Drift Stumble Fall

by M. Jonathan Lee

  “What?” Lisa says.

  “Enough now.”

  Oscar bangs his fist down, annihilating a roast potato on his plate. Gravy splashes onto the white tablecloth. “Enough now!” he says.

  Dina jumps slightly and begins to cough. She picks up her napkin and holds it to her mouth. A few moments later, she removes a half-chewed piece of fatty pork from between her teeth and rests it on the table, visible from inside the napkin.

  “Urrgh, God!” says Hannah.

  I look at her and rapidly shake my head.

  “For God’s sake,” Lisa shouts, “can’t we all just eat?”

  Hannah looks at the table. Oscar looks like he is about to cry.

  “I said there were other chops,” says Dina under her breath.

  It’s perfectly pitched to be just a little too quiet for Lisa to hear.

  Kenneth finishes chewing his final mouthful. “What about cheeky chops?” he says, winking at Hannah.

  CHAPTER_TWENTY

  You’ll never get anywhere with a heavy pocket.

  Dessert – rhubarb crumble and custard – passed without any particular incident. I suppose that was due to the fact that we all pretty much ate in a heavy silence.

  And now, I am standing over the sink in the kitchen, scraping the hardened sugar and rhubarb from the dish. I’ve been in here for more than an hour, and although I’ve been told to ‘leave things to soak’, I’ve ignored the advice for selfish reasons.

  I can hear Dina laughing in the lounge. It sounds like Oscar and Hannah are putting on some kind of pantomime for her. From time to time some of their sentences drift through the hall and into the kitchen. When they do, I push the plus sign on my speakers and their voices disappear far behind the music I’m listening to. I’m not sure where Lisa is right now. The last time I saw Kenneth, he was sitting in the high-backed chair in front of the fire in the dining room. He had removed his jacket and slipped off his shoes. This means only one thing.

  I pick up a plate and slowly begin to dry it. I hear the kitchen door click open and I turn to see Lisa.

  “You nearly done?” she says.

  “Er…” I turn and look at the sink and then back at Lisa. “Not quite.”

  She bites her bottom lip and nods slightly. Almost knowingly.

  “Why?” I say.

  “Just thought you might want to spend some time with Mum and Dad.”

  “Sure. I’ll just finish these.”

  She pulls the door shut behind her. I’m not sure exactly what she meant by that. The door opens again.

  “Oh, and turn that down a bit,” she says.

  “Okay.” I push the minus button and instantly hear Oscar’s voice again.

  The door clicks and I hold down the plus button again. I pick up another plate and begin to dry it slowly and carefully. Precise clockwise movements, ensuring the tea towel has touched each and every inch of the plate. And then, when I feel it is dry, I start again. Around and around in a circular motion, like the stylus on a record, in ever-decreasing circles. It’s hypnotic, and as I dry I stare out of the window, half-lost in a haze, half-taking in the world outside.

  My mind drifts and I realise I share so much in common with the tea towel and the plate. An endless journey with no beginning and no end. An endless circle of work and weekends. Of Sunday dinners and bedtime stories. Of waking up and going to sleep. Of soap operas and home dramas. Of light loads and dark loads. It’s all the same.

  And I am surer than ever that this isn’t what I signed up for. Nobody told me this was how it would be. I wonder whether I was even built for this type of life. Whether I possess the necessary skills, the human attributes to do this. I yearn for more. More adventure, more mental stimulation, less suffocation.

  A life of repetitive events. I am convinced that most people find comfort in the repetition of each day. The feeling of security that doing the same thing brings. Same. Same. Same. But not me. I’m different.

  I stare at the back garden sloping down to the shed in the distance. I stare past that, beyond the shed, over the hedge. And on past the other side of the hedge, to the open fields that run for miles until they meet the dark coppice where the bluebells grow in autumn. And then through the dense thickets to whatever is after that.

  And I realise at that moment that this is the whole point. I don’t know what comes after the thickets. I’ve never been that far. But I could find out. It would be simple. I would just keep walking in a straight line and I’d find out what was there. And if I kept going, I’d know what came after that. And after that. And after that.

  Maybe I’m a straight-line type of person.

  Maybe I’m a straight-line type of person who has accidentally chosen a circular life.

  I realise that I am repeatedly rubbing a thumb-sized piece of tea towel diametrically across the plate. I am surprised that the glaze is still intact. I put the plate in the cupboard and take another from the draining board. I begin to dry it.

  My mind moves to my neighbour across the street. I’ve watched his daily routine. His days are the same. Standing at his window. Staying in the quiet warmth of his home. When the weather is good, he’ll tend to his garden. Pull up a few weeds.

  Deadhead a few plants. Go back inside. That type of thing.

  His life is one endless cycle of repetition, yet I’d happily take it. I’d swap my life for his idyllic existence. Peace. Quiet. No confrontation. No arguments. No stress.

  Perhaps, ultimately, I am a circular person. A creature of habit.

  Perhaps we all are.

  But one thing I know for sure, as I stand by the window and watch pots in the garden disappear beneath the endless snow, is that I need to find out. Regardless of the promises and vows that I’ve made, I have to leave.

  At this very moment, I am actually living the only turn I will get at life. And, tragically, I have chosen to stand and dry these plates while I hide myself away in the kitchen, making as little noise as possible so I don’t remind the people I live with that I am here. I have been given a turn in the game of life and I am wasting it by a sink, effectively hiding from my loved ones.

  I realise that this cannot be right. This isn’t fair on any of us.

  And while I’m doing this, none of us benefit.

  I’m a fraud.

  The clarity of these thoughts has just hit me.

  I realise that I need to leave – and I need to leave now. Not spend another year fantasising about how life could be as it slips away in front of my eyes. I need to go.

  Go.

  Go.

  Go.

  Get out of here. The time has come.

  The white world out there looks beautiful. Devoid of colour.

  It’s a sign. A blank canvas.

  I’m going.

  But I need to plan this properly. I need to save. I won’t get very far saving up pound coins in the piggy bank in my bedroom. They weigh far too much. I need proper money, the light stuff that isn’t heavy to carry. And I need to know where I am going, so I recognise it when I arrive. And I need to make sure that wherever I finally end up, I cannot be found. That I leave no trace and that I walk out of this life seamlessly into another.

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-ONE

  I kinda feel better for drying the pots.

  “Hot drink, anyone?”

  I pop my head around the lounge door. The fire is blazing and the room feels close and warm. Like how I imagine it would be inside a human-size slipper. Both children are curled up on the floor, their heads on cushions that Lisa has given them from the sofa. Oscar has his thumb in his mouth. His other arm is outstretched across the floor, and at the end of it Cliff gently licks the back of his plump pink hand.

  Both children are staring at the television. Behind the door,

  Dina and Lisa sit on the sofa. “Oh, yes please,” says Dina. “Tea?” I ask.

  “Please.”

  I nod and smile. “Lisa?”

  “Coffee, please. Where’ve you been?” “Wha
t do you mean?”

  She touches the screen of her phone. The clock pops up. “You’ve been doing the pots for nearly two hours.”

  I slide up my sleeve to check my watch. It’s on the side next to the sink.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, seriously, nearly two hours.” “There was a lot to dry,” I answer weakly.

  Lisa takes two of the cups from my hands and places them on the coffee table in front of where she and Dina are sitting. I lean back in my chair and cradle my cup in my lap. I’m not sure what the children are watching on television but they seem entertained. And, more importantly, quiet. I take a sip from my drink and stretch my feet out in front of me. It feels good. Really good, in fact.

  “So how are you, Richard?” Dina says. Her eyes are kind, her smile indicating it’s a genuine question. I’m in two minds how to answer.

  “Er, I’m good,” I say ponderously. “Yeah, I’m good,” I say in an attempt to make my words seem stronger. I already feel like a criminal. An interviewee stating the same things over and over to convince myself of my own story.

  “Oh, good,” she says.

  I’m not actually sure whether she wants a real answer or the one I’ve given her. Her response suggests that she’s content with the false answer.

  “What about you?” I say. I’m reasonably happy with my question. It is what I’d usually say, isn’t it? I begin to doubt how the fraudulent Richard would act. I shuffle more upright, disguising the fact that I’m feeling around for the atlas alongside the chair.

  “Well, I’m very well…” She pauses. Her eyes dart around quickly and then she puts her fingers on Lisa’s forehead. “Touch wood,” she says mischievously. I wonder how many times in history this joke has been used. I resist the temptation to tell her that strictly she was already touching wood, due to the position of her foot on the base of the coffee table. I locate the atlas with my fingers and poise myself to lift it.

  I have a lot of time for Dina. And Kenneth, for that matter. If I had the opportunity to choose my parents-in-law, I don’t think I would have picked people far different from Dina and Kenneth. They are good people. They genuinely want the best for their daughter and grandchildren and – as a by-product – me. They have treated me as one of their own almost since the moment we met. They don’t interfere, but they do help. They don’t pass on their opinions as to how things should be done unless they are asked. They don’t criticise how we live, but instead gently guide us into not making similar mistakes to them. I feel no pressure from them.

  I suddenly feel compelled to tell Dina my plan. It must be guilt.

  “That’s good,” I say. “And Kenneth?” She smiles. “He’s fine.”

  I know Kenneth has been back and forth to the hospital recently and I wonder whether she is giving me the answer that she thinks I want. I’m not sure if Dina knows that I am aware of Kenneth’s appointments.

  “And the hospital?”

  She is now.

  Lisa frowns and does a quick shake of her head. Dina is momentarily distracted and looks at Lisa, then back at me. “Oh, it’s okay,” she says to the space between Lisa and me.

  “Richard’s like our son anyway.”

  Her last sentence shakes me, and I loosen my grip on the atlas.

  “Kenneth’s alright,” she says in a voice that drifts off in search of conviction. She points at the children on the floor, to say this isn’t a conversation they should hear. I nod my understanding.

  We all stare at the children for a moment and then our eyes meet again.

  “More tests next week,” Dina says quietly.

  I glance at the kids again. I’m safe to continue. “Any idea

  what it is yet?”

  “Not for sure,” she whispers, “hopefully soon. It’s the not-knowing…”

  Lisa visibly whitens. I pull a smile that I hope displays the true sympathy I feel.

  “Anyway, on to happier things,” Dina says, moving her position on the sofa to match her shift in conversation. “Tell me that you finally got that minotaur fixed.”

  I’m not sure what she means. I glance at Lisa for help. She is staring into her coffee. I frown questioningly.

  “You know, Richard. You were playing with it last time we were here.”

  “Minotaur?”

  “Yes, your television screen.”

  I look blank.

  “For your computer,” she continues. “It wasn’t working.”

  I realise she is referring to the computer monitor that I pretended I was fixing upstairs for two hours when they last visited. Lisa knows little about computers, so any type of computer-related problem is always the perfect alibi.

  “Oh, the monitor! Yes, I fixed it,” I say. “Oh, good,” Dina says. “I was worried.”

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-TWO

  The middle ball in Newton’s cradle.

  Lisa gets up from the sofa as the closing theme music of a cartoon comes on for what seems like the hundredth time. Dina wakes and looks marginally startled, as if she expected to wake up alone on a beach or being pampered in a spa or wherever her dream was set.

  Lisa stands by the window for a second, and I watch her as she looks out into the dark evening. I can see the snow swirling round in the beam of the outdoor security light, which has flashed off and on periodically over the afternoon. The rest of the view is pure black.

  “Kids, bath-time,” she says to the night sky.

  Neither of their heads move an inch.

  In the relative peace of the last few hours my mind has been awash with thoughts and plans. I have that excited feeling in my chest. The one that feels like a thousand little fairy lights repeatedly flashing on and off. It almost tickles. My head is now flooded with more things than I can remember. Ultimately, though, I have narrowed my planning down to four things.

  Where do I go?

  When do I go?

  How do I survive when I get there?

  Do I just disappear or tell the world I’m going?

  I decide that the first question is the easiest to answer. I’m unsure about the order of the others. What I do know is that unfortunately, like everything else in the world, most of my problems will revolve around money. Getting to where I am going, surviving when I’m there and when I can leave are all driven by this.

  I consider how a world would work without money. Life would certainly be easier if there was no form of currency. Humans, just like animals and more specifically insects, helping one another for the good of the group. I once watched a programme on Amazonian Polyergus ants. Obviously, it wasn’t something I circled in the TV guide and planned to watch. It was just on. Anyway, I learned that millions upon millions of them live together, all working for the benefit of firstly the queen, but ultimately one another with no expectation of recompense for their efforts. Going about their everyday business, with no ant currency changing hands (pincers?). I am convinced there would be less conflict in the world if we were all the same. There would certainly be less to fight over. Everyone the same, all treated the same way. I worry that my thoughts are drifting towards joining a strict communist regime, and accept that, sadly, money will play an important factor in my vanishing.

  “KIDS! BATH-TIME!” Lisa repeats.

  Both children jump. Dina and I do the same. My mind flicks back to being an ant. Perhaps it’s actually the fact that they are profoundly deaf that allows them all to get on so well.

  Lisa pulls the curtains across at a speed that makes a whooshing sound and tells me she means business. The snow outside is hidden again.

  She turns to Dina. “You can’t travel back in that,” she says nodding toward the curtains. “Is it still coming down?” “Heavier than earlier.” “Oh dear. Well, you’ll –”

  “I’d say there’s about two foot now.”

  “Really?”

  “Easily. You’ll have to stay here. You can’t go out in that.” “I’ll speak to your father.”

  At that moment, exactly on cue, the lou
nge door opens. In my head I hear an appreciative round of applause from a live audience as, like a character entering in a play, Kenneth pops his head around the door. I wonder whether he has been asleep at all or simply waiting behind the door for the last few hours. “Drink, anyone?” he says. He is clutching the side of the door as if he doesn’t want to enter the room fully.

  “Coke, please, Bompa,” Hannah shouts without averting her eyes from the screen.

  “And me,” says Oscar.

  Kenneth leans around the door to take drinks orders from the sofa.

  “Kenneth, Lisa says we’ll have to stay tonight.”

  “Yeah, the snow’s really heavy, Dad. It’ll take you hours to get home.”

  He nods. “Drink?”

  “No, thanks,” Lisa says, “it’s bath-time.”

  I sit tight, wondering whether Lisa will nominate me to be in charge of bath-time today. It ranks near the bottom of my fatherhood wishlist, in the relegation places, just above nappy changing.

  “I’ll bath them,” says Dina.

  “Let’s do it together,” says Lisa. I see her hands squeeze Dina’s slightly.

  “A cup of tea would be great,” I say. And then I lie: “Before I get on with my work.”

  Lisa smiles sympathetically. “More work?” “’Fraid so,” I say.

  “They work him too hard,” says Dina, getting to her feet.

  “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again.”

  I wait for her to deliver on her promise, but she doesn’t.

  As Lisa passes me, she kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll make up the attic bed,” she says. “Send the kids up in five.”

  “I will.”

  “I love you,” she says.

  I sometimes feel she does.

  Declarations like that are not going to make my escape plan easy.

  CHAPTER_TWENTY-THREE

  So, you tell me, just how exactly do I disappear?