Perfect Timing

by Owen Nicholls

  I’m not sure if it’s paranoia but he seems weirdly snooty about the house, too. Like his nose has been turned all the way up to eleven. We are not well-off. Never have been. With a disappearing dad and two kids to raise, Mum had bigger and better priorities than trying to kit the house out in Laura Ashley. She stopped her drinking, kept us out of poverty, and made our childhood fun. No parent has ever done better. Chris, on the other hand, has previously described his parents as “comfortable.” Which can loosely be translated to mean “rich enough to ski.” It goes some way to explaining his nomadic, you-can’t-tie-me-down ethos. Those that really have to struggle can’t wait to get the security of a roof over their heads.

  After lunch it’s present time and we settle onto the sofa, all three of us in a line. Me the piggy in the middle. From a carrier bag by my feet I take out two parcels. One for my mum and one for Chris. Mum opens hers first to find a new draft excluder shaped like a snake. She shrieks in glee.

  “A boyfriend for Henry! And what a fine boyfriend he is too.”

  She throws her arms around me and I can feel Chris staring at me waiting for the joke to be explained. I get off the sofa and pick up Henry, at least three decades old, multicolored and moth-eaten—a snake draft excluder with crossed eyes and a little red tongue poking out. I wave him in Chris’s face and he recoils.

  “You see, Henry here is super gay. Always has been. But there’s not a lot of male snake action for him in the house. So, each night he sneaks out and tries to find—”

  “Some cock,” Mum offers proudly.

  “Yes, Mum. Thanks. Some snake cock. We never know if he’s managed to find some or not. Mum thinks he has but I’m not sure. Now, as Henry enters his twilight years, I thought it would be easier if I brought a partner into the house for him.”

  “I love him!” shrieks Mum. “What shall we call him?”

  “Percival?” I suggest.

  “Quentin?” Mum puts forward.

  “He looks like a Sebastian to me,” offers Chris. To include him in the merriment—and to try to make up for the fact that his beer buzz from the journey is probably wearing off—I take his hand and say, “Perfect.”

  “Can I open mine now?” Chris asks with childlike enthusiasm. On my nod he rips into the snowmen wrapping-paper with glee. Inside is a shoebox marked “Homesickness kit.” Inside the box is some Vegemite, three packets of Tim Tams, a bottle labeled “99ml of Golden Circle Lime Cordial” (I point out that he can still take this through customs), and assorted other down-under items. He grins at each element and pulls me in for a thank-you kiss. My mum’s proximity makes him pull away quicker than he usually does. In fact, if we were at home I’d be partially undressed by now. He reaches into a bag by his feet.

  “And for you.”

  Chris hands me a card and my heart sinks a little. I thought we were at least at the present phase, hence my well-thought-out care package. He sees my disappointment and smiles knowingly. I surmise there might be something inside. When I tear open the envelope a thin sheet of card falls out. It’s a voucher, scribbled in his writing, that says Good for One Hour of the Good Stuff.

  He beams. “Sorry, I forgot I put that in there! If I’d known you were gonna open it in front of your mum…”

  “You’d have bought me an actual present?” I offer through gritted teeth.

  In a hushed voice he says, “I thought we were doing jokey presents. I mean, yours ain’t exactly a Rolex…” We all face forward in silence, until Chris reaches into the bag next to him, suddenly animated again.

  “I got you something too, Linda.”

  I immediately recognize the shape of the present as a DVD and hope to God he hasn’t done what I’m pretty sure I know he has. She unwraps it and offers the weakest of smiles as she looks down at his girning face from the cover.

  “It’s my DVD. Some of the stuff is a bit raunchy. But you’ve seen and heard it all before, am I right?” She rolls her eyes as he leans across to nudge her shoulder and then looks about the room, his snootiness returned.

  “You do own a DVD player, right?”

  Park Grange Court, Sheffield

  December 26, 2016

  Chris usually sleeps for Australia and so Boxing Day morning seems like as good a time as any to grill my mum on her first impressions of him. I’m nervous because, halfway through his ill-advised Director’s Commentary of his own stand-up material, Mum looked ready to throw herself under a herd of stampeding reindeer.

  “So?” I ask, a two-letter word for a much bigger question.

  Her body language isn’t exactly screaming “I can’t wait to be his mother-in-law.” When I press her she tries a series of diplomatic platitudes, including crowd favorites “He seems fine,” “It’s early days yet,” and “As long as he makes you happy.”

  The final one gets me thinking. Does he? He hasn’t made me sad yet.

  “Jess.”

  The face that comes with my name being uttered means I know this is about Frank. She hands me a card, my name scrawled on the front.

  “This came for you. You don’t have to read it.”

  I grin and put it straight in the bin. The grin masks pain I don’t really want to get into today. Thankfully, Mum is the Queen of Subject Changing.

  “Oh,” she says brightly and suddenly. “The council are finally dropping their challenge over the extension. I got the letter through the other day.”

  It takes me a while to remember what she’s talking about and when I finally do, I feel like the worst daughter on earth.

  “I completely forgot about that!”

  “Don’t worry, it’s all sorted,” she says breezily, sipping on her tea. “A young man rang up and said he does legal cases for free. I thought it was a scam at first, but he never asked for any money. He wrote off to the council explaining the situation and they said it was all fine.”

  “When was this?” I ask, trying to construct a timeline.

  “Oh. Let me think…I know, he got in touch the week after you went to Australia. I remember saying to myself I’d tell you about it on the phone. But then I clean forgot.”

  As I hypothesize on how this might have happened, whether Tom is involved or if it’s all just a huge coincidence, my face must look like it’s working out the square root of a million, because Mum immediately asks what the matter is.

  “It’s probably nothing, Mum, but do you remember his name?”

  “The lawyer? A Mr. Patel.”

  I brush it off and get on with making three teas.

  “Said the case was recommended to him by a Tim Dolaney, or something.”

  My legs go weak under the weight of my brain swimming with questions.

  “Oh,” is all I can manage.

  She repeats my “Oh,” adding a question mark and a head tilt. I shake mine and say, “It’s nothing. I met a guy a little while ago and mentioned your problem to him. He said he knew someone who could help. We lost touch.”

  “Well, this is a great reason to reach out to him.”

  I raise an eyebrow at the fact that she’s already matchmaking, even though my very-much-current boyfriend is less than twenty feet away. She perseveres. “At the very least you should say thank you.”

  Old feelings return and say hello. Feelings I thought I was done with. Feelings I thought were long gone. I should say thank you, I tell myself. I definitely should. But first I need to find out why the hell he did it.

  25

  Quite a Bash

  Tom

  Glenlockhart Valley, Edinburgh

  Christmas Day 2016

  I’m as baffled as the next man why I’m here today. The next man being my dad. He passes me the gravy with a look of befuddlement that’s been writ large on his face since I arrived.

  Their invitation for me to spend Christmas Day with them was part of a g
roup email. Canapés and champagne for friends at quarter past three. They like to do the Queen’s Speech alone, before guests arrive. For some reason, I asked if I could join them earlier in the day and have Christmas lunch with them. That was the first time they said they were “surprised.” It’s been nearly a decade since we last sat around a table together, decorated with the placemats of a Dickensian yuletide scene.

  As I finish off the food, and drink the wine like it’s water, I’m aware that even with the band doing well this is absolutely the finest and most expensive meal I’ve had in years. I watch them exchange a look. It’s hard to read, but I think they’re impressed I’m here. I know I am. Despite the bin fire that is me and Jess, I’m feeling better about myself. More confident. The band is exactly where we hoped to be by the end of the year. Touring. Getting acclaim. If I could shake Jess from my head, I might actually describe myself as happy.

  “Thanks,” I say, pushing my clean plate away. “That was delicious.”

  Not much has been said since I arrived. Mum was busy in the kitchen and Dad was playing with his latest piece of expensive tech. Now the food has been eaten, it seems like conversation is called for. But nobody’s budging.

  “Are you both OK?” I ask, addressing my father.

  “We’re fine, Thomas. Just…” He exchanges the exact same look with Mum. “I’m very surprised you came.”

  “We are,” Mum adds. “We’re just very…surprised you came.”

  The word “surprised” has many different meanings in this sentence.

  “You know, quite a few people will be coming after three?”

  The message behind the words is clear. You can’t cope in company, so why have you bothered to come? It riles me. I feel fifteen again. But I can’t blame them. I take another swig of wine and feel its calming effects.

  “I did live in this house, you know. I remember your parties. I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  Another look between them. This one is a “get him” look, almost with a smile. This was a classic “look” when I was a kid. Dad repeats what seems like his mantra today. “We just really didn’t expect you to turn up. That’s all.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “You said that.”

  Sensing the mood turning sour, Mum changes course, reminding me of their financial support, even when it’s not been asked for. “And we already sent your card, too. To London.”

  “I know. I got it.”

  “And what was inside?”

  “Yes. Thanks. It was very generous.”

  Mum picks up a cracker and offers it to her husband. He pulls it and “pretends” to read the joke, but whispers a different one in her ear. They roar with laughter. I stand and tidy the plates, taking them through to the kitchen. Dad calls after me, “Just bung that in the dishwasher. The cleaner will sort it tonight, after the party.”

  I carry on regardless until it hits me what day it is and I return to the dining room. “You’re having the cleaner come on Christmas Day?”

  Another withering look between the two people who brought me into the world.

  He puts on a woe-is-us voice. “Yes, Thomas, I know—the bourgeois trampling on the common man. The terrible Scrooges we are.”

  “We’re paying them time and a half,” Mum explains, hoping for justification.

  While things started off well, the closer we get to the guests arriving, the more I can sense going south. I pour another glass of red. I’m trying to keep them onside, him especially, but, as usual in their presence, the words I say aren’t coming out the way I want them to. Is it my fear turning the day? Or theirs?

  My motive for being here today—despite not having any alternative—is to find out more about Grandad. Since Jess’s error of judgment, he’s been on my mind a lot. I want to know the similarities we share. For better or worse. Who better to ask than his only son?

  I know I have to be careful with the fact-finding as getting Dad to open up about anything is a Herculean task; to get him to speak about Patrick Delaney will be tantamount to getting blood from a landslide. I collect a couple more dishes and say, “If the cleaner’s not coming until the guests turn up, we might as well wash these bits now.”

  My logic works on him and he reluctantly gets to his feet. He kisses his wife as he passes and I see another shared glance between them. “Fine,” he says. “But you can wash. I’ll dry.”

  In the kitchen, I ask if I can connect my phone to his Sonos. He shrugs and I put it on a Daily Mix playlist. It’s underhand, I suppose, but I know it’ll kick out a song by his dad soon enough and I can use it as a segue. As he looks for anything to dry the plates with—the kitchen something of a foreign land to him—I subtly open my line of questioning.

  “How’s work?”

  He looks at me like I’ve just shat in the sink, before replying that work is fine.

  “Off anywhere nice in the New Year?” I try, sounding more like a barber than a son.

  He puts down the tea towel with a huff. “This is pitiful. Even for you, Thomas.”

  “What?”

  “This. You suddenly turning into Michael bloody Parkinson. There’s only ever been one topic of conversation you want to have with me, so just ask.”

  In a case of unfortunate timing, a Patrick Delaney song comes on just as he finishes his sentence, the opening chords familiar to us both.

  “Quelle surprise,” he says, before giving in with a hand gesture that says “go on.”

  “I’ve just been thinking about him a bit lately. Especially how he was towards the end. I suppose I wanted to know if he was like that when he was younger.”

  The vein on the side of my father’s head is raised and beating. His scowl is etched in marble. His expression of contempt for me is fine art.

  “Like what?”

  “Depressed. Was he lonely? Before…”

  “Before what?”

  “Before he ended it all?”

  He sneers at me.

  “What kind of bloody question is that? On Christmas Day?”

  He grabs my phone and switches the music off. Near silence fills the house. The only sound left is the dripping of the tap into a half-empty sink.

  * * *

  —

  He doesn’t say anything to me until a minute before the guests arrive, when he suggests less than kindly that I don’t ruin the day for my mother by pouting all through her party. I tell myself I won’t run like a coward straightaway. I’ll wait for an hour, tops, before I make an escape.

  Like me, my mum and dad were both only children, so we have no extended family to speak of. Yet after the Queen’s been beamed into houses across the nation, ours fills up with people wanting to spend one of the biggest days of the year in my parents’ presence. They come with gifts, they come with bottles, they come with hugs and air kisses. I could say they’re all phony but I don’t think it’s true. They all fit. It’s me that’s the odd dog out.

  I make my way over to the drinks table and pour myself one more for the road. As I do, a hand reaches for the same bottle as me and quickly retracts with an apology. I look up to see an attractive twenty-something with a nose piercing and a leather jacket. Her hair is as black as her coat, her skin light dark. I look across the room and surmise that her parents are the ones talking to mine. These events have historically been quite monochromatic affairs.

  “No, you go for it,” I say, letting her take her drink of choice.

  “It’s Tom, right?” she says. I can’t exactly place the accent—Canadian or American?

  “It is,” I reply, with a look that tells her I’d like to know how she knows.

  “Your dad told my mum you might be here. I’m a big fan of your band.”

  Because I’m shallow and crave affirmation, I get a prickle of excitement that this beautiful person knows something positive about me. It gives m
e a boost and keeps the nerves at bay. I may be in a loser’s body but professionally I’m doing OK. I offer a thank-you for her compliment and it dawns on me that I’ve seen her somewhere before. I know it’s a line but I say it anyway.

  “Did you see a film called Long Term Parking?” she replies.

  “I love that movie,” I say, taking a second to realize that she was the girl who played Abigail, the artist whose tragic death sparks the heroine’s journey. “You’re Abigail!” I shout, loud enough for her to look embarrassed and other guests to wonder what’s going on.

  “I was.”

  “So, you’re an actress?”

  “Good deduction.”

  “What the hell are you doing in my parents’ house?”

  She laughs and shrugs.

  “A person’s gotta be somewhere, I suppose.”

  As we take our drinks to a quieter corner of the room, I learn the real reason. It’s less cool than her previous answer and boils down to her mum dating some friend of my dad’s.

  “They met on a cruise for singles over fifty,” Cara tells me. “I’m filming in London, so she invited me up here for Christmas. In an appalling Scottish accent. She told me this is ‘quite a bash.’ ”

  “That is an appalling Scottish accent. And quite a lie.”

  We look around the room and see that we’re by far the youngest here. Neither of us fits in the surroundings and so we have an instant connection. It allows me comfort and I manage to apply small talk reasonably confidently.

  “You’re filming something over here now?”

  “I am. Six weeks in London. I’m about for a while.”

  The way she says “about” confirms her Canadian lineage and offers me a chance to show off that I know the difference between her accent and an American one.

  “So, where in Canada are you from?”

  “Most people go straight for thinking I’m a Yankee. I’m impressed, Tom.” I get another buzz from her saying my name, but I start to doubt everything as her face turns into a frown. “No, wait…it was me saying ‘aboot,’ wasn’t it?”