry
by Sue Shipp
I’ve never felt in sync with the world.
Not since I overheard Aunt Trudie, in a loud, wine-infused whisper, tell mum I’d never amount to much, or be marriage material because I was unattractive in appearance, and lacked charm.
A very small part of me hoped she’d got it wrong. That charm was something I’d grow into, and acne was something I’d grow out of.
The acne went, but the charm never arrived and I ended up being beige Barry, who wore beige cardigans, drove a beige car, had a beige job at the Council, and was resigned to spending my days deep in the archives, and my evenings alone in front of the television with a microwave meal.
And then, Lauren arrived on secondment from another Council, and the axis of my world slowly tilted.
Our first meeting, when the woman from Personnel brought Lauren down to the Archives to introduce her, and to say she would be sharing my broom cupboard of an office, was awful. As usual, when faced with something, or someone different, I behaved like a complete idiot, blurting out the first stupid thing that came into my head. But if Lauren noticed – and how could she not – she was far too kind to point out my shortcomings.
As the weeks rolled on, I learned that Lauren was like the gentle rolling swell of the sea, arriving and leaving without fuss or flourish, and I was happy to float along on that swell, which never took me far from the safety of the shore. A shore that in my mind was covered in soft, white sand that shimmered in the tropical sun.
And as silly as it is for a bachelor just on the wrong side of forty to picture himself standing on that shore hand-in-hand with Lauren, waiting for the sun to dive, flaring orange-red on the horizon, that’s what I did.
So there I was, deep in my favourite day-dream, when Aunt Trudie’s whisper reared its head and ran like a riptide through it. Throwing down my pen, I blurted out, ‘Just shut-up, will you,’ before I realised Lauren was standing in front of my desk.
I didn’t need a mirror to know my face was the colour of that sunset. I compounded my idiocy by blurting out, ‘Not you, Lauren. I’m talking to the voice in my head.’ And right then, I hated Aunt Trudie with all my heart.
To my astonishment, Lauren laughed. ‘Oh, the one telling you you’ll never be good enough?
I nodded, thinking if Lauren hadn’t already thought I was a bit odd, I’d more than sign-posted it now.
Slipping her coat off, she studied me for a few minutes, before saying. ‘We all have one of those, Barry. You’ve just got to tell the little sucker to sod off.’
I spent the rest of the morning hiding in the archives, miserable in the knowledge that I’d never have the courage to ask her out. Not after that. So you can imagine my surprise when Lauren sought me out and asked if I’d like to meet her outside the town library on Saturday morning. And that’s all I heard, even though she mentioned something about the environment and meadows.
*
Saturday found me up early. I hadn’t slept properly, my excitement tinged with a nervousness that this date would be a disappointment to Lauren. This manifested itself into worrying about what to wear.
‘Get a grip,’ I said to myself. `You’ve got a plan.’ Which was, a quick trip to the barber, and a dash into Boots for a shower gel. I normally use a bar of Palmolive and was a bit daunted at the choice, but finally settled on Bulldog – Lemon and Bergamot. That seemed manly enough, and it was cruelty free, so I thought that would please Lauren. It took longer to choose the right shirt than it did to shower and shave, and it seemed a good time to finally wear those burgundy corduroy trousers Aunt Trudie sent me last Christmas. I even polished my shoes, not my work ones, the ones I wear to family weddings, christenings and funerals.
I arrived early, annoyed that I hadn’t thought to Google one or two of the more ‘with-it’ eateries where I could suggest we had lunch. All I had to do was say this very casually as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
It was really crowded outside the library, and I was just beginning to worry I wasn’t visible, when the crowd thinned and I saw her coming up the steps from the square, hand-in-hand with what could only be described as a beach-body. Even from where I stood, I could see the muscles in his tanned arms straining against his T-shirt, his ripped jeans pulled tight across his thighs, and his brown hair pulled back into a man-bun. As they got closer, I could see the brown threaded through with blonde highlights, which made me think all he needed to complete the picture was a surfboard.
Just as I was hoping Lauren hadn’t seen me, she gave me a cheery wave. Escape not being an option, I swore quietly and from somewhere managed to smile and weakly wave back.
Lauren introduced Jez, who grinned, showing perfectly straight, white teeth. Well, why not. He was perfect in every other way. And I was, once again, awkward and out of my depth.
*
The room was hot and stuffy, and sitting behind a long table, I was soon to learn, were a panel of local environmentalists. They were hoping to encourage volunteers to help with rejuvenating our seagrass meadows.
I hadn’t expected Lauren to take a seat at that table, leaving me with Jez, who did his best to fill the silence between us. I can’t tell you how relieved I was when the talk began, although the last thing I expected to hear about was the demise of the Dugong. Now classed as ‘functionally extinct’ in Chinese waters because of the lack of seagrass beds they feed off. Efforts are being made to restore those beds, but they may not grow in time for the Dugong, which Jez informed me is a sea-cow.
Next up was Lauren. I realised just how little I knew about her, as she spoke of the need to replenish our own seagrass meadows, which apparently are one of the most valuable and diverse habitats on the planet. It seems they store oodles of carbon, much more than trees and are a haven for juvenile fish and, of all things, seahorses.
*
And that’s how I found myself at Langstone harbour one quiet cool morning with what can only be described as boards strapped to my wellies. Jez informed me they were called “mud pattens”, before striding forwards with a bag of seagrass bombs at his side. We all followed him, and I was relieved to learn that none of the others had done anything like this either.
If you’d told me I’d be involved in helping to create underwater meadows by pushing little hessian bags of seagrass seed down into the mud, my waterproof bottoms splattered in mud, and my hands muddy to the wrists, and that I’d be enjoying myself immensely with a new found purpose in life, I’d have told you, you were mad.
But here I am, and you know, I’m feeling perfectly in sync with the world, having now managed to submerge Aunt Trudie’s wine-infused whisper so deep she might as well be at the bottom of the Mariana Trench.
Inspiration: My inspiration came from reading about the Solent Seagrass Restoration Project on the Pens of the Earth inspiration page.
Photo by Richard Salsbury
Sue Shipp holds an MA in Creative Writing (Distinction) from the University of Portsmouth. Her short stories, flash fiction and poetry have been published in various anthologies, the Portsmouth News, and Star & Crescent. Sue is a member of the spoken word group T’Articulation and The Portsmouth Writers’ Hub.