The Light in the Hallway (ARC)

by Amanda Prowse

  milkman when Eric’s dad was at billiards?’

  ‘Maybe they were watching telly?’ she suggested lightly,

  and finished preparing Eric’s bed. There was something

  in the way she spoke and avoided his eye that raised his

  suspicion.

  ‘Is that a lie, Mum?’

  ‘Yes, darling.’ She smiled at him as she stepped over

  the bed and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘Yes, it is.’

  The front doorbell rang.

  Nick leapt over the bed-in-a-bag, raced down the

  stairs, and opened the door to Eric, who stood with a

  large bag stuffed full with clothes and goodness knows

  what behind him. Alex stood a little back on the pave-

  ment with his hands in his pockets, his posture awkward.

  ‘Come on in, Eric!’ His mum stood back so he could

  pass and ruffled his hair as he did so. ‘And what are you up

  to, Alex?’ she asked, with her arms folded across her chest.

  ‘Nowt. Just walked Eric here and now I’ll head back

  home.’ He pointed down the street.

  ‘Or’ – Nick’s mum said slowly – ‘I could give your

  mum a call and see if you can stay too? As long as you

  don’t mind going top-to-toe with Nicky?’

  ‘I don’t mind!’ Alex ran up the path and the three boys

  pogoed up and down in narrow hallway. Nick’s mum

  winked at him and reached for the telephone on the wall.

  Nick felt a burst of love for this woman, his mum, who

  he knew would never leave the house to go anywhere

  with Dave The Milk; she had too much to do here.

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  The three boys dived beneath the covers with chocolate

  biscuits in their sticky mitts intended as a midnight snack,

  but all involved knew these biscuits would be unlikely to

  survive for five minutes, especially with Eric, the Human

  Dustbin, around.

  Eric farted. Alex threw his shoe at Eric’s head and

  then he farted. The boys collapsed into heaps of side-

  splitting laughter on the duvets. Farting was one of their

  funniest things.

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ Eric protested, as Nick lobbed his pillow

  at his friend on the floor and then he farted too.

  The bedroom door opened and there stood Jen.

  ‘What is all that racket…’ she yelled before standing

  still, her nose twitching. ‘Oh! You disgusting pigs! This

  room stinks! Mu-um!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘They

  are farting! It’s disgusting! The smell will come through

  my bedroom wall, I know it!’ she yelled.

  Nick looked from Alex to Eric, as each tried to contain

  the laughter that bubbled beneath the surface. Apparently

  their laughter wasn’t the only thing bubbling beneath the

  surface, as Eric let rip an almighty fart.

  ‘I hate you all!’ Jen screeched, and slammed the door.

  The three boys couldn’t stand for the hysterics that

  robbed them of all strength.

  ‘Eric!’ Alex yelled. ‘She’s right, you’re disgusting!’

  In response to which Eric stood on his bed, clenched

  his fists, pulled his elbows into his waist and farted again.

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  CHAPTER FIVE

  Despite the cool chill of the winter day, Nick opened the

  window to let the breeze in. Then he dusted the surfaces

  of the lounge, removing the ornaments and replacing

  them one by one before running the vacuum cleaner over

  the carpet. Next he hesitantly lifted the cushions, patting

  and thumping one or two before placing them randomly

  along the back of the sofa and repositioning them again.

  And again, before admitting defeat. The dog stared at

  him from the rug in front of the electric fire. ‘Don’t look

  at me like that. I know they look rubbish. I can’t do the

  cushions! Okay? I admit it. Bloody things.’

  Treacle laid her head on her paws and snorted her

  indifference.

  ‘All this fuss for Olly, eh? It’s not like he hasn’t walked

  into this room a million times before.’

  The words were easy, but Nick knew this was not

  like any other visit; it was to be his son’s first back to

  a house where his mum no longer lived, and their first

  Christmas without her. Oliver was due back tomorrow,

  four days before Christmas Eve, and whilst Nick couldn’t

  wait to see him, he felt an unfamiliar and unwelcome

  nervousness about his smart boy coming back from uni-

  versity. He imagined the life of learning to be a refined

  one where humour might be sophisticated; dining more

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  elegant and conversation intelligent – or maybe this was

  just how it was in the movies. But it was certainly how

  he as a teenager pictured university life when he himself

  considered his future application.

  It wasn’t only the potential changes in Oliver that

  concerned him, but also the fact that his son was coming

  home to a house that felt different, as if its beating heart

  had fled. He stared at the boxed Christmas tree that sat

  on the floor along with the cardboard box, which had

  seen better days. On the side in Kerry’s neat handwriting,

  the words ‘Xmas Decs’ had been written in a thick black

  marker. He had little inclination for the task, knowing

  that in a similar vein to his cushion arranging, his efforts

  would be embarrassing. The intention had been to get

  the place ready and festive before Oliver’s arrival, but he

  had run out of time, and as his mum had pointed out,

  it might be nice to get Oliver to do it – not only as a

  distraction for him, but also to make him feel at home,

  a reminder that whilst things had changed, a lot would

  stay the same, and they needed to carry on.

  Nick thought about last year: the house bursting at the

  seams with relatives, the loud laughter only one decibel

  away from hysteria, and that same laughter turning to

  tears at the slightest provocation, all present more than

  aware of the fact that this was to be the last Christmas

  they shared with their daughter/sister/niece/cousin/aunt.

  The whole charade had left both Nick and Kerry quite

  exhausted, and he had been glad when the last of the

  revellers had left, paper hats askew, as they trotted down

  the front path. He and Kerry had collapsed onto this

  very sofa and held each other quietly, savouring the peace

  while she lay wrapped in his arms. A precious moment

  that right now felt like a thousand years ago.

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  The doorbell rang, pulling him from the memory.

  His sister-in-law stood on the step with a scarf wrapped

  around her neck and a stack of presents in her arms.

  ‘Look at you all loaded up, are you one of Santa’s little

  helpers? Come in, Di.’

  ‘Something like that. God, it’s bloody freezing in

  here.’ She visibly shivered.

  ‘Is it?’ He made out he hadn’t noticed rather than ad-

  mit to leaving the heating off to conserve money, having

  decided to only put it on when Oli
ver was home. The

  chill was nothing that a thick jersey, a vest, a decent pair

  of socks and a bit of running on the spot couldn’t combat.

  Plus, he was at work more than he was at home, and with

  Treacle deposited at his mum’s house on these days, there

  was no need to heat the empty rooms.

  Di bent down and dumped the gifts in a pile on the

  floor in the hallway.

  ‘These are just some bits for Olly from me and his

  cousins, being as we won’t be seeing him this Christmas.’

  She let this trail with a tight-lipped sigh of disapproval.

  Nick felt the familiar rise of irritation at her manner

  and not for the first time he drew breath and let his pulse

  settle, chanting the silent reminder: She is Kerry’s sister …

  She is grieving … It’s Christmas … and she has bought Olly presents…

  ‘It’s not that you won’t be seeing him at all, Di, just

  not on Christmas Day, that’s all. I asked him what he

  wanted to do and told him we’d been invited to my

  mum’s, your mum’s or that everyone could come here,

  if he’d prefer’ – he gently gave the reminder – ‘but he

  said he wanted it to be just the two of us. He’s dreading

  it, I think, and so I want to do what makes him most

  comfortable. And that’s what he wants.’ He let his arms

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  rise and fall as if it was a fait accompli. ‘It’s all about Olly right now.’

  ‘Well’ – Diane adjusted her scarf – ‘there we go then.

  Just ask him if he wouldn’t mind popping in to see his

  Gran if he gets a mo.’

  ‘Of course he will. And it’s only one day out of the

  holidays – he’s home for a couple of weeks. Don’t worry,

  you’ll be sick of the sight of him.’ He tried for humour,

  feeling the instant flicker of self-consciousness as he laughed alone.

  Di looked over his shoulder into the middle distance.

  ‘This time last year Kerry and I were shopping and bak-

  ing and getting excited…’ She bit her bottom lip, which

  trembled, ‘Truth is, I don’t feel like celebrating either,

  but you have to keep going, don’t you?’

  ‘That’s it, Di, you do.’

  She turned towards the front door. ‘And as I said, if

  you want any help cooking the turkey or the—’

  He shook his head – how many more times! ‘ I know,

  and I’m grateful for the offer, but we can manage, Di.

  Thank you. And if we can’t, I’ll shout.’

  Closing the door firmly, he walked to the kitchen and,

  in an act that was rare for him; took a can of lager from

  the fridge, pulled the ring top and took a long satisfying

  glug. It felt good – after all, it was a Saturday, he had no

  shift at the factory to get to and the day was his own.

  And here he was drinking beer! The doorbell rang again.

  Bloody hell, Di! What now?

  He opened the door with a fixed smile, hoping the

  whole exchange would be over as quickly as possible.

  ‘All right, Nick?’ Beverly smiled up at him with her

  hands shoved into her jacket pockets and her hair stuck

  flat to her face with the residue of rain. It was a surprise

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  to see her, but a pleasant one. He wished he weren’t in

  his socks and that he had shaved that morning, not sure

  why these two things were important. He ran his fingers

  through his hair, pushing it from his face in lieu of a comb.

  ‘Not bad, Bev. You?’ He looked along the street, glad

  that there was no sign of his sister-in-law.

  ‘Yep. What are you doing?’ She rocked on the heels

  of her walking boots and looked at him as if this were

  the most natural question to ask.

  ‘Erm, I was drinking, actually. Something I never do

  during the day, but today felt like a good time to start.’

  He pinched the top of his nose. ‘And before that I was

  wondering how to arrange cushions, you know, standard

  Saturday.’

  ‘I see. Well, I’d offer to help but I’m rubbish at cushion

  arranging and all that stuff. I call them sofa parasites, hate the bloody things.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean.’

  ‘Shall I come in then?’ She nodded down the hallway.

  ‘Oh.’ He stood back, still considering the request.

  ‘Sure.’

  He closed the door and watched as Beverly made her

  way along the hall and into the kitchen, as though she had

  been here many times. Unsurprising, really, it was after

  all a standard three-bedroomed semi the same as count-

  less others in this and every other town in the country.

  She pulled off her coat and laid it on the countertop,

  rubbing her hands together and flexing her fingers. It

  felt odd and yet surprisingly natural to have her standing

  here in the kitchen. Beverly, he noted, was slender, neat

  and of small build. Her movements were fast and fluid.

  He had grown used to Kerry’s lumbering manner as her

  illness robbed her of coordination and speed, her motor

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  skills, both fine and gross, deteriorating with the pain

  in her limbs, the weakness in her muscles and the fog of

  the painkilling sedation. It had been distressing to watch.

  To see this woman now standing in Kerry’s kitchen, her

  hands moving quickly and her movements precise, was a

  reminder of just how much his wife had gone downhill.

  His heart flexed for all she had endured.

  ‘I’m bloody freezing.’ She exaggerated the tremble to

  her chin, forcing a chattering of her teeth.

  ‘I know – it’s turned right cold. If I had the money

  I think I’d skip Christmas altogether and go and sit in

  the sunshine.’

  ‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘You could head off to the

  Middleterrainean.’

  ‘Oh, very funny!’ He chuckled. ‘Am I never going

  to be allowed to forget that? I still don’t think Ellie is

  talking to me.’

  ‘Well, there you go. They say every cloud has a silver

  lining.’

  He liked her manner. ‘Would you … Would you like

  a cup of tea or a cold beer?’

  She eyed his can. ‘Cold beer, please.’ She rubbed the

  tops of her arms and laughed, as if this choice was actu-

  ally the very last thing she wanted.

  He walked to the fridge, conscious of the dirty break-

  fast bowl and mug in the sink and the bag of rubbish tied

  to the door handle with empty dog food tins in it that

  were giving off a slightly unpleasant smell. He felt embar-

  rassed and was also a little confused on two counts: firstly, why it should matter to him that his house was less than

  pristine and, secondly, why on earth Beverly was visiting.

  It was as if she read his thoughts: ‘I thought I’d come

  and say hi, see how you are. I know how shitty it can

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  be to be on your own around Christmas. My dad passed

  away a couple of years ago and it was rough, especially

  the first.’

  He
knew her mum had left when she was still at

  school, moved up to Hawick after she had an affair. Word

  had it that her husband found out and left all her boxed

  belongings in Market Square. Nothing was a secret in a

  town this size. He nodded and handed her the tin. She

  popped the lid and took a swig.

  ‘To be honest, it’s kind of crept up on me; work’s

  been so busy I’ve been taking extra shifts,’ he explained.

  ‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘I do the payroll.’

  ‘Course you do.’ He swallowed, feeling foolish. ‘And

  my family and Kerry’s family have been popping in and

  out.’ He noted the way he spoke about the two families

  as separate entities, realising that his wife had been the

  conduit that made them one. ‘It seems I can’t do right for

  doing wrong where they are all concerned.’

  ‘How come?’ She leant against the sink, the beer in

  her hand.

  ‘Oh.’ He sighed. ‘Kerry’s mum and sister want to see

  more of my boy, who is still finding his feet, and my mum

  doesn’t think I can peel a spud without advice, and the

  truth is we just need to be left alone to get on with it.’

  Beverly stared at him. ‘Do you want me to go?’ She

  angled her body towards the front door.

  ‘No! No, I didn’t mean that.’ He didn’t want her to

  go. It was a relief to have someone to talk to who wasn’t

  making a demand of some kind or who treated him like a

  grieving widower. ‘I just wish there was a rulebook on how

  to behave and the correct timing of everything. Christ, I

  remember my mum going off at me when I tried to leave

  the house the day after Kerry died; she said it wasn’t the

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  done thing to go outside. Who knew? I wouldn’t have

  minded, but I wasn’t going up the bookie’s; I was off to

  buy a pint of milk for breakfast.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s

  like there are a million rules that I don’t know about and

  so I go around inadvertently breaking them.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know you that well, but you seem to be

  doing just fine, and if your son’s happy then surely that’s

  the main thing?’

  ‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But apparently there

  are rotas for getting rid of weeds on a grave, the correct

  size of bouquet to leave on the grave, and a minimum

  number of phone calls a grandson should be making to

  his gran.’

  ‘Holy moly!’ Beverly took a large gulp of beer. ‘I can