The Light in the Hallway (ARC) Read online

  him of all energy and happiness. He had over the past

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  weeks managed to haul himself to the shop on many a

  day, dropped Oliver at school or had taken Treacle for

  a wee, whilst barely able to put one foot in front of the

  other with exhaustion, digging deep to find a smile and

  a nod for his neighbours who wanted to pass the time of

  day, talking about football or the weather while his nerves

  and heart were shredded. And right now all he wanted

  was a cup of bloody tea.

  ‘ I’ll go and get the milk.’ Without further discus-

  sion his mum bustled out, shutting the front door firmly

  behind her. Treacle trotted over the laminate floor and

  paced back and forth as she had over the last few weeks,

  looking for the woman who always had a treat, a kind

  word and a soft palm held out in readiness to pet her.

  The dog barked and then whined. Nick clicked his

  fingers and pulled her close to him, running the flat of

  his hand over her flank. ‘I know, girl, I know.’

  ‘Is Nan here?’ Oliver asked as he came down the stairs.

  ‘She’s just gone for milk.’

  ‘Hello, Treacle, hello, girl!’ Oliver stepped over him

  and dropped down into the hallway, holding their fam-

  ily pet close to his chest and bending with his head close

  to hers. Nick had smelled the whiff of a teenage body

  in want of a good wash with soap, but was again unsure

  of the right thing to do or say, whether to nag him over

  something as irrelevant as personal hygiene when his

  mum had just passed was a step too far. There were lots

  of things he didn’t know, and the only person he would

  be comfortable asking was Kerry.

  ‘I was going to go to the shop, but Nan said I had to

  stay inside.’ He pulled a face.

  ‘Why do you have to stay inside?’ Oliver looked up

  briefly.

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  ‘I don’t rightly know.’ He ran his hand over his stubbled

  chin. ‘I think she thought it was not the done thing to

  go out today.’

  ‘As long as I can go out next Thursday – my results

  are coming out.’

  ‘I know.’ He looked at the boy and wondered how

  it was that he had not mentioned his mum, not once.

  Should he start the conversation?

  Don’t force it, love. He’ll talk when he’s good and ready…

  He heard her voice in his ear loud and clear and even

  gave a small nod to show he understood.

  ‘How are you feeling about your results?’ He hoped

  this was a safe topic.

  Oliver shrugged. ‘Don’t know really. Not much I can

  do about them now, is there?’

  ‘Guess not.’

  ‘Just hope I’ve done enough to get into Birmingham.’

  ‘Birmingham sounds like a long way away.’ He felt

  the flare of emotion at the prospect of being here in the

  house without Kerry and without Oliver.

  ‘Everywhere is a long way away from Burston.’ He

  continued to stroke Treacle.

  ‘Good point. And you know if you don’t like it there,

  you can always come home.’

  ‘I’ve got to get in first, Dad. Business Studies is a

  popular course, so I need the grades.’

  ‘I know, but I’m just saying, university is all well and

  good, but it isn’t the only way to make a life for yourself.’

  Nick lied, hoping his words might provide the salve to

  his son’s hurt should he not make the grades, for he fer-

  vently believed that higher education, the thing which

  circumstances had denied him, was indeed the way to

  make a wonderful life.

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  Oliver nodded, and his next words when they came,

  so matter-of-factly spoken, took the breath from Nick’s

  throat and left him a little winded.

  ‘When will the funeral be, d’you think?’

  The funeral … the funeral … any old funeral, not ‘my

  mum’s funeral’. How can you ask so casually when the very idea of it cuts me in two!

  ‘Well’ – Nick swallowed – ‘I need to go and see

  Wainwright’s today and sort it all out, but I think it’ll

  be next week.’

  ‘Next week.’ Oliver nodded calmly. ‘The same people

  who did Grandad’s?’

  ‘Yes, same people who do everyone’s around here.’

  Oliver stood. ‘And you went to school with Michael

  Wainwright?’

  ‘Yes, he was in our class. He knew your mum and that

  helped when we went to see him, before’ – he coughed – ‘a

  while before. She made plans to make sure it was as easy

  as possible for us now.’

  He had done it, mentioned her, made it real. It felt

  akin to dipping his toe in the pool of grief and it felt cold.

  Oliver took a breath and looked up at the glass panel

  of the front door, as his nan made her way up the path

  with a bottle of milk under one arm and a four-pack of

  toilet tissue under the other.

  Nick let her in and watched as his mother made a

  beeline for her grandson.

  ‘Oh, there he is! Oh, Olly! My little darlin’!’ she dumped

  the purchases into her son’s arms and enveloped Oliver in

  a restrictive hug. Nick saw the comedy in the moment, as

  his son rolled his eyes over her shoulder and stuck out his

  tongue, fighting for breath and a little space as his Nan

  almost garrotted him with the ferocity of her loving hold.

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  And this was how it was, the two of them passing the

  days, largely in separate rooms, coming together occa-

  sionally to calmly and quietly pour cereal or to greet the

  steady stream of visitors who pitched up, crying, clutching

  damp tissues and more often than not with a homemade

  cake, a meat pie or a batch of biscuits in their hands.

  He and Oliver would exchange a knowing look and

  give assurances in the way that was becoming familiar:

  that they were fine, needed nothing and that they were

  grateful for the time the callers had taken to come and

  see them. Nick fell into bed each night in a state of near

  collapse. He was bone tired, too exhausted even to worry

  about his son’s lack of emotional display or to dread the

  funeral, which was now planned. The George, the pub

  closest to the church, had been booked for the wake and

  Nick confirmed that Kerry wanted the same hymns they

  had had at their wedding; it seemed fitting. One of his

  last thoughts before falling asleep was what it would be

  like if in the church if no one sang. On their wedding

  day Kerry had given a rousing rendition of ‘Give Me

  Joy In My Heart’, as Nick had neither the voice nor the

  confidence to sing out loud. He hoped someone would

  pick up the mantle, help him out, now dreading the idea

  of them all standing in an awkward silence.

  You looked so beautiful…

  You looked so handsome…

  I felt like the luckiest man in the world…

&nbs
p; And I the luckiest girl…

  * * *

  Nick looked at the clock on the mantelpiece and now

  sat forward on the edge of the sofa, waiting for Oliver

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  The Light in the Hallway

  to come home. This was it. Two years of hard work and

  all that they had been through; the results of his efforts

  would be judged in three letters, single grades printed

  on a slip of paper. Nick felt his palms a little clammy and

  took a deep breath.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, nothing does … you did your best,

  son, you can be so proud of that and you had so much

  to contend with, more than most people have to face in

  a lifetime … don’t beat yourself up about it, a path will

  reveal itself to you; it always does … we can go with plan

  B…’ He practised the words of comfort and commisera-

  tion. ‘Oh, God,’ he muttered under his breath, ‘I don’t

  think we have a plan B.’

  He stood and tried again, in vain, to arrange the

  cushions the way Kerry had done them. They still de-

  feated him, these pointless floral squares of feathers that

  sat like unwanted passengers on the sofa and chair tak-

  ing up space. He loathed them and yet couldn’t bring

  himself to throw them away, not when they had been

  carefully chosen by her hand and had felt the touch of

  her cheek as she lay on the sofa to watch ‘Strictly’ with

  her feet on his lap.

  He sat back in the seat and folded his arms across his

  stomach, his head tipped back, imagining as he often did

  that Kerry was in the kitchen busying away, as she liked

  to do, and that all was right in his world…

  He must have fallen asleep, as the front door crashing

  open and hitting the shelf above the radiator in the hallway

  woke him. He sat upright, remembering instantly the rea-

  son for Oliver’s urgency, and his heart raced accordingly.

  ‘Mum! Dad! I did it! I did it!’ the boy called from the

  hallway. ‘I got three…’

  And then a bang as if something hit the floor.

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  And then silence.

  Nick had heard the words loud and clear, so natural-

  ly, so comfortably, called that it took a second or two for

  the universe to catch up. He looked towards the door,

  expecting his son to walk in. After a couple of seconds,

  he stood and went to investigate the silence. He put his

  head around the door and knew that he would never

  forget the sight that greeted him.

  Oliver was sitting on the welcome mat, coiled into a

  ball like a small child with his chin on his chest and his

  knees raised. His arms were clamped around his shins

  and his whole body shook.

  Nick sank down to join him on the floor and that

  was where they sat on the bristly Welcome mat that felt

  anything but. Oliver raised his head and the sight of his

  distress caused Nick’s own tears to pool.

  ‘She’s not here, Dad! She’s not here, is she?’

  ‘No, son. She’s not here,’ he managed through his

  own distress, hating to extinguish the faint look of hope

  in his son’s eyes.

  ‘Oh nooooooo! No!’ Oliver’s wail was loud, deep and

  drawn from deep within, he banged the floor with his

  hand. ‘I wanted to say goodbye to her! I wanted to … to

  tell her things and I wanted to say goodbye!’ He sobbed

  noisily. ‘I didn’t want her to leave me, Dad! I want her

  here. I want her here with us! And now she’s gone and I

  didn’t have the chance to tell her…’

  ‘She knew, she knew, love. She knew what you wanted

  to say to her, she did!’ Nick almost shouted through a

  mouth twisted with distress.

  ‘You don’t know that! You don’t know anything!’

  Oliver kicked his leg out and smashed it into the wall.

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  The Light in the Hallway

  ‘I do! I do, son. I was with her when she went. I was

  there, sat by her side, holding her hand, and I know what

  her last words were and they were for you!’

  He put his arm around his son as his crying subsided

  a little. ‘They … They were?’ He looked up with an ex-

  pression that was heart-wrenching in its desperate need.

  Nick nodded.

  ‘Yes.’ He ran through the lie in his head, knowing

  Kerry would understand. Hoping Kerry would understand.

  ‘What … What did she say, Dad?’ Oliver gripped his

  forearm like a small child wary of separation.

  Nick coughed to clear his throat; he ran his palm over

  his face before speaking slowly and steadily. ‘She said; tell Olly, I love him and I know that he loves me.’

  Oliver wiped his eyes with the back of his hand,

  sniffing. ‘She did?’

  ‘Yes. She did. That’s what she said.’

  Oliver smiled briefly though his tears and let out a

  long, slow breath that sounded a lot like relief. ‘I was

  worried that she didn’t know … didn’t know that I loved

  her. And that I will miss her.’ He cried again.

  ‘Oh, she knew, she knew, Olly, and she wanted me

  to tell you that she knew.’

  Again the boy smiled through his distress.

  ‘Was she in any pain? At the end? I keep thinking of

  her hurting and it makes me cry.’

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘Not at all. They had given

  her a lot of drugs and she spoke softly to me and she was

  calm, not in pain, just sleepy, you know the way she looked

  and sounded just before she dozed off on the sofa. Then

  she just closed her eyes and went to sleep. It was peaceful

  and quiet and lovely really.’

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  Forgive me, Kerry. I’m not a liar, but I don’t know what

  to do…

  You’re doing fine. Just fine, my love…

  Oliver nodded and took his time digesting this. He

  took another deep breath and sat up straight, sniffing once

  more and swiping at his eyes. ‘I got two A’s and a B, Dad.

  Enough for my place at Birmingham.’

  Nick felt the swell of relief and pride in his veins. He

  had done it. Oliver had bloody done it! ‘I’m proud of you.

  And I know your mum is too. She always was.’

  ‘Do you think she knows I got in?’ Oliver now studied

  the slip of paper in the palm of his hand.

  Nick nodded; words were impossible, stoppered by

  the lump of raw emotion that rose up in his throat.

  1992

  ‘Finish your tea, lad. I’ve got something for you.’ His dad

  stood at the back door in his work boots and shorts with

  his shirtsleeves rolled high and tight above his elbows.

  Nick looked up from the kitchen table where he ate fish

  fingers cut into squares and dipped into a mountain of

  tomato ketchup.

  ‘What is it?’ A gift from his dad was rare, but Nick

  only allowed himself the smallest stirring of excitement,

  picturing some of the things his dad had given him before.

  A pocket watch that used to belong to his great grandad

  now shoved in his drawer.

 
; Boring.

  The General Encyclopedia, volume P-Q-R, that had

  obviously made a break for freedom from the other books,

  presumably where important information on all things

  concerning the other twenty-three letters lurked. Nick

  skim read it on the loo, learning briefly about Pandas,

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  The Light in the Hallway

  Pendulums, Queens of England, Quebec, Rotor blades

  and Rio de Janeiro. This too he consigned to the drawer.

  Boring.

  ‘Well, you’ll have to come out and see.’ His dad grinned

  and Nick felt the flutter of something in his stomach.

  Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a rubbish gift after all –

  maybe it was something absolutely brilliant.

  He let his fork clatter to the plate. Fish fingers could

  wait! His thoughts raced, quite literally, as he pictured

  the one thing other than boobs that was all his heart

  desired: a bike! Could it be that his subtle hints, mild

  nagging and expressions of desire had been listened to?

  He allowed himself to picture a shiny ice-blue racer with

  chrome spoke wheels, a leather saddle and dropped ram

  horn handlebars and he, astride the thing like a warrior

  on horseback, a mighty colossus to be admired and envied

  as he circled the bench in Market Square where the girls

  and older lads gathered.

  What, this old thing? Yeah, it’s my bike…

  Scooting his chair away from the table, abandoning

  his fish fingers, he ran out into the back garden and there,

  propped against the shed, was … half a bike.

  Nick felt his gut drop and tears of injustice gather. He

  sniffed, embarrassed, disappointed and trying to hide his

  feelings from the big man with hands like shovels that

  worked hard. His dad, misconstruing them as tears of joy,

  ruffled his hair in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

  He was a Yorkshireman after all.

  ‘What d’you reckon?’ His dad beamed, rubbing his

  hands with enthusiasm for the tubular frame made of

  aluminium where white paint once graced the surface,

  but now sat in patches and where it wasn’t worn away,

  was scratched. There were no handlebars, dropped, ram

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  horn or otherwise, no seat and most crucially of all, no

  wheels. The cogs, chain and pedals however were com-

  plete. Nick tried and failed to focus on them.

  ‘Where’s the rest of it?’ he asked with as much en-

  thusiasm and as big a smile as he could muster.