When I turn toward the house, I see that the bedroom curtains are fully open. Lisa stands at the window. Alongside her, in order of height, are Hannah and Oscar. My living collection of Russian dolls. All three look confused, and I can understand why. I think I would feel the same if I were to look out of the window and see two men in the snow dressed in little more than their nightwear, staring at my house.
I smile and wave, and they slowly wave back.
CHAPTER_FORTY-FIVE
The last supper.
The kettle clicks off and, as always, the steam rushes blindly into the underside of the kitchen units.
“Coffee?” I say to Lisa, shaking a packet of Starbucks Kenyan ground. She is sitting at the kitchen table with the children.
“Ooh, the posh stuff. Must be a big day today,” she smiles.
I smile back. There is a brief pause as I wave the packet from side to side.
“Oh, yes please,” she says.
I begin preparing the coffee as the kids dig into their Coco Pops, shovelling the cereal into their mouths as if they’ve received word that it will self-destruct in five seconds.
Oscar burps and immediately puts his hand over his mouth. His look is somewhere between embarrassed and nervous. Lisa laughs, and he immediately looks relieved. “Pardon,” he says.
Hannah’s spoon clinks down into her near-empty bowl. “Done,” she says, slightly out of breath, like she’s just finished track training. Before her spoon stops reverberating, she takes her glass of orange juice and swallows the liquid in one gulp, acquiring a half-moon on her upper lip. She wipes her mouth along her forearm, across the back of her hand to her fingers.
“Can I watch TV now?” she says. “Me too?” says Oscar.
I pour the coffee.
Lisa tells Oscar that he needs to finish his cereal, and Hannah watches him intently, her eyes following every scoop of the brown milk to his mouth. She visibly winces when a Coco Pop falls from the spoon back into the bowl below. The room is silent.
I add milk and stir the coffee, before passing a mug to Lisa. She too is watching Oscar. I pull out a chair and sit at the table next to her. She puts her hand on mine.
Oscar looks up, his eyes darting from side to side, suddenly aware that he is the main attraction in a one-man show. He smiles sweetly, which draws a sigh from Hannah (after all, the smile is wasting precious eating time) and causes Lisa to squeeze my hand a little tighter. I place my free hand on top of hers. The hand-sandwich signifies everything.
The way we touch.
As we look at our son.
It shouts, “We made him.”
The little miracle in front of us. We made him.
Hannah frowns at Oscar and nods at his bowl. He understands and instantly scoops up another spoonful.
“Daddy?” says Hannah. “Why were you standing on the drive with no trousers on?”
I am surprised that it has taken this long for the question to be asked. By the time I got inside the kids were already in the kitchen, awaiting breakfast, their hunger obviously overpowering their inquisitiveness. Lisa was just coming down the stairs. In her hand were my pyjama bottoms.
Oscar finishes his cereal. “Can we watch TV now?” he says. Hannah quickly moves into a position where the smallest amount of her bottom touches the edge of the chair. She’s positioned like an Olympic sprinter, ready for the gun to go off.
I nod and she’s gone. Oscar climbs down more carefully, but a moment later he’s only a metre or two behind her.
On her way through the hall, Hannah remembers her unanswered question and shouts behind her, “Tell me about the trousers later…” Then they are gone. I suddenly realise that there may not be much of a later for me to explain to Hannah. The sand has nearly emptied from the top of the hourglass.
And at this moment, Lisa and I are left holding one another’s hands at the table. And all is silent. And still.
Lisa asks me why I was outside and I explain to her what happened earlier. She asks why I was up and awake so early on a morning when I don’t have to go to work. I tell her that I have a lot on my mind, which is true. I decide that I am going to have a bath to give me a little thinking time. I know full well that if I stay downstairs, I will be distracted by Lisa or the children or the television or the in-laws or emails or Cliff. I tell Lisa that I am cold, which is not wholly untrue, and leave her at the kitchen table.
As I reach the bottom of the stairs, Dina is just leaving the top. Kenneth walks more slowly behind her, holding the banister for support. She smiles widely at me, as if she knows a secret that I don’t. It’s the happiest I’ve seen her for days. I sweep my arm out like a matador to indicate that they can pass.
“Morning!” sings Dina, and she kisses me on the cheek as she passes. I wait a few more seconds until Kenneth reaches me.
“Morning, son,” he says, slapping his hand down heavily on my shoulder. He squeezes me and it hurts slightly.
“Morning,” I say, making my way up a few steps, out of his reach.
“Going anywhere?” he says. “Just for a bath,” I smile.
He raises his eyebrows and continues toward the kitchen.
I am left with one question. I suppose that I should really have given this one a little more thought, especially as I have less than twenty-four hours to consider it and then answer it.
I turn on the hot tap with my toe and the water splashes down into the bath. I can just see myself in the chrome overflow, which reminds me of an old-fashioned telephone dial. There are eight holes punched in the circular metal to allow excess water to leave the bath. From the centre hangs the thin metal chain, which falls beneath the water to where it attaches to the plug. I move my head from side to side, positioning my reflection until two of the overflow holes form my eyes. I laugh, and then realise that I am wasting valuable time. I turn off the tap, stare at the white tiles ahead of me and consider the question: How do I survive when I get to where I am going?
I follow the grout between the tiles, imagining that the route from the edge of the bath to the ceiling is my journey to the plains of the Midwest. I have about two thousand pounds to get me to America, of which, I calculate, I’ll need around a thousand to get across Europe and on a one-way flight across the Atlantic. From there, I intend to snake north from Latin America, into America, and then north toward the Canadian border. Ultimately, I’ll head back south and east to where I’ll find my new home. It does seem like a convoluted route, but it’s safer than taking a direct bus and being spotted by some eagle- eyed passenger who’s seen the ‘missing’ poster. That is, in the unlikely event that they’ve bothered to print one.
Travel in America needn’t be expensive, and I have calculated that if I take local transport and, ultimately, the Greyhound bus, I may spend another five hundred dollars on the extended trip to Nebraska. It is likely to take me around a week to get there. I realise that I will have to spend night after night with the strange and wonderful people who travel on the overnight buses across America. I fully expect to be sitting in close proximity to criminals who are running from the law. People who need to see their family, their friends, their loved ones. People who need a fix. People who need to provide others with a fix. People who need to begin again. People like me.
I sit up and squeeze shampoo from the bottle and begin to rub it through my hair. I realise that this will be the last time for a while that I actually have some hair to wash. In twenty- four hours I will have removed it. I scratch my nails into my scalp as I lather the foam.
The thought of the bus journey both excites and appals me. I imagine myself sitting on the bus, uncomfortably pressed against a window, watching the landscape whilst trying to ignore the smell of whisky coming from the man next to me. He breathes his stale air on me and tells me stories that may or may not be true. Stories of close calls and times when his luck betrayed him. He tells me he wouldn’t be having to leave the state if it weren’t for a misunderstanding. I listen and try to speak at the right
times. Now and again, he opens his mouth wide and laughs, holding up his hand for a high five. I feel we are connecting…
But then he changes. His eyes are now black and dark. His laugh is replaced by a frown that penetrates somewhere deep inside me. He is suddenly serious, and whatever I said that made him laugh now angers him. I am back-pedalling, spilling out words to try to reassure him. His face is close to mine, our foreheads almost touching. His glare reflecting in my eyes.
And then, the moment has passed and he sits back in his chair. Upright. He lets out a long, musical breath, piping the smell of whisky into the hair of the woman in front. Then he shakes his head, as if recalling better times, and tells me he could murder a smoke. I’m relieved he didn’t replace the word ‘smoke’ with ‘man’.
My decision has made me one of these people.
And I think I like it.
I sink beneath the surface. My hair floats in the bathwater, carried by the flow of the water, and randomly dances on the surface. I can’t see it but I can imagine its pattern. Beneath the water, I can hear nothing but a dull fuzz. I think I hear Lisa calling my name, and I burst through the surface. I call out a reply, but there is no response. I sit upright for a few moments, my legs bent, my knees pointing to the ceiling. When I am satisfied that it was my imagination, I rest back in the bath and contemplate my original question.
How do I survive when I get to where I am going?
CHAPTER_FORTY-SIX
Kevin helped Bill back into the bungalow and through to the lounge. He instructed Bill to stay exactly where he was whilst he quickly pulled a chair from the dining room in front of the fire. Bill shivered as Kevin took him gently by the shoulders and helped him onto the seat. Kevin was sure he could see the trail of emotion frozen in vertical lines down Bill’s cheeks.
Kevin got on his hands and knees, and turned the little dial. The fire leapt to life excitedly, the flames celebrating their appearance.
Kevin had asked Rosie more than once to get Bill a jumper or a cardigan, but she hadn’t heard him. Instead, she stayed exactly where she had been sitting from the moment she had woken up: at the far end of the sofa, nearest to the dining room. In front of her was the little coffee table, on top of which was their unfinished game of Scrabble from the night before.
Kevin had never seen her like this before. Every single day of her life, Rosie was immaculately turned out, from her hair to her make-up, her earrings to her jacket, her brooch to her skirt – all coordinating, all selected with care so that she looked her very best. And now, this morning, she sat with her pink dressing gown wrapped untidily around the clothes she had worn the day before. And perhaps the day before that. Her feet, swollen and mottled in a hundred pinks and reds, were visible from the lack of tights covering them for the first time he could remember. Her hair was unbrushed, and without make-up, her face showed the strain of the life she had led.
Kevin went out into the hall and rummaged through the coats on the coat pegs. There, he found a brown thick-knitted cardigan. He turned the arms the correct way and took it into the lounge.
He managed to get Bill’s limp arms through the sleeves and pulled it tightly around him. He then crouched down and located each of the large leather buttons, which had the look of old-fashioned footballs. He pushed them through the holes and fastened them.
“Bill, where do you keep your socks?” Kevin asked. Bill continued to stare at the fire.
“Bill?”
It was obvious to Kevin that he wasn’t going to get any response, so he turned to Rosie.
“Where are Bill’s socks –”
A light snore interrupted his question. She was asleep. Kevin got to his feet and placed his hand on Bill’s shoulder. “Just going to find you some socks,” he whispered.
Kevin had only been in the master bedroom a couple of times in his life and he felt uncomfortable being there. Especially by himself.
He felt even more uncomfortable pulling open drawers in the search for a pair of socks.
His eyes scanned the room, and he walked over to the most likely storage place: a walnut-coloured chest of drawers just beneath the window. On top of it was a large crocheted doily. On top of that lay a hairbrush, a hand mirror and various trinket boxes. Two ornaments in the shape of angels stood in the centre. Kevin pulled open the top drawer. The ornaments shook slightly.
In it was pair after pair of thick black socks. They were all ironed and laid neatly in stacks of differing heights. A Giant’s Causeway of socks. He took two pairs and closed the drawer quietly.
He turned and headed toward the door. As he approached he noticed the mess on the floor. He hadn’t seen it when he first came in; it had been hidden behind the door. The mess consisted of hundreds and hundreds of photographs. He knelt down beside them. Some were colour, some black and white. Some rectangular, some square. All of them showed the same two people. Victoria. Samantha. They gushed like some frozen waterfall from the part-opened cupboard of Bill’s bedside cabinet.
Kevin pulled open the little door and a further flood of photographs began to fall, like pennies in an amusement arcade. He managed to push the door closed again and carefully pulled out the handful of pictures that had become lodged in the gap between door and cabinet.
He got to his feet and took the socks through to the lounge. Bill was sitting uncomfortably on the chair in front of the fire. His head was bowed, his chin resting on his chest. Kevin kneeled and put the socks on his feet. He then crawled across the carpet to where Rosie slept and put the other pair on her. Then he helped Bill out of the chair and sat him alongside Rosie on the sofa. His head lolled to the side and rested comfortably on the corner of the sofa.
Kevin took the blanket from Bill’s reclining chair and unfolded it. Then he rested it over them both, the blanket covering them, chest to shins. Four black socks poked out from the bottom.
Kevin took the chair back into the dining room and closed the door, to keep the heat in the lounge. He turned the fire down, just a little, and went through the hall to the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea.
CHAPTER_FORTY-SEVEN
The last cuppa?
As I burst individual bubbles with my finger, I realise that I don’t actually have much of a plan for how I will survive in the wilds of America. Even though I have thought about and dreamed about leaving for I-don’t-know-how-long, I have never really thought through how life – the actual process of living – will be.
I figure that my plan is as good as it could be, as far as the act of leaving is concerned. Disappearing. Not leaving a trace. But starting again with a blank canvas suddenly seems less easy. This should be the easiest part. After all, this is the part of the story where I become free from all the constraints of my life. The time where all the mistakes I’ve made in life are deleted. As simple as that, they all just disappear. Wiped clean. The mistakes are the bubbles that surround me. All I need to do is drop a bar of soap into the bath, and every mistake I’ve ever made disappears.
I decide that when I arrive I’ll probably have a night or two underneath the stars to get my bearings. My very next thought is that it is winter. I switch my plan to staying in a motel; after all, it would be somewhat ironic freezing to death on day two of my new life.
So, I’m set. I’ll book into a cheap motel for a couple of days and survey the area to get familiar with my surroundings.
Then I’ll have to find a job to tide me over. I’d be happy to work on a farm, maybe labouring or something similar. Sure, it may be difficult for the first few months, but once I’ve saved a few dollars I’ll be able to look at buying a ramshackle old cabin somewhere on an incline high up in the lush green forest. Lush and green when it’s not winter, of course.
There, I’ll need next to nothing to live on. I’ll grow my own crops and spend any money I earn on making my shack feel like my home. And little by little, as the months and years pass, I’ll get it fixed up just as I want it. And in the evenings, exhausted from a long day labouring
, I’ll come home to my own peace and quiet and watch the beauty of the seasons pass. The leaves fall from the trees. The leaves reappear. I’ll read all the books I never had time to read in this life. I may even write one.
For a moment, I am filled with excitement, but it quickly diminishes when I hear a light knock at the door. “Yes?” I call, wondering if I am imagining it again. “Rich?”
I ignore the stupidity of Lisa’s question. “Yep?” “Are you nearly ready to get out? It’s important.” “Er…”
I scoop small handfuls of bubbles from the bath and let them fall from one hand to the other, before tipping them back into the water. They run with the consistency of custard down my wrist and forearm, before leaving at my elbow to rejoin the rest of their friends who are waiting below in the bath.
“You really need to get out.” She pauses. “Please.”
I look down at my wrinkled fingertips. “Okay,” I say. “Gimme two minutes.”
“Thank you,” she says. I hear her stand on the creaky floorboard on the landing that I’ll never need to fix.
I rock forwards and then backwards, building up the momentum to get out. And then I am up, and onto the bathmat. As I dry myself, I realise that I have been overthinking my next steps in America. I needn’t plan so meticulously. I don’t need a detailed plan of what I’ll do when I get there and when. I’ll go with the flow. Through good times and bad. I’ll take whatever path suits me at that time. After all, this is the rest of my life we’re talking about.
And that’s exactly how long I have to plan it.
I am still rubbing my hair with a towel when I enter the kitchen. Lisa and her parents are sitting at the kitchen table. Kenneth nods and then winks. The fourth seat at the table is taken by a man. He has his back to me, so I walk around the table, toward the sink. As he sees me, he stands, and I recognise him as the man I stood with briefly in the snow earlier this morning.
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