It was going to be another long day, just the usual slog of getting everyone ready for their day and then finally starting his. The coffee was cold as he hadn’t had time to drink it, again, and the housework was piling up for him – finish tidying the kitchen, get the dinner ready in the slow cooker, find the car keys.
Kids off to school and then off to the office – just another day in paradise. And what a paradise: torrential rain and winds that threatened to bring trees down. Not really the scene that came to mind when trying to envisage where you’d want to be.
Alan was living the dream! Well, it was a dream, just not his. Two healthy kids, that was fine, marriage in a mess, not fine, work was a perpetual yo-yo where he was teetering on the brink of a nervous breakdown or just leading up to that. The bills were just getting bigger each week and his pay packet just seemed to keep shrinking.
The pleas of “Dad, can I go on this school trip?” or “can we go here for our holiday?” were, he was sure, giving him hives.
Was this really it? No time for hobbies, no time to go out and just let his hair down… what hair? That too had decided he wasn’t the prospect he once was, and had fled some time ago.
The person Alan saw in the mirror was a caricature of who he thought he still was. Virile and vibrant ….hmmmm, the only thing that would be giving those qualities back also started with a V and was small and blue. Not that he needed those, given the bereft nature of his sex life.
He arrived at work, nodded his usual hellos at colleagues and settled down at his desk, and then noticed the butter from his toast that morning had dropped, leaving a really obvious mark on his shirt. He really liked this shirt, too – it was a nice blue floral number and made him feel exciting…
Alan stifled an internal laugh of self-contempt. Exciting, who was he kidding?
As he went from meeting to meeting, all he could think about was the greasy mark on his shirt and was convinced that was what everyone looked at when their attention turned to him. They must think I’m a total slob he thought as he tried to cover it up with an arm, or his notebook, all the while feeling more and more self-conscious about it.
Lunchtime came and went, a packet of crisps and a coffee were all he really had time for and he was not really in the mood for them. He ate the crisps while reading emails, pages and pages of problems and what seemed like hundreds of people going round in circles and not really taking ownership of the issues and therefore the whole thing landing on him to unravel and fix.
He didn’t mind it at work, most of the time – he was good at it, cutting through the ‘mince’ as an old colleague had called it, to get to the root of the issue then guide teams to put things right. But lately he just felt that the same patterns were everywhere, people just not thinking about what’s going on around them, not taking responsibility and just leaving it to him to work out.
There was of course a peppering of paranoia in this, for example the local supermarket hadn’t moved the aisles around just to annoy him, nor had the manufacturer of his car added something that made the radio play up from time to time just to give him another thing to moan about. But they kept coming, and he felt more and more weighed down each day with these little things.
These little things had been bothering him more and more lately, he was aware that even he thought he was being a little irrational about keeping things in proportion. Did it really matter that there was no water in the kettle in the morning or the dish cloth had been left in a bowl full of dirty, cold water – again. The family’s plates and cups were, as always, stacked on the worktop above the dishwasher, and as always they would find their way into the machine by magic! Did that make him a fairy?
Small things he kept telling himself, just silly inconsequential small things. They are not worth having a heart attack over. It’s just a dish cloth, you can fill the kettle. But on the nights where he still lay awake with thoughts swirling around his mind, they multiplied and morphed into something else, his inability to really confront them turning them into bigger and more complex issues until he couldn’t deal with them anymore.
It was during these nights he tried to distil them into their root causes, it was his job to troubleshoot things at work so it made sense to apply the same logic here, although he struggled to be objective analysing himself. The more he thought about them, the deeper he went into himself. Was this because of that decision back then? Did this happen because he went that way instead of the other?
One thing was very clear to him, that he was deeply unhappy. Sure, his kids were great, but as they got older they wanted to spend less time with him, unless it was going somewhere that they couldn’t get to on their own. He just existed these days, going through the motions each day from getting up to going to bed, the bit in between feeling like a chore that he wanted to get through as quickly as possible so he could get to bed and lay there, awake and emotionally alone.
It had been several months since he’d seen his parents, the last time had revealed a past indiscretion by his father that he hadn’t been able to get past. This was a man who would always be able to weave a thread of religion into every conversation, commenting on the sanctity of marriage, the importance of respect for each other and god’s word and will….
Another reason right there, thought Alan. Do I really need to hear this hypocrisy? Having been brought up in a Christian household and been a reluctant churchgoer from an early age, Alan had long since turned his back on religion. The news showed too much horror, his personal experience of losing extended family members, and seeing how much pain and suffering had been caused in the name of one religion or another was enough. As he got older he got more involved in learning about science, which broadened his mind and his understanding of the world around him, how we came to be, the evolution from primordial soup to where we are now.
The more he thought about things, the further away from religion he got. He’d stopped being afraid of what might happen if he thought certain things, or neglected actions, didn’t pray or whatever indoctrinated nonsense he had been led to believe was steering his life. No more guilt to be felt and his decisions and actions were his alone. No higher being pulling any strings or making things out of clay, or ribs or whatever. Then wiping everything out like some sort of supernatural etch-a-sketch.
Alan finally closed his eyes on another day and willed himself to sleep.
The next day – Friday – was much the same as the one before, except he didn’t even manage the crisps at lunchtime. He pushed on through the work, promising himself a takeaway and a drink at the end of it all, but was past hunger by the time everything was finished. Most of his colleagues had already left for the weekend – and no doubt had better plans for the two days off than he did.
Okay – how about a sausage roll on the way home? He put his coat on, walked tiredly to the lift and pressed the down arrow. Straight to bed when I get home – not even going to look in the kitchen. If there’s a mess, it’ll still be there in the morning. The evening air was thick with drizzle as he left the building and started walking towards the bakery.
Alan realised afterwards that he didn’t know what had made him fall – had he slipped on a discarded pasty, stumbled on the kerb, or even fainted? Either way, there he was on the ground, suddenly, with blood gushing out of his nose and a sharp pain above his right eye. There was a litter bin not far away – maybe he’d banged his head on it.
Someone knelt down next to him. “It’s okay – you’ve just fallen. I’m going to check you. Lie still for a sec.”
Alan was so tired that if the pavement hadn’t been freezing cold, he felt he could have stayed there all night and slept. He closed his eyes for a moment, dimly aware that she was doing something to his neck and back. A squeeze of his fingers jolted him awake again.
“You’re okay. Sit up, so I can look at your eye.” She put an arm around him and helped him upright. With one hand still on his back, she ran a thumb along his eyebrow. “What’s your name?”
“Um – Alan.” He smelled blood and swayed slightly. She reached into her pocket, still holding him up, and gently applied a wad of tissues to his nose.
There were people coming and going, moving past them on the pavement. Might think I’m drunk, maybe. Can’t blame them – I’m outside the pub, after all.
The woman took the tissues off, and looked carefully at his nose. “Come on – let’s go in The Dragon for a bit. They’re bound to have a first-aid kit, and we’ll be able to get your face cleaned up. Do you think you can stand?”
Alan had no idea how he got to his feet, but somehow he found himself being guided through the door of the pub and inside into the warmth. I think I’m going to be sick – but there was nothing much inside him to bring up. And all the while there was that arm, holding him steady as they walked slowly forwards.
“Can we just use the bathroom? We’ll want a drink afterwards!” Alan heard her calling in a cheerful voice. He found himself sitting down on the lid of the toilet. Just going to clean your face. He shut his eyes and let her do it.
The cold water woke Alan up a bit as she pressed a wet paper towel to his cheek. Being looked after, at the end of a relentless day looking after everyone else – his mind struggled to make sense of it.
“Right, Alan – look at me?” He did as he was told, and she peered into his eyes. “Who’s the Prime Minister?”
“Donald Trump.” He grinned, for the first time since he could remember, and then wished he hadn’t. “Only joking – Keir Starmer. Ow.”
“Ow, you would’ve preferred Rishi Sunak, or ow, your nose still hurts?”
Alan winced. “The second one.”
She felt the bridge of his nose very gently. “I don’t think it’s broken, but you’re going to have a black eye, at least. Let’s get you something to eat and drink.”
She helped him stand up and they went slowly through to the bar. There was a table for two next to the fire. “Go on, sit down, and I’ll get us something.”
Alan leaned back in his chair. I wonder if I dropped anything in the street – but his mobile, wallet and keys were still in his pocket. He sent a quick text home. Still here – eat without me. Hope not to be too much longer. Not that it probably matters to her anyway when I get back, he thought, staring into the fire.
The woman put a mug of hot chocolate in front of him. “I didn’t think I probably ought to give you alcohol, under the circumstances,” she said, smiling, “and I wasn’t sure whether you’d like whipped cream or not. But I got you a sausage roll – you looked like you could do with one.” She put the plate down. “I’ll just go and get mine.”
She came back and sat opposite him, taking her coat and hat off. “How’re you feeling now?”
Alan had just taken a bite out of his sausage roll. Now he had something to eat, he realised how hungry he’d been. He chewed and swallowed before replying, so he wouldn’t spray her with bits of pastry.
“Think I’m okay. Thank you for patching me up. I’ve no idea what happened.”
She put her own sausage roll back down on the plate. “I haven’t either. Just found you there on the pavement. Your cut’s not as bad as I thought, but maybe put some antiseptic on it when you get home. Where do you live?”
Alan took a deep drink of hot chocolate and wiped his mouth. Needed that. “Only a few minutes away. I’ll be okay in a moment.” Well, as okay as I ever am.
“How did work go today?”
He scrolled back through the past eight hours. There’d been a lot of mince to cut through. A lot of emails, and a lot of issues to solve. Too many problems – too many little things piling on top of him, more all the time.
“Long day,” Alan said quietly. Another bite of sausage roll.
“Who’s at home to look after you?”
Alan touched his nose gingerly. “Well… my wife. I was just going to go straight to bed. Can’t wait to finish for Christmas.”
She smiled at him. “When’s that? Soon?”
“Next Friday.” Thank God. And please don’t let there be a long list of things to do over the weekend when I get home.
Alan drank the last of his hot chocolate. His phone pinged. Only just saw your text. Ordered takeaway for us all – they’re delivering in ten minutes.
“I’m going to have to go home,” he said, putting his mug down on the pub table and standing up.
“Feeling okay? Not dizzy or anything?”
He checked. “No, I’m okay. Thank you again – I really appreciate it.”
She smiled. “My pleasure, Alan. Take care going home – and don’t forget to put something on that cut.”
Alan pushed the door of The Dragon open, walked round the corner and was halfway home before he realised that she knew what his name was, but he hadn’t thought to ask for hers. Actually, he’d hardly even looked at her. Red bobble hat and curly hair – that was all he could remember.
–
“Cup of tea, Lil? Mince pie?”
Lilian laid down her knitting and smiled up at the care assistant, who she was sure meant well. I am neither deaf nor in the throes of dementia, she wanted to say, and you don’t need to speak to me in that patronising tone of voice. “Thank you – how lovely!” This is the one who puts sugar in everyone’s tea. “Just milk for me, please!”
She put the china cup down on its saucer on the table next to her to let it cool a bit. The carer handed Janet in the next chair her beaker with a lid. “There you go, Jan! Got it?” The Snowman was on the television in the corner, but the sound was turned down. Not much use without that beautiful soundtrack, Lilian thought.
It’d been a busy few days at Holly Lodge, with Christmas around the corner. Lots of visitors from adult children and their little ones, coming to see Granny or Grandad and sometimes even taking them out for the day. It was Lilian’s third Christmas there. No nearby relatives made it difficult to spend the day anywhere else, though she always managed to get to a carol service. You could have a bit too much Virgin Radio, Mariah Carey and Wham after a while.
How many woollen squares was that now – fifteen? Lilian had seen an appeal on Facebook from an ancient church in the Midlands, asking for blankets to see them through winter. The central heating’s not always enough, the post had said. So she was knitting one, a bit at a time. Maybe she’d do a scarf, too, if there was any red wool left over.
All the residents had their cups of tea now. The carer pointed the remote control at the TV, raising the volume just as the snowman melted. Janet was singing The Twelve Days of Christmas, but she couldn’t remember how many maids a-milking or lords a-leaping there were, so it was a bit of a muddle.
Lilian nibbled the edge off her mince pie and looked around the semicircle in the common room. Fred had nodded off to sleep, and Peggy was chatting away to him regardless. Norman was doing his daily crossword, and Violet was absorbed in a novel. Twenty-seven people sitting side by side in front of the television every day, eating every meal together, and most of them hadn’t chosen to live there. Lilian picked her knitting back up and started a new row.
“That’s a beautiful colour,” someone said. Lilian looked up at the girl who came in once a week to spend time with whoever wanted it. Her bobble hat was the same shade of red as Lilian’s wool, and she was smiling.
“There’s a carol service on at the church later – shall we go? Then maybe a drink at The Dragon afterwards?”
Three hours later, they were sitting at a table for two in front of the fire, both knitting red squares and sipping drinks. “How many rows again? I’m up to thirty, once I’ve finished this one.”
Lilian smoothed out her stitches on the needle. “Forty-five seems to do. I’m hoping to get it finished by the end of January.” She started her next row. “That was a wonderful carol service, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, yes – I loved it. The candlelight makes everything look so lovely, and the choir were amazing. You used to sing, didn’t you? Were you in a choir?”
Lilian remembered back ten years, when John was still alive and they’d sung alto and bass in a choral society. She still had the programmes of all the concerts they’d ever done together, in a shoebox in her wardrobe. “I was. Difficult to do it now, as I can’t get far. I’d love to, though. We sing on Sunday mornings, but it’s not quite the same.” She smiled wryly, and the girl laughed.
“I could take you, if you like? I’ve actually been thinking about it for myself. Let’s have a look and see what’s nearby during the week.” The ball of wool rolled off her lap on the floor and she reached down to get it.
Lilian assumed it was a polite suggestion which would come to nothing, but as soon as she’d retrieved the wool she pulled her phone out and started tapping at the screen. “Look at this one – they meet on Mondays in the Methodist church. No auditions – that’s a relief! Shall we give it a go, after Christmas?” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “Tell me some of the things you’ve sung.”
Lilian had no idea whether she knew anything – or a great deal, even – about classical music, but somehow it didn’t seem to matter. No one’d asked her for years about her long history of choral singing. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time someone asked her anything at all about her life before she moved into Holly Lodge. She laid her knitting down.
“Let’s see – Haydn’s Nelson Mass, Messiah, Fauré and Duruflé Requiems – oh, Mozart, too – Vivaldi Gloria, St Matthew Passion, Dream of Gerontius – such a lot, when I think about it. All the Rutter anthems.”
“Do you have a CD player in your room?” She leant back and had a drink. Lilian nodded.
“I do, and such a lot of CDs. It’s hard in the common room – there’s so many of us, I’m never sure what people want to watch or listen to. It’s just whatever’s on at the time – probably doesn’t suit anyone!” She laughed at the thought. Twenty-seven people between the ages of eighty-three and a hundred and one – they’d all had careers and responsibilities and long lives, and yet they weren’t allowed, somehow, to choose what they wanted to watch or listen to. Or when to eat or get out of bed, come to that.
“And do you sing along to your CDs? I know it’s better in person – but it’s good practice, isn’t it?” Lilian hadn’t done that for a long time. She used to, when she was still in her own home. Her lung capacity probably wasn’t what it once was, but I daresay it could be built up again with a bit of effort.
Lilian looked at the girl with the curly hair sitting opposite her, knitting away as she talked, so bright and positive and full of ideas. A bit like me, several decades ago.
The girl finished another row. “It’s so nice of you to be doing this blanket – they’ll really appreciate it. Shall I try and finish a few more squares over Christmas? I’ll bring them over when I pick you up for our first rehearsal. I’ll email the person in charge, will I?”
That evening, for the first time in years, Lilian put a CD on in her room instead of joining the semicircle around the television, and picked out the alto line of Ave verum corpus. Amazing what you can remember – and do – with a bit of encouragement.
–
Hi darling. How was your day? x
Rubbish. Yours? x
What happened? x
Usual crap. A Y11 told me to eff off. Nothing’ll be done. Hate this place x
Are you home yet? x
No – just set off. Going to order a takeaway. One day to go x
Sounds lovely. Nearly there – you’ll be able to have a rest after tomorrow. Let me know when you get home x
Will do. Hope you’re OK. Sending love x
🩷🩷🩷 x
–
Alan worked even later than usual the following Tuesday. The Christmas holidays were a few days away, and things needed leaving in a decent state before he took a fortnight off. He was trying not to think too much about what that fortnight would be like. Christmas Day’ll be nice, hopefully, for the kids at least.
It had been dark outside for a good hour and a half when he finally finished work and left the building. He stood outside, looking across the road without really seeing anything much: cars, buses, Christmas shoppers, the homeless man who always sat outside the florist’s shop.
Something caught Alan’s eye – something red. He looked properly at the man sitting on the pavement, who was huddled in his usual clothes and a couple of blankets. Sitting next to him, cross-legged and wearing a bright bobble-hat and talking to him, was a woman. I’ve seen her before – oh, yes, that’s it. Last week. The Dragon. She’s the one who was there when I fell over.
Alan crossed the road before planning to do so, and stood close enough that he could watch them in conversation, but far enough away that they wouldn’t notice him. They were both drinking something hot from Greggs, and eating while they talked and laughed. Alan remembered his mother, decades ago, whenever she saw someone sitting on the pavement at a bus stop or outside school or whenever she picked him up from anywhere, saying the same thing. He’ll be sitting on the sofa at home next! What if a dog’s done its business there? Alan didn’t suppose the man had a sofa to sit on, so it probably didn’t matter. And the woman looked as if she had more important things to think about than dirty jeans – like talking to, and feeding, someone who needed it.
I’m going to have to go, Alan heard her say, but I’ll see you again soon, and I really hope there’s a bed for you in the hostel tonight. It was going to be a cold evening. Alan winced at the thought of sleeping on the streets in December.
They said goodbye and the woman stood up and walked away, towards Alan. It was definitely her – curly hair, red bobble hat. She looked up, noticed him and said, “Hello, Alan! How’s your eye?”
She remembered my name.
“Oh – it’s fine, thank you. Much better. I saw you, from over the road, and I just wanted to say – you know. Thank you for last week.”
She smiled at him. “My pleasure. I’m really glad you’re okay. How was work today?”
Alan realised, as he started to assemble a reply in his mind, how unaccustomed he’d become to being asked about his day. This person genuinely cares, like she cared last week. Me and that homeless man, both on the pavement, both needing someone to see us. But why?
“You bought me a drink last week. Can I buy you one now, as a thank you?” he said, instead of answering the question.
–
“So, how has your week been?” Alan put a pint of lemonade in front of her, sat down, and had a think. I just don’t know how to do this any more – explain how things are going for me. What’s she even asking for, anyway? It can’t possibly be of interest to her, how a stranger’s week’s been.
He took his coat off and hung it across the back of his chair. They were at the same table as last time, near the fire. It wasn’t too busy and even the radio was turned down low, with Christmas songs playing in the background. Alan had spent all day surrounded by, and solving problems for, other people. To be sitting quietly with a pint and a fire was a relief he desperately needed.
“Work or home?” he asked on impulse, instantly regretting it. She’s remembered your name, been willing to join you for a drink and asked about your week. Why are you testing her by being too honest?
She smiled. “Either. Both. Which one’s been going less well?”
Not sure how to answer that one. He had a drink of his pint and rubbed his eye.
“Either. Both,” he said, and she looked as though she understood.
“What’s happening at home?”
Where the hell do I start? He looked down at his hands, which were clasped on the table, and suddenly became aware of how hunched, how tense, his shoulders were. His whole body was, actually. When did I last relax?
“Who do you live with? Your wife, and anyone else?” Her question sounded gentle. Nothing threatening, no double meaning that seemed designed to trip him up.
“Two kids – both at the high school now. They’re great, they’re everything to me. Keep me going, really.”
“How about all the rest?”
Bugger it – what difference can it possibly make? Just be open with her. If you scare her off, you never have to see each other again.
“Well, my marriage – that’s less great. Not just my fault, not that it matters either way. Like they say, my wife doesn’t understand me.” He said the last sentence bitterly, heavy with emphasis and irony. “And she’s not interested in trying. We don’t know each other any more. Hardly know myself any more, if I’m honest.”
She leaned back in her chair. “What do you need at home?”
God, when was the last time anyone asked me that? No idea of the answer, anyway. I’m too out of practice with this. To his horror he felt tears coming, and clenched every muscle he could to stop them. Her hands were on the table, too, and she reached out to touch his, without saying anything. No I’m so sorry – I didn’t mean to upset you, nor you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.
Alan had heard both before, plenty of times, and he thought he knew by now what they usually meant, deep down. I’m uncomfortable with your grief, and I’d rather you didn’t cry, please. Something along those lines, anyway. And so few people had known what to say after Tom’s death that they’d usually reached for one of those two phrases, back when Alan was still capable of explaining any of how he was feeling.
What do I need at home?
“Well,” he said carefully, as soon as he could speak, with very little idea of what was coming next, “knowing I’m loved would be a start. And I don’t – I mean, my kids do. They’re why I’m still here. But my wife…” His voice faded. He really didn’t know what to say now.
“What happened?”
Well, I haven’t scared her off yet. That’s something.
Alan looked up at her. He wasn’t sure what to make of the expression in her eyes. Sympathy? Concern? Kindness, definitely. But no reluctance – that was what was odd about it. No barrier to having what promised to be a difficult conversation. Unusual – and something he couldn’t remember when he’d last seen.
“My brother died,” he said, for the first time in a while. “Three years ago – took his own life.” He realised that she hadn’t moved her hand away, and was still touching his. “And I can’t get past it. Just can’t, and I don’t know how. My wife – she can’t handle how I’ve felt since then. She doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything much any more. It’s just shopping lists and can I fix the hoover and why haven’t I put diesel in the car or remembered about parents’ evening.”
She squeezed his fingers gently.
“What do you need her to say? And do?”
