- -
- 100%
- +
The black-and-white one was from their wedding day, they looked so alarmingly young. Next to that was a shot of the pair of them on a beach in Benidorm. He could count on one hand the number of times they had been abroad, it was all very overrated. He wasn’t even sure why Pearl had bothered to frame this photo that a particularly dull couple from the same hotel had offered to take as they all waited for the nightly entertainment. As an out of tune Frank Sinatra tribute act had warbled, they’d raised their overpriced ice cream cones and smiled for the camera. It hadn’t particularly felt like a moment worth capturing.
The most recent one was taken at a church dance that Arthur had grudgingly agreed to go to. His tight, barely there smile was eclipsed by Pearl’s broad and beautiful grin. He had stared at that photo every day since, surprised by how terribly old he looked and how oblivious they had both been to what lay ahead just months later. It had been one year and ten months since he’d lost Pearl. He didn’t much like that expression, you lost your house keys or an odd sock, not a person, not the other half of you. He was the one who was lost without her.
Have breakfast – tick. A bowl of cornflakes, a cup of tea and a banana to keep him regular. Sometimes he would have toast. A slice of white bread with a generous scraping of real butter, an indulgence that he knew his doctor would raise an eyebrow at. He would leave the dishes until later, to give him something to fill his afternoon with.
‘Oi!’ he shouted, banging a fist against the kitchen window that overlooked his small back garden. ‘Gerroff!’
That pesky pigeon was back. Every morning he would find it messing about in his borders, landing on his rose bushes and clawing at the soil on his neat lawn. His loud noise did nothing to move the stubborn bird away. He grumbled under his breath and grabbed a baking tray and a wooden spoon. This usually did the trick. He padded outside and banged the utensils loudly together.
‘I said, get off. Get away with you!’
This time the sudden noise and movement forced the bird to flap its grey speckled wings and fly over to his neighbour’s roof. Arthur kept one eye on it as if baiting it to return. The bird thankfully stayed where it was. Arthur gave his rose bushes the once over and plodded back indoors.
Go and get the paper – tick. Errands equate existence, he’d read that somewhere. His daily walks were the only thing that loosely resembled a fitness regime. It was quite terrifying just how frail he had become without realising. It was as if old age had sprung up on him like an unexpected utility bill. To look at him now, no one would believe the hours he used to spend keeping in tip-top physical condition. Back then his athletic abilities had been the key to a wonderful new career. He tried his hardest not to think of that time, for plenty of reasons it was easier not to go there.
The newsagents was a short walk away, past the common and along to the small row of shops. It was next to a hairdressers, a Chinese takeaway and a new shop that sold these funny looking things called e-cigarettes. Great plumes of fruity smoke would billow out of the door like a cabaret act was about to walk onto a stage. He stepped to one side to let a man in a suit stride past, a jogger almost careered into him. Everyone was always in a hurry nowadays. Rushing from here to there. Must dash, busy busy busy. Arthur couldn’t remember the last time he’d had to rush anywhere. Time was all he had and he had it in bucket-loads.
As he strolled back home with his paper under his arm, he noticed some activity further down his street. He sighed. Pearl had been the one who would happily stand on the edge of their driveway and have a chinwag with the neighbours. Cooing over any new addition to the street, whether it be animal or human, genuinely interested in the welfare of those geographically close to her. She would offer a cheery wave, a pleasant good morning and some little quip about the weather that was often reciprocated. This then led to a lengthy chat that always precluded Arthur from getting where he needed to be.
After Pearl had passed away, Arthur had suffered the well-meaning interest in how he was getting on. But truthfully, Arthur couldn’t be doing with all that nonsense. He never knew what to say. Trying to make small talk with people he had absolutely nothing in common with was exhausting. He didn’t know how his wife had done it. Arthur just wanted to keep himself to himself, what was so wrong with that? He was used to being invisible and, for the most part, it suited him fine. He spent his days waiting until he could go to bed, hoping he wouldn’t wake up, hoping to finally be reunited with Pearl.
‘Hello! Thank goodness it’s cleared up for once, hey?’
The less than dulcet tones of his neighbour Mrs Peterson from number forty-three rang out. She was the one who owned three dogs; a dozy lurcher, a shaggy-haired collie and a fluffy poodle-type thing. He’d almost spat out his tea when he’d seen her pushing the latter about in a special pooch pushchair one time. The dog seemed perfectly comfortable being treated like a baby or a dolly. It was absurd; the woman was clearly losing her marbles.
‘Hellooooo!’ she shouted louder to get his attention.
Arthur pretended not to see her. If only his feet would move as quick as they once had, he could be inside his front door within seconds. Unfortunately, he couldn’t seem to walk any faster without his joints screaming in pain. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to make eye contact.
‘Morning,’ he replied formally and raised his right hand in what could be considered a greeting.
‘Isn’t it nice to be able to get outside without getting soaked? I was just about to take Pebbles out for her walk to make the most of it. They’re saying that it’s not going to last, you see, more rain is on its way.’
Arthur was still moving in the direction of his house, which somehow felt like it was being moved further away. He was already running late for the quiz show he quite liked to listen to on Radio 4 as he prepared his lunch.
‘It reminds me of something your Pearl used to say. What was it now?’ She paused, tapping a chubby finger to her pursed lips.
Arthur stopped walking at the mention of his wife’s name.
‘Oh yes! She used to say make hay whilst the sun shines! That was it. She always did have a saying for every moment, didn’t she?’
Arthur nodded tightly. He was forever remembering Pearlisms, or as he put it, Pearls of Wisdom. She’d glance out of the window on a bright summer’s morning and say things like ‘it’s a lovely day for the race’. Arthur was then meant to ask which race, she’d reply with a chuckle ‘the human race!’ It never got old that one.
‘She really was a wonderful woman. I’ll never forget her kindness when Fluffy went missing. Our late cat,’ she added at Arthur’s blank look.
Oh yes, he remembered now. Mrs Peterson had been beside herself in near hysterics when her cat had gone missing a few years ago. She’d raced from house to house asking everyone to be vigilant. Arthur had found the ball of silver fluff hiding at the back of his shed a few days later when he’d gone to store the antifreeze he’d bought on offer. The damn thing had scratched his lawnmower cover to shreds. Pearl had scooped it up and nestled her face in its fur, chiding Arthur for being so rude towards the wretched creature. Mrs Peterson had cried with relief when they had been reunited. Arthur was still waiting for her to replace his lawnmower cover.
‘She would do anything for anyone, wouldn’t she? Do you know what, I’ve still got some bits and bobs from her last round-up of donations for the church. There are some tins of food that must be past their sell-by date by now.’
‘Yes. Right, well… I really need to be getting on—’
Mrs Peterson acted as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Oh Arthur, I wanted to have a word with you actually. The thing is, I had hoped that I could rally the troops and get the whole of the cul-de-sac involved in a fun project.’ She waddled over to him. Her dog was on a lead and not in a pram this time. ‘It’s called wheelie bin art.’
Arthur stopped shuffling and turned to face her.
‘Wheelie bin art?’ he repeated, sure he had misheard her.
‘Yes!’ She grinned, pleased to finally have caught his attention. ‘I was thinking the other day how dull it is on an evening when the bins go out. It’s a sea of grubby grey soldiers all lined up waiting for the bin men, sorry, bin people, to come and collect them. So what I thought would be rather fun,’ she winked, ‘is if every house prettied their bins up a bit. You can buy these decorative stickers that you just stick on. I’ve seen them in Poundland. I’d be happy to get you some and you can reimburse me.’
Arthur had never heard of anything so ridiculous. A bin was a bin, it wasn’t a piece of art.
‘I don’t—’
‘You can get all sorts of designs, from flowers to colourful abstract sort of swirls to a complete beach scene. You could look out of your window and be forgiven for thinking you were on the shore of Torremolinos!’ Mrs Peterson laughed, making her chins dance. ‘I’ve spoken to next door and they’re keen. Like I said, I’m happy to buy the stickers and everyone can pay me back later. I just think it would be a bit of fun.’
Arthur had to turn his scoff into a long cough at the look she gave him.
‘I imagine you’re a keen fisherman. I can see if I can get you the koi carp one, if you like? Or is gardening more your thing? There’s one with adorable spades and trowels!’
‘Neither. Thanks,’ Arthur found his voice as soon as he realised she wasn’t winding him up.
‘Oh, come on.’ She nudged his arm. He was taken aback by the unexpected physical contact. ‘You can’t be the only bin left out. It would ruin the whole effect!’
There were only seven houses in the cul-de-sac.
‘I’m sorry but I think…’
They were suddenly interrupted by the mewling cries of a newborn baby and the harassed shushing of its mother. Arthur glanced up to see the young lady from the house opposite struggling to heave a bulky car seat from her car.
‘Oh Lordy, someone’s got a good set of lungs on them!’ Mrs Peterson called out with a chirpy laugh.
Izzy Carter flushed with colour. Arthur remembered her name from delivering that parcel to her the other day. She had looked utterly exhausted when he’d briefly spoken to her on the doorstep. She must only be in her late twenties or early thirties but her eyes had been worryingly lifeless. He’d been thinking of her since then and keeping watch on her house, as if sending her supportive thoughts out of his window. Her husband, the tall man who drove a nice Renault, pulled up on their drive at half past seven, like most evenings. Arthur wished Pearl was here, she would have known what to do. She probably would have baked her a cake or delivered a casserole but Arthur didn’t know how to do either of these things, and even if he did it he worried he would be overstepping the mark.
‘Oh, yes. She certainly likes to make an entrance,’ Izzy laughed weakly, dropping her keys and flashing a tight smile.
‘I’d best be off,’ Arthur said, sensing his chance to escape.
‘Oh, alright then, dear,’ Mrs Peterson said. ‘Have a think about what design you’d like. I can drop round some examples in the week? See you soon, love!’
Arthur turned and plodded with as much pace as he could muster down his front path. He couldn’t care less what colour, shape or design his wheelie bin was, just that it was collected on time and with as little noise as possible.
The day trundled forward, as it tended to do, in an unmemorable fashion. Arthur had read the paper, paused for lunch, washed his dishes, and had had a snooze. He switched on the television and turned up the volume. Perhaps there would be a decent film or a documentary that could fill a bit of time until he decided which tin to open and heat up for his dinner. He flicked through the channels, skipping past a chat show with heavily made-up middle-aged women discussing the menopause, an antiques specialist rummaging through someone’s junk, and a talk show where two men with a full set of teeth between them, shouted at one another about sleeping with the same woman.
‘Can you believe this nonsense?’ Arthur said to the empty spot on the sofa where Pearl would sit. Sometimes he liked to imagine she was just in another room, her seat cushion still warm, her knitting balled up to the side and her favourite mug on the coffee table.
‘Right, I may as well make another cup of tea.’
Didn’t someone once say that the first sign of madness was talking to yourself? he mused. As he rose to his feet something caught his eye from the lounge window, temporarily distracting him from the pain in his joints and the empty spot on the sofa.
Mrs Peterson had found her next victim. She was talking to the mother of teenagers who lived at number forty-one, on her way home from the school run. Her car was like a taxi to those girls who filed out, slamming the doors, carrying various bags, gym kits and sports equipment, and not a word of thanks or a smile between them. He watched as the woman politely nodded along, listening to this ridiculous bin art idea. Arthur started to make his way to the kitchen, chuckling to himself.
He was too busy thinking about wheelie bins that he wasn’t concentrating on where he was going. He didn’t see that the edge of the rug had lifted near the coffee table. His slipper caught in the unexpected obstacle. And, as if in slow-motion, he realised what was coming next. He shot forwards. He wasn’t as quick to find his balance as he once had been. He was unable to stop himself from falling. His arms reflexively sprang out as his whole body slammed onto the carpet, his glasses shot off somewhere. Thankfully his head narrowly missed the edge of the fireplace, he would certainly be a goner if that had made contact. He was too dazed and trying to make sense of his narrow escape from smashing his skull on the cold stone surround that it took him a second or two to acknowledge the unnatural way his left leg was lying. A flame-like heat tore through his body, followed by the unmistakable urge to vomit. With a deep breath he pushed with all his strength to lift himself up.
‘Oww!’ he roared, the sound shocking him.
He blinked rapidly, trying to hold back the tears that stung his wide eyes. He’d had slight falls before but nothing to this level. Stay calm, he told himself, he needed to call for help but there was no way he could get to his phone. The landline was sat on the windowsill nearest his armchair, in view but out of reach. He hadn’t the foggiest where his mobile telephone was, he hadn’t used it since Jeremy bought it for him a year ago. He could really do with an unexpected visit from his nephew right now.
‘Help. Help! Heeeellllpppp!’
He shouted so much that his throat grew hoarse, pausing only to listen if he could hear his neighbours rushing to his aid. But Arthur knew it was wishful thinking. Irritating theme music blared from the TV, masking any noises he was making. He tried desperately not to succumb to the throbbing pain in his ankle but it was too difficult. Blackness caved in around his eyes, the lounge growing smaller under the unstoppable encroaching darkness. The last thing Arthur remembered was wondering how long it would be until help came – if help came at all.
Chapter 3
Izzy
Izzy had come to the supermarket to pick up a few bits for dinner. She knew that she’d needed to get out when the four walls of her lounge felt like they were closing in on her but she hadn’t been prepared for this sensory overload. Everything was so loud and bright. Weeks of sleep deprivation was making her feel like she was walking through treacle. Her brain had been replaced with cotton wool, her gritty tired eyes struggled to focus on the items on the shelves. Apparently this was normal – every new mum said they felt tired in the early days but Izzy hadn’t quite anticipated this level of crippling, disorientating exhaustion. She couldn’t shake the constant nausea or the dizzying headaches that came from weeks of broken sleep. She was clumsy, absent-minded and her emotions swung on a knife-edge. At least she didn’t need to rush around the aisles, Evie had finally fallen asleep in the special baby-friendly trolley so Izzy could take her time, a blessing given her current indecisiveness.
‘Shit,’ she muttered under her breath, turning the corner. It was all going so well.
Standing in the chilled desserts section near the cream horns and profiteroles, was Pauline, her boss’s PA. It must be someone’s birthday. They usually sent Pauline out to buy a selection of chocolate eclairs if there was a celebration in the office. Izzy had promised she would bring Evie in to meet her colleagues but she hadn’t felt up to socialising. It wasn’t just surviving the well-meaning pleasantries but the fear of Evie screaming down the whole office and Izzy being unable to soothe her that stopped her from fixing a date in the diary.
She didn’t want her colleagues to see just how badly she was handling everything. Before having a baby, she was in control, organised and well turned out. This new Izzy felt, and looked, an utter mess. Her hair, that managed to somehow be greasy and matted at the same time, was permanently pulled into a high messy bun. She never had time to put make-up on and she couldn’t even remember if she’d brushed her teeth most mornings.
It wasn’t just surviving idle chit-chat, and Pauline was a chatterer at the best of times, but the anxiety that followed. Izzy knew she would only pick apart and analyse whatever conversation they were about to have for days after. There was only one choice – she had to get out of there as quickly as possible. She spun her trolley around and jogged to the checkouts, praying that Pauline would take her time deciding between an apple turnover or a custard tart.
Thankfully the checkouts were quiet. Izzy hurriedly began shoving her shopping, she wasn’t even sure what she was buying, onto the conveyor belt. The young lad on the till smiled hello and slowly began scanning the items. She noticed he glanced up at her a couple more times, his mouth pursed as if looking briefly amused at something, as he slid the conveyor belt forwards. Izzy self-consciously rubbed her chin in case she had some crumbs there from the biscuits she’d scoffed on the drive to the shops.
‘Sorry. This one’s not coming up right.’ He pressed a button that lit up a call bell.
‘Do you know what… I’ll just leave them,’ Izzy said, nodding to the box of extra-thick sanitary towels he was dramatically waving in front of the scanner.
‘Ah, you can but it’s buggered up the machine. It’ll take as long to clear them from the system. I still need my line manager’s approval to do that too.’
‘Fine, but can you please hurry up?’
‘Oi! Mike, where’s Dave at?’ the lad shouted across to another young guy working on the checkout in front. He shrugged and also pressed a call bell. Izzy felt the queue of disgruntled shoppers growing behind her. She dared not turn to see if Pauline had joined it.
‘Sorry about this.’
‘It’s fine,’ Izzy said tightly. It wasn’t fine, it was a world away from fine but she was British and in a public place.
‘Having a pj day are we?’ he asked with a smirk.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your pyjamas. I wasn’t sure if it was for some charity thing or…’
She looked down. She was still wearing her fluffy pyjama bottoms, the ones with cartoon sleeping sheep. The man in the queue behind her chuckled. A wave of heat spread across her cheeks.
‘We sometimes have fancy dress days here too…’ he trailed off, taking in the horrified look on Izzy’s face. ‘Ah, great, here’s Dave now.’
He swiftly moved out of the way as the manager leaned across and swiped his card to correct the system. Izzy felt tears pushing at the back of her eyes, keep it together, she willed herself.
‘So, er, do you still want these?’ He nodded to the box of sanitary towels.
‘No.’ Izzy’s throat was tight. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘OK. Cool, so that’s… nine pounds fifteen. Have you got a loyalty card?’
Izzy blinked, trying with all her might to keep herself together. She tapped her debit card on the machine and quickly threw her shopping into her trolley. Mercifully, Evie had slept through the whole thing. She flew out of the shop and over to her car without looking back.
‘Izzy?’ a familiar voice called out.
Izzy debated for a moment whether she could leap into the driver’s seat and accelerate quickly, pretending like she hadn’t seen her but it was too late. Pauline was strolling towards her, waving an arm in the air.
‘I thought that was you!’ Pauline’s smile faltered as she grew closer, taking in Izzy’s sleeping sheep pyjama bottoms.
‘Pauline!’ Izzy said, her voice high-pitched and unrecognisable. ‘I’d love to chat but—’
‘Oh my God.’ Pauline ignored Izzy and zoned in on Evie nestled cosily in the built-in baby seat of the trolley. ‘She is just gorgeous! Well doesn’t she look like her mummy? She’s the spit of you!’ Pauline said in a baby voice. ‘Look at her all wrapped up sleeping like an angel. Is she good?’
‘Some days,’ Izzy said as light-heartedly as she could, pushing her trolley onto the pavement next to her car and opening the boot. If she kept moving then Pauline would realise she didn’t have time to chat. ‘Sleep is for the weak, isn’t that right?’ Izzy joked, chucking her shopping bags in as quickly as possible.
Izzy felt like the only person awake in the whole world most nights. Except for last night, she suddenly remembered. As she’d made her way to the bathroom at some godforsaken hour, her heavy lids had noticed a flickering blue light from her neighbour’s front room. All the other houses in the cul-de-sac were in darkness, even the street lights had been turned off as part of some council initiative to save energy, which only illuminated number thirty-nine’s light even more. The house belonged to the old man, Arthur, the one who she had unwittingly flashed yesterday morning when he’d delivered that parcel. Izzy had never seen anyone else coming or going from his house, so she presumed that he lived alone. She’d thought it was strange for him to be awake at that time; if he was anything like her grandparents had been then he’d be paranoid about the cost of his electricity bill after leaving the television on all night. She’d been so stressed trying to get out of the house that she’d forgotten all about it.
‘It’s nice to see you but we really had better make a move.’
Izzy closed her boot and clapped her hands together but Pauline was oblivious.
‘My Billy would only sleep on his back, that’s what they tell you to do nowadays, isn’t it? But back then everyone put their babies to sleep on their front and…’
I don’t care! Izzy wanted to scream as Pauline tilted her head and took a trip down memory lane. Izzy didn’t care about how her colleague’s son was a thumb-sucker, she was more concerned about what Pauline would say to the rest of the team about how Izzy Carter was falling apart.
‘Mmm hmm…’
‘And then we made the mistake of giving him a blankie. It seemed like a good idea at the time but boy! Talk about a meltdown when he lost it one day in the park.’ Pauline shook her head, lost in some memory.
Izzy smiled politely. By the end of the day everyone in the office would know about her wardrobe malfunction, she’d be the talk of the water cooler. If she couldn’t even dress herself then how was she capable of looking after a baby?! She imagined them laughing. They wouldn’t be able to believe that Izzy, usually so well turned out, was caught shopping in her scruffy pjs in the middle of the day.
‘It’s all just a phase.’ Izzy tried to follow what Pauline was saying and not catastrophise about being office gossip. ‘I remember when my Billy was Evie’s age, when he was really, really young, he would just cry and cry. I thought I was losing the plot.’ She stopped suddenly as if catching herself from saying anything more. ‘It was the hormones, I suspect. Anyway, I’d better get back.’