An Extra Shot

by Stephen Anthony Brotherton

  ‘Me neither,’ I said.

  ‘And now you’re a graduate. Well done, you.’

  She hugged me again. It was the third time she’d congratulated me since we’d sat down with our drinks. ‘Are you okay?’ I said.

  ‘I’m good,’ she said. ‘Rob’s dumped me, but I’m glad. It wasn’t going anywhere.’

  ‘Oh, Karen, I’m sorry. When did this happen?’

  ‘A couple of months ago. He’s shacked up with some nurse now.’

  ‘You should have called me.’

  ‘It’s no big deal. Same old story. I pick rubbish men. That’s what I do.’

  We took a sip of our pints. A man in a brown wool Crombie coat and red Doc Martens came into the pub. He and his coat looked like they needed a good wash and iron. He had a skinny lurcher dog on a lead walking at his side. ‘You can’t bring him in here,’ the barwoman shouted across the lounge. ‘I’ve told you before.’

  The man muttered something, patted the dog’s head and walked back outside where he tied the lead to the concrete waste-paper bin. The dog lay down on the pavement, put his head on his paws and yawned, looking as though he was used to the routine. The man walked back into the pub and up to the bar. I stared at the lurcher through the window. It had been three years since Freddie had said, ‘You’ll forget about me, Jo-Jo’, made his guilt-trip proposal of marriage, delivered his no-show phone call, and then the clinic, Dad’s death, Liam. The dog closed his eyes.

  ‘What next?’ said Karen. ‘You coming back home?’

  I lifted up the pint glass and glugged at the lager. ‘No,’ I said, putting the drink back on the table. ‘Jason’s asked me to move in with him.’

  ‘Jason. You mean the old guy?’

  ‘He’s not old,’ I said.

  ‘He’s a lot older than you. I thought he was just your ‘sleep with the teacher’ moment.’

  ‘He’s nice, lonely. Anyway, the other option is to go back home. Dad’s dead, Josh has moved out and I’d be left with Mum and all the weirdness coming out of her schizophrenia-addled head. I don’t exactly have many choices here, Karen.’

  ‘Yeah, but moving in with an old guy you hardly know. Is that a good idea?’

  ‘He’s okay. I’ll be okay.’

  ‘Where’s he live?’

  ‘He’s got a detached house on the outskirts of Lincoln.’

  ‘The one he lived in with his dead wife?’

  ‘She wasn’t dead when she lived there.’

  ‘It wouldn’t do for me,’ she said, feigning a full-body shiver. ‘I couldn’t stand her ghost rattling around in my life.’

  ‘You do say the strangest things,’ I said. ‘I won’t be there long. It’s only until I get sorted.’

  *

  ‘We can do want you want with the house,’ said Jason. ‘It hasn’t been decorated since Tanya died.’

  ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ I said.

  He walked over to the fireplace and picked up one of the six Whitefriars red bubble glass dilly ducks and turned it over in his hand. ‘I want you to be comfortable here,’ he said. ‘Make this your home.’

  ‘It’s not really my home, Jason. It’s your home.’

  He put the ornament back on the shelf and faced me. ‘Couldn’t it become ours?’

  ‘Like I said, let’s see how it goes. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks.’

  ‘I talk about Tanya too much, don’t I?’

  ‘We’ve both got pasts.’

  ‘But mine’s in this house. Is that it?’

  ‘Partly,’ I said. ‘But it’s also me. I don’t want to rush into anything permanent.’

  ‘I see,’ he said. ‘It’s the age difference then.’

  ‘No. It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me. Let’s just enjoy what we have and see what happens.’

  He walked over to me, put his hands on each side of my face and kissed me. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘Thank you for being here. You’ve changed my life.’

  ‘I just want to clear my head,’ I said. ‘Work out what to do next.’

  Jo-Jo – September 1983

  I heard the window cleaner lean his ladders against the front of the house and, clump, clump, clump, he climbed up the steps to the bedroom, which was always at the start of his job. It would take him a while to work his way around to the bathroom, but I stood up and pulled down the blind. I sat back down on the toilet lid and looked again at the white plastic stick. The indicator was still blue. ‘My God,’ I said out loud.

  Ten, nine, eight, seven, six…

  I flushed the toilet, went out onto the landing and walked downstairs. Jason was sitting on the sofa, reading the Guardian. I walked into the room and sat down on the armchair opposite him. I could hear the Seiko wall clock ticking away the minutes from its position on the wall behind me. He dropped his newspaper and looked at me. ‘Are you okay?’ he said. ‘You’re as white as a ghost.’

  ‘I’ve got something to tell you,’ I said.

  He put the newspaper on the seat next to him. ‘You’re leaving me,’ he said.

  ‘No, Jason. I’m not leaving you, but I am…’

  ‘You’re pregnant.’

  I looked down and realised I’d unconsciously had both my hands on my stomach. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m pregnant.’

  He jumped up, walked over to the chair and kissed me. ‘That’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘Just wonderful.’ He was crying. ‘A baby. I’m going to be a dad. Oh, Jo-Jo, that’s wonderful.’

  ‘It’s going to change everything, Jason.’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘We’ll have to, well, I assume, we’ll get married.’

  ‘Married?’

  ‘That’s the right thing to do, isn’t it? For the baby.’

  ‘Is it right for us though?’ I said.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  The squeaky sound of the window cleaner’s chamois leather as he rubbed away on the glass made us both look across at the bay window. The window cleaner waved. Jason waved back.

  Jo-Jo – May 1984

  The clock ticked over to five o’clock, triggering the bell to mark the start of visiting time. Our Hattie Jacques look-alike matron opened the double entrance doors to the ward and Jason walked, almost ran, down to my bed, which was about four beds along, clutching his two red roses. Wendy, the woman in the bed next to mine, who’d given birth to a twelve pounds, three ounces boy, leaned towards me and said, ‘He always looks so happy, your husband. Your first is it? He’s my fourth. I can barely get my old man away from the footie.’

  Jason handed me the flowers. ‘One for each of you,’ he said, before turning to the foot of the bed and leaning down to the cot. ‘She’s so perfect. Aren’t we clever?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘She is perfect.’

  ‘They let me cut the cord,’ he said. ‘I didn’t even know you could do that. I thought the dads had to wait outside.’ He was still looking down at the cot.

  ‘You back again, love,’ said Wendy. ‘I was telling this one, she’s lucky to have you.’

  Jason smiled at her, walked up the side of the bed and sat down in the armchair. ‘I’ve been thinking about a name,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure how you’ll feel about this.’

  ‘It’s not going to happen, Jason.’

  ‘You don’t know what I’m going to say yet.’

  ‘You want to call her Tanya.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be nice.’

  ‘You want me to call our baby after your dead wife?’

  ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk about her like that, Jo-Jo. She’s…’

  ‘We’re calling her Amy,’ I said.

  ‘Amy?’

  ‘It’s my mum’s middle name. I’ve always loved it.’

  Jo-Jo – July 1987

  ‘Do we have
to go out tonight? There’s a documentary on telly I want to watch.’

  He was standing behind me. I was sitting cross-legged in front of the dressing table, halfway through putting on my thick black mascara. I paused the brush midway and glared at him through the mirror. ‘We’re going, Jason,’ I said. ‘I don’t see Karen half as much as I should and the babysitter’s booked.’

  ‘You could go,’ he said. ‘You don’t need me there.’

  ‘She’s bringing her new fella. She wants us to meet him.’

  ‘I never feel comfortable with your friends. They make me feel old.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake. Not this again. I thought you liked Karen.’

  ‘I do. It’s just, well, our age difference is obvious.’

  ‘No it isn’t. Only in your head. Anyway, we’re going.’

  ‘And then there’s him.’

  I put the brush on the dressing table. ‘Who?’ I said, facing him. ‘Karen’s boyfriend? You’ve not met him yet.’

  ‘Not him. You know who I mean.’

  ‘You mean Freddie. Is that who you’re talking about?’

  ‘I don’t like the idea she might be comparing us.’

  ‘You think Karen’s looking at you and comparing you with Freddie. That’s ridiculous.’

  ‘I would. And what chance do I stand against him? You were the same age. Your first love always has a bigger impression. She saw you together, saw what you meant to each other. There’s never going to be anything like that for you.’

  ‘You mean like you and Tanya?’

  ‘We’re not talking about me.’

  ‘We are now. I have to live with that bloody woman every second, breathe the same air in every room in this house. And the biggest thing you’ve got is having dinner with my best friend who happened to know my first boyfriend.’

  Jo-Jo – November 2006

  Our neighbours, Alex and Julie, had descended on us for a ritual Saturday night game of Monopoly. I threw the dice. They landed against my wine glass, which I’d placed on the carpet next to me. A three and a two. I picked up the iron and bounced it slowly across the board, watching Jason out of the corner of my eye. Mayfair, my four green plastic houses and one red hotel already cramming up the purple-headed square.

  ‘I’ll buy an hotel,’ I said.

  ‘Jammy sod,’ said Alex, picking up one of the cheese and pineapple sticks I’d laid out on the coffee table. ‘I’ve never known anyone have two hotels on Mayfair and four houses on Park Lane.’

  ‘It was an illegal throw,’ said Jason.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your dice didn’t stop rolling. They hit your wine glass.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘There’s no point in playing if you’re not going to play properly.’

  ‘But you could say that about every throw. The carpet slows the dice down.’

  ‘It’s not an obstacle you can avoid. You can avoid your wine glass.’

  ‘Really, Jason,’ said Julie. ‘It’s only a game.’

  ‘It’s cheating. She needs to take the throw again.’

  I picked up the dice. ‘Where would you like me to put these?’

  Alex and Julie laughed.

  ‘Just throw them on the carpet,’ said Jason.

  I rattled the dice in my hand. I could feel the silent tension oozing out of Alex and Julie. Jason was wearing his lording-it-over-everyone grin, the one that always made me want to slap him hard. I threw the dice, one roll, two, three, they came to a stop against the white sheepskin rug in front of the gas fire. A two and a one. I smiled. Alex clapped his hands. I moved the iron slowly, coming to a stop on Park Lane. ‘I’ll buy an hotel,’ I said, peeling a £200 note from my stash of money.

  ‘Another illegal throw,’ said Jason. ‘The roll was stopped by the edge of the rug, which you could have avoided.’

  ‘You don’t think you’re taking this a bit too seriously?’

  ‘It’s the rules.’

  ‘Fuck your rules, Jason,’ I said, picking up the bottle of Muscadet and filling my glass to the brim. I offered the bottle to Alex and Julie, who nodded. I filled their glasses and held my glass out. ‘Fuck Jason and his rules,’ I toasted.

  *

  We undressed in silence, me getting into my bed, Jason into his.

  ‘Well, another evening spoiled,’ I said.

  ‘By me, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘Who else? You and your stupid rules.’

  ‘I don’t see the point in playing if we’re not going to follow them.’

  ‘You were just pissed off because I landed on those squares. You don’t like me winning.’

  ‘That would make me really childish, Jo-Jo.’

  ‘You said it.’

  Silence. I turned off my bedside light. Jason turned off his. I stared at the ceiling, waiting for it. A part of me enjoying the moment. Saturday night rituals, his vulnerability, his weakness.

  ‘Jo-Jo,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve got no chance, Jason.

  *

  Breakfast – I bounced his fry-up plate in front of him. Bacon, sausage, eggs, beans, tinned tomatoes and fried bread.

  ‘You could cook that yourself, you know. Just for a change.’

  ‘I don’t do it as well as you.’

  ‘Must be the practice I get.’

  ‘You’re still annoyed about last night?’

  ‘Not really. You can’t help what you are.’

  ‘Too old for you. Too set in my ways. I told you that when we first met.’

  ‘We’ve been married for over twenty years, Jason.’

  ‘Doesn’t make it any less true.’

  ‘It’s got nothing to do with age.’

  ‘You like the money though, don’t you?’

  I carried on buttering my toast. I could feel him looking at me, waiting for a response. ‘You’re Amy’s dad,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And that’s the only reason you’ve stayed.’

  I met his eyes. ‘You were kind when I met you.’

  ‘You needed me after him. That was all there was to it.’

  ‘I can’t believe you still talk about him. I wish I’d never told you.’

  He picked up his knife and fork, cut the end off one of his sausages and dipped it into the egg yolk. ‘Hard not to talk about him,’ he said. ‘He’s been here every day of our marriage.’

  ‘You can’t let go of the past, can you?’

  He put the knife and fork down. ‘Face it, Jo-Jo. I was just your rescue dog.’

  ‘You’re Amy’s dad.’

  ‘He even beat me there. She’s not exactly your first, is she?’

  ‘Why are you mentioning that?’

  ‘It’s why we’re here, isn’t it? Me rescuing you from your termination. You finding a daddy to balm your conscience.’

  ‘You really hate me, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I really don’t, Jo-Jo.’

  He folded up his Times newspaper, stood up and walked into the lounge.

  I stared at his uneaten breakfast, yellow streams of disturbed egg yolk running through the blood-coloured gunge of the tinned tomatoes. My eyes landed on Amy’s graduation picture, which was hanging on the dining room wall – her face-filling smile, a tilted mortar board on her head, a faux parchment tied with red ribbon clutched in her hands, her life ahead of her.

  Jo-Jo – October 2008

  It was sunset time on our first trip to the Maldives without Amy. I was sitting on a swing and looking out at the talcum-powder beach sand and the azure blue sea of the Indian Ocean, thinking about my early-morning snorkelling trip. I’d seen a pod of dolphins bobbing up and down on the tide, but they’d disappeared as I was trying to reach them. That’s when I’d felt a nudge in my back. I’d spun round in the water and a solitary
dolphin was staring at me, our eyes meeting momentarily before it glided away from the coral and out into the ink-purple deep. He’d waited for me – that’s what it felt like. This was the sort of thing I’d experienced with Amy, but without her the excitement deflated like a punctured lilo. ‘I never know why you want to come,’ I’d said to Jason on the seaplane. ‘You can’t swim and it’s always too hot for you.’ ‘I like the solitude,’ he’d replied. And he did. He’d sit in the shade, next to the swimming pool, wearing a straw cowboy hat, suit trousers and a long-sleeved shirt, and he’d read, read, read. His only concession to the tropical climate was the absence of socks underneath his Jesus sandals. Our worlds never collided. I lived in the ocean, snorkelling along the reef, gasping at the marine life, paddle-boarding through the surf, canoeing to the sandbanks, swimming with the fishes, catamaran-sailing in search of turtles.

  The sun finally fell into the sea, sending a fireball splash of colour across the sky and turning the clouds into horizon plops of gassy islands, the whole view dropped into silhouette. One of the cloud clusters started to break up, morphing from a Popeye image into a Desperate Dan figure. It reminded me of Freddie and our field by the driving range. I hoped he was okay.

  Jo-Jo – February 2014

  A niggling cough, chest pain on exertion, shortness of breath. Six weeks later we were sitting in front of a Harley Street consultant getting the results of his MRI scan.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s spread to the brain,’ said the surgeon.

  ‘We’ll get a second opinion,’ I said. ‘There must be something they can do.’

  ‘How long?’ said Jason.

  ‘Months at most,’ said the surgeon, ‘but more likely weeks.’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ I said. ‘There must be something…’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Jason, squeezing my hand. ‘I’m ready to go.’

  Three weeks later he was dead.