The Light in the Hallway (ARC) Read online

  ‘So, let me get this straight.’ He was struggling to get

  a handle on the situation, which only hours earlier had

  sounded like the most extreme emergency, and yet now,

  judging from Oliver’s manner and smile, felt like nothing

  of the sort. ‘You said you wanted to leave university?’

  Oliver sat down on the bed and rested against the wall,

  where more bright cushions lined up along the wall and

  turned it into a sofa of sorts. It was highly creative and a

  surprise that his son, who was happy for his bedroom at

  home to resemble the local dump, piled high with dirty

  clothes, empty cups and the contents of discarded folders,

  had this flair.

  ‘I had a bit of a panic.’ Oliver sighed, rubbing his

  palms together.

  You had a bit of a panic? Me too after I took that bloody call!

  He kept these thoughts to himself. ‘Right.’ Nick felt the

  stir of frustration in his veins; he had cut his shift. Driven over a hundred and fifty miles and had sat with a twist

  in his gut for most of the journey, over a bit of a panic.

  ‘What was it made you panic, son?’ he asked, trying to

  keep his tone level.

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  ‘I got my reading list this morning.’

  ‘Your reading list?’ He wasn’t sure what that was and

  again felt a flash of ignorance.

  ‘Yes, all the books we have to get and study for our

  first year and it’s a big list, Dad. Not only the textbooks

  we need to have, but recommended reading as well. I

  guess I freaked out.’

  Nick took a breath. ‘So you called me over a list of

  books you have to read?’

  Oliver nodded. ‘I felt a bit overwhelmed.’

  He stared at the boy and ran his thumb over his stub-

  bly chin. ‘You know, Olly, I don’t know whether to

  laugh or cry. I’ve driven for the last few hours with my

  heart in my mouth. I didn’t know what was waiting for

  me. A bit overwhelmed…’ he repeated, shaking his head.

  ‘Your mum has died, her treatment was rough on all of

  us, we didn’t have a proper Christmas last year when

  things were too bad, we’ve lived off rubbish food’ – he

  laid his hand on the small pouch of stomach that sat over

  the waistband of his trousers – ‘we’ve stayed up all night

  on too many occasions because she was too sick to lie

  down, the Hoover caught fire on your birthday, Treacle

  ate part of your ‘A’ level project, we haven’t had so much

  as a day trip out let alone a holiday for more years than

  I care to remember, we got through that soul crushing

  funeral, and yet you nearly lose the plot over being given

  a list of books to read?’

  ‘Yes.’ Oliver blinked.

  ‘I see.’ Nick took a deep breath. ‘But just to clarify,

  you’re feeling okay now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that’s good,’ he offered with a hint of sarcasm

  that he hadn’t intended. Nick suddenly felt very tired,

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  realising that adrenaline and anticipation had been his

  fuel for the last few hours. He couldn’t remember when

  he had last eaten.

  Oliver sat forward. ‘I spoke to a couple of the guys

  here, and Tasha, and they all said I needed to look at it

  logically. I mean, it’s not like I have to read the whole list, and even if I did, then I get to do it over a long period

  of time.’

  ‘That’s true.’ Nick sighed again. ‘I suppose the answer

  is when things like that floor you, try not to get in a flap

  about it. Go for a walk, do something different and get

  your head straight. Your friends are right: put it into

  perspective and take it one day at a time.’

  Oliver nodded and Nick felt relieved that his son’s

  degree course was still on track. It made him realise just

  how much it meant to him for Oliver to have a ticket out

  of Burston, if that was what he chose. Higher education

  would give him options he and Kerry had never had.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea, Dad?’

  ‘I’d love one.’ He smiled at the novelty of his son

  offering him refreshment and, as was the norm, felt the

  familiar flicker of regret that Kerry was neither here to

  experience it nor waiting at home for him to share the

  moment with upon his return. He knew it would have

  made her chuckle.

  ‘Be right back!’ Oliver jumped up from the bed and

  disappeared from the room.

  ‘Honestly, Kerry, he offered me tea. Like a proper grown-

  up! He was so excited to have his own mugs and access to a little kitchen.’

  ‘Ah, bless him! And to think he can’t even bring his dirty cups down from his bedroom or put his pants in dirty laundry when he’s home!’

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  ‘I know it, and I just sat there like a plum while he

  disappeared…’

  ‘Love him, Nick, he’s growing up.’

  ‘He is, love, he’s growing up fast…’

  Nick looked around and took in the detail that meant

  his son had settled physically, at least. The pin board with

  his York City FC poster on it, a half-filled water glass

  on the desk by his bedside, his colour-coded files neatly

  stacked on the deep windowsill and his single duvet nest-

  ling inside the voluminous cover with a quilted throw

  folded over the end of the bed.

  Oliver returned with two mugs, which contained

  a passable, dark enough tea and a packet of ginger snap

  biscuits, from which Nick took three. The diet would

  have to start tomorrow.

  ‘Yorkshire teabags,’ Oliver informed him with pride

  as he handed Nick the mug.

  ‘Of course.’ He chuckled. Nick took a sip and was glad

  of the restorative brew. ‘Now my heart rate has settled and

  I can see it’s not a matter of life and death…’ He winced

  a little at the phrase, which leapt from his mouth with

  ease, as if he had forgotten that life and death had been

  their preoccupation and sadness for so long now. Oliver

  didn’t flinch and Nick continued. ‘I have to say I’m a bit

  relieved that you’re not giving up on your degree.’

  Oliver’s leg jumped, his heel tapping out a nervous

  rhythm on the Indian rag rug beneath his foot.

  ‘Not that I’m saying you have to finish; there is no

  pressure on you either way’ – he tried to grease the path

  for whatever Oliver might decide – ‘but I think you have

  this amazing opportunity that a lot of people would give

  their left nut for.’

  ‘Would you?’

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  ‘Would I what, son?’

  ‘Would you have liked to have gone to university?’

  ‘Erm.’ The question took him by surprise. He took

  his time framing his answer, taking a sip of his tea.

  I thought I could have it all. I thought I could do the right thing by Kerry, be a good father to you, set the best example, please my own dad and make a good life. But it turns out I was wrong; you can’t have it all. University was g
oing to be my ticket; I wanted the car, the house, a big desk and someone on call to bring me orange Fanta … I gave up the dream to work at Siddley’s. It was all about getting through the week, earning enough to keep food on the table and you in nappies. I thought it would be temporary, thought I’d figure something out and find a way, but here I am. Stuck. And as for your mum and me? We were kids, playing at being grown-ups and by the time I realised we were playing at it I was a grown-up, a grown-up with responsibilities and that was that. Would I go back and trade it all for a place at a university like this? Would I let Kerry listen to her sister? No. No, a thousand times no, because the truth is I did love her … even though we had our issues – who doesn’t? And you, Oliver, you’re the greatest thing I have ever done. I pass the mantle to you and you will live the life I could only have dreamed of, my boy…

  ‘I guess I would have liked to have been smart enough

  to get a place at university.’ He hoped they might leave

  it at that.

  ‘Come off it, Dad, you’re plenty smart!’

  The vote of confidence was a welcome boost to his

  flagging self-esteem. He recalled being sixteen with the

  fire of self-assurance in his belly that made him feel in-

  vincible. When he was the first to get married he felt like

  an adventurer, a ground breaker. This before some of the

  boys in his year packed up to leave Burston, ready to study

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  at Sheffield and one even went to London, and Nick was

  left behind and suddenly he didn’t feel that clever or that

  confident. Not anymore.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’

  ‘Yes, you are! Grandad always said you could have

  been anything had you and Mum not had me so young

  and you’d had to take the job at Siddley’s.’

  Nick remembered the day he walked through the

  factory gates by his dad’s side. His old man had always

  been so proud to walk him around the place, introduc-

  ing him to anyone and everyone with his hands gripping

  his shoulders.

  This is my boy, Nicholas…

  Have you met my lad?

  This is Nicky, top of his class at Burstonbridge Comp,

  aren’t you, son?

  And Nick had always felt ten feet tall walking in by his

  side, and yet on that day with Kerry nearly five months

  pregnant and the rent on the one-bedroomed flat above the

  off license due, things felt very different. Nick was happy,

  yes, but aware that his choices were limited. On his dad’s

  recommendation, Mr Siddley senior had agreed to give

  him a go. Yes, on that day there was no sense of pride,

  quite the opposite. His dad walked with a slow reluctance

  to his gait and a downward cast to his eyes, as if Nick had

  in some way let him down. He never really shook off that

  feeling and when his dad passed away seven years ago, he

  had stood by his grave with the roof of Siddley’s visible

  in the distance and offered up a silent apology for the fact

  that he had not quite lived up to his dad’s expectations.

  He knew he had never reached his full potential, a frus-

  tration that spilled over into his marriage, and years later

  when it looked like Kerry might have let him down …

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  all he could think about was how much he had given up.

  It was a burden that he never wanted to put on Oliver’s

  shoulders, even though he understood it more than most.

  He was proud of his boy for who he was, for what he had

  gone through and for the future that beckoned, so proud.

  But he would keep these thoughts to himself.

  ‘It’s all well and good looking at what might have

  been,’ Nick responded to Oliver’s statement, ‘but you can

  only really deal with what actually is, and I wouldn’t have

  changed a thing about my life up to now, not a thing.

  And you know, I was thinking about this the other day;

  we did have you young, some said too young, in fact most

  said too young.’ He smiled. ‘But we never thought so.

  It always felt right, scary, but right. And knowing what

  we know now, it meant your mum got to be with you

  until you were grown up, well technically grown up, and

  that’s a wonderful thing. She got eighteen years of you

  and you did her.’

  ‘I miss her.’ Oliver sniffed and his lips, pressed tightly

  together, quivered in the pre-crying pose that his dad

  recognised as the one his boy had struck since he was a

  child, when what ailed him was usually a scraped knee

  or a misplaced toy.

  ‘I miss her too.’

  ‘I talk to her,’ Oliver confessed, staring at the mug

  in his hands.

  ‘I talk to her too and she answers. Or at least I imagine

  her answering and it helps.’

  ‘She doesn’t answer me, but she smiles at me and

  crinkles her eyes up like she used to, and it makes me

  cry again. I try not to think about her when I’m out

  and about or with my friends, but when I’m on my own

  I tell myself she’s at home.’ Oliver sniffed. ‘It’s easy,

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  really. I picture you at work and her in the kitchen or

  watching the telly and I think she’s there and that I’ll

  see her soon.’

  Nick nodded, knowing he had done similar when

  the loss of her threatened to overwhelm him at work:

  she’s at the supermarket, parking the car, chatting to her sister, buying our food…

  ‘I don’t believe she’s gone, Dad, not really. I know it

  sounds stupid—’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ Nick interrupted, knowing nothing was

  stupid and that there was no blueprint for their grief.

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I wish I could call her, just once. I want to hear her

  voice and I’d love to talk to her, just to find out how she’s doing. Make sure she’s okay.’

  ‘Me too. Although that would be some phone bill,

  eh?’ He tried to lighten the mood and it seemed to work.

  Oliver smiled and wiped his eyes with his fingers.

  ‘I keep thinking that she was never very good at

  travelling by herself, you know like when we were on

  the way to Filey or she had to catch a bus – she always

  got in a bit of a panic in case she went in the wrong dir-

  ection or got lost.’

  ‘And she had a habit of doing both.’ Nick chuckled,

  picturing her wandering off from the car in the wrong

  direction to where they were heading and him having to

  call her back: And where do you think you’re going, Missus?

  It’s this way, isn’t it?

  No, Ker, it’s not!

  ‘That’s what I mean, Dad, and I keep thinking…’ He

  paused. ‘I keep thinking that she has had to go on this

  final journey on her own, all on her own and I worry

  about that.’

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  ‘You know’ – Nick coughed, to clear the emotion that

  bloomed in his throat – ‘I don’t worry about that. I don’t know what happens to us when we pass on, Olly, but I

  am certain that if at all possible, there would be someone

  to hold your mum’s hand and show he
r the way.’

  ‘Someone like Grandad?’

  He nodded, biting his teeth together hard to control

  his tears. He didn’t want to break down. Not here and

  not now.

  They sat quietly for a second or two as Nick tried to

  restore his thoughts and beat off the wave of sadness that

  threatened to knock him from his feet, as it often did. It

  was Olly that broke the silence.

  ‘I’m sorry I called you in such a state earlier.’

  ‘Don’t be sorry. I’m your dad. I want you to be able

  to call on me any time, and it’s been good to see you

  and to have a cuppa, really good, worth the drive even.’

  He raised the now empty mug in Oliver’s direction as

  he stood, preparing to leave. ‘But I do think we need a

  code system for days like these and moments like that.’

  ‘What kind of code system?’

  ‘I don’t know, Olly, maybe we could say “code green”

  if everything is fine, “amber” if we are sliding towards

  danger or you’re having a bit of a wobble and need prop-

  ping up and “code red”, which should only be used in

  extreme emergencies and it means; get in the car and

  come down the motorway immediately. You would only

  need to say “code red” and I’d know that you’re actu-

  ally saying, “Dad, me or my mental health is in mortal

  danger” or “the house on fire” or “there’s a meteorite

  hurtling towards the earth”, that kind of thing, okay?

  That should be a “code red”. So I would say with hind-

  sight that today’s emergency would at best have been a

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  mild amber.’ He ruffled the boy’s hair and pulled him

  into a hug.

  ‘I think you’re right, Dad. It was a mild amber.’ Oliver

  placed his arms around his dad’s shoulders and Nick in-

  haled the scent of him, which was changing from that

  of boy to man.

  A knock at the door made them spring apart and stand

  in manly poses, hands on hips, chests wide.

  ‘Come in,’ Oliver called out in his deepest voice.

  Tasha, the girl with the wide, dark spectacles, stood

  in the door with a big smile.

  ‘Hi, Olly!’

  ‘Hey, Tash, this is my dad, Nick.’

  ‘Oh, Nick. I saw you before.’ She said his name as if it

  were familiar to her and walked forward with her hands

  knitted at her chest. ‘Olly told me about his mum and it

  made me so sad. How are you doing?’