LEONARD AND HUNGRY PAUL

by Ronan Hession

  It was a bright, sunny morning, the good weather bringing its own pressure to make something of it. Grace would have really preferred an overcast day. A day of TV. A day of floating from one nothing to the next. The phone call to Andrew was hanging over her, as was the feeling of guilt at her lack of enthusiasm for ringing him. With the wedding approaching, she had started to feel pressure to be in love and sound in love when talking to him. Of course she did love him, but she just wanted to get back to the love being ordinary, everyday and natural, instead of the Disney love that she felt a bride was supposed to project to the world. The truth was, she just wanted him home to share her Plan B breakfast in silence and to let her sit there and watch a rubbish movie while he did something else in the background. That’s what she really loved about him: his ability to ignore her and leave her alone until she was ready to include him and then, but only then, could she chat and laugh and goof off as part of a couple.

  For the first time in weeks, the calendar was free of plans and arrangements. She hadn’t had time to organise anything and had secretly looked forward to a quiet weekend, but now that it was here, it seemed to yawn in front of her. The unstructured easiness she had hoped for had turned into plain old restlessness. The house needed sorting out, but she had already worked too hard this week. Her body felt like it needed a run or a swim, but she felt lazy and was struggling to find first gear. The idea of kicking back with a vacuous film or book appealed to her, but she had no concentration and all the options bored her. Nor had she any appetite for galleries, cinemas, farmers’ markets or whatever outdoor community-building thing was on in town that weekend.

  In the past, she would have sat reading peacefully on the rug in the front room in Parley View, her dad and Hungry Paul shouting up and down the stairs to each other, asking where some random household item was and guessing its possible location at the top of their voices. After having heard enough, her mother would shout in the correct answer from the garden where she would be busy doing the work she loved. Grace missed being the quiet person in a busy house.

  She sent Andrew a quick text, apologising for not phoning and saying that she was just going out and would ring him later. Two kisses. G. Then she sat back into the couch and started picking a callous off the knuckle of her little toe, which fascinated her in its grotesqueness.

  Her phone buzzed and a short text came in from Andrew:

  Sorry, can’t talk. Am in a cheese museum on a tour. Part of the organised fun. This is what I turn into when you’re not here. XX A

  She gave a relieved little chuckle. Andrew had read, and read into, her text and understood her need for a little down payment of affection. Having broken her first smile of the day, she flicked the flake of calloused skin into the fireplace and rang her mum who said yes, of course, call over later after she got back from visiting at the hospital. With a plan now made, the day’s long hours seemed to contract, so Grace took out the wedding to-do list and made a start on the million and one things that flooded her mind.

  As Helen got off the phone, she again called up to Hungry Paul from downstairs that he needed to get a move on. Hungry Paul, who lacked the coordination to yell back and get dressed at the same time, paused the buttoning of his jeans, having already had to restart the task after matching the buttons to the corresponding holes and finding that he had one button left over. Helen had started to notice that he was going cold on the idea of visiting at the hospital after he had arrived home the other evening, his mission with the Roses unfulfilled. She didn’t want to leave an extended interval before the next visit, which would only inspire him to excuses. For his part, and as so often happens, his disappointment about the Roses tin did not survive a night’s sleep and he was even able to see the funny side to his mistake, though not to the extent that he felt ready to share the vignette with his mother, in case it was added to the library of family folklore where his past experiences were somewhat overrepresented.

  The two of them left together in Helen’s small Fiat Punto. Hungry Paul had the unusual habit of sitting in the back, behind Helen, even when it was just the two of them in the car and even though it made him look like a third world dictator and Helen his chauffeuse. He wasn’t a fan of speed and riding up front just reminded him that their bodies were hurtling through the air at the speed limit. He also liked to drive with the window open in all weathers. When he was a child he was always baffled as to why marathon runners never seemed to run out of air, and had wondered how much air a person needed to run a marathon anyway—sacks and sacks of it, presumably. When he asked his father, Peter suggested that he should see how much air he could take in during long car journeys, which is a creative way of keeping a young boy quiet for a long time. Helen usually liked to have a chat while driving, but with Hungry Paul she tended to let him have his way and enjoy the incoming breeze without interruptions.

  When they arrived at the hospital they reported to the duty nurse and Hungry Paul handed over the tin of Roses, explaining that they were for the nurses rather than the patients. The nurse thanked him for his thoughtfulness but put the tin away in an empty filing cabinet, explaining that the girls on the ward were trying to stay off sweets and get in shape during Lent.

  The ward to which they were going was full of people who didn’t look especially sick, except for the fact that they were all older ladies in pyjamas. The first patient they approached told them to ‘go away’ using vernacular language, and that she didn’t want any ‘religious bitch’ touching her, apparently mistaking Helen for the Eucharistic Minister who came around to give out communion to those who wanted it.

  The second woman was asleep and had a drip connected to her arm. Her skin was pale and her thinning white hair was like duvet stuffing. Helen lifted up the crossword that was open on the woman’s lap, put the lid back on the pen and set it all down on the locker beside her, which had several cards and kids’ drawings on it. She thought it was nice that such a fragile, sick lady had people who cared about her.

  The third lady was texting on her phone and was wearing bright red trapezoid glasses. She had on a pair of pink silk pyjamas, with a pattern of herons and pagodas on it.

  ‘Oh, hello. Are you bringing me down for the scan? I thought it wasn’t until this evening?’ the woman asked.

  ‘No, actually. We’re just volunteers, here to visit anyone who fancies a chat. Would you like us to sit down for a bit?’ asked Helen.

  ‘Of course. Make yourselves at home. There’s only one chair, so you’ll have to sit on the bed if you don’t mind, love,’ she said, addressing Hungry Paul, who sat near her exposed feet with toes that looked like tree roots.

  ‘Aren’t you all very good, visiting sick people stuck in here? It’s great to have people like you in the world. My kids are all grown up, probably his age,’ she said, pointing to Hungry Paul, ‘but they’re all away: London, Sydney, and one still travelling, not sure what he wants to do. I get texts and Skypes—my kids emigrating has brought me into the twenty-first century—but it’s not the same as having them near you. Have you any kids yourself?’ she asked Helen.

  ‘I do actually, and I’m lucky they’re still close by. This fine young specimen is my son,’ Hungry Paul waved by way of introduction, ‘and I have a daughter getting married at Easter. I’m Helen by the way.’

  ‘Nice to meet you. I’m Barbara, or Bar; just not Babs or Barbie please. Easter wedding? I didn’t think they allowed that. In the church I mean, although who gets married in a church these days? She’s probably doing it in a nice hotel or something. Doesn’t matter where it is, so long as they love each other.’

  ‘Actually it is in a church,’ said Helen, ‘Although Grace is not religious, so I’m not sure why they’re taking the trouble. The wedding is on Easter Monday, which they say is fine. We’ll probably get Easter eggs with our meal. But enough about us: how long have you been in here, Barbara?’ Helen was following the golden rule and asking the
patient about themselves.

  ‘Oh, let me think,’ said Barbara, ‘Since Wednesday and then I have to stay in for another day once I have had the scan, which is hopefully today. I don’t mind it too much, but my back gets sore in the bed, and all these ladies like to listen to the TV up loud, which isn’t really my thing. I try and get up for walks, to the shop or out into the sensory garden, but the day drags. All my life I wanted some downtime to read books and just relax, and now I’m here I can’t settle,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t talk much, your son, does he?’

  ‘You’re a good listener though aren’t you?’ said Helen, nodding her head to the side as if to say to Hungry Paul: ‘C’mon, get on with it.’

  ‘I like your glasses—are they designer?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh these. I got them at the optometry college—they design them whatever way you want and it only costs a fraction of the usual price. I designed them myself. I wanted to look like an architect, but I think I’m too fat and old to pull it off—you need to be a skinnymalink in a black polo neck for that sort of thing.’

  ‘You must make some nice plans for when you leave here—maybe give yourself a night away in a nice hotel or go to a spa or something,’ said Helen, showing her experience by trying to get the patient to make plans, look forward to things.

  ‘I’m not so much into hotels since my husband died,’ said Barbara, ‘That was five years ago, my God, that’s flown. But hotels are for couples really. No point sleeping in a big posh bed by yourself. I might do some shopping, though. Being here these past few days has made me realise that all my pyjamas and stuff are in rag order.’

  ‘That set is nice. It looks Chinesey,’ said Helen.

  ‘I like the heron on it,’ added Hungry Paul, who always suffered from writer’s block when it came to small talk.

  ‘Tom gave me these. My husband. We were in Japan at the time and he was sick of seeing me wearing his pyjamas, so he bought me this pair. I like the way that they look, but they’re too light and keep slipping down—I don’t want to give the old geezers on the corridor a heart condition.’

  ‘What ages are your kids?’ asked Helen.

  ‘Linda is the eldest, she’s thirty-five and is in Australia. She’s a vet and she married a guy who runs his own business—he does sound at concerts and things. I’ve been out there to see them. The house is huge but I suppose there’s no shortage of space in Australia. Joyce is thirty-two and is in London; works for a bank, but not a bank you’ve heard of. Joyce was always a hard worker. Ben is travelling the world—he’s just turned thirty. He’d never been anywhere exotic, but then he went on a gap year and stayed on travelling when his friends came back. I’d say he’s met a girl, though he tells me nothing. You’re lucky to still have yours nearby. I hated them all going but you know young people, they all want to travel and you can’t stop them. What do yours do?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m a postman. A casual postman. Fill in for sick days, that sort of thing,’ answered Hungry Paul, speaking for himself.

  ‘Ah, that’s nice. Lots of fresh air and not too many dogs I hope.’

  ‘If there’s a dangerous dog in the garden you just write dog-at-large on the letter and send it back to the depot. The real problem is with the dogs roaming the street who like to chase after the bike.’

  ‘What do you do with those?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘Pedal faster,’ answered Hungry Paul, getting a laugh without meaning to be funny.

  ‘And my daughter Grace works for a big American company, though we’re never 100 per cent sure what she does. She’s explained it loads of times. It’s something to do with computers, but she’s not working on the computers themselves; logistics and project management are involved. The main point is that when you invite her over she’s often late or gets interrupted by her phone. We’re used to it, but I think she works too hard. Those companies expect you to give everything to your job.’

  ‘And is your husband still hale and healthy?’ asked Barbara.

  ‘Yes, thank God. He’s retired now. Peter is his name,’ said Helen, sensing some sensitivity in the question.

  ‘It’s great to be able to retire together. Tom and I had loads of plans, but there are no promises in life. What I learned is that everyone in your life has an invisible number on their foreheads, which represents the number of times you will see them again. It might be zero or one, or it could be a thousand, but it’s a number. We don’t have unlimited time with people. I don’t mean that in a morbid way. It’s a lesson for us to appreciate people while we can. Don’t put people off. Don’t think you can make up the time later. I miss him terribly, but we always made time for each other. We travelled. We went to things. We spent lots and lots of time looking at each other’s faces, so even though I miss him every day, I know I made the most of my time with him.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more Barbara. Is there anything we can do for you before we go? Time’s nearly up I’m afraid and we’ll have to leave you to it,’ said Helen.

  ‘Nothing at all, thanks Helen. It was so good of you to come. Hopefully, I’ll be gone home by the time you’re next in, but it was a pleasure to meet you—and you too, young man. Do your best to keep the girls at bay so you can look after your mother,’ said Barbara, winking at Helen.

  ‘Women are usually respectful of my need for distance without being reminded,’ he answered.

  Helen noticed that the old lady with the crossword in the second bed was now awake and two young kids were climbing on her bedside chair, giving her rushed, loud updates on their lives, while their parents fixed up the pillows and de-cluttered the locker area.

  As they left the room, the first lady shouted ‘religious bitch!’ after Helen.

  When they got home, Grace was already there, lying back on the couch with her head on Peter’s lap, being a daddy’s girl.

  ‘Hey there. How did you get on? No fatalities I hope?’ said Grace, as Hungry Paul came over and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘No. They only let us near the healthy ones. It wasn’t too bad,’ he answered.

  ‘He was great. I think older people like you. You’re a good listener,’ said Helen. ‘What are you two up to, lounging around like that?’

  ‘I’m helping Dad with his wedding speech. Telling him all about my wonderful character traits and Andrew’s deep, deep flaws. Although I am concerned that it might get a bit risqué in places–you know Dad and his sense of humour.’

  ‘I’ll be as dignified as I always am,’ answered Peter in his own defence.

  For the first time in ages, the four of them spent an evening together, sitting around, chatting and cooking. They shared a big mixum-gatherum of a dinner, before sitting down to watch The Remorseful Day, the final Inspector Morse episode. It was Grace and Helen’s favourite, which they had watched together about half a dozen times over the years.

  At the end of the night, even though it wasn’t that late and even though her house wasn’t that far away, Grace decided to stay over with her happy family and sleep in her old room. And there, wearing a pair of pyjamas borrowed from her mother, she rang Andrew, delighted to hear his voice as she whispered and giggled in her childhood bed, the first single bed she’d slept in in years.

  Chapter 11: Shelley

  It was as true for Leonard as it is for the rest of us, that we can plan and calculate as much as we like, but romance never enters our lives on terms of our own choosing.

  Leonard had spent the weekend getting ready. He had been clothes shopping for the second time in a week and despite the indecision that comes with being early-middle-aged and therefore somewhat ‘between looks’—too old for casual, too young for daytime formal—he had managed to update his wardrobe, albeit by buying different versions of the same jumper and jeans combination. While his look would not stand out as particularly adventurous or interesting, he would at least benefit from the confidence that comes
from knowing that the forces of nature are generally on the side of those who try something new. Over the weekend he had run through a range of conversation openers and had thought ahead to how Shelley might respond and what sort of casual witticism would go down well in counter-response, though being careful not to come across as too smart-alecky or world weary. He liked her positivity and energy and wanted to try and match it.

  When he got to his office building on Monday morning he went to the bathroom to stare at himself for one last practice at the right facial expressions before stepping into the ring. He had wanted to splash water on his face, but got it all wrong and ended up cupping water and throwing it down his front like a toddler. With few other options, he got down on his knees to dry off his chest with the hand dryer and then decided to let the warm air blow over his face as he shook his head gently from side to side, forgetting where he was. When the dryer stopped there was a young guy standing beside him with a beard and a paisley pyjama top, waiting to dry his hands, with his crotch at Leonard’s eye level.

  Leonard pressed the button for the lift with his hands still soaking. As the door opened, he could see Shelley at the back corner, wearing her cycling helmet and hemmed in by the other rush hour lift passengers. He gave her a wave with his wet hands, which just looked sweaty, and stepped into the lift. She gave a friendly little ‘isn’t this weird’ smile back to him. The doors kept trying to close, but the lift was too full and all eyes were on him to step back out. Initially he tried to tough it out and press the button to close the doors, but there was nothing doing. They shuddered repeatedly, each time stalling and refusing to shut. And of all moments, that had to be the time when Leonard’s phone went off and revealed that he was the last person in the world still using the Crazy Frog ringtone, which he had meant to change ages ago but hadn’t got around to it. At first he tried to ignore it, but it seemed to go on forever. Instead of the voicemail kicking in, the person just kept on trying again and again. The deadlock was broken by the muffled voice of a man who seemed to have Leonard’s shoulder in his mouth, who said ‘Do you want to get that?’