Short Story: Tunnel Of Love

Short Story: Tunnel Of Love

Matthew skipped down the road whistling, pausing only to kick out artistically at a drifting heap of leaves in the beech-lined avenue. He felt like Gene Kelly, and wished for rain so he could sway back and forth flourishing an umbrella too. He didn’t care that his audience, all about twelve years old, were dressed alike in the uniform of St. Augustine’s in the Marsh and witnessing what they considered to be outrageous behaviour, which in return would make them all late for school. For sheer devilment he jumped high, tried hard to click his heels together before landing awkwardly half on and half off the kerb jarring his back quite considerably. The children took a deep breath as one, before puffing enthusiastically as he regained his balance. One or two clapped, though they stopped as they caught his gaze. But Matthew didn’t care; he was, after all, their headmaster.

But today in his eyes, he was in his prime; lean, with that confident swagger that being good looking gives you. He had dressed daringly this morning, for an academic, but it felt so right. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this good, Sylvia’s letter had finally arrived, not by that horrible email or trafficked by that vile facebook but a proper letter, with a stamp, delivered by a postman, on a bike.

“Good morning Sir,” said Katy Webster, “Are you alright Sir?” In her eyes he was Mr Bean, his trousers having clearly had an argument with his socks, his waistcoat like Rupert Bears, and his tie like a refugee from Top of the Pops circa 1968.

“Fine, thank you, top of the world, Katy,” he replied, ignoring her sniggering friends. He also overlooked their whispered comparisons to Rowan Atkinson as he sped past the Welcome sign, turning sharp right before claiming his rightful place between the yellow lines marking his designated parking area, HEADMASTER, it said in bold yellow letters. He stood there for a moment uncertain what to do as he could neither open his car door, (as he had virtually hopped to school this morning) nor retrieve his battered brown briefcase from the back seat of his 1968 Volvo which was still on his driveway at home. He wandered off, hoping no one had noticed, missing the all seeing eyes of the caretaker Monty, rigorously sweeping the drive, and the caffeine addicted French teacher Miss Dubois looking down from the staff room, mug in hand.

Safely in his office he reached into his top inside pocket retrieving the letter. He held it to his chest lovingly, admiring the envelope; pastel coloured, embellished with a discreet rose imprint within the triangle on the back and gazed at the handwritten address. He glanced at the back, the return address – Paris. Flashes of the Eiffel Tower, the Notre Dame created a kaleidoscope of colours in his mind, filled his thoughts, and heightened his desires. Raising the envelope to his nose he hoped to sniff the remnants of a perfume maybe, Dior possibly Chanel. Regretfully it was Odour de sweaty postman but no matter he thought as he took a seat and prepared himself to unseal what he hoped, anticipated and was expecting to be - an invitation from Sylvia to finally meet. His pen friend of seven months now, who appeared in his vision to be a cross between Madonna (the original one) and Cheryl Cole and who shared his many interests, bird watching, sightseeing, Moule mariniere, had accepted his invitation to meet over the Easter break. The fact that she too was a teacher appealed as holidays featured heavily in his wish lists. He slit open the envelope with his Boy Scout knife, reached in to retrieve the letter, only allowed a quick glance before a knock at the door. The immediate aroma of that intense coffee smell only usually obtained when visiting gloomy French coffee shops told him that Miss Dubois was coming in with a cafetiere and croissants. Sometimes he invited her to join him but not today. He hid his letter in the Twinning Association file that was demanding his attention this morning. Mr Green the woodwork teacher would have to be retrieved and Miss Dubois repatriated shortly. He asked her to leave the tray and shut the door on her way out.

I am coming on the Euro Star, Sylvia had written, meet me at 14.45 under the clock, I will be wearing a red coat and carrying a carrier bag from Versace’s. He licked his lips sipped his scalding coffee and wonder if he should ditch his original choice of cords, Fishermans jumper and knitted scarf. He would ask Miss Dubois at lunchtime, discreetly of course, staff-rooms’ were notoriously a hot bed of gossip. He penned a reply, kissing the envelope and placed it in the tray for his P.A to post and put the date in his NAHT diary, his wall planner and after a moment’s thought added it to his felt tip pen list scribbled on his forearm. He tightened his cuff quickly anxious that children should not witness this travesty.

Miss Dubois willingly helped him with his clothing dilemma though he had to attend homework /detention club in order to retrieve her thoughts. Bewildered children wondered why they were not allowed to whisper or write illegible notes but the Head and Mademoiselle sexy legs, as Year 10 boys called her, were.

When the day came he was utterly prepared, had booked a table at a fine restaurant, had showered twice and he was under the clock one hour early, just to be sure. He watched every person alight and all rushed past with the exception of an elderly lady pushing a shopping trolley advertising Tesco’s, not Versace.

The train pulled out, Matthew stood aimlessly, gazing into space before hearing the sound of high heels tip tapping behind him then he felt a hand on his weary shoulder, a waft of Chanel mingled with strong coffee. He turned head still downcast and saw those lovely legs. He thought he maybe recognised them.

He looked up, “Miss Dubois?” he squeaked.

“I thought you’d never notice me,” she replied.