It Started With a Note

by Victoria Cooke

  Remembering how fast corks can pop, I take a tea towel from the drawer to catch it in; I’d seen someone do that before at a party. Placing the towel over the cork, I begin to push at it with my thumb as hard as I can. It isn’t budging so I place my hand over it, trying to ease it out, but the thing is stuck fast. I try my other hand: more wiggling, more pulling and even a twist here and there, but it is no good. I even hold the bottle with my thighs and try with both thumbs but it’s useless and my hands are red and sore. Resigned to the fact I won’t be having a glass of bubbly, I dump the bottle on the side and put the kettle on instead before sinking into the kitchen chair, where I cry.

  I hate myself for it because I try so hard to be upbeat and positive, no matter how hard things get, but sometimes things pile up and the weight becomes too heavy to bear. It’s not just the fact I’ve had an awful journey home or that I lost my corned beef. It’s the fact that I’ve never complained about my life being samey and unadventurous in all the years that it has, but the one time I try to brave something new, the cork just won’t pop. I can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign from the gods to quit trying and just accept my fate. I let out a small humourless laugh through the tears before wiping my face and finishing making my tea.

  The house is still and quiet but I’m not in the mood for watching TV. I miss grumpy Kieran barging through the door, hungry, as he always is. Like most teenagers, he spent much of his time in his room, but just knowing he was up there was a comfort. I could always make an excuse to pop in and see him, to offer him a drink or collect his dirty laundry and if he was ever out, I always knew he’d be coming back. Now the emptiness of the house is a feeling rather than a state and it’s odd. But that doesn’t mean I want Gary to stay; he needs to rebuild his own life. It’s just something I’m going to have to get used to. No son, no Mum, no Gary. Just me.

  The stillness thickens and prickles my skin. I’m sure it’s emphasised by the sad deflated attempt at a celebration. Needing to busy myself, I have an idea.

  Kieran’s lifetime collection of junk is still cluttering up his room. It’s all stuff he hadn’t deemed important enough to take to university but apparently felt was fine to leave in my house. I decide I’m going to have a good sort-out. What’s that saying? Clean house, clean mind? I shake my head – that doesn’t sound right at all; I’ve always had a clean mind and no amount of mess in Kieran’s room could change that.

  My emergency stash of cardboard boxes from work come in handy once I’ve rebuilt them and filled them with Kieran’s junk. Old school books, piles of posters kept under his bed, superhero figurines he hasn’t played with in ten years and some board games that probably have most of the vital pieces missing.

  My loft hatch is stiff, but the stick I keep for opening it still works if I really yank it, and the steps come down easily after that. That’s something at least. I climb them, pulling the light cord when I reach the top. I clamber over the boxes I’d already stashed up there and feel a little bit of guilt at the fact I’m just as much of a hoarder as Kieran. I pick up a box to make some space and when the recognition of it registers, I have to sit down. For a moment, I just look at it.

  After Mum died, I’d inherited this box. It contains all her little keepsakes: things that Gary would have never wanted in a million years. He was more interested in the sandwich toaster and the little retro DAB radio she had in the kitchen. I know what’s in the box but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to open it yet. I was too heartbroken and now I feel terrible because I’d forgotten all about it.

  I cross my legs on the dusty boards and wipe the lid clean before lifting it. There’s a photo of me and Gary lying on top, which was taken when I was about five and he was eight. I take in my plaited pigtails and brown corduroy dress and can vaguely remember the day. Gary is wearing brown velvet jeans and a red jumper and is looking at me with disdain. We’d been to a park and he’d pushed me over and I’d grazed my knee. He was angry because I’d snitched on him to Mum. God bless the Eighties.

  My father had walked out about a year before that picture was taken and whilst I barely remember him, I do remember Mum’s smile that year. It was always there, plastered on, oversized and exaggerated, but her eyes didn’t crinkle in the corners. It wasn’t until I got older I realised how hard it must have been to maintain that brave face for us and I wish we’d have behaved much better for her.

  I continue to rummage. There is an old concert ticket for Boy George in the box, football match programmes from when she used to take Gary to watch Tottenham Hotspur, and my first pair of ballet slippers. Right at the bottom is an old wooden matchstick storage box that I don’t remember ever seeing before. I pull it out and examine it curiously. It’s quite intricate in its design, and I wonder why it hadn’t been on display at home. It was the kind of thing Mum would have loved to show off on her mantelpiece.

  I take off the lid and inside the red-velvet-lined box is a stack of ancient-looking notelets, each one yellowed and fragile. My heart is beating in my eardrums with anticipation. They are certainly old enough to have been from my dad all those years ago. Perhaps I’ll finally discover where he’s been for all those years.

  Hesitantly, I take out the top one and carefully unfold it. The date at the top strikes me hard: 1916. I have to double-check it before reading on, confused.

  7th February 1916

  My dearest Elizabeth,

  This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home, and I can tell you, France is almost as beautiful as the Home Counties. Perhaps one day, when the war is over, I can bring you and Rose here. The war is going to last much longer than we’d hoped, I’m afraid. Who knows how long we’ll be knee-deep in muck for.

  I hope Rose is looking after you. I know how you worry, but I’ll be fine. We’re working quite closely with the French and I’ve even been learning a little of the language. I’ll teach you both when I get home.

  Avec amour (I hope that’s correct)

  Yours,

  Will

  My eyes begin to burn a little and a ball forms in my throat. This is a letter to my great-grandmother from my great-grandfather. I remember my mum telling me the story of how her grandfather volunteered to fight in the First World War. He’d been killed in Belgium I think. Her mother, my grandmother, was five years old at the time and hadn’t really remembered him, something I could always relate to. Naturally, my mother didn’t know too much about him other than that he was twenty-four when he died.

  Kieran bursts into my mind. He’s not much different in age to what my great-grandfather had been. I try to imagine him going out to war. The thought of it twists and knots my insides, and I can’t fathom how the mothers of the WWI soldiers felt, waving their sons off to war.

  Of course, Kieran wouldn’t have survived the boot-polishing stage, never mind the trench-digging and gunfire. I love him to bits, but he’s a bone-idle little so-and-so, a trait that must be from his father’s side. I couldn’t imagine why a twenty-four-year-old man with a wife and daughter and his whole life ahead of him would want to go to the front line for the king’s shilling. It was so brutal and horrific, but I suppose back then people did it for their country.

  I read the letter again; the part about him wanting to take my grandmother and great-grandmother to France stands out. My grandma never even had a passport, never mind visiting France. That makes me feel sad – that one of the only surviving pieces of communication from her father said that he wanted her to see France, and she never went. Granted, there was another war soon after the first, but my grandmother lived until the late Eighties and still never made the trip.

  I take out the next letter, which is addressed directly to my grandmother. The date is too faded to read but I can just about make out the intricate penmanship.

  My dearest Rose,

  I hope your mother is well. I miss you. I hear you’ve grown somewhat. You’ll be as tall as me when I come home. When I return, I’ll have many stories to share with you. As I write thi
s, I’m on leave looking out on luscious green fields with red poppies and blue cornflowers growing. It’s quite the picture beneath the blue summer sky. You’ll have to see this one day. It’s ‘un lieu de beauté’ as the French say. I’ve picked up a bit of the language.

  Some of my comrades have taken up poetry. It’s not something I’m good at, but I’ll send you a poem as soon as I get the chance.

  Take care, my darling.

  Yours,

  Daddy

  The letter squeezes my chest. Something about the upbeat tone suggests he really did think he’d return home – or he was putting on a brave tone for his daughter. Hindsight paints a tragic picture of a happy family destined for heartbreak.

  There are a few more letters and, strangely, some are written in French. I place them all back inside the box carefully and make a note to ask someone to translate the others when I get a chance.

  The letters play on my mind all evening. Knowing my grandma never went to France in the end saddens me somewhat. I’m a lot like she was: a homebody, unadventurous and happy in the safe familiarity of where I’ve always lived. But it was her destiny to travel to France, or at least it should have been, and that thought is still weaving through my mind when Gary returns, partially inebriated, from the pub.

  ‘Have you been buying posh plonk?’ he asks, picking up the bottle of cava and inspecting it as he walks in.

  ‘I … err … yes,’ I say, no longer in the mood to celebrate.

  ‘Two glasses, eh?’

  I remain silent.

  ‘One was for me, wasn’t it?’ he says with a small laugh. Like it’s so implausible that I’d have company round. ‘You don’t have twenty quid I can borrow since you’re splashing out on fizz, do you? I’ve had a lot of outgoings this past fortnight and I need something to tide me over until my next JSA payment.’ He pops the cork with ease and pours two glasses of fizz into large wine glasses since I don’t own fancy flutes.

  The hair on the back of my neck bristles and I take a deep breath to ensure what I say next comes out nonchalantly. The last thing I want is an argument. ‘No news on the job front yet?’

  He pauses, and his face reminds me of a Transformer as the different muscles pull together almost mechanically to arrange some kind of pained expression. ‘’Fraid not. They don’t seem to be able to find anything to match my skills. Twenty years I worked as an engineer and I’m not going to throw away that kind of experience sweeping school corridors or stacking shelves. No offence.’

  I’m far from offended, but I’m very close to cross. ‘Well, maybe you’ll have to.’ I maintain an even tone. ‘You’re spending more than you have coming in and it’s a vicious cycle. Jim said he’d offered you a few shifts so you might have to take him up on it, or I can see if there’s anything going at my place if you like?’

  ‘Cath, look, I’m waiting for the right job.’ There’s agitation in his tone. ‘If I take up a few shifts with Jim, my JSA will stop and I’ll be worse off.’

  ‘You can work at my place while you’re waiting for the right job. You could work full-time there.’

  ‘Oh yeah.’ He lets out a dry, humourless laugh. ‘And get stuck there like you did because there’s no time to look for anything better once you’ve been suckered in. What is it you’ve been there now? Eighteen years?’

  His words sting and I glare at him. It’s true. I was bright at school, did well in most of my GCSEs and even got my A levels in English Literature, history and media, but after falling pregnant I needed money for the bills and the shift patterns worked well for me with a baby. ‘I think you’ve had too much to drink,’ I say eventually, standing up to leave.

  ‘Aren’t you drinking your plonk?’ he says, oblivious to how he’s made me feel.

  ‘You have it, it’s warm anyway,’ I say before storming out of my own kitchen. Hot tears well in my eyes. Not through sadness, but through embarrassment. Embarrassment that he feels he’s better than me despite spending the last half a year in a parasitic state. Embarrassment for thinking he’d be pleased for me when I showed him what I had in the envelope. And embarrassment for not standing up for myself.

  I hate how he makes me feel as if he thinks everything I’ve done is insignificant – but I’ve raised a child, I’ve always paid my way, and I’ve saved him from the streets. I may not have an engineering degree, but I like to think that being a good person counts for something. I know it’s his circumstances making him so bitter, but it’s still hard to take. He’s a good person underneath and I’m sure he’ll find himself again.

  I just don’t want to be in the crossfire.

  It’s time for him to leave.

  Chapter Three

  ‘Look!’ Kaitlynn squeals, waggling her newly taloned hands in front of my face as I walk into the staff room the next day.

  ‘Oh, very nice,’ I say politely, acknowledging her luminous pink, sparkly-tipped nails.

  ‘Well, I had to treat myself with the annual bonus money, didn’t I? It was a whopper this year! Can you believe how much we got?’ Her voice is so high it penetrates my eardrums like a laser. ‘And I have a date on Saturday with this total ten I met on Tinder,’ she gushes.

  A total ten? Kaitlynn is about ten years younger than me, but somehow latched on to me when she first started at the supermarket, and we had developed a close working friendship ever since. Every so often, her reality-TV-inspired vernacular stumps me, and this is one of those times. The confusion must have manifested on my face.

  ‘A total ten, as in a ten out of ten. A hottie, Cath. F-I-T.’ She giggles.

  ‘That’s great, Kaitlynn.’ I smile. In a way, she is probably closer in age and generation to my son, but since he communicates mostly through Morse grunts, I’ve learned nothing about popular culture through him. ‘But …’ I pause.

  ‘But what?’ She pounces on me as if I’ve said something wrong.

  ‘I was just about to ask why he’s on a dating website if he’s so good-looking. Surely he has women falling at his feet wherever he goes? Especially if he has a nice personality, which he should have if you’re going to date him.’

  Kaitlynn laughs and gives a simple, ‘Oh, Cath.’

  ‘What? I’m not so out of touch, you know. Good looks and a nice personality are relationship fundamentals – they don’t go out of fashion.’

  ‘Tinder is just a bit of fun, and not many people hang around long enough to find out the personality part.’ She winks and pulls out her phone. ‘Firstly, it’s not a website, it’s an app. Secondly, you can find all the hotties nearby within seconds, and you don’t have to leave your house. Watch.’ She starts flipping through pictures of men, muttering about who is ‘fit’ and who isn’t. It’s a bit like the Argos catalogue of blokes. Suddenly, she gasps. ‘Cath, you should totally try it.’

  I couldn’t imagine what my tired old face would look like amidst the beautiful, taut-skinned twenty-year-olds. I’d be some kind of booby prize or worse. A dare. ‘Oh no, no, no. That ship has sailed.’

  ‘Of course it hasn’t. You’re never too old for a bit of male company, if you know what I mean.’ I wince because I do, of course, know what she means. ‘What are you spending your bonus on? You got more than me, Miss Employee of the Year! Splash out, lady, you’re loaded,’ she gushes. I feel heat flush my cheeks. Employee of the year is quite a big deal and whilst I’m not struggling to cope with the pay-out, I am with the recognition. ‘We could get you some highlights and a few new tops: one for a selfie, one for a date, and you’d be good to go.’

  ‘I’m not interested. I’m more than happy to watch a Noughties romcom with a glass of wine. At least that way, I always get the perfect guy.’ I grin because I’m right and have never been disappointed.

  ‘Fine. You stick to your old movies but don’t come crying to me when you realise Matthew McConaughey isn’t all that.’ She folds her arms and looks disappointed. ‘What are you planning on doing with your bonus then? Not giving it to that son of yours or helping
Gary out even more, are you?’ She spits out the word ‘Gary’ like an unwanted lemon pip.

  Kaitlynn hates that Gary can’t stand on his own two feet at ‘his age’. She sadly lost her mother to the big ‘C’ a few years ago, which is partly what brought us together since that’s what I lost my mum to and it all happened at a similar time. From what I can gather, they were incredibly close, and the fact Kieran isn’t on the phone to me once a day and round visiting every Sunday really irritates her. I’ve tried explaining it’s a son vs. daughter thing, but she doesn’t buy it.

  I shake my head. ‘I haven’t decided yet.’

  ‘Well, make sure you spend it on yourself,’ she warns.

  Later on, during a checkout lull, I tell Kaitlynn all about the tragic letters I’d found in the loft. The thought of my great-grandfather saying goodbye to his wife and child for what turned out to be the last time, and my grandma never fulfilling his wishes all weigh heavily on my mind.

  ‘That is so sad!’ says Kaitlynn when I tell her how my gran never fulfilled my great-grandfather’s dreams and left the country. ‘It’s like a John Green book or something. I actually want to cry.’

  ‘I know,’ I say sombrely; though I’ve never read a John Green book, I get what she means. I’m about to offer something philosophical when Kaitlynn gasps again.

  ‘Why don’t you go to France? You could see where your great-grandad is buried. I watched a TV programme about the centenary and apparently, you can trace your relatives and see exactly where they are commemorated.’ She slips excitedly into her theme and throws her hands up dramatically. ‘You should do the trip your gran should have done. It’s perfect. Your bonus and prize money would cover it and you’d be fulfilling your great-grandfather’s dream. Plus, Kieran and Gary won’t get a penny of your hard-earned cash!’