Bob and Rachel

by David Stephen Powell

Bob and Rachel were on holiday. You could tell that by the way they were dressed; Bob in shorts and new sandals, a cricketer’s hat on his large head. His arms and legs were white except where they were bright red. Rachel had a big hat and wore the shorts that Bob thought were too short, not that he’d said anything to her about them.

They alighted from the little yellow train onto the baked white gravel of the station above the old ore-processing works. They were the only passengers. The temperature was a very warm 35 degrees Celsius.

Two volunteers from the parks service ran the train. A girl in shorts shorter than Rachel’s with long brown legs; and the driver — a dour, taciturn youth with a wispy moustache and a gilet covered in badges.

“At three o’clock you come back,” the girl said. “We make return journey.”

“Have you got the water, Bob?” Rachel asked.

“Yes, I’ve got it.”

“There’s a ristoro at the top,” the girl said, “if you want more.”

“Okay, thanks.” Bob said. He could feel the top of his head burning in spite of the hat. He checked his phone and made sure that he was connected to the ‘Melanie’s Marriage Management’ app. Rachel was doing the same.

“Follow the path down into the valley and then up the other side,” the girl said. “It’s shady until you reach the castello.”

“Do you think this is a good idea?” Rachel asked as they followed the path down and the sun cooked them.

“It’s a bit late now,” Bob said. “Better to walk under the trees than wait in that station. It’s only two hours. We’ll be fine.”

Into his phone he said, “She always questions my judgement after we’re committed to a course of action. Why is that?”

Melanie replied: “Rachel wants to believe in you, Bob, but you’ve let her down in the past. You need to understand that and give her time.”

Rachel was saying something into her own phone.

The path was strewn with angular stones from the mine workings on either side.

“Wait for me, Bob,” Rachel said. “This path is dangerous.”

She was wearing the fashion victim’s equivalent of flip-flops. They weren’t really meant for walking in. He’d told her at the time, but she’d said, “I like them. They’ll be fine.”

Bob spoke to his phone again: “Why didn’t she listen to me when I told her those flip-flops wouldn’t be any good?”

Melanie answered: “Because Rachel needs to make her own choices in order to feel that she has agency. And what makes you the expert on footwear anyway?”

“It was bloody obvious they’d be no good.”

Bob waited and held out his hand for her to grab on to. “Flip-flops comfortable?” he said when she reached him.

“Yes, Bob,” she said. “Very funny. And they’re not flip-flops, they’re Prada Infradito Rainforest Sandals. There is a difference.” She hung back again to interrogate her phone. Her app was called ‘Mark’s Marriage Management’.

The path rose a little, and they came to a junction where they could go right or left.

“Where do we go now then?” Rachel said. “There’s no sign. I knew it would be like this. Real-ly, Bob. It’s just the limit!”

“There is a sign,” Bob said. He pulled back some dusty foliage and uncovered a rusted pointer that read ‘Castello.’ It pointed to the left.

Soon they came to a clearing in the trees and could see the castle above them, blinding white in the afternoon sun. They drank from the water bottle. The water was already a little warm.

“Should’ve brought the cooler bag,” Bob said.

“You didn’t think it through, did you?”

“No, you’re right. I didn’t think.”

“Have you put your sunscreen on?”

“Yes, I’ve put my sunscreen on.”

“Last thing we want is you lying in bed tomorrow complaining about sunburn.”

“God forbid,” Bob said. “Why does she treat me like a child?” he whispered to Melanie.

“Maybe because she thinks that you behave like one sometimes,” came the answer. He was beginning to wonder if Rachel hadn’t programmed this app herself. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side,” Bob said.

“There are no sides, Bob. Mark and I are working at trying to make your marriage better. It’s not a competition; there can be no ‘sides’.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Bob said.

Rachel got so much more out of the app than he did. Sometimes she would have long conversations with Mark about the problems they had. After one particularly blazing row, she’d even said to Bob, “I wish I was married to Mark. At least he doesn’t turn me off.”

“Do you really?” he’d said. “I’ve heard that he and Melanie are at it like rabbits when they’re not talking to us.” Then, to try and mollify her, he’d reminded her that Mark and Melanie were just computer programmes; they couldn’t have sex, even if they wanted to. That hadn’t gone down at all well.

The path climbed up on to the shoulder of the mountain and around into another valley. Here, on a metal bridge, it crossed a dusty white road that led up into the quarry workings above them.

The stood on the central span of the bridge as a large tipper lorry passed underneath and smothered them in choking dust.

“This looks like the last stretch,” Bob said after they’d patted themselves down. Rachel was coughing.

“Are you all right?” Bob asked her.

“Yes, I’m fine. No thanks to you.”

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” Bob said.

“You’re always sorry, Bob. Why don’t you think ahead?”

“I’m sorry. Don’t go on, I’m only human.”

The path ran down, then up. The cicadas were in full song in the stunted oaks on the side of the mountain. They climbed the track that led to the castle. Rachel’s flip-flops gave her trouble.

Bob was wheezing and gasping by the time they reached the level area where the castle rose up out of the bones of the mountain like a decayed tooth. Rachel wasn’t even breaking a sweat.

A small wooden cabin stood nearby. ‘Bar’ it said in plastic letters on the gable.

“Let’s get another bottle of water,” Rachel said.

“Can’t you do it? Your Italian is perfect.”

“No I can’t. You go; you need the practice.”

“Due bottiglie d’acqua, per favore,” Bob said in his best Italian to the man sitting behind the counter. The man wore a straw hat. He was stick thin, and his legs and arms were burnt dark brown.

“English?” he said.

“Yes. Me and my wife.”

“If you want, I can give you a guided tour of the castle.”

“Yes, that would be nice.”

“The man’s going to give us a tour in a moment,” Bob said when he returned with the bottle.

“I hope he’s not going to charge us,” Rachel said. “This holiday’s costing us enough as it is.”

“Don’t worry about the expense. It is our holiday, after all.”

“One of us has to worry about it.”

Bob walked away into a small stand of trees. “Why is she never satisfied with anything I do?” he said to Melanie.

“I think she is, Bob. It’s just that sometimes you’re so thoughtful, she doesn’t know how to respond. Don’t forget, this is quite new for her. You have to give her time.”

He looked over at Rachel; she was talking to Mark again. Bob had already given her quite a bit of time. It was over a year since they’d been together. Things were okay at the start but it had been all downhill since. If their relationship didn’t improve, he knew he’d have to make a phone call.

“Shall we go?” The man from the bar came over to them. “Are you wearing sunscreen?” he asked when he saw Bob’s arms and legs. “All that white stone, half an hour up there’s like a morning on the beach.”

The man took them up onto the bald white limestone of the castle and told them about its history. It all went well until Rachel’s flip-flops began to fall apart — literally.

First, the strand of rubber that went through the toe popped out on both shoes, as though they’d reached their predetermined life-expectancy at exactly the same time.

“Oh,” Rachel said.

Now the sole began to disintegrate. It was fascinating to watch the plastic and rubber slough off. It looked as though the shoes were returning to their constituent elements.

“Oh my!” Rachel said.

Within ten seconds the Prada Infradit Rainforest Sandals had entirely lost their integrity as footwear, and were smeared across the white stones of the castle like two tiny, crashed aeroplanes with their debris trails. Rachel stepped out of the wreckage.

Without really knowing why, Bob began to laugh. Just a little giggle at first bubbling up, then stronger. He looked over to the man in the straw hat who had stopped talking and now had a look of polite fascination on his face as he watched Rachel’s shoes. The sight only made Bob laugh harder.

Within a few seconds, tears were coursing down his face and he was howling. The man in the straw hat was smiling too.

Rachel wasn’t. She was going red in the face. The more Bob laughed, the redder she went until she was the same colour as his shins and forearms.

He couldn’t help it. For some reason, the sight of Rachel’s silly fashion flip-flops letting go was the funniest thing he’d seen since... well... ever.

Bob was finding it hard to breathe now. His throat was closing up and he was making a ‘yicking’ sound in his chest.

It didn’t help when Rachel picked him up and raised him over her head. She began to walk to the edge of the precipice with Bob, who was conscious of what was happening, but still, to his own amazement, laughing. He managed to choke out, “Turn her off, quick. Switch under the left arm.”

It was a good job that the man in the straw hat understood enough English to comprehend Bob’s strangled cry. He reached for Rachel, who tried to push him away, and found the switch.

Rachel went glassy-eyed and returned Bob to a standing position before shutting down. She remained standing, but her head dropped and her shoulders slumped.

“You all right?” the man said.

“Yeah, fine.” Bob was still sniggering a little in spite of his ordeal.

“I used to have one myself,” the man said. “After my first wife died. I thought she’d be company. It didn’t work out. Very temperamental. I think it’s the heat.”

“It’s been a difficult year,” Bob admitted. “Thanks for your help. I’ll put her in ‘safe-mode’; at least that way I can get back down to the station. I can’t imagine what the recovery costs would be from out here.”

He sat in the shade of the trees to get his breath back. The man in the straw hat brought him another bottle of water.

“I had to turn her off again,” he said to Melanie. “Don’t start, I know, I know. It was my fault. I laughed when her shoes fell apart.” A bubble of giggle escaped from his throat.

“Oh, Bob,” Melanie said. “After all we talked about together, I am disappointed in you.”

“Well, she was about to throw me over the edge of a cliff,” Bob said. “Should I have let her?”

“No, obviously not, Bob, but I think you need to face facts and ask yourself whether you and Rachel are suited. She could perhaps have a fulfilling relationship with someone else, don’t you think?”

“But I love her.”

“I know you do but sometimes, if we really love somebody, we have to set them free.”

“I suppose I could just reset her and start again.”

“Bob, we both know that’s a morally bankrupt position to take. Anyway, who’s to say that you won’t face the same problems all over again. Let her go, Bob. If you really love her, let her go.”

“You’re right. I will. As soon as we get back home, I’ll make a phone call. Perhaps they’ll do me a part-exchange deal.”

Bob went over to Rachel, who he’d moved into the shade. “Thanks for your help,” he said to the man in the straw hat.

“No problem. Good luck. Find a real woman next time, eh?”

“No. I’m not very good with real women,” Bob said.

Bob turned to Rachel and woke her up. She raised her head and looked at him. “Hello, Bob,” she said. “Can we go now? I feel tired.”

“Of course, love. Hold my hand. That’s it. Mind those rocks on your bare feet.”

He led her slowly back the way they had come. He carried her in several places.

They were just in time to catch the little yellow train back to the car park.

“Is your wife all right?” the girl with the long brown legs said.

“Yes, yes. She’s fine. Just had a little too much sun.”