From Something Old

by Alexander, Nick

  The ground floor was quirky and comfortable, if a little shabby with wear, while on the first floor were Joe’s dad’s bedroom, study and junk room.

  The second-floor bedrooms, which included my room, needed a coat of paint, but were otherwise perfectly functional.

  As Joe had decorated Ben’s top-floor room with a huge Spider-Man mural, that’s where all three kids wanted to sleep, so we moved some mattresses around and left them there to play.

  It was a surprisingly warm, sunny evening – warmer than Corfu, they’d said on the radio – so once we’d drunk our tea, we went for a walk along the seafront and then down to the beach so that the kids could run off all their excess energy. As Amy had once described Whitby as ‘gritty’, I was surprised just how nice it all was. It looked more like pretty to me.

  On the way back we bought fish and chips for everyone from a takeaway, and these we ate in the kitchen, straight from the paper. I loved the absence of fuss or formality – it really made me feel welcome.

  Once the kids were in their top-floor bedroom – and I say bedroom rather than beds for a reason – Reg broke out the wine, Joe lit a not-really-necessary fire, and the four of us settled in the lounge.

  Reg’s manner was warm but detached – he somehow managed the perfect balance of being attentive but not overbearing – and just from having met him, I felt as if I knew Joe better than before. Reg seemed to be the key to understanding why Joe was the way he was.

  Emma was talkative enough to fill in any awkward gaps, chatting about a food bank she volunteered at, the unlikely characters she met there, and a trip she’d once taken to Japan.

  Eventually the conversation turned in my direction, and Reg asked how I spent my days. I thought that was such a lovely way to ask the question, so much less guilt-inducing than the usual ‘What do you do?’ or, even worse, ‘What do you do for a living?’ questions that had always given me so much trouble when I’d not been working.

  I told him about my job at the farm shop, and said I liked to walk and read quite a lot, so we chatted for a while about books.

  We were interrupted by a banging noise from upstairs, so Joe went off to see what the trouble was. ‘They’ve discovered how bouncy those old sprung mattresses are,’ he announced, on returning. ‘The little buggers are using them as trampolines.’

  ‘Like father, like son,’ Reg commented wryly.

  Joe pulled a face.

  ‘Did you do that as well, you naughty boy?’ I asked him, grinning.

  ‘Guilty as charged,’ he said. ‘It’s actually really good fun. You can try it tomorrow, if you want. They’re only old beds, anyway.’

  ‘So what’s your philosophy on life, Heather?’ Reg asked me out of the blue.

  I sipped at my wine, stalling for time, and frowned. ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Gosh. I don’t know.’

  ‘Give her a break, Pops,’ Joe said. ‘She only just got here.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ I told him honestly. ‘I’m just not sure that I have a philosophy.’

  ‘Everybody’s got one,’ Reg said, ‘for good or bad. It’s just that some people never bother to put theirs into words.’

  ‘So what’s mine, then?’ Joe asked his father.

  ‘Be helpful to everyone,’ Reg replied, without hesitation. ‘That way, if you ever need their help, they’ll be there for you. You believe in a kind of instant karma.’

  ‘Oh!’ Joe said, grinning. ‘Yeah, OK. I don’t mind that one too much.’

  ‘And mine?’ Emma asked.

  ‘Yours is, always tell the truth,’ Reg said. ‘You’re the truth teller, aren’t you? You believe everyone needs to hear the truth. And you’re right, by the way. They do.’

  Emma laughed. ‘That’s actually pretty accurate,’ she said.

  ‘And Amy’s?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Amy’s?’ Reg said. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, I’m just wondering what you thought of her. We never talked about it, so . . .’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s really appropriate any more.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Emma told him. ‘If the lad’s asking, it’s appropriate. I mean, I never met her, but I can’t say I’m not intrigued. I’ve heard so many stories about her.’

  ‘You see, the truth teller!’ Reg said, pointing at Emma. ‘You want everyone to tell the truth, all the time.’

  ‘So?’ Joe prompted. ‘Go on. I’m genuinely interested.’

  ‘OK, if you insist. I’d say it was something like, if I keep busy enough, I won’t realise how unhappy I am.’

  ‘Wow,’ Joe said. ‘Talk about hitting the nail on the head. Cheers, Dad.’

  ‘Sorry, son,’ Reg said. ‘It’s never easy being cuckolded, but you’re well out of that particular relationship, believe me. Such a messed-up psyche . . . I’m not sure she’ll ever sort herself out, that one.’

  ‘Now he tells me . . .’ Joe said.

  But I wasn’t really listening, because my attention was elsewhere. That word, I’d heard it before – I’d heard it in a dream. ‘Sorry, what does that mean?’ I asked. ‘Cuckolded?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Reg said.

  ‘It’s just that word,’ I said. ‘I don’t know it. I think I’ve heard it before, but I don’t really know what it means.’

  ‘Cuckolded is a very old-fashioned word for being cheated on,’ Emma explained. ‘My mother used to say it – I shan’t tell you why . . . But I don’t think anyone uses it much any more.’

  ‘Cuckolded,’ I repeated. ‘So it’s a verb?’

  ‘Or an adjective. Or a noun. A person can be a cuckold,’ Emma said.

  ‘So am I a cuckold?’ I asked, still trying to grasp the exact meaning of the word.

  ‘Kind of,’ Joe said. ‘It’s usually just used for guys, though. I became a cuckold over in Spain.’

  ‘For women, it’s cuckquean, I think,’ Emma said.

  ‘But it might be cool if we could change the subject?’ Joe said.

  ‘It was you that brought Amy up,’ Emma pointed out.

  But I wasn’t listening any more. All I could think was, Go with the cuckold, over and over. Because I was sure that’s what my mother had said. Go with the cuckold. All the hairs were standing up on my neck and beads of sweat were breaking out on my forehead. I could see the dream in my mind’s eye with such clarity, it was if my mother was here with me now, standing in front of the fireplace. But of course her words couldn’t have made any sense back then, because she’d spoken them long before my husband and Amy had made cuckolds of Joe and me.

  ‘Me?’ Reg was saying, when I eventually managed to tune back into the conversation.

  ‘Yes, you,’ Emma said. ‘You’re so good at analysing everyone else, but what about you? What’s your philosophy?’

  ‘Oh, trying to explain stuff, I suppose.’

  ‘Trying to explain what, though?’ Emma asked. ‘Life? People? The universe?’

  ‘Everything,’ Reg replied, matter-of-factly. ‘But people mainly, I suppose. People are far less upsetting if you try to work out the whys.’

  ‘Example?’ Joe asked.

  ‘Well, the extreme example would have to be the serial killer,’ Reg said.

  ‘The serial killer?’ I asked, a little horrified.

  ‘There’s a reason for everything,’ Reg said. ‘And there’s even a reason why the serial killer kills. Or Hitler. Hitler’s a good example, too. The extremes are helpful when thinking about these matters. You’d probably have to dig through every tiny detail of Hitler’s childhood, or his genes, or his parents’ upbringing, but there’s a reason in there somewhere. Nothing happens without a cause.’

  ‘Um, I’m not that sure I want to excuse Hitler, Dad,’ Joe said.

  ‘Ah, but no one’s talking about excusing him, are they?’ Reg said. ‘Nothing could ever excuse the Third Reich. But understanding why things happen – well, that’s useful. Because it means you can stop them happening all over again.’

  By the time we decided to retire,
my mind and body were buzzing. I was more than a little tipsy, it’s true, but the revelation about my dream had left me electrified. After all, had my dream mother really predicted a relationship with Joe, years before I’d even met him? How could that even be possible? And if it was, what if she had been right? What if Joe really was my destiny?

  On top of all of this, the conversation with Reg and Emma had been the most stimulating I’d had in years – ever, in fact. How wonderful it must have been to grow up in the midst of that kind of debate, I thought. Just throwing ideas out there and arguing about them for the fun of it. No wonder Joe was so thoughtful and wise and open.

  We’d reached the second floor – my floor – and so Joe wished me goodnight. I hesitated for a moment, wondering if there was some way I could now tell him about the dream, if there was a way I could use that story to move things in the right direction. But even drunk, I couldn’t bring myself to attempt it. So I just gave him a fingertip wave, wished him goodnight, and opened my bedroom door.

  When I switched on the light, I gasped. The bed was covered with plaster where a chunk had fallen from the ceiling. I called Joe back down and he joined me in the doorway to survey the damage.

  ‘Shit,’ Joe whispered. ‘Must have been the kids bouncing around upstairs.’

  ‘Maybe I can just shake it off?’ I said doubtfully. ‘But is it safe, do you think? Or might the rest fall on me while I’m sleeping?’

  We both peered up at the damaged ceiling. ‘It might do, actually,’ Joe said. ‘I think we need to move you to another room.’

  He crossed the landing and opened a door, but though the room’s ceiling was intact there was no mattress on the bed. It was also icy cold in there.

  ‘If you can—’ I started.

  Joe shushed me. ‘Dad’ll be mortified if he finds out,’ he whispered. ‘We’ll tell him tomorrow, OK?’

  I nodded. ‘If you can just help me carry the mattress through?’ I asked, speaking more quietly. ‘I’ll sleep in here.’

  ‘Sure,’ Joe said, glancing back towards my room. ‘Unless you want . . .’ He nodded his head sideways, strangely, as if perhaps stretching his neck. ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Nothing. Just being silly . . . too much of the old vino, I think.’

  He started to move back towards my room then, clearly intending to begin moving the mattress, but I grabbed his arm and pulled him back. ‘Unless what, Joe?’ I asked. ‘Please say what you were going to say.’

  He scratched his chin. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Better not. Let’s just get this mattress moved.’

  ‘But I do, Joe,’ I said, risking everything. ‘I do want to.’

  He froze and squinted at me. ‘Really?’

  I nodded, and as I looked up at him, I could feel that I had tears forming. ‘I really do,’ I croaked.

  He leaned in, pecked me on the cheek and then grabbed my hand to pull me up the stairs. ‘Yay! Bedding situation sorted!’ he said happily.

  Other than that kiss, nothing actually happened that night. We really did simply share the bed. The situation had taken us both by surprise, I think, and by the time we got to Joe’s room we were already feeling as embarrassed as we were excited. I was also hyperconscious that our three children were sleeping next door, and I don’t doubt that Joe was too.

  But when I woke up in the morning, Joe’s heavy, hairy arm was draped across me, and I was able to bask in the sensation of being held for almost an hour before he woke up. I’d forgotten just how wonderful that could feel.

  Eventually Joe stirred. He opened his eyes, yawned and said, ‘Oh! Hello, you.’ He then pecked me on the cheek again and surprised me by scrambling from the bed. I watched, bemused, as he hopped into his jeans and then, with no more than a wink, vanished from the room.

  I luxuriated in the warm bed for a while, but then doubts began to gather, spoiling the moment. Because why had nothing happened? Sure, we hadn’t wanted to make a noise, but we could have kissed. We could have cuddled . . . And why had Joe jumped from the bed and all but run from the room if it wasn’t simply that he was embarrassed about the drunken mistake of having shared a bed?

  We were crazily busy all day, and that busyness was useful as a distraction from my worries about Joe.

  We cleared the fallen rubble and dust from the bedroom and then Joe went off in search of plaster, while I helped Emma cook a big brunch for everyone. As the DIY store was closed, Joe was back within ten minutes, but instead of helping us in the kitchen, he vanished upstairs to strum on his old guitar, which struck me as a bit out of character.

  ‘So are you and Joe together?’ Emma asked me, at one point.

  I was in the process of chopping mushrooms, and as we’d been discussing what Whitby was like in summer, her question rather flummoxed me.

  ‘You don’t have to answer that,’ she laughed, when I hesitated. ‘I’m always getting into trouble for being too direct. It’s just that there’s a vibe about you two.’

  ‘No . . . it’s . . . um . . .’ I stumbled. ‘It’s just that I don’t know really,’ I finally managed. ‘I don’t think so. Not in any proper way, anyway. We just share a house for the moment, that’s all.’

  ‘For the moment,’ Emma repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I could feel myself blushing. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But you’d like to?’ Emma said.

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘Gosh, you are a bit direct, aren’t you?’

  ‘Well, you’re right to be interested, anyway. That’s all I wanted to say. From everything I’ve heard, he’s quite the catch. That Amy doesn’t know what she’s given up.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘That’s the impression I’m getting, too.’

  Emma crossed to the sink behind me, but as she passed by she paused and rested one hand on my shoulder. ‘And don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I won’t say a word.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Not even to Reg.’

  ‘Especially not to Reg.’

  She gave my shoulder a squeeze then, and saying, ‘It can be our little secret,’ continued on to the sink.

  Eventually, once the table was set and everything was ready, Emma sent me to call everyone to the table. I found Reg in the lounge, reading, and the kids playing cricket in the back garden.

  I called to Joe a few times, but when he didn’t hear me, I trudged up the stairs to the top floor.

  The door to his bedroom was closed, but behind it, I could hear him strumming a tune, stopping and starting as he corrected himself.

  I stood for a while listening, until he managed a full verse without a mistake. His voice, as ever, was beautiful, but I didn’t recognise the song:

  If you could just see me / if you could just feel me / if you could just understand / all I am / for you.

  We are really miracles / we are made of star-dust / and if you’d just touch my skin / feel me here / loving you.

  A wave of warmth for him washed over me, but this quickly morphed to a sad realisation that he was probably thinking about Amy as he sang, and then embarrassment for having listened in to such a private moment. So I crept down a few stairs and approached once again, only more noisily this time. I rapped on the door until Joe invited me in.

  He smiled up at me weakly, and I could see instantly that he was tearful.

  ‘Nice song,’ I said, sounding fake, even to myself. ‘Who’s that by, then?’

  ‘Oh, no one,’ Joe said. ‘It’s just a ditty.’

  ‘One of yours?’ I asked, and he nodded vaguely.

  ‘It sounded good,’ I said. Then before my emotions gave me away, I added, ‘Um, brunch is ready. So I’d get your arse downstairs before it’s all gone, if I were you.’

  Throughout the meal I fixed a gentle smile on my face and tried, but failed, not to think about Joe writing songs for Amy. His feelings for her were doubtless the reason there hadn’t been so much as a proper kiss, as well. If anything was ever going to happen
between Joe and me, it certainly wasn’t going to be for a very, very long time.

  We arrived back home late on Monday evening, and by the time I got the girls to bed, both Joe and Ben had gone to their rooms.

  The trip had officially been a success: we’d picnicked on the beach, played the slot machines, and visited Whitby Abbey. We’d eaten dribbling ice creams in Robin Hood’s Bay and overall had been made so welcome that I’d actually felt quite tearful when we’d wished Emma and Reg goodbye.

  But I’d had to hide my devastation about the fact that Joe was still visibly pining for Amy, so I felt quite relieved that he’d vanished so quickly to bed.

  The next morning I was awoken by the children’s shrieks but, because I could hear Joe was up, I let myself lie in. Due to the fact I’d been thinking about Joe all night long – specifically about the various bad omens from our trip north – I’d slept pretty badly.

  I must have fallen asleep again, because suddenly the alarm clock read 11.32, and the house around me was silent. I got up, pulled on a dressing gown, and checked the kids’ bedrooms. I peered out at the empty back garden.

  Dandy wanted food, so I fed him, and then took my mug of tea out to the conservatory. I’d been there only a few minutes when Joe returned.

  ‘Hello, you,’ I said, looking up at him in the doorway. ‘I was wondering where everyone was.’

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, smiling vaguely, either with pleasure at seeing me, or perhaps with embarrassment. ‘I walked them round to number 12. I thought we could use a little space, so that we can have a chat.’

  ‘Oh, of course,’ I said, wondering what kind of chat this was going to be. ‘Good idea.’

  ‘Weird atmosphere round there, though,’ Joe continued. ‘I suspect there may be trouble in paradise.’

  ‘Really? The kids are OK, though, aren’t they?’

  Joe shrugged and nodded. ‘Amy’s gone AWOL, apparently. But I left them in the garden with Ant. He seemed fine about it.’

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘OK, then.’

  ‘Just let me make a brew, and we can talk,’ Joe said. ‘You want one?’

  I raised my steaming mug and shook my head, then turned to look out at the sunlit back garden, while I listened to the sounds of Joe in the kitchen. He was whistling, so perhaps that was a good sign. Then again, don’t people whistle when they’re nervous, too?