The Other Son

by Nick Alexander

  Hunting through the contact list on his old mobile for numbers, he calls Dot’s house (no reply), then Tim’s landline (disconnected), then his mobile (voicemail), and finally Natalya. He’s never felt particularly close to Tim’s Russian wife – she has always struck him as something of a cold fish – but at least she tends to answer her phone.

  ‘Hello?’ she says. ‘Who is?’

  Matt exhales a sigh of relief. ‘Nat,’ he says, ‘it’s Matt. Tim’s brother.’

  ‘Oh, Matt! I see some foreign number and I worry who it is. You OK?’

  ‘Yes, I’m OK. But I phoned Dad. What’s going on, Nat?’

  ‘Ah yes,’ Natalya replies. ‘Big dramas. Tim says she has lose the plot, but between you and me, I think she has made good decision.’

  ‘Has she left him? Is that what’s happened?’

  ‘Yes, he hits her. You know about this?’

  ‘Oh, um – well, he used to. Not for years, but yes. Where is she?’

  ‘She is with . . . Oh, I forget. It’s a secret. If I tell you, you don’t tell Ken, OK? And you don’t tell Tim neither.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘She is with her friend Dot. This is Dorothy, yes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For two weeks now, I think . . . Yes . . . Monday. So it’s two weeks.’

  ‘So this is serious,’ Matt says. ‘Jesus.’

  ‘I think it is. Her face . . . You know . . . It was not so good.’

  ‘He hit her?’

  ‘Yes! I tell you this.’

  ‘I thought you meant . . . never mind.’

  ‘He hits her, and I say, you must leave him, Alice. But don’t tell Tim. He wants to stay neutral, he says. He thinks he is Switzerland.’

  ‘No,’ Matt says. ‘No, I won’t tell anyone. Is she OK though?’

  ‘I’m sorry. This is all I know. She is with Dot. But you can call her. She has her mobile.’

  ‘It’s not answering,’ Matt explains. ‘I’ve been trying all morning.’

  ‘Is probably just empty,’ Natalya says. ‘She never charges. But keep to try. And don’t worry. I’m sure she is OK with Dot.’

  Matt tries Alice’s number twice more but gets only the same result: voicemail. He finally leaves a message giving his own French mobile number, then plugs his own phone in to charge.

  He paces back and forth across the kitchen floor a few times. He kneels down and buries his face in the warmth of the now sleeping puppy’s fur. But nothing can calm his nerves. He’s surprised at his own distress. He had lied to himself. He had told himself that he’d distanced himself from Alice’s and Ken’s dramas. He had convinced himself that he was beyond their reach. But suddenly he wants to hide beneath the covers and put his fingers in his ears. Suddenly he wants Tim to hit Ken with a cricket bat all over again.

  Unable to settle, he breaks his own rule and walks down the garden to Bruno’s shed. ‘Hey,’ he says, leaning in through the window.

  Bruno, in the middle of some delicate operation involving gluing sheets of clay together, looks up. ‘Hey,’ he says.

  ‘I know you’re busy, but can we talk?’

  ‘Sure,’ Bruno replies, albeit distractedly. ‘These tubes are bastards to stick together.’

  ‘My mum’s left my dad.’

  ‘Uh?’ Bruno says, glancing up again. He looks at Matt blankly for a moment until the meaning of the words sinks in. ‘Really?’ he says, finally letting go of the rolled sheet of clay which sinks, in slow motion, until it’s flat again.

  For an hour, Bruno accompanies Matt in his worrying. He holds him in his arms, he paces the garden beside him. He tries to think of intelligent things to say.

  But in truth, he can’t help. In truth, no one can help Matt, and until they have more information, there are no intelligent things to say. And eventually, seeing that far from soothing Matt, his attempts at conversation are in fact irritating him, he gives up and returns to his pottery.

  At two, Matt finally hears a ring tone. ‘Mum!’ he almost shouts into the phone. ‘I’ve been trying to call you.’

  ‘Matt?’ Alice says.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot to type that code thingy in. So the damned thing was off, even though it was on.’ Her voice sounds strangely relaxed considering the circumstances.

  ‘Right,’ Matt says. ‘Are you OK? Are you at Dot’s? Natalya said you’re at Dot’s.’

  ‘Calm down, dear,’ Alice laughs. ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘But you are at Dot’s?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I needed a few days on my own, that’s all.’

  ‘You had a fight? With Dad?’

  ‘Yes, something like that.’

  ‘Natalya said he hit you again.’

  Alice sighs at the end of the line. Discussing this with anyone makes her incredibly uncomfortable, but to discuss it with her son seems almost impossible. ‘We had a bit of a fight, that’s all. You know how he gets.’

  ‘Yes, I know how he gets, but I thought that was all over.’

  ‘I’m just at Dot’s for a few days while I think things through. It’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘While you think things through?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are we talking . . . I mean . . .’ Matt coughs. ‘Are you leaving him? Permanently, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t know, dear,’ Alice says. ‘I’m having trouble . . .’ Her voice has begun to wobble a little, so she pauses and takes a calming breath. ‘I’m having a little trouble seeing things clearly at the moment,’ she says in a monotone voice.

  ‘Don’t go back,’ Matt says. He’s as shocked at his own words as Alice is. ‘Don’t go back, Mum,’ he says again.

  Alice, welling up on the other end of the line, struggles to reply.

  ‘You deserve better,’ Matt says softly. ‘You always did. Don’t go back.’

  Alice coughs. ‘It’s complicated though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do you want me to come home?’ Matt asks. ‘I should come home and help you sort things out, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘No,’ Alice says. ‘No, that wouldn’t solve anything. There wouldn’t even be anywhere for you to stay. You’d have to stay at the house, and . . . No, really. Don’t. Please don’t do that.’

  ‘But if you’re at Dot’s . . .’

  ‘Yes. It’s only tiny.’

  ‘Tiny? Did they move?’

  ‘Oh no, dear. They split up. Dot’s in a flat now. I’m staying on her couch.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Matt says. ‘Dad mentioned that. Christ. It’s like Drowning by Numbers.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just a film. They all kill their husbands. Tell me how you are, Mum. I’m worried.’

  ‘I’m absolutely fine.’

  ‘You can’t be fine.’

  Alice laughs. ‘No. OK then, all things considered, I’m OK though. Really I am. Dot’s been wonderful.’

  ‘So what are you going to do?’

  ‘I . . .’

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘You know what?’ Alice says after a pause. ‘Can you do me a favour?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘Can you tell me a bit about you?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, I’m exhausted with thinking about me. So tell me about you. I’d love to know what you’re up to.’

  ‘Um, OK . . .’ Matt says doubtfully. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Alice replies. ‘Where are you living? What job are you doing? Are you happy?’ I so want someone to be happy, Alice thinks, just to prove that it’s possible.

  So Matt describes the cabin. He tells her about the lake. He tells her about the hotel he works in. ‘And yes,’ he says. ‘I’m pretty happy right now. Well, I was. Now I’m worried about you.’

  Bruno resurfaces from his shed just after four to find Matt in a deckchair chewing his fingernails.

  ‘You done?’ Matt asks. ‘Or just having a break?’


  ‘Done,’ Bruno says. ‘It’s not working anyway. What’s up with you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You look stressed.’

  Matt snorts. ‘I got through to Mum,’ he says. ‘She has left him. She’s staying with a friend who also left her husband. Mum’s sleeping on her couch. Can you believe that? She’s almost seventy, and she’s sleeping on someone’s couch.’

  ‘Wow,’ Bruno says, then, ‘Where’s Framboise?’

  ‘Sleeping,’ Matt says. ‘He sleeps all the time. Do you think that’s normal?’

  Bruno nods. ‘The guy in the store said that he would. It’s because he’s still just a baby.’

  ‘I’m not sure about the whole Framboise thing,’ Matt says.

  Bruno looks horrified. ‘Really?! What’s wrong with him?’

  Matt laughs. ‘Not the dog. The name! I felt really stupid calling him when he ran off. It’s a bit . . . I don’t know . . . cutesy, I suppose. He doesn’t really look like a Framboise to me after all.’

  ‘I know what you’re saying,’ Bruno agrees. ‘I thought the same thing. But he’s your dog, so . . .’

  ‘I might try to find a better name,’ Matt says.

  ‘Can I tell you what I wanted to call him?’

  ‘Sure. Fire away.’

  ‘Jarvis!’ Bruno says. ‘Like Jarvis Cocker. Jarvis Cocker spaniel. Get it?’

  Matt snorts. ‘Jarvis,’ he repeats. ‘I like that.’ He starts to chew his fingernails again.

  A shadow crosses Bruno’s features. He pulls a chair up next to Matt and takes Matt’s hand between his own. Bruno’s skin has been dried out by the clay and his hands are rough and papery. ‘You’re really worried about her, eh?’

  Matt shrugs. ‘She’s never left him before. This is all new territory.’

  ‘And you’re scared she won’t cope on her own?’

  ‘No! I’m scared she’ll go back,’ Matt says. ‘I mean, she can’t stay on a friend’s couch forever. I’m thinking I should go over and give her some support or something. I need to look at flights.’

  ‘Can’t Tim give her support?’ Bruno asks. ‘He lives nearby, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Huh!’ Matt says. ‘Tim sounds like he’s being an arsehole. Natalya says he thinks he’s Switzerland.’

  ‘Switzerland?’

  ‘You know . . . neutral.’

  ‘But if your father’s hitting her . . .’

  ‘Well, quite. But he’s always been like that. He’s never been one to take sides, no matter how obvious the wrongdoing is. Exactly like Switzerland, I suppose.’ The image of Tim holding the cricket bat flashes up in Matt’s mind’s eye. ‘Well, not for years anyway,’ he adds. ‘He wasn’t always like that, I suppose.’

  ‘If you need to go, then you should,’ Bruno says. ‘We can afford the flight, and Dad will help out if we need him to. But what would you be able to do if you did go?’

  Matt sighs deeply. He pulls his hand from Bruno’s and reaches for a long blade of grass. He starts to chew the end. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, causing the blade of grass to bob up and down. ‘I just think she needs someone on her side. I think she might need someone to tell her she’s right not to go back to him, that’s all.’

  ‘If it was my mother, I’d go back,’ Bruno says. ‘But I’d call my brother first.’

  ‘Yeah . . .’ Matt says doubtfully. Bruno, being an only child, tends to think that family are far more powerful, far more magical even, than they really are. ‘I will. I’ll call him this evening. He doesn’t get in until late anyway. And I’ll have a look at flights, too. Just in case.’

  ‘So how about we walk the dog?’ Bruno suggests. ‘That’ll calm your nerves.’

  ‘If you can wake him,’ Matt says. ‘But he looked all out of batteries the last time I looked.’

  The conversation with Tim that evening starts out well enough, with the brothers exchanging news about Matt’s travels, the boys’ progress at school, Tim’s job, the new house, the newly filled pool . . . But when Matt attempts to discuss Alice, things quickly degenerate.

  ‘I’m sorry, Matt,’ Tim says crisply. ‘I don’t want to get involved.’

  ‘But you are involved,’ Matt says. ‘We both are. They’re our parents.’

  ‘Oh, you finally found that out, did you?’ Tim asks.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘No, go on . . . What was that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Nothing. Look, what do you want me to do, Matt?’ Tim asks, the tempo of his voice increasing. ‘Go round and punch him for her?’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘Call the police maybe? That could be dramatic. And fun!’

  ‘Yeah, OK. Why not call the police?’

  ‘Because Mum can do that perfectly well herself,’ Tim says. ‘She could have called them years ago if she’d wanted to.’

  ‘Look, I know that,’ Matt says. ‘I understand. But—’

  ‘No, you don’t. You don’t understand anything. You fuck off around the world and you leave us here to deal with it all, and then you phone up to tell me what I should be doing. It’s the bloody nerve of it, that’s what gets me.’

  ‘I wasn’t under the impression that you were dealing with anything,’ Matt says, his own hackles rising. ‘I was under the impression that you weren’t getting involved.’

  ‘We go and see them, OK?’ Tim says. ‘We sit in their shitty little lounge and listen to them moaning about the leak in the bloody roof. We have them over here, too, so they can moan about how cold it is. Nat cooks for them, not that they ever appreciate anything. We’re here for them, Matt. But you? What do you do for them? What did you ever do for them other than be a worry? What did you ever do except quit your job and move to a squat, eh? When did you ever even phone them other than to ask them for money so you could fuck off around the world with your backpack?’

  ‘Fuck you, Tim,’ Matt says.

  ‘No,’ Tim replies. ‘Fuck you.’

  The line goes dead.

  Bruno, peering around the door frame from the kitchen, comments, ‘That didn’t go well, I take it?’

  Matt, though red-faced and sweating, still manages to laugh. He rubs one hand across his face. ‘Oh, babe!’ he says. ‘You have no idea.’

  The next morning, Matt wakes up to the sound of heavy rain. He glances at the alarm clock – it’s not even six – then rolls towards Bruno beside him. But the puppy has inserted himself between them. ‘Move, Framboise,’ Matt says, giving the dog a push.

  ‘I thought it was “Jarvis”,’ Bruno groans sleepily.

  ‘Jarvis! Move!’ Matt tries again, nudging the dog with one knee. And this time the puppy stands, stretches, and moves to the foot of the bed.

  ‘You see,’ Bruno murmurs. ‘He just needed the right name.’

  When Matt wakes up again, it’s almost eight-thirty and the smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the cabin. He gets up, pulls on jogging trousers and a T-shirt, then heads through to the kitchen where Bruno is seated, feeding bits of toast and jam to the dog.

  ‘Are you sure he can eat that?’ Matt asks, sleepily scratching first his balls, then his head, then raising his hand to caress one of the roughly hewn logs that make up the walls of the cabin.

  ‘They can eat anything except chocolate,’ Bruno says.

  ‘I’d still rather you didn’t. He’s barely weaned off milk.’

  ‘Sure, OK,’ Bruno says, withdrawing the toast from the dog, who immediately starts to whimper.

  ‘Plus, if you feed him at the table, he’ll do that every time we ever eat anything,’ Matt points out.

  ‘OK, OK!’ Bruno says. ‘Message received. Oh, are we going with “Jarvis”, by the way? Because I’m worried he’ll have some personality disorder if we don’t choose a name soon.’

  Matt leans to the right and looks at the dog. ‘Yep,’ he says. ‘Jarvis is good. It fits him.’

  Matt walks to the counter and pours himself a mug of coffee, then pulls out a chair a
nd sits opposite Bruno. The dog, more interested in Bruno’s toast than in Matt, ignores his presence. ‘Shit weather,’ Matt comments, glancing past his boyfriend at the wet garden beyond.

  ‘I wanted to go to Italy again, too,’ Bruno replies. ‘You’re working tomorrow, right?’

  Matt sips his coffee. ‘I am. But we could go on Thursday.’

  ‘Unless you go to England.’

  ‘Unless I have to go to England,’ Matt confirms, pulling his laptop towards him across the kitchen table and opening the lid. ‘I suppose I’d better look at those flights.’

  Even though he’s looking at the screen, he sees Bruno slip Jarvis another square of toast. But he doesn’t say anything. He has bigger things to worry about today. ‘Wow,’ he says, after a few clicks on the mouse pad. ‘These flights are crazy expensive.’

  ‘The last-minute ones always are. You have to book months in advance for the prices they advertise. Have a look at that Irish one from Marseille.’

  ‘Ryanair,’ Matt says. ‘That’s what I’m looking at. Three hundred euros, round trip.’

  ‘Gee. And what about easyJet? Mom flew with them when she went to that arts expo thing.’

  ‘Yep,’ Matt says, clicking away on the keyboard. ‘I’m just checking that now. Shit. It’s even more. Well, only eight euros more, but all the same . . .’

  ‘How long would you go for?’ Bruno asks through a mouthful of toast.

  ‘A few days, tops,’ Matt replies. ‘I can probably get the Wednesday off, but I’d have to be back for the weekend shift.’

  ‘Maybe I could fill in for you,’ Bruno offers. He finds the prospect of stacking the hotel dishwasher surprisingly appealing. As long as it’s only for one weekend.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Matt says. ‘But I could ask.’

  At that moment, Bruno’s mobile starts to vibrate. He leans back in his chair and swipes it from the kitchen counter behind him, glances at the screen, and then slides it across the table towards Matt. ‘UK number,’ he says. ‘I think it’s for you.’

  Puzzled, Matt answers the phone. ‘Hello? Hello?’ he says. Then, addressing Bruno, he adds, ‘Too late, I think.’

  But then a voice comes from the handset. ‘Is anybody there?’

  ‘Mum?’ Matt says. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Is that Matthew?’