I
The condition of the Clayton home was a moment of disgrace in the middle of a long row of otherwise well-kept 1930s semis. Rotting window frames; filthy, cracked pebble dash; abrasive paintwork; an untended garden overrun with weeds. The Claytons had spent nothing on the place. Whatever Clayton couldn’t fix himself, they’d put up with.
Clayton knew they were considered a neighbourhood oddity. He’d once heard the little girl next door asking if Julie was the witch from her storybook. Sometimes, at night, youngsters would creep up to the house, trying to get a glimpse of them through the widows. They’d hear them and Clayton would be instructed to get outside and chase them away.
But then Clayton couldn’t fix his wife. A diagnosis of something long fermenting. I’m so sorry to have to tell you. Yes, it will get you in the end. We just don’t know when – it could be several years.
The placebo effect of false hope. Did they say that to everyone? Clayton had wondered. Sometimes - in his view - you just have to accept that things have run their course.
*
The living room had greying net curtains and gave off a dull and dirty yellow glow. Clayton entered the room, moved the red cushion to his wife’s armchair and sat down on the sofa. He placed his cup of tea on the small round table and the table wobbled slightly and a streak of brown liquid ran down the side of the cup and joined the myriad stains on the surface.
Two months had passed since he had sat here following closely a story on the evening news; a story like their own, about a man and his terminally ill wife. Clayton had watched, whilst upstairs Julie had slept; a shallow, half conscious, half living sleep.
On the shelf over the gas fire their wedding photo still stood. It had stood there since the day they moved into the house, thirty six years ago. Back then he’d had a full head of neatly cropped, black hair and Julie’s was down over her shoulders. A lifetime removed from the harsh grey bob of her latter years, and Clayton’s straggling wisps, brushing the top of his shirt collar. Thirty six years of marriage. That was something noteworthy, he thought, in this day and age. Even if it could have been more. Julie had died just a few weeks before their anniversary.
Carefully he placed his empty cup down and flexed his hands and rubbed them together. Then he stood and went upstairs to the bedroom.
The bedroom was chilly and still smelt unnatural and medical. He no longer slept in it, but out of habit closed the curtains every evening. The window frames were truly beyond saving. Light from the landing cast on to dirty, brown, crumbled wood where the frames had succumbed to the pooling of condensation over many winters. There were splinters where the frame joined the sill. A draught blew in from somewhere.
For the whole of their married life they’d slept in two single beds, side by side. They’d gone out to buy a double but the two singles were available at a drastically reduced price and the chance to save money always swayed Julie.
Clayton moved her slippers into a neat pairing on the floor. In the living room below, he could faintly hear the sound of the television, the volume still set low for her sake. Passing cars created an uplight that moved silently across the walls and on to the ceiling. A bus went by, a row of rectangular lights, and a handful of passengers being taken to wherever they were going next. In the gloom he caught a glimpse of the advert on the side of the bus, a young women’s face, unsmiling, very red lipstick. Julie didn’t smile much, although she never wore lipstick (waste of money, she said, make up). Even on the wedding photo she looked solemn. A hint of warmth in her eyes, perhaps, but her mouth a simple straight line, that no-nonsense approach that had made him unsure. It transpired that she was interested and after a short and uneventful engagement, they married.
They’d decorated the bedroom together and he’d spilt paint on the carpet and thought she’d be angry because they’d already decided not to have it replaced (that would be a waste of money, she said). She just rubbed hard with a cloth until it had pretty much gone. There was a chest of drawers covering the spot now, but for some time the small patch of matted carpet had been fully visible, a reminder of her uncharacteristic moment of forbearance.
He returned downstairs, collected his cup from the living room and went to the kitchen. The hot tap whistled and squeaked as the water trickled out. He tipped his teabag into the half full bin. The bin discharged a nauseating whiff of rotten food. He rinsed his cup and wiped round the inside and rested it in the white plastic draining rack. The cloth smelt of damp. He tossed it in the sink. Then he got the Yellow Pages, stuffed on a chair slotted tightly under the table. He looked closely at the page edges, until he found ‘E’ and turned to the listings of electricians. Electrical work was not within his capabilities. He circled a few names and imagined the conversation, if one came to the house. He might say that his wife had recently passed away and they would say how sorry they were and look at him sympathetically, like he was just another poor, aging widower.
He left the book open on the table, put on his coat, lifted the bag from the bin and opened the back door.
Clayton knew they were considered a neighbourhood oddity. He’d once heard the little girl next door asking if Julie was the witch from her storybook. Sometimes, at night, youngsters would creep up to the house, trying to get a glimpse of them through the widows. They’d hear them and Clayton would be instructed to get outside and chase them away.
But then Clayton couldn’t fix his wife. A diagnosis of something long fermenting. I’m so sorry to have to tell you. Yes, it will get you in the end. We just don’t know when – it could be several years.
The placebo effect of false hope. Did they say that to everyone? Clayton had wondered. Sometimes - in his view - you just have to accept that things have run their course.
*
The living room had greying net curtains and gave off a dull and dirty yellow glow. Clayton entered the room, moved the red cushion to his wife’s armchair and sat down on the sofa. He placed his cup of tea on the small round table and the table wobbled slightly and a streak of brown liquid ran down the side of the cup and joined the myriad stains on the surface.
Two months had passed since he had sat here following closely a story on the evening news; a story like their own, about a man and his terminally ill wife. Clayton had watched, whilst upstairs Julie had slept; a shallow, half conscious, half living sleep.
On the shelf over the gas fire their wedding photo still stood. It had stood there since the day they moved into the house, thirty six years ago. Back then he’d had a full head of neatly cropped, black hair and Julie’s was down over her shoulders. A lifetime removed from the harsh grey bob of her latter years, and Clayton’s straggling wisps, brushing the top of his shirt collar. Thirty six years of marriage. That was something noteworthy, he thought, in this day and age. Even if it could have been more. Julie had died just a few weeks before their anniversary.
Carefully he placed his empty cup down and flexed his hands and rubbed them together. Then he stood and went upstairs to the bedroom.
The bedroom was chilly and still smelt unnatural and medical. He no longer slept in it, but out of habit closed the curtains every evening. The window frames were truly beyond saving. Light from the landing cast on to dirty, brown, crumbled wood where the frames had succumbed to the pooling of condensation over many winters. There were splinters where the frame joined the sill. A draught blew in from somewhere.
For the whole of their married life they’d slept in two single beds, side by side. They’d gone out to buy a double but the two singles were available at a drastically reduced price and the chance to save money always swayed Julie.
Clayton moved her slippers into a neat pairing on the floor. In the living room below, he could faintly hear the sound of the television, the volume still set low for her sake. Passing cars created an uplight that moved silently across the walls and on to the ceiling. A bus went by, a row of rectangular lights, and a handful of passengers being taken to wherever they were going next. In the gloom he caught a glimpse of the advert on the side of the bus, a young women’s face, unsmiling, very red lipstick. Julie didn’t smile much, although she never wore lipstick (waste of money, she said, make up). Even on the wedding photo she looked solemn. A hint of warmth in her eyes, perhaps, but her mouth a simple straight line, that no-nonsense approach that had made him unsure. It transpired that she was interested and after a short and uneventful engagement, they married.
They’d decorated the bedroom together and he’d spilt paint on the carpet and thought she’d be angry because they’d already decided not to have it replaced (that would be a waste of money, she said). She just rubbed hard with a cloth until it had pretty much gone. There was a chest of drawers covering the spot now, but for some time the small patch of matted carpet had been fully visible, a reminder of her uncharacteristic moment of forbearance.
He returned downstairs, collected his cup from the living room and went to the kitchen. The hot tap whistled and squeaked as the water trickled out. He tipped his teabag into the half full bin. The bin discharged a nauseating whiff of rotten food. He rinsed his cup and wiped round the inside and rested it in the white plastic draining rack. The cloth smelt of damp. He tossed it in the sink. Then he got the Yellow Pages, stuffed on a chair slotted tightly under the table. He looked closely at the page edges, until he found ‘E’ and turned to the listings of electricians. Electrical work was not within his capabilities. He circled a few names and imagined the conversation, if one came to the house. He might say that his wife had recently passed away and they would say how sorry they were and look at him sympathetically, like he was just another poor, aging widower.
He left the book open on the table, put on his coat, lifted the bag from the bin and opened the back door.
II
Clayton stepped down on to the moss-covered drive. It was cold and he could smell wood smoke. A star shone brightly over the hillside, like the foretelling of some new and brighter existence. Julie’s car was still parked on the drive. It was in absolutely pristine condition. Seven years old, with just over 3,000 miles on the clock. Waste of money, petrol, she said. He hadn’t yet decided whether to sell the car. He’d get a good price for it. But he had an idea that he might now visit a few places. It’s just that he hadn’t driven for so long.
Clayton placed his hand on the cold, dead metal and as he did so heard, from the other side of the car, whispering voices. He placed the bin bag down and started to move round the vehicle. There was a scrambling of feet on gravel and two boys shot up from their hiding place and ran down the drive.
‘Clear off!’ Clayton shouted after them but he didn’t bother to give chase. Not anymore. He could hear them somewhere up the road talking excitedly and laughing with others, boasting triumphantly to their friends, no doubt, at completing the dare.
The sound of their voices receded.
Clayton picked up the bin bag. The lid of the wheelie bin dropped with a hollow slam and Clayton threw the bag in and quickly closed the lid again.
Julie had her car. Clayton had his shed. Not in pristine condition, not at all, but a place under his sole influence. Julie said he’d end up living in it one day.
He made his way down the garden and unlocked the shed door and opened it and stepped inside.
The shed had its own smell; chemically, earthy and slightly damp, the combined residue of its contents, past and present. In the dark he found the torch kept by the door. He used the beam of light to guide the key, and locked himself in. Of course he didn’t want to live in it, but Clayton had long felt that the shed would benefit from a power source. An electric light and a portable heater would really make the place. Julie said she thought it would be a waste of money, and he found it easiest to agree with her.
He shone the torch round, inspecting his hoard of inanimate objects, set in neat piles on the floor and on the shelves. He’d salvaged the shelves from a skip on the street, one night a few years ago, and erected them himself. Shadows of things moved sideways as he passed the light over the detritus. Paint pots. An ancient bottle of car engine oil, its label pealing and faded and brittle at the edges. Some rusted garden tools hanging on a section of the stained, planked wall. Two boxes with broken electrical equipment. An old retractable washing line that they had decided to keep in case the new one broke. A bucket with solidified paint brushes. A pair of work gloves that he’d not yet worn, but may be should have done. He noticed that his hands had stopped shaking.
Against the back wall he had put an armchair. It was covered by a blanket, which he lifted up. The armchair had come from a charity shop, smuggled in one Saturday when Julie was out. She rarely went near the shed and she’d never seen the chair.
Before leaving the house he had taken the red cushion from the living room and he placed it now on the armchair, for some extra comfort. He zipped up his coat, up underneath his chin, wrapped the blanket around himself, switched the torch off and settled down. From where he sat the angle was perfect for the intricacies of a spider’s web, stretched across one corner of the shed window, to be seen against the distant kitchen light. A work of art, thought Clayton. A curtain, complex in form, hanging between him and the life he inhabited.
The air was cold. He could see his breath as a mist floating towards the pitched ceiling. The chair and the cushion and the blanket gave him some warmth. He sat and listened to the wind in the trees and to the branches of the pine occasionally scrapping the shed’s exterior, or giving a soft thud on the wood. High above a plane was passing over.
Through the window were other lights, in the other houses, between gaps in the fence and the hedge. Sometimes he saw a person. The neighbours. He didn’t know their names. There was the faint sound of children shouting and laughing and one crying. They’d not had children. Cost an absolute fortune, Julie would always say. They never talked about the real reason. Easiest not to.
He closed his eyes and despite the cold, sleep took him.
In his half-conscious state, the pine branches on the side of the shed were Julie knocking, come to find him out, to see the things he kept in his shed, to see his armchair. She was shouting at him with the anger he had expected years ago, when the paint got spilt. ‘What’s that you’re sitting on? Waste of money is what it is. Trying to hide it from me were you? I know what you’ve done Ken, I know what you’ve done.’
He slept on.
Clayton placed his hand on the cold, dead metal and as he did so heard, from the other side of the car, whispering voices. He placed the bin bag down and started to move round the vehicle. There was a scrambling of feet on gravel and two boys shot up from their hiding place and ran down the drive.
‘Clear off!’ Clayton shouted after them but he didn’t bother to give chase. Not anymore. He could hear them somewhere up the road talking excitedly and laughing with others, boasting triumphantly to their friends, no doubt, at completing the dare.
The sound of their voices receded.
Clayton picked up the bin bag. The lid of the wheelie bin dropped with a hollow slam and Clayton threw the bag in and quickly closed the lid again.
Julie had her car. Clayton had his shed. Not in pristine condition, not at all, but a place under his sole influence. Julie said he’d end up living in it one day.
He made his way down the garden and unlocked the shed door and opened it and stepped inside.
The shed had its own smell; chemically, earthy and slightly damp, the combined residue of its contents, past and present. In the dark he found the torch kept by the door. He used the beam of light to guide the key, and locked himself in. Of course he didn’t want to live in it, but Clayton had long felt that the shed would benefit from a power source. An electric light and a portable heater would really make the place. Julie said she thought it would be a waste of money, and he found it easiest to agree with her.
He shone the torch round, inspecting his hoard of inanimate objects, set in neat piles on the floor and on the shelves. He’d salvaged the shelves from a skip on the street, one night a few years ago, and erected them himself. Shadows of things moved sideways as he passed the light over the detritus. Paint pots. An ancient bottle of car engine oil, its label pealing and faded and brittle at the edges. Some rusted garden tools hanging on a section of the stained, planked wall. Two boxes with broken electrical equipment. An old retractable washing line that they had decided to keep in case the new one broke. A bucket with solidified paint brushes. A pair of work gloves that he’d not yet worn, but may be should have done. He noticed that his hands had stopped shaking.
Against the back wall he had put an armchair. It was covered by a blanket, which he lifted up. The armchair had come from a charity shop, smuggled in one Saturday when Julie was out. She rarely went near the shed and she’d never seen the chair.
Before leaving the house he had taken the red cushion from the living room and he placed it now on the armchair, for some extra comfort. He zipped up his coat, up underneath his chin, wrapped the blanket around himself, switched the torch off and settled down. From where he sat the angle was perfect for the intricacies of a spider’s web, stretched across one corner of the shed window, to be seen against the distant kitchen light. A work of art, thought Clayton. A curtain, complex in form, hanging between him and the life he inhabited.
The air was cold. He could see his breath as a mist floating towards the pitched ceiling. The chair and the cushion and the blanket gave him some warmth. He sat and listened to the wind in the trees and to the branches of the pine occasionally scrapping the shed’s exterior, or giving a soft thud on the wood. High above a plane was passing over.
Through the window were other lights, in the other houses, between gaps in the fence and the hedge. Sometimes he saw a person. The neighbours. He didn’t know their names. There was the faint sound of children shouting and laughing and one crying. They’d not had children. Cost an absolute fortune, Julie would always say. They never talked about the real reason. Easiest not to.
He closed his eyes and despite the cold, sleep took him.
In his half-conscious state, the pine branches on the side of the shed were Julie knocking, come to find him out, to see the things he kept in his shed, to see his armchair. She was shouting at him with the anger he had expected years ago, when the paint got spilt. ‘What’s that you’re sitting on? Waste of money is what it is. Trying to hide it from me were you? I know what you’ve done Ken, I know what you’ve done.’
He slept on.
III
When he stirred, it was at the sound of fireworks, booming somewhere in the suburban darkness, remnants of bonfire night. He opened his eyes but sat, sluggish, dwelling on a memory that had come to him, of being in the garden with his sister, watching their dad light a miniscule firework collection and seeing them go up into the sky and tamely pop. It was the first time they’d ever had fireworks in the garden, possibly the only time. His mam was there too and she made the obligatory sounds of wonder and amazement at each explosion of colour, whilst his sister hid behind her, scared by a TV advert she’d seen about the dangers of fireworks. It must have been the best part of fifty years ago and it surprised him how clearly he could remember the warmth of his mam’s gloved hands on his shoulders and against his face.
The cold was biting at him. He pulled the blanket close around his shoulders, shivering, and slid down further into the chair.
At the last appointment the doctor said she might (might) still have a good few months left, but what did she have left, really, Clayton had thought: weakened and knowing it was only going to get worse? It was dragging on. Becoming a waste of money, in fact. All those prescriptions and then the prospect of installing a stair lift, which would cost thousands.
He had done it for her - that was what the man on the evening news had said, as part of his defence. The man had apparently used his bare hands, which seemed barbaric. On the spur of the moment Clayton had picked up the red cushion. Slowly and with soft footsteps he had climbed the stairs, the red cushion held firmly in his hands. He had stood outside the room for a few moments, listening to make sure she was asleep, wondering how common a thing this was. The man on the news had turned himself in because he wanted to make a point. He was fighting for a cause, he said, a right that he believed all human beings were entitled to. Clayton’s cause was simply his own. The door had creaked a little when he pushed it open but she did not wake. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, he had pulled the curtains closed, and then, for the first time in his life, he had not just put up with something that he couldn’t fix.
*
An electrician came round and quoted for getting power to the shed and Julie’s passing never came up. The quote seemed very reasonable but Clayton said he’d think about it. He was having second thoughts about the shed.
That evening the Clayton’s living room was in darkness, the TV switched off and the living room door pulled to. Clayton had decided to drink his cup of tea in the kitchen. He had been into town, on the bus, and bought a table lamp. It stood at his elbow and gave off a warm, golden-white glow by which he was able to clearly see the pages of his book.
The kitchen also had net curtains, covering the lower half of the window, behind the sink. As Clayton finished off his tea, he caught sight of something in the window. A boy in a baseball cap was peering in, most of his face hidden by the net curtain. The boy froze, wide-eyed, as soon as he realised that Clayton had seen him. Clayton calmly held his gaze for a moment and then slowly, and much to the boy’s surprise, raised a hand in acknowledgement. The boy didn’t respond and a second later he disappeared. Clayton heard the wheelie bin knock into the outside wall as the boy jumped down, and the sound of his feet landing on the drive and his footsteps running away. Clayton didn’t even bother to get up.
He sat for a little while longer. There was no more sound from outside. All he could hear was the intermittent dripping of the sink tap. He reached for his book, found the page he’d got to and settled back in the chair and went on reading.
The cold was biting at him. He pulled the blanket close around his shoulders, shivering, and slid down further into the chair.
At the last appointment the doctor said she might (might) still have a good few months left, but what did she have left, really, Clayton had thought: weakened and knowing it was only going to get worse? It was dragging on. Becoming a waste of money, in fact. All those prescriptions and then the prospect of installing a stair lift, which would cost thousands.
He had done it for her - that was what the man on the evening news had said, as part of his defence. The man had apparently used his bare hands, which seemed barbaric. On the spur of the moment Clayton had picked up the red cushion. Slowly and with soft footsteps he had climbed the stairs, the red cushion held firmly in his hands. He had stood outside the room for a few moments, listening to make sure she was asleep, wondering how common a thing this was. The man on the news had turned himself in because he wanted to make a point. He was fighting for a cause, he said, a right that he believed all human beings were entitled to. Clayton’s cause was simply his own. The door had creaked a little when he pushed it open but she did not wake. Quietly, so as not to disturb her, he had pulled the curtains closed, and then, for the first time in his life, he had not just put up with something that he couldn’t fix.
*
An electrician came round and quoted for getting power to the shed and Julie’s passing never came up. The quote seemed very reasonable but Clayton said he’d think about it. He was having second thoughts about the shed.
That evening the Clayton’s living room was in darkness, the TV switched off and the living room door pulled to. Clayton had decided to drink his cup of tea in the kitchen. He had been into town, on the bus, and bought a table lamp. It stood at his elbow and gave off a warm, golden-white glow by which he was able to clearly see the pages of his book.
The kitchen also had net curtains, covering the lower half of the window, behind the sink. As Clayton finished off his tea, he caught sight of something in the window. A boy in a baseball cap was peering in, most of his face hidden by the net curtain. The boy froze, wide-eyed, as soon as he realised that Clayton had seen him. Clayton calmly held his gaze for a moment and then slowly, and much to the boy’s surprise, raised a hand in acknowledgement. The boy didn’t respond and a second later he disappeared. Clayton heard the wheelie bin knock into the outside wall as the boy jumped down, and the sound of his feet landing on the drive and his footsteps running away. Clayton didn’t even bother to get up.
He sat for a little while longer. There was no more sound from outside. All he could hear was the intermittent dripping of the sink tap. He reached for his book, found the page he’d got to and settled back in the chair and went on reading.