The Other Son (Christmas Bonus): A short-story length sequel for The Other Son

by Nick Alexander

  The Other Son - Christmas Special

  Dear Readers.

  This is a little sequel to The Other Son, a little gift (short-story length - 40 printed pages) for all those readers who have been begging to know what happens next!

  It will be offered for free for 5 days every quarter (the maximum permitted by Amazon), so you don’t need to pay for it (unless you simply can’t wait that long).

  Above all, please, PLEASE, DO NOT READ THIS if you haven’t read The Other Son yet. IT CONTAINS SPOILERS.

  Love to all. Nick.

  South of France, 23rd November.

  Matt cups his hands around his mug of tea and looks out at the garden. It’s almost eleven in the morning, but the grass is still white, still crisp with frost. The sky, today, is a strange, pinkish grey colour. Though the weather forecast says otherwise, it looks, Matt thinks, like snow. He always looks forward to the first flakes fluttering down, but knows too, that he’ll soon come to see the stuff as a pain in the proverbial. He’ll soon be praying for the snow-plough to pass.

  On the sofa, in front of the flickering stove, Jarvis is sleeping, snoring gently. From the bedroom, Matt can hear the vague murmur of Bruno’s telephone conversation. He doesn’t know who he is talking to, but it’s most likely Matt’s own mother. Since Alice travelled back to England they have remained in almost constant contact. He wonders, frequently, what she and Bruno find to talk about. He hopes it’s not him.

  He sips his tea and then, at the sound of the bedroom door, turns back to face the room.

  “I’m sure it’s gonna snow today,” he says as Bruno enters and crosses towards him pausing to stroke Jarvis en-route.

  “So early?” Bruno asks. “It’s not even December.”

  “I can feel it in the air. We should get the snow tyres on the car, because even if it doesn’t happen today, it’s going to be soon, I reckon.”

  Bruno flops Jarvis’ long ears over his eyes, then joins Matt at the window. “It does look kinda weird out there,” he concedes.

  “So who was that on the phone?” Matt asks. “Mum again?”

  “Ah!” Bruno says with a grin. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  “Is she OK? You two talk longer each time.”

  “It wasn’t Alice, actually,” Bruno says, grinning cutely.

  “Oh.”

  “Go on. Try again.”

  Matt shrugs. “Your mother? Someone back in Canada. Cindy? Sheryl? I don’t know.”

  Bruno shakes his head. “Nope,” he says. “I’ll give you a clue. It was someone I’ve never spoken to in my life.”

  “Oh,” Matt says, frowning. “Just tell me,” he adds, sounding vaguely irritated. Bruno’s frequent guessing games have this effect on him.

  “That,” Bruno says theatrically, “was Joanna.”

  “Joanna,” Matt replies flatly.

  “Yes, Joanna.”

  “And who might Joanna be?”

  “Joanna who used to go by the name of... Joe… perhaps?” Bruno says, mockingly raising one eyebrow.

  “Joe? Not the Joe?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You found her?”

  “I found her.”

  “Jesus! Tell me.”

  “She’s cool. She lives in Brighton. In England. On the south coast, not far from London.”

  “Yeah, I know where Brighton is. And?”

  “She works in some women’s refuge. Well, worked. They just closed it because of government cutbacks. She’s cool. I liked her.”

  Matt frowns and twists his mouth. “Hum. Joanna. You said Joanna. But Mum said…”

  “Josephine. Yeah. She got her name wrong.”

  “Really? That sounds kind of unlikely. Her getting her best friend’s name wrong.”

  Bruno rolls his eyes. “Listen, Dude. She’s sixty-nine, she grew up in Moseley. She went to school with Alice Buckley. She was devastated – her own words,” Bruno raises a finger, “when Alice married Ken Hodgetts. And she hasn’t heard from her since. So I’d say that as unlikely as it may be, she got the name wrong, eh?”

  Matt nods and shrugs at the same time. “OK,” he says, doubtfully. “I suppose she must have.”

  “I think she just went by Joe back then,” Bruno explains. “And it’s been forty years, after all. More than forty years.”

  “And she’s nice, you say? You could tell?”

  Bruno wrinkles his brow and nods with conviction. “Really! She’s über-cool. In fact considerably cooler than your ma, if I dare say so.”

  “That’ll be the Brighton effect.”

  “How so?”

  Matt snorts. “Oh, it’s just a very funky kind of town. Sort of Britain’s San Francisco. Well, mini San-Francisco, anyway.”

  “Really? Well, she’s sharp, funny, witty. Quite sarcastic, actually. But fun, you know?”

  “And still working, you say?”

  “Until last month. She’s retired now, though. And not liking it one bit.”

  “And she’s… you know… gay?”

  “Oh yeah. Totally. She was with some woman – Mary, I think she said – for twenty years.”

  “But not anymore.”

  “No. I didn’t ask why.”

  “Wow!” Matt exclaims. “How did you find her, though? I thought we’d checked every lead back in the summer.”

  “Every lead for every Josephine Banks, yes.”

  “God, of course. If Mum really did get the name wrong.”

  “Um, she did, Hon. I started googling for other stuff,” Bruno explains. “Joe Banks lesbian. Joe Banks women’s rights. Stuff like that. Just in case she was, you know, active in the community, or famous or something.”

  “That was a long shot.”

  “I know. But it worked. Thanks to Mister Google. He suggested I might mean ‘Joanna’ rather than ‘Josephine.’”

  “That’s crazy. And when you say she was working in a refuge. That’s not, you know, a refuge for battered wives, is it?”

  Bruno raises his eyebrows and nods slowly. “Yeah. That’s exactly what it is. Mad, huh?”

  “God, Mum might have turned up there. If she’d lived down south. In a parallel universe kind of way.”

  “I know. Imagine that.”

  “And is she interested in talking to Mum still?”

  “Yeah. I think so. I mean, it’s been a long time, but… sure. She seemed up for it. She said it would be great to catch up.”

  Matt shakes his head. “Imagine trying to catch up after forty years. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “No,” Bruno agrees. “But I doubt Joe will be lost for words. She’s one pretty talkative dame.”

  “Wow,” Matt says again, then, “Look, I was about to walk the dog, so do you want to come, or are you going to phone Mum to let her know you found her long lost buddy?”

  “Uh-uh,” Bruno says, shaking his head. “I’ll come. I need to get out. Plus, we need to think about how we do this.”

  “How?”

  “Yeah. I was thinking. What with Christmas coming and all.”

  “Christmas?”

  Bruno smiles wryly. “I was just thinking. I mean, what if we invited them both,” he says. “For Christmas. As a surprise. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

  “Here?” Matt shakes his head bemusedly. “Don’t be daft. You’ll never get her to travel all the way down here to meet someone she hasn’t seen for forty years.”

  “She might,” Bruno says. “She’s very young at heart, and, as far as I can tell, very bored too. I really think she’d go
for it.”

  Luton Airport - 23rd December

  As she reaches the ticket barriers at Luton Parkway, Alice spots the shuttle bus already waiting outside. She trots, dragging her heavy wheeled suitcase behind her, across the hall and on through the sliding doors to the waiting bus; which then – as always if one runs – remains immobile for a further ten minutes.

  She stares out through the grubby bus window which judders and vibrates erratically as the diesel engine catches, then threatens to stall, then picks up again repeatedly. She watches as others, equally panicked by the shuttle-bus’ air of imminent departure, fumble for tickets, then barge their way across the forecourt, and then as a final couple of Nordic looking youngsters with colourful backpacks saunter up as if the world owes them a favour, which it evidently does: the bus driver waits for them to finish their cigarettes, stub them out and climb aboard before he pulls sharply away.

  As they negotiate the roads and roundabouts from station to airport, she returns to thinking about her five-week stay at Tim’s. With the exception of a tooth-numbingly awful meeting with Ken and a brief argument with Dot, her visit has been an almost unqualified success.

  Tim, whose various wheelings and dealings have apparently gone well – something to do with the EU saving Greece, and Russia bombing Syria – was as relaxed as Alice has ever seen him. As for Natalya, Alice felt as if she was meeting her for the first time, such has their relationship changed since Alice left Ken. Alice wonders if perhaps Natalya’s problem was with Ken, not her, all along. Or perhaps Alice herself really has changed. Perhaps leaving Ken has made her easier to be with. She certainly feels more relaxed, more giving, more positive. In fact she suspects that positivity is like a muscle – a muscle she hadn’t used in years. It feels like the more she uses it, the easier it gets.

  Tim had been suspicious at first, she had seen that clearly. He kept twitching one eyebrow whenever she said anything nice, anytime she enjoyed her food or complemented them on the children’s behaviour. But after a few days he had visibly relaxed. After a few days, he had stopped waiting for the punchline to arrive, stopped bracing himself for the killer remark that would reveal it had all been no more than an attempt at manipulation or sarcasm. Had she really been that tough to be around? Perhaps she had.

  The bus lurches into a bay and shudders to a halt. The driver doesn’t seem to “do” gentle, smooth, or progressive. His movements seem to be very much on or off, left or right.

  Alice waits. She lets the other passengers fight to get off first, then steps from the bus. She has almost two hours. She’ll be fine.

  She drags her wheeled suitcase to the winding queue for check-in then spends twenty minutes people-watching as she edges forwards. She sees a girl with green hair, and good looking men in sharp suits. She sees two such men holding hands and thinks of Matt and Bruno. She spots a man her age with tears in his eyes and wonders if he’s saying goodbye or leaving.

  Her suitcase swapped for a boarding card, she makes her way through security where she gets patted-down like a terrorist, then on past border control where a dog sniffles her like a potential drug dealer.

  She finds herself in a large shopping-mall-like departure area where she buys bars of Fruit and Nut for Matt, then in a tatty, crowded departure lounge reserved for her specific (supposedly) low-cost flight to Marseille.

  Despite her successful visit to England, she’s happy to be returning to France, she realises. Though every memory of this trip home (with the exception of Ken) has been a happy one, she’s been missing the calm – craving some peace and quiet. She had forgotten just how rowdy two young boys could be. And she’d forgotten how uncomfortable it is being permanently in someone else’s space.

  She looks at a woman opposite with two similarly aged boys. They are quietly playing games on individual iPads. They are well dressed and polite. The boy is even wearing a tie. Compared to Boris and Alex they almost look drugged. They must, she decides, be French. French children always seem to be quiet and well behaved, often verging on subdued. She wonders why that is.

  The mother, a pretty, skinny brunette, leans over and brushes the little boy’s hair from his eyes. “Ça va, cheri?” she asks.

  “Oui, Maman,” he says in a cutesey cartoon voice.

  Encouraged, Alice starts to scan the room, attempting to guess everyone’s nationalities. It’s pretty easy, she decides. Even easier when there’s no-one to tell her if she gets it wrong.

  When she catches the eye of a woman seated opposite, some way down towards the departure gate, she physically jumps before looking quickly away.

  She fiddles with her boarding card. She retrieves her passport from her handbag and folds the boarding card and places it inside before returning them to her bag. Finally, she decides she can glance back again, but the woman is still staring at her, looking no longer shocked, but amused.

  Alice looks away again, and is just processing a strange sensation of familiarity associated with the woman’s smile when she sees, from the corner of her eye, that the woman is approaching her.

  She swallows hard, then turns to face her assailant.

  “Alice?” the woman says. “Jesus, is that you?”

  Alice’s mouth falls open. She moves her lips to speak, but not a word comes out.

  “God, they didn’t say you’d be on the same flight,” she says. “It’s me, love. It’s Joe.”

  “It can’t be,” Alice breathes.

  “It can,” Joe laughs, crouching down in front of her with surprising agility. “God, are you OK, love? You’ve gone as pale as a pelican.”

  “I’m… yes… just give me a minute,” Alice says. “I just need to… you know…”

  “Faint? Scream? Breathe?”

  Alice laughs weakly. She’s in a state of shock. She can feel perspiration sprouting on her forehead. She can hear her heartbeat in her ears. And after all, there’s plenty to be shocked about.

  Firstly Joe simply being here in front of her. It’s been so long, after all. And then Joe looking so old. She knows that it’s stupid, but in her mind’s eye, Joe had remained in stasis since she was eighteen years old. She’s cut her hair short, Alice thinks. She’s gone grey. She has wrinkles. But the eyes are the same. And the smile is the same. And that constance is almost as much of a shock as the rest.

  Joe is by now organising a seat swap with the young man beside Alice. Happy to jump half of the queue he quickly accepts and heads off, wheeling his small suitcase behind him.

  “So, Alice!” Joe says, sitting down. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Alice laughs properly now, and the laughter does her good.

  “I know,” Joe says. “We’re a couple of old ladies now. Who thought that would ever happen?”

  “But how?” Alice asks, finally summoning the wherewithal required to actually speak. “How, I mean, why are you here?”

  “The boys invited me for Christmas,” Joe explains. “I think they thought it would be a nice surprise for you. It is, isn’t it? A nice surprise?”

  Alice clears her throat. “I thought I was having a heart attack for a minute there,” she says. “But yes, of course it is.” She swallows with difficulty, then turns to look at Joe again. Now she’s seated right next to her, it’s actually harder to look at her properly.

  “You’re noticing how old and wrinkly I am,” Joe says. “It’s too much sun, I’m afraid. I’m a sun addict.”

  “I wasn’t actually,” Alice says. “I was trying to imagine how old I must look to you.”

  “You look fine to me,” Joe says. “You just look like someone I’ve waited my whole life to bump into again.”

  The two women stare into each other’s eyes in silence for a moment and then Alice looks away. She fiddles with a bracelet, and taps the toe of one shoe against the other.

  “It is a good surprise, isn’t it?” Joe asks again. “You’re not upset with me or something? Because I can turn around and go home if you want.”

  “No!”
Alice exclaims. “Don’t be daft. I’m just, you know, a bit overwrought.”

  “I’ve had longer to get used to the idea, I suppose,” Joe says doubtfully. “So, how have you been, Alice?”

  Alice tries to think where to start, but everything she can think of saying seems too personal or too superficial for the moment at hand.

  Just at that moment, the first boarding call comes over the tannoy system, and the people around them jump to their feet and start jostling for position. Alice is grateful for the interruption. She needs time to gather her thoughts.

  It’s not until they reach the aircraft that Alice and Joe realise that they have allocated seating which, by bad luck, places them on opposite sides of the plane.

  “If all the seats are allocated, then why did everyone fight to get on first?” Joe feistily asks the air-hostess.

  Tracey – at least that’s what it says on her name-tag – simply shrugs her shoulders in reply. However, in less time than Alice needs to stow her bag and locate both halves of her seatbelt, Joe has organised another seat swap.

  “That’s better,” she says, sliding in beside Alice. “Now you have three hours to tell me what you’ve been up to for the last forty three years.”

  “Two,” Alice says. “It’s two hours, not three.”

  “No, it’s three, I think. We arrive at eight something.”

  “France is one hour ahead,” Alice explains.

  “Hum,” Joe says, fidgeting from side to side and then fastening her seatbelt. “You can just give me the last thirty years then. I’ll guess the first bit.”

  Alice laughs and shakes her head. She turns to peer out of the side window at the lights flickering across the tarmac, then looks back and says, “I honestly don’t know where to start.”

  “OK, then I’ll go first,” Joe says. “Let’s see… I got taken on as an apprentice at Stelrad. You might remember them. They made radiators once upon a time. Before Thatcher closed everything down, that is. I learned all about electrics and welding and stuff like that. They were unusual choices for a girl, but I did OK. I was quite good at it.