Any Day

by Brian Lancaster

  As he closed down programs on his laptop and pulled off his earphones, he raised his head and froze, his attention drawn to a distant sound.

  Barely audible beyond the building’s thick glazing, somewhere out there in the suburbs, cutting through the constant hum of traffic, came the peal of church bells. For as long as comfortably possible, he held his breath, squeezing his eyes shut and absorbing the simple melody.

  Church bells, like Sunday mornings at home, reminded him of Kris. And without warning or witness, he was overcome by the kind of immobilising grief that he had hoped would have receded after the death of his lover ten years ago. He rarely allowed himself to wallow in thoughts of their time together, but the memory blindsided him and filled him with such warmth and love and togetherness. And when those tender recollections inevitably melted away they would leave him emotionally desolate, standing alone in the stark coldness of reality. But for now he would allow himself to listen to the bells, and wallow and remember…

  Until the shrill ring of his desk phone drowned out everything.

  For a moment, he sat there, appalled at the intrusion, glaring at the device, deciding whether or not to answer. Eventually, after several rings, he relented.

  “Days-Gone-By Enterprises,” he answered gruffly, ripping a tissue from a box on his desk and dabbing at his eyes.

  “Leonard,” came his mother’s stern voice. Although no explanation had been forthcoming, she no longer called his mobile phone. “I tried you at your house but you weren’t answering. You need to come home. Your father passed this morning, and I need your help arranging things. When can you be here?”

  “What?” said Leonard, caught off guard. “Oh, God, Mum. Dad died? I’m so sorry. What happened?”

  “Not now. When can you be home?”

  “I—I can come now.” He had a case in his car for the business trip. By some stroke of fate he had even packed his black Hugo Boss suit for meetings. With a few clicks of his phone he could cancel the York trip. “I suppose I could be there around three or four. Traffic willing.”

  “I’ll get your room ready.”

  “Mum, what—?”

  Before he had a chance to probe any further, she ended the call.

  Annoyance bubbled in him. Most of the time he accepted his mother’s natural candour, and admired her ability to view and deal with the world dispassionately. Right now, he wished he had a parent who could be sensitive to the emotions a son might be feeling at the passing of the only father he would ever have. Perhaps she knew without asking that he considered grief an old friend.

  As he left the office, he did something he hated and called Isabelle on her day off to hand over the reins for the week ahead. At home, his own house, everything would be fine.

  Striding across the empty car park, Kieran’s words came back to him and cemented inside. He needed to find a life. At the moment, he seemed to be surrounded by too much death.

  * * * *

  Torrential rain met him halfway down the motorway. The automatic windscreen wipers of his SUV hissed furiously to clear the runoff blurring his vision. Cars slowed to a crawl. Leonard finally signalled off the Norwich Southern Bypass. Through the wall of rainfall, landmarks began to bring back memories.

  On his left, the building-block medical centre soon gave way to thick woodland or fallow fields of long grass lining the road on Longwater Lane. Farther on, he passed through the familiar village of Costessey and the King’s Head pub where he’d had his first-ever pint of beer at the illegal age of fourteen. The Red Lion would have been closer to home, but everyone knew everyone in Drayton.

  Once he crossed the River Wensum, dense overhanging branches plunged his SUV into gloom along the narrow lane leading into the heart of his old town. Initially he had reasoned that setting off before midday would avoid him having to navigate tight and often single-width roads at night. But the rain had brought early darkness, which meant moving slowly, headlights on full beam. As he crawled around another curve in a lane crowded on both sides by trees, hoping not to meet another driver in the opposite direction, the phone in his dashboard display beeped with an incoming call.

  Kieran.

  “Hi, Kieran. What’s up?”

  Instead of Kieran, the voice of his partner Kennedy came through the car speakers.

  “Isabelle phoned Kieran. Said you’d had a family emergency that’s taken you way out east. He wants to know if you’re okay, and if there’s anything we can do to help?”

  In the background Leonard could hear a baby screaming. Two kids to look after, both men with full-time jobs, but he knew them well enough to recognise the genuine offer of help. Leonard breathed out an inaudible sigh. At some point, he needed to remind himself to thank the world for what he had, and stop mourning what he didn't.

  “Not really, Kennedy, but thanks for asking. Dad passed away, that’s all I know right now. Mum hasn’t told me much. He was seventy-five, not old really. But he had a heart condition, although I understood he had that under control. I suppose you never really know. So there’ll be arrangements to make. Registering the death, booking the funeral, contacting family members, checking if he had a will and other nonsense. Mum will need my help with that. But you could remind that husband of yours to keep an eye on Isabelle in case she needs assistance. She’s going to be stepping into my shoes while I’m away.”

  “That’s a given,” came Kieran’s voice in the background. “And don’t worry. We promise to water your plants, feed your fish and walk your dog—”

  “Slap your husband for me, Kennedy, will you?”

  “And Izzy and I can take care of the Cheltenham manor project, as well as the meeting with your accountant on Wednesday.”

  “Shit, I’d completely forgotten. I can always dial in—”

  “Let me and Izzie take care of it, Len. It’s what you pay us for. Go do what you need to do. Izzy’s got a degree in finance. And I think between the two of us we can translate what he’s telling us into layman’s terms and work out what needs to happen next.”

  “Okay, point taken. Thanks, Kieran.”

  “Sorry, he can’t come to the phone,” came Kennedy’s voice again. “Little Clint’s having a meltdown and refuses to let anyone but Kieran touch him. Take good care of yourself, Len. Let us know when you’re back and we’ll drag you over for drinks and dinner—”

  "And nappy changing," came a distant voice.

  “Thanks, guys. Appreciate the call. Love you both. And the kids and the pooch.”

  The call succeeded in making him feel lighter, but as he drove out of the darkened lane into the outskirts of his old town thoughts returned to his plight. Drayton dragged up mixed emotions. Having lived for most of his adult life in the hustle and bustle of South London, he remembered the towns around Norwich from childhood as being frustratingly sedate, full of people living out their twilight years in bungalows with well-tended gardens.

  When he finally turned the car into his old road, a shiver ran through him. Memories returned, of traipsing along the street alone in the early hours to get his bus, a lone and lonely wolf.

  He sat behind the wheel for a full five minutes, before finally taking a steadying breath, grabbing his suitcase from the passenger seat and opening the car door. He dashed the short distance through the rain to the front door. Nothing about the house appeared to have changed. The same frosted glass on the single-pane front door, surrounded by racing green woodwork, matching white net curtains at every window. The front yard had been concreted over, leaving only two ceramic pots containing small fir trees on either side of the front bay window, a testament to the inhabitants who cared nothing for gardening.

  Almost immediately, his mother answered the door and ushered him inside. Once the door closed, she turned her face to allow him to kiss her left cheek. Never one to show emotion, his mother had always been hard to read, and he had never been able to understand her mood. If anything, she looked older but not distraught as some wives might be on losing th
eir husband. She had even been to the hairdressers, probably in readiness for the funeral they had yet to arrange. The dress she wore—a simple plain pale green affair—she’d had for years. As always, her reading glasses hung from a silver chain around her neck.

  “Take your bag up to your room. Your house keys are on the nightstand. And take those boxes of books with you. Been sitting there for weeks waiting for your father to take them up. I’ll put the kettle on. Then you can work out what needs to be done.”

  She gave no formal greeting, no words of sympathy. In her typical impassive way, she got straight down to business and as usual, he did as asked. Once he had dropped everything on the floor in his old bedroom, he sat on the edge of the mattress and looked around. Nothing had changed. Single bed, small oak wardrobe, desk and chair with a table lamp. Whenever he’d come home from university for the holidays, he would spend as little time as possible in the room or in the house, both of which he’d always found oppressive. Unlike other boys’ bedrooms, he’d had no posters, stickers or toys on display, nothing to let a person know this room belonged to a boy. At twenty-two, when he’d met Kris and they’d moved in together, although he still came home from time to time, he’d rarely stayed over.

  Minutes later, he was back in the kitchen.

  “What happened, Mum?” he said as he joined her for tea at the kitchen table.

  “He died in his sleep. Last night we went to bed together. When I woke in the morning his body was cold. Doctor Nguyen came this morning to do a preliminary check and then they took him away. Said he needed to report the death to a coroner because the cause of death was sudden and unknown. So they’ll do a post-mortem, but he suspects heart failure. We’ll know more tomorrow morning.”

  “Can we organise the funeral yet?”

  “As soon as the body’s released. Which, as I say, is likely to be tomorrow. After that we’ll get a medical certificate. In the meantime, you’ll need to go through his things—insurance policies, university pension procedures. Fill out any necessary forms. I’ve got everything else organised, but you’re better at that kind of thing. I’ll bring the box files down.”

  Over the next two hours, she brought paperwork for Leonard to wade through. She instructed him to make a list of things he needed to do and people he needed to contact. Thankfully something that had changed since his last visit was the laptop computer his father had invested in, which was, fortunately, not password protected. Leaving him to finish up, his mother excused herself to prepare dinner. They sat in silence through a meal of pork chop, carrots and green beans—his mother cooked as simply as she lived. Afterwards, as Leonard stood at the sink washing dishes, the doorbell rang. Twisting his wrist, he checked his watch, wondering who could be calling on his mother. Seven-thirty. Maybe a neighbour.

  “See who that is,” said his mother, sitting at the table with a cup of tea in front of her, and without even looking up from her magazine.

  Something irritating registered then, a memory coming back to him about her reliance on other people to get what she wanted—subliminal bullying. She’d been good at it too, still was if after one phone call her son came trotting home. Usually, she’d had his father or her assistants at the college to run around for her. Was she expecting him to return home for good to take care of her? If so, they would need to sit down and have a cold, hard conversation. He wiped his hands on the dishcloth and headed towards the oversized silhouette behind the mottled glass of the front door.

  “I knew that had to be your monster wagon. Little Lenny Day. Sorry to hear about Uncle Colin.”

  “Eric? How are you?” asked Leonard with disbelief, opening the door wide and noting the rain had stopped. Cousin Eric, son of his mother’s brother, had lived along the same road throughout their childhood. Funnily enough, they’d never really connected as kids, mainly because boys considered two years’ age difference cavernous. Touching fifty now, he’d lost most of his hair and had a large potbelly protruding from his brown corduroy jacket. But his pronounced Norfolk accent was unmistakable. “Come on in.”

  “Actually, I wondered if you fancied a pint. Down the Lion. It being Sunday night and all.”

  “Who is it?” came his mother’s voice from the kitchen.

  “Cousin Eric,” called Leonard, then more quietly added, “I’d love a pint. If only to get out of this bloody mausoleum for five minutes.”

  “Tell him I’ll pop over to see Marcie first thing tomorrow morning,” called his mother.

  “I’ll let her know, Auntie Gerry,” Eric called back. “I’m just going to drag cousin Len out for a pint. Hope you don’t mind?”

  As he spoke, Len heard a movement from behind.

  “He’s only just got here,” came his mother’s voice.

  “I’m fine,” said Leonard, plucking his jacket from the coat rack. “And I won’t be long.”

  “But you haven’t finished the washing up.”

  Leonard put his foot down.

  “I’m going for a pint, Mum. I’ll be back later.”

  Ten minutes’ walk and they entered the bright interior of the Red Lion. Despite a healthy crowd of Sunday imbibers, Eric found them a spare booth while Leonard went to the bar.

  “Do you still live in Drayton?” asked Leonard as he set down the two pints of Guinness and took a seat opposite Eric.

  “No," said Eric, looking vaguely disgusted. "Not anymore. Just visiting Mum and Dad. They love seeing the kids. But we’re only in Kettleston, half an hour’s drive from here. The wife, Bev’s, the designated driver today. The light of my life. Are you married yet?”

  “No,” said Leonard, not wanting to discuss his private life. “Too busy.”

  To deflect, he started telling Eric about the businesses he’d kicked off after university, which usually piqued people’s interest, mainly talking about the trials of renovating listed buildings, valuable antiques he had stumbled upon, and the vintage car market. Eric seemed to relish Leonard’s stories, having himself left school at sixteen and gone straight into retail. His life had been far humbler. As the manager of a small local supermarket, he made a good enough living, enough to support his family of four. Beverley, his wife, had been a checkout assistant in the store, which was how they had met. Proud of his family, Eric brought out his phone and showed Leonard snapshots of them on their recent family holiday to Turkey. Leonard let himself relax and enjoy Eric talking about the various excursions and adventures they’d enjoyed as a family. When a message popped up on the phone display, Leonard happily handed the device back.

  “It’s the boss telling me we’re leaving at nine. This will have to be my last.”

  After the diversion he began involving Leonard in the conversation, discussing their childhood in Drayton, about their school and the people they both knew.

  “Talking of which,” said Eric, his eyes widening and with a sharp twitch of his head. “Did you see who’s over there at the bar, perched on a stool?”

  Leonard peered over Eric’s shoulder to where a big man craned over his beer glass, his body squeezed against the wall at the far end of the bar. His broad back to them, he wore an untucked red and black plaid shirt and jeans, with short curly hair of dark red and naturally tan skin. With his back to them, Leonard could not make out the face.

  “No idea.”

  “Yeah, you do. That’s Adrian Lamperton. He went to the same high school as us.”

  Leonard’s gaze darted back again. Adrian Lamperton. Sports prodigy. Mixed race. He was built like a bulldozer and insanely good-looking. How could he ever forget? Drayton didn’t have a secondary school, at least hadn’t when they were growing up, so Leonard had taken the bus each morning to attend school in Norwich. Cranmer Secondary School for Boys had been a horror from the moment he’d arrived. Older students like Adrian usually blanked the younger boys, so Leonard had been taken by surprise at being singled out by this fifth former, Lamperton, in his first week at the school. ‘Gay Lenny’, he’d called him in front of his pack of s
ports morons, a hardly inventive nickname which had raised an instant cackle. During the first assembly of winter term a teacher had called the register for pupils using their surnames followed by their given name, hence ‘Day, Leonard’ became Gay Leonard then Gay Lenny. From that first encounter, the name had stuck with some kids, almost at the same time as Leonard’s mind and body had begun to realise the truth in the name-calling. Never one to suffer fools, Leonard had initially ignored the taunt. Still, with handsome and sporty Lamperton soon becoming the most popular boy in the school, his entourage and followers had taken up the chant. Strangely enough, Lamperton had only ever used the name that one time. He’d seemed almost embarrassed when he’d passed Leonard in the corridor, thrusting his gaze to the floor and making every effort to avoid meeting Leonard’s glare.

  Even as a fourteen-year-old, Lamperton had been big—tall, large-boned, broad-shouldered and with not an ounce of fat. His shaggy mess of curly copper hair at odds with his milky coffee West Indian complexion meant he could always be spotted across the playground or in a crowd. Leonard had noticed more than he wanted to, even though he’d told himself he did so to avoid ever running into the older boy. At school, Lamperton dazzled on the rugby field, and despite his height and size, could move like an express train. Other players had rarely found courage enough to get in his way once he took off down the field. He’d appeared uncomfortable in his skin off the pitch, often hunching forwards, his head hung low, his eyes permanently lowered. Back then, like a lot of boys, Leonard had suffered from the blight of adolescent acne. For some reason, Leonard remembered that Lamperton had managed to avoid the condition, his tan skin remaining freckled but flawless and unblemished in the year before he left.

  There had been popular rumours about him being singled out by a talent coach for a rugby league team and being offered a place in their youth scholarship scheme once he reached fifteen. After his examinations, Leonard had packed his bags for college and escaped from Drayton without a backwards glance. He’d assumed Lamperton had been one of the lucky few to chase his dreams, but the melancholy-looking figure hunched at the bar seemed to tell another story.