The Light in the Hallway (ARC) Page 2

  in the shadow of the tidal wave from which he was run-

  ning. Although with his energy levels sapped, it would

  be fair to say it was now more of a crawl than a run. He

  balled the towel and threw it into the plastic laundry

  basket which lived in the corner by the sink.

  He took his time whilst aware of the urgency, open-

  ing the kitchen window, inviting a breeze into the stuffy

  room where the sun beat against the misty window for

  the best part of the day. He put the milk back in the

  fridge and located his car keys, giving the boy a chance

  to change his mind.

  Hoping…

  He carried a weird sensation, empty with a hollow

  thump to his gut that felt a lot like hunger and yet he was

  simultaneously wired, full, as if on high alert.

  With one last opportunity looming, his eye on the

  clock and his heart racing, he ran back up the stairs and

  walked purposefully into Oliver’s room. His son had slipped

  down on the pillows and pulled the duvet cover up to his

  chin. The sight of him curled up like this reminded Nick

  so much of when his boy was five, six, seven – hiding

  from the monsters that might lurk under the bed – and his

  heart tore a little. The actual quilt had been discarded in

  a heap on the bedroom floor – no need of the fibre-filled

  warmth on this balmy summer evening – and yet he felt

  an unwelcome chill to his limbs.

  ‘Olly.’

  Oliver stayed silent.

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  ‘Olly, this is the last chance—’

  ‘I know. Just go! Go then! I’ve already said!’ he shouted,

  and Nick knew this newly ignited row was more than

  either of them could cope with.

  ‘Okay, son. Okay.’

  He ran back down the stairs, his pace urgent now, and

  out the door, to sit in the driver’s seat, letting the engine run and rubbing and flexing his hands, as if this might

  remove their tremor. He revved the accelerator with a

  desperate desire to see Oliver launch himself from the

  front door in the last minute and jump in beside him, like

  he might do if this were a movie, when with the clock

  ticking and the risk of getting trapped or left behind was

  at its highest, the hero would buckle up, safe. Enabling

  the audience to breathe a huge sigh of relief …

  He didn’t.

  It was as if he heard the clock on the dashboard tick

  as the big hand jumped forward. Nick reversed at speed

  down the steep slope of the narrow driveway and trav-

  elled the route towards Thirsk that was now so familiar

  he often arrived at either end of the journey with little

  memory of driving it.

  He thought he would feel more, but his numbness, an

  emotional anaesthesia of sorts, was not wholly unwelcome.

  It had been an odd day. A day he had tried to predict

  many times in the preceding months, attempting to play

  it out in his mind, imagine what it might be like, but to

  no avail. He had been with Kerry since he was sixteen

  years of age and yet this was the last day – the last day

  for her and the last day for them. It was surreal. In his

  ponderings there was higher drama, background tension

  and a swell of emotion that he figured would carry him

  along in its wake, but so far everything, up until this

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  The Light in the Hallway

  point, had felt rather ordinary. A little flat even and, for

  that, disappointing. He had been into work for an hour

  that morning, sorted his shift pattern for the next month,

  explained to Mr Siddley, Julian Siddley, that his routine

  might be in turmoil for a while as things had taken a

  sudden but not unexpected turn.

  ‘It’s my wife…’

  And then he went to sit with her. Like he did every

  day after work, before work if she’d had a particularly

  bad night, and all day at weekends.

  Beverly and the rest of the girls in the back office had

  been tearful and sweet and wanted to hug him or squeeze

  his arm knowingly, which only made him feel uncomfort-

  able. It was such an odd thing to do to a colleague who

  you were only on nodding terms with across the canteen,

  when the conversation was usually of the jovial or jokey

  variety, but he knew they meant well. The small market

  town of Burstonbridge on the North York Moors was a

  bump of a settlement with one main road that ran right

  through it. There were no tall buildings, no districts, no

  high-street-branded stores, and everyone who stayed past

  school age worked either in farming, the small businesses

  that supported the farms or at Siddley’s.

  Travellers taking the scenic route between Helmsley

  and Guisborough stumbled across the place, pausing

  to photograph the pretty war memorial, the sloping

  higgledy-piggledy cobbled streets and the solid Norman

  church as they stopped at Mackie and Sons garage for

  fuel and plastic-wrapped sandwiches or to potter around

  the gift shops in Market Square, which sold overpriced

  rubbish to tourists alone. It was a close community; most

  people who worked at Siddley’s did so like their parents

  before them. Aunts and uncles recommended nieces and

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  nephews, and mums and dads took great pride in seeing

  their offspring march through the door, wet behind the

  ears, to take up the mantle of picking, packing and ship-

  ping out imported party lights, festoon lights, outdoor

  lighting rigs and spotlights for big events. It might not

  be the most glamorous of places or one with a corporate

  ladder Burston folk could climb, but they arrived at work

  happy, certain in the knowledge they would be leaving

  with a wage at the end of the week.

  Siddley’s was a family company, and a Siddley had been

  at the helm since it started in 1946. It was Mr Douglas

  Siddley who had started it, a local man who came back

  from the Front and recognised that post-war Britain

  wanted nothing more than to put up bunting and strings

  of festoon lights along its pub and shop frontages, rear

  gardens, bandstands and schools. Siddley’s bought welcome

  light to places that had been dulled by war. This frip-

  pery, along with eating bananas, oranges and other food

  denied to them during the years of austerity, was proof

  that the dark days were over. And folk celebrated whilst

  dancing without guilt to new music, hand in hand with

  the beaux they had tearfully waved off to war, those who

  had returned. Yes, it was Douglas who got the firm up

  and running, but it was his son, Joseph, who had seized

  the opportunity for export and expansion and hadn’t

  looked back.

  Mr Aubrey Siddley, Julian’s father and Joseph’s son,

  had sent word via Caitlyn, his daughter-in-law. She said

  he sent his best regards and to shout if Nick needed any-

  thing. It made him smile, knowing that with the size of

  the Siddley house – Alston Ban
k up at Drayfield Moor,

  with its long sweep of a driveway and parkland on either

  side – he’d have to shout bloody loudly. Nick pictured a

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  The Light in the Hallway

  child’s bike abandoned on that driveway with the back

  wheel spinning and even now it made his hackles rise.

  What Nick had really wanted to do when he left the

  depot that morning was jump on an aeroplane and go

  as far away as he could, all alone. Just pack a bag and go

  anywhere – anywhere in sight of the sea and where he

  could walk barefoot on sand. He’d take his five hundred

  pounds savings out of the bank and run … But then he

  thought about Oliver, who might pretend to be a big

  man but was just a scared, gangly eighteen-year-old who

  was at a crossroads, waiting for his ‘A’ level results, which would be in his hands in five days’ time. Nick thought

  about the house and his job and his mum and his mother-

  in-law and felt the weight of responsibility sit heavily on

  his shoulders. Despite his daydream of escape there was

  no beach in the world far enough away for him to outrun

  his responsibilities.

  It wasn’t the first time he had felt this way – How …

  How are we in debt, Kerry? How has this happened? – but today was not the time to think about that.

  He parked the car in the car park and took a minute

  to steel himself, thinking about Peter’s words of advice

  earlier.

  ‘I think you should go home, Nick … and maybe see

  if Oliver wants to come in.’ It was the pause that spoke

  that loudest of all, all that the counsellor didn’t say.

  ‘I did call him earlier and offered to go pick him up,

  but he said he didn’t want me to.’

  ‘I know, but I think you should go home and maybe

  see if he does want to come in…’ Peter had repeated, his tone a little more forceful. And Nick had listened to the

  man who had more experience of this than him and whose

  thoughts were not fogged by the enormity of the situation.

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  ‘Okay.’ He had nodded and Peter laid his hand on his

  shoulder, as if this were the right answer.

  He had been home no more than ten minutes when

  the call came in, not long enough to make a cup of tea,

  the milk for which he had grabbed from the fridge while

  he went to knock on Oliver’s bedroom door.

  ‘I think … I think you should come back, Nick. Don’t

  rush, drive safely, but get here as soon as you can…’

  He had known this time would come, and yet nothing

  over the last few months could have really prepared him

  for it. He slammed the car door and walked briskly inside,

  raising a hand to Mary on reception, who he had learnt

  over recent months liked knitting, holidays in Lanzarote

  and roast lamb. She had six grandchildren and was al-

  lergic to penicillin and cats, liked one daughter-in-law,

  hated the other. It was funny the rubbish you picked up

  when you had all the time in the world to hang about

  and chat. And he liked chatting to Mary, whether she

  knew it or not. Talking to the old lady who volunteered

  to greet visitors was one of the highlights of his day, a

  very welcome distraction when he needed a little air or a

  change of scenery. Nick knew he would miss her, because

  if there was no chatting to Mary that meant there was

  no need to visit St Vincent’s, and if there was no need to

  visit St Vincent’s then it meant the worst had happened.

  And here he was.

  He pushed on the door of the ground-floor bedroom

  that had been his haven and his prison for more hours

  than he cared to think about. A room where a minute

  could last an hour. He knew every inch of the pale-pink

  walls and the window that looked out over the car park.

  He knew the rust spot on the metal window frame, the

  missing handle on the top drawer of the bedside cabinet

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  The Light in the Hallway

  and the small damp stain in the corner of the ceiling that,

  depending on his mood, looked like the Isle of Wight or

  a fried egg. He knew that the air conditioning worked

  well at night, but was a bit hit and miss during the day.

  He knew that water drunk from the sink in the bathroom

  tasted of iron and that the space between the loo and

  the shower was just a little too small to accommodate

  a woman who fell and wanted to stay put, without the

  energy or inclination to rise again. He closed the door

  behind him and entered.

  The atmosphere was uncomfortably close and he wished

  he could throw open a door and let the cooler night air in.

  Her breathing had changed. The atmosphere had changed.

  Sharon, the nurse, stood up from the chair by the side of

  the bed. She placed her hand briefly on his arm.

  ‘You know to just press if you need anything, Nick.’

  He nodded. He knew the drill.

  ‘Olly not with you?’ She looked over his shoulder as

  if the boy might appear and he turned to follow her stare,

  feeling a leap of joy at the thought that his son might have

  somehow made it here after all.

  ‘No. He didn’t want to come.’ He swallowed. ‘I tried.’

  She gave a tight-lipped smile of understanding.

  ‘Is there anything, anything we need to…’ He looked

  to the bed and away again, unsure of what he was asking,

  but feeling that he should be asking something.

  ‘There’s nothing more we need to do, Nick.’ This

  time her smile was wide and comforting. The smile of

  someone who was in control, and this reassured him, he

  who was new to this experience. Sharon was not. ‘You

  know where we are.’

  He nodded again and took the seat Sharon had only

  just vacated.

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  He ran his fingertips up his wife’s arm as she lay in

  the bed. She looked different than when he had last seen

  her an hour or so ago. She was a little grey, and a slow,

  foul rattle accompanied each breath.

  ‘Cor, I was gasping for a cup of tea.’ He laughed,

  the loud noise an intrusion that ricocheted off the walls.

  ‘Nearly managed to grab one too before the phone rang.’

  He reached for her fingers and thumbed the skin on the

  back of her hand. She didn’t move or open her eyes or

  grip his fingers in return, although he imagined she did.

  ‘I think they’ve given you something to help you sleep,

  haven’t they? Well, you just sleep, lass. You just sleep and

  I’ll sit right here by your side.’

  He stared at her head tipped back on the pillow, eyes

  sunken, lashes sticky and her thin face pinched, skin like

  waxed paper. Her eyes closed, mouth open and that aw-

  ful rattle…

  ‘It’s still warm out, but they said the temperature is

  going to drop tonight, not that I mind. You know what

  I’m like, can’t sleep if it’s too warm. I think I’ll put the

  heating on boost, just in case it gets very cold. I know

  you don
’t like the kitchen floor to be icy on your bare feet

  or to have to walk into a chilly bathroom in the night.

  Yes, I’ll do that.’ He coughed again. Her lack of response

  was almost deafening. ‘I was thinking earlier about how

  lovely it would be to have a holiday. Maybe sit in front of

  the sea and walk on a beach. Do you remember all our

  lovely holidays at Filey? That B&B with the squeaky bed

  and Oliver when he was younger in the little room next

  door, and you were so worried about making a noise that

  if we fancied a cuddle we had to pull the duvet onto the

  floor and be as quiet as church mice.’ He laughed. ‘Those

  were the days, eh, love?’

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  The Light in the Hallway

  He closed his eyes briefly. The sentiment he wanted

  to express was not something that came easily, but this

  was the time. ‘I love you, Kerry. I love you, my mate.’

  He pinched the top of his nose to stop the emotion that

  threatened to cloud this moment. ‘I think about the first

  time I took you out and I was so nervous I could hardly

  speak. Just kids both of us, weren’t we? You thought I had

  a stutter; I was so worried about saying the right thing

  and making you like me. God, I was desperate for you to like me. Well, I must have done something right, nearly

  nineteen years next May. Nineteen years…’ He kissed the

  back of her hand. ‘I know people say it all the time, but

  it really does feel like yesterday. Where did that time go,

  eh?’ He bent forward and rested his face on the pillow

  next to hers and whispered, ‘I know it’s not all been per-

  fect, and that maybe we have … drifted. But I wouldn’t

  swap a single second of it, Kerry. Not one. I love you. I

  will do my best with Olly, I promise you that. And I will

  miss you every single day. You’re my girl. You’ll always

  be my girl. But you go now, my darling. You don’t have

  to be brave. You don’t have to hang on. You can rest and

  you can have peace, go to sleep, knowing you’re loved…’

  He felt the slip of tears across his cheek and over his

  nose and after some minutes, he couldn’t say with ac-

  curacy how many, he became aware of the quiet. And

  it was surprising, shocking almost, and unexpected even

  though he had been waiting for it. Waiting for it for six

  months or more, truth be told. Gone was the rattle; gone

  was the weak pulse of life that an ailing body gave. Her