milkman when Eric’s dad was at billiards?’
‘Maybe they were watching telly?’ she suggested lightly,
and finished preparing Eric’s bed. There was something
in the way she spoke and avoided his eye that raised his
suspicion.
‘Is that a lie, Mum?’
‘Yes, darling.’ She smiled at him as she stepped over
the bed and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘Yes, it is.’
The front doorbell rang.
Nick leapt over the bed-in-a-bag, raced down the
stairs, and opened the door to Eric, who stood with a
large bag stuffed full with clothes and goodness knows
what behind him. Alex stood a little back on the pave-
ment with his hands in his pockets, his posture awkward.
‘Come on in, Eric!’ His mum stood back so he could
pass and ruffled his hair as he did so. ‘And what are you up
to, Alex?’ she asked, with her arms folded across her chest.
‘Nowt. Just walked Eric here and now I’ll head back
home.’ He pointed down the street.
‘Or’ – Nick’s mum said slowly – ‘I could give your
mum a call and see if you can stay too? As long as you
don’t mind going top-to-toe with Nicky?’
‘I don’t mind!’ Alex ran up the path and the three boys
pogoed up and down in narrow hallway. Nick’s mum
winked at him and reached for the telephone on the wall.
Nick felt a burst of love for this woman, his mum, who
he knew would never leave the house to go anywhere
with Dave The Milk; she had too much to do here.
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The three boys dived beneath the covers with chocolate
biscuits in their sticky mitts intended as a midnight snack,
but all involved knew these biscuits would be unlikely to
survive for five minutes, especially with Eric, the Human
Dustbin, around.
Eric farted. Alex threw his shoe at Eric’s head and
then he farted. The boys collapsed into heaps of side-
splitting laughter on the duvets. Farting was one of their
funniest things.
‘It wasn’t me!’ Eric protested, as Nick lobbed his pillow
at his friend on the floor and then he farted too.
The bedroom door opened and there stood Jen.
‘What is all that racket…’ she yelled before standing
still, her nose twitching. ‘Oh! You disgusting pigs! This
room stinks! Mu-um!’ she called over her shoulder. ‘They
are farting! It’s disgusting! The smell will come through
my bedroom wall, I know it!’ she yelled.
Nick looked from Alex to Eric, as each tried to contain
the laughter that bubbled beneath the surface. Apparently
their laughter wasn’t the only thing bubbling beneath the
surface, as Eric let rip an almighty fart.
‘I hate you all!’ Jen screeched, and slammed the door.
The three boys couldn’t stand for the hysterics that
robbed them of all strength.
‘Eric!’ Alex yelled. ‘She’s right, you’re disgusting!’
In response to which Eric stood on his bed, clenched
his fists, pulled his elbows into his waist and farted again.
116
CHAPTER FIVE
Despite the cool chill of the winter day, Nick opened the
window to let the breeze in. Then he dusted the surfaces
of the lounge, removing the ornaments and replacing
them one by one before running the vacuum cleaner over
the carpet. Next he hesitantly lifted the cushions, patting
and thumping one or two before placing them randomly
along the back of the sofa and repositioning them again.
And again, before admitting defeat. The dog stared at
him from the rug in front of the electric fire. ‘Don’t look
at me like that. I know they look rubbish. I can’t do the
cushions! Okay? I admit it. Bloody things.’
Treacle laid her head on her paws and snorted her
indifference.
‘All this fuss for Olly, eh? It’s not like he hasn’t walked
into this room a million times before.’
The words were easy, but Nick knew this was not
like any other visit; it was to be his son’s first back to
a house where his mum no longer lived, and their first
Christmas without her. Oliver was due back tomorrow,
four days before Christmas Eve, and whilst Nick couldn’t
wait to see him, he felt an unfamiliar and unwelcome
nervousness about his smart boy coming back from uni-
versity. He imagined the life of learning to be a refined
one where humour might be sophisticated; dining more
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elegant and conversation intelligent – or maybe this was
just how it was in the movies. But it was certainly how
he as a teenager pictured university life when he himself
considered his future application.
It wasn’t only the potential changes in Oliver that
concerned him, but also the fact that his son was coming
home to a house that felt different, as if its beating heart
had fled. He stared at the boxed Christmas tree that sat
on the floor along with the cardboard box, which had
seen better days. On the side in Kerry’s neat handwriting,
the words ‘Xmas Decs’ had been written in a thick black
marker. He had little inclination for the task, knowing
that in a similar vein to his cushion arranging, his efforts
would be embarrassing. The intention had been to get
the place ready and festive before Oliver’s arrival, but he
had run out of time, and as his mum had pointed out,
it might be nice to get Oliver to do it – not only as a
distraction for him, but also to make him feel at home,
a reminder that whilst things had changed, a lot would
stay the same, and they needed to carry on.
Nick thought about last year: the house bursting at the
seams with relatives, the loud laughter only one decibel
away from hysteria, and that same laughter turning to
tears at the slightest provocation, all present more than
aware of the fact that this was to be the last Christmas
they shared with their daughter/sister/niece/cousin/aunt.
The whole charade had left both Nick and Kerry quite
exhausted, and he had been glad when the last of the
revellers had left, paper hats askew, as they trotted down
the front path. He and Kerry had collapsed onto this
very sofa and held each other quietly, savouring the peace
while she lay wrapped in his arms. A precious moment
that right now felt like a thousand years ago.
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The doorbell rang, pulling him from the memory.
His sister-in-law stood on the step with a scarf wrapped
around her neck and a stack of presents in her arms.
‘Look at you all loaded up, are you one of Santa’s little
helpers? Come in, Di.’
‘Something like that. God, it’s bloody freezing in
here.’ She visibly shivered.
‘Is it?’ He made out he hadn’t noticed rather than ad-
mit to leaving the heating off to conserve money, having
decided to only put it on when Oli
ver was home. The
chill was nothing that a thick jersey, a vest, a decent pair
of socks and a bit of running on the spot couldn’t combat.
Plus, he was at work more than he was at home, and with
Treacle deposited at his mum’s house on these days, there
was no need to heat the empty rooms.
Di bent down and dumped the gifts in a pile on the
floor in the hallway.
‘These are just some bits for Olly from me and his
cousins, being as we won’t be seeing him this Christmas.’
She let this trail with a tight-lipped sigh of disapproval.
Nick felt the familiar rise of irritation at her manner
and not for the first time he drew breath and let his pulse
settle, chanting the silent reminder: She is Kerry’s sister …
She is grieving … It’s Christmas … and she has bought Olly presents…
‘It’s not that you won’t be seeing him at all, Di, just
not on Christmas Day, that’s all. I asked him what he
wanted to do and told him we’d been invited to my
mum’s, your mum’s or that everyone could come here,
if he’d prefer’ – he gently gave the reminder – ‘but he
said he wanted it to be just the two of us. He’s dreading
it, I think, and so I want to do what makes him most
comfortable. And that’s what he wants.’ He let his arms
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rise and fall as if it was a fait accompli. ‘It’s all about Olly right now.’
‘Well’ – Diane adjusted her scarf – ‘there we go then.
Just ask him if he wouldn’t mind popping in to see his
Gran if he gets a mo.’
‘Of course he will. And it’s only one day out of the
holidays – he’s home for a couple of weeks. Don’t worry,
you’ll be sick of the sight of him.’ He tried for humour,
feeling the instant flicker of self-consciousness as he laughed alone.
Di looked over his shoulder into the middle distance.
‘This time last year Kerry and I were shopping and bak-
ing and getting excited…’ She bit her bottom lip, which
trembled, ‘Truth is, I don’t feel like celebrating either,
but you have to keep going, don’t you?’
‘That’s it, Di, you do.’
She turned towards the front door. ‘And as I said, if
you want any help cooking the turkey or the—’
He shook his head – how many more times! ‘ I know,
and I’m grateful for the offer, but we can manage, Di.
Thank you. And if we can’t, I’ll shout.’
Closing the door firmly, he walked to the kitchen and,
in an act that was rare for him; took a can of lager from
the fridge, pulled the ring top and took a long satisfying
glug. It felt good – after all, it was a Saturday, he had no
shift at the factory to get to and the day was his own.
And here he was drinking beer! The doorbell rang again.
Bloody hell, Di! What now?
He opened the door with a fixed smile, hoping the
whole exchange would be over as quickly as possible.
‘All right, Nick?’ Beverly smiled up at him with her
hands shoved into her jacket pockets and her hair stuck
flat to her face with the residue of rain. It was a surprise
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to see her, but a pleasant one. He wished he weren’t in
his socks and that he had shaved that morning, not sure
why these two things were important. He ran his fingers
through his hair, pushing it from his face in lieu of a comb.
‘Not bad, Bev. You?’ He looked along the street, glad
that there was no sign of his sister-in-law.
‘Yep. What are you doing?’ She rocked on the heels
of her walking boots and looked at him as if this were
the most natural question to ask.
‘Erm, I was drinking, actually. Something I never do
during the day, but today felt like a good time to start.’
He pinched the top of his nose. ‘And before that I was
wondering how to arrange cushions, you know, standard
Saturday.’
‘I see. Well, I’d offer to help but I’m rubbish at cushion
arranging and all that stuff. I call them sofa parasites, hate the bloody things.’
‘I know exactly what you mean.’
‘Shall I come in then?’ She nodded down the hallway.
‘Oh.’ He stood back, still considering the request.
‘Sure.’
He closed the door and watched as Beverly made her
way along the hall and into the kitchen, as though she had
been here many times. Unsurprising, really, it was after
all a standard three-bedroomed semi the same as count-
less others in this and every other town in the country.
She pulled off her coat and laid it on the countertop,
rubbing her hands together and flexing her fingers. It
felt odd and yet surprisingly natural to have her standing
here in the kitchen. Beverly, he noted, was slender, neat
and of small build. Her movements were fast and fluid.
He had grown used to Kerry’s lumbering manner as her
illness robbed her of coordination and speed, her motor
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skills, both fine and gross, deteriorating with the pain
in her limbs, the weakness in her muscles and the fog of
the painkilling sedation. It had been distressing to watch.
To see this woman now standing in Kerry’s kitchen, her
hands moving quickly and her movements precise, was a
reminder of just how much his wife had gone downhill.
His heart flexed for all she had endured.
‘I’m bloody freezing.’ She exaggerated the tremble to
‘I know – it’s turned right cold. If I had the money
I think I’d skip Christmas altogether and go and sit in
the sunshine.’
‘Yes.’ She nodded. ‘You could head off to the
Middleterrainean.’
‘Oh, very funny!’ He chuckled. ‘Am I never going
to be allowed to forget that? I still don’t think Ellie is
talking to me.’
‘Well, there you go. They say every cloud has a silver
lining.’
He liked her manner. ‘Would you … Would you like
a cup of tea or a cold beer?’
She eyed his can. ‘Cold beer, please.’ She rubbed the
tops of her arms and laughed, as if this choice was actu-
ally the very last thing she wanted.
He walked to the fridge, conscious of the dirty break-
fast bowl and mug in the sink and the bag of rubbish tied
to the door handle with empty dog food tins in it that
were giving off a slightly unpleasant smell. He felt embar-
rassed and was also a little confused on two counts: firstly, why it should matter to him that his house was less than
pristine and, secondly, why on earth Beverly was visiting.
It was as if she read his thoughts: ‘I thought I’d come
and say hi, see how you are. I know how shitty it can
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The Light in the Hallway
be to be on your own around Christmas. My dad passed
away a couple of years ago and it was rough, especially
the first.’
He
knew her mum had left when she was still at
school, moved up to Hawick after she had an affair. Word
had it that her husband found out and left all her boxed
belongings in Market Square. Nothing was a secret in a
town this size. He nodded and handed her the tin. She
popped the lid and took a swig.
‘To be honest, it’s kind of crept up on me; work’s
been so busy I’ve been taking extra shifts,’ he explained.
‘I know.’ She smiled. ‘I do the payroll.’
‘Course you do.’ He swallowed, feeling foolish. ‘And
my family and Kerry’s family have been popping in and
out.’ He noted the way he spoke about the two families
as separate entities, realising that his wife had been the
conduit that made them one. ‘It seems I can’t do right for
doing wrong where they are all concerned.’
‘How come?’ She leant against the sink, the beer in
her hand.
‘Oh.’ He sighed. ‘Kerry’s mum and sister want to see
more of my boy, who is still finding his feet, and my mum
doesn’t think I can peel a spud without advice, and the
truth is we just need to be left alone to get on with it.’
Beverly stared at him. ‘Do you want me to go?’ She
angled her body towards the front door.
‘No! No, I didn’t mean that.’ He didn’t want her to
go. It was a relief to have someone to talk to who wasn’t
making a demand of some kind or who treated him like a
grieving widower. ‘I just wish there was a rulebook on how
to behave and the correct timing of everything. Christ, I
remember my mum going off at me when I tried to leave
the house the day after Kerry died; she said it wasn’t the
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done thing to go outside. Who knew? I wouldn’t have
minded, but I wasn’t going up the bookie’s; I was off to
buy a pint of milk for breakfast.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s
like there are a million rules that I don’t know about and
so I go around inadvertently breaking them.’
‘Well, I don’t know you that well, but you seem to be
doing just fine, and if your son’s happy then surely that’s
the main thing?’
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But apparently there
are rotas for getting rid of weeds on a grave, the correct
size of bouquet to leave on the grave, and a minimum
number of phone calls a grandson should be making to
his gran.’
‘Holy moly!’ Beverly took a large gulp of beer. ‘I can