The Light in the Hallway (ARC) Read online

  hear the faint echoes of distress and then the relief in his

  tone made Nick’s heart flex.

  ‘I’m on my way. And if you need to talk before I get

  there, send a text and I’ll pull over and call you straight

  back. Don’t do anything stupid.’

  ‘What do you mean don’t do anything stupid? Like

  what?’

  Like take tablets … cut your wrists … jump off a building

  … I don’t know!

  ‘Like panic. Don’t panic. Just sit tight and I’ll be there

  soon.’

  ‘Okay. Thanks, Dad.’ There it was again, that little

  voice that pulled at Nick’s heartstrings.

  * * *

  He knocked on his boss’s open door and walked in.

  ‘Everything all right, Nick?’ Julian looked away from

  the computer screen and sat back in the red leather cap-

  tain’s chair that had been part of the office for as long as

  Nick could remember, present when he visited his dad

  at the factory as a boy aged ten and had stood in front of

  Mr Aubrey Siddley.

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  ‘Nick!’ The man had smiled. ‘The rogue explorer of

  Drayton Moor! Seen any pumas lately?’

  He and his dad had laughed before Mr Siddley gave

  him a sticky handful of mint imperials from a large glass

  jar, which sat on the wonky green filing cabinet behind

  his desk. Nick had shoved them in his trouser pocket and

  was disappointed to retrieve them when he got home and

  find them moist, fluff coated and only good as bin fodder.

  ‘Yes, everything’s fine.’ Nick held Julian’s gaze, dis-

  liking the fact that he stood in front of the desk while

  Julian sat; his stance implied he held his boss in a regard

  his sentiments did not echo. ‘Well, I should say nothing

  to worry about workwise, but I just had a call from my

  Oliver—’

  ‘At Birmingham, isn’t he? How’s he getting on?

  Business Studies, isn’t it?’

  Nick picked up the slightest note of derision in the

  man’s voice, but that might have been his imagination,

  knowing he could be a little oversensitive when it came

  to Julian Siddley.

  ‘Yes, that’s right, and I thought he was getting on

  great.’ This was life in Burstonbridge, life at Siddley’s,

  where everyone had half an interest in everyone else’s life.

  It was often a comfort, but sometimes the lack of privacy

  left him feeling like he wanted to scream.

  He remembered when Kerry got her first set of test

  results from the GP, insisting she didn’t want him to take

  time off to come with her.

  What difference does it make whether I’m there with you or Diane? It won’t change what’s said. Don’t be daft, Nick – go to work, don’t worry and I’ll see you when you get home…

  Kerry had left the doctor’s appointment with her arm

  looped through her sister’s and only two hours later, as he

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  walked out of the factory gates to make his way home, he

  was aware of the tight-lipped, sincere nods of awareness

  from his colleagues and the slow blink and smile of the

  woman closing up the bread shop … News travelled fast

  here, faster than he could get home to hear it first-hand.

  ‘Oh dear, it sounds like there is a but.’ His boss comi-

  cally took a deep breath through gritted teeth and it ir-

  ritated Nick more than it should.

  ‘Yes, well, he has just called and’ – he paused, not

  wanting to admit to his boss that Oliver might be about

  to abandon the course of which Nick had felt so proud –

  ‘he’s having a bit of a wobble and wants me to go down.

  I wouldn’t ask ordinarily, but what with it only being a

  short time since we lost his mum, I feel I should go down

  and check things out, bring him home if need be.’

  ‘Nick, of course.’ The man tapped his fingers on the

  jotter in front of him, as he did when he was thinking.

  ‘Do what you need to do. You know the score, just make

  sure Dennis has the loading schedule and that everything

  is handed over, but of course, go. Don’t worry about

  things here.’ He flapped his hand, indicating that no lorry

  load of lighting could be considered nearly as import-

  ant as Oliver’s well-being. Nick knew he was right and

  felt both relieved and angered that Julian had given him

  permission. He gave a tight smile, knowing it was easy

  for Siddley junior to say, very easy when you had family

  wealth behind you and a large, shiny Range Rover sitting

  in your private parking space. But it was quite another

  thing for Nick when the bills came rolling in at the end

  of the month and suddenly that shift that he might miss

  became very important indeed.

  He recalled with a shiver picking up the brown en-

  velope from the welcome mat about six years ago now,

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  intrigued by the unfamiliar logo. Ripping the sheet from

  its confines as the breath caught in his throat and his knees went weak. It had to be a mistake. There was no way …

  but there it was in red ink. Mrs Kerry Bairstow owed the

  sum of seven thousand pounds. Seven thousand pounds! It was as he leant on the bannister and scanned the sheet,

  looking at the long list of purchases, that Kerry trod the

  stairs with an armful of laundry and they locked eyes.

  Her face fell and her lips looked bloodless and he knew

  … he knew it was no mistake.

  ‘Thanks, Julian. I really appreciate it.’

  The man restored his glasses to indicate the con-

  versation was over and turned his attention back to the

  wide computer screen that almost filled his desk. Nick

  considered himself dismissed.

  ‘Oh, I see. Half day is it?’ Eric called from the loading

  bay as Nick climbed into the car.

  ‘Something like that.’ He looked up at his friend.

  ‘Well, you missed a good night last night in the pub,

  a proper laugh, and we got chips on the way home.’

  ‘Sounds like a belter, chips, eh?’ He laughed. ‘Didn’t

  realise you were there.’

  ‘Yes, whole crowd of us, it was good.’

  Nick felt a flicker of relief that it hadn’t just been

  Beverly who was after his company; that whole idea had

  left him feeling a little uncomfortable.

  ‘So where you off to?’ Eric pulled him from the

  thought.

  ‘Just had a call from Olly. He wants to come home; says

  he wants to quit university. He’s had a change of heart.’

  ‘Wants to come home? You’re kidding me? He’s only

  been there five minutes!’

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  ‘I know, but he’s saying he wants to leave university,

  doesn’t like it.’ Nick levelled with his best friend.

  ‘But he’s such a smart lad. What’s happened? I thought

  he was right as rain?’

  ‘Me too, and he seemed to be – I got a text to say

  he’d settled and everything. Now I don’t know what’s

  happening, but he sounded a
nxious.’ Nick ran his hand

  over his face.

  Eric nodded, his smile gone. Having lived each step of

  Kerry’s illness with Nick and Oliver, staying over at the

  house so Nick didn’t have to rush back from St Vincent’s

  on a school night, making sure Oliver was fed on the days

  when Nick was preoccupied with Kerry and providing

  an ear when Nick needed to talk, Eric knew better than

  most that the two were fragile.

  Nick had knocked on his best friend’s door and fallen

  to his knees right there in his narrow hallway on the night

  he left Kerry at St Vincent’s for the first time.

  ‘It’s all right, mate, it’ll all be okay.’ Eric had sat by

  his side and extended his index finger and the one next

  to it, placing the two fingers on his friend’s shoulder and

  pushing them gently into his skin.

  ‘It won’t be all right! She’s not coming home again,

  Eric! She’ll not come home! That’s what they said more

  or less. This is it! It’s not like when she went in and out

  of hospital; this is the start of the end, I know it is and

  I can’t stand it! I can’t cope! I don’t know what to do!’

  His tears had come thick and fast, the only time he had

  ever cried this way in front of his pal. ‘I don’t want her

  to leave me!’

  Eric now called down from the forklift, ‘Do you want

  me to come with you?’

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  ‘No, mate, but thanks.’

  ‘Well, look, shout if you need anything. Want me to

  take Treacle out for a walk later?’

  ‘Oh, Treacle.’ He had nearly forgotten her. ‘Yes, that’d

  be great. Grab the house keys off me mum.’

  ‘Will do. Is Jen in?’ He waggled his eyebrows.

  Nick laughed. It didn’t matter that his mate was in

  his thirties; he was still trying to get a date with Nick’s

  sister as he had been since he was ten or so years of age.

  Eric had been the only one in the community to greet

  the news of her divorce and return to the family home a

  couple of years back with an air punch. ‘That’s the best

  news, mate! She’s free again!’

  ‘Yes, but free or not, she doesn’t want to go out with

  you,’ Nick had pointed out.

  ‘Ah, but she did once and will again, you’ll see. It’s a

  waiting game.’ Eric had beamed.

  ‘Just how long are you prepared to wait?’ Nick was

  curious.

  ‘As long as it takes, lad.’ Eric winked at him. ‘As long

  as it takes.’

  Nick and Kerry had both always admired his tenacity,

  for wait he did.

  It was mid-afternoon and the motorway wasn’t too

  busy. Nick stayed in top gear and sat in the slow lane,

  trying to keep to a steady sixty miles an hour. It was a

  compromise between controlling his urgent desire to

  get to Oliver in the shortest possible time and preserving

  precious fuel. Nick felt confused and concerned, having

  believed when he had dropped his son in Birmingham

  only six days before that in all likelihood he would not

  be seeing him until Christmas.

  And yet here he was.

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  His first thought was that he wanted Oliver to be happy,

  that above all else, of course. And yet still the hammer

  of despair thudded loud and heavy in his head when he

  thought of the chance his son was giving up. Eric was

  right: Oliver was a smart lad, and with a degree under

  his belt he could choose his path. Nick had watched him

  work so hard for his ‘A’ levels, battling in the atmosphere

  of home, heavy with his mum’s illness, treatments and

  side effects. Their whole schedule punctuated by her bouts

  of sickness, hospital appointments and tiptoeing around

  the house while she slept. But Oliver had managed it and

  was the first person on either side of the family to get to

  university, let alone a prestigious one like Birmingham.

  Apart from Julian Siddley, Nick didn’t know anyone who

  had a degree, and yet Oliver appeared to be on the point

  of giving it up. It hurt him to see a place so hard won

  thrown away and he feared his son might regret it. His

  job, he knew, was to point this out in the most tactful,

  supportive way possible without applying any pressure. He

  exhaled through bloated cheeks, nervous at the prospect.

  The situation was tempered by the fact that this grief, still fresh, was an unpredictable thing, and if Oliver wasn’t

  coping then it was also Nick’s job to help put him back

  on an even keel.

  ‘I wonder if he could take some time off? Start again

  later in the term or even next year? I don’t know how it

  works, and I don’t know who to ask.’ He said this aloud,

  tilting his head towards the passenger seat, which Kerry

  used to occupy, as the junction for Birmingham loomed

  ahead.

  He parked and made his way across the communal

  courtyard to Oliver’s halls of residence, feeling a little

  out of place among the student population in his steel

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  toe-capped work boots, padded knee trousers and with the

  Siddley logo on the chest of his polo shirt. He suspected

  that most of these students had parents who wore suits

  and felt the flush of inadequacy as he walked the pathway

  in the uniform of the maintenance staff. Another reason

  for Oliver to achieve more – so he might never know

  what this felt like. Nick wanted him to sit behind a big

  desk one day like Julian Siddley and not stand in front of

  it, nervous about asking for an afternoon off. He looked

  around at all the kids, loping around in twos or bigger

  packs, some wearing University of Birmingham t-shirts

  and all laughing, chatting, holding files or with backpacks

  slung over their shoulder lest anyone be in any doubt they

  were esteemed scholars. And he more than understood

  their pride and the confidence they exuded. These were

  kids with the whole world at their feet. And he made no

  secret of the fact that he wanted Oliver to be one of them.

  ‘I’m not going to university, Dad. I’m getting married.

  Kerry’s pregnant … Dad … Dad? Say something!’

  He made his way along the corridor, which now had a

  very different atmosphere from when he had experienced

  it on drop-off day. Then it had been quiet, a little subdued, gloomy almost with the nerves of all newcomers and their

  parents, bouncing off the bare magnolia-painted walls.

  Now music wafted from under doors, he spied posters

  stuck to walls, laughter filled the communal kitchens and

  the whole place felt a lot more personalised, more like a

  home and less like an institution and one where a party

  was about to break out.

  He knocked on Oliver’s door and stood back, swal-

  lowing a flutter of nerves and wondering how his son

  might appear. He pictured the pale-skinned, red-eyed

  distress; the haunted look that had been his son’s mask

&nbs
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  during Kerry’s funeral. Nick braced himself for whatever

  Oliver’s emotional needs might be, remembering the boy’s

  breakdown on the day of his results, when the grief he had

  tried to keep at bay finally caught up and overwhelmed

  him. He would never, ever forget the sight of his son

  crumpled and coiled on the welcome mat by the front

  door, so entirely broken, hurting more than he ever had

  and lost to his grief. Even the memory of it brought a

  lump to Nick’s throat. He offered up a silent prayer that

  his son’s meltdown today was not on the same scale, not

  only because he doubted his own ability to cope right

  now, but mainly because he did not want to see him go

  through anything close to that again. And again Peter’s

  words came to mind.

  Grief is not a linear journey. Sadness is not a sequential thing. Your thoughts and feelings will dart this way and that, like a jagged rollercoaster that can drop you to the lowest low and raise you up to the highest high and you have to almost sink back into it, submit, go with it and not judge it. In the beginning you will live at its will but then, as time progresses, if you’re lucky, the tide changes and you will find you’re gradually taking back control. Your grief will be a little more under your own control and that really is the start of true recovery, when you can set the pace and choose your moments…

  It was a second or two before Oliver opened the door,

  and the greeting was not what Nick had been expecting.

  In fact, it was in such contrast to the image he had painted

  that it shocked him.

  ‘Hi, Dad.’ The boy beamed and stepped back, hold-

  ing the door open, almost with a flourish to his hand to

  allow him entry. ‘Come in!’

  Nick exhaled, realising only then that he had been

  holding his breath.

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  ‘Are you okay?’ He looked him up and down, searching

  for visible signs of distress or harm, and found none. In

  fact, with a slight flush to his cheeks and his eyes bright,

  Oliver, if anything, looked positively chirpy.

  ‘I am now,’ Oliver offered with an undercurrent of

  laughter. ‘But I had a bit of a wobble this morning. Sit

  down.’ He pointed to the chair at the desk, on which

  he had placed a rather flat, garish cushion with a cactus

  print on it.

  Nick sat. It felt odd to be in his son’s environment. A

  guest. He felt his pulse settle, lulled by the atmosphere

  in the room and his son’s demeanour.