The Simple Things

by Bill Condon

  ‘Oh yes. I was sure you’d forgotten me.’

  ‘We always meant to come back before this. But Stephen came along, and John’s been busy with his work. And then I went back to teaching. Well, you know how it is. Time just gets away.’

  ‘It does. But we make time for those we care about. Don’t we?’

  Mum looks at her sandwich. It’s the same as me looking at carpet patterns, but not as interesting. Then she says …

  ‘I’m really sorry that we’ve been so neglectful, Lola. But the main thing is, we’re here now.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true.’ Aunty Lola’s face looks softer, happier. ‘And I’m glad of it, Rachael. Very glad … but it’s such a long trip for you.’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’ Dad gets away with talking with his mouth full, but I’m not allowed. ‘I was starting to think we’d never get here.’

  ‘I enjoyed the trip,’ Mum says. ‘I know someone else who did, too.’ She touches my hand. ‘Didn’t you, Stephen?’

  ‘It was pretty good. We played lots of games.’

  ‘Then I’m pleased.’ Aunty Lola wipes her nose. I don’t think there was anything yucky poking out. Probably just itchy. ‘But that doesn’t change the fact that it was a marathon effort to get here. And there was no reason for you to come.’

  ‘I think there was a very good reason,’ Mum says. ‘Your eightieth birthday’s coming up. That’s important.’

  ‘No it isn’t. I’ve had quite enough birthdays already.’

  I slurp lemonade from a long, tall glass. Mum tops up her cup with hot water. It’s a good time for me to check out the sandwiches. Most of the chicken ones are on the bottom of the pile.

  ‘Lola,’ Mum says.

  ‘Hmm?’

  ‘John and I were having a talk on the way up here … ’

  ‘And?’

  ‘We both thought that it would be a good idea if – would you like to tell her, John?’

  ‘No, no, you do the honours, Rache.’

  Aunty Lola taps a spoon against her cup. ‘Someone better tell me – and quickly. I can’t guarantee I’ll be around if you’re going to turn this into a mini-series. I’m old.’

  ‘Okay then,’ Mum says. ‘How would you feel about coming home with us when we leave? We’d love to look after you for a little while.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Just for a holiday.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But if you liked it there, we’d be more than happy if you stayed. For as long as you wanted. It’s warmer. Good for your arthritis. We’re close to the beach. There’s nothing better than strolling along the sand, looking at the surf.’

  Mum gives me her ‘help me out here’ look, so I do.

  ‘I let Blue run on the beach sometimes, Aunty Lola. You can come with us. You don’t have to go into the water if you don’t want to.’

  ‘Now there’s an invitation too good to pass up,’ Mum says. ‘There are all sorts of activities you could do; groups you could join. I’m sure you’d soon have lots of friends.’

  Aunty Lola holds a teacup to her lips, tilting it just enough so that she can drain the last of the tea. Then she stares into the empty cup, saying nothing.

  Dad chimes in, to help Mum out.

  ‘There’s no need for you to answer now, of course. Just think it over for a while. No pressure. But, like Rache says, you’d be welcome.’

  ‘I don’t have to think it over.’ Aunty Lola doesn’t look at Mum or Dad. ‘Thank you for the offer. But no thank you.’

  Mum doesn’t say anything. She looks sad. Aunty Lola nibbles at the edges of a sandwich, like a rabbit. The only noises I can hear are the squishy sounds of Dad chewing his food. And then there’s a burp. From me. Sometimes I can make myself burp. Other times they just jump out. All by themselves. This one’s a jumper. A noisy one.

  ‘Stephen.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Lola. What about just for a week or two? I promise you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘How can you promise that, Rachael? You don’t know what I’ll enjoy. The answer is no.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘This is my home. I’ve lived here all my life. I don’t intend leaving until I’m carried out.’

  ‘We only want to help you.’

  ‘The best way to help me is by leaving me in peace. I’d much prefer that.’

  ‘Molly told me you had a nasty fall and ended up in hospital.’

  ‘I tripped. It was nothing.’

  ‘Oh, right … Molly said it was to do with your blood pressure.’

  I stack the sandwiches on top of each other, to see how high they’ll go.

  ‘Rachael dear, Molly’s a lovely girl and I think the world of her but – what is that child up to?’

  ‘Be careful, Stephen.’

  ‘I am, Mum.’

  A sandwich slips off the table.

  ‘Lettuce and egg.’ Aunty Lola peers down at it. ‘I was looking forward to eating that. It was the last one, too.’

  Jason Delaney’s a real brain at my school. He reckons that when food hits the ground you have ten seconds to save it. After that it gets filled up with germs.

  I throw myself onto the floor.

  Aunty Lola curls her head under the table. ‘What on earth are you doing?’

  ‘Saving your sandwich.’

  ‘Forget about the sandwich, Stephen.’

  Mum probably doesn’t know about the ten-second rule.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum. Most of it landed on Dad’s shoe. So it’s easy to get. Except for the pieces in his shoelaces.’ I look up. ‘Hi, Dad.’

  ‘Hi, Steve.’

  With at least a second to spare, I jump to my feet. In my cupped hands is the fallen egg and lettuce sandwich. It doesn’t look quite as good as new. But I’m sure it has hardly any germs. To prove it I break off a piece and push it into my mouth.

  ‘Yum! It still tastes good, Aunty Lola. You should try it.’

  ‘Stephen.’ Mum puts a hand over her eyes. As if she’s ashamed. ‘Don’t you ever do that again.’

  ‘But there’s a ten-second rule.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘Jason Delaney says—’

  I stop talking when Mum gives me her special look, the one that shuts down all arguments. No one, no matter how big or strong, would ever dare go past that look.

  No one except Aunty Lola.

  She takes the sandwich from me and eats it.

  ‘You’re right, Stephen. It’s very tasty. Thank you for saving it for me.’

  ‘Glad you like it.’

  Dad grins. Mum rolls her eyes. I bite into another sandwich.

  ‘How come your TV is so little and doesn’t have colour, Aunty Lola?’

  ‘I have no need for television. It’s a waste of time. I watch the evening news. That’s as much as I can stand.’

  Huh? Who doesn’t like TV?

  ‘Have you got a computer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I use it?’

  ‘No, you may not.’

  ‘Aw.’

  ‘My computer is not a toy. And it’s always busy. I use it to research our family history.’

  ‘That sounds like fun.’

  ‘Fun?’

  It looks like she’s sniffing around the word. Like she’s trying to work out what it means.

  ‘I would hardly call it fun. It helps me remember the people that I knew. If I put them in my book, I keep them alive, in a way.’ She squints at me, maybe trying to work out what I’m thinking – which isn’t much. ‘You don’t understand, do you, Stephen?’

  ‘I think so … sort of.’

  ‘You’ll understand one day, when you get older. Anyway, as well as researching our recent family, I find out about the lives of our ancestors from a hundred years ago. Sometimes longer. And then I write it all down in my family tree book. It’s fascinating.’

  ‘Am I in your book?’

  ‘You are. So are your parents and your grandparents. And even their
grandparents.’

  ‘Do you put dogs in it?’

  ‘It’s a people book, not a dog book.’

  ‘Aw.’

  It’s not what she says that makes me feel bad, it’s the way she says it. Like she slams the words in my face. And now I feel her eyes digging into me. I try to think nice things about her in case she’s reading my mind. It isn’t easy.

  ‘What is your dog’s name? I’ve forgotten.’

  ‘Blue.’

  ‘Ah yes. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to have a dog featured in our history. If you send me a photo of Blue, I’ll make an exception just for you, and put her in my book.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course really. I wouldn’t have said it otherwise.’

  Maybe she’s not so bad.

  ‘One other thing – I’m sorry you can’t use my computer, but if you wish to write a letter I’ll give you a pen and paper.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Stephen. Please. I’m not even sure that “huh” is a proper word. You must try harder to speak English. Just what do you mean by “huh”?’

  ‘I don’t want to write a letter. I just want to play games on your computer. Don’t you?’

  ‘Certainly not. And neither should you. It’s nonsense. The same as that blogging business you talked about. I have two things to ask of you.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Try not to use “huh” again – that’s the first one.’

  ‘That’s going to be hard. I don’t know if I can, but I’ll try.’

  ‘And number two – fill your head with ideas. Pour a book into your brain.’

  ‘How can I do that?’

  ‘Read! It’s painless. You might even enjoy it.’

  ‘I read now and then. But not much. I like comics.’

  ‘That’s a start. The more you read, the more your brain will grow.’

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  ‘It’s a well-known fact. Albert Einstein was never without a book. Have you heard of him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘The next time you go to the library, look him up. You do go to the library, I hope?’

  ‘Alister likes going there. I go with him sometimes. They have a machine outside where you can get hot chocolate and chips.’

  ‘Walk straight past that. Go directly to the books. Paper ones. Borrow some. Make reading a habit.’

  ‘Okay … Can I read your family stuff?’

  ‘My stuff?’

  ‘The book about families.’

  ‘I haven’t shown my book to anyone. Besides, it would bore you.’

  ‘No it wouldn’t, Aunty Lola.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  At home we have ducted heating. It’s always set on 24 degrees. All Aunty Lola has is a one-bar, rusty heater. Everyone clusters around it like pieces of toast trying to get warm. But we’re still cold.

  ‘How about we buy you a new heater tomorrow, Lola?’ Mum says. ‘This one’s just about had it.’

  ‘If you want one, Rachael, go ahead. As for me, I’m happy to make do with what I have.’

  ‘Don’t you get cold at night?’

  ‘If I start to feel chilly, I go to bed. It’s no hardship. In fact, I might go now. It’s been a long day. You know where everything is, don’t you? The lights, the blankets?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well then, I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Okay, Lola.’

  For ages now, I’ve been practising some words in my head. Sometimes I do that when things are hard to say, like this is.

  ‘Do you want that hug that you didn’t get before, Aunty Lola?’

  I said the words! Out loud!

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Do you—’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know what you said. I just don’t understand it. I thought you didn’t like hugging.’

  ‘I don’t really. But Dad says sometimes it’s good to do the things you don’t like. It makes you a better person. And I want to be better.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And there’s another reason too – a really big one.’

  ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘You might die tonight and then I’d feel bad that I didn’t hug you.’

  Mum stares at me. ‘Stephen, that’s a terrible thing to say – even to think.’

  ‘But that’s what you say, Mum.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘Not about Aunty Lola. About Dad. You always hug him before he goes to work. And you kiss him, too. In case he gets killed in a car crash.’

  ‘That’s a little bit different.’

  ‘Is it? Aw.’

  ‘It’s all right, Rachael.’ Aunty Lola doesn’t look angry. ‘It’s a nice thought.’

  She crouches down and puts out her arms.

  ‘Don’t be all day. I can’t stay in this position forever, you know. I’m not an acrobat.’

  I lunge, wrapping my arms around her.

  One potato. Two potato. Three potato. Four potato. Five p— that should be long enough.

  ‘My, my. That was a hug and a half.’ Aunty Lola squints at me, long and hard. As if she suspects me of being up to some terrible mischief. As if she thinks no one would ever want to hug her, and really mean it. It makes me wish I’d meant it more.

  Before long it’s time for everyone to go to bed. Mum makes me wear two pairs of everything, and she gives me an extra blanket. I don’t feel cold any more.

  ‘Remember, Stephen, if you need us we’re just down the hallway.’

  ‘He won’t need us.’ Dad gives me a secret wink. ‘You’re tough. Aren’t you, champ?’

  I’m not really.

  ‘Yes, Dad.’

  Mum puts a finger to her lips and then dabs me on the nose.

  ‘Sleep tight.’

  Click, click.

  Nooo! The bedside lamp doesn’t work. I was going to leave it on till I went to sleep. Only for this first night, not always. I don’t worry about the dark when I sleep in my own room. Back home I’ve checked out all the shadows and murky corners. I know every sound and where it comes from. It’s safe. But all that changes when I go to someplace new. It doesn’t matter that Mum and Dad are close by. They’re still too far away if I need them in a hurry. I used to like it when Mum read me stories to help me get to sleep. She hasn’t done that for a long time now. Too old for stories. Sometimes I wish I wasn’t. Anyway, there’s nothing to be scared of. But I’m still not going to close my eyes, not tonight. I pull the blankets up around my chin and listen as the house squeaks and sways with the wind.

  One potato. Two potato …

  Early the next morning I go exploring with Dad. The grass in Aunty Lola’s backyard is way past my ankles. Anything might be hiding in it and I’d never know until it got me.

  ‘Are there snakes?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Steve. Too cold for them. But if there are any and they bite you, they’ll die.’

  ‘Very funny, Dad. Not.’

  Still chuckling to himself, he bends down to tie his shoelaces. I can see the back of his head.

  ‘Hey, Dad?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You know your bald patch?’

  ‘No. I have no idea what you mean.’

  ‘Yes you do.’ He’s just pretending he doesn’t know it’s there. ‘You’re more baldy than the last time I looked. It’s spreading. I reckon in a few years you won’t have any hair left.’

  ‘Thanks a lot, Steve. You’ve made my day.’

  ‘You can’t help it if you’re bald. It just means you’re old.’

  He stands again and looks at me, grinning. ‘If I go bald, that means you will, too, mate. It’s called heredity. Ha-ha!’

  Me, bald? No way.

  ‘Nice try, Dad. But you are so, so wrong.’

  In front of us is a rusty barrel.

  ‘Incinerator,’ Dad says. ‘You throw your junk in there and burn it.’

  Close by is a shed. It looks like it’s been there fo
r a hundred years, easy. I look through the window. It’s dark inside and I can’t see anything.

  ‘What’s in there?’

  ‘I think Lola uses it as some kind of office.’ Dad stands with me at the window, a hand on my shoulder. ‘She doesn’t like people going inside. Mum told me.’ He drops in close to my ear and whispers. ‘There’s a door in there – to another room. She always keeps it locked. No one goes into that room. Ever. Your mum remembers it being like that years ago, when she was about your age. Oh yeah, I’d like to know what she’s got inside.’

  ‘What do you think is in the secret room, Dad?’

  ‘Could be anything. Treasure. Dead bodies.’

  ‘No, really.’

  ‘I have no idea. But I know it must be big-time for her to keep it locked up for so long.’

  ‘Aunty Lola might tell me about it if I ask her.’

  ‘Possibly. Or she might snaffle you up and push you in the room and then we’ll never see you again.’

  ‘You have to be serious, Dad.’

  ‘Why?’ He grins and gives me a pretend knockout punch on the jaw. Dad likes doing that. I like it, too.

  We walk over to another shed. It’s a lot smaller and tall and narrow.

  ‘Second toilet,’ Dad tells me.

  ‘Why’s it outside?’

  ‘Years ago most people used to have an outside loo, just like this, Steve. You don’t push a button to flush, you pull a chain.’

  ‘Can I have a go?’

  ‘Sure. But when you get in there, watch out for vampire rats.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Vampire rats. Sometimes they live in backyard toilets. If they’re hungry, they might try to eat you. Just thought I’d mention it.’

  I’m used to his corny jokes so I don’t groan.

  ‘Dad. For a start, there are no vampires. That’s only in the movies. And I’ve never heard of vampire rats. But even if that’s a real name, they don’t eat people.’

  ‘You’re absolutely sure?’

  I nod.

  ‘You don’t think it’s in any way possible that there’s a rare species of rat with long pointy teeth?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Huge hungry rats that hide in toilets and jump out and eat people? Especially boys.’