How Not to Die Alone

by Richard Roper

  “Oh dear—guilty!” Cameron said, clapping his hand to the top of his head and grimacing theatrically. Andrew looked at Christopher and the boy rolled his eyes as if to say, Tip of the iceberg.

  Meredith and Keith arrived together—not by coincidence, Andrew guessed, his suspicions confirmed by the fact that they were both clearly quite tipsy. Keith ruffled Christopher’s neatly parted hair and the boy left the room with a murderous look in his eyes, returning—to Andrew’s disappointment—brandishing a comb and not a revolver.

  By the time Peggy arrived they had already sat down for the starters. “Sorry I’m late,” she said, hurling her coat onto an empty chair. “Got stuck on a bus. The traffic was an utter bastard.” She glanced at Christopher. “Oh, sorry, is that a child? Didn’t mean to swear.”

  Cameron laughed uncertainly. “I’m sure you’ve heard worse from us, haven’t you, Chriss-o?” Christopher muttered something darkly into his soup.

  Conversation was stop-start, in the way that magnified every slurp of food and clink of cutlery. They all agreed that the soup was delicious, although Meredith did add a caveat that it was a “bold choice” to have added quite so much cumin. Keith smirked at this, apparently enjoying the backhanded compliment, and Andrew was suddenly, horribly aware that there was some knee touching going on under the table. He wanted to bring this to Peggy’s attention, if only to share the burden of horror, but she seemed distracted, pushing soup slowly around her bowl like a disillusioned painter mixing colors in their palette. Andrew felt a strong urge to get her away from the others and ask if she was okay, but it was hard when you had Cameron to contend with. He had clearly anticipated lulls in conversation and was beginning to bring up topics that were as disparate as they were fruitless, the latest being their taste in music.

  “Peggy? What tickles your fancy in that regard?” he asked.

  Peggy yawned. “Oh, you know, acid house, dubstep, Namibian harpsichord stuff. All the classics.” Meredith hiccupped and dropped her spoon on the floor, disappearing to retrieve it and nearly sliding off her chair in the process. Andrew raised his eyebrows at Peggy. He had never really understood the point in getting hammered at social events like this. Surely you were just more likely to say something stupid and then spend the rest of the evening regretting it? Then you’d need another drink just to get over that.

  (“That,” Peggy would later say to him, “is drinking in a nutshell.”)

  Once they’d finished the main course Clara asked with exaggerated winsomeness if Cameron could give her a hand in the kitchen.

  “You’re sure I won’t just be in the way?” Cameron asked with a little chuckle.

  “No, no. Just don’t go near the stove,” Clara said.

  Cameron headed after her with a You got me there! gesture and shut the door after him. A symphony of slammed cupboard doors occurred shortly afterward. “There may be trouble ahead,” Peggy sang quietly.

  Meredith and Keith, again by total coincidence, decided that they needed the toilet at exactly the same time. Andrew and Peggy listened to the sounds of excited footsteps on the stairs.

  “Those two are definitely shagging then,” Peggy said. “Sorry for swearing again, Christopher,” she added. Andrew had entirely forgotten the boy was still there.

  “Not at all,” Christopher said. “I better go and see what’s happening in the kitchen.”

  Peggy waited till the door was closed, then leaned over to Andrew.

  “At least the poor sod’s got his mother’s looks. Anyway, bollocks to this, I’m off.”

  “Oh, are you . . . Do you think you should just . . . wait?”

  “Absolutely not,” Peggy said, swinging her coat on and making for the door. “I’ve had a rubbish enough day as it is without having to endure another second of this. You coming or what?”

  Andrew hesitated, but Peggy wasn’t going to hang around for an answer. He swore under his breath and dashed to the kitchen, opening the door to find Clara in full flow.

  “You know Wednesday is book club night, yet as usual you didn’t give any bloody consideration to what I might— Andrew! Is everything okay?”

  Cameron spun around.

  “Andrew! Andy-boy. What’s up?”

  “Peggy’s not feeling very well so I thought I better make sure she gets home okay.”

  “Oh, are you sure? There’s ice cream!” Cameron said, eyes wide in desperation. Luckily, Clara stepped in and, with a bit too much intensity for Andrew’s liking, said, “There’ll always be ice cream, Cameron. It’s chivalry that’s in short supply.”

  “Look, I better go . . . ,” Andrew said, hearing the argument renewed in earnest as soon as he’d closed the front door.

  * * *

  —

  He had to jog to catch up with Peggy. When he arrived at her side he was too out of breath to say anything, and Peggy only offered a quick “All right?” before falling quiet. They walked on without speaking, Andrew’s breathing finally leveling out, until gradually their steps became in sync. It was a comfortable silence, but it felt charged in a way that Andrew couldn’t put his finger on. As they waited to cross the road at some traffic lights, Peggy pointed out a pool of dried blood on the pavement.

  “I’ve walked past a similar patch on my road every day this week and it’s barely faded,” she said. “Why is it that blood takes ages to wash away?”

  “I think it’s because it carries all the proteins and iron and everything,” Andrew said. “And it’s so thick because it coagulates. Hard to get rid of, blood.”

  Peggy snorted. “‘Hard to get rid of, blood.’ Now, that’s the most serial killer–y thing I’ve heard in a while.”

  “Ah. God, I hadn’t . . . I just meant that—”

  Peggy laughed and nudged him with her elbow. “I’m only messing.” She puffed out her cheeks. “God, I shouldn’t have come out tonight. I really wasn’t in the mood for it. Think anyone noticed?”

  “I’m sure they didn’t,” Andrew said, trying not to picture Cameron’s forlorn face. “Is everything all right?”

  “Oh I’m fine, really. I’m just having a bit of a hard time of it. With Steve, actually.”

  Andrew wasn’t quite sure how to respond, but Peggy didn’t need a prompt.

  “You remember I told you about my friend Agatha, the one who clearly didn’t approve of him?”

  Andrew nodded. “The spatula. The one that you, well . . .”

  “Chucked at his head? Yes, well. That’s not the only thing I’ve felt like throwing at him recently. It’s just so bloody hard, sometimes. I remember when Agatha told me her doubts about him when he first proposed, I just couldn’t even consider what she was saying. I was so fiercely proud of what I had, I thought she was just jealous. Sure we used to row a bit, but we’d make up. Better that than those couples who never raise their voices but keep each other awake grinding their teeth.”

  “And what seems to be the problem?” Andrew said, wincing at how he’d managed to somehow sound like a 1950s doctor talking disapprovingly to his patient about their libido.

  “So there’s the drinking,” Peggy replied. “I know things are on the verge of going tits-up when he starts singing, and last night it was ‘Yes Sir, I Can Boogie.’ Next thing he’s getting all boisterous and asking complete strangers to dance, buying shots for everyone in the pub. Then he finally has too much and starts getting confrontational with people for no reason. But it’s the lying about the drinking that I really can’t stand. It’s just relentless. Last night I went home before him as he was having ‘one for the road.’ He gets back steaming at two a.m. Usually I can handle him by giving him a quick bollock-wallop, but last night he was determined to go and say good night to the girls, but it was so late it was practically morning, and I didn’t want him to go and wake them up, so then it became ‘Oh, you’re not letting me see my own kids.’ He ended up sleepin
g on the landing under a Finding Nemo duvet in some sort of protest. I left him there snoring this morning. My youngest, Suze, came out and saw him lying there. She just looked at me, shook her head and said, ‘Pathetic.’ Pathetic! I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

  An ambulance flashed past, lights on but no siren, ghosting through a gap in the traffic.

  “You got an apology this morning, presumably?” Andrew said, not entirely sure why he’d decided to play devil’s advocate.

  “Not exactly. I tried to talk to him, but he gets this scrunched-up face when he’s hungover and it’s hard to take him seriously. Honestly, it goes all mad and blotchy. Like he’s a clumsy beekeeper. We’d have had it out this evening if I hadn’t had this nonsense to go to. The only reason I stayed as long as I did was because you were there. I mean, that lot are just the absolute worst, aren’t they?”

  “They really are,” Andrew said, wondering whether Peggy had seen just how wide he’d smiled about him apparently being the only reason she’d stayed.

  “I wonder if Meredith and Keith are still up in that bathroom,” Peggy said with a shudder. “Oof, it really doesn’t bear thinking about.”

  “It really, really doesn’t,” Andrew said.

  “And yet now I can’t stop picturing them sweating away.”

  “Oh god, sweating?!”

  Peggy sniggered and linked her arm into his.

  “Sorry, there was no need for that, was there?”

  “There absolutely wasn’t, no,” Andrew said. He cleared his throat. “I have to say, it’s felt like a lifetime, having to deal with those idiots by myself, so it’s nice . . . it’s been really good to have, you know, a friend, to share the burden with.”

  “Even when I make you think of them at it?” Peggy said.

  “Okay, maybe not then.” Andrew wasn’t exactly sure why his heart was beating almost uncomfortably hard. Or, for that matter, why he’d allowed them to walk past at least three stops from which he could have caught a bus home.

  Peggy groaned. “I’ve just realized Steve’s going to have written me an apology song on his stupid guitar. I actually can’t stand the thought of it.”

  “Hmm, well, we can always head back to Cameron’s for pudding,” Andrew said. Peggy elbowed him again.

  They were both quiet for a moment, lost in their own thoughts. A siren sounded in the distance. Perhaps it was the same ambulance that had gone past with just its lights on, Andrew thought. Had the paramedics been on the radio, waiting to hear if they were needed after all?

  “Are your lot still going to be up when you get in?” Peggy said.

  Andrew winced. Not this. Not now.

  “Diane, maybe,” he said. “The kids should be asleep by now.”

  They were approaching the station Andrew guessed Peggy was getting her train from.

  “Is it bad,” he said, fighting the voice in his head warning him that this wasn’t a good idea, “that sometimes I just sort of wish I could escape from it all?”

  “From what?” Peggy said.

  “You know, the family . . . and everything.”

  Peggy laughed and Andrew immediately backtracked. “God, sorry, that’s ridiculous, I didn’t mean to—”

  “No, are you kidding?” Peggy said. “I dream of that on a regular basis. The bliss of it all. The time you could actually spend doing things you wanted to do. I think you’d be mad not to fantasize about that. I spend half my life daydreaming about what I’d be doing with myself if I wasn’t stuck where I was . . . and then that’s usually when one of the kids ruins it by drawing something beautiful for me or being inquisitive or loyal or kind, and I feel like my heart’s going to explode with how much I love them, and then it’s all over. Nightmare, eh?”

  “Nightmare,” Andrew said.

  They hugged good-bye outside the station. Andrew stayed for a while after Peggy had gone, watching people coming through the ticket barriers, blank face after blank face. He thought of the property inspection that morning and Terry Hill with his knife, fork, plate and water glass. And that’s when the thought hit him so hard it practically winded him: living this lie would be the death of him.

  He thought about how he’d felt in the brief moment Peggy had hugged him. This wasn’t physical contact through formality—an introductory handshake. Nor was it the unavoidable touch of the barber or dentist, or a stranger on a packed train. It had been a genuine gesture of warmth, and for that second and a half he was reminded about how it felt to let someone in. He had resigned himself to the fate of Terry Hill and all those others, but maybe, just maybe, there was another way.

  — CHAPTER 12 —

  When it came to model trains, one of the most satisfyingly simple things Andrew had learned was that the more you ran a locomotive, the better it performed. With repeated use, an engine starts to glide around the track, seeming to grow in efficiency with every circuit. When it came to making connections with people, however, he was less of a smoothly running locomotive and more a rail replacement bus rusting in a rest stop.

  After he’d left Peggy at the station he’d practically floated home, suddenly buoyed by possibility. He’d half considered turning on his heel and running after her to improvise some sort of grand gesture—perhaps spelling out “I am terrified of dying alone and I think it’s probably weird when adults make friends this late in life but shall we do it anyway?” in discarded Coke cans at the side of the tracks. In the end he managed to contain himself and jogged halfway home, buying four cans of lukewarm Polish lager from the corner shop, drinking them in quick succession and waking up hungover and afraid. He forced himself out of bed and fried some bacon while listening to “The Nearness of You”—Ella and Louis Armstrong from 1956—five times in a row. Each time the vocals kicked in he could feel the sensation of Peggy’s arm interlinked with his again. If he closed his eyes tightly enough he could see the smile she’d given him as they parted from their hug. He looked at his watch and decided he had just enough time for one more spin of the record, but as he went to move the needle back, the miserable sound of “Blue Moon” suddenly came into his head, as clear as if it were coming through the record player. No no no. Not now. Stay in the moment for once. He scrabbled to put “The Nearness of You” on again and bent down by the speaker, his ear so close that it hurt, his eyes screwed shut. After a moment there was a piercing shriek and he opened his eyes to see the room was hazy with smoke, the alarm triggered by the now-cremated bacon.

  * * *

  —

  It was still too early to go to work, so he sat at his computer with two cups of tea in an attempt to alleviate his hangover—taking sips from alternate mugs—and pondered on how he might go about cementing a proper friendship with Peggy, something that elevated things above simply spending time together at work. Just the idea of suggesting they go for coffee, or to the cinema or whatever, left him firmly out of his comfort zone, and god how he loved that zone. It was a world where Pickled Onion Monster Munch was seen as the height of culinary experimentation, where ice-breaker games were punishable by death.

  He thought about what he and Peggy had bonded over so far. Well, there were the chats about the meaning of life and loss, and the idea of “the club.” But it wasn’t as if he could go steaming in there and suggest they get matching litter picker tattoos via a quick trip to the aquarium, was it? At the heart of that conversation, though, had been the fact that Peggy had been trying to comfort him. She’d used the Apocalypse Game as a fun distraction—that had been a gesture of real kindness. And now it was Peggy who was clearly in a bad way because of Steve. If he was able to comfort her as she had him, then that would surely be the basis of a real connection. So what could he do to try to cheer her up?

  What he really needed was advice, and there was only one place he could go to for that. A few clicks of the mouse and he was on the forum. The only issue was that he felt too emba
rrassed to just come straight out with it and ask for help. He’d have to improvise, see where that got him first. Morning, chaps, he wrote. I’m after some advice. I happened to meet someone recently who’s having a bad time with a seller. They’d been promised a China Clay 5 Plank Wagon Triple Pack but the seller lied and ended up going with another bidder at the last minute. They’re very upset, so any help on how to cheer them up would be greatly appreciated!

  TinkerAl replied within seconds: Hmmm. Well it’s the Beckenham & West Wickham Vintage Toy Train Show next weekend. Could take them to that?

  BamBam67: Why would they POSSIBLY have wanted a China Clay 5 Plank Wagon Triple Pack when for the same money they could probably have got a Dapol B304 Westminster?

  Hmmm. Andrew drummed his fingers on his knees. If he was actually going to get any useful advice he’d have to take the plunge properly. He wrote and rewrote a message several times, eventually hitting “post”:

  Okay, truth be told, the person I was talking about is having a bad time of it at the moment, but she’s not actually into trains (for her sins!). I’m just a bit rusty when it comes to this sort of thing. Any advice on fun activities and the like would be really helpful.

  BroadGaugeJim: Aha! I’d been curious about whether there was a Mrs. Tracker on the scene!

  Tracker: No, no, it’s nothing like that.

  TinkerAl: Ah. Sounds like Tracker isn’t that keen to expand on the specifics, Jim. But we’re here for you, mate, if you do want to!