Magnificent Joe

by James Wheatley

  I hope you’re not at the pub; you should be taking it easy the state you’re in! I just popped round to check that you’re OK, but you’ve buggered off. I thought you’d be resting. Ring me if you need anything.

  Laura

  God knows why she bothered – she has enough problems of her own – but as I read the evidence that someone cares, even a little bit, I feel a small warmth in my stomach. I walk towards the phone, but the idea melts before I get there. It is 8.45 a.m., I haven’t slept, I can’t even begin to approach the task of explaining what happened last night, and the only other thing I have to say is, ‘Thanks for giving a fuck.’ It won’t do at all. I go to bed.

  —

  Later, I am woken by the sound of the bin men. I check my watch. It is 1 p.m. If I close my eyes I’ll fall straight back to sleep, but if I do that I’ll end up nocturnal. I stare at the ceiling for a couple of minutes and it dawns on me that I’m absolutely starving: incentive enough to get up and go downstairs.

  In the kitchen, I use a knife to dig the mould patches out of a couple of slices of bread. Then I put the bread in the toaster. I haven’t had the chance to clean in here, or buy food, for over a week and the general squalor makes me think of Joe again. He’ll need to learn to look after himself, but to do that he will have to accept that his life has changed for good. Dealing with change is not one of Joe’s strong points. For that matter, it’s not one of mine.

  The toast pops up. I manage to scrape enough margarine out of the almost-finished tub to cover both slices, just about. They taste like shit. Never mind Joe, I’m going to peg out myself if things carry on like this. I have no idea what he’s doing right now – on his own in that house – but he’ll have to cope without me for a little longer. I have things that need to be done.

  I gently prod at my ribs; they still hurt. I circle my shoulders; moving still hurts. Clearly, the best thing for me is the couch and a quantity of Scotch, but it cannot be. I still have no cash and I still haven’t reported my card stolen, so I have to go to the bank. That accomplished, I will have to go to the petrol station because the car’s almost empty. And if I’m at the petrol station, I may as well go into the supermarket. The alternative is starvation.

  I brush the crumbs off my T-shirt and start looking for my keys.

  —

  My bank balance is not encouraging, so I buy only half a tank and my food shopping is even more frugal than usual. In the supermarket, shoppers swerve to avoid getting close as I rummage through the bakery shelves for the cheapest possible loaves of bread, black-eyed and hissing to myself as the bending and stretching prompts new parts of my body to remind me that I’m not in the best of health. There’s nothing for it but to crash on through the day, and do what needs to be done. I let the rest of the world blur past me. If I stop to think, I’ll seize up, or worse.

  I pay and get everything into the car. I’ve probably forgotten a lot of things I need, but at least I now have some food that’s fit for human consumption. I sit behind the wheel and tear into a packet of sausage rolls. I’m hungry enough that even cold they taste good. The fat coats the roof of my mouth. I eat all five. I feel sick. I wind down the window and drive away.

  The freezing air makes my eyes water. I let the tears flow all the way home.

  —

  Back at the house, I put away the shopping. It doesn’t look like much once it’s in the cupboard, but it’ll satisfy my needs for a few days at least. The kitchen is still a tip, but my visit to the bank has reminded me that I have a greater priority – namely, to secure gainful employment. I pick up the phone. I’m going to call Lee and press him about these jobs, and I’m not going to let anything deflect me from the task…except for the fact that I don’t know his number. It’s stored on my mobile; automatically I reach into my pocket. My mobile is not there.

  ‘Oh shit.’

  It’s not in my pocket because it’s on the bathroom floor where I left it, completely fucked. I slam the receiver back into the cradle and wince as the shock of the impact travels through my sprained wrist.

  ‘Fuck.’

  I don’t know his last name, so the directory is useless to me. Then I see Laura’s note, next to the phone where I put it. I pick it up and read it again: ‘Ring me if you need anything.’

  —

  By the time I knock on the door, I feel a bit daft. There was no real need to come all the way to Geoff’s house; it would have been quicker to ask a neighbour, some of whom have started actually speaking to me in recent years. It was just the momentum of the day that brought me here; the signs all pointed this way and I followed them. She opens the door.

  ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. She turns back into the house and I follow her to the living room. ‘Have you heard anything from Geoff?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you tried his family?’

  ‘They won’t talk to me,’ she sighs. ‘He must have told them. Why are you up and about, anyway?’

  ‘I didn’t have much choice in the matter.’

  ‘Well, it’s your funeral. Do you want a drink?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  We stand in silence for a few moments and then she looks at me and smiles. ‘You wanted to borrow my phone.’

  ‘Please.’

  She hands me her mobile and watches as I take it apart and replace her SIM card with mine. ‘Is it an important number?’ she asks.

  ‘Aye, pretty important – someone who might have some work for me.’

  ‘Oh. Just temporary?’

  ‘Sounds like it could be long term. If it works out, like.’

  I turn her phone on, and as it plays its little welcome jingle, I look up at her. I’m about to say, ‘Thank you,’ when suddenly I understand the look on her face. ‘Fuck. Laura, I’m sorry. It’s just I’m completely skint. I cannat afford to wait for him, y’know? It doesn’t mean I don’t think he’s coming back.’

  She sighs and sits down on the couch. I’m left, awkward, in the centre of the room. I sit next to her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say again.

  ‘It’s all right. You’ve got to get on, I suppose. Everything’s changing.’

  ‘Aye, it is.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m surprised how well I can imagine carrying on without him.’

  ‘Well, it’s like anything; you just find a way, don’t you.’

  ‘Hark at you,’ she says. ‘You should be one of them self-help gurus.’

  ‘Thanks. Well, there’s at least one thing you’ve still got in common with Geoff.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘That I can rely on you to take the piss.’

  ‘I’m glad I’m still amusing to someone.’

  ‘Oh yeah. It’s a laugh a minute around here.’ I sink back into the sofa, and with relaxation comes a resurgence of fatigue and then a long yawn. ‘Sorry. I’m shattered.’

  ‘I was going to ask if you’d been sleeping. You look absolutely knackered. Even the eye that isn’t black is black.’

  ‘Something bad happened last night.’

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Really bad,’ and I tell her the story of Mrs Joe’s death.

  She doesn’t interrupt me as I talk, but when I have finished, she gives me a sad smile and says, ‘Well, I’m sorry to hear that. It sounds like you were very fond of her.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose I was. She’s always been around, y’know? Ever since I can remember.’

  It’s cold in the room, and without a word Laura gets up and turns on the gas fire. Blue flames burst into life over the fake coal and incandescent prickles of light spread into a vivid blush. Laura shuffles herself back onto the sofa without quite standing up again, and I find myself talking more than I’d meant to.

  ‘I felt like she was the last link to my parents. Well, my dad.’ I did feel that, but I didn’t know that I felt it until now. ‘She was the only person who knew them that I could talk to. Well, talk to sensibly, anyway. But I didn�
��t, really. There was so much more I could have asked, but I was too embarrassed.’

  A long pause. Laura reaches out and touches my hand. ‘Look, Mrs Joe probably told you more than you realize, and you shouldn’t dwell on the things you regret.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done. I feel guilty.’

  ‘Guilty?’

  I stare into the fire.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault; she was an old woman. She’s not your responsibility, she never was.’

  ‘It’s not just that. It’s my dad. Looking after them is about the only thing I’ve ever done that he would have been proud of, and I’ve buggered it up.’

  ‘But what about her family? Where are they in this? Don’t they have some responsibility?’

  ‘She has a younger brother. At least, I think he’s still alive; I didn’t hear of anything happening to him. He hasn’t lived around here for years, though. I don’t think I’ve ever met him.’

  ‘You’ll need to get in touch with him. There’s arrangements to be made – all the talking to undertakers and solicitors and that.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought that far on yet.’

  ‘Well, you shouldn’t have to, especially the state you’re in.’

  ‘It’s not that bad.’

  ‘It’s not that good either. And you’ve got Joe to keep an eye on.’

  ‘Aye. No one else is going to do it.’ I look into my lap and see that she holds my left hand between both of hers. I hadn’t noticed her take it. She squeezes my fingers and it makes me smile. ‘Thanks,’ I find myself saying.

  ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘You’re so full of optimism.’

  ‘That’s what keeps me grinning.’

  She pats me on the knee and stands up. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on.’

  I watch her walk into the kitchen, then hear the noise of the tap. Outside, it’s getting dark. I should write down the number, go home, and make my call, but I don’t want to move yet. I’ll drink my tea and then I’ll go.

  —

  My route back from Laura’s house takes me past the end of Mr Green’s street. I pause. Laura was right about the things that are and are not my responsibility, and knowing that makes everything seem easier to think about. I turn towards Mr Green’s house. The light in the front room isn’t on, but there is one on upstairs. I’m about to knock when I notice a glow at the end of the side passage, so I go round the back.

  I find him in the shed. The door is slightly ajar, so I tap on it and he turns round with a start.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘You found something to work on, then.’

  ‘There’s always something to work on.’ He sniffs. ‘You didn’t finish all the tiaras, did you.’

  ‘No, I didn’t. Something came up.’

  ‘Aye, he confessed to me at the last rehearsal.’

  ‘Sorry. I’d have cleaned it away, but I needed to get him home.’

  ‘Come in, would you. It’s chilly.’

  I pull the door closed after myself, unhook a folding chair from its place on the wall, and sit down. He lowers himself into his own chair. I notice that the pantomime tiaras are approximately as I left them; whatever he’s doing out here hasn’t involved much actual work. The air is thick with the warm smell of paraffin; an old heater burns in the back corner. It wasn’t lit last time I was in here. I point at it with my foot.

  ‘That thing’s lethal. You should get an electric one.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for me to worry about health and safety now.’ He gestures vaguely at his walking stick, propped in the corner alongside a split pickaxe-handle.

  ‘You still have a wife,’ I say.

  ‘I think it would be a relief for both of us.’

  ‘Bollocks to you, then.’ A little pan-flash of anger.

  He watches me steadily from beneath an arched eyebrow. ‘You sound like you need some sleep.’

  ‘Sorry. I managed some earlier, but you know what it’s like when your routine’s buggered up.’

  ‘Aye, well. We’re two grumpy bastards together, then.’ He tips his head towards the heater. ‘You can fill it up for me, if you like. I’ll just spill the bloody stuff everywhere.’

  There’s a can marked, ‘Paraffin’, on the shelf above my head. I get up and swing it down with a heavy slosh; then I take it over and squat next to the heater. I can’t see a funnel anywhere, so I pour slowly.

  When I’m finished, he’s still sitting there, staring into space and massaging the knuckles of his left hand between the thumb and fingers of his right. I put the paraffin back, and he looks at me as if he’d forgotten I was here. I sit down.

  ‘We’ll have to sort out the arrangements,’ I say.

  ‘Her brother’s dealing with it. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh. I didn’t know you were in touch with him.’

  ‘I am now. I called Joe and got him to find his mother’s address book.’

  ‘Right. So it’s out of our hands.’

  ‘Aye.’ Mr Green shrugs. ‘He did little enough for her during her lifetime…’

  ‘How did Joe sound when you talked to him?’

  ‘Glum, I would say.’

  ‘I just dropped him off this morning. I haven’t looked in on him or anything.’

  ‘Well, we can’t babysit him, can we?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Look, son, we’ll keep him on the straight and narrow, right? Keep him involved in the panto and all that, and keep an eye on him until we know how things are going to turn out. We won’t leave him to rot – don’t worry.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I find myself agreeing with him, and it doesn’t seem to matter that he can’t even get down the lane to Joe’s house under his own steam; it’s good enough to know that someone else is with me on this.

  ‘He’ll be all right,’ says Mr Green.

  ‘Aye, he’ll be all right.’

  ‌27

  When I get in, I go to the phone and call Lee immediately. I shouldn’t put it off any longer. I don’t want to work – I’ve never wanted to work – but I have to, and this is the only offer I have. It seems to ring for a long time, but eventually he answers.

  I tell him it’s me and he cuts me off in a flurry of speech: ‘Fucking hell, man. Where’ve you been? I’ve been trying to reach you for days.’

  ‘Eh…’ I gulp back my surprise, and say, ‘Sorry, my phone’s knackered. I only just managed to get your number off my SIM card. I meant to call you before, but I’ve been in hospital and all sorts.’

  ‘Hospital?’

  ‘Aye, I was pissed and I had a fall. Just a bit battered, like.’

  ‘But you’re all right for work?’

  I circle my wrist; it’s stiff and sore. ‘I’ll be fine.’ I’m going to need some painkillers. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, mate, bright and early. We’re working the weekend to catch up.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ I will definitely need painkillers.

  ‘Good news, eh?’

  ‘Aye, it’s great news.’

  He gives me all the details. I scribble down directions on the back of the envelope the phone bill came in. It’s in the middle of nowhere, out in the country, but at sixty quid a day the money’s good enough to make that worth my while. Better yet, it’s cash in hand. We’ll be working on the conversion of some old stables into a pair of houses, which makes a change at least. All in all, it sounds a lot better than I had any right to expect.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I tell him.

  I put the phone down and wonder if I could get away with a couple of cans of Special Brew in celebration. No. I have to deny myself. I have never before started a new job with entirely new people, and I’m surprised to find myself wanting to make a good impression. The bruises look bad enough, but rocking up with a foggy hangover to boot would definitely be bad form. The feed-me-booze voice gets quieter but doesn’t shut up entirely,
and to take my mind off it, I walk into the kitchen and switch on the radio. It fills the room with information from Iraq: sixty-eight killed in a marketplace here; US Marine blown up there. The usual shit, but I leave it on because I know there’s a real programme in the next time slot. Anyway, the world could do with fewer US Marines. If I’m not going to drink, I need some dinner.

  I’m looking at the contents of the fridge when I realize there’s a problem. If I go to work tomorrow, that means leaving Joe on his own for another day. I don’t know if he’s ever been alone for that long in his life. Without someone to impose routine upon him, someone to stand between him and whatever random events ricochet in his direction, sooner or later he’ll spaz out. And why not? We’ve all got a breaking point.

  I decide that I’d better have a word with him, at the very least, but when I telephone, he doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s in the shower, or having a shit. I go back into the kitchen. It turns out that what is on the radio is not what I expected, but one of those smug, unfunny sitcoms. Fuck knows who listens to them, but they probably live in Surrey. I twist the dial until I reach a music station. Some bed-wetter with a guitar. Fuck. Commercials. Bollocks. I turn it off.

  I’m going to have to go over there.

  —

  I drive down the lane to Joe’s house. The car wallows through the potholes and the loose change rattles in the ashtray. The headlights gild the verge against the heavy dark; a tumult of bramble whirling like razor-wire, the rigor mortis of last season’s hogweed. A rabbit bursts from the undergrowth and zigzags down the channel of light ahead of me before disappearing into the hedge. It’s cold. I turn up the heater.

  When I pull up outside Joe’s house, it looks like every light in the place is switched on, each window bright. I walk round the back – almost tripping on some unseen object as I go – and peer through the kitchen window. It’s messy again, but not as bad as it was last time I was here. I knock, but there’s no sign from inside. I rap hard on the door glass, and then for good measure hammer the wood with my fist. Still nothing. I try the handle and it opens. I’ll have to tell him about that.