From Something Old

by Alexander, Nick

  On hanging up, I poured a glass of wine to calm my nerves and thought about my phone call with Kerry. I reran the conversation in my head – hearing how I’d sounded like I had an adolescent crush on Joe – and I wondered if what I was feeling was real. And then I thought about what Kerry had said. Because her final attempt at persuading me had really hit the spot. ‘He’s probably alone and feeling miserable as well,’ she’d said. ‘Don’t be so bloody selfish. Call him.’

  Eventually, I poured a second glass of wine and then, muttering ‘Oh, what the hell,’ I reached for my phone. Joe answered immediately. ‘Heather,’ he said simply.

  ‘Hi, Joe,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘I just thought I’d check in on you – see how you’re doing?’

  ‘Um, I’m good,’ he said. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ He sounded a little slurry, and I suspected he was already drunk.

  ‘So, what have you got planned for tonight?’ I asked. ‘You out painting the town, or what?’

  But Joe’s life was clearly not my own. He had actual friends to hang out with – of course he did. ‘You can join us if you want,’ he said, rather unconvincingly, I thought. ‘But we’re only going to The Gate.’

  ‘Nah, you’re all right,’ I said. ‘New Year’s Eve isn’t really my thing. I generally just watch a film and eat chocolate. I just wanted to check you’re OK.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Joe said. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You have a lovely evening with your friends then, OK? And I’ll talk to you in 2019!’

  ‘Sure,’ Joe said. ‘You too. I mean, have a lovely evening with your chocolate.’

  Outside, it had started to rain heavily. At least I wasn’t out in that, I told myself.

  I heated some leftover lasagne I’d frozen and ate it in front of a saved episode of Doctor Who. I watched Terry and June and Absolutely Fabulous: The Movie, neither of which managed to make me laugh. I watched Jools’ Annual Hootenanny, and by the time midnight struck I was quite tipsy. The fake TV studio merriment made my teeth ache, so I clicked off the TV and sat for a moment listening to the rain outside. I thought about the girls and wondered if they had snow in Wales.

  I switched off the lights and stumbled upstairs. As I slipped beneath the covers, I pictured Kerry dancing in a nightclub in Rome. She was such a manic dancer – just the thought of it made me smile. A smile! I’d finally managed it.

  And then, even though the alarm clock still only read 12.22, I closed my eyes and slipped into the far less challenging world of sleep.

  Twelve

  Joe

  Everything I’d told Heather was true. I really had planned a night in the local pub with Joe, his girlfriend, and his mates. But even as I was inviting Heather to join us, I suspected not only that she wouldn’t come, but that I wasn’t going to go either. Joe’s crowd were all in their twenties and on New Year’s Eve they’d be rioting. The more I thought about it, the more I realised that I simply couldn’t face it.

  So I stayed home alone, and I drank. I started off on gin and tonics, and when I ran out of tonic I drank gin on the rocks. And as I got ever more bladdered, my mood shifted through a number of phases. I felt happy briefly, and then lonely. I felt sad and then, thinking about how I’d been cheated out of New Year with my wife and son, jealous. I thought about the fact that Amy had chosen Anthony over me and got so angry that I punched a wall. It was the first time I’d ever done that, and it proved to be less satisfying and more painful than it looked in films. And then, as the TV screen became increasingly blurred, the alcohol finally did its job, taking me to a place where I felt nothing at all.

  Dad sent me a text just after midnight, but though I tried, I was too drunk to read what it said, which should give you some idea of the damage.

  I woke up at seven on the sofa, with Riley snuggled against me and the TV still playing to the room. On-screen, a couple of bright and breezy presenters were chatting on a colourful sofa. My head was throbbing and I needed to pee, so I switched off the happy couple and headed upstairs for an aspirin and bed. But when I got there, I couldn’t get back to sleep. I tried for an hour, tossing and turning, before finally, feeling utterly, utterly awful, I got back up and said hello to the fabulous new year that had begun. Riley wanted feeding right now and the smell of cat food made me retch.

  On the evening of the second, when Amy turned up on the doorstep with Ben, I was still feeling rough enough that I’d taken a rare day off work and been home all day.

  ‘I want to talk to you,’ she said.

  I barely managed to stifle the groan.

  Ben went off in search of Riley, so I led the way through to the lounge. I noted that Amy had closed the door behind her for privacy and wondered what this was going to be about.

  ‘You look terrible, Joe,’ she said, perching on the edge of the couch.

  ‘Thanks,’ I replied. ‘’s always good to hear.’

  ‘You had a rocking New Year’s Eve by the looks of it, then?’

  I told her I really didn’t want to talk about it.

  ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Well, we had a great time. The cottage was—’

  ‘Amy,’ I said, interrupting her. ‘I don’t want to hear about your New Year’s Eve either, OK?’

  ‘Oh. OK. I was only making conversation, but . . .’

  ‘Yeah, well . . . don’t,’ I said. ‘Was there something specific, or . . . ?’

  Amy nodded, and looked uncomfortable. She shuffled back in her seat and laid one arm across the back of the sofa. She caressed the fabric gently with her hand. ‘So, look . . .’ she said, ‘this is difficult . . .’ She glanced around the room, taking in all that was hers, and I instantly knew what was coming.

  ‘You want the house back,’ I said, pre-empting her. ‘The answer’s yes, of course. You can have it. When do you need me out by?’

  ‘Oh!’ Amy said, visibly thrown by the fact that the spiel she’d so carefully prepared was no longer needed. ‘It’s just that the flat’s been sold, and we can’t go back to that tiny—’

  ‘Amy,’ I interrupted. ‘I get it. OK? You don’t need to justify yourself. You own this place.’

  ‘I just don’t want you to feel like you’re being kicked out.’

  Despite my best intentions, I laughed sourly. ‘Only, I am,’ I said. ‘That’s exactly what’s happening. But it’s fine. Really. Just tell me when, and I’ll sort it.’

  Amy chewed her lip and nodded. ‘OK then. So, mid-February, say the fifteenth? Does that work for you?’

  ‘Mid-February,’ I repeated, as flatly as I could manage. I hadn’t been expecting it to be so soon.

  ‘I’ll help you, financially,’ she said. ‘You’ve done so much to the place, and . . .’

  ‘I don’t need your help,’ I told her. ‘I don’t want it.’

  ‘But you’ve done so much here, Joe, and—’

  ‘Look, if you ever sell it, split the profit with me, OK?’ I said. ‘Or my part of it, or whatever. I don’t care.’

  ‘Of course,’ Amy said. ‘That’s very understanding of you, and I promise I won’t let you down. Ant said he can help you find—’

  ‘Fuck Ant,’ I spat. I was surprised. I honestly hadn’t intended to say that. The words had just erupted from within.

  ‘He works in real estate, that’s all. He said that the show flat’s going to be—’

  ‘Amy!’ I said. ‘Stop. I’m all grown up here. I can sort myself out, OK?’

  ‘But the show flat, if you want it—’

  ‘I don’t. I really don’t.’

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘OK, if that’s . . . OK. Whatever.’

  ‘Could you leave, do you think?’ I asked. I was starting to feel angry, and I didn’t, for some reason, want to lay a guilt trip on her. She was struggling enough here as it was.

  ‘Sure.’ She jumped to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Joe, I really am. It’s just—’

  ‘I know,’ I told her, raising a hand in a stop sign. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘I haven’t told Ben
anything.’

  ‘Good,’ I replied. ‘Let’s leave that until I know where I’m going, OK?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said again. ‘Sure, sorry, bye.’

  Once she’d left, I sat staring at the fireplace I’d built. Then I looked around the room, taking in the gap where I’d knocked out the wall, and the shelves I’d built in the corner. I thought about the swimming pool out back and the new windows and the kitchen units I’d hand-made, and the shower room and the skylight and the conservatory . . . The list went on and on.

  But I realised that I honestly didn’t care about any of it – in fact I’d be glad, I decided, to see the back of it all. Because the only reason any of it had ever mattered was that it had all been a symbol of my love – it had all been done in devotion to my family. That was well and truly trampled on now, so that all it seemed to symbolise was pain.

  The following weekend I left Ben with Amy and drove up to Whitby to see Dad. I’d been avoiding visiting him ever since Spain, and hadn’t once mentioned Amy on the phone. This had been less complicated than you might expect, for the simple reason that he’d been so tied up with his new lady-friend he hadn’t asked. Not wanting to spoil his happiness with my misery had been part of the reason I’d not told him. But I’d also imagined, until recently, that it was possible we might get back together. I hadn’t wanted to taint Dad’s view of Amy until I was absolutely sure I wouldn’t be bringing her back to his door. But the time had come: we weren’t getting back together, that much was clear. I was about to move house, and I was even toying with the idea of moving back up north.

  It was sunny when I left Chislet but lashing it down up in Whitby. I parked the car, hitched my jacket over my head, and ran to Dad’s front door.

  ‘A fine weekend you’ve chosen,’ Dad said as he ushered me inside.

  ‘Good northern weather, that,’ I said, as I hung my jacket on a hook and followed him into the lounge. ‘None of that poncy southern rubbish.’

  The wind was blowing off the sea, making the rain lash against the windows so that it bubbled up around the edges of the frames. Dad had put rolled tea towels on the sills to catch the drips, a ritual I remembered from my childhood.

  ‘Dry yourself off over there,’ he said, gesturing at the open fire. ‘Before you catch your death.’

  I crossed to the fire and turned to look at Dad – specifically at his brand-new jet-black hairdo. ‘Have you dyed your hair, Pops?’ I asked, grinning lopsidedly.

  ‘Hush thee,’ he said, through a smirk. ‘Of course I haven’t.’ When I raised one eyebrow, he laughed. ‘OK, Emma did it for me – well, more for herself, really. She thinks it looks better this way.’

  I nodded and tried not to smile too broadly.

  ‘I’m assuming you don’t agree,’ Dad said.

  ‘Maybe you could tone it down a bit,’ I told him. ‘Leave a bit of grey showing through. It looks a bit like a toupee otherwise, that’s all.’

  ‘From the mouths of babes . . .’ Dad said. ‘Well, you can tell the colourist herself later on.’

  ‘I get to meet her, do I?’

  ‘Of course,’ Dad said. ‘She’s coming over to cook us all dinner.’

  I told him I was looking forward to meeting her and he said he was sure that I’d like her.

  ‘No Amy, then?’ Dad asked. ‘No Ben?’

  I shook my head and swallowed with difficulty. ‘No, I told you. It’s just me.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Dad said. ‘Are they well?’

  ‘Yeah, they’re fine,’ I told him, wondering if I was going to have to get into the whole thing straight away. I glanced around the room, noting various female touches to the decor, not least of which was an imposing dried-flower arrangement on the sideboard.

  ‘Emma’s work,’ Dad said, following my gaze. ‘Likes a dried flower or two, does our Emma.’

  ‘Nice,’ I said. ‘And you look well.’ Because, Dad’s hair aside, he was looking well. He looked at least ten years younger than the last time I’d seen him.

  ‘Thanks,’ Dad said. ‘You’ve lost a fair bit of weight, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Yeah, I have a bit.’

  ‘You not eating properly, or something?’ Dad asked.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Not really.’

  He nodded and then crossed the room to stand right in front of me. He grasped my forearms gently. ‘How long’s she been gone, son?’ he asked.

  I sighed. ‘August,’ I said. ‘She’s been gone since August, Dad.’ But I couldn’t speak any further. Because for the first time in months, I was crying.

  ‘Oh, Joe,’ Dad said, releasing my arms and then wrapping me in his. ‘Oh, son!’

  Eventually we sat down and I told him the full story, from our ill-fated holiday in Spain to my imminent eviction from the house. He listened in silence until I’d finished, then said that he’d suspected it for months. He’d simply been waiting for me to tell him.

  ‘So you’re toying with the idea of coming home,’ he continued, and I was unsure if it was a question or a statement. He’s always been able to read me like a book.

  ‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. There’s the whole Ben situation to sort out, so that makes everything a bit complicated.’

  ‘I think you should,’ Dad said. ‘Even if it’s only for a while. The boy’ll be OK with his mother. Sometimes a return to the source is the only thing that makes any sense.’

  ‘A return to the source,’ I repeated. ‘I like that.’

  ‘Your room’s still upstairs,’ Dad said. ‘You’ll probably be wanting to fix it up a bit, but it’s still there, still waiting for you, with all your stuff.’

  I laughed at the concept of ‘my stuff’. These were things I’d last used over twenty-five years ago. ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  ‘And if you need a room for Ben, you know there are plenty,’ he said. ‘You can take a whole floor if you want.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said again. ‘We’ll see. Right now, I might go and lie down for a bit. The drive up was pretty hellish.’

  ‘Of course,’ Dad said. ‘I’ll call you for dinner if you don’t wake up.’

  With the exception of the bed, which they’d replaced at some point with a double, my room on the top floor hadn’t changed much since my teens. The turquoise wallpaper was the same, if faded, and my old Akai ghetto blaster was still in the corner. I opened the drawer and rifled through a jumble of ancient cassettes, but only the rubbish ones remained. I must have taken all my favourites with me when I moved out.

  I lay down on the bed and looked over at the window, at the raindrops dribbling down the pane. I listened to the familiar whistling of the wind around the chimney stack, and the distant sound of waves crashing on the beach.

  There was a poster on the wall beside the headboard – the cover of Moving Pictures, an album by Rush, one of my favourite bands from adolescence. The image was a photo of a team of removal men in red overalls carrying paintings from a gallery, and just from looking at it I could hear the songs in my head – I could remember every detail of the guitar riffs. Staring at that poster made me feel weird, but in a good way, and I thought about all the hours I’d spent studying it.

  A return to the source, I thought, and Dad was right – just being here felt healing. It was reminding me who I was, where I came from. I’d lost track of myself in all that madness, I realised. But here I was, Joe Stone, the kid who had mates, the lad who liked rock music, the adolescent learning to play the guitar. I was the son of Megan and Reg, and though I wasn’t the best-looking guy on the block, I was solid, people liked me, people trusted me. Solid Joe. That’s what my friends had called me, back then.

  I’d had parents who were cool, who were clever, and who, more importantly than anything else, had always, indisputably, loved me. Another round of tears welled up, and I let them happen, I let them rise and slide down my cheeks, and I felt glad, because they weren’t tears of sadness, but tears of remembrance. I was remembering my warm, caring moth
er, Megan, and my spiritual seeker of a father downstairs; I was picturing my childhood: learning to play the guitar, smoking joints out of the window, kissing Tiffany Dennis on the bed – and whatever happened to her?

  This was Joe, this was where I came from, and for the first time in ages I knew I was going to be OK.

  I liked Emma instantly. She was a bit of a cliché Buddhist, but I mean that in a good way. She seemed calm and friendly and kind. She listened more than she spoke, too, and I liked that. She reminded me of Dad’s friends when I’d been growing up, so I felt instantly at ease.

  She’d made a vegetable hotpot with dumplings, good hearty nosh for a cold winter’s day, and we chatted comfortably as we ate.

  Dad told Emma quite matter-of-factly about the breakdown of my marriage, and it was peculiar to hear it told second-hand, like a story. Emma nodded and reached for my wrist. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, scrunching up her nose. ‘It’s one of the hardest things that can happen, that is. But I somehow sense that you’ll be fine.’

  ‘Of course he’ll be fine,’ Dad said. ‘He’s a Stone! Nothing’s tougher than stone.’

  ‘Erm, I think diamonds might be tougher,’ I offered cheekily.

  ‘Yep, and a diamond would be . . . ?’ Dad asked. ‘Come on, boy. A diamond is a . . .’

  ‘OK, it’s a stone,’ I said. ‘You win.’

  ‘A proper little diamond, this one . . .’ Dad said, winking at Emma.

  She squeezed my wrist and let go. ‘I can see that,’ she said. ‘Like father, like son. I can tell.’

  I awoke the next morning to sunshine and shrieking seagulls, and momentarily I couldn’t work out what decade I was in. But as I came to, I remembered, and everything seemed clear. The change in the weather mirrored the shift in my mindset, and though this was a kind of clarity I had little faith in, a state of mind that I knew from experience owed more to desperation than to wisdom, I was happy for now to cling to it. It left me feeling decisive, and optimistic, and strong.

  After a long, leisurely breakfast with Emma and Dad, followed by a brief blustery walk along the seafront, I climbed in the car to head home.