The Light in the Hallway (ARC) Read online

  39

  Amanda Prowse

  ‘Okay, Olly, you win. I shall get you a BMX, for

  Christmas.’

  ‘I don’t want one now! But a new car would be nice.’

  Nick lobbed the ice cube tray back onto the pile and

  walked on with the cart.

  New car would be nice! Don’t I bloody know it…

  He pictured the shiny new silver Jaguar with a hefty

  price tag sitting on the forecourt at Mackie’s, which Nick

  had admired while having his own car serviced.

  ‘She’s a beauty, eh?’ Bob had whistled and let his eyes

  sweep her sleek silver curves.

  ‘Really is. Bit out of my league, I’m afraid.’ Nick had

  joked, swallowing the bitter tang of jealousy that flared

  on his tongue. What wouldn’t he give to drive a car like

  that? How did you get to be a bloke who could afford

  that kind of car?

  ‘Right, back to your heap of shite.’ Bob had joked, as

  he turned his attention to Nick’s motor.

  Nick had nodded his understanding that the break discs

  were on the cusp and the front left tyre a mere millimetre

  away from a failure and he had promised, hand on heart,

  to get the work done. And he would, when funds allowed.

  ‘Oh, and Gina said to say hello.’

  Nick had coughed and left the garage a little quicker

  than was polite. Better that than run into Gina Mackie.

  He and Oliver navigated the vast interior of the store

  where studio sets were laid out in a way that made him

  feel that every room, in fact every facet of their home,

  was dated and in serious need of an upgrade. This he

  could apparently achieve with the addition of fancy pot-

  ted plants, sofas with matching footstools and bookshelves

  crammed with everything from cacti, candle sticks and

  quirky photo frames, but no actual books.

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  The Light in the Hallway

  ‘Here we are: bedroom stuff.’ Oliver rushed ahead and

  Nick caught him up. The two stared at the racks filled

  with bundles of cream-coloured quilted things, labelled

  with long and complicated Swedish names peppered with

  O’s and A’s carrying dots and circles above.

  ‘Flippin’ ’eck!’ Nick exclaimed and stared at the array.

  ‘That’s the second flippin’ ’eck moment you’ve had

  today.’

  ‘I know, but where do we start with this lot?’ He stared

  at the bewildering array. ‘All you need is a basic double

  duvet and a cover. I wish your mum was here.’

  And just like that, his words sucked the joy from the

  moment, firmly bringing down the shutter of reality

  on this fun-packed day. It was the truth; Nick wished it

  were Kerry trawling the shelves, confident that she would

  know exactly what size and tog ‘Hönsbör’, ‘Myskgräs’ or

  ‘Tilkört’ to go for.

  Oliver grabbed a plastic-wrapped duvet, stuffed inside

  its wrapping to form a cylindrical shape.

  ‘This one?’

  ‘I reckon so.’ Nick nodded, as Oliver lobbed it in the

  trolley, this quickly followed by a pack of two flattened

  pillows.

  Nick cursed the solemn mood he had created, but was

  not about to start censoring the mentioning of his wife;

  that would be the very worst thing. It was, as his mum

  had reminded him only that very morning, early days.

  And it was. Seven weeks … Less than two months

  since he had walked into that room at St Vincent’s and

  watched her pale, grey face rattle its last breath. Seven

  weeks that felt simultaneously like seven hours, seven

  minutes. He wondered if this feeling, this sense of shock

  would ever pass.

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  ‘I said which one?’ Oliver said firmly, holding two

  packets up to chest level, while Nick mentally caught up.

  ‘That one.’ He pointed to a grey-and-white-striped

  duvet cover, which he chose at random.

  There seemed to be a swell of people around the till

  area and Nick bit the inside of his cheek and drummed

  his fingers on his thighs in a bid to focus on something

  other than his growing desire to run for the exit.

  Finally, with their goods squeezed into the gaps around

  the suitcases on the backseat, they set off for the University of Birmingham.

  ‘Are you excited?’ he asked, as the car pulled in behind

  a queue of others, waiting for the smiling, fresh-faced

  student in the green luminescent t-shirt and holding a

  clipboard to direct them to the right place.

  ‘Nervous.’ His leg bounced up and down.

  ‘No need, Olly. Everyone here feels exactly the same.’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘I’d be excited.’ Nick spoke the truth, only able to im-

  agine what it might have meant to him to be in his son’s

  position, starting a degree at university and walking into

  a world where opportunity and chance would be at his

  feet. He thought briefly of the fancy Jaguar on Mackie’s

  forecourt and wished for his son the kind of career, the

  kind of life that might make owning a car like that possible.

  It could have been his imagination or his oversensitiv-

  ity in light of recent events, but everywhere Nick looked

  he saw students with their mums – often their dads too,

  but it was the mothers who caught his attention. Some

  were quietly holding bags to carry up the stairs with a

  mournful look; others organised and doled out boxes,

  lifted from the boot of their cars. He was overly aware of

  their presence and again felt the absence of his wife keenly.

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  The Light in the Hallway

  Oliver’s room in the low-rise block was smaller than Nick

  had imagined, with barely enough space to walk between

  the bed and the desk, but that aside it was clean and warm.

  ‘At least you’ll be able to turn off your lamp, open the

  window and water your cactus thingy without having to

  leave the bed.’ He smiled at his son.

  Oliver shook his head, still apparently not in the mood

  for his dad’s humour or commentary.

  ‘Knock knock.’

  They both turned towards the long-haired girl in the

  oversized black glasses and baggy plaid shirt who stood

  in the doorway a little awkwardly.

  ‘Hello, neighbour. I’m next door.’ She pointed to-

  wards her left.

  Nick said nothing, as nerves meant the only phrases

  that floated into his mind were ‘ Flippin’ ’eck! These rooms are small, aren’t they? ’ and ‘ When I was a lad I’m sure it would have been lads in one building and lasses in another! ’ but having had both these phrases and all attempts at humour

  banned by his son, he stayed schtum.

  ‘Hi.’ Oliver raised his hand in a manner Nick was sure

  was meant be cool, but was in his opinion a little surly.

  He smiled broadly at the girl, as if his friendliness might

  make up for his son’s rather aloof manner.

  ‘I’m Tasha.’ She swallowed, touching her finger to

  her chest in a kooky way. ‘And I guess I’ll see you later!’

  Her eyes, he no
ted, lingered for a second on his boy

  and he realised how out of the loop he was on what was

  considered attractive by youngsters nowadays. Maybe

  Oliver with his standoffish demeanour and the slightly

  greasy lick to his sticky-up fringe were what smart girls

  like Tasha were interested in. That and a whole bunch of

  fancy fairy lights, which were apparently ‘a thing’.

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  ‘What?’ Oliver asked. Nick was unaware he’d been

  staring at his son.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘She’s just a friend.’ Oliver whined.

  ‘Is that the first time you’ve met her?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Oh, well, good that you’re planning a friendship; she

  seems nice.’ He smiled.

  Oliver ignored his comment and bit a small hole in

  the plastic wrapping of the duvet. He shook the quilt out

  vigorously over his bed and stood back. Both men stared

  at the narrow strip of duvet that sat in the middle of the

  double bed.

  ‘We got a single.’

  ‘I figured as much, son. Put the cover on it and no

  one will notice.’

  ‘ I’m going to notice; it’ll be freezing!’ the boy tutted.

  ‘Olly, this is a centrally heated room the size of a

  shoebox and it’s a rather warm September, plus you have

  thick pyjamas and socks. Order another online or what-

  ever, it’ll turn up in no time.’

  ‘We are rubbish at this, Dad.’

  He watched the boy struggle to remove the duvet cover

  from the packaging and two pillowcases fell on the floor.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Anyway, you can go now. There’s no need to hang

  around, you’ve got a long drive back and I’m good,’ Oliver

  said brightly. It felt a lot like a dismissal.

  Nick pulled his son into an awkward hug, ‘Remember,

  if you’re not happy with anything or you feel homesick

  or you just want to chat, call any time, or jump on a

  coach or I’ll come and get you. You just need to say

  the word.’

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  The Light in the Hallway

  ‘I’m fine, Dad.’

  ‘I know you’re fine now, but I’m just saying that if

  at any point you’re not fine, then that’s okay, and you’re

  welcome home any time. You and me against the world,

  the Bairstow Boys! Just call.’

  ‘Are … Are you going to be okay?’

  He wouldn’t forget the way Oliver looked at him

  with the pinched brows of someone who was worrying

  in reciprocation. Nick laughed out loud.

  ‘Oh yes, don’t you worry about me. I can’t wait to

  have the remote control all to myself and to sit in peace

  without that boom boom music that judders through the

  floorboards. I’ll be right as rain. Plus, I’ve got Treacle.’

  ‘Bye then, Dad.’

  Nick hugged him once more, tighter this time, letting

  his hand press the boy’s narrow back into his chest and

  hoping that he got the message where words failed him.

  You’re going to be fine, Olly. I love you. I’m proud of you …

  We both are. He walked away briskly, out of the room and down the stairs without looking back, cursing the thick-ening of emotion in his throat.

  He pulled into the traffic jam on the M1 and wound

  down the window, trying to ignore the pang of guilt that

  Oliver might be less than comfortable on his first night

  away from home.

  ‘Bloody single quilt.’ He sighed, picturing the mo-

  ment the cashier in Ikea had asked for the grand total of

  one hundred and sixteen pounds – one hundred and sixteen

  pounds! How was that even possible when everything they had bought cost no more than a few quid? He had

  bitten his lip and handed over his credit card, thinking

  ahead to how he could save a few bob over the coming

  months and pay it off.

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  He hoped Oliver would make more effort with Tasha,

  who seemed like a nice girl. Nick figured it must have

  taken courage for her to come and introduce herself. He

  knew he’d be happier once the boy had made friends.

  He laughed at how similar this was to Olly’s first day at

  school; only then he knew his son would be home in

  time for tea and a bedtime story. He felt kindly towards

  the girl, the way she had looked at Oliver…

  Dating had been so much easier for him and Kerry,

  who courted in a time without the pressure of social

  media, when the only phone most people owned was the

  one your family might have in the hallway on a little tile-

  topped table inside of the front door, the use of which was

  closely monitored by their parents. He couldn’t imagine

  how hard it might be to appear cool and confident while

  comparing yourself with the images of perfection beamed

  into these youngsters’ hands at every second of every day.

  Almost instinctively he ran his hand over the bulge of his

  gut, which sat over the waistband of his jeans, the result

  of giving up his nightly run to sit with Kerry – that and

  an overreliance on the chip shop when pushed for time

  and without the inclination to cook. Yes, he smiled at

  the thought of how very different it had been in his day.

  Kerry Forrest had for years been nothing more than

  a name in the school register, one of a pack of girls who

  were indistinguishable to him and who hung out in a

  cloud of perfume and giggles, often to be found sitting

  in a huddle on the bench in Market Square. They were

  to him and his mates alien and unattainable. But then

  on one particular day in the summer term, at the age

  of sixteen, he walked into afternoon class, scanning the

  seats looking for Alex and Eric, when he saw her sitting

  alone on the other side of the classroom. Having only

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  been vaguely aware of her for most of his school life, it

  was as if he saw her for the first time. She stood out like

  something shiny in the gloom. He couldn’t take his eyes

  off her and along with the quickening of his heartbeat

  and a dull ache of longing in his gut, he felt the leap of

  excitement in his chest. This girl, this girl! She had been under his nose for all this time and yet here she was, calling to him like something new and golden. He noticed the

  bloom on her cheek and chest as she slipped from child

  to woman and then, as if drawn, she looked up and he

  had no choice but to swallow his fear and speak. Actually

  speak to this goddess! It took every ounce of his courage.

  ‘All right.’ He nodded at her, keeping the smile from

  his face and adding just enough of a sneer to preserve

  his exploding heart should rejection or humiliation be

  forthcoming.

  ‘All right,’ she answered quickly, before turning her

  attention to the textbook in front of her. He looked back

  in her direction, as she too lifted her eyes and for a second they looked at each other, this time with the beginnings

  of a smile on their mouths and the crinkle of laughter

  around their
eyes.

  And that, as they say, had been that.

  The following fourteen weekends were spent hand in

  hand, often just walking and talking. They ventured up

  onto Drayfield Moor, where the wind lifted their hair and

  mud clung to their boots. He had picked and handed her

  a sprig of purple heather, which she pressed and kept in

  her little christening bible in her bedside cabinet. Another

  day they followed the meandering path along the trickle

  of river that bisected the town, stopping to kiss on the

  narrow footbridge before sitting arm in arm with flushed

  cheeks on the bench in Market Square in front of the

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  war memorial. One memorable evening was spent at the

  local travelling fair, which had docked on the outside of

  town. Here they squealed on the bumper cars and gorged

  on popcorn. Next came a weekend trip to Filey on the

  bus, the travelling to and from with thighs touching and

  fingers entwined just as glorious as walking on the sand,

  and before he knew it, at the tender age of seventeen Nick

  had excitedly and keenly proposed marriage to this girl

  who had captured his heart.

  His parents threw a party, his mum happy and his

  dad quiet, as guests crammed into the small house where

  relatives, his and hers, took up seats on the sofa and his

  mates occupied the back garden, swigging from shared

  cans of lager and taking the piss out of the boy about to

  be married, while taking it in turns on the rickety swing.

  When he and his bride waltzed up the aisle, a winter

  wedding with snow on the ground and a roaring fire in

  the pub after, Oliver had already and unexpectedly taken

  up residence in her willing womb and the newly married

  Mr and Mrs Bairstow were all set. Set for life, that’s what

  he had thought, standing at the altar of St Michael’s and

  speaking the words sincerely, til death do us part…

  Nick thought about that day now and knew that he

  could have never in a thousand years have imagined that

  their parting would come so soon. He felt cheated. He

  looked at the empty seat next to him.

  ‘Single bloody duvet. Only us, eh? His room seems

  nice, though, cosy.’

  You did great today, really great, came his wife’s imagined reply.

  ‘I’m going to miss him. I’m not even home yet and

  I already wish I’d spent more time with him before he

  went. I feel like everything has come around very quickly.’

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