The Colour of Sunday Afternoons Read online

  "I don't want to see you any more," said Jane, not sure what to think but at the end of her patience. "Get out of my dream!"

  Lucy looked scared. She was starting to fade into the whiteness. "Jane?! What are you doing? Don't do this to me ..."

  Then Lucy was gone. Her last words echoed.

  Jane was relieved to see that Shamus, who had been frozen all this time, was moving again. The little fellow had his cap off and was rubbing his bald head. Replacing his headgear, he spoke. "Damn! Fell for the old freezing coin trick! We leprechauns like our gold coins. I should have known better."

  "Are you all right?" said Jane.

  "Hmmm? Oh, I'm fine. No harm done. But there's still a little matter we have to attend to." He indicated Jane's burning house, which had rematerialised. "What do you plan to do about that?"

  Jane despaired to see the crackling inferno again. She was hoping the burning house stuff was over. It wasn’t her favourite part of the dream. "But, what can I do?"

  Shamus scratched his chin. "Well, nothing, really. Not here. It's what you do in the real world, after you wake up, which matters. But I suppose there's still something more you can learn from all this. See that lake, over there?"

  "What lake?"

  "That one, behind the house. See it, through the smoke?"

  "Oh ... yes." Jane began to walk around the house, and as she did so, it disappeared. Her attention was now focussed on a vast natural lake, like the one she used to sail on as a child. There were people in boats, houses on the far shore, and birds drifting lazily overhead. A sleek fibreglass racing dinghy was approaching, piloted by a woman who looked familiar. "Oh no. Don't tell me it's me again!"

  "I'm afraid so," said Shamus, as the boat pulled up by the wooden jetty which had softly materialised in front of them.

  The young woman in the boat waved and called out. "Come on! Hop in!" She looked identical to Jane, but was wearing jeans, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and tennis shoes.

  Jane looked at Shamus, shrugged, then climbed into the little boat and sat opposite her double.

  Shamus got aboard. He spoke to the young woman sailor. "Hello. I hope you're not going to freeze me."

  The sailor said nothing. She just eased the boat away from the jetty.

  "Our captain, here, Jane, is Jane Hamilton. But we'd better call her ..."

  The sailor interrupted. "How about, Jill? Nice to meet you, Jane.”

  "Nice to meet you, too,” said Jane. “But who are you?"

  "She's you, Jane," Shamus explained patiently.

  "But ... the other woman ... Lucy. She said she was me."

  "That's right." Shamus was hardly interested at all. "Do you see that pelican, there? Beautiful bird. Just look at the way she lands."

  "But they can't both be me!"

  "Well," said Jill, "it's a little confusing, I know. Anyway, I'm glad about your promotion. You've been working on that goal for years. Now you'll be able to make the changes in the company you've always wanted. Just do me a favour, will you?"

  Jane gripped the side of the boat as they bounced across a couple of waves. The wind was picking up. “Ah, what favour?”

  "Don't forget your conversation with Steve. You know, when you were sitting outside the office, after that boring monthly meeting? You said you’d do things differently if you were in charge. Oh, excuse me ..."

  Another boat was approaching them, the wind blowing into the left side of its sails. It was on a collision course with their own little dinghy.

  Jill yelled cheerfully. "STARBOARD!"

  The other boat turned away and let them pass.

  “We have the right of way,” said Jill. “The wind’s blowing into the right side of our sail, the starboard side. That gives us priority."

  "I know," said Jane. "I'm a sailor, too. Are you racing? Are we in a race?"

  "Oh, just for fun. Nothing serious. Mind your head now. JIBING!" Pushing on the tiller, Jill turned the rudder until the boat turned downwind.

  The heavy metal boom, which held the bottom of the sail, swung across to the other side of the boat. Jane had to duck to avoid the swinging beam. It came naturally. Once a sailor, always a sailor, Jane thought.

  Shamus was nodding off to sleep.

  Jill smiled at the dozing leprechaun and chuckled. "He's had a hard day, you know. I'm not surprised he needs a rest."

  Jane frowned. "So, you're saying it's good that I've been promoted? That's what the other me ... what Lucy said. But somehow, she gave me the creeps. What am I supposed to think?"

  "Hmmm. Well, it's good you've been promoted. Oh – sorry – could you sit a little further forward? We need to lift the transom for better speed downwind. Thanks. It's great that you've become a manager. Just don't forget to make a few changes. You know how to manage better, so do it."

  "Oh,” said Jane, feeling a little dumb.

  "And don't worry, I'll be there to help you along the way. Just be careful who you listen to. Okay?"

  "Okay."

  "That's good, Jane. Everything will be just fine if you just remember that. I'm sorry, but I have to go now." The sailor smiled, and suddenly it was all gone: the lake, the boat, Jane's double, everything.

  There was only the endless whiteness again.

  Jane and Shamus were still sitting down, as if they were in the boat, but all that was beneath them was the hard white ground. Jane stood up.

  Shamus, yawning and stretching, followed suit. "Love those pelicans. Nice touch, Jane. I have to admire your imagination."

  "What do you mean, my imagination? You're the one who brought me here. I've got no idea what's going on. Honestly!"

  Shamus was disgusted. "I don’t believe it! Do you still need to ask what’s going on, after all of that? Well, since you insist, here it is ..."

  Shamus snapped his fingers angrily and disappeared in a puff of green mist. A new scene evolved. Jane realised she was standing in her living room, and there was smoke. Not just green smoke, but grey smoke – fire smoke. The house was on fire! she thought. And she was trapped inside.

  Jane looked out of her living room window and banged on it, wildly. She tried to get it open, scratching at the glass. The room was filled with heavy smog – it was acrid and asphyxiating. A person could choke to death in here! she thought. She covered her mouth. The dream was a nightmare again. In fact she wanted to wake up, right at that moment, more than anything in the world. What on earth was Shamus trying to do to her? Jane fought, confused, for breath, and tried to wake from the dream.

  It was working.

  She was starting to wake; the scene was fading.

  But as it faded she could still make out the figure of a woman, outside the window, who looked exactly like herself, but dressed in a tan business suit, throwing a burning torch into her front garden and cruelly watching Jane, trapped inside the house. And then, at last, the dream was over.

  Jane woke. She sat up, hurriedly, and looked around her. She was on her sofa, her real sofa. And it was three in the morning. Her groggy mind registered this meant she’d been asleep for three hours. The hushed television was still running. The hard drive in her laptop still buzzed, softly. Best of all, there was no smoke.

  Jane took a deep breath. She gave silent thanks that the nightmare was over. And then she noticed something small on the keyboard of her laptop. It was a tiny, green business card. She picked it up and read aloud:

  'Shamus Maguinty.

  Leprechaun and Personal Guardian Angel.

  United Association of Angels, Inc.'

  There was a picture of a four-leaf clover on the card. She turned it over. On the back, written in a scribbly hand, in blue ink, were two words:

  ‘Don't Forget.’

  Chapter 13

  A full hour had passed since Joe had fallen asleep. With him, on his bed, were several large, crumpled budget sheets for the upcoming Zemtril conference. He had been working very late again. But now, his work forgotten in the peaceful mercy of sleep, Joe w
as tossing and turning, beginning to dream.

  In his dream, he found himself in a place of pure white. There was no sky, no near and no far, just whiteness. He was standing up. As he looked around him, there seemed to be nothing there at all, until shortly a wisp of green smoke tickled at his nose. Turning around, Joe saw the figure of Shamus Maguinty.

  Shamus yawned painfully. "Do you humans always have to dream in the middle of the night? Arggghh. Typical. Well, I hope you’re ready!"

  "Ready?” said Joe. “I don't even know where I am. And what are you doing in my dreams? Come to think of it, what am I doing asleep? That budget for the Zemtril conference has to be finished by ..."

  "It can wait," said Shamus, firmly. He placed a short, chubby arm around the small of Joe's back, and led Joe off to the right. "We have someone to meet. This way. Right this way, please, Mr Mortal Human."

  Joe could hear music. It was jazz: not a trio, just piano. Whoever it was, was good, thought Joe – very good. The tune was an old standard, My Foolish Heart. Shamus was leading Joe right toward it. As the song grew louder, Joe began to make out a large black shape; the white fog gradually cleared in front of it.

  "That's right, Joe. Just over here. A few more steps." Shamus sounded pleased with himself. Joe had no idea what he was up to.

  Then, the black shape resolved sharply into a grand piano. A man was sitting at the keyboard, playing the tune and smoking a thin cigar. Dressed in black, in a turtleneck top, he cut a stylish figure; his cropped, sandy hair was slicked back. The tune he was playing, so effortlessly, floated through the air like a fresh summer breeze.

  “Right this way!” said Shamus.

  Joe followed Shamus to the piano, then took a sudden step back when he recognised the face of the pianist. It was his own face – Joe Mathews’ face. "What the hell?" said Joe, shocked even if it was only a dream.

  "Joe Mathews, meet Joe Mathews." Shamus held up his tiny arms, grandiosely, to introduce the mysterious double.

  "Ah, pleased to meet you," said Joe, meekly.

  The man at the piano turned slightly, while playing, and replied, "Pleased to meet you, too, Joe." He puffed out a cloud of cigar smoke and embellished the tune some more. His hands seemed to dart about the piano keys like magic, or like someone who had been studying the piano for a very long time.

  "Wish I could play that good," said Joe, almost not realising he had said it. Shamus started to walk away. Joe saw him leaving. "Hey! Where are you going?"

  "Oh, you don’t need me for this," said Shamus.

  "But ..." said Joe.

  It was too late. Shamus had walked away into the white fog.

  Joe was puzzled; even if he knew it was all just a dream, he wanted to understand what it meant. What was going on? He turned to the piano player. "Look, I don't want to disturb you or anything, but ..."

  The figure shrugged and began the intro to Fly Me to The Moon. His fingers flashed across the keys so fast, Joe could hardly see them move. It was a cadenza. Then the tune settled into a regular beat and the melody began. "You're not disturbing me. Go ahead."

  "Where am I?" asked Joe.

  "Oh, you're dreaming. Fell asleep, remember? You know, sometimes you hear music while you're dozing off? Well, I'm the guy who plays it for you. To be more precise ... I am you. They call me Jimmy, by the way. A little corny, I know, but the guys in the band like it."

  "Jimmy?"

  "That's me. Don't you love this tune?"

  "Yeah,” said Joe. “I do.”

  Jimmy could play and talk at the same time, as if playing the piano were no more difficult to him than peeling potatoes.

  "So, tell me, Joe. What brings you here? Want to talk? I'm sure the angel, Shamus, wouldn't have let you come without a good reason." Jimmy stopped playing and turned, still sitting on the piano stool, to face Joe. He took a long, grateful pull on his cigar, and then, as if remembering to be polite, asked, "Smoke?"

  "No, thanks. I gave it up last year."

  "Really? Pity. But, you're probably right; it's a disgusting habit. So, I hear you're going to get promoted."

  "Me? Well, maybe. There's talk – nothing definite." Joe took a look under the hood of the grand, and whistled. "Nice piano. What make is that? Don't think I've ever seen one like it."

  "Oh, it's a ... I don't think you would have heard of it. If you think this one is good, you should see the one at the club."

  "The club?"

  "Oh, sure. Club Vivax. I'll take you there, if you like. Anyway, you are going to be promoted, you know. It's common knowledge, down here." Jimmy made a sweeping motion with his hand, indicating the white surroundings.

  "Where exactly are we?" said Joe.

  "Well, it's a little hard to explain. Let's just say you're among friends. Good friends. Your best friend, in fact. But let’s not talk about me." Jimmy got up and padded his way around to the far side of the piano. He closed the lid, then leaned on it as he smoked. A small ashtray materialised, out of nowhere, on the polished lid of the piano. Jimmy tapped a little excess ash from his cigar into the tray.

  Joe leaned on the other side of the huge grand piano, admiring its glossy black finish. "So, you're saying I'm definitely going to get promoted?"

  "Hit the nail on the head, Joey. Yeah. It's about time, too. You're long overdue. But, there's something else we need to talk about: the band."

  "Yeah. I don't get much time for them, these days." Joe looked a little depressed. He propped his head on one arm and sighed.

  "Look, man. You love jazz, right?"

  "Right," said Joe.

  "And your career’s important too, no? I mean, this promotion is everything you've been working for. At least, trust me, when they offer it to you, it will be."

  "Sure," said Joe.

  "Well, I'm here to tell you that you’ve only got one life. You'll never forgive yourself if you don't keep the band going, and you'll never forgive yourself if you don't keep your career moving. Right?"

  "But what's the solution?” said Joe. “It's hard to do both."

  In an instant, without the slightest warning, Jimmy flew into a violent storm of rage, almost choking on his words. He hissed the words like a king cobra spitting venom. "Hard to do both? You think it’s too hard to do both?! Who do you think you are, man? I'm your best friend, Joey, and now you tell me it's too hard ..." Catching himself losing control, he quickly calmed down again. "Look, Joe. The only time we can't do things is when we say we can't. So, repeat after me: there is no such word as can't."

  "Er, okay. There’s no such word ..."

  " ...as ..."

  " ...can't. No such word as can't," Joe completed.

  "Right!" Jimmy blew the word out like a long note on a tenor saxophone. "You got it. Okay, your trio usually do late gigs, say: Tuesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, ten to two. Gives you time to get home, hit the sack for a few hours, and be up bright and bushy tailed for Biopharm. You nine-to-five it ..."

  "Nine to five?” said Joe. “When was the last time I finished at five?"

  "Yeah, well, you nine-to-seven it, maybe eight some nights. And it's cool. Get things set up just right and you can do both."

  "Sounds a little tight," Joe ventured.

  Jimmy turned bright red. "Too difficult for you? Mummy's little boy’s still clinging to the apron strings, is he? Can't hack the pace? Who do you think is going to make your life happen? Do you think you can just wimp out?"

  Joe took a few steps back. "But wait a minute – I tried all that, last year, and ended up sick. I even had to take a couple of weeks off. If it didn't work then, why should it work now? And if you're right about that promotion, my work demands are going to get even bigger. How could I fit all that in and still play with the band?"

  Jimmy said nothing for a moment. He stubbed out his cigar in the ashtray, raised his hands as if surrendering, and said, "Okay, kid. I can see you just don't get it, what separates winners from losers. But I know you'll be a winner, one day. So, for now, don't sweat
it."

  Before Joe could reply, Jimmy smiled a tight-lipped smile. "Hey, I said I'd take you to the club, right? So let's go." Jimmy indicated the way.

  Joe followed him as he walked off into the white void.

  Out of the whiteness, a jazz club appeared. It was a large, pink building, with an arched doorway over which there was a neon sign flashing the words: 'Club Vivax. Live All Nite' and – in multiple shades of neon – the stylised shape of a mosquito. Joe looked at the chalkboard by the door. It read:

  'Joe Mathews Trio, 10:00 till Late.’

  Joe, and his double, might have been standing on a real street: there was asphalt underfoot, a steel trashcan by the corner, and a streetlamp bounced halogen light off their faces. A bouncer stood by the door and, recognising Jimmy, allowed them to pass.

  "Great place," said Jimmy. "You'll love it."

  Joe followed Jimmy down the entrance corridor, squeezing his way past a multitude of party-goers: folks out for a good time, all dressed to thrill and balancing drinks. Joe himself was dressed in the slacks, business shirt and tie that he wore when he had fallen asleep, before the dream. He didn’t look too much out of place.

  Suddenly, Joe noticed a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a green sequin dress, as she edged her way past him to the rest room.

  Jimmy noticed his attention. "That's the manager's wife,” he said, close to Joe’s ear. “Be careful, buddy. He don't like any competition."

  Joe said nothing.

  They reached the main room and could see the stage; Jimmy stopped to let Joe get his bearings. It was a large place for a jazz club, not some tiny basement but a full-sized nightclub. There was an empty dance floor at one side, but most of the place was taken up by round tables, each seating groups of four around glowing green table lamps. There was cigarette smoke, thick in the air, and Joe could hear ice clinking in drinks. The place seemed surreal, almost as quiet as a church. There was no music. The band must have been taking a break between sets, Joe thought. On stage was the biggest grand piano Joe had ever seen, an immaculate double bass resting on its stand, and a set of drums on which a technician was working feverishly, adjusting the calfskins.