“Gargoyles”

It’s dark. Not much of a surprise, considering the sun went down an hour ago. There aren’t as many people on the street as there were earlier in the evening, and traffic has thinned as well. Every now and then a group of friends will walk by on their way to the pub, or a white van will go past. Nobody notices the car parked under a streetlight. It’s an old banger; no attempt has been made to hide the dents and rust. It’s like a rough gentleman who wears his cuts and bruises with pride.

Inside the car sits a man, no younger than forty and no older than fifty, whose glasses are held together in the middle by a piece of tape. Every now and then they begin to slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with his index finger. This is something that he has done since the age of six, which is when he first started wearing glasses. The old car stereo plays The Best of Ella Fitzgerald, the cassette that was already inside when he bought the vehicle years ago.

The man, whose name is Frank Bellamy, parks his car here most evenings and sits in the driver’s seat for an hour or so, the stereo playing jazz quietly, the world carrying on, seemingly oblivious. Some people who walk past might think he is a curb crawler, looking for some company for the night, but they will probably just dismiss him without even questioning what it is that he does here each night.

And what does he do here each night?

He watches the building across the street. It’s an old building, and while this isn’t a particularly good part of town, it costs a fair bit to live in one of those “luxury apartments”. An ordinary bloke like Frank couldn’t ever dream of raking in the dough necessary to put a down payment on a place like that… but Jonathan Hope could, and has.

Jonathan Hope. Storyteller, artist, virtuoso. If you were to type his name into a search engine, there would be no end to the interesting things you could find out about him. Nominated for several literary prizes, lost out to hacks like J.K. Rowling and Dan Brown, a miscarriage of justice in Frank Bellamy`s eyes. Last year he put on an exhibition of visual work, but the critical reception was less than stellar. He plays the piano, something Bellamy could never master even after two years of lessons as a child.

In the glove box of the car is a copy of The Translator, Hope’s first novel, the book that changed Frank Bellamy’s life. The title character was a man whose work consisted of passing on messages in many different languages, but he had no messages of his own, and nobody to pass one onto. The novel concluded with the translator quitting his job and finding happiness with a girl who could neither read nor write, but who could easily say “I love you.” The epilogue found them both together years later, the girl still illiterate, and the man content with having forgotten the many tongues he used to practise.

After reading this story, which seemed to be written both for and about him, Bellamy chose to actively pursue a relationship, instead of seeing love as a pastime enjoyed solely by other people. This was easier said than done, though; Frank Bellamy had been a bachelor his whole life, and to step into the dating game whilst rapidly approaching middle age… It was, in his opinion, the bravest thing he ever did. And brave men reap rewards – in Frank Bellamy’s case, the reward was Bridget.

They met speed-dating. Frank was feeling self-conscious because, while maybe not the ugliest man in the room, he was without a doubt the most socially awkward. He was certain that he would catch nobody’s eye, that the entire evening would be a waste of time and he should just get out of there before the bell rang, but it went off before he could even make it to the door. So he sat through four excruciating minute-long conversations with four handsome women, all career types who were too busy to devote more time to finding a man, before sitting down in front of Bridget. She was full of smiles and friendly conversation, but Frank Bellamy instantly recognised his own shy awkwardness in her. When their minute was up and he stood up to move on, she said very quickly and very quietly, almost as if she were half-hoping he wouldn’t hear her:

“I’ll give you a tick, don’t worry.”

Love at first sight is not something that Frank Bellamy has ever believed in, despite the number of novels he has read. But he knows that if somebody were to retell the story of his life and bind it in the pages of a book, “love at first sight” would not be a complete lie. Just creative license.

Bridget had led a lonely life too, never as free as other women her age, feeling duty-bound to care for her terminally ill mother. It was only when she died that Bridget woke up and realised she had missed out on years of potential happiness. Hearing this, shortly after they met, Frank knew that they were meant to be together. And not for one moment did he feel sad about the death of a sick old woman who had kept her daughter prisoner for so long.

Frank Bellamy never thought that he would find such happiness so late in life, and he feels that he owes at least some of that happiness to Jonathan Hope. Maybe that’s why he comes here so often. Bridget has accepted from the start that he likes to go for solitary drives, and as he never gives her reason not to trust him, she never questions where he goes or what he does.

Frank Bellamy can’t think of a concrete reason for coming to the home of Jonathan Hope and watching the building, other than it makes him feel good. It has become a comforting routine, sitting in his car for a while each evening, knowing that the subject of his admiration is just across the street. Up a few stairs, through a wall. To be so close, without ever meeting the man, is quite enough.

Tonight, however, the routine changes. Frank sees a woman standing on the pavement, only a few steps away from his car. Her hands are thrust into the pockets of a thin-looking coat, and she is shifting from one foot to another, either out of nerves or chill. If one were to mistake Frank Bellamy for a curb-crawler, then one could just as easily look at this woman and assume she is a prostitute. Her skirt is definitely short enough. But something about her sparks recognition and understanding in Frank Bellamy; it is the way she is gazing across the street, at the same building that has held his own attention for so long.

Maybe this mystery woman can sense him looking at her, because she turns her focus from the apartment building to the car. She walks over so that she is standing beside the driver’s door, and Frank rolls down the window.

“What,” she says, expressionlessly, not even raising her voice at the end of the word to make it a question. What.

“You look cold,” says Frank Bellamy, “I was just thinking you might like to sit for a while.”

The woman snorts.

“I’m no prossie, love.”

“I never said you were.”

The woman looks at him for a moment. His glasses begin to slide down his nose, and he pushes them back into place. This seems to reassure her that he is no threat.

“Alright,” she says, and walks around the car to the passenger side. Once she is next to him in the car, Frank Bellamy sees she is older than he first thought. The short skirt and cheap-looking jewellery aren’t enough to distract the eyes from a face that has obviously been through a lot. Frank glances at the gold lettering on the chain around her neck – Tracy. Life, he thinks, has been hard to Tracy.

“I mean it,” she tells him, “I’m not a prossie.”

“I know.” Frank can’t think of much else to say to the woman now that she is here, sat next to him. Neither of them speaks for a few moments, and then Tracy starts to fidget.

“What's your name?” She doesn’t sound like she really wants to know.

“Bellamy.”

“Well, Bell,” she says, “what exactly is it that you’re doing here?” This time she does sound interested.

“I could ask you the same question.”

“Fair enough, and Ill tell you if you really want me to. But I asked first.”

“I suppose that’s only reasonable,” he agrees. “I’m a fan of somebody who lives there.”

“The writer.” Tracy’s expression is unreadable, but Frank can tell she is there for a similar reason.

“Yes, the writer. Is he why you are here as well?”

“You might say that. Or, you could say I’m why he is here.”

“I don’t understand,” Frank says, even as he begins to. The words are out of Tracy’s mouth at exactly the same moment that he figures it out for himself.

“I’m his mother.”

Frank physically turns to look at the woman sitting in the passenger seat. Jonathan Hope’s mother… He doesn’t know what to say, which one might describe as the story of his life, so all he utters is;

“Oh.”

And they sit in silence.

***

The next night, Tracy is already standing on the pavement across the road from the building by the time Frank Bellamy parks his car in the lay-by. She walks over and gets in without any invitation needing to be extended.

“Colder tonight,” she says, rubbing her palms together and then placing them on the heater. Frank murmurs in agreement, trying to work up the courage to ask her the question that has been burning a hole in the pocket of his mind ever since she first told him of her connection to Hope. Last night, after she said that she was his mother, there had been no talking. They had sat together for an hour, maybe a little longer, and then Tracy had left and Frank Bellamy drove home.

“You`re his mother,” he repeats.

“That`s right,” Tracy says, nodding and looking at him. “Probably not what people would expect.”

Bit by bit, over the nights, Tracy tells Frank Bellamy of how she left Jonathan’s father to raise him alone. She wasn’t made for mothering, she tells him. Simple as that.

For the umpteenth time, Bellamy reminds himself of much he loves his wife. Bridget is a quiet, tender, loving soul. Tracy is an entirely different animal; she breaks up Bellamy`s usual Ella Fitzgerald regime by whistling or belting out her own favourites; “Angel of the Morning” and “It’s A Heartache”.

Sometimes Bellamy wonders what Bridget would make of this odd friendship he has struck up with Tracy. Would she be jealous? Angry? It’s hard for him to imagine Bridget as being anything other than sweet and soft-spoken. And anyway, whatever you might call this rendezvous outside Jonathan Hope’s home, it is not an affair by any stretch of the imagination.

One night, perhaps a week after their first meeting, Tracy tells Bellamy about the only time she ever saw Jonathan after she left.

“I went to the gallery, the night he was there to show everyone his art. I almost walked up to him and told him everything, but I didn’t. I don’t think I could have, because I’m a coward. Just as much as you are, Bell…

He looked right at me, that night. I was turning to leave, and for a split second our eyes met and I thought this is it, but then he looked away. He didn’t recognise me, his own mother, and I don’t really blame him, because what kind of woman walks away from her three year old?”

Bellamy, having no children of his own, doesn’t know what to say to this, so characteristically he says nothing. Tracy exhales loudly, and wipes the beginnings of a tear from her heavily made up eye.

“Look at the two of us,” she says after a while. “Beauty and the Beast, if ever there were such a thing.”

Not the allegory that Bellamy would have chosen, not in a million years, but the woman very nearly just cried in his car, so he decides not to contest this flawed simile.

“What did you think of him, that night?” He asks, in as sensitive a voice as he can muster. “That night you saw him at the gallery.”

“I thought he was magnificent.”

Bellamy smiles and nods. He can detect a certain hint of pride in Tracy, and who wouldn’t be proud, to be Jonathon Hope’s mother? Except of course she played no real part in his life, and she knows this. So she stays away.

“Magnificent,” he repeats, nodding again.

“But I also think he’s very lonely.” Tracy breaks her gaze away from the building outside and turns to face Bellamy. “I’ve read all of his books, and every single story has this innate sadness, as if he’s trying to shake off a sickness and he just can’t, no matter how hard he tries. It breaks my heart.”

Before he knows what he’s doing, Bellamy has leaned over the invisible line that divides the car in two, and he has kissed Tracy. Her lips are dry and at first she doesn’t respond. Then, when she does, she grabs a fistful of his thinning hair and pulls him even closer. Forget Hope, he thinks, this woman is dying of loneliness. This in turn reminds him of Bridget, and he tears himself away from Tracy’s lips, and her eyes, and the cheap gold letters that lie nestled between her breasts.

Tracy wipes more tears from her eyes, and gets out of the car. Bellamy starts to call her back, but something stops him. She doesn’t slam the car door, just shuts it, and then she walks away. As she walks under the spotlight of a lamp-post, she turns back to the car and flashes Bellamy a look, a look that might have said anything from “I love you” to “I never want to see you again”. But Bellamy knows exactly what this look means; it is clearer to him than any word written down or spoken out loud.

What Tracy is saying to him? “Same time tomorrow night.”

She will meet him tomorrow as always, and make no mention of what took place tonight. They will sit in the car, watching the building, and Jonathan Hope will continue to live his life within those walls, blissfully unaware of his two faithful guardians.