The Other Son

by Nick Alexander

‘In a way, yes,’ Alice says. ‘In a way I hid from it all by marrying Ken, I suppose. I hid in my marriage to a certain degree. Plus it’s all very well thinking you’re in love, but if you’re hungry and homeless . . . We were scared of poverty. People tend to forget that nowadays, but it is possible to be too hungry to be happy.’

  Bruno sighs. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I just can’t believe that Joe never came back for you. That you never heard from him again.’

  Alice shuffles in her seat. ‘Joe lived right over the other side of town. They were slums, really. I never had any reason to go there. And once I was married, well . . . It was best to stay away.’

  ‘Don’t you regret it though?’ Bruno asks, dipping his finger into the yellow wax of the candle. ‘I mean, you could have had a whole different life. Matt could have had a whole different family.’

  ‘Matt wouldn’t have existed,’ Alice says. ‘You can thank Ken for your boyfriend.’

  ‘You don’t know that,’ Bruno says. ‘Maybe he inherited everything from you. Maybe he would have been just the same. Who knows how that shit works.’

  Alice sighs and shrugs.

  ‘Have you ever tried to find him?’ Bruno asks. ‘You can find most people on the Internet these days if you try. I could help you look. What was his surname?’

  Bruno reaches for his phone and unlocks the screen, but abruptly, Alice puts down her sandwich and stands.

  ‘You know what?’ she says. ‘I suddenly want to be on my own. Is that OK? Can I say that without upsetting you?’

  Bruno looks concerned. ‘Have I hurt your feelings, Alice?’

  ‘No, really,’ Alice says. ‘You’ve been perfect. But I just suddenly want to be on my own. Is that OK? Can I do that?’

  Bruno puts down his phone and raises his hands. ‘Sure, Alice,’ he says. ‘Whatever.’

  Alice does not go home. When she reaches the point where the track meets the tarmac, she turns right, and not left. She glances nervously up at the cabin in case Bruno is watching her. She feels as if what she’s doing, heading to the lake rather than the house, is somehow irresponsible, illicit perhaps. She suspects that he would tell her off.

  The official footpath, as opposed to the boys’ shortcut, zigzags up the side of a small green hill before weaving through the pine forest as it descends the other side.

  It’s another beautiful moonlit evening, but Alice feels a little scared all the same. She has never thought to ask which animals roam among these trees. She hopes there’s nothing dangerous.

  The air is still warm from the heat of the day, and the pine needles beneath her feet crunch and exude a gorgeous scent, a mixture of pine freshness and earthy decay. Here and there, fireflies drift erratically among the trees like floating, flashing garlands of light.

  When she reaches the lake, she crosses the beach and sits on a rock. She stares out at the deep grey of the water and thinks about the fact that this lake is supposedly man-made. At least we made something pretty for once, she thinks.

  As she starts to walk again, she thinks of Joe and remembers the impossibility of the times. Because, yes, Joe had fought for her. Joe had begged her not to marry Ken. She had even appeared on the night before the wedding. ‘Please don’t, Alice,’ she had wept, over and over. ‘It’ll be the end of everything.’

  ‘The end of what?’ Alice had asked her. And Joe had been unable to reply. Because neither of them could name that thing which would be broken. Neither of them had any vocabulary to describe what they were feeling, or to envisage what might continue if only Alice did not marry Ken. There were no words for these things, back then.

  You could have had a different life, she hears Bruno saying, and it’s so easy to say, yet so difficult to live. For how can you live something when you don’t even have a word for it?

  ‘A crush,’ her parents had called it. A silly childhood crush. That was the best anyone had managed back then, vocabulary-wise. And how could Alice possibly choose a fragile, insubstantial ‘crush’ on a girlfriend over the weight and heft of a marriage, of a family?

  But it was no crush. It’s taken her a lifetime to admit it, but she knows this now. And perhaps she owes it to herself, owes it to Joe even, to build a different life for herself now. It’s all here, all apparently laid out for her.

  Her son and Bruno, lovely Bruno, have shown her that something else is possible. A life without anger? A life without constantly striving for something else? A life of accepting, of coming to terms with the nature of one’s own desires perhaps? A life with a smidgen of grace? Could it really be that simple?

  Matt seems happy. Not smiley, laughing, sitcom-happy, but content, deep down, with his lot. And with Bruno waiting for him and the cabin to live in . . . with Jarvis at the foot of the bed and the warmest, most understanding, generous in-laws ever, who could blame him? Bruno, too, seems happy. For the child of a dead addict, he’s done well. He’s doing what he wants. He’s living where he wants. He’s with the person he loves.

  And Alice, too, has felt unexpected moments of happiness these last days, moments of acute happiness occasionally. There’s been no walking on eggs, no tiptoeing around other people’s delicate egos. There has been no worrying about dinner or traffic, no watching the horizon in case of sudden explosions of anger. Or violence.

  Could she really just stay here?

  A bird swoops across the lake – an owl perhaps. The bird. The lake. The mountains. The stars. It’s stunningly beautiful here. It’s heartbreakingly beautiful here.

  So yes, could she live here? Could she really just stay here? Can she perhaps simply carry on like this? Or is this one of those crazy childhood crushes? Is the reality a return to rainy, grey King’s Heath? To frozen meals and economy lightbulbs? Can life, can change, really be this simple? It feels possible. It feels like a fog that kept everything in place is lifting, revealing other roads winding off into the distance, roads she never even knew existed.

  She’s not sure of the details yet. She’s not sure how or where she could live. Virginie will reclaim her house at some point, no doubt. But perhaps she could rent somewhere similar. Bruno has said, after all, that rents are cheap here. So perhaps she could. Perhaps she doesn’t need as much as she thought she did.

  She could try to learn French perhaps. She could get her own annoying cat. She could spend her evenings eating French cheese and baguettes with her e-reader propped up against a bottle of cheap rosé, couldn’t she? Perhaps she could get her pension sent here. Dot’s adviser guy would know. And if she could, then what more would she need? Her son and his partner don’t seem to need much, after all.

  And Joe. Is it just madness to think that Bruno might really be able to find her after all these years, lurking somewhere in the depths of the Internet? The idea both terrifies and thrills her. Because what if Joe is dead? And what if she’s alive?

  It takes Alice almost an hour to walk to the far end of the dam. She leans over the edge and watches water gushing from a vent into the distant river below. The air here is cool and moist.

  She swipes at a mosquito, then thinks she sees a fawn running through the trees and doubts her own eyesight. And finally, she turns and starts to head back.

  As she passes in front of the cabin, she pauses to look up at the cosy orange glow from the windows. The light inside is flickering and she imagines Bruno on the sofa, watching TV with Jarvis beside him. He’ll be waiting for Matt to get home from his evening of washing dishes. Tonight, even that thought of her son washing dishes fails to provide its familiar pang of angst. Someone has to wash the dishes, she hears Bruno saying. And he’s right, of course. Someone does have to.

  She pictures Matt coming home to Bruno and Jarvis and the flickering television screen. Happiness. It can be so simple. All you have to do is stay away from those who would ruin it for you. She’s happy that Matt’s with Bruno, she realises. And she’s shocked at herself for the realisation.

  But it’s true. For the first time ever, Alice no longer
needs to worry about her other son. Because her other son is no longer ‘other’ to her. And because Matt, her lovely Matt, has Bruno to look after him now. Bruno who is so big and strong and calm and kind. Her eyes are starting to mist, so she smiles through the tears and forces herself to walk on. Yes, Matt’s safe now. Matt’s happy now.

  As she reaches the edge of the hamlet, a car comes into view. It squeals to a halt beside her and Matt looks up at her from the side window. ‘Mum!’ he says.

  Alice smiles gently at her son. He looks incredibly handsome tonight, smiling in the yellow of the streetlight. He looks suddenly like a man. When did that happen? Yes, it seems like only yesterday that he was pleading with them for a dog.

  She wonders if her tears are showing in the lamplight, but resists the temptation to wipe them away. That would be a dead giveaway. ‘You’re early, aren’t you?’ she says. ‘Or is it later than I thought?’

  ‘It’s ten,’ Matt says, glancing at the car clock. ‘There’s some fête thing happening in the next village. There were only three people in the restaurant so they sent me home. Any chance of a cuppa?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you rather go home?’ Alice asks.

  ‘I will, but let’s have a cuppa first,’ Matt says, putting the car back into gear and pulling over to the side of the road.

  Back at Virginie’s house, Alice makes them both mugs of tea, then carries them out to the table in the courtyard. Paloma jumps on to Alice’s lap and she lets her remain there.

  ‘You’re not getting over your cat aversion, are you?’ Matt asks.

  ‘I never really had an aversion,’ Alice says. ‘I just don’t like them all over my worktops.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And I quite like this one, actually. The others all want food – you know, when you come in, they just want food and then they bugger off – but this one, all she wants is company, don’t you?’ Alice says, stroking the cat’s head. ‘Which is rather special for an animal really. Plus she’s old, like me. We have that in common.’

  ‘You’re not that old, Mum,’ Matt says. ‘So did you have a good day with the in-laws?’

  ‘I did,’ Alice says. ‘They’re rather lovely really, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Matt says. ‘They’re OK!’

  ‘And that Bruno,’ Alice says. ‘You’ll be wanting to hang on to that one.’

  ‘You like him, huh?’

  Alice nods. ‘A lot.’

  ‘Well, I intend to,’ Matt says. ‘Hang on to him, that is. I even thought we might, you know, get married.’

  ‘Yes, that’s possible now, isn’t it?’ Alice says. ‘I forgot about that.’

  ‘The Catholics here kicked up a stink about it, but it went through in the end.’

  ‘They’d do better to deal with their paedophile priests,’ Alice says.

  ‘You’re right,’ Matt agrees. ‘They would. Um, Dad phoned again, by the way.’

  Alice sighs. ‘He’s been calling my mobile over and over. I just switched it off in the end. I don’t want to talk to anyone anyway.’

  ‘I told him you were staying for a while. For a few months,’ Matt says, chewing at the edge of a fingernail.

  ‘You did?’

  Matt nods. ‘That’s a good idea, don’t you think?’

  ‘If it’s possible,’ Alice says, ‘I think that would be a very good idea. I bet Ken didn’t like it though.’

  ‘He surprised me actually,’ Matt says.

  ‘He did? How?’

  ‘He said not to worry about money. He said to keep on using the card. That there’s plenty more where that came from.’

  ‘Oh,’ Alice says, pulling a face. ‘Gosh.’

  ‘I know,’ Matt says. ‘Maybe he had a bump on the head.’

  ‘Maybe. But I bet it won’t last.’

  ‘No,’ Matt agrees, ‘probably not. But are you having a good time here?’ he asks. ‘I mean, despite everything?’

  ‘I think so. I feel . . . I feel . . . more free, I suppose you’d call it. I feel a bit more free with every day that passes. Like a mist is lifting.’

  ‘That’s good,’ Matt says. ‘And you don’t mind being stuck up here? Because we could maybe look for somewhere down on the coast. Or in Aix-en-Provence.’

  ‘No,’ Alice says. ‘It’s a surprise to me, but I do like it here. I think this life you’ve built for yourself is wonderful.’

  Matt laughs. ‘Careful, Mum,’ he says. ‘You almost sound like you approve of me.’

  Alice reaches across the table for her son’s hand. She places her own on top of his, exactly as Bruno had done when she first arrived. ‘Matt,’ she says. ‘I don’t approve of you . . .’

  Matt frowns. ‘I thought that was too good to be true,’ he says. He tries to pull his hand away, but Alice grabs it and forcefully yanks it back towards the centre of the table.

  ‘It’s more than that, son,’ she says. ‘It’s as if . . . I don’t know how to explain it. But when you were little, I always thought you’d grow up to be a painter or a writer or something creative like that. I thought you’d do something like Bruno does, really.’

  ‘The Other Son disappoints again,’ Matt says drily.

  ‘Listen to me, Matt,’ Alice says. ‘That’s what I used to think. I did. I was disappointed. But now I see that it’s this . . .’ She gestures around her. ‘It’s all of this. It’s this life you’ve built. It’s France and the cabin and the pots and it’s Bruno and the dog. And it doesn’t look like any other life, does it? Because that’s it – that’s your creation, and it’s beautiful. And I’m so proud of you, really I am.’

  Matt finally pulls his hand from Alice’s grasp. He looks up at her wet-eyed. ‘I’ve been waiting so long for that, Mum,’ he says, his voice wobbling with emotion. ‘I’ve waited so long just for one of you to say that. I gave up really. I thought it would never happen.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Alice says through her own tears. ‘I should have said it a long time ago.’

  She pushes back from the table and crosses to Matt’s side. ‘This is where we hug,’ she says, when Matt remains seated.

  Matt looks up at her sheepishly. ‘I’m not a very huggy person, I’m afraid,’ he says.

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Alice replies, crouching down to throw her arms around his rigid frame. ‘You didn’t come from a very huggy family. But we can try. We can change. We can get better at things. There’s still time.’

  They embrace, albeit awkwardly, for a few seconds, and then Alice releases him and straightens. ‘I am sorry,’ she says again, ‘that this has taken so long.’

  Matt stares at his feet. ‘It’s OK,’ he mutters. ‘We got there in the end. That’s the main thing.’

  ‘It’s late,’ Alice says. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to that . . . to that . . . fiancé of yours?’

  Matt looks up at her through a fresh bout of tears. ‘Fiancé?’ he laughs.

  Alice shrugs cutely.

  ‘But, yeah, I suppose I should,’ Matt says, then, ‘Would you come? To a wedding, I mean? If we did do it, would you come, Mum?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ Alice replies. ‘I’d be proud to.’

  Matt stands. ‘Thanks,’ he says.

  ‘Drive carefully.’

  ‘I will. And I’ll see you tomorrow, right?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Alice says. ‘Bruno said he’d help me look for something on the Internet.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Matt says. ‘You’ll be OK, won’t you?’ he asks, hesitating with one hand on the railing.

  Alice nods. ‘I’ll be fine,’ she says. She glances at the house and sees that Paloma is sitting in the open doorway, waiting expectantly for her to go to bed. ‘Yes,’ she says again. ‘I’ll be absolutely fine.’

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to Fay Weldon for encouraging me when it most counted. Thanks to Allan for his proofing and to Rosemary and Lolo for being there. Thanks to Karen, Jenny, Diana, Annie, Sergei and everyone else who gave
me feedback on this novel. It wouldn’t have happened without you. Thanks to Amazon for turning the writing of novels back into something one can actually earn a living from.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2017 Rosey Aston-Snow

  Nick Alexander was born in 1964 in the UK. He has travelled widely and has lived and worked in the UK, the USA and France, where he resides today. In 2015, The Other Son was named by Amazon as one of the best fiction titles of the year; The Photographer’s Wife, published in 2014, was a number one hit in both the UK and France; while The Half-Life of Hannah is the fourth-bestselling independently published Kindle title of all time. Nick’s novels have been translated into French, German, Italian, Spanish, Norwegian, Turkish and Croatian. Nick lives in the South of France with his partner, three friendly cats (plus one mean one) and a few trout.