Tail End Charlie.
That’s how he feels. That’s what he is.
The rest broke naturally into groups. Those he thought he knew a little – Allie, Liz and Bob, Ken, Les, Pete and Vi, and the flirty woman in leggings, Geoff, Paul and Trev – all gave the impression they’d never ever set eyes on him before.
He planted himself in the middle of the crocodile when they left the carpark and set out on the walk. He tagged on to first one group and then another. But somehow he couldn’t prise his way in, failed to find anything to say that anyone wanted to listen to.
It was a new walking group and only their fourth or fifth time out. About twenty, all retireds or semi retireds. This was his third outing, but it might as well have been his first. The whole damn lot of them seemed to know everything about each other. They quizzed each other on holidays – how was Croatia? Did the cruise ship go past that old schloss at Kirksberg? Were the midges as bad on Harris as last year?
He didn’t take holidays, hadn’t been on one for three years. And when he did go it was to his sister’s place in the Midlands. Who wanted to know about a week in Redditch? He had nothing to contribute, nothing to add, no insights into Morocco, Toronto or Le Puy.
As they climbed the long stony path to Triscombe they moved on to health. Les went into lengthy details about his gall bladder operation, Vi was smothered with sympathy over her still unidentified problem down below. By the time they’d reached the trig point at the top they’d covered everything from irritable bowel to prostates.
But what did it matter? Just look at them, decked out in their bright shiny Regattas. Cockatoos and mynah birds, parrotting their ludicrous chatter to the treetops.
And not one of them looking to left or right! No one noticing the sunlight splashing the bilberries, or the toadflax making tiny pinpoints of brilliant yellow amongst the bracken. He tried stopping once, pointing at a hill shadow slowly floating over Aisholt Common, gently draining colour from the fields. But no one stopped, no one looked.
Then he was on his own again, the others pushing on at the same military pace. He knew what was in their minds: the pub lunch.
Not much after eleven they were already smacking their lips, working their way through the Rising Sun menu. I think a ham panini this time. Or maybe one of their delicious smoked salmon and cream cheese baguettes – yours looked good last time, Lisa. Or there’s always the stilton ploughman. And I won’t be able to resist their cheesecake.
The men compared real ales. Nutty Old Quantock or Exmoor Stag. Trouble was, he simply couldn’t be blokey. Les and Ken, their lunchtime tipple agreed, were comparing Les’s Ford Focus with Ken’s new Prius – the merits of sat navs, their insurance groups, miles per gallon, time between services. Did either of them really want to hear about his ten-year old Corsa with its jammed electric window mechanism he’d mended with gaffer tape? Then, as they entered the deeply shadowed woods, John complaining to Pete about how he couldn’t load his son’s spreadsheets recording all the Formula One results.
He made one last effort. A rider clopped past, her horse dislodging loose stones, causing tiny avalanches down the steep track. Ken and Les raised their eyes and sniggered. Look at the size of her! Backside as big as the horse! She’ll burst her jodhpurs if she gallops! He smiled and pulled faces, but knew he wasn’t included in the joke.
A hundred yards further on they stepped over a huge pile of steaming horse shit. He hurried to catch up with Ken and Les and pointed. ‘Whose backside? Horse or rider?’ He waited. Nothing.
Neither Ken nor Les seemed to have heard. He tried again, nudging Ken on the elbow.
‘Whose backside did that lot come out of? The horse’s or her with the big arse?’
Ken half turned and looked blank, as if wondering why a complete stranger had caught his arm. Then Les caught his attention again saying how his emails weren’t getting through because his internet kept going down and how their last Tesco order online got garbled.
Lunchtime. In the pub. The time he dreaded above all others. The tables were small, and once again they broke naturally into small groups, filling the snug.
Where was he to sit? No one beckoned him over or patted a seat. So he wandered around the bar, examining the old coaching prints on the walls, sipping his beer, and trying to look easy and unconcerned.
Then he spotted an empty place. It was opposite the flirty woman in leggings. Thank God. Facing the wall, he went through his breathing exercises – the routine he’d read about in the book he’d downloaded about gaining confidence and making friends. Time to try it out. It’s easy to start a conversation, it told him. Just ask questions. People love telling you about themselves.
Leggings wasn’t a bad looker. A bit raddled and scrawny round the neck. Something bad had happened to her at some time. But he was no Pierce Brosnan. So he leaned across.
‘Hi! I’m Victor. And you? Mel, that’s a nice name. So, what do you do? Tell me about yourself.’
And she did. For forty minutes. He needn’t have been there.
Back on the walk, the sun beat down and the pace slackened. Ken belched and Les and Pete had to disappear into the trees for a pee. Liz, too, and the whole lot of them had to create a diversion so that she could get her knickers down. That made them all laugh.
Getting in with the men didn’t seem to be working, so he tried a group of the women. ‘Look at those whortlelberries! Coming on a treat! Looks a bumper crop. I love them in a pie, don’t you?’
One or two did half turns. ‘Wonderful,’ one said, but nothing more than a pause in the middle of a rant about the new Morrisons that was going up.
And that was it.
He felt like shaking the whole lot of them. We could be in Tooting High Street for all they’d notice. Or care.
He plodded on at the rear.
Back at the carpark they were planning the next walk. Car doors slammed, kisses and hugs all round.
Alone. An empty carpark.
With the windows wound up tight he shouted until he was hoarse.
