They found a small Italian restaurant just off Bayswater Road. It had small tables and a large choice of wines.
“Ive not drunk a lot of wine in my life,” said Beaver. “To be quite honest, I don’t think I’d know the difference between a good wine and an indifferent one.”
“We could ask the waiter for some help,” said Jasmine.
Beaver turned and caught the eye of a young man in the striped waistcoat that was waiting attentively by the bar and waved him over.
“I need some wine that will make me as strong as a bull for my beautiful girlfriend,” said Beaver. Jasmine giggled.
The waiter smiled.
“For such a beautiful lady, you will need great strength. You will need the King of Wines, Barolo.” He touched the side of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger in expression of enjoyment. His voice lilted in the traditional Italian way. “Some say you must choose the wine to go with a meal but in your case I would say chose the meal to go with the wine.”
“And what would you recommend us to eat with this King of Wines,” smiled Jasmine.
“Of course, food for a princess - the ‘chef’s special’. It is a wonderful dish, cooked in red wine and according to a recipe handed down through the generations for 1,000s years.”
“Oooh, food cooked for a caveman,” said Jasmine. “Sounds perfect.”
“Listen,” said Beaver. “Why don’t you and the chef surprise us and if we really like it, there’s a 10 tip for you at the end of the meal.”
With a broad smile and a theatrical bow, the waiter lit the candle in the centre of their table and disappeared towards the kitchen.
“I know it’s been a rule out the squat that we didn’t ask each other about the past. It went against the spirit of the whole thing. But I really would like to know more about you,” said Beaver.
Jasmine smiled at him, shyly.
“There’s not a lot to tell. I come from an ordinary suburban background in the Midlands, went to an ordinary boring school, passed some extremely boring examinations and then went to University to study boring Business. Suddenly, when I’d got my boring degree, I didn’t want to be bored any more. I wanted to come alive. I wanted to listen to the trees and the wind, to meet people in the world with free minds and spirits. All my friends were applying for high-pressure fast track management training schemes, even though they were still exhausted from doing their finals examinations. I couldn’t see the point. I’d been on a treadmill all my life and didn’t want to climb aboard another that would last until the end of my active life or until I settled down and had children who would then in their turn end up on the treadmill.”
Beaver nodded, sympathetically.
Jasmine continued.
“My dad, who is some sort of accountant, went ape. He couldn’t understand why, when I had such a good launch pad, I didn’t want to use it. We had quite a few arguments and, in the end, he more or less kicked me out. My mother was a lot more sympathetic. She went to university to study music and, for a while, hoped she might have a career - until she met Dad, of course. Do you know? He actually likes going out and polishing his car on a Saturday morning? He spends most the morning just polishing. He says it relaxes him at the end of the working week.”
Jasmine sighed and Beaver suddenly thought how Jasmine eyes, when she was sad, were one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen. He reached over and took her hands between his and waited patiently for her to continue which after a moment, she did.
“I bummed around a bit, intending to go abroad but never really got together the cash. I’d get to know one group of people, usually centred around a pub or a coffee bar, and then, when I got bored with them, I’d move on to find another community centred around another coffee bar or pub. Of course, not having any income or a regular job meant that I was always broke and after a while it got embarrassing to doss down at friends pads. So I started staying at squats. I moved about after a while and ended up at the boathouse and that’s where I met Rod. Then eventually you turned up. That’s about it, really.”
Jasmine looked vulnerable, worried she had said too much.
“How about you? I can’t believe your tale is as boring as mine.”
“Your tale wasn’t boring,” reassured Beaver, “and anyway I love listening to your voice. It gives me goose bumps.”
Jasmine’s eyes grew misty again.
The food had arrived with the wine but the waiter had not bothered them. He saw they were in their own world, holding hands, and drinking in each other’s eyes.
“What can I say about me?” Beaver leaned back and ran his hand through his hair; it was a mannerism that Jasmine loved. It made him seem shy and boyish.
“Like you, I went through the academic mill and ended up at University but I reckon I got the rebellious bit before you as I elected to study Sociology. After I graduated, I went abroad and worked with some overseas organisations but it was very hard. Seeing people starving in front of you and knowing that you were going back with the other aid workers to a proper meal was very difficult. It was even worse when you went back the next day and found that the people you were trying to help had been murdered or beaten up. I think, to be able to do that sort of thing, you need some sort of faith - which I’ve never had. My father was actually a lay preacher and I claim that it was bred out of me. My mother was a part-time social worker, paid part-time but it seemed to take up most of her energies for not very much remuneration. She wasnt religious but the way she lived her life would knock the morals of most religious people into a cocked hat.”
He frowned, and Jasmine could see the memories of his childhood drifting before his eyes. For a moment he seemed a very lonely and Jasmine wondered how much little boy Beaver had been left to his own devices while his busy parents got on with their lives. Beaver continued:
“After Africa, I did some work in central Europe but it was just the same thing again. I couldn’t stand on the sidelines, I wanted to get involved but you can easily compromise the other aid workers and anyway what could one person do against such systematic forces of violence. When I came back to Britain, my contemporaries had moved on and were already well established with jobs and mortgages. They didn’t have anything in common with me any more. I don’t say that their jobs weren’t important. After all, the roads need to be built and maintained and hospitals are needed to make people well. It’s just that I didn’t feel I could contribute anything to just another organisational machine. I was an outsider. So, like you, I drifted. It’s not that I don’t want to work, it’s just that society doesn’t seem to want what I have to offer - whatever that is,” he finished lamely.
“Does it ever bother you that you are dealing in drugs,” said Jasmine.
“I’ve never done the hard stuff. With cigarette prices so high now because of the taxes, if you have a good line of supply, there’s not much price difference and the same applies with alcohol. I started doing a little bit of dealing more for the convenience of my friends. Of course, like you, I didn’t have any money and the opportunity was there so I took it.”
“And to think of all that stuff we have ordered. It’s really a different league. Do you know,” said Jasmine, wistfully, “I’ve still no idea of what I am going to do with it if it actually gets delivered. Who needs anti-tank guns, these days?”
“It’s almost too scary to think about,” said Beaver.
They finished the meal and the rest of the wine. The chef who was a large Italian came out of his kitchen to hear their congratulations and cheerfully insisted they share a liqueur with him. They walked hand in hand down to the Thames and then along its banks under the lamplight. As the train sped them back to the suburbs, they held hands so tight they hurt. Saying goodbye was hard and they stood for a long time wrapped in each others arms under the branches of a willow tree where the rowing boat was moored.
“I don’t want to leave you,” said Jasmine.
Beaver kissed her on the lips, rubbing his sideways against hers and making her shudder with pleasure.
“Go,” ordered Jasmine. “I want to know you have gone before I row back over.”
“Why,” said Beaver?
“Because,” said Jasmine, “and that should be enough. It’s been a wonderful day. You have your home and I have a different one. The longer we stay here together trying to say goodbye, the more difficult it will be. Ill have a word with the computer man and see if I can dump Rod. Youd like that wouldn’t you?”
“More than I can say,” said Beaver. He reached up to pull a small supple twig from the bushy branches above and started to fashion it into a loop.
“What are you doing,” said Jasmine.
“You’ll see,” said Beaver.
He continued working the twig. Jasmine watched his sensitive, quick hands as they moulded the slender green twig.
“Here, this is for you,” he said. “It’s a sign of hope for the future and for both of us whatever might happen.”
Jasmine looked down in the darkness at the tiny green ring and felt the strength of his hand over hers as he held her finger to push it on to it.
“It’s the nicest present anybody has ever given me,” she whispered, with tears in her eyes. She held out her hand and admired it against the flush of her skin. With a small cry of happiness, she flung her arms around him and bound her lips to his. After a lifetime, she pushed him away.
“Go,” she said. “Go. I mean it!”
Jasmine waited until Beaver turned the corner by the bridge several hundred yards away. The towpath was lit only by the brightness of the full moon but she knew his jaunty walk anywhere and anyway there was nobody else around at that time of the night. Slowly, she got into the rowing boat, shipped the oars and made her way across to the centre of the river. She knew that Rod would be in a mood. Somehow she didn’t care. The love she now felt for Beaver was burning brightly inside her. It made her feel powerful and confident. She loved the little house on the island that she had worked so hard to find and thought dreamily of how wonderful it would be if she could share it with Beaver instead of Rod. With a little bit of money, she could fix the damp and a bit of redecoration would soon make the bungalow into a comfortable home. With every stroke of the oars, her heart seemed to sing more loudly. Even the sound of the oars against the water seemed to call out his name and in her heart she could feel his reply.
A few minutes later, Beaver returned to the tree and stood quietly in its shade. He watched Jasmine climb cautiously out of the boat and then flinch as Rod appeared. They exchanged words that grew louder as they went inside.
Then there was a scream and Jasmine’s naked shoulders were pressed against the uncurtained window of their bedroom. Then she was facing Beaver, her face distorted against the glass. Blood was dripping from her nose and there was a cut above her eye. Over her left shoulder Rod’s face appeared, teeth bared in a vicious grin as he pounded himself against her again and again.
Suddenly, Beaver knew that Jasmine felt him watching. Her imploring eyes begged him not to get involved. Rod’s face, over her shoulder, was flushed with ownership, determination and savage revenge. Beaver turned away feeling sick, knowing he couldnt watch any more, dashing tears from his eyes. But not soon enough for Rod’s face flushed in a final gasping shudder of satisfaction that filled Beavers heart with anger and sadness. As he melted away into the night, Beaver swore that he would make it better for Jasmine if it took him the rest of his life.
