"Cold Innit?"

                                                    

He paused, the bus was already disappearing into the distance. Putting the key into the lock, he hesitated and withdrew it, unsure that he could face going in. The early winter wind whipped up the street and flecks of rain peppered his face as he stood looking at the uPVC door. Then, pulling his coat around him, shoulders stooped, he turned and, carrying the black bin liner, walked down the street, head bowed against the wind. Already brightly lit in the gathering afternoon gloom, the Tesco Local was open for business, as he knew it would be until 10 o’clock. How often, he thought, had he looked down from the bedroom window and grumbled about who on earth went shopping at 10 o’clock at night! Crossing the street he entered the store, its warmth immediately misting up his glasses.

A minute or two later he stood at the check-out passing over the two tins of soup, a tin of baked bean, a sliced loaf and a two pint bottle of milk.  Taking out a £10 note he didn’t take in the inane chatter of the young shop assistant: “Cold innit?” she smiled through bright red lipstick. “You got anything nice planned tonight? Bake Off’s on telly – you watching it – I love it – don’t you” she rattled on. Numbly he shook his head. “ Not partying then... you got your Reward card, darlin'?”  Again, he shook his head. Numb. “What am I doing here?” a voice screamed inside him. He held out his hand and took his change and asked if he could have a carrier bag. “Oh you’ve to pay 5p for them nowadays, you know – you bin in prison or somethin’?” laughed the inane voice and the red lips “Now I’ll have to ring it in again - you should’ve told me before”. In a daze he feverishly rifled through the change in his palm trying to find 5p – anything to get away from this idiot girl. To his dismay the small coin slipped from his cold fingers and he found himself scrabbling on his hands and knees to retrieve it. At last, his hands trembling, he put his shopping into the bag and thankfully turned away. “Have a nice night - see ya later” the red lips called from behind. Glad to be free of the girl and her mindless, incessant, rattling voice, his body bent against the wind and scudding rain, he crossed the street, the carrier bag and the bin liner banging against his legs as he moved.

Again, the door.  He knew that he had to do it. Couldn’t stand there like a fool. Putting the shopping down he turned the key. The house felt cold and damp as he knew it would. It had been locked up while the weather had suddenly turned cold – pleasant autumn days abruptly replaced by early winter’s chill. He went into the kitchen and flicked the switch on the central heating boiler and then stood, leaning against the working surface still covered with Monday’s unwashed breakfast bowls and tea cups. Mechanically he put them in the sink; he’d wash them up after he’d had a sit down and a cup of tea. He knew that the central heating would take a little while to have any effect so he walked into the lounge and switched on the gas fire – turning it up to maximum. In the kitchen he put the kettle on and emptied the cold tea bags from the tea pot and swilled it with cold water. He was just about to put two new tea bags in the pot when he stopped, gripped the edge of the working surface and looked out of the kitchen window into the back garden, his heart hammering. Rain was already streaming down the glass. And as he looked out into the deepening gloom a tear ran down his cheek. He shook his head, wiped his eye and put one of the tea bags back in the caddy. He took down a mug from the rack and put a single tea bag in the cup and waited for the water to boil, his hands, knuckles white, tightly gripping the edge of the working surface as he waited.

Carrying the mug of tea and the bin liner into the lounge he sat down and sank back – the warmth of the gas fire already filling the room. With a heavy sigh he put the mug to his lips and sipped, wrapping his fingers around the warm mug. Then he put his hand into the liner and took out the sheets of paper, his eyes scanning but not taking in the words. “Is that it” he thought to himself “is this what it all boils down to – a bin liner and a few words churned out by a computer?” He laid the papers down on the coffee table and rested his head back and closed his eyes; the warmth of the tea and the fire making him feel drowsy after three sleepless days and nights. Outside the daylight was almost gone, rain ran down the window and cars already had their head lights on and wipers swept their windscreens.

When he woke up it was dark. As he struggled back to consciousness his mind filled with a jumbled mixture of confused scenes, he was momentarily disoriented, unsure if he was in the middle of some dream or nightmare. He sat up, the half mug of tea was already cold and he had no idea of the time. The gas fire still threw out its warmth. Robert stood up to switch on the light and stumbled over the bin liner. Cursing, he switched on the light and, his eyes momentarily blinded by the brightness, looked at his watch.  Ten to seven – had he slept all night? Picking up the TV remote he switched it on. The familiar smiling face of the local news presenter was talking of the latest win by United.  Satisfied that he had only slept for an hour or so Robert again looked at his watch and did a quick calculation. He would do it soon – but not yet. What was done was done. It couldn’t be undone. “Best let them get their sleep” he thought – “no sense in waking them up too early, there’s nothing they can do now”.

Turning down the fire he carried his cup, the liner and the papers into the kitchen which, the central heating having done its work, was now warm. He lay the papers on the table and smoothed out the creases; he’d need them he supposed, although he wasn’t quite sure of what had to be done. He tipped the contents of the liner onto the working surface but with lurching heart immediately knew this was a step too far, so scooping them up he stuffed everything back; that was for another day. Picking up the liner he carried it upstairs and put it on the single bed in the spare room, and silently closed the door. Then he stood in silence on the landing – unable to face the evidence of the last three days.

Back in the kitchen Robert put his shopping away. He knew he should eat and half thought of beans on toast but just as quickly dismissed the idea and so the beans and bread, too, went in the larder. And he stood alone, silent and unsure of what to do. A few feet away in the lounge the TV presenter reminded millions that following Eastenders and in thirty minutes time “The pavolovas will be in the ovens and there’s chocolate cake to die for as the Great British Bake Off reaches its thrilling climax!” while in Robert’s kitchen Monday’s dirty cups, cereal bowls lay in the sink. He turned on the hot tap and when the water ran warm sprayed washing up liquid onto the pots. He put the washed pots in the crockery basket on the draining board and was about to leave them when a voice deep inside chided him: ”No, Robert, dry them so they can go away”. And Robert leaned on the sink and smiled and cried at the same time; but obediently, he took the tea towel and carefully dried each item and stacked it in the cupboard where it belonged. Closing the crockery cupboard door he turned and sat down at the table. He was surrounded by the everyday things of the kitchen - but now, it all seemed useless, frozen in time. This was her place, and without her it was lifeless; just bits of wood, plastic, metal, and electrical gadgetry. What was he to do with it all? This was her kingdom where she was queen and  spent so much of her life and where she was happiest. It had been so throughout their marriage. Now it was lifeless, soulless, bereft of its life blood. Robert felt an intruder, an alien, in this place.

He looked again at his watch: nearly half past seven. Again, the mental calculation – it would be breakfast time. Helen would be getting the kids ready for school, Jim would already be off to work. Robert knew that he had to do it. He also knew that Helen would be distraught and angry that he hadn’t rung her before. But it was all so sudden. When Jenny had collapsed after breakfast and the paramedics had arrived the whole world had turned upside down. Everything happened so fast. He had been at the hospital for three days and nights while she fought for life after the massive heart attack. He didn’t know what time it was or what day even. He’d forgotten to take his mobile phone - but anyway, he never used it, hardly knew how to use the damn thing. Helen had bought it for him two Christmases ago – a “pay as you go” she said. “In case of emergencies now you’re both getting a bit older”.  But he’d never really taken to it, often forgot to put any money on it so it wouldn’t work – too much bother. And anyway he had few enough friends to ring – it was Jenny who did all the ringing and talking on the phone. “What do I want a mobile phone for” he’d asked himself.......and anyway he’d never have been able to ring New Zealand on a mobile - not in the state he was in. Yes, Helen would be angry with him for not ringing sooner – that was for certain – and he knew that she would be right to be angry; deep down he knew that he should have contacted her. And Robert wept; tears of loneliness and self pity – knowing that he could, and should, have done better.  Jenny, he knew, would have expected him to contact their only child and so far away.

Robert looked at his watch and heaved himself out of the kitchen chair. He walked across to where the phone hung on the wall and took it out of its cradle. He adjusted his glasses so that he could see the numbers written on the piece of card pinned to the kitchen notice board by the phone. The card was squashed in between a shopping list, a couple of 1^st class stamps, some special offer coupons and the other minutia of life.  Squeezing his eyes together he read the 13 numbers written in ball point in her handwriting. He knew that she knew the numbers by heart – never needed to use the card. Always rang Helen every week – sometimes twice a week; talked to the two grandkids without fail. Asked how they were doing at school and talked to Helen for hours – women’s talk. He remembered how he had grumbled at the cost – and again, a tear of regret, or was it guilt, ran down his cheek. Peering at each number he slowly and deliberately punched them into the key pad and then waited for the clicks and the sound of a connection. Seconds passed, an eternity, he almost put the phone down, and then suddenly it was ringing and almost instantly there was Helen’s voice – as if in the next room. “Hi there.....Hi...Hello...anybody there?” said the voice from the other side of the world. Robert’s throat was suddenly dry – he didn’t know how to say it. “Hello – is that you mum?” - already a tinge of anxiety creeping into her voice.......”Mum....you there?” And it was then that Robert sobbed uncontrollably.....his cries echoing through the thousands of miles to the other side of the planet and as his sobbing slowed it all tumbled out. “No love.... it’s your dad...........I’ve got a bit of bad news for you love......it’s your mum you see......I’ve just got back got from the hospital with all her things.....and, some paperwork they gave me....and  I’ve put the bin bag in your bedroom on your bed and shut the door......she’s had a heart attack y’see love....and.....and.....”

Tony Beale March 2017