This Thing With Charlie

by Sophia Soames

  “Morning!” he said cheerily, “…or is it past midday? Then good afternoon to you, sir. What can I get you?”

  “Is Charlie… Is this where Charlie works?” I asked, trying to look calm and polite.

  “Charles?” the man boomed towards the back, where a strange-looking Charlie appeared, wearing an apron and sticky plaster tape all over his nose and ears.

  “Hey!” he called out, waving his hands about in some kind of weird greeting. “I would hug you, but I’m in the middle of a bread dough, and I don’t think you really wanna be covered in flour. Hey, Graham, this is my Daniel. Daniel, this is Graham. Best baker in Chistleworth, he is.”

  The man, called Graham, laughed, looking a little embarrassed. “I don’t know about best baker, not anymore. I have arthritis in my hands, and my back can’t take the lifting anymore. But if you haven’t tried one of Charlie’s mince pies, then you haven’t lived.”

  He leaned inside the display cabinet, picking out a little mini mince pie with his bare hands, which he handed me on a napkin as Charlie beamed.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked as I bit into the mince pie, the crisp pastry making me swoon.

  “Had to go eat humble pie in the pharmacy, over prescription slips I forgot to sign. I’m now on Mr Patel’s naughty list for the foreseeable future. He even lectured me on the importance of clear handwriting. I’m a doctor; I’m supposed to write like a headless chicken. It’s kind of a basic requirement in medical school. Sloppy handwriting for beginners; I got an A in that one.”

  I spat crumbs everywhere, trying to wipe my mouth with the napkin, suddenly feeling like a fool standing in the middle of a bakery, eating stuff I hadn’t even paid for, making lame insider jokes that nobody in the real world would understand.

  “I’ll take ten of those little masterpieces, please,” I said instead, thinking I could maybe bribe Mrs Hallet with a nice mince pie, and perhaps, then she wouldn’t shout at me again. Today.

  “See? I like your Daniel here, already,” Graham said to a still beaming Charlie, who started pointing out the nicest ones for Graham to pick. They went in the now-familiar little cardboard box as Charlie picked out a Danish pastry that I apparently needed to have with my afternoon cup of tea. On him. Because. Yeah. Just because.

  “He hardly eats, this one,” Charlie said to Graham. “If I didn’t feed him in the evenings, he’d survive on just a bag of crisps and a sandwich.”

  “That’s true,” I said, trying to hide the bag of crisps that was peeking out of my coat pocket. “He knows me far too well, my Charlie.”

  When I said that out loud, the “my Charlie” bit sounded weirder than it did in my head. I supposed it was the way the locals talked, and I felt a little proud that I was starting to fit in.

  “What’s with all the plasters?” I laughed as Charlie handed me the box, and I flashed my credit card over the reader on the counter.

  “Can’t have piercings uncovered here. Just imagine biting into a bun and finding my nose ring inside. Graham would have me fired.”

  “Graham doesn’t quite understand the need for all that scrap metal stuck in your face,” Graham quipped back with a chuckle. He obviously adored Charlie, as much as I found that I did with a small pang of jealousy banging somewhere in my chest.

  “Graham needs to get with the times.” Charlie laughed back. “I keep trying to get him to get a tattoo. He needs to live a little.”

  “I get enough thrills standing here all day listening to you chatter, like a radio I can’t switch off.” Graham laughed. “He never stops talking, Charlie. Just chatter, chatter, chatter all day. I’m surprised he actually produces all the stuff he does because his mouth never shuts off.”

  “And now, you are just being rude.” Charlie pouted and flicked a little flour off his apron.

  I left them to bicker as I said, “Goodbye,” and, “See you later,” hoping that I would. See him later, that is. I could have easily stayed in there for the rest of the afternoon, hiding from the world in a room full of laughter and baked goods. But I had a living to earn, and Mrs Hallet to bribe with mince pies.

  Later that evening, I sighed with disappointment as I stepped into the lobby where a strong smell of disinfectant was blending with the scented candles lit on the bar. The fireplace was crackling in the background as Penny greeted me and then just walked away. It was not quite what I was used to, but my evening took a lovely turn as I found Charlie sunk into the armchair in the corner, standing up to greet me as I stumbled around in almost childish excitement.

  “You working?” I said as I stared at his coat and the scarf arranged around his neck. Obviously not.

  “Thought I would take you out for that plate of junk food I promised,” he said, taking my rucksack off my back. “Penny will hang on to your bag if you’re up to it?” he added, suddenly looking a little unsure.

  “Dinner?” I blinked, like an idiot. “You’re taking me out for dinner?”

  “Yup,” he said proudly, walking behind the bar-ception-desk-thingy and stuffing my bag somewhere under the computer set up as I eyed myself up in the reflection from the glass doors. I looked like shit, my shirt all wrinkled and my tie loose around my neck.

  “Coming?” he asked and grabbed my arm, leading me out the door into the cold December air.

  He chatted excitedly as we walked down the High Street, his arm still in mine. It was another thing I found charming about my new hometown. The rules seemed to be different here, where people were warm and friendly, even when they were not. Where people touched your arm when they talked to you and patients kissed your cheek when you told them the lump on their finger would be all right and that mosquito bites in December were fairly common despite what Dr Google might think.

  I told him about Mrs Hallet, who now thought I was not too hopeless, and that The Chistleworth Health Centre might survive my many mistakes if I could just learn to follow their rules. I told him that Mrs Hallet gave me another printout of my job description, just in case, as she thanked me for the lovely mince pies. I told him that there wasn’t any left once the foot clinic nurses had been in. And I told him that Mrs Pasankar made me promise to bring her some of Charlie’s famous chocolate twists the next time I went to the bakery. “You really should take an order and then ring ahead before you go into town. They run out of twists once the schools are out, you realise that, don’t you?” she had warned, flashing me a rare smile.

  Charlie told me that the chocolate twists were from his very own secret recipe that he would never give up. Over his dead body, he said, laughing. But then he added that he would bring me chocolate twists the next time he was working at the hotel because I hadn’t lived if I hadn’t tasted proper chocolate twists.

  “You’re staying a few more days, right?” he asked as I nodded.

  “It looks like I get the keys on Christmas Eve now. I half dread it… the state the house will be in.”

  “Nobody has lived there for ages,” he said as we crossed the football field behind Chistleworth College, the frost in the grass making our footsteps creak.

  “I think it could do with a complete renovation. Perhaps if I can get a loan next year, I could do the loft up into a bigger bedroom and fit an extension at the back. Make it into a proper home with a little patio at the back instead of all that dead lawn.”

  “You should put a big roof window in the loft,” Charlie said, turning around as he walked, drawing plans with his arms in the air. “A big window over your bed, where you can lie and watch the stars at night. I always dreamed of building something like that, of having a bedroom that was like a haven, full of fluffy pillows and stars in the sky.”

  “Sounds… weird.” I laughed as he blushed. I could see his embarrassment as I had stupidly mocked his childish confession.

  “It’s just, I need to find a place to live, eventually. You know? Have a place that’s all mine.”

  “Where do you live now then?” I said, suddenly realising he’d never really to
ld me. “Do you still live at home?”

  “I live with Graham, just above the bakery. It’s handy in the mornings; I can just stumble down the stairs in my underpants and put the ovens on, then go back up and make myself a cup of tea. It works for me, and well, it’s where I live, and Graham likes the company. Then I can just head down the road and spend the afternoon at the hotel, earning my keep with my nose in my books. That’s what my mum used to say. ‘Charlie, get your nose out of those books.’ She died when I was fifteen. Then Dad passed away a few weeks later, cancer. You know? He smoked all my life, and in the end, his lungs gave out.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. This lovely happy man… and nobody to take pride in all he’d become.

  “I’m so, so sorry.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Doesn’t make it easier to bear.”

  “I suppose,” he continued. “I still need to keep busy. I still need to go on and find out what the fuck I’m going to do with my life. It’s almost like… you know... I’m sailing the ship that is my life. I’m the captain of it all, but nobody ever taught me how to steer it. So, I just randomly keep sailing until I run aground. It never sticks though, and suddenly the ship is just sailing again. I don’t know how to stop it because there’s no place for it to dock. I don’t know where I’m supposed to be going, and there’s no map and no compass and no land anywhere in sight. That’s how I feel most of the time. So, I just keep going. Eat, sleep, work, read, take a few exams. Then I just lie in my bed exhausted, wondering what the fuck I’m doing with my life. Then I wake up the next morning, and it starts all over again.”

  “So, you need a window to look at the stars. Something to look at when your thoughts become too much.”

  I don’t know where that confession of his came from. He nodded as I wondered why I let my mouth say all these things. How he could get me to talk, like I hadn’t been able to, in quite a while.

  “Yeah,” was all he said back. “I suppose it makes sense.”

  “Sounds a bit like me,” I said softly as he kicked a rock on the ground. Blowing into his frozen hands and grabbing my arm again, he led me down a gravelled path towards the pub, which glowed invitingly in the distance. I should comfort him, offer professional words of wisdom, but I realised I had none. “I don’t like the thoughts in my head, sometimes,” I confessed instead. “I don’t like that I have no idea where I’m heading. I can barely think past tomorrow if I’m honest with myself. Next year? It’s too scary to even think about it.”

  “I don’t think it’s scary, just exciting,” he said quietly. “I don’t really mind which direction my life takes, but it would be nice to… you know… find a reason to make it better. Get somewhere in life. Upgrade to the next level. I never felt like I could settle down, but now, I kind of feel like planting roots. I grew up in this town. I’ve lived here all my life, yet I have no place to call home.”

  “Home is where the heart is,” I said, all pathetically. “You’ll meet someone one day, and things will just make sense. Then suddenly your roots just grow wherever that person is.”

  “Then they fuck off and leave you. People can suck. If they stick around, that is. I meet people, nice people even, and they never stick around. I’m just a passing fling. And to be honest, I haven’t got time for all that. I have work and things to do, and it’s just easier. You know. Hookups and little flings. I’m trying to plant my own roots. On my own. I just don’t know how to. Yet. But if I met someone? If someone…”

  “You’re going to wear yourself out, working all the hours of the day like you do.” I tried to sound kind and supportive, nudging his shoulder as we took the steps up to the entrance. “You’re burning the candle at both ends, Charlie, and that never ends well. You should try to think about getting more rest. More sleep, more rest, less work… maybe more flings. Find someone to do the root thing with.”

  I sounded like the nerdy doctor I was, and perhaps, I should take my own advice. Instead of moving across the country, starting a new job and pretending I could renovate a home from scratch when I didn’t even own a hammer. I also couldn’t think of anything worse than a fling.

  “I miss intimacy,” I said instead, blushing as the words came out of my mouth. “I miss someone to hug when I get back from work. I miss kissing and cuddles. I miss someone sleeping next to me in my bed. I miss being... I miss being with someone.”

  I’d not said it out loud like that before, but it was the truth. I missed a lot of things, but I’d never been good on my own. Never liked it.

  “It’s a nice idea, having someone in your life.”

  “It was lovely, for a while.”

  “You need a rebound. Someone to get you back into your groove.”

  “No. No, no, no.” I shook my head as I said it. “I don’t think I could take it. It would be messy and stupid and just… No. I’m going to do things right and just ride this one out. I’m going to be single and productive and build myself a life where I am simply happy with my own company. I’m going to be that lonely insane bachelor who thinks he can renovate a house. And then one day, they will find my body buried under the collapsed remnants of the roof structure, where I failed at installing some giant window in the loft. That would be just my luck.”

  “You’re going with the loft conversion and giant roof window then?”

  “I thought I could employ you as my architect. Do you have a degree in planning?”

  “No, not yet.” He laughed. “Would be useful, though. I know a thing or two about roofing because we had a leak at the bakery, and I managed to fix that with a bit of help from Google.”

  “Job’s yours then. I don’t know anyone else in this goddamn town anyway.”

  “You know me,” he said with a little smile. “You’ll always have me.”

  I smiled, and he laughed like it was a funny joke that we’d shared.

  American food served daily, the sign screamed as we walked through the door. And Charlie, of course, knew all the staff by name, introducing people who greeted me with smiles and promises of a full belly and the best ice-cream sundaes this side of the Atlantic.

  We chatted as we always did. I asked about his childhood and offered up mine. I told him about my parents who had me when they were far too old to parent. I told him about growing up with my dad in a wheelchair, and my mum trying to cope with a rebellious teenager when she had just survived her second stroke. I told him I knew what it was like to be alone in the world, and he looked like he was about to cry for a little while. When our food hit the table, he blamed the wetness in his eyes on the excitement of macaroni and cheese and garlic-infused beef burgers. I laughed at him and cut a piece of my cheese and bacon stack for him to try.

  “You serving me up your germs?” he teased as I put a sweet potato fry in his mouth. Then he retaliated by offering up his spoon loaded with steaming macaroni and cheese. I greedily took it as he laughed and offered me a napkin to mop up the sauce running down my chin. I stole another chip off his plate. He stole one off mine.

  It was an easy evening, full of our usual chatter. He now knew all about the women who broke my heart, yet I knew nothing about what made his own heart bleed. He told me about his recipes and classes, cleverly avoiding my questions about his friends and family. It was not until we were sitting with a ridiculous dessert in front of us, an oversized bowl full of chocolate brownies and scoops of ice-cream, drizzles of sauces and handfuls of chopped glazed pecans, that Charlie started to tell me something, something that felt more real.

  “I think I lost a friend at the weekend,” he said quietly, licking a drop of chocolate sauce off his spoon.

  “What happened?” I questioned, expecting all the worst scenarios in my head. I was curious because, although he told me millions of words, he never really let me in. I knew hardly anything about what went on in his head. Well, apart from roof windows and sailing ships and how to make incredible mince pies. I knew nothing about who he was on the inside.


  “He’s not answering my texts,” he said, bringing out his phone. “I have texted him every day, asking how he’s doing, and get nothing back.”

  “Maybe he’s… busy, or maybe… he’s not okay?” I tried, hoping he would tell me more. Anything to help him smile again because his face was now sadder than I’d ever seen it before.

  “He’s okay, all right,” Charlie said, loading up Twitter on his phone. “Look, he’s retweeted a load of crap, all funny memes and things. Yet, he can’t just pick up the phone and text me. I just want to know we’re still good. It’s my fault, really. I dragged him into something I shouldn’t have. He wasn’t into the whole idea, and I made him go out that evening. Then he blocked me, just like that.”

  Nothing he said made sense, but then suddenly he was back to being himself, showing me funny accounts on Twitter and stupid video clips that made us splutter with laugher.

  We’d split the bill, so nobody could argue, yet he threw in an extra tip to the girls who served us because he knew how nice it was to be appreciated. I told him I appreciated him because I was a miserable bastard at the best of times, and he’d put up with me for almost two weeks.

  He patted my back as we headed back up the hill towards town, a little unsteady on our feet, as the skies drizzled rain and the wind blew us backwards as we hit the bottom of the High Street.

  “I think you need to give your friend some time,” I suggested, hoping he wasn’t too down about whatever had gone on.

  “He’s a miserable bastard too,” Charlie snarled. “You know when you think you know someone? He looks so bloody innocent, but the guy is into all kinds of weird shit, and to be honest, I don’t think he likes me much anyway.”

  “Probably all for the best then.”

  “Perhaps,” he muttered as we reached the town square, and he pointed toward the bakery up the side street as I looked over towards my hotel.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I had a really good evening.”

  “I did too,” he said, suddenly looking all shy.