by Katey Lovell
‘But what do I do in the meantime?’
‘You eat chocolate and lots of it.’
‘Now you’re talking my language,’ she replied, forcing a smile. The dead fish had thrown her more than she wanted to admit. ‘Chocolate might be the answer.’
He handed Clara a caramel keg. She gladly accepted.
‘There’s no might about it,’ Joe said emphatically. ‘What you need is chocolate and friendship, and I’m here to offer both, if you’ll accept.’
Clara’s chest constricted at his kind words, and for a moment she thought she might start to cry. The emptiness of the club, the fortune-telling fish, the overwhelming exhaustion – it was all a bit much. And that was without attempting to decipher what that spark of energy between her and Joe might be trying to tell her.
Instead she took a deep breath, oxygen rushing to her brain as she inhaled, and that, combined with the chocolate and the promise of Joe’s friendship, was enough to make everything bearable.
‘Thank you,’ she said finally, breaking the silence. ‘I do.’
Joe
Saturday, December 9th 2017
There was a distinct smell to the place; a lingering whiff of bleach that clung to the air, mingled with the stench of boiled cabbage and old age. It was reminiscent of hospitals, actually, and made Joe’s head spin.
The residential home itself was inoffensive – the old, stone-fronted house had its own private grounds, and although the interior décor wasn’t to Joe’s taste (dark regency shades and hard settees that didn’t look at all comfortable) it was clean and warm and had a nice overall feel.
‘Come in, come in,’ said the cheery care assistant, guiding the young people into the community room. It was a large space with a polished floor, warranting a more ostentatious presentation than the few paltry carols they’d been practising at The Club on the Corner. ‘We’ve been looking forward to this. It’s all Joanie’s been talking about, having you lot come.’
‘You hear that?’ Deirdre said, ushering the last reluctant stragglers in through the door. Shannon had her coat pulled up at the front so it covered her nose, and Joe knew she’d clocked the unusual aroma of the Autumn Days Rest House. It was hard to miss, to be honest. ‘You might not think you’re doing much by turning up here and singing a few Christmas tunes, but for some of these folk it’s the highlight of their day. Hard to believe, I know,’ she added with a chuckle.
‘We’ll be coming to see you in here soon, Deirdre,’ Tariq joked, his thick Manchester accent laced with laughter. His laughter didn’t last long. The look she gave him was enough to curdle milk and Tariq acted suitably admonished as he mumbled his apology.
‘I can’t imagine Deirdre in a rest home,’ Joe said tactfully, even though he was amused by Deirdre’s insistence that she was in her prime. ‘She’s too stubborn, for one thing, and too independent, for another. Anyway, she’s far too young.’
Deirdre nodded her approval, ‘Exactly. I’m a spring chicken. My autumn days are a long way off, thank you very much.’
Joe didn’t point out that however much she said she was coping, the discomfort of each step was showing on her face. Then there were the wrinkles around her eyes, the grooves far more pronounced now than they’d been when Joe himself had been a member at the club. Deirdre wasn’t that old in the great scheme of things – probably only ten years older than his mum – but she wasn’t young either. The finish line of retirement was within her sights, not that she’d be likely to give up The Club on the Corner any time soon. It meant too much to her.
‘They are,’ he said kindly, holding the door to the community room open for her. ‘You’re going to outlive the lot of us.’
‘Probably,’ she replied amiably. ‘I put it down to having a nightcap. I swear a little snifter knocks me out and ensures I get a decent night’s sleep. Then I’m raring to go the next day, not sat on my arse like this lot, staring at a TV screen.’
‘You watch all the soaps religiously,’ Clara laughed. ‘If you miss even one episode you get antsy and restless.’ She turned to Joe, who was telling Tiffany to remove her gum before the performance started. ‘Just be glad you weren’t volunteering earlier this year. There was a funeral on Corrie and she forgot to tape it. You’d have thought she was missing out on paying her respects to one of her oldest friends, the way she went on about it.’
‘She was one of my favourite characters,’ Deirdre sniffed. ‘And she’d been in it so long, it felt a bit like losing a friend. You can make fun all you like, but I don’t have a family of my own, not even nieces or nephews. Other than the kids that come through the club, they’re the closest thing I’ve got to someone to worry about. I know people think I’m foolish investing my time in fictional characters, but I couldn’t give a monkey’s. Those programmes make me happy.’
‘And that’s what matters,’ Joe replied, directing a look of warning at Clara. There was a sharpness to Deirdre’s tone, which probably signified nothing more than the hectic schedule in the run-up to Christmas combined with the stress of running the club on a shoestring. Nevertheless, it made Joe uncomfortable. Deirdre looked worn out of late. ‘You work hard, so deserve to relax when you get home. How you choose to do that is up to you.’
‘I was only joking,’ Clara said, part apology and part on the defensive. She’d lengthened her small frame by a good two inches, her back straighter, as though she was a puppet being pulled taut.
‘I know, love. I know.’ Deirdre sank into the chair provided by a matronly member of staff at the care home, the relief at taking the weight off her legs apparent from the happy sigh that escaped her lips. ‘Come on, then, which of you two is taking charge and getting the carols started? And make sure the kids are smiling. These oldies look bloody miserable,’ Deirdre boomed. ‘They could do with cheering up.’
‘They’re not the most enthusiastic audience,’ Joe agreed, but his voice was more subdued. ‘Although, how anyone can fail to be entertained by this lot is beyond me. I’m sure Ted will have them in the palm of his hand when he starts his acoustic rendition of “Silent Night”.’
The residents were slumped in their chairs, crocheted blankets tucked tightly around their knees, their lips puckered inwardly.
‘And if not, there are always Tariq’s jokes to fall back on,’ Clara suggested, referring to the plan for each young person to give a resident one of the carefully crafted crackers at the end of the evening.
‘We’ll have to make sure we get out quick, before they read them,’ Joe said.
‘Although this lot probably wouldn’t be able to read a thing anyway,’ Deirdre interjected, her tone pithy. ‘Not without their reading glasses.’
Joe didn’t mention the wire-rimmed glasses slipping once again down the sharp slope of Deirdre’s nose. Instead, he strode into the space that had been sectioned off for the performance, introduced the club, and counted in the first carol, ‘Once in Royal David’s City’.
***
All was going well. The renditions of the first three songs on their ‘set list’ had caused a stir – at least as much of a stir as the Autumn Days crowd could muster – with one game lady, who Joe presumed was the aforementioned Joanie, swaying with arms aloft as she sang along.
‘Joe.’
The hissing of his name was almost drowned out by the choir of the youth club members, who were practically shouting out the chorus of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, but then he heard it again, probably not loud enough for anyone else to pick up on, but noticeable to him.
A panic-stricken Phoebe was gesturing to him from within the huddle of youths. It was as Joe made his way into the centre of the group that he noticed the blood streaming from his sister’s nose. Digging into his pocket for a tissue he hoped was clean, he passed it along the line and the blood seeped into the tissue as Simone pinched the bridge of her nose.
She’d not had a nosebleed for years, although she’d suffered badly with them when she was small. Joe had become adept at dealing
with them when Simone was a toddler, teaching her how to lean forward and breathe through her mouth whilst clamping her thumb and forefinger around her nose to stem the flow. He’d not liked blood even then, but he’d loved his little sister so much that he’d been able to push his unease to one side. Since the car crash it had become a genuine cause of anxiety.
Joe gulped the air as a lightheadedness took over. He hated the disorientated feeling, as though his own blood was draining from his head and pooling in his feet, fixing him helplessly to the spot.
The singing carried on around him, although it sounded further away to Joe’s ears, and he wondered if he was actually swaying or if the giddy sensation was tied in to his fear. His vision blurred and it was only when a warm hand gripped his wrist that he realised how untethered he felt.
Clara – soft-focus, head tilted in concern – steadied him; her muffled voice asking if he was okay.
Joe tried to nod, although wasn’t sure he succeeded. He wasn’t sure of much. His body had forgotten how to stand. He was leaden yet weightless, floating yet rooted.
‘It’s Simone,’ he mumbled, his voice lost to the airless room. ‘Nosebleed.’
‘It’s stopped. It wasn’t a big one, and she’s fine. Look.’
Clara gently spun Joe to face his sister again, and as Simone came into his eye line Joe could see Simone was singing along with her friends, every ounce of her creative body loving the moment.
His head defuzzed, everything clearer with the knowledge that things were back to normal. Simone was fine, he was fine, everything was fine. Clara’s hand on his arm suddenly felt unnecessary and unnatural.
‘Oh,’ he said, overcome with embarrassment. ‘Yeah. Of course she is.’
‘And you’re sure you’re alright?’ Clara probed. ‘You looked on the verge of passing out. You frightened me.’
Joe looked at her more closely. Two vertical lines creased between her eyebrows. Questioning. Wondering.
‘I’m not good with blood.’
‘That’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ Clara replied, massaging her hand against his arm. The wool of his jumper spread the motion until he was aware of the life pulsing through his veins.
‘I’m not ashamed. I’ve nothing to hide,’ he said, but it wasn’t how he felt. He felt helpless and he wished he could run, away from the cheery singing, the weird-smelling building, Clara.
He might be saying he had nothing to hide, but that wasn’t the truth. There were parts of him he was keeping buried, words he wanted to say but couldn’t formulate. Moments from his history that weren’t easy to relive – the ones he replayed to himself in the desperate early hours as he lay awake tossing and turning, praying for peace.
‘I was trying to be nice,’ Clara said, retracting her hand as though she’d been burned. Perhaps his voice had been a touch snippier than he’d intended.
The singing continued around them, as Joe turned on his heels. He noticed Deirdre watching, but that didn’t stop him heading for the sanctuary of the hallway.
The dizziness returned, the piercing lights burning his eyes and his brain, so he fumbled for the light switch, plunging the hallway into darkness as he sank onto the bottom step of the stairs.
For a moment he was sure he could feel Michelle there with him. Her long, flyaway hair tickling his cheeks, a hint of her laughter wrapping him in an embrace … But it was impossible. She was gone, dead long ago, and he was very much alive. The guilt consumed him whole, as it so often did. Why had he survived when she hadn’t? There was no rhyme, no reason.
‘Rejoice, Rejoice, Emmanuel …’ The voices of the young people were louder now, and a glow of light seeped into the hallway from the gap between the doorframe and the door. The uplifting melody brought him back to the present, along with the sight of Clara, who had flicked on the light.
Joe blinked as his eyes adjusted.
‘You didn’t have to follow me,’ he said.
‘I needed to make sure you were okay.’
‘I was thinking, that’s all.’
‘Anything you want to talk about?’
‘Do you ever feel as though the past is holding you back? Stopping you from making the most of the present?’
‘Everyone feels like that at one point or other in their lives. It’s human nature.’
Joe’s eyes met Clara’s, and the tears brimming over her lower lids told him she knew exactly what he meant.
‘It’s this time of year … it’s so difficult. It doesn’t feel right to celebrate.’
‘Because of Michelle?’ Clara’s voice was soft.
He nodded. ‘That’s a big part of it.’
‘She loved you, Joe. Michelle loved you. Whatever you think or feel, she wouldn’t want you to be miserable, especially after all this time.’
The words were simple and rational. He could live in the past, determined to allow every joyous element of Christmas to be blighted or he could choose to be free from the painful memories of Decembers past.
Did he really want to carry the weight, the pain, with him for the rest of his life? Joe knew the answer. He didn’t.
‘You’re right.’
‘I know I am. I’m always right.’
He smiled at her sass. ‘And you’re cocky. I’d love to be as gutsy as you.’
‘I’m not gutsy. Not all the time, anyway.’
Her smile was flimsy.
He raised his eyebrows in a question, wondering if her comment related to her earlier tears. Maybe she was missing Dean. He might be an arse in a crap coat who’d cheated on her, but he was also her ex-fiancé. They’d had a future together all mapped out. Their situations weren’t that different at the core.
‘I’ll tell you about it one day,’ she promised. ‘But for now we’d better get back to the kids. They’ll be giving those crackers out to the residents.’
‘We’ll need to prepare for a quick escape before they get to Tariq’s jokes.’
‘Not sure Deirdre’s got much of a rush in her today. We’ll have to hope they save them for Christmas Day instead,’ she smiled.
Clara disappeared into the function room and Joe was alone once more. He took a deep breath, smiled and allowed himself to believe that moving forward was not just a possibility, it was a reality. His reality.
As he followed Clara’s footsteps, Joe thought that maybe – just maybe – the future could be bright after all.
Clara
Sunday, December 10th 2017
‘What a day.’
‘Oh, it’s not been so bad,’ Clara said cheerfully. She’d enjoyed the evening session at the club, especially as miserable weather had meant it was quieter than normal for a weekend. It had given her and Joe a chance to talk about what they needed to finalise for the presentation, although the serious conversation they’d shared in the hallway at the residential home had been left firmly in the past.
Deirdre did look tired, though. The drooping bags that sagged under her eyes were dark, and Clara noticed she was hunched over her stick.
‘I swear my back’s splitting in two.’ Deirdre pushed her shoulders back and stomach forward in a stretch. ‘I don’t think I’m going to hang about tonight. A couple of Paracetamol and a medicinal brandy will work wonders, I’m sure.’
‘You do too much,’ Joe said, eyebrows raised into judgemental arches. ‘There’s no shame in knowing when to slow down.’
‘Agreed. Go home and put your feet up or you’ll be no good to anyone tomorrow.’ Clara was all but shooing Deirdre out of the door, and for once it wasn’t taking much persuading to get Deirdre off the premises.
‘Make sure you set the alarm before locking up,’ Deirdre reminded. Clara had never forgotten to in all the years she’d worked at The Club on the Corner and she’d done her fair share of being last out of the door, but Deirdre was especially cautious following an attempted break-in back in the summer. Clara had tried to make light of it at the time – after all, any burglars would be sorely disappointed by the lack of cash,
gadgets or other items of value on the premises. Unless they were on the lookout for well-used sports equipment or board games with half the pieces missing, they’d be leaving empty-handed. Deirdre had found it harder to laugh it off.
‘I will,’ Clara promised. ‘Double-locked, as usual. Fort Knox has nothing on this place.’
‘Stop fretting,’ Joe called, as Deirdre collected her coat from the hallway, ‘this place will be secure. Promise. It’ll be as safe as if it had overnight security guards on the premises.’
‘And mop that patch near the stage where Ted spilt that can of Sprite. He did say he’d cleaned it up, but I bet he’s not done a thorough job. Teenage boys …’
‘Yes!’ Clara exclaimed with frustration. ‘We’re on it, or rather we would be if we weren’t having this conversation with you,’ she added, the sarcasm laid on thick.
‘Alright, alright, keep your hair on. I’m gone. Hope you get everything done that you need to ready for the presentation. See you tomorrow, Clara. See you tomorrow, Joe.’
The two let out sighs of relief as the door slammed shut behind Deirdre.
‘I thought she’d never leave.’
Clara bent down, dustpan in one hand, brush in the other, and swept up a pile of crisp crumbs. You’d think it had been feeding time at the zoo.
‘She doesn’t know how to rest, that’s the problem. Her mind’s hyperactive, but her body’s ageing.’
Joe rubbed the table top, his hand moving the blue and white cloth in a circular motion across the surface. He increased his force to try to budge the stubborn streak of silver nail varnish that glittered against the dull brown surface.
Shannon had brought her supplies and set up a salon to rival Manchester’s top nail bars. It was a surprise the kids weren’t high as kites from the fumes, although going on the silliness – which Deirdre had passed off as festive high spirits – Clara was convinced they were giddier than usual. Shannon had even given Ted a layer of polish – a very neutral shade of taupe that was hardly noticeable – insisting all the top male musicians were androgynous, and that Ted’s middle-of-the-road haircut and lack of guy-liner was going to hold him back in his quest for international stardom. She’d wanted to get her hands on Joe’s nails too, but he’d been adamant – not to be mistaken with Adam Ant, Joe’s style was decidedly more mainstream than the eighties icon – Shannon’s nail varnish was going nowhere near his fingernails.