by Morag Joss
On the morning of Adam’s birthday Howard was awake too early and Deborah came to him too late, by which time he’d wet the bed. After that it was inevitable that the day would be one of his shut-down days even if, while she was pulling off the sheets, Deborah hadn’t also given him the news that the overnight visitors had cheated them. What overnight visitors? And where was Adam? Howard really could not have any part in a day like this, with its bewildering absence of routine, Deborah’s distress about the comings and goings of strangers, the confusion of Adam. Let these events happen if they must, but let them come to him as events unreal and happening to made-up, invented people, like snatches of a radio play sounding in a room on the other side of the house. He wished she would shut up. But all the time she was dressing him and helping him to his chair at the kitchen table she went on talking, and it was all, all beyond him. Secretly, his eyes followed her, the lumbering shape of her, as she carried the bundled-up laundry past him out of the kitchen to the passage that led to the scullery, leaving in her wake an ebbing torrent of words.
In the silence after she had gone, his mind cleared enough for him to wish that understanding only a little of what was going on around him amounted to feeling only a little. He had never quite believed in Adam’s visit, he now realized, but the sight of the barely touched pork roast on the kitchen counter and the picnic flasks, unearthed from under the stairs, standing newly rinsed on the draining board, left his throat tight and aching.
He heard the washing machine in the scullery begin to whine, and then she returned. With listless hands she scraped back the loose hanks of her hair and twisted them into a dry rope on the back of her head, and went about getting breakfast. The kitchen, like all the rooms at the back of the house, was close against the hillside and almost always dark, and Howard watched her movements silhouetted like shadow play against the window as she filled the kettle and reached for teabags and milk. She hauled herself through her tasks, going between fridge and cupboard as if her feet were chained. Already the annoyance of the day, or the disappointment of it, had used her all up; she was capable of only the weak gestures of the habitual morning routine. She poured milk on his cereal, placed the bowl in front of him, and turned away to switch on the kettle. Howard could not see her features clearly but the back of her neck pushing up from her sweater looked pouchy and swollen. Now she was scrubbing at the sink. The body that he used to think of as generous looked lopsided and unloved; its bulk shifted and sagged unevenly under her clothes.
Howard felt his throat tighten some more. One thing at a time, he thought, and concentrated on getting his fingers to close around his spoon. But tiny unobtrusive jolts were thudding up through his chest into his throat and gathering force, and soon tears were splashing on to the back of his worthless hand. Deborah did not notice, or chose not to, and now to him she was no more than a watery blur drifting across the center of the permanently tunneled dusk of his vision. But at least there was no more talking. Much as he hated her angry outpourings, even more he hated her special invalid talk with its jovial insincerity and vacuous aphorisms about cheering up and taking one day at a time. He was grateful she could not summon the energy to try fooling him with any of that today.
But he could hear that she was speaking again. Not to him, because her tone was guarded and formal. Someone must have come to the kitchen door from the scullery passage. Howard managed to raise his hand and wipe his eyes, but still everything around him was a fog of grainy, mingled shapes. If it was Digger he’d have come into the yard and through the back door, and Howard would have heard the Land Rover and the dog and Digger’s voice that would, even just saying hello, sound sarcastic. So who was here?
He—I would not try his name, Theo, even to myself, inside my head—hovered in the scullery doorway while I was putting the powder in the washing machine. He must have wandered into the passage from the door at the back of the dining room, which meant he must have gone in there and been waiting for breakfast. The nerve! How could he think I would be willing to give him breakfast? I stopped what I was doing and stretched up to look at him properly, or at his eyes, at least. They were a non-color, a sort of gray, paler than Adam’s. They were also full of calm, and I wondered why. Could he actually be feeling calm about being stranded here? I looked at him harder to see if he might be just stupid, and he smiled as if he guessed what I was thinking. Then he came right into the scullery and bent down to the pile of laundry on the floor, moving in the nonchalant way of all tall young men with long limbs, as if the smallest movement might be the last before his arms and legs ceased to bend at all. He started feeding the sheets into the machine. The urine stains were obvious, yellow and hard-edged.
“Don’t. There’s no need for you to do that.”
“I don’t mind. Is your husband ill?”
“He had a stroke. Really, there’s no need. I can do it myself.”
But it was done. The drum was loaded, the door shut with a clack, and all I had to do was switch the machine on. When it ticked and clicked and then trickled with incoming water, I looked up and saw that he was smiling at me as if between us we’d achieved something remarkable. All at once the grinding of the washing machine felt like some delightful, secret cleverness that was the unique outcome of our combined talents. I noticed he had young, strong teeth. There was something both formal and grown-up, but also childlike and mischievous about him. Neither of the words man or boy would adhere to the idea I was forming of him, but in any case I wanted his mild, visitor’s face to stay undefined; too unarguable an identity would lessen the gentle force of the atmosphere around him. I could not find a trace of the sulky, graceless companion he’d been yesterday. Yet I did not smile back. I waited for him to speak, but he said nothing. The washing machine thrummed and gurgled, the twisted sheets began to churn around.
“Well,” I said. “Thanks for your help.”
Theo shrugged. “I’m sorry. I haven’t got any money. I can’t pay the bill.”
I shrugged, too. “Please just go. Get your luggage and go,” I said. I returned to the kitchen, closing the door behind me, hardening myself for the day.
I didn’t say anything to Howard about it. What good would it do to explain that one of the hateful visitors had stayed behind, claiming to be penniless, and had been loitering around me all hangdog, pretending to help with the laundry? He would probably barely follow what I was saying, which would upset him, and if he did understand, he’d be embarrassed about a stranger seeing his soiled sheets. Anyway, I couldn’t speak; I couldn’t have stood the sound of my own voice, all flat and airy to conceal how desperate I was feeling. Howard’s eyes followed me as I got his breakfast, dumped the bowl in front of him, and switched on the kettle. When he began to cry I was relieved he did it quietly enough for me to pretend I didn’t know about it. The Stroke Club nurses were always saying Howard’s ability to do things for himself might improve if he tried more, although that was not the reason, this time, that I left him to it. I returned to the sink and wiped round it unnecessarily. I’m afraid I just didn’t feel like helping him.
I was thinking about Theo. I supposed he’d gone back upstairs, but I couldn’t hear any footsteps overhead. How could he be taking so long to pack a few things? Would he just leave, or would he come to say goodbye? I wanted him to go; I did not care to have in my own house a man of my son’s age looking at me with what could only be pity, and at the same time exuding some kind of aura that all would be well. What did he know about me, about Howard and Stoneyridge, about anything? I truly did want him to go. I had no idea why I wanted to see his face one last time. He really didn’t look in the least like Adam.
I listened for the sound from the hall of the front door closing and instead heard again his feet on the floor of the scullery passage. I went out to deal with him before he could barge his way into the kitchen; Howard didn’t respond well to strangers. Theo was standing there in silhouette, stooping in the slanted light shining into the passage from the sculle
ry. He had no luggage.
“I thought you had a backpack,” I said. “Has he taken it with him, your friend?”
Theo shook his head. “I’m really sorry about the bill,” he said. “I’ve only got eleven quid.”
“You’ll want to be on your way. You might pick up a lift on the road,” I said.
“But I can’t pay you.”
“No, well. I didn’t really expect you to,” I said. I intended to sound bitter, not forgiving. “Anyway, I’m cutting my losses. I haven’t given you breakfast.”
“I didn’t really expect you to,” he said, and smiled. The smile was another secret offering to me, and this time I accepted it. I returned it. Behind me, through the open kitchen door, steam plumed out from the kettle and the automatic switch clicked off. Looking past me, Theo smiled again, and then his eyes were on my face.
“Well. I could manage some tea, I suppose,” I said. “I expect you could do with a cup before you go.”
“A cup of tea would be great,” he said.
I turned away, expecting him to turn also and go to the dining room to wait for his tea. But he followed me, scraping his feet over the threshold, and suddenly there he was in the shabby kitchen, looking around at the homemade plyboard shelves that were never finished, the scabbed and blistered paint, the curling pictures and notes stuck on the walls and cupboards. And sitting under the overhead light that shone down on the table was Howard, crying and fighting with his cutlery.
“How do you do,” Theo said, smiling at him, which made me wonder if I had smiled at Howard even once since the day began. Howard lifted his face and peered in the direction of the voice. Then he switched his attention back to fitting his spoon into his hand, folding his sluggish fingers around the handle, panting with exasperation, still half-sobbing. Theo watched for another moment, then pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
“Some days you take ages, don’t you, Howard?” I said. “Some days it’s harder than others, isn’t it?” But neither of them was listening. Already the spoon had been prised from Howard’s hand and then I heard soft, ridiculous crooning and clicking noises that usually would drive him mad. Now the spoon was being loaded, and directed full to Howard’s mouth. I looked away. I didn’t need to see the malty spray of milk and saliva and the pulpy scraps splatter over the table and floor.
It wasn’t as bad as it might have been. When I did look, I saw that Howard had just let his jaw fall open, and with his tongue he’d flipped the contents of his mouth down his chin. A glistening blob of mashed cereal sat on his jumper at the end of a string of slime attached to his bottom lip. Theo scooped it up in the spoon and pushed it back in Howard’s mouth. Howard ate it. Not a word was said. He ate the next mouthful, and the next.
Still, it was a nuisance, Theo being here. Disruptive. Because I had my routines: I made tea with a single teabag in a cup of hot water for myself and then squeezed the bag into cooler water in a mug with a special handle for Howard. Now I had to make it properly in a pot, but not one of the metal Bed and Breakfast ones that might make Theo think he was indeed a guest. He was an intruder, I reminded myself; my offering of tea and his presence in my kitchen did not mean he was not, essentially, uninvited. I got out the folding steps and heaved myself up and lifted the old teapot from the top of one of the cupboards. It was a misshapen thing made years ago by Roderick, a fat-fingered Welsh potter Howard had gone to for some lessons, who could at least do spouts. It was coated in a sticky gray down of grease and dust. I washed and dried it, hoping it would break apart in my hands from its own dirt and ugliness. I wasn’t aware that Theo was watching me until I heard him say, “You’ve got a bad shoulder.”
My shoulder wasn’t an injury anymore, it was a disfigurement. I believed I managed to hide it pretty well; I should have been annoyed that he’d mentioned it. But I wanted to thank him for noticing. I felt grateful to hear him state a fact so long unthought of that it was a sort of rediscovery to have it spoken aloud. Yes, I have got a bad shoulder, I was going to say. But I didn’t answer at once because I wasn’t sure my voice wouldn’t waver. I was also curious about what else he might find to say about me. I wanted him to go on observing and telling me things about myself.
Anyway, before I could speak he said, “You shouldn’t be lifting that heavy kettle. Let me.” He rose from his chair, filled the teapot, and brought it to the table. He fetched cups, spoons, and milk, then sat down again and went back to helping Howard, who had not so much as blinked. Theo made every operation so easy, so fluid; I stood mesmerized, long since unaccustomed to displays of effortlessness. In the scullery the washing machine rose to a diabolical, high-pitched whirr. Theo nodded toward the door.
“Wet sheets. They’re heavy, too,” he said. “I’ll get them out. Put them in the dryer for you.”
“I haven’t got a dryer. They’re against my husband’s principles.”
“He’s against dry sheets?”
“He’s against the unnecessary consumption of resources. We do everything as naturally as possible. I dry the washing outside.”
“What if it’s raining?”
“I wait until it stops. Anyway, it’s not raining.”
“Then I’ll hang it out for you.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “It’s on the hot wash,” I told him. “It won’t be finished for at least an hour. You’ll be gone before it’s done.”
“An hour? In that case you might as well sit down and have your cup of tea.”
I had no reason not to do as he said. He poured out two cups, for himself and me. As soon as I sat down I knew I should get up again and find the mug with the special handle and pour some tea for Howard, but I waited. Why worry? He didn’t seem to mind not having any. Theo went on feeding him his breakfast until the bowl was empty, and then Howard belched peacefully and closed his eyes. It was not yet eight o’clock. Outside, the sun had traveled far enough around the house to shine into the rooms at the back, as it did only at this time of year and for a short while in the mornings. It slanted in through the window and the glass pane in the back door and set the kitchen ablaze. Theo and I sat in a vibrating, yellow pool of light.
“Your friend, I suppose he’s on his way back to London, is he?” I said. “Will you make it up with him when you get back?”
“Nicholas? I doubt it,” Theo said. I waited for him to say more. “He goes to this bar where I used to work, that’s how I know him. I didn’t even want to go away for the weekend, he more or less made me. Insisted.”
“He seemed very upset.”
“Not as upset as me. He’s a complete control freak.”
“Even so, how could he make you go away for the weekend, if you didn’t want to?”
His face turned red. “He’s sort of persuasive. You know.” He drank some of his tea, looking at me to see if I did know. I didn’t. “I had a room in this flat for a while,” he said. “Only I lost my job, the one at the bar, so I had to move out. Nicholas knew I was stuck so he said I could stay at his place while I sorted myself out. That was a couple of months ago. Then all of a sudden he said he was going away this weekend and he wasn’t letting me stay in the flat on my own, and if I came with him he’d see me all right. You know, with a bit of spending money. And if I didn’t want to come, I could get out.” He sighed. “I didn’t have anywhere to go. Didn’t have much option, did I?”
“Not very nice of him to turn you out of the flat when he’d invited you in the first place.”
He looked sheepish. “It got a bit nasty. He said I was sponging off him. It was because I didn’t really fancy him. That’s what it was all about, to be honest. He took it very personally.”
“Well, it is personal.”
“It is and it isn’t. The thing is I’m not really gay. Not that gay. So he was pissed off with me.”
I didn’t know what to say to that except, “You’re well out of it, then. Except he’s left you in the lurch.”
“Yeah. And you
didn’t get paid.”
“Well, the dinner was terrible.”
Theo smiled, and shivered. “I hardly ate anything.” He glanced at Howard’s empty bowl. “So now I’m starving.”
I realized then that he’d helped Howard with his cereal thinking I might offer him some, too; there had been no real kindness in it. Still, he had done it. I filled a bowl for him and brought a spoon and hoped he’d take no more than five minutes over it. It wasn’t that I didn’t like him being there, but since he must go, I wanted him gone. I had not yet had time to think properly about Adam, and I did not know if it was his absence or just my anger with him that lay like a weight inside me. So I was surprised at the way my heart lifted to see Theo eat so ravenously. I poured him more tea, and then more; he drained the pot. I gave him another bowl of cereal. When he’d finished, he looked up and saw I’d been watching him. His face was friendly but still somehow neutral, a mask of almost android mildness and adaptability, upturned and waiting for experience to come and draw lines and press shadows upon it. And until that happened, I thought, those well-composed features, handsome as they were, were probably forgettable. There was a shred of cereal stuck on his top lip. I didn’t tell him about it. I let it stay there, a detail I’d be able to bring to mind later, when I had trouble remembering his face. For the sun was rising up the sky and over the roof, and soon would be too high to reach into the room anymore; soon the angles of light would sharpen and retreat across the floor and Theo would be gone, leaving me in the shadow of the hill and alone with Howard asleep in his chair, his bald head crooked on his shoulder.
A long time passed in silence. I didn’t want to say anything that would begin the inevitable leave-taking.
Then Theo said, “Listen, I mean it. I feel really bad about the money. Maybe I could stay and do a few jobs for you—you know, work off the debt? I mean, there’s a few things need doing around the place, isn’t there? I’m pretty handy.”
