The Light in the Hallway (ARC)

by Amanda Prowse

  see why you’re drinking on a Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘Yep.’ He took a sip.

  ‘So when’s your boy coming back?’

  ‘Olly.’

  ‘Yes, I knew that, Olly,’ she repeated.

  ‘Tomorrow at some point. I’m looking forward to hav-

  ing him home. The house has been quiet without him.’

  ‘I know what that feels like.’ She looked at the floor

  and he tried to imagine not having any family around

  and wondered if she ever saw or spoke to the mum who

  had done a runner.

  ‘I’m looking forward to it, but also a bit nervous.’ He

  found it easy to talk to Beverly, unafraid of being judged.

  ‘Nervous how?’

  He took his time in forming a response. ‘It’s the strang-

  est thing; I never thought I’d feel anxious about him

  coming home, but I do. And I suppose…’

  ‘You suppose what?’

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  ‘I wonder if he has left me behind, even a little bit.

  Or worse: I wonder if I might embarrass him in some

  way. I think I always had a fixed idea of what Uni might

  be like if I went, posh kids who knew stuff that I didn’t.’

  ‘You were going to go to Uni?’ she asked with slight

  surprise.

  ‘I thought so, yes.’ He felt his cheeks colour. ‘Or more

  specifically my dad thought so. I mean, I had the grades

  and I think I might have even sent off for a prospectus,

  can’t really remember.’ He made it sound casual, recall-

  ing the day it had arrived and how he spent the hours

  before bed reading about the halls of residence and the

  lecture theatres…

  ‘Where for?’ She drank again.

  ‘Exeter.’

  ‘Exeter? Could you have picked a place further than

  Burston?’ She laughed.

  ‘Not really, but anyway’ – he coughed – ‘life had

  other plans.’

  ‘It usually does.’ Beverly rattled the can that she was

  emptying at pace. ‘It’ll be fine with Olly. You shouldn’t

  worry.’

  ‘I guess not. It’s just that he’s becoming an educated

  man and I’m a very ordinary one. He’s broadening his

  horizons.’ He spoke freely. ‘Even the idea of it makes me

  feel sick. I suppose I don’t want him to outgrow me.’

  ‘But you’re his dad. That can’t happen.’

  ‘I know, I know … And he’s a great kid, he really is …

  and it’s only been one term, but ever since I left him last I wonder how he might have changed? How I might have

  changed?’ He ran his palm over his face, embarrassed. ‘I’m

  not explaining it very well. I suppose I’m just conscious

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  that our lives are so very different from the way they were

  this time last year and it’s…’

  ‘Scary.’ She filled in the blank.

  ‘Yep. It is.’

  ‘I suppose that’s the good thing about not knowing

  the rules – you can make up your own. Do things your

  way and at your pace. This is your journey, no one else’s.’

  ‘I guess so.’ He considered this and felt a little less ap-

  prehensive about seeing his boy; in fact, he felt a bit less

  apprehensive about everything. Her words offered plainly

  and without agenda had a calming effect on him, but of

  course that might have been the beer.

  ‘Anyway’ – she swallowed – ‘reason I came by is to

  say that I’m having a bit of a do on New Year’s Eve at

  my place, not a fancy party exactly, but more a chance

  to use up any leftovers and the last dregs of wine in the

  bottles, and so if you’re at a loose end, come along. You

  know where I live?’

  ‘Yes. I do.’ Nick pictured her terraced two up, two

  down in Appledore, a side street off Market Square.

  Beverly’s house, like the others on that road, was an old

  farm worker’s cottage that fronted the cobbled street. He

  considered her invitation and felt a mixture of relief and

  disappointment that there was a purpose to her visit, and

  that she hadn’t just popped in.

  ‘I’ll see what Olly is up to, but that might be good.’

  ‘Everyone congregates there. It’s become a bit of a

  tradition. People I don’t even know pitch up at midnight,

  but I don’t mind, I kind of like the idea of my little house

  being a beacon, a place where folk gather to see in the

  New Year. It’s good. Bring beer, if there’s any left!’ She

  took a large swig and, finishing the can, placed it on the

  sideboard before reaching for her coat. ‘Try to come; it’ll

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  be good. There’s a few from work coming and Eric and

  Jen, and I promise not a Monopoly board in sight.’

  ‘Thanks, Bev.’

  ‘What for?’ She paused in the hallway and looked

  back at him.

  ‘I dunno, just…’ He searched for the words. ‘Thanks

  for thinking about me.’

  ‘That’s all right, Nick. I think about you a lot,’ she

  added almost matter-of-factly before letting herself out

  of the front door and closing it behind her.

  He sat on the bottom stair and felt a flush of warmth

  and the rush of something that could have been happiness,

  but he wasn’t sure, it had been a long time since he had

  felt that, and again it might have been the beer.

  I was at school with Beverly. She’s a nice girl … He heard Kerry’s voice and closed his eyes tightly.

  * * *

  Nick woke early, washed and showered and was in the

  bathroom when he heard a key in the door. For a muddle-

  headed split second he thought it might be Kerry and

  his heart jumped before Oliver shouted out, ‘Hell-o-o?’

  He dried his hands on his jeans and raced down the

  stairs. ‘Hello, son!’ He put out his hand and widened his

  other arm, leaving it up to his son, which he might pre-

  fer, a hug or a handshake. Oliver stepped into his arms

  and held him fast. Nick closed his eyes briefly in thanks.

  There was no time to feel nervous or to second-guess how

  his boy might be feeling. He was home, safe and sound,

  and that was all that mattered. Oliver pulled away and

  Nick studied him; he looked wonderful, even with his

  unshaven top lip, a poor, wispy attempt at a moustache

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  that Nick would rib him about later, and with the dark

  bruises under his eyes of someone who was not getting

  enough sleep.

  ‘You look tired.’

  ‘I’m knackered. I feel like we kind of went from

  fresher’s events into Christmas events. I don’t think I’ve

  been to bed before three a.m. for weeks.’

  ‘Well, you’re back in boring old Burston and there’ll

  be plenty of nap time, as there’s not much else going on.’

  ‘I think some of my school mates are home so I said

  we’d go to the pub later.’

  ‘Jesus, Olly! Tonight? You’ve only just arrived. You’ve

  still got your coat on and already you’re planning to go

&n
bsp; out!’ he shouted half in jest.

  ‘Well, okay, not tonight.’ Oliver rolled his eyes. ‘But

  tomorrow maybe.’

  Treacle came trotting out to the hallway and Oliver

  dropped to his knees, scooping up their hound to hold

  her close to his chest and run his face over her warm fur.

  ‘I’ve missed you, girl.’ he said with obvious affection.

  ‘Cup of tea?’

  ‘Please, Dad. It’s nice to be home.’

  These simple words spoken with the hint of a sigh

  removed all trace of worry. Nick watched as Oliver

  scanned the walls, the staircase, furniture and pictures,

  as if reacquainting himself with the fabric of the place. He

  watched as Oliver walked slowly into the kitchen. Nick

  remembered his words spoken during his ‘code red’ visit

  when he had sat on the bed in his student room.

  I tell myself she’s at home … I picture her in the kitchen

  … I think she’s there and that I’ll see her soon and it helps…

  ‘So what’s your news?’ he fished, as he filled the kettle.

  ‘How’s Tasha?’

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  ‘Good, yeah, good. She went home yesterday.’

  ‘And home for her is?’

  ‘St Albans. Hertfordshire. She didn’t want to go

  back – she doesn’t get on that well with her mum and

  stepdad – so I told her she could come and stay here if it

  got too much.’

  ‘Of course she can.’ Nick felt chuffed that Oliver was

  comfortable inviting his friends back here. He thought

  how much Kerry would have loved to make a fuss of

  his mates, traipsing up and down the stairs with endless

  bacon sandwiches and cups of tea.

  ‘Bacon sandwich?’

  ‘Please, Dad, if you’re making. Can I put my laundry

  on?’

  ‘Course.’ He smiled as he reached into the fridge for

  the bacon, noting that only a term ago Oliver would either

  have left his dirty clothes on the floor of his bedroom or

  heaped them into the laundry basket, waiting for them

  to magically appear clean, dried and folded at the bottom

  of his bed. He was growing up. Nick placed the rashers

  under the grill and poured hot water on to the tea bags

  before adding a splash of milk.

  ‘This is the hardest room for me to be in.’ Oliver took

  the mug from his dad.

  ‘I thought it might be. I remember you saying as

  much before.’

  Oliver nodded. ‘It was her space. Wasn’t it?’ He swal-

  lowed. ‘She loved cooking for us and she liked to potter

  out here with the radio on.’

  Nick looked towards the sink and pictured her bop-

  ping in her rubber gloves to the sounds of Absolute 90s

  on the radio.

  ‘She did.’

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  ‘And she loved Christmas. She’d have had this place

  groaning under the weight of decorations by now.’

  ‘Ah, well, I did get the boxes down from the loft,

  but Nanny Mags thought you might like to do it or help

  me do it.’

  ‘Did she now, what am I, six?’ Oliver scoffed, sipping

  his tea.

  ‘Well, in that case, I will set to this afternoon and

  transform the place into something more grotto-like.’

  He reached for the grill pan and rested it on the stovetop,

  turning the bacon with a fork and putting it back under

  the gas-flamed grill for its final crisping. ‘And talking of

  Nans, I’ve had your Auntie Di chewing my ear off about

  seeing you.’

  ‘She does go on.’

  ‘She does, son, but only because she cares.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Oliver pulled dirty clothes from his bag

  and sorted them on the floor into two piles of whites and

  mixed colours.

  ‘They have all missed you and so I’m afraid you’re

  going to have to do the rounds.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to seeing everyone, actually. It’s

  weird, Dad. I was never that fussed about spending time

  with them all when I was at home, but now I’m away, I

  think about them all a lot more. I guess because Mum’s

  not here anymore it kind of makes Gran and Auntie Di,

  in fact everyone, more important somehow.’

  ‘I guess it does.’

  Nick breathed a sigh of relief. This would make every-

  thing easier.

  ‘Bacon!’ Oliver shouted and pointed at the grill where

  flames leapt. Nick grabbed the pan with the bacon alight

  and shoved it into the sink, where it hissed on contact

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  with the suds-filled water. He shook his head at his dad

  and sighed. ‘I think I’ll go straight to Nan’s; at least she

  can cook me a decent breakfast.’

  ‘Think I might come with you.’ Nick looked at the

  bacon sinking under the foam of washing-up liquid and

  rubbed his eyes; he was going to have to sharpen his skills

  for the Christmas dinner, if this was any example.

  The two sauntered along the street with Treacle on

  her lead and Nick realised now with Oliver by his side

  how in recent months loneliness had begun to creep into

  his bones. It was one thing walking around town know-

  ing his wife and son were at home, or out and about, but

  quite another to picture the quiet empty rooms that would

  greet him upon his return. He stared at his boy and felt

  the joyful punch of reunion in his gut.

  ‘What’s that on your top lip?’ He ran his finger over

  his own.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Oliver beamed.

  ‘Like what? I thought a caterpillar had landed there.’

  ‘I knew you’d laugh at it.’ Oliver kicked the pavement.

  ‘I said as much to my mates.’

  ‘Olly, however much I laugh is nothing compared to

  how much Eric will tease you.’

  ‘I know that too. I grew it for Movember – raising

  money for men’s charities, cancer, mental health, stuff

  like that.’

  He felt proud of his son’s efforts. ‘Good for you.’ He

  squeezed his shoulder. ‘I’ll sponsor you if it’s not too late.’

  ‘Thanks. Anyway, Tasha kind of liked it so…’ He let

  this hang.

  Nick laughed. ‘I remember your mum trying to get me

  to grow my hair into a centre parting with two curtains

  either side of my face. Like one of the Backstreet Boys.’

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  ‘One of the what?’ Oliver looked at him with a blank

  expression.

  ‘Never mind, but it was a haircut fashionable at the time.’

  ‘Did you do it?’

  ‘Did I ’eck as like! I told her it was against factory

  regulations on shop floor and got a buzz cut all over – she

  never made a hair suggestion to me again.’

  ‘That was mean!’ Oliver laughed.

  ‘Well, the laugh was on me after all – it exposed the

  beginning of my bald spot, been a bit thin ever since.’

  ‘See, you could have grown it long and had a

  comb-over.’

  ‘I could that. Still might.’ Nick touched h
is fingers

  to the thin hair of his pate, which hadn’t spread, leaving

  him with a full-looking head of hair from any angle other

  than looking down at him from above. He glanced up

  towards the heavens and smiled.

  Oliver knocked on his Nan’s front door.

  ‘Aaaaagh!’ Nick heard her scream as she spied them

  through the glass pane at the top of the door. ‘It’s Olly!

  Olly is home!’ His mum opened the door and grabbed her

  grandson. With a dishcloth in her hand she pulled him to

  her whilst standing on the doorstep, putting them at equal

  height. ‘You’re home!’ She reached for the handkerchief

  secreted up her sleeve and blew her nose.

  ‘I am.’ Oliver smiled and let her muss his hair and kiss

  his face. ‘Any chance of breakfast, Nan?’

  ‘Oh, darlin’, every chance! Come in, come in! Oh,

  Olly, how we’ve missed you!’ She squeezed Nick’s arm

  as he walked past. ‘He’s grown!’

  ‘Yep.’ He winked at his son, who rolled his eyes. His

  mum had said this every time she had laid eyes on him

  since he was a baby.

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  ‘I didn’t know if you would come here straight away,

  but I got a few bits in anyway. Now, sit down, love, and

  let me get you breakfast. Bacon? Sausage? Egg? Fried

  bread? Beans?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Oliver sat at the table.

  Nick stood by the kitchen sink and looked at the boy,

  remembering his own dad leaning in this exact same spot

  in his work boots and shorts during that hot, hot summer.

  Finish your tea, lad. I’ve got something for you…

  1992

  Eric stayed for two nights and Alex for one and it was

  agreed that for the next few weeks this would be the

  arrangement. His friend was an easy houseguest, apart

  from the farting, which wound up his sister and therefore

  became a positive thing. He ate anything and everything

  Nick’s mum put on the table in front of him and even

  showed enthusiasm for his dad’s boring stories that Nick

  had heard about a million times before. His dad seemed to

  like telling them, happy for a new audience. The weather

  was even warmer and the grass turned brown. They lived

  with all the windows in the house open, trying to en-

  courage a breeze to take the edge off the uncomfortable

  closeness, and his mum started preparing salad for every

  meal, as if even the thought of hot food was too much

  when the surface of the tarmac shimmered under the heat.