All the Lonely People

by Mike Gayle

  As she wrote, Jan thought about the first time she had met Hubert, that day in the park. It had been such a gloriously sunny day, the kind that pulls you outside in spite of whatever plans you’d made. She had intended to do a little shopping and then perhaps find a café with some tables outside where she could have a cup of tea and do some people watching. The world and his wife must have had the same idea, though, because after half an hour of looking, the only café she could find was full, apart from a table for four, which she would have felt selfish taking up on her own.

  Instead she’d bought herself an ice cream from a newsagent, made her way to the park, and eaten it on a bench overlooking the children’s play area, which made her think sadly about her own grandchildren, and how lovely they had been when they were little. Now they were moody teenagers who never thought to give her a call, even though, it seemed, they lived their entire lives through their phones.

  In an attempt to shake off the sadness that threatened to spoil such a lovely day, she had started strolling through the park, and it had been then that she’d spotted Hubert pushing Layla in her pram. At this point in her life Jan had found it hard to believe in love at all, let alone that such a thing might happen at first sight, but if she had, this would’ve been it. It was such a lovely image, this elderly gentleman in charge of such a sweet child, and it instantly made her forget all the maudlin thoughts that had plagued her moments earlier.

  While she had delighted in fussing over Layla, it had been Hubert who had really grabbed her attention. Who was this dapper West Indian gent? Why was he, and not his wife, looking after this lovely little girl? And how were they related? Was it a granddaughter? Or a great-granddaughter? Did he look after her all the time while her mum was at work or was this just a one-off, a proud grandparent showing off the next generation of his family to the world at large?

  As she talked to him he had seemed awkward and embarrassed, which of course she now knew was due to the fact that he barely knew Ashleigh or her daughter. Back then she hadn’t known what to make of it; all she knew was that by the time they parted, she had been charmed.

  When she’d seen him at the wedding reception at the social club it had felt like a sign, like fate was saying, “Sorry for the past forty years of misery, Jan. To make up for it, here’s that lovely fella you keep thinking about!” And he had been lovely, more relaxed and at ease than when they’d chatted in the park. And when she had suggested that they go out for the day, even though he made it clear it would only be as friends, Jan had thought to herself, “Perhaps I am going to be allowed to be happy after all.”

  Jan wrote of all this and much more on her piece of paper, trying to explain to Hubert just what meeting him had meant to her and how upset she was to have ruined it all, and how much she hoped that he would forgive her, forget everything that had happened, and resume their friendship.

  As Jan finished the letter, her phone rang. It was Ron, the manager of the social club, asking if she could cover a shift that afternoon, as Lisa, who was supposed to be working, had called in sick with a stomach bug. “We’ve got the do for a funeral this afternoon. A young bloke it was, got drunk one night, went home on his own, and they found him facedown in the canal. Apparently they’re expecting a good two or three hundred to turn out for it, so we’re going to need all the help we can get.”

  Jan told Ron she would cover the shift; after all, it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do. But as she got up from the table, leaving her cake and hot chocolate untouched, and tucked her letter to Hubert into her bag, she couldn’t help thinking about the poor young man’s funeral. She knew from her years of working at the club that whenever a young person died, the place was packed to the rafters with people come to pay their respects. It was the shock, she supposed. A sense of outrage at a young life ended too soon. It wasn’t the same with the elderly. Just last month one of the club’s regular members had died at the age of ninety-one, and even though Ron had said that the family could have the room for free and the food at cost, fewer than a dozen people turned up. It was heartbreaking to see a life summed up by an empty room and tables full of untouched finger food, and as Jan walked out of the café and into the warmth of the midday sun, she couldn’t help but wonder how many would be at her funeral when the time came.

  44

  NOW

  Hubert poured lukewarm water from the kettle into the empty can of cat food, swished it around, and then emptied the pitiful contents into Puss’s bowl. When he’d taken this last tin of Whiskas from the cupboard, he’d hoped that by some miracle or other it would last perhaps another day or two. Clearly that wasn’t the case.

  Hubert wasn’t at all sure about his ability to cope with an extended excursion from home. How long had it been since he’d last gone out? He struggled to recall. Had it been one week or two? Perhaps he should try to get into the habit of marking off the days on the calendar again. It was easy to lose track when you lived alone and had nowhere to be.

  He stared down at Puss’s bowl sadly. It had been his hope that the addition of a little water to the scrapings left inside the can might form something akin to a gravy she could enjoy. The gray liquid in which the scraps of food were currently floating, however, did nothing to enhance the meal at all. If anything he’d made it worse.

  Shifting his gaze from the bowl to his pet, Hubert had no choice but to acknowledge the look of disgust on her face. It made him feel both guilty and annoyed. Guilty because he knew that mealtimes were the highlight of Puss’s day, and annoyed because, unless she was partial to oxtail soup, which was the only other food left in the house, he was going to have to go outside.

  Hubert huffed and slammed the empty tin can down on the cluttered kitchen counter. “Now me have to drag me weary body to the shops just to get more supplies for you, your majesty! How your lot cope in the wild, me do not know!”

  Leaving the kitchen, Hubert shoved his bare feet angrily into the first pair of shoes he came across on the shoe rack, which happened to be the trainers he’d worn when leafleting for the campaign. An image of himself and Jan on Bromley High Street handing out flyers popped into his head, and he immediately pushed it out before it had a chance to settle. He didn’t do the past, not anymore. Hubert Bird lived in the present and right now he was getting ready to go outside.

  He rummaged around on the hallway table for his keys, but his search was hindered by the amassed contents of everything that had been posted through his letterbox over the past few weeks. There were unopened bills and letters, takeaway menus, and leaflets advertising window cleaning all piled up in an untidy heap. Hubert finally found his door keys sandwiched between a free newspaper and a flyer for a carpet-cleaning service.

  Slipping on a jacket, Hubert dropped his keys into its pocket and then grabbed the baseball cap he only ever wore for gardening, and as he put it on his head, he caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall and barely recognized the reflection looking back at him. His transformation into an unshaven old man, with tired eyes and loose-fitting clothing, had been a gradual one. He’d stopped shaving because he couldn’t see the point, his eyes were tired because he wasn’t sleeping properly, and his clothing was loose because some days it felt like it was all he could do to feed Puss, let alone himself. Seeing his reflection, he couldn’t help but acknowledge that his old self would never have dreamed of going out looking like this. Or, for that matter, staying in looking like this. But these were different times, he concluded; he was living a different life now. A solitary life. One in which he only had himself to please.

  Turning away from the mirror, Hubert went into the living room, picked up the remote, and switched on the TV. It came on fairly loud, just how Hubert, with his hearing getting worse all the time, liked it, but he made it louder, loud enough so that any passing burglar keen to try their luck would be convinced that someone was in.

  From the back room Hubert went to the cupboard under the stairs and took out his new shopping trolley. As
practical as they were, he’d always hated the things, finding them cumbersome and overly feminine. But as he’d discovered on his last shopping trip, when he’d bulk-bought cat food and other non-perishable staples for himself, hoping it might mean having to leave the house less often, carrier bags, even the heavy-duty ones, weren’t designed for heavy loads—and even if they had been, his arms were no longer up to the job of lugging them home.

  At the front door, Hubert confidently drew back the first of the newly installed dead bolts, but when it came to the second set, he was more reticent. Did he really want to go outside? There must be something else in the cupboards Puss would eat. Perhaps something in the freezer? He vaguely recalled frying some fish just like his mother used to make, sometime at the beginning of the year, and freezing part of it to have another day. Had he defrosted and eaten it all? Or was there some still left that would mean he could put off this journey for just a little while longer?

  Returning to the kitchen, he opened the door to the freezer and went through every drawer. But aside from the half-open bag of frozen peas and a carrier bag of blanched rhubarb, there was nothing Puss might actually consider consuming. So that was that. He had no choice. He would have to go to the supermarket.

  Heading back to the front door, Hubert undid the bottom lock and then slid back the newly installed chain. Taking a deep breath, he then grabbed hold of the lock and opened the door. He was immediately met by a tsunami of fresh air that flooded into his nose, mouth, and lungs, bathing every inch of him that was uncovered. It was in such sharp contrast to the stale, musty air he’d grown used to that for a moment he just stood there, gulping down the stuff as though slaking a thirst.

  Turning to the wall next to him, Hubert punched the code (the month and year of Joyce’s birth) into the control panel of his burglar alarm, just like the installer had shown him three weeks earlier, and, waiting until it began beeping, he carefully pulled the door shut firmly behind him.

  It felt odd being outdoors after so long inside; his eyes were so unaccustomed to the brightness of natural daylight that he had to squint, his skin so sensitive to the change in temperature and so unused to the warmth of the early-morning sun that he started to break into a sweat. Most striking of all, however, was the sheer scale and vastness of the outside world in stark contrast to the security and containment of the four walls of his home. Had the world always been this big? Its sky so limitless? And if it had, then how had he forgotten so quickly? Here was a world where anything could happen, he thought as he maneuvered his shopping trolley down the step. Here was a world he could never hope to control. Here was a world he would only venture into if it was absolutely necessary.

  After rattling the door handle to make sure it was properly secured, Hubert double-locked the top lock and then turned the key in the dead bolt before making his way down the path. The front garden was unkempt: there were flowers that needed deadheading, the borders required weeding, and the small lawn was in desperate need of a cut. It grieved him to see it in this condition, especially after all the years he and Joyce had tended it, but he couldn’t risk gardening at the front of the house, where someone might see him and want to start up a conversation.

  At his front gate Hubert paused, scanning the street carefully in both directions. Primarily he was on the lookout for ruffians, thieves who might be lurking around the corner, watching to see which home might be vacant, but also he was wary of bumping into Ashleigh taking Layla to nursery, Emils passing by in his van, or Jan making one of her detours. It was always easier to ignore people from behind his front door than it was face-to-face, just as it was easier to let the telephone ring unanswered and have letters sit unopened, rather than having to explain himself again and again to people who just wouldn’t understand. Anyway, avoiding people was easy once you learned how, and with every day that passed it seemed to be getting easier.

  After news got out about the burglary there had been a flurry of well-meaning visits and phone calls from every last member of the committee, even Maude. They’d all wanted to make sure that he was okay, to see if he needed help, to let him know they were thinking of him. And while he’d been grateful for their concern and hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings, Hubert reasoned it would be better for everybody in the long run if he started as he meant to go on. He’d made his position clear to Ashleigh and he hoped his actions would do the same for the rest of the group: he’d gotten into this trouble by opening his front door and so from now on it made sense to keep it firmly closed.

  So he ignored the pleas and cries through the letterbox from Ashleigh. He left unopened the letters from Jan. The baked goods Emils left on his doorstep ended up untouched and stale on his kitchen counter. The cards from Tony and Fiona went unread into the recycling, along with the BEWARE OF THE DOG sticker Maude had pushed through his letterbox and her attached note saying, “This will help keep the burglars away. Maude xxx.” He rejected it all because doing so was the only way he could see that made any sense going forward. He was done with being involved with the world any more than he had to be. From now on, it would just be him and Puss.

  Nights were particularly difficult, especially before the insurance workmen came to put in the extra security measures. As each day turned to darkness, every creak, every groan, every sigh the old house made caused Hubert to reach for the walking stick he now kept at the side of the bed. In the end, he gave up going upstairs at night and instead chose to sleep in the armchair in the living room, so that he might be ready to tackle any intruders before they knew what had hit them.

  It was only after the workmen left, having installed at his request a burglar alarm along with all the other locks, bolts, and lights he’d wanted, that he finally began to relax. His home was finally secure. Nobody would ever again get in without his permission; he’d made sure of that.

  At the bus stop an elderly couple dressed in matching shades of beige attempted to engage him in conversation. Apparently, rain was expected by midweek and wasn’t it a shame to have to say goodbye to all this fine weather? Though Hubert nodded politely in all the right places, he didn’t offer anything in return. As soon as the bus arrived he made sure to block access to the seat next to him with his shopping trolley, in case anyone else got it into their head to try to pass the time of day with him. All he wanted, all he needed, was cat food, shelf-stable milk, and a few tins and packets to restock his cupboards. He wasn’t interested in people or their stories. He just wanted to be left alone.

  Hubert arrived at the supermarket, which was busy with mothers and their young children and pensioners like himself venturing out into the world to pick up supplies. Next time, he would try first thing on a Saturday morning, when most people were still in bed, or perhaps early on a Wednesday evening, when people would be settled in front of the TV. Being around people made him nervous, as though anything might happen at any minute, and he didn’t like it.

  Determined not to be distracted or waylaid by special promotions or discounts, Hubert grabbed a trolley, hung his shopper off the end of it, and, going up and down the aisles, picked up everything he needed: baked beans, tinned carrots and potatoes, tins of soup, sweet corn, fruit cocktail, evaporated milk, custard, rice, kidney beans, corned beef, tinned ham, sardines, tins of stewing steak, and, of course, plenty of cat food.

  As he made his way to the checkout, Hubert surveyed his trolley and couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction. This lot would see him and Puss right through the coming week and well into the one after, and if he was careful, perhaps even longer. That would be at least a whole week and a half in which he wouldn’t have to leave the house, wouldn’t have to see anyone, and instead could just sit safely at home with Puss and watch TV.

  Hubert’s cashier was called Lewis. He knew this because his name was emblazoned in large white letters across a green badge. Lewis had a hole in his left ear that was the size of a ten-pence piece, a ring through his nose, and tattoos that poked out beneath the short sleeves of
his work shirt. Why did young people insist on mutilating themselves like this? Was it a fashion? What would they do when the fashion was over? Walk around with big holes in their ears and marks all over their bodies? Idiots, the lot of them, thought Hubert.

  “And how’s your day going, sir?” asked Lewis as he started scanning Hubert’s shopping.

  Hubert frowned. Before the burglary he might have indulged this question, even though it was clearly something Lewis had been trained to say by his bosses. Ask the customer how they are, make them feel valued and they’ll keep coming back for more. It was nothing but a con trick, a way to win more customers. Lewis didn’t care how Hubert’s day was going and even if he did, Hubert didn’t feel inclined to tell him.

  Just as Hubert thought, the young man wasn’t expecting a reply and didn’t blink an eye when he failed to receive one. Instead, with a glazed expression, he continued scanning Hubert’s shopping and the rest of the transaction was conducted wordlessly, until the young man asked: “Cash or card?”

  “Cash, thank you,” said Hubert. He took out his wallet, counted the exact amount he’d been asked for, and handed it over.

  “Thank you,” said Lewis. Taking the money, he gave Hubert his receipt in exchange. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  Hubert didn’t respond and left the shop pulling his trolley behind him, but it was only as he reached the bus stop that it dawned on him that this exchange with Lewis, awkward as it had been, was the longest he’d had with another human being since the workmen from the insurance company left six weeks ago. Like a man in a boat without any paddles, he was gradually drifting farther and farther away from the shore, and soon there would be no going back.

  The relief Hubert felt when he finally reached home was palpable. With his heart racing, he opened up the front door, switched off the burglar alarm, and quickly stepped inside, pulling his trolley behind him. Shutting the door, he bolted it and breathed a deep sigh. He was home. He was safe. Nothing bad had happened. He was okay. He regarded his shopping, pleased at the thought of what his haul represented: a week, maybe two, of safety, the security of not having to be out there dealing with people again. But before he could take a step toward the kitchen to start putting it away, the doorbell rang. Ignoring it, he continued to the kitchen, but then he heard his letterbox open and a voice called out that was so familiar, it stopped him in his tracks. But it couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be real. And his heart filled with dread at the thought that the voices were happening all over again.