by Jo Verity
Negotiating the stairs without even stubbing a toe, he arrived in Kingsley’s room but, once there, he couldn’t bear to open his eyes. In his darkness he saw untidy piles of clothes littering the floor; posters for obscure bands; the Strat look-alike, cradled safely on its stand; used coffee mugs. And later, angry slogans graffiti-ing the walls. How could Fay invite a stranger to displace those memories?
He wasn’t sure how long he lay on his son’s bed before he crawled under the crisp, new duvet and spiralled into restless sleep.
18
Jack woke early. His shirt was throttling him and his feet were burning. For a second, he thought he had fallen asleep on the sofa but, no, he was in Kingsley’s bed, still fully clothed.
After a shower, he was ready for the cooked breakfast which he’d promised himself. He enjoyed cooking, especially in a frying pan where he could see exactly what was going on and nothing could catch him unawares. Fried eggs were particularly gratifying and he tilted the pan this way and that, coaxing the bacon fat to trickle across the humped yolks, rendering the glutinous layer crisp and white. Iolo would be doing much the same thing for his guests about now, and, with his help, would continue doing so for many years to come.
Jack considered his forthcoming charitable act to be on a par with those of the Victorian reformers – Cadbury and Barnardo and the like. The Welcome Stranger Guesthouse was just as worthy of preservation as Brighton Pavilion or Blackpool Tower. It was too much to expect creative people like Iolo and Zena to offer the delights that they did and balance their books.
The phone rang. It was Fay. In a whisper she filled him in on the malfunctioning boiler and her blistered feet. ‘We’re boiling saucepans of water to wash in. It’s worse than camping. Laura doesn’t seem to care. It’s all very well being laid back, but there comes a point where it’s bloody irritating.’
‘Poor love,’ he commiserated, ‘I’m sure you’ll rise to the occasion. Look, I’ve got to dash. See you tomorrow.’
Breakfast was delicious and he decided to have the same thing for his evening meal. This meant that there was no point in washing the frying pan, or the saucepan in which he’d heated the baked beans, and he left them on the hob, ready to go.
During the morning he dealt with a steady stream of patients, none of whom presented him with anything tricky. At lunchtime he went to the building society where the teller reminded him, rather sanctimoniously he thought, that he would forgo interest by way of penalty for failing to give sixty days notice of withdrawal. Apart from that, the transaction was straightforward and he folded the cheque into his wallet and headed back to the surgery.
His next problem was how to get the cheque to Iolo. He was reluctant to trust it to the post but daren’t risk another jaunt to Llangwm so soon. Fay expected him to be at home that evening, and Neil Bentley had left that message about boxes, whatever that meant. Spotting an empty phone booth and keen to be out of Sheila’s earshot, he pushed a handful of coins in the slot. ‘Iolo? It’s Jack. Look, any chance that you could pop down to Cardiff this afternoon? I’ve got the cheque here so the sooner you get it to your bank, the sooner you can get them off your back.’
Iolo, after effusive thanks, said he would contact the bank and make an appointment. He would call at the surgery, to pick up the money, on the way. Jack was apprehensive about this but, with a full complement of patients, he would be unable to get away and he couldn’t come up with a better solution. He hesitated before asking, ‘Any news from Zena?’
Iolo said he’d heard nothing but didn’t sound despondent. ‘She’ll calm down when she hears that it’s all sorted out. Thanks again, Jack.’
Jack arrived home to find Neil Bentley sitting on the doorstep, alongside four large cardboard boxes. He jumped up. ‘I came in a taxi,’ he said, as if required to explain his transport arrangements.
Jack unlocked the door. ‘You might as well take them straight up to Kingsley’s… to your room. Can I give you a hand?’ He was glad when Neil refused. There was no going back on Fay’s invitation but he wanted to distance himself from it and, if possible, avoid entering that bedroom, so packed with the past, whilst this intruder was occupying it.
An aura of the morning’s grilled bacon lingered in the kitchen but it no longer made his mouth water. He stood in front of the cooker, inspecting the dirty pans, debating whether he could face another fry-up. Usually, when Fay went away, she left a comprehensive list of what he should eat and where he would find it. He wasn’t sure why she did this – he had a feeling that it wasn’t totally for his convenience. It would be just like her to have a stockpile of survival rations somewhere which she was determined he shouldn’t plunder. He checked the work-surfaces and pin-up board but found no such instructions. He’d change then decide later what to cook.
Neil was taking the last box upstairs. They met in the hall and Jack realised that it was going to be like this from now on. There would be another person in the house, moving about, making noises, cooking in their kitchen, smelling different. Listening to him making noises and smells. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Not too bad.’
‘Much more stuff?’ He gestured towards the box which, he noted, had originally contained tinned peaches. ‘Things?’ It sounded like a criticism and he hurried to add, ‘It’s a decent sized room. Plenty of space.’
The boy shook his head. ‘Not much more. Just a rucksack of clothes. And my guitar, of course.’
He should have known that the lad would play guitar.
He went into their bedroom, shut the door and listened. No sound at all came from the adjacent room and he wondered how Neil was feeling. Whether he was on the other side of the wall, wondering what it was going to be like, living with his ex-English teacher and her husband. The total silence seemed unnatural now that there was someone else in the house and, to counteract this, he put the bedside radio on, whistling as he stripped off to take his second shower of the day. His mother would have commented on this extravagance, and she was probably right. Only recently he’d read that bathing too frequently washed all the beneficial oils from the skin and caused the sweat glands to work harder. If a human being went without washing for six weeks, ‘things’ didn’t get any worse and the body reached some kind of stasis. He’d mentioned it to Fay but she hadn’t bothered to comment.
There was still no sign of Neil when he went back down to the kitchen. Had he slipped away without saying anything? He went into the hall, and called up the stairs, ‘Anything you need, Neil?’
Neil came onto the landing and gave the thumbs-up. The gesture looked passé and awkward. ‘I’m fine thanks. Been putting a few things away. Oh, and thanks for the telly.’
Jack doubted whether he would be able to pick out Neil Bentley in an identity parade. Medium height. Medium build. Mid-brown hair. His own children were rather distinctive looking. Caitlin – tall, redhaired. Dylan – tall, black hair, patrician nose. Kingsley – tall, thin, dark-brown hair in a ponytail, earring. At least that’s how he’d looked the day he left.
‘No problems.’
Out of the blue, a feeling of compassion towards this nondescript young man swept over him. He didn’t have a lot going for him, did he? No problems? No job, no home, no family – a list of major problems in Jack’s book. Could this be the thing that had touched Fay and induced her to take him in? Or might it be because he was a direct, if sketchy, link with Kingsley? No. It was more likely that, having never come to terms with her failure to mould her younger son, she needed to notch up some successes and she’d identified Neil Bentley as a lad ripe and ready to be ‘set straight’. Poor sod.
‘Neil… I was just about to have a beer. Fancy one?’
They stood in the kitchen, sipping from the cold bottles. Jack wished he’d been more attentive when Fay had talked to him. All he could remember was that, up until recently, the boy had been selling perfume in a department store – not a promising starting point for a conversation.
‘Heard from Kin
g lately?’ Neil, probably also searching for a way to connect, asked the obvious question.
Fay would have deflected the inquiry, in an effort to save face, but she wasn’t there and Jack could give an honest reply. ‘No. We mail him regularly but we haven’t heard for weeks. To be honest, we have no idea where he is. Or what he’s doing. It’s, ummm…’ he paused, ‘It’s worrying.’ He took a swig from the bottle.
‘Yeah. I had the same thing, in reverse though, when my parents buggered off,’ he gave a sheepish grin, ‘Sorry. When my parents went to Spain.’ He pondered for a moment, tapping the lip of the bottle against his chin. ‘Maybe I can find out for you. We keep in touch. Nothing regular. Nothing heavy.’
It had never crossed Jack’s mind that his son might have been in contact with his old friends but, considering the younger generation’s love affair with the internet, it was so obvious. ‘When did you hear from him last, then?’ He tried not to sound too desperate, too anxious.
Neil thought for a while. ‘Well, it was definitely after I bumped in to Mrs Waterfield in Robertson’s, so, what, three weeks ago? I mailed him that evening and he replied a few days later.’
‘Any idea where he is? Did he mention a child? Did he mention us?’
Neil thought again. ‘No. He just said something like “Did my mother tell you to take your hands out of your pockets?” The rest of it was about a big festival he’d been to. Sounds as if he’s having a great time.’ He took another sip of beer, ‘I should let him know that I’ve moved in. I’ll go to the library and mail him, tomorrow.’
‘Why not use my machine?’ Jack felt as if he were casting a line across a tranquil pool and, sensing a bite, started to reel it gently in. ‘Save you traipsing to the library. It’s in the study.’ He pointed to towards the hall. ‘I was going to say, whilst you’re here, feel free.’
Neil smiled. ‘Thanks. That’d be great. Fay’s promised to help me knock out a CV. My English isn’t so hot.’ The young man rocked on the balls of his feet.
‘You can use it now if you like.’
Neil shook his head. ‘Oh, I mustn’t hold you up. You’ll be wanting to get on with your meal.’ He tipped his head back, drinking the rest of the beer, then placed the empty bottle on the draining board.
‘Have you eaten? We could get a delivery. Chinese? Curry? Pizza?’ Jack lifted the dirty pans from the stove. ‘Tell you what, I’ll wash these up whilst you have a session on the machine. You might as well mail Kingsley right away.’ Did that sound weird? ‘And anyone else, of course.’
‘The Star of Bengal does a good biryani, if that suits you.’ Neil suggested.
They found the number in Yellow Pages and placed their order. Then Jack settled Neil in the study and switched on the machine. ‘Anything you need?’ He wanted to stand at the lad’s shoulder and tell him what to say, what questions to ask, but he forced himself in to the garden and completed the round of evening tasks. He watered the hanging baskets and tubs before wandering into the shed.
The garden shed had become the butt of many family jokes. Once, when they’d all been ready to set off on holiday, Jack had popped in there to sharpen his penknife and they found him, dead to the world, in the old armchair which he’d rescued from the skip. It was here that he retreated to avoid unwelcome visitors and Jehovah’s Witnesses. Sometimes, after Fay had finished mocking his use of verbal cliché, she would line his shed up in her sights, too, groaning, ‘A man and his shed. You are so predictable, Jack.’
He checked the tool rack to make sure everything was dangling from the correct hook, swept the floor, crossed yesterday off the calendar and freed a butterfly that was beating its wings against the window. How long did it take to send an email? ‘How long is a piece of string, John bach?’ His grandfather’s response to unanswerable questions echoed in his memory. This had bemused and frustrated him until his grandmother taught him to reply, ‘Twice as long as half of it.’
He managed to occupy fifteen minutes before returning to the house. Neil was in the kitchen drying the things from the draining board. ‘Thought I’d make myself useful. Oh, I left the machine on in case you need it.’
The meal arrived, and Jack waved aside Neil’s offer to go halves. ‘No. My suggestion, my treat.’
They ate in the kitchen, and during the course of a curry, several more beers and a large bowl of toffee fudge ice cream, they got to know each other better. Jack could see that the lad was nervous and he tried to make it easier for him by asking him questions about himself, but this soon began to sound like a job interview and he stopped, whistling to cover the silence as he stacked the dishwasher.
‘What’s that?’ Neil asked.
‘Pardon?’
‘That tune you’re whistling.’
Jack had no idea what he’d been whistling. Whistling had become a sort of automatic thing he did when he was embarrassed or uncomfortable. Fay wittered. He whistled.
‘How did it go?’ Neil, who had seemed pretty reserved until now, came into his own. With almost total accuracy he regurgitated ‘The Rigs o’ Marlow’, one of the tunes that the Wicker Men regularly used. ‘Something like that?’
Jack explained what the tune was, which necessarily led on to an explanation of why he knew it. Neil took the news that his landlord was a Morris dancer without any of the usual smirks and quips about bells and hankies that Jack had come to expect. He appeared to be genuinely interested and asked lots of sensible questions, focussing mainly on the music side of it. ‘Any chance of catching one of your gigs?’ he asked.Jack stared at him. There was no hint of mockery or condescension on his face. ‘No problem. We practise every Thursday evening in term time, at the community centre.’
‘Thursday it is, then.’ Neil glanced at the clock, ‘Better be on my way. Thanks for the meal. See you tomorrow.’
When Neil had gone, Jack took the debris from the meal out to the bin. It was a warm evening and he sat on the garden seat, head back and eyes closed, listening to the night noises. Miles above a plane droned; someone laughed a few gardens away; milk bottles chinked and a front door slammed. He thought back a couple of weeks to Laura’s visit, when the three of them had sat here together. Then, alone and slightly drunk, he risked another peep at the past, watching himself and Laura making love, imagining how they might look today, grey-haired, less athletic but a lot more experienced. A police siren, out on the dual carriageway, tore through his reverie and he jumped up, like a schoolboy caught doing something unsavoury.
He lay rigid in bed, arms at his sides and he wondered if he was having some kind of breakdown. Every weekend there were articles in the supplements about ‘the male menopause’, but he’d never bothered to read them. He debated going down to the study and Googling the phrase, but he wasn’t very successful whenever he tried to find information on the internet. Maybe the additives in the curry were causing some kind of personality change. Could E numbers trigger off lewd fantasies? Another thing to Google. He tried to calm himself, to get his thoughts under control, by thinking about Llangwm and the wonderful hours he’d spent with Non. There. He was at it again. He couldn’t blame his feelings for Non on E-numbers.
Laura. Non. Oh. And there was Fay.
19
‘Don’t think I’m trying to save the planet or anything like that,’ Isabel assured them as she paid the taxi driver for the journey from the train station. ‘My car’s off the road and Geoffrey refused to lend me his, miserable prick.’ She delved into her turquoise leather bag and produced a bottle of vodka, holding it aloft like a sporting trophy. ‘I intend to anaesthetise myself for the return journey.’
Before Isabel’s arrival, Fay had done the best she could with a few litres of water heated in the kettle. She’d washed her hair and attempted what her grandmother used to call an ‘all over wash’. The plumber had turned up while they were eating breakfast but he’d disappeared again in search of a spare part for the twenty-year-old boiler. ‘If he can’t fix it, I’ll ask my neighbour if we can s
hower next door.’ Laura’s promise sounded more like a threat.
Isabel was wearing a chocolate-brown linen shift with matching jacket, her hair in a single plait, loose but neat, down her back. Her sandals exactly matched her bag and she looked even thinner than she had a few weeks ago. ‘God, I must look a sight. We’ve had the decorators in and I can’t get at half my clothes.’
Laura, today in a different washed-out tee-shirt and baggy cotton trousers, laughed. ‘Yeah, yeah. A real sight.’
Fay didn’t want to pursue any conversation where they might end up talking about how smart and young Isabel looked. ‘What a shame you’ve got to go back this evening.’
They discussed what they might do to make the most of their day together. Without a car between them, Laura suggested a few places they could reach by bus.
Isabel shuddered. ‘Two train rides in one day – that’s my dose of public transport for the year. I’m happy to stay in your sweet little house and get quietly wrecked. Or,’ she pointed through the window to the garden, where Cassidy was pumping up the tyre on his bicycle, ‘can’t we persuade your gorgeous son to drive us somewhere?’
‘I’m happy to stay here, too.’ Fay didn’t care for Isabel’s proprietorial tone. ‘And someone has to be on hand for the plumber. Don’t they?’ She looked to Laura for confirmation. Much as she loved the idea of driving around the countryside with Cassidy, her daydream didn’t include Isabel, whom she knew would end up sitting next to him. People with long legs always got to sit in the front.
The rest of the morning drifted away in indecision. Laura suggested a trip to a local park, where the annual sculpture exhibition was on display. Isabel favoured a shopping expedition, if they really had to go somewhere. They sat in the garden, Isabel returning to the house at frequent intervals to replenish her glass. During her third or fourth absence Laura remarked ‘Something must be wrong for her to get up at the crack of dawn and fag all the way here on the train. And she’s half way through that bottle already.’
