‘I’m not going anywhere,’ I say quickly, trying to reassure him. My hand tightens around the plastic of the handset. In my head, I’m wondering if I could somehow get in touch with the helpline while he’s still on the line and try to transfer the call without hanging up on him, but I can’t think of a way to do it. The phone in the shop is an old corded one that’s attached to the wall behind the counter so no one can accidentally sell it – been there, done that – and my mobile is in my locker upstairs. I’d have to leave him for a few precious minutes to dash up there and get it. It would be too obvious what I was doing. What if he felt like I was just shafting him off onto the next person because I didn’t care? If he feels like I can’t get rid of him quick enough, it might make this situation worse. Even if I could get my phone and text the helpline and ask them what to say, I’d still have to leave him hanging here in silence while I got right the way across the shop floor, through the back room, up the stairs and into my locker and all the way back again, and who knows what he might do in that time? He phoned because he needs someone to talk to now. I can’t just leave him.
I wind the cord of the phone around my fingers and sink down into a sitting position. I thunk my head back against the wall behind the counter and listen to the rain pounding on the shop roof. Even Bernard, the homeless man who lives in the churchyard, will have found shelter tonight. ‘Aren’t you soaked?’
I hear movement and can imagine him lifting an arm and looking at it. ‘I am, actually. I hadn’t even noticed.’
I don’t know what it’s like to be in that situation, to feel so bad, so desperate, that there’s no way out, but I imagine a little fall of rain is the last thing he’s worrying about. I hate the idea of someone sitting on the pavement outside in this weather though. He must be drenched and freezing. I could go up there, take him a warm blanket and a hot cup of tea, but that too would mean leaving the phone, and it would eradicate our anonymity.
Privacy and anonymity are the foundations of the charity. The helpline exists so people in a crisis can open up to an unbiased stranger. Callers are routed through a server that hides the number from the person on the other end. Helpline staff are not allowed to ask the caller’s name if they don’t share it, and not allowed to give their own name unless asked. He knows I’m not proper helpline staff, but I still work for One Light. Those rules must still apply to me, even if this is a situation that’s never happened before.
‘Talk to me,’ I say gently, terrified that I’m saying the wrong thing. ‘Why were you thinking of jumping?’
‘We’ll be here all night if I start listing the reasons.’
‘That’s okay. We can be here all night. There’s no time limit. What’s going on?’
‘Everything. I’m a failure at life. My business is going under and I’ve done everything I can to try to save it, and I don’t know what else to do. It was supposed to be a way of honouring my father, but it’s taken every bit of money I had, and it’s dead. I have no customers. My mum is seventy-seven years old and on her feet at seven o’clock every day to help me out because I can’t afford to pay any staff. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs and I got my business rates bill this morning, and I can’t afford to pay even a fraction of it. And just to ice the cake, the rates are going up in January and there’s no way I can pay them.’
Because of the anonymity rules, I can’t ask him outright where he works, but if he’s in Oakbarrow then chances are it’s somewhere nearby. It might even be on this high street.
I sit up on my knees and look over the counter at the darkened road outside. Even the streetlamps have flickered their final death and no one’s bothered to mend them. Oakbarrow High Street used to be a hive of activity, especially at this time of year, but now it’s deader than the burnt-out bulbs in the streetlights. The truth is that I know how quiet things are. I know how difficult it is to get people through the door. Every day, I expect a phone call from Head Office saying they’ve decided to shut our branch down.
‘Well, it’s nearly Christmas,’ I say. ‘People are out shopping in the big towns at this time of year. Maybe things will pick up in January?’
‘There’s a new retail park on the roundabout outside of town. It’s easy to get to, there’s plenty of free parking, and it’s got every kind of shop you could imagine. No one needs to come to high streets anymore, no matter the time of year.’
‘Yeah, but the retail park is a bit … soulless, isn’t it? These business parks are all the same – if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I’d rather go to a little high street full of independent shops that actually mean something to the people who own them. That comes across to shoppers, you know?’
‘Well, you must be one of about ten people left in the country who think that way.’
I suddenly feel incredibly sad because he’s so right about the high street. I’ve lived in Oakbarrow all my life. This high street used to be the centre of the universe, especially at this time of year. I remember coming Christmas shopping with my mum when I was little and being amazed by it, the sights, the sounds, the smells. The giant tree they put up in front of the churchyard, always at least ten-foot high, lush green branches weighed down with twinkling lights and ornaments that local schoolchildren had made. It was magical back then. Shopkeepers would stay open late, decorations of reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh ran across the road above our heads, snowflakes twinkled on hangers outside every shop, lampposts were wrapped with tinsel and bows and had bright bulbs that still worked.
I look out the window again. The shop across the road is empty, its windows painted white from inside, the shop next to that has a ‘for sale’ sign nailed to its front though the ‘s’ has worn off, and the one on the opposite side has had ‘closing down sale’ notices in its bare windows for the past three years.
Just about the only shops still in business are the charity shop and the bank next door, a coffee shop, a tanning shop, a lingerie shop, and a television repair shop at the upper end of the high street. Even the only pub, that used to be the heart of all village gatherings, has closed in recent years. It used to be called The Blue Drum but some clever vandal has removed the middle five letters, so now it’s just The B um. I hear a lot of regular customers talking about wishing The Bum was still open so they could go up it.
It feels like every one of us is only here to await the death knell. Even the mini supermarket that put the independent greengrocer out of business and contributed to the market closure has shut up shop and run for the hills. Or, more specifically, run for the retail park to be with all the other convenient and cheap shops that make high streets everywhere irrelevant.
‘I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better, but there’s no denying what a state high streets everywhere are in.’
‘At least you’re honest. Somehow, even hearing that makes me feel better.’
Well, I want to make him feel better but I’m not sure commiserating over the state of things was quite what I had in mind. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Cold. Wet.’ I can hear his teeth chattering. ‘Stupid for being up here. Stupid for thinking this was the answer. Pathetic for crying down the phone to a stranger.’
‘Hey, that’s not pathetic.’ I wonder if we are strangers. If he works around here, I might know him in passing. I’ve had this job for four years now, you get to know people who work nearby, and his voice does sound familiar. ‘When you need help, the bravest thing you can do is reach out and ask for it.’
‘Or phone a stranger and talk about naked mannequin wrestling.’
The laugh takes me by surprise. ‘Or make them choke on a Crunchie.’
‘Or that.’ His laugh turns into a sob. ‘I shouldn’t be up here. I feel like I’ve let everyone down. My family would be devastated if they knew it had come to this.’
‘You haven’t let anyone down because you’re still here. The only thing your family would care about is you being all right. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I pr
omise you, there’s nothing in the world worse than that. Any business that’s failing is just a business, a building, a job. Losing that can be recovered from. You are irreplaceable.’
‘Thank you.’ His voice breaks and I can hear the thickness of tears welling up again. My heart constricts in my chest and I want nothing more than to hug this man I don’t even know.
‘None of us know how much we matter until it’s too late. No matter how bad you feel, you’re so important to so many people. One person’s life touches so many others.’
‘Do you know It’s a Wonderful Life?’
I feel myself sitting up a bit straighter because he obviously recognised the quote. It’s a Wonderful Life is not just a film to me. It was my mum’s favourite, so much so that she named me Georgia Bailey after it. ‘I would be seriously concerned for anyone who didn’t know It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s an amazing film.’
He makes a noise of agreement.
‘It’s kind of life-affirming,’ I say pointedly. ‘It really shows the importance of every life, no matter how insignificant we think we are, our little lives still make a big difference.’
He considers it for a moment. ‘You have no idea how much I needed to hear that tonight.’
We sit there in silence for a while, neither of us speaking, and I realise I’m holding the phone handset so tightly that the plastic must be in danger of cracking by now. It feels like a lifeline to him and I could sit here all night just listening to him breathe. His breath has got that shuddery hitch you get after a long cry, and I have never wanted to hug someone so badly in all my life.
At the end of the high street, the church bell dongs for midnight.
‘Every time a bell rings,’ he murmurs. ‘Did you hear that?’
It makes my heart pound harder. It’s what I say every time I hear a bell ring too because they make me think of my mum. I love that he knows the film so well because it means so much to me and not many people get that.
‘I heard something,’ I say, because I don’t know whether he’s asking if I heard it through the phone or if he realises I’m just down the road.
‘That was the Oakbarrow church telling us all it’s officially December.’
‘Christmas month,’ I say.
‘Don’t remind me. I can’t deal with Christmas this year.’
‘Why not?’
‘It makes me realise that another year has gone by and I’ve done nothing with my life. You’re supposed to be all happy happy, joy joy at Christmas and I’ve got nothing left in me to give.’
‘I wouldn’t mind betting that the only reason you’ve got nothing left is because you’re so busy looking after everyone else that you forget to take care of yourself,’ I say, because so many men are the same. He’s probably a guy who’s grown up thinking men must always be strong and never let their feelings show. It’s a toxic masculinity that’s dangerous to men’s mental health. It’s why suicide is the biggest killer of men under fifty. Men bottle things up inside and don’t let it out until it’s too late. I don’t know the exact figures off the top of my head, but I do know that a majority of One Light’s callers are male because of this exact reason.
‘My mum always says that.’
‘Mums are always right,’ I murmur, wishing mine was still here.
‘Sometimes I feel like I’m frightened of being alive.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘Me too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah,’ I say slowly, nodding even though he can’t see me. ‘No one’s ever hit the nail on the head like that before. That’s exactly how I feel too.’
‘I’ve always wanted to travel but I never have.’
‘Me neither. I’ve never told anyone this but my ultimate dream is to go backpacking around Europe,’ I say wondering what it is about him that makes him so easy to talk to.
‘Really?’ he says again. ‘I’d love to do that.’
‘I think I’m a bit old for it now, it’s kind of a “gap year” thing, isn’t it?’ I shake my head at myself. I’m too old for daydreams like this, I should’ve forgotten it years ago. ‘It’s just a dream anyway. I have responsibilities that I can’t just leave.’
‘Me too. I was going to travel after college, but family stuff happened and I couldn’t leave, then I was going off to uni but more family stuff came up, and it made more sense for me to get a job and stay here, so I’d been saving up for years to do one big trip somewhere, and then my dad died, and I bought the business, and now … well, I’m still here. I keep feeling like there has to be more to life than this.’
‘Me too,’ I say.
‘Wow, really? Sorry, I keep saying that, don’t I? I’ve never spoken to someone who knew that feeling before.’
‘Me neither. And there you go, I just keep repeating some variation of “me too” and “me neither”. It doesn’t make for the most exciting conversation in the world but I’ve never said this to anyone before.’
‘Me neither,’ he says, making us both laugh and my grip on the phone tightens, like if I hold it tight enough he’ll be able to feel me squeezing his hand through the handset.
‘This isn’t what I thought my life would be like,’ I admit. ‘And I know I can’t really complain because I’m so lucky compared to others, but I feel like I’m still waiting for my life to start.’
‘I think we might literally be the same person. I’m thirty-seven and I feel exactly the same. I’m too old to still be waiting for my life to begin and too young to be this jaded, but I don’t know what to do about it.’
So he’s only three years older than me. I couldn’t possibly know him, no matter how familiar his voice sounds. I can’t think of anyone around that age who could be in such a dark place and hiding it so well.
‘Me too,’ I whisper.
‘We grow up thinking life will be wonderful and amazing and exciting, and it’s just quite dull really, isn’t it? I keep thinking what if I die before anything wonderful or amazing or exciting happens to me?’ He gives a self-deprecating snort. ‘And yes, I know throwing yourself off a bridge isn’t exactly conducive to that.’
At least he hasn’t lost his sense of humour. He lets out a wobbly little giggle and I feel something like butterflies in my tummy. How can I possibly have butterflies over someone I don’t even know? Someone who phoned because he was about to jump off a bridge?
‘Okay, so … I should go, shouldn’t I?’ he says after a few moments silence.
‘You don’t have to. We can carry on talking.’ I kind of want him to stay on the line for my sake now. I love talking to him. There’s something about him that’s so easy to chat to and a familiarity that you’d only expect to feel with a friend.
I can hear the smile in his voice. ‘As tempting as that sounds, I think I should go home. I’m so cold that I might actually die from hypothermia and, thanks to you, I’ve realised I don’t want to die tonight.’
‘Or any other night, right?’
‘Nah. I’ll stick to killing myself only in daylight hours.’
‘I’m glad you can joke about it, but it’s not funny. You were really going to—’
‘I know,’ he whispers. ‘But I feel better already just from talking to you, getting it off my chest, feeling like I’m not alone.’
He pauses and I can almost sense how ashamed he feels. I want to tell him that there’s no reason to be, but I’m out of my depth and don’t know how to word it.
‘I can’t thank you enough for staying on the line with me. I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sure I’ve totally ruined your night.’
‘Oh god, not at all. I’ve loved every second of talking to you. It’s been a wonderful night.’
I can hear a smile in his voice. ‘You just sounded so normal, it made me forget everything that’s been in my head and just feel normal for a change. I can’t remember the last time I felt connected to anyone. As daft as that sounds in our modern world of technology and the internet and being connected all the time.�
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‘It doesn’t sound daft at all. It sounds exactly like what I was feeling too.’ I wonder how many more times he’s going to surprise me tonight. He seems to understand thoughts I’ve had but never put into words before. ‘I think it’s something that’s easy to forget sometimes. We get so caught up in social media and being as good as everyone else that we forget we don’t really “talk” anymore. And if you want to know about modern world, I’m on an old corded phone that’s screwed to the wall, rarely seen in Britain since the Seventies. David Attenborough should be doing a documentary about something so ancient.’
He laughs and I’m glad he got a kick out of that because there’s something about his laugh that I just want to keep listening to.
‘Thank you for reminding me what it feels like to be alive,’ he says.
‘I think you might have reminded me a little bit too.’
‘I keep thinking I know you. Your voice sounds so familiar,’ he says softly. ‘I don’t even know your name.’
My breath catches in my throat, but I think it’s probably best not to tell him that he sounds familiar too. If he is someone I could one day come across in real life, he’s not going to want to be reminded of this night, is he? People can be more open with a stranger. They can tell them things they wouldn’t tell a friend. If he thought we might run into each other somewhere, he probably wouldn’t have said half the things he said tonight. No matter what connection we have here, it has to end when we put down the phone. ‘I don’t know yours. And that’s the way it’s supposed to be. It’s often easier to talk to an anonymous stranger. Someone completely non-judgemental and impartial, who’s not involved in your life in any way at all. Like ships passing in the night, honking their horn at each other and continuing their journey.’
‘Consider your horn duly honked.’
It makes me laugh. ‘And yours too.’
‘I like that, you know?’
‘Horn honking?’
‘No, being anonymous. It makes it seem all mysterious and romantic, like the start of a great story. Well, and horn honking. Honking is a good word. People don’t honk enough these days.’
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