by K. L. Slater
I drop the kettle in the sink and tear into the other room.
‘Stop it!’
Archie releases Magnus from a bear hug and the cat scoots away.
‘I only wanted to cuddle him.’ He looks upset. ‘I want him to be my friend.’
‘You can’t force animals to like you, Archie,’ I explain. ‘You have to relax around them so they learn to trust you.’
‘I always do the wrong thing.’ He sighs and flops back onto the sofa again. ‘I’m just a stupid fat lump.’
‘Hey! I don’t want to hear you talking that way about yourself. Has someone called you that?’
‘No, but that’s what they all think.’ He shrugs and looks down. ‘I’m bored.’
I take a deep breath and try to look at it from his point of view. He’s had his evening plans ruined just as I have.
‘Look, let’s not start our time together like this. I’ll set your Xbox up right now on one condition.’
He raises an eyebrow in anticipation.
‘Are we friends?’ I say, beseechingly.
Archie gives me a half-hearted high five and I set about sorting out the tangle of wires, trying to work out what goes where.
CHAPTER THREE
In the end, the struggle is worth it… almost. For the next two hours at least, Archie doesn’t complain about being bored.
Instead he is engrossed in yet another virtual world that has been designed for streetwise teenagers over the age of fifteen, most certainly not for impressionable eight-year-old boys.
I really need to point out the age classification to Louise. She leads such a busy life and probably hasn’t realised that most of the games in his carrier bag have an age restriction.
Archie reluctantly pauses the game so he can visit the bathroom. It’s scary, how rapt he becomes while playing.
I sit for a moment, relishing the silence.
My eyes are drawn towards the window. I don’t feel the need to draw the curtains, being on the third floor. It’s another benefit of apartment living, having nobody overlooking me.
The tram stop below is well illuminated and the light permeates up, giving a soft glow, so it’s never really fully dark outside. I find that reassuring rather than irritating.
The day after I first spotted my man on the tram, I impulsively pushed the tiny square table from the kitchen over to the front room window. I decided I’d now start each day by taking my morning coffee and toast there, eating my breakfast while I listened to the morning show on BBC Radio Nottingham.
That change, although slight and seemingly insignificant, seemed a fitting way to begin my thirty-first year. Any change was better than nothing.
And after that, every weekday morning, on the 8.16 tram that I knew terminated at Old Market Square, he was there. Always sitting in the exact same kerbside seat.
I couldn’t see much detail up here on the third floor, yet it was still close enough to garner an impression of him. Such as how his short brown hair was shot through with gold when the weak sun shone through the glass.
In some ways, he looked nothing like Jack. It was more to do with his mannerisms, the way he held himself. He had a pale complexion and he always looked clean-shaven. His outerwear seemed to alternate between an unremarkable beige raincoat and a more casual black Puffa jacket, which I noticed he would don on the days the temperature dropped a little.
He seemed to gravitate from reading to staring blankly out of the window. Increasingly, as the tram slowed each morning, he’d look down and swipe rapidly through his brightly lit phone. Often he seemed quite absorbed in tapping away.
He always looked so… I don’t know, lost, I suppose.
There was something about him that touched a part of me I kept well hidden from everyone. I didn’t always acknowledge it, even to myself.
Such observations about someone you’ve never actually met sound crazy, I know. I’m just saying that’s how it was at first.
Archie reappears, back from his visit to the bathroom.
‘Only ten more minutes.’ I check my watch as he slumps into the chair without answering.
‘Die! Die!’ he screams, pummelling the console.
I wish I could build a bit of rapport with my nephew.
Despite trying to entice him – unsuccessfully – to play a board game or watch a film with me, I’ve spent most of the time looking up from my Kindle, lurching between horror and disbelief at the amount of blood and gore – not to mention bad language – on the television screen.
I issue a second ten-minute warning, which falls on deaf ears. My hearts sinks as I realise certain warfare looms ahead.
My third warning is futile.
Finally, I’ve had enough. I turn off the television at the mains.
‘No, Auntie Alice, please… I’d nearly finished that level!’ Archie launches the joystick at the wall. It hits the framed photograph of Mum and knocks it off the coffee table. I rush over and snatch it up.
Three years earlier
The day I took the picture, Mum was heading out of the door to get to the pre-booked cab that would take her to her regular ladies’ group meet-up. That week it was afternoon tea at the local garden centre.
She’d curled her hair and put a little eyeshadow and lipstick on. She seemed to be lit up from the inside.
‘You look lovely, Mum,’ I told her. ‘Bright and energised.’
‘You sound surprised.’ She laughed. ‘There’s still life in the old dog yet, you know.’
I knew she found great pleasure in the freedom of choice she had. Getting out to events, deciding what to have for tea, watching what she wanted on television. Things that most people wouldn’t give a second thought to, but that were massively important to her.
Even this long after Dad had gone, the novelty of living her life for just her remained fresh.
‘Smile for Candid Camera.’ I grinned as I picked up her camera from the side.
She rolled her eyes and stood still at the door for me. I could tell she was flattered, despite her objections.
That photo that Archie knocked to the floor as though it were nothing was taken just two weeks before she collapsed.
Present day
I use my sweater to dust it off and place it back on the table as I give Archie a look.
‘That’s enough.’ I try to affect a firm but calm tone, even though I’m shocked at his sudden angry outburst. ‘You’ve been playing now for two and a half hours. That’s far too long.’
‘I’m nine soon. I’m not a baby.’
‘You need to be at least fifteen to play some of these games,’ I try to reason with him.
‘Please put it on again, Auntie Alice,’ he whines.
‘I think you’ve had enough, Archie. How long does your mum allow you to play?’
‘She lets me play all night if I want to.’
I know Louise has been distracted by work just lately, but I doubt very much that’s the case. At least I hope it’s not.
Archie seems to be running on an adrenalin high after his marathon gaming session and doesn’t look remotely ready to settle down. If Louise doesn’t get here until after nine, it’ll be at least ten o’clock before they get home and Archie sees his bed.
By anyone’s estimation, that’s far too late for a boy of eight who’s got school in the morning. But as Louise has often let me know in no uncertain terms, she knows what she’s doing when it comes to her son.
Archie throws himself off the sofa and thrashes around, banging his heels into the floor, coordinating each blow perfectly with his yells.
‘I – WANT – IT – BACK – ON – NOW!’
I spring up and grasp his hand firmly.
‘Right, that’s enough.’ I pull him back onto the couch, praying that the tenants downstairs are out for the evening. ‘Sit there, and when you’re quiet, I might think about getting you a glass of milk and a biscuit.’
‘When’s my dad back home?’
Despite my inflamed tempe
r, I instantly feel guilty. I know that Archie sees very little of Darren during the week. Archie’s biological father, Martyn, Louise’s first husband, is never mentioned, and it’s become an unspoken understanding that we don’t talk about him.
Archie was five when Louise remarried. Me and Mum were so impressed when Darren insisted he should formally adopt Archie, and as far as I know, Archie has always thought of him as his father. He’s a good stepdad, although I suspect he’s a bit of a pushover when it comes to my headstrong sister. As we all are, I suppose.
Darren’s job as a regional sales manager for a pharmaceuticals company takes him all over the Midlands, and often he’s travelling until very late in the evening. Louise told me that by the time he gets home, Archie is often already in bed. He’s bound to miss him.
I return from the kitchen with a glass of milk and a plate bearing two Jaffa Cakes by way of a peace offering.
‘Thanks, Auntie Alice,’ Archie says meekly. ‘Sorry I got angry, I didn’t mean to.’
‘Don’t worry, Archie,’ I tell him. ‘But instead of you kicking off, I’d rather we had a conversation about something if you’re not happy.’
He nods and takes a sip of milk.
I watch him, thinking how his flash of anger over turning off the game was so sudden and powerful, as if it had been simmering under the surface all along. I wonder briefly if something is bothering him.
Magnus, having smelled the milk, sidles up to him. I smile and nod, encouraging Archie to relax around him, but he reaches out and tries to press Magnus closer to him.
The cat springs away, upending Archie’s glass.
There’s milk everywhere. On the sofa, on the carpet, all over Archie’s clothes. Magnus ventures over and starts lapping at a small puddle of it.
Archie screeches and tries to push Magnus away. His fingers only just touch the cat, but he isn’t fast enough to evade Magnus’s retaliation. Extended claws rake down his arm.
Magnus stalks regally from the room against the backdrop of Archie’s wailing.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘I’m sorry about Archie’s arm,’ I tell Louise when she eventually arrives to pick him up at nine thirty. ‘I’ve bathed it with antiseptic. The scratches aren’t very deep and should heal quickly enough.’
‘Do you think he’ll need a tetanus injection?’ Louise peers at his arm, frowning.
‘I’m sure that won’t be necessary.’
She jabs a finger at the cat. ‘You ought to sort that vicious old fleabag out.’
Magnus glares, unrepentant, from the lounge doorway.
‘Archie isn’t used to handling animals. You can’t really blame the cat; they act on instinct.’
‘Go and put your shoes on,’ she tells Archie curtly. When he’s left the room, she shakes her head. ‘I don’t know what’s got into him lately. He’s either withdrawn or losing his temper at the slightest thing.’
‘He got angry because I called time on his Xbox,’ I tell her. ‘Some of those games are really unsuitable, Louise. Have you actually watched them?’
‘I don’t have time for that!’ She turns, muttering to herself. ‘I’m doing my best, OK? I can do without more criticism being sent my way.’
I sit down and lean my head back against the seat cushion as a wave of exhaustion washes over me. I love my sister and nephew dearly, but they’re both hard work at times.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’m just… exhausted.’ My voice sounds thin and insubstantial.
‘You want to try working a twelve-hour day and see how you feel then.’ She studies me and her face softens a touch. ‘How come you’re so tired?’
‘I took my tablets before I knew Archie was coming, and I’ve had to clean up the milk he spilled all over the—’
‘You should be careful with those prescription drugs. It’s very easy to become addicted, you know.’
I’m over the worst of the ME now – my symptoms are classed as mild unless I overdo it – but there are still some people, my sister being one of them, who don’t really consider it a proper illness. So she can’t really understand why I still take medication and get a bit flaky at times.
With difficulty, I hoist myself up to standing and move towards the doorway. It takes a real effort now the fatigue has got a hold.
‘You spend too long stuck in the house. You’re seizing up, that’s the problem. What the hell was that?’
We both look up as something heavy thumps to the floor in the apartment above. Then a few moments of muted yelling and pacing around.
‘Oh, it’s the people upstairs, I hear it a lot lately. I don’t know what’s happening up there.’
Louise’s gaze sweeps around the hallway. ‘This place is far too big for you to manage, Alice. You don’t need three bedrooms any more and you can do without inconsiderate neighbours like that.’ She rolls her eyes up to the ceiling. ‘We really need to discuss selling again, for your own good.’
She pauses and tips her head while watching me, trying to gauge my reaction, but I can’t face going over it all again, not now. I’m not ready to move yet and I won’t be bullied into it.
When I stare blankly back at her, her lips tighten in barely concealed frustration.
‘Fine. But at some point soon, I would like to discuss it. I think that’s only fair and reasonable.’
I hold the front door open without comment.
‘Bye, Archie.’
‘Bye, Auntie Alice, I’m sorry about the milk.’
‘Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. Bye, Louise.’
‘See you later.’ Her voice sounds flat. ‘Thanks for having him.’
She sweeps past me, and I don’t know if it’s the poor light, but her face looks drawn with worry.
I lean back against the closed door, feeling the relief flood over me. These interactions always leave their mark on me. After everything that’s happened, my sister still has the power to make me feel guilty for thinking the worst of her.
Back in the living room, I stare at the semi-dark window. Throughout our childhood we were close, and left to our own devices, we might have remained so. But Mum, although I’m sure she never intended to, somehow periodically managed to set us against each other.
We lived out of the city in those days, in a modest but large semi-detached house on a busy road. A short walk away were fields and a small wood. We weren’t allowed to go far on our own, but very occasionally, we’d walk there as a family, perhaps for a picnic in the warmer months.
Twenty years earlier
One day, right at the end of the summer holidays, Dad promised to take us blackberry-picking when he came home from work after lunch. It looked very miserable out there, as if the rain was here to stay, and I voiced my concerns to our mother.
‘He’ll have to take you another day,’ she said briskly as she wiped down the kitchen counters for the umpteenth time.
But blackberry season didn’t last long, everyone knew that. Dad had taught us that the nicest berries were prey to a number of pests. So although there would be plenty on the bushes for a while yet, they’d all be grubby and half-eaten.
Plus, as Mum was always reminding us, Dad was a very busy man and most days wasn’t even home from the bank by the time Louise and I went up to bed.
Dad letting us down was nothing new. The trip to the zoo, the sleepover in our bedrooms with friends, the pizza party in the garden – blackberry-picking in the woods was about to join the list.
I was just ten years old but I remember that day because it was the first time I’d recognised a pattern, and I felt a real sense of injustice.
‘I’m going to tell Dad he has to stick to his word and take us out,’ I said firmly, planting my bare feet on the cool kitchen tiles. ‘You said people should stick by their promises, didn’t you, Mum?’
Mum’s face paled. ‘Yes, but… you mustn’t repeat that.’
‘Why not?’ I folded my arms and waited.
‘Because it’s no
t fair. He works so hard and does his best for us.’ Mum rubbed harder at the pristine work surface, but she wouldn’t look at me.
‘You’ve already cleaned that bit,’ I said peevishly.
Louise watched us silently, her mouth set in a mean line.
‘Alice, just leave it!’ Mum closed her eyes for a second before she opened them again. They were so big and blue in her pale, startled face. ‘Please don’t go on about it. Dad will take you both out another time.’
He wouldn’t. We all knew it, but I understood there was no use going on about it.
‘The fruit will be full of maggots by the time he can take us again,’ I said glumly, letting my arms fall to my sides.
‘Ugh, shut up… She’s making me feel sick, Mum.’ Louise pulled a face and stuck out her tongue. ‘You’re gross, Alice. I’m glad we can’t go into the woods, it’s boring.’
‘That’s enough, girls. There are plenty of other things you can find to do today, I’m sure.’
‘We’ll play hospitals,’ Louise announced, handing me a nurse’s hat. ‘I’ll be the head surgeon again and you must do as I tell you at all times.’
I watched as Louise grabbed Big Ted and placed him on a towel on the kitchen table, which served as our operating theatre.
‘Can’t we play something else?’ I asked without much hope.
‘It’s my favourite game,’ Louise replied firmly as she selected the most exciting-looking implements from the medical play case she’d received years ago but still insisted on using like a big baby.
‘Louise, remember what we talked about,’ Mum said gently, stroking her long light-brown hair. ‘It can’t always be your choice. It’s Alice’s turn to choose today.’
‘But she always chooses boring things.’ Louise scowled, stamping a foot.
‘What would you like to play, Alice?’ Mum asked me.
I thought for a moment. ‘I’d like to paint,’ I said, brightening at the thought of it.
‘Oh great,’ Louise huffed. ‘I told you it would be dull. Everybody at school thinks she’s boring too.’
