Secrets - Gordon Day

Burrington is full of coffee houses and arts and craft shops.  Shoppers and tourists amble across the cobbled walkway, towards the market square, some with walking boots and maps, one gentleman with a beard and glasses smoking a long pipe while studying a map.

I still haven't got used to the slow pace of life and doubt I ever will; in London, everyone rushes everywhere. I spot a war memorial in the centre of town and a natural health centre tucked away in a mews with dried herbs hanging in the window. The surrounding hill countryside is steeped in folklore and a history of locals engaging in strange rituals.

I take in the crisp morning air and gear myself up to seeing Gordon.  I try to stop thinking about the visit to your parents and Robert's first day at the new school.
The gym's situated near a tourist information office close to a triangle near the river.

I'm standing in front of a bookshop opposite the gym now, watching a young receptionist with henna dyed hair answer the phone. She has the handset placed between her face and her shoulder. Bad posture. She ends her conversation and replaces the handset, a smile playing on her lips. A man swaggers over to the desk to talk to her. He's a big bloke, well-built rather than overweight.

I stare, fascinated. The bloke's shorter than me in terms of height – I'm six foot two, remember? – but I recognise him straightaway. Gordon Day, even though he looks nothing like the Gordon Day you and I knew once. Back then, Gordon was a small boy, ruddy faced, with a mop of reddish-brown hair – lovable, in a way, but impish, I suppose.  The guy in the gym looks like a tough nut capable of taking someone round the side and laying into them.  He's wearing a blue gym vest with the gym logo on, the sort of vest that shows off serious muscle, and his cropped hair and the grin make him appear more youthful than a person in their mid-thirties.

He stops talking to the henna hair receptionist and turns to face me, frowning. He comes out, starts to cross the lane.  'Holmsey,' he calls. My old nickname.  Definitely Gordon.  He strides towards me.  'Hey, how's it going?' he says. 'I saw your Mel a week or two back and she said you were living in London.'  
           
'Yes, she told me.'  
           
He points to himself.  'You know who I am, don't you?  Gordon Day. We were at school together.'