The Light in the Hallway (ARC)

by Amanda Prowse

mouth had fallen open and her face was now somehow

  softer. He sat up, eyes wide with a slight sense of panic

  in his chest and a terrible aching void of nothingness in

  his gut, topped with exhaustion.

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  Amanda Prowse

  ‘Kerry? Kerry?’ he said softly. Bending low, he kissed

  her face. ‘Sweet dreams, lass. Sweet dreams.’

  Instantly he felt his muscles soften with relief at the

  realisation that their nightmare was finally over and they

  were both free.

  Guilt swooped in and punched him in the throat,

  leaving him breathless. Relief? She is dead, Nick! Dead!

  How dare you?

  Reaching for the red cord, he pulled it and sat back in

  the chair. In the seconds while he waited for Sharon and

  Dr Ned to come in he felt the warmth leave the room.

  ‘Are you okay, Nick?’ Dr Ned asked, his voice a little

  echoey.

  He looked up at the face of the man who had cared

  for his wife. ‘I don’t know.’ he answered truthfully.

  * * *

  Nick pulled up onto the steep driveway and looked at

  the house, which sat shaded forlornly in the soft bruise of

  darkness. He pictured his son, no doubt still lying on his

  bed, cloistered in the dark, alone with his own version

  of sadness. His eyes were drawn to the small rectangular

  window above the front door, from which Kerry would

  always ensure a light shone. Regardless of the season, as

  soon as night pulled its blind on the day, she would flick

  the switch next to the stairs, ensuring that Oliver coming

  home from school, he returning from work or any casual

  visitor could easily find their way to the front door. The

  light in the hallway was, however, more than just an aide

  to ensure a stumble-free trip up the path; it was a beacon,

  a sign of the life that lay behind the door, the promise of

  a warm welcome, a cup of tea, company, home.

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  The Light in the Hallway

  Nick looked to the right at John and Liz’s front room

  next door, noting the haze of light that filtered from the

  sitting room out over the lawn. He felt a stab of something

  a lot like jealousy, misplaced he knew, but how come

  their lives got to carry on happily, while his whole world

  had fallen through the big black hole left by cancer? It

  wasn’t fair. Why them? He remembered saying as much

  to Kerry when her results came through.

  ‘Why us? Why you?’

  And she had smiled at him in the way she did, as if she

  knew the answer and he was still trying to catch up, and

  said, ‘Why not us? Why not me? Life throws curveballs;

  you’ve got to either catch them and throw them back or

  dodge them. That’s it.’

  He closed the front door quietly, wary of waking Oliver

  if he was asleep and in truth hoping he was, a chance to

  delay the appalling conversation they were going to have.

  He clicked on the hallway light and slipped off his shoes,

  before putting them in the bottom of the cupboard in

  the hallway, trying not to look up at Kerry’s shopping

  bag hanging on the hook on the back of the door, or her

  wellington boots that she slipped into to take Treacle for

  her morning and evening walks. Treacle the beagle-cross

  who had tumbled into their lives a couple of years ago,

  something for Kerry to concentrate on during her treat-

  ment, a beloved distraction who was currently being cared

  for by his mum and sister across town, one less thing for

  him and Oliver to have to think about. Although right

  now he missed the little pup, knowing the soft whine of

  welcome and the feel of the warm coat under his palm

  would have brought some small measure of comfort.

  He heard the squeak of the hinge on Oliver’s bedroom

  door and took a deep breath, looking up at his skinny boy

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  who stood in his plaid pyjama bottoms and loose t-shirt,

  gripping the banister.

  ‘Come down, Olly.’ His words sounded sticky from

  a dry mouth as he made his way into the neat rectangu-

  lar lounge where the floral cushions, strategically placed,

  softened the burgundy leather sofas and sank down into

  the chair in front of the telly.

  ‘Look at you in your throne. Remote control in one hand,

  cup of tea in the other! You look like the king of the castle. I love you, Mr Bairstow. This is a proper posh three-piece suite.

  I’m a bit scared to sit on it. I feel very grand.’

  ‘Nothing could be too grand for you. And if I’m the king

  then you’re the queen, so sit back and enjoy your new settee.

  Might as well, the novelty will have worn off by the time we finish paying for it!’

  He didn’t put the light on; preferring the dimly lit

  space, far better suited for this worst of moments.

  Oliver sat in the corner of the sofa, coiling his legs

  beneath him. He grabbed a cushion, which he placed over

  his chest, as if this feather-filled shield might offer a little protection from the verbal blows about to be delivered.

  ‘It was very peaceful.’ Nick’s voice carried the croak

  of someone containing distress. ‘She just went to sleep,

  but as I say, it was peaceful and I think at the end of the

  day, Olly, that’s the best thing we could ever hope for

  the people we love.’

  ‘Can I go now?’

  ‘What?’ The boy’s words were unexpected and Nick

  felt the shameful glide of relief over his bones that there

  was not going to be the storm of emotion, the tears and

  anger that he had imagined for so long.

  ‘I said, can I go now?’

  ‘Of course, but if you want to talk to me, if you want—’

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  The Light in the Hallway

  Oliver leapt up, cutting short his dad’s speech as he

  walked briskly from the room. He heard the heavy footfall

  of his steps as his son ran up the stairs, back to the solace of his bed, no doubt. Nick sat back, taking in the room

  that looked appropriately drab and cold in the half-light

  and where a thin layer of dust had settled on the surfaces.

  He thought about the conversation with Kerry’s mum,

  Dora, who had arrived quickly after Kerry had passed. He

  stood in the corridor, loosely holding the small woman

  who sobbed into her soggy handkerchief, while her friend

  Maureen and her daughter, Diane, looked on.

  ‘She’s … She’s with her dad now, isn’t she?’

  Dora looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes wide

  with hope. And he had nodded, not sure what he believed,

  but knowing that the kindest thing to do at that moment

  was to offer a crumb of hope that the woman who had

  unimaginably lost her youngest daughter might hold in

  her palm when the night felt like it would never end.

  Diane, Kerry’s sister, had sobbed noisily as she walked

  her mum to the car, her arm across her shoulders, with

  Maureen propping her up on the other side, their walk

  slow and meandering.

  He stood from the chair and made his way up the

&nb
sp; stairs, a quick glance at the bottom of Oliver’s door tell-

  ing him that he had turned the lamp off. He hoped his

  boy might sleep, wishing at some level that he could turn

  the clock back to when Oliver was small and Nick would

  sit on the edge of the bed, take him in his arms and rock

  him gently, telling him everything was going to be just

  fine … This followed by the sharp tip of realisation that if

  Oliver were small again, then Kerry would be by his side,

  young and fit and healthy, and there would be no need

  for the comfort offered over this terrible, terrible event.

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  He locked the bathroom door and stared at her lilac

  toothbrush sitting next to his in the pot. He took it in

  his hands and cradled it to his chest. This little plastic

  bristled stick that she had abandoned many weeks before

  had been a symbol of normality, their life together where

  night upon night they would stand side by side and clean

  their teeth together before bedtime, elbows clashing in

  the narrow space between the bath and wall, smiling at

  their reflections in the mirrored medicine cabinet because

  all was good in their world. Happy with their lot.

  A toothbrush – such an intimate object and one now

  without use because Kerry was gone. He pictured her

  smiling mouth and that slight shake of the head that told

  him not to be so silly. It was just a toothbrush. He wanted

  so badly at that moment to hold her, to feel her warm

  skin beneath his fingertips, that the ache hit his gut like

  a punch. Nick slipped down onto the cork-tiled floor,

  where his tears broke their banks and his chest heaved

  with the heavy weight of loss. His tears came so thick and

  fast it was hard to catch a breath. His distress took the last of his energy and, weak with exhaustion, he crumpled,

  crawling across the landing to the airing cupboard. With

  tears sliding silently down his face he kept his promise;

  hauling himself up, he switched the central heating on

  to give the house a boost of warmth. He knew how she

  hated to walk into the bathroom with chilly toes.

  * * *

  He woke the next day, as dawn broke. He had slept fitfully,

  waking often with a headache that made his thoughts

  cloudy. He felt odd; his brain raced ahead, mentally sort-

  ing his schedule for the day.

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  The Light in the Hallway

  Must get up, have a shower and get to St Vincent’s early, don’t want her sitting on her own … before grief slammed the brakes on his plans and the realisation that he didn’t

  have to go to the hospice, in fact would not have to go

  there ever again, left him feeling a little lost, now that his routine and his main preoccupation had been removed.

  He was desperate for a cup of tea, but was distracted

  from the task by the mess that littered the work sur-

  faces. He stumbled around the kitchen with the gait

  and concentration of a drunk. Slowly, he stacked dirty

  dishes and the cold tea-stained mugs into the sink before

  abandoning the task halfway through. He opened the

  back door of the kitchen to catch the morning breeze.

  ‘That’s it Nick, let the day in…’ He heard her words as plainly as if she were standing behind him.

  Fatigue and forgetfulness lulled him into the arm-

  chair in front of the television. The dishes could wait.

  Everything could wait. He kept the curtains drawn, not

  wanting the prying eyes of well-meaning neighbours

  who he was in no doubt would already know that Kerry

  had passed. Burstonbridge – or Burston, as locals knew

  it – had one school, one post office, one supermarket, two

  churches, and seven pubs, and was a place where everyone

  knew someone you knew. He and Kerry had grown up

  here and their wider families spilled into every street and

  cul de sac in the immediate surroundings. Word would

  have got around very quickly. He pushed his fingertips

  into his closed eyes, trying to ease the soreness born of

  crying hard until he had fallen asleep. As he sat like this,

  in thought, he heard the flap of the letter box bang shut.

  And so it began.

  No more than an hour or so later there was a stack of

  envelopes forming a cushion on the welcome mat. He

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  smiled inwardly at the thought that if Treacle had been

  home she would have loved it, nuzzling the slender paper

  gifts containing heartfelt words that had sat poised on

  the nibs of pens and the tips of tongues since that final

  diagnosis nearly four months ago, spread … metastasise …

  three months, tops…

  ‘It’ll be all right, love. Either way it’ll all be all right. We have to make the best of it.’

  ‘How will it be all right, Kerry? How can we make the

  best of it?’

  ‘We have to, love, because we have no choice…’

  ‘Dad?’

  ‘Yes?’ He sat forward with a jolt, so lost in the memory

  of their conversation that it took him a second to realise

  Oliver’s voice was real and coming from the doorway.

  ‘We’ve run out of milk.’

  ‘Milk?’ He tried to catch up.

  ‘Yes, there’s no milk.’

  ‘But there was half a bottle in the fridge when I left

  last night.’

  ‘I had some cereal.’ Oliver kicked his bare foot at the

  bottom of the door.

  ‘I’ll go get some.’

  Nick stood and waited, looking at the boy, hoping this

  interaction might be the precursor for something more, a

  revelation of sorts, questions even, but no. Nothing. He

  watched his son trudge back up the stairs, noting the dirty

  soles of his feet. Kerry would no doubt tell him to go bathe.

  He grabbed his house key from the little wooden shelf

  above the radiator, stopping to gather the cards, which

  he scooped into a pile and plopped on the bottom stair.

  The front door was only half open when he saw his

  mum walking towards him in her pyjama bottoms and

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  The Light in the Hallway

  an oversized t-shirt. Her eyes were red and swollen from

  crying, and Treacle strained on the leash. He took a deep

  breath, not knowing if he was ready to face either of them,

  not that he had any choice.

  ‘Oh, Nicky!’ she sobbed. The only person still to

  call him this and a name he disliked without the heart

  to tell her so.

  ‘We are okay, Mum.’

  ‘No, you are not!’ She trod the step and wrapped him

  uncomfortably in a short, tight hug. ‘You’re not okay, and

  you’re still my lad, no matter how old you get. Did you

  get my texts? I didn’t know whether to come over last

  night or whether to leave you with Olly to talk things

  through. I couldn’t sleep. I sat in the chair all night with

  Treacle on my lap and I’ve cried a river. It’s so unfair,

  Nicky, so bloody unfair!’

  ‘It is.’ He unhooked Treacle’s collar and hung her leash

  on the back of the cupboard door.

  ‘But a h
appy release, son, a happy release from all her

  suffering.’ Again her tears sprang. ‘Where’s Olly?’ She

  looked over his shoulder and then up the stairs.

  ‘In his room.’

  ‘Shall I go up?’ she asked, grasping at the neck of her

  t-shirt, flustered. ‘He might like to talk to his Nan or just want a big old cuddle.’

  ‘I think just leave him actually, Mum. He’ll know you’re

  here and he’ll come down if he wants some company.’

  ‘Poor little lamb. My heart is breaking for him,’ she

  murmured. ‘How was Dora? Was Diane with her?’

  ‘Dora was…’ He struggled to find the words to ad-

  equately describe his mother-in-law’s sense of loss, only

  certain that it was similar to his own. ‘She was as you’d

  expect, and, yes, Di was with her.’

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  Amanda Prowse

  ‘Poor woman. Poor, poor woman.’ She shook her

  head. ‘It’s every mother’s worst nightmare. I’ve written

  to her and will pop the letter through her door.’ She

  mopped her tears.

  He felt ill-equipped to deal with his mum’s woe,

  barely knowing how to handle his own. He pointed out

  of the front door.

  ‘I’m just going to get milk, actually. We’ve run out.’

  ‘Milk? Don’t be daft! You can’t go out for milk!’ His

  mum stood back, shocked.

  ‘Why can’t I go out?’

  ‘Because you have to stay in. You have to stay in quietly and sit with the curtains drawn.’

  He felt the inappropriate burble of laughter leave his

  mouth. ‘I have to stay in?’

  ‘Yes, Nicky! Your wife has just passed away.’

  You don’t need to tell me that! I know it! I know it! I know it!

  His mum continued. ‘And you don’t want to be seen

  gallivanting up to the shop as if nothing is amiss. What

  would everyone think?’

  ‘Christ, Mum, I wasn’t planning on gallivanting any-

  where, and secondly, my whole world is amiss and it has

  been for the last few months.’

  ‘I know that, love, I know,’ she whispered.

  He sat back down on the bottom stair and ran his

  hand over the stack of envelopes. The truth was he had

  been grieving for Kerry for a long time. This might be

  the first terrible shock to the community, and all those

  who heard the news whispered at the bus stop, canteen

  or corner shop this morning, but to him it was, in fact,

  the last.

  It was the end of a horrible chapter that had drained