Prior Regrets

By Paul Starr

A BOOK TWENTY FIVE YEARS IN THE MAKING.....A STORY TOLD ACROSS TWO DECADES......

Described as "beautiful, evocative writing" and "an enchanting tale"  Prior Regrets tells the story of Mark Prior and Lauren Tesairi, and their attempts to navigate the hectic

• Language: English
• Publisher: Starr Family Consulting
• Release date: Mar 13, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645112504

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Mark Prior carefully studied the exam papers, breath hanging in the frozen air. He dreaded London’s long winters, and the icicles on his office window so early in the season were an ominous sign. It’s going to be a painful one, he thought, glancing up.

Other than the papers, Mark’s desk was almost completely clear. Just how he liked it. He had a photo of his wife and two sons in one corner and a growing pile of Christmas cards in the other. As the school’s head of mathematics, Mark received a myriad of different messages each year, and so he barely glanced when Trudy, his receptionist, handed him another one. After all, there was nothing to indicate it was different from the rest. Not at first anyway. It was only when the unusual stamp caught his eye that Mark inspected it again, turning the envelope over, recognition crossing his face like a furtive shadow.

Before her card arrived, Mark hadn’t thought about Lauren for years. Sure, they were lovers once. A long time before. Backpackers exploring Jerusalem and each other. Young bodies, old city. A wildly passionate romance at an intense time in life. But who doesn’t do something crazy at twenty-two? he thought. It was so long ago, so much had happened since that it seemed like someone else’s life, not an earlier time in his. But now he could picture the day they met perfectly. As clear as the sky on that dry, blistering afternoon.

CHAPTER ONE

JERUSALEM, THEN.

Mark’s fragile English skin was no match for the intensity of the midday sun. It hit him like a hot towel as soon as he stepped off the bus from Tel Aviv. Jim, an Australian tout, was working at Jerusalem’s main bus station and accosted Mark the moment his feet touched the baking ground. G’day mate. You lookin for a place to stay? I can take you to the best hostel. Jim asked, his tanned, leather-dry skin and streaked blond hair showing that he’d spent several months already in Israel.

No, I’m all good. Thanks. I know where I’m going. Mark always pre-planned his accommodation, and Jerusalem was no exception. He slung his backpack on, and opened his guidebook, staring at the underlines and circles that covered each page, scribblings of advice from other backpackers. The Olive Tree, Mark read aloud, informing both himself and Jim, who was still standing barely a foot away from him. Despite being off the air-conditioned bus for less than thirty seconds Mark’s back already sported a large circle of moisture.

Not bad. I stayed there a few days when I first arrived, the Australian answered, noticing Mark’s eyebrows rise ever so slightly. After three months of touting Jim could smell when he should continue. Nowhere near as good as the Ancient Walls though. Which is only ten shekels, four shekels cheaper. And not near a busy, main road. Mark’s eyes surreptitiously scanned his guidebook, catching the words ‘fourteen shekels’ and ‘thoroughfare.’ Jim went in for the kill. Ancient Walls is in the best part of the Old City. Fabulous atmosphere. Hot showers. Free tea and coffee. He finished his sales pitch. Mark wasn’t sure if he was being duped, but Jim’s laconic accent and nonchalant manner were totally disarming. He was also eager to get out of the heat and chaos of the bus station.

Only ten shekels? he double checked.

Yep. Cheapest in Jerusalem. Right in the middle of the Arab market. Great food places nearby and tons of other travelers. Lots of gorgeous Scandinavian girls, too. Jim winked. Come on, mate, let’s not waste time. It’s too hot and loud in here. I can take you now. I’m going back for lunch anyway. Mark had barely got his okay out before nearly losing his balance as Jim pulled his backpack, directing him to a waiting bus. Here’s the local to Damascus Gate. Come on, hurry, we’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Mark followed the Australian and jumped on board.

The bus hissed and rumbled its way from the modern center of Jerusalem to its ancient heart, Jim keeping up a steady stream of conversation the whole time. Mark stared through the window, lost in the scenes outside, ignoring Jim’s commentary. The first thing he noticed was the uniform, pale color of all the buildings, the yellow of dried straw, their ancient façades covered in cracks and indentations. They looked pensive and hushed, like elderly people in a retirement home, waiting to share their rich history with anyone who would listen.

Mark continued scanning the surroundings, spotting the ultra-orthodox Jewish men walking together to synagogue. They resembled shadow puppets, black gowns contrasting with the yellow buildings, sideburns fluttering with each stride. He saw the elderly Palestinian women shopping in brightly embroidered abayahs. Both groups were unconcerned as they passed Israeli soldiers at roadside cafes, AK-47s by their sides.

Here we are, Jim declared as the bus jerked to a stop. They disembarked and he led Mark across the road, down some wide, horseshoe-shaped stairs to a small, bustling market square. Mark took a few steps before stopping suddenly, staring up, mouth agape. In front of them was the enormous grey stone wall that surrounded the Old City, and the Damascus Gate with its imposing wood and brass door.

Fucking impressive, huh? Jim said, as Mark remained motionless. Twelve meters high, two meters thick. Six hundred years old. You can walk along the top, too. Awesome thing to do as the sun goes down. Mark looked up at the two watchtowers on either side; soldiers standing at each, machine guns in hand, scanning the bustling scene below.

Unbelievable, he responded.

After a few silent moments taking it all in, they walked through the colossal door and onto the narrow cobblestone streets of the Old City itself. Mark felt as if he’d stepped into another world. The whole area was awash with people; elderly Arab women negotiating with shopkeepers, pilgrims in religious garb, and bewildered tourists. The cat-like screech of Arabic music emanated from every doorway. Mark looked longingly as they passed several cafes, trays of sweets sitting out the front, the air thick with the aroma of cinnamon and pistachio. He felt exhilarated; the city grabbed him tight from that first meeting and wouldn’t let go. Not for a long time. And that was before he’d even met Lauren.

After only a few steps they reached a fork in the road, the sweat dripped from Mark’s forehead as he nudged his way through the thick crowds. Jim directed Mark to the right. The other way goes to the Wailing Wall and Dome of the Rock, he said, raising his voice above the din of people. Squinting as he made his way through the crowds, Mark shielded himself from the glare of Jerusalem’s parched, shadowless streets.

After several more minutes of pushing and squeezing, they arrived at a small doorway, Ancient Walls Youth Hostel. All welcome written roughly in red on the wall beside it. Jim turned into an open doorway and up a steep, narrow flight of stairs. Mark followed, glad to leave the claustrophobic crowds behind, the noise of the market below fading with each step.

As they reached the top, the two travelers entered an open courtyard, surrounded by low stone walls, each was covered in murals; Israeli soldiers with guns, cowering Arab children, and doves with olive branches in their beaks. Immediately to the left, up one final step, was a green door with two cracked glass panels, leading into a small foyer that served as the hostel’s reception.

Chuck your bag down there, I’ll give you a quick tour, before Lauren signs you in, Jim said. It’ll be safe, mate. We’ll only be two minutes. He led Mark through an archway on the right and into the communal kitchen, their eyes adjusting to the gloom inside, the only light from one frosted globe and two circular windows at the back.

Inside the kitchen was a white fridge, floor-to-ceiling shelving, and a stove connected to a gas cylinder. Jim pointed to a small plastic bench. There’s the tea and coffee. Just help yourself, grab one whenever you want.

PJ. How are you, bro? Jim greeted an Indian-looking traveler who was cooking. Smells good. Say hi to Mark, he’s just arrived from Tel Aviv. PJ wore long paisley shorts, almost to his knees, sandals, and no shirt. His dreadlocked hair bounced from under a red Palestinian scarf.

Welcome, my friend, PJ said. You’ve come to the best place. You’ll love it. How long you staying?

A couple of weeks, I think, Mark responded. Not sure yet. Don’t have any particular plans. Just had two weeks partying in the Greek islands and two weeks in Tel Aviv, so some R and R be good. Give my liver time to recover.

Cool. PJ nodded knowingly. "I warn you, this place grows on you. Your two weeks might stretch. I’ve been here eight months. Can’t leave. Tel Aviv’s okay, but this is really what traveling’s about. PJ turned the stove off and spooned his food onto a plate. A lot of backpackers just want to get drunk and laid. Especially the ones hanging out in Tel Aviv. Not me. I travel so I can discover. Places, people, myself. You know what I mean friend?" Mark nodded, unsure if he’d just been insulted.

Enjoy, mate, Jim said to PJ before turning to Mark. Come on, I’ll show you the showers. He led Mark back into the courtyard and pointed out the six cubicles. You can go in any. They’re unisex. The water’s solar, so it’s best to go before bedtime or in the middle of the day. The mornings are a bit hit ‘n’ miss. That’s pretty much it, he concluded. The grand tour of the Ancient Walls. Come on, I’ll introduce you to Lauren.

•

Mark picked up his bag and he and Jim walked through the green door. Lauren and Aboud, the Palestinian manager, were the only people in the reception room, engrossed in a backgammon battle, barely looking up. Lauren paused for a moment. I’ll be with you in a second, she said, throwing the dice one last time. A staccato banging echoed through the room as she positioned her pieces on the wooden board. The hypnotic whirring of a desk fan which had lost its protective grate was the only other sound.

She said something in Arabic to Aboud, who laughed, before getting up and shaking Mark’s hand. Welcome, she said, gesturing for him to sit at the solitary chair by the reception desk.

I’ll leave you in Lauren’s capable hands, Jim said as he turned to leave. Don’t let her be too bossy though, he added. "You’re the one paying, but she’ll tell you what you want. And be careful. Lauren Polkinghorne always gets her own way." He smiled a cheeky grin, leaving hurriedly before she could respond.

Cheers, mate, Mark replied, more than happy to be left in Lauren’s hands, her attractiveness already impossible for him not to notice.

Just ignore him, Lauren said as she sat down. I won’t tell you what to do. You can do whatever you like. She tried to look coy, as if embarrassed by Jim’s description, but her muffled, proud smile suggested otherwise.

The first thing that struck Mark was Lauren’s clothes. She wasn’t dressed like every other traveler he’d met; no tie-dye shirt, Palestinian scarf, or Thai fisherman pants. No ripped shorts, leather sandals, no dreadlocks, tattoos, or beading in her hair. She wore loose indigo blue trousers, a thin, almost transparent white shirt, and red canvas trainers. Her hair was in a bun, a few strands hanging loose over tanned cheekbones. On her left wrist dangled a rose gold watch and woven cotton bracelet. It was clear to Mark that she wore exactly what she wanted. As she spoke he was also intrigued by her accent, an unusually smooth combination of educated American with hushed, barely perceptible Middle Eastern inflection.

You speak Arabic, huh? Impressive. Mark was keen to strike up a conversation, noticing the beauty mark on Lauren’s neck as she wrote something in the hostel’s book.

Yeah. I took Middle Eastern Studies and Politics at Berkeley with a minor in Arabic. I finished last year before coming here. And you, what brings you here? She wrote his passport details down while waiting for the answer.

I’ve always wanted to see the Old City. My family, a long way back, like great-great-great-grandfather or something, were Jewish. They came from Russia before moving to England. We’re not religious or anything, but I’ve always been curious about Israel, especially Jerusalem. Lauren stopped writing, looking up.

Jewish, huh? She sounded pleased. That’s cool. It’s good to have you here. We don’t get too many Jewish boys staying in the Old City, especially in the Muslim quarter. They’re scared, I guess. They hear all this stuff about how dangerous it is. Only thing in the Ancient Walls that’ll hurt you is the freezing showers in the morning. They both laughed.

Well, hot showers or not, either way I can see we’ll get on, Mark replied. Lauren looked at him, waiting for an explanation. Jewish boys are known for being compliant. We’re used to women telling us what to do. Lauren raised her eyebrows, whilst Aboud, who had overheard, broke out in laughter.

Very funny. Ha ha, she answered. At the risk of being called bossy, I’ll do my job and tell you the room options. Lauren was clearly enjoying their playful banter. A dormitory bed is twelve shekels a night, a mattress on the roof is ten. I highly recommend the roof. It’s beautiful this time of year. But of course, the choice is yours. You’re the boss. She stressed the last few words deliberately, slowly. A double room, if you have someone joining you, is forty, but we only have three of them, so you have to book in advance. Lauren paused slightly. Was she testing him with that last question, he wondered?

The roof sounds great. I’ll take your order, I mean recommendation. Mark winked at Aboud.

Okay. Good choice. Sign here and follow me. Leave your bag. You can bring it after you’ve chosen your spot. Mark scribbled his name in the hostel’s book before Lauren led him out the foyer.

She directed him to an uneven flight of stone stairs behind the kitchen, the roof space coming into view as he reached the last step. Mark peered around the expanse, mattresses filled every inch of the crammed, concrete surface, each one covered with a sleeping bag and backpack, marking their owner’s territory. He followed as Lauren navigated past a group of four travelers sitting on a makeshift bed playing cards, reggae music emanating from the small radio next to them. By their feet was a packet of cigarette papers and several half-eaten packets of biscuits. The heady smell of marijuana filled the air, a joint was burning in an empty water bottle beside them.

Hey Lauren, sweetheart, do you want a drag? one of the men offered.

No thanks, she replied.

Come on, it’s good, he said. Not as good as that Sinai shit you get, a little rough, but still good.

Maybe later, she responded.

Do you want some, man? The traveler offered it to Mark.

He turned to Lauren, as if seeking her approval, before responding, Sure, thanks. Mark picked up the joint and inhaled deeply. He’d only tried marijuana once, a few weeks before, which was obvious as he immediately started coughing and spluttering. All four of the travelers laughed as Lauren patted Mark on the back to relieve his choking.

You okay? she asked, trying to contain a chuckle.

Yes…that’s good shit…thanks…just too much…too quickly… he stammered, trying to sound in control, desperate to catch his breath.

You better teach him how to smoke, darlin, one of the girls said to Lauren in a Cockney accent, maybe stick to Lauren’s Sinai hash next time. Much smoother. Mark waved his hand in thanks, still coughing as they continued walking.

After a few more steps Lauren unexpectedly grabbed Mark’s arm. Watch out! she hollered, pulling him back as he almost stood on a traveler asleep on a mattress, completely covered by bedding.

Shit. I didn’t see him at all, Mark jolted.

He would have got the shock of his life if you’d have stood on him, Lauren laughed. You better hold my hand as we get near the edge. For your own safety. You’re the cheapest stoner there is. One puff and you’re gone.

Maybe they were right, Mark quipped. Maybe the Old City is dangerous for us gentle Jewish boys. They both smiled, Mark’s heartbeat quickening as Lauren placed her soft, warm hand in his, directing him where to go.

They continued to the edge of the roof, the whole of the Old City suddenly revealed. Mark stood, taken aback, captivated into silent awe for the second time that day. Several seconds passed, his head slowly turning, taking in every feature. He could see the walls surrounding the Old City, and the gates and watchtowers in each corner. In the middle was the Dome of the Rock, the grandest mosque, dominating the scene, its blue and green tiles sparkling, crowned by a bright gold dome. In front of the mosque was the Wailing Wall, where Mark could see crowds of people praying, men on one side, women on the other, swaying forward and back.

Magical, huh? Lauren provided him with a voice. It gets everyone like that. Mark shook his head in reply.

Incredible. I love it, he declared after almost a minute.

Lauren smiled, unsure if Mark realized she was still holding his hand.

CHAPTER TWO

LONDON, NOW.

Eighteen years later, the day Lauren’s card arrived, Mark’s surrounds couldn’t have been more different. It was three weeks before Christmas and he sat at his desk marking year nine algebra papers, the silence broken only by the bitter wind outside. He pulled the woolen scarf around his neck tight, the hundred-year-old offices of Islington High letting the icy air in without remorse. Mark glanced outside, the streets bare but for the lifeless plane trees that lined the road. They stood outside the school’s gates as if they were ossified sentries, shadowy, frozen, watching the students and teachers come and go.

School had finished for the day and the usual echoes of teenage girls laughing and gossiping by their lockers had faded almost an hour before, as had the bellicose din of adolescent boy bravado. Almost everyone had gone home to their families and Mark was keen to finish work and do the same. He was concentrating so hard he almost didn’t hear Trudy knocking, her gloved hand muffled by the plastic Head of Mathematics sign on his office door.

She took a couple of steps in. Mr. Prior, Trudy said, clearing her throat. I found something for you. I think it must be a Christmas card. It was on the floor near reception. She walked up to his desk, envelope stiff in her left hand.

Trudy, please, it’s Mark, not Mr. Prior, he reminded her as she gave him the message, especially now, just before Christmas.

Trudy was one of the school’s most loved employees. She seemed like she’d been there since the school started one hundred and fifty years before. She was not much taller than four-foot-ten despite her primped brown hair adding an inch or two to her stature. She was always perfectly groomed, nails a bright ruby red, lipstick, a shade or two more subdued. Her flat shoes were polished every day and she wore, without fail, a set of pearl earrings and matching necklace, gifts from her late husband when their two boys were born.

A school receptionist for thirty-eight years, Trudy had no time for anything modern, preferring traditional rules and etiquette. She refused to use the teachers’ first names and never used the title Ms. "Why be embarrassed about whether you are married or not? she would say to anyone who was at reception long enough to be a captive audience. It’s ridiculous. I mean, you can just look at someone’s fingers and know. What are we going to do next, ban people from wearing their wedding ring to work?"

You’re lucky I found it, Mr. Prior, she said, ignoring his earlier request. It was under the front desk. It must have fallen from the mail tray this morning. I only saw it because I dropped my keys when leaving. If I didn’t, the cleaners might have thrown it away. You know what they’re like. They’ll throw out anything if it saves time. She turned to leave. Have a good night, she added on the way out. And don’t stay too long. I’m sure your wonderful wife and sons are waiting for you. Trudy had met Julia, Max, and Jack at various school functions and saw herself as a surrogate great-aunt to them. Then again, she saw herself as a surrogate aunt to anyone under the age of forty-five.

I won’t, he answered as Trudy closed the door behind her. Thanks for the reminder.

With barely a glance, Mark added the card to the pile on his desk. A few minutes later, as he reached across to pick up another exam paper it caught his attention. From the corner of his eye he noticed the stamp and turned to look at it again. Picking up the envelope Mark studied it with bemusement, searching for clues that might reveal who it was from. Mark continued staring, a frown and several drops of sweat appearing on his brow. He noticed that his name and the school’s address were written so neatly in black ink on the front they could have been typed. He pulled it closer to his face, inspecting the stamp which showed Yasser Arafat and Yitzhak Rabin shaking hands, the words Palestinian Authority Postal Service at the top, a Jerusalem postmark just underneath it. Mark sat up as if jolted out of a deep slumber, emotions and memories stirring deep in his subconscious. The mist from his icy breath stalled momentarily as he ripped open the envelope. The card inside was covered by a picture of a dove and a UN logo in the bottom left-hand corner.

Mark read the message inside, his heartbeat quickening with each word, palms sweating despite the cold.

Dear Mark, I hope you are keeping well. It’s been a very long time. I can barely recall the person who said goodbye to you nearly twenty years ago at the Ancient Walls. I thought it would be nice to reconnect. I am still in Jerusalem and visit London two or three times a year for work. Send me a message and we can meet up when I’m there. I look forward to catching up.

Kind regards and happy holidays,

Lauren Tesaira (formerly Lauren Polkinghorne).

P.S My email address is in the letterhead (I decided for old times’ sake