Junction X

by Erastes

  “Oh, God, Sheila. It’s Ed, please.”

  Albert put down his paper and stood to greet me. He was wearing a shirt with no tie. “Sherry, Ed?”

  I shook my head. “I won’t stop long. I’m being the nosy neighbour tonight. I was wondering if the train set was ready. I’ll go down the club for a beer later.”

  Albert smiled. “Just about.” He moved to the door and called. “Alec? Alec! Come down a moment!”

  There was an awkward silence as we waited and, never being able to stand such things, I asked, “Any plans to decorate?”

  Sheila glanced at Albert and he answered for her, “No. I don’t think so, not yet, we like it as it is, really.”

  I felt awful. I smiled and nodded and muttered something about Claire’s taste being good, but I was suddenly aware that they probably couldn’t afford it. The silence descended again, and I was beginning to wish I’d had that sherry just to have something to do with my hands when I heard the bump of someone jumping down the stairs and Alec arrived in the doorway.

  His face was clouded, and apart from a glance at me—swiftly removed—he didn’t really look at anyone. He was wearing a black T-shirt which looked brand new and a pair of jeans that had seen better days. A pair he’d probably had a while, as they were as tight on him as on any young peacock strutting through London these days. His hair had probably been neatly cropped around his ears from the term before, but the summer growth gave a rebellious wave to the ends, paler where it curled than where it lay flat against his head. His feet were bare. It was something that I was to get used to. He wore shoes only when he had to.

  His mother sighed and I glanced at her. “You could have put slippers on before coming down. What will Mr. Johnson think?”

  “I didn’t know Mr. Johnson was down here. You didn’t say.”

  “Ed, please,” I interrupted, recognising the first signs of trouble through years of family radar. “Mr. Johnson makes me sound like I’m a hundred and two.” I suddenly wanted to say something like “Why should he wear shoes if he doesn’t want to?” But he wasn’t my son, and I’d probably have said the same to John if he’d come down barefoot—so why did it seem different for Alec?

  “Ed’s here to see the layout,” Albert said. “Why don’t you take him up and let him see what we’ve done?”

  “All right.” He shrugged and turned away, trotting up the carpeted stairs leaving me no recourse but to hare off after him.

  Although every house in The Avenue is different, they follow the basic pattern: sitting room, study, kitchen, dining room, then bedrooms and bathrooms depending on the size of the house. But it was the attics that people loved about them. They’d been built when most people still had servants and they’d have lived at the top of the house. Such things were long gone. Some people, like us, filled them with the detritus of living: broken rackets and toys, boxes of old curtains and unwanted gifts, but some had converted them into large spaces as bedrooms, studies and for other uses. As Alec led me up the final wooden flight of stairs, his bare feet on a level with my eyes, I was reminded that our attic was a project I’d long been meaning to address. He pushed open the narrow door and led me in. I couldn’t help but laugh in amazement at the incredible array of track and terrain which took up nearly the entire floor of the house.

  Alec’s face darkened. “It’s not a toy, you know.”

  I’d hurt his feelings, and he’d completely misinterpreted my reaction. I moved to stand next to him. “No. No. I didn’t mean anything other than…wow!” He smiled then, for the first time since I’d met him and it changed his face completely. “I’ve never seen anything this big except in Hamley’s.”

  He grin got wider. “I suppose I’m used to it. But I always think it could be better.” He moved crab-wise around the side of the room. It was the only way you could move, as, except for the two narrower ends of the room, the boards that supported the train set came within about eighteen inches of the walls. “What I’d really like is a garden layout, but with our weather it would be difficult, Dad says.”

  “You could certainly do with more space,” I said, moving around in the opposite direction to examine the rest of the table that I couldn’t see from where I was. There was a papier-mâché mountain in the centre of the room, with tunnels in four places, and over in the far corner, I found a miniature port terminus with unloading apparatus and even a small barge affixed to a flat blue painted wharf. There was so much to see I almost forgot about Alec’s presence, and it wasn’t until a few minutes later that I worked my way back around to where he was tinkering with the underside of an engine.

  “This must have taken you years.”

  He looked sideways at me and the side of his mouth turned up. I couldn’t help but smile back. His smile really was infectious, and up to that point, I’d never known what that meant.

  “Pretty much.”

  “Did your Dad have this before you?”

  “He had some of the track, and the engines. This one’s one of the first ever Dublos. He had it in a cardboard box for ten years.” He shook his head.

  “I know a man who buys toys—you know, dolls and models—for investment,” I said, watching his fingers manipulate the screwdriver; they were long and brown and agile, like a pianist’s. I’d noticed a piano downstairs and I wondered if he played. “He just puts them in a trunk in the loft. He doesn’t even unseal the box.”

  “Ruins their value to take them out,” Alec said, without looking up. “But for me, it’s using something beautiful that’s what makes it valuable. My mum’s got plates—some posh china—wrapped in tissue in packing cases. She got it for her wedding and she never uses it. Not even at Christmas. What’s the point of that?”

  I nodded. Valerie was the same; she had things for “best” too. “Some people were like that about sitting rooms, too, not long ago.”

  He laughed. Just the sound of his laughter made me smile; it was rich and uninhibited. He even closed his eyes when he laughed. For all that he had seemed shy on first impression, he wasn’t at all.

  “Our last place was just like that. We lived in the kitchen, and only went into the parlour when we had visitors. It used to smell horrible—all damp.”

  The door opened and Albert arrived, interrupting our laughter, so I never got a chance to say anything.

  “Well, what do you think?” Albert said.

  “I was just telling Alec how impressive I found it.”

  I was going to say something else, but I looked over at Alec and his face was shut down again, and expressionless. He put the train on a shelf and started moving track around.

  “When we’ve got the electricity sorted out, I’ll give you a knock,” Albert said. “There’s a problem somewhere. But no worries, eh, son? We’ll get it worked out.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I should go,” I said, “Sheila will see me out. I’ll leave you to get on.” I stopped at the top of the stairs. “Alec,” I said, and he looked at me properly for the first time. “I’ve got an engine…in a box…” I smiled, and he echoed me like a secret shared. “Perhaps you could come over on Saturday and tell me something about it? If it’s any good, perhaps it would be better being used than in a box.”

  “Well, that’s kind. Isn’t it? Now, say thank you, Alec.” Albert said. But Alec didn’t. He just smiled and as I walked down the stairs, I could hear Albert telling him off for not being polite. I remember thinking that I hadn’t noticed; he’d seemed perfectly nice to me.

  Chapter 6

  Alec didn’t come that next Saturday, and I couldn’t blame him. I reasoned he wasn’t interested in being forced to socialise, and I made a mental note to drop the engine in next door when I found time. The weekend afterwards I was out in the garden with Valerie, being given my orders. The children were out, off swimming with friends and Valerie was explaining to me what she wanted done with the land beyond the three plum trees. I was mentally cataloguing it away in order to explain it all to Tyler, our gardener
, when he came next. She was quite capable of dealing with him herself, but while she designed the shape and style, she always considered the manual labour in the garden to be my domain, although I hardly knew a snapdragon from a dahlia and rarely lifted a hose.

  So she told me what she wanted done, I told the man, and the man did the actual work. Oh, I would wander out from time to time and sweep a path free of leaves or snow, or wander around with a bucket, looking important, but that was about it.

  “The wind has quite ruined the honesty,” she said, investigating the herbaceous border at the bottom.

  I peered at the ragged shrub she seemed to be looking at. “So, do you want it replaced?”

  “No, I’m sure he can just prune it.”

  “I could prune it.” I was mildly stung that I wasn’t even considered up to the challenge.

  She straightened up. “No, I wouldn’t let you near secateurs again, darling.” The gate latch sounded, saving me from her blaming me again for killing one of her roses, and she turned, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Who’s that?”

  It took me a while to focus, as the sun was dazzling. “Oh. It’s Alec. From next door.”

  She gave a small laugh. “Of course from next door. How many Alecs do we know?” She put down the basket she was holding and turned her smile on Alec.

  His face was a little guarded, it seemed to me—not the shuttered look he’d used when his father had come up to the attic but perhaps a little nervous, his eyes flickering from one of us to the other. His hair was all brushed to one side and looked dreadful. It was either damp or covered in Brylcreem. I could imagine his mother had done it, and it didn’t suit him the way the casual curls I’d seen the day before had.

  It’s hard for me to remember that day objectively, to look back and see Alec through the eyes of that particular Ed Johnson. Because that Ed Johnson hadn’t long to live. He was about to vanish forever.

  “Hello,” said Valerie. “How nice to see you.”

  He shook the hand she offered him and I could swear he blushed a little. He didn’t seem the same person that had come for dinner; he was certainly happier, if not completely relaxed.

  I took his hand. It was warm. “I asked Alec over,” I said, feeling a little defensive and not wanting to say he was a week late. “He’s going to look at my Sir Nigel Gresley.”

  “Your what?”

  “The Hornby—the train I had in the loft.”

  “Oh, of course. It must be filthy. If you are going to get it down from there…”

  “Already anticipated, darling,” I said. “Dust sheets are already down, and we won’t take it out of the conservatory.”

  Alec shot me a look as Valerie picked up her basket and walked towards the chairs. His eyes were clear and a little anxious and the side of his mouth quirked in a half-grin. I can’t remember now whether I smiled back or not, but I remember that smirk of his.

  Valerie led us across the lawn and she sat him down at the garden table, sending me in for cool drinks. When I emerged, they seemed to be getting on well. Valerie was a great hostess and always had been. Now she had him alone, she was putting him at his ease with her usual grace.

  “I had no idea there was so much to it,” she was saying as I put the tray on the table. “Neither of the twins showed any interest in trains, although we did try them with a set when they were younger. Ed had a brief encounter, as you know. I think that’s why he loves Rachmaninov.” She laughed at her own joke, but Alec didn’t get it and gave her a brittle smile; as if he knew he was missing something.

  She continued to chat to the boy—young man, I corrected myself—and I sat there, warm and comfortable in the sun, looking at both of them in turn. He complimented the garden, and she stood up and offered to show him around. The back of the garden was separated into little sections that you couldn’t see from the centre of the attic, and, as she led him off across the lawn, she was explaining the four different “rooms” that she had designed. I smiled. It surprised me that he was so considerate as to notice that the garden was her pride and joy.

  I watched as she led him toward the herb garden, and I was suddenly struck with the similarity between them. They were much of a height, and, although Valerie’s Nordic hair was pale and platinum beside Alec’s darker head, they could have been brother and sister. Alec’s young body was like hers: his legs longer than most, his torso lean, her chest nearly as flat as his. Lazily, my eyes drifted downwards, noting that their legs were the same length. He was wearing the tight pair of jeans he’d worn before, and I found myself staring at the way his legs seemed to go on forever joining his backside with the minimum of fuss. The only difference between Alec’s legs and Val’s was that Valerie’s bottom was a little more padded than his.

  I remember being amused at how similar my wife and Alec were. It’s hard to look back and believe that I was that blinkered.

  They disappeared for a while into the garden rooms at the far end and emerged about five minutes later. I wondered what Alec thought; I couldn’t imagine that he’d really be interested in Japanese shrubs and rockeries. I saw him say something to her and she laughed. As they re-joined me, she bent down to kiss me.

  “I’ll leave you to your trains,” she said. “I’m off to pick up the twins, and then I’m going into town. It was your first day at St. Peter’s last week, wasn’t it, Alec?”

  He nodded.

  “You’ll have to tell the twins what you think of the Upper School. They long to know—it’s so secretive with all those high brick walls.”

  Alec actually stood up as she left us. Surprised at the old-fashioned gesture, I found myself rising to my feet with him. This won me a rather smug look from my wife.

  We sat for a while in silence after she’d left. I wondered why I found it harder to strike up a conversation with him after his apparent ease with my wife. His face had darkened slightly, and he looked a little bored. I wondered if I had looked the same when forced into company with my parents’ friends. He made no overtures of conversation but simply sat in silence playing with his drink. I felt a rush of irritation—or at least I took it for irritation—that he had nothing to say to me.

  Annoyed by the silence and by my own inability to strike up a conversation with a teenager, I stood up. “Well, let’s go in. I got the box down from the attic this morning.”

  I took him through to the conservatory, where I’d unpacked the engine and some of the rolling stock, and sat down on a wicker chair to watch him. I had a chance then to study him a little more closely than I had before. His face was squarish, his chin blunt. His eyes were large and grey, and his brows and lashes were slightly darker than his hair. His mouth was straight, turning neither up nor down, a decision that life would make for him, as it did for us all, but his face was naturally serious. Later I was often to tease him that he gave the impression of someone who is always thinking serious thoughts. Deceptive. Strong currents beneath a millpond.

  He spent a little time examining the train, then straightened up and brushed his hands on his jeans as if he knew that he dared not get dirt on the furniture. Possibly the dustsheets spread over the floor and the glass table had given him a clue.

  “It’s in very good condition,” he said, and I could see he was suddenly shy again—or careful, at the very least. “It was good of you to let me see it.”

  I wondered why the sudden formality. It was as if the sun had gone in, although the light was almost unbearable in the conservatory.

  “But will it work on your layout?”

  He pushed his fringe back and looked up at me. “You shouldn’t,” he said. “It’s too valuable.” He launched into a litany of specifications and manual-memorised facts and figures. All I could gather was that there had been few made and there were fewer still with their original boxes. “You should sell it. Or keep it.”

  “I thought you didn’t approve of things being kept and not used.”

  He grinned then, caught out in his own paradox. “Well.
Yeah. But it’s not my train.”

  Suddenly I understood. He was embarrassed at my offer. “I don’t go back on a promise.”

  “You didn’t promise anything.”

  “Not out loud.”

  “Oh. That kind of promise.”

  The air around us seemed to shrink, and my chest felt tight. The sun went behind a cloud. One small tiny cotton wool ball blocking out a billion tons of heat and light.

  “I meant what I said. If it’s compatible, then you can have it.”

  “My Da…father would never let me.”

  “I’m not giving it to him. In fact—I’m not giving it to you. You can use it and when you’re fed up or your wife makes you pack it all up into boxes, then you can give it back.”

  Alec seemed to give up, and he smiled. The cloud, beaten at last by larger odds, gave up in tandem, vanished into the blue-white sky and the sun streamed back into the conservatory. The light hit Alec’s hair and I think that’s when I saw him the way I would have seen him if life were a book, the way I should have seen him the first time.

  The tightness in my chest increased and I had to stand up and move into the house. “It’s too hot in here,” I said hurriedly. “Come through to the kitchen.” I was shocked; my legs were shaking. I felt weak, like I’d been drained of blood, and my heart thudded erratically in my chest.

  I’d looked at him and found him beautiful.

  Up to then he’d been the young man next door, nothing more, no matter that that sounds like the worst kind of self-deception.

  I was not. Am. Not. The sort of man who looks at teenagers in that way. I’d never even looked at a man in that way. Despite what Phil and I indulged in, I’d never appraised my workmates. I’d not even considered the aesthetics of Phil, although I knew that he was tanned and blond, and I knew he wasn’t ugly. But I’d never considered his attractiveness. I didn’t do what I did with him because he was handsome, but because we were friends. I never found myself staring at him and thinking of his looks in that way. He was…just Phil.