It Started With A Note. Victoria Cooke

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       Chapter Two

      When I finally arrive at the end of my road, I’m trembling, battered, and bruised, and all I’ve done is commute home from work.

      The off-licence near the bus stop is open, and I have an idea to salvage the evening. My spirits are still high; I still have the envelope and I’m almost home. I plonk a bottle of cava on the counter and rummage in my purse for six pounds.

      ‘Celebrating tonight?’ Jim, the owner, asks.

      ‘Ooh, yes I am.’ I can’t help but grin. ‘But I can’t tell you why – I don’t want to jinx it.’ I smile and give a little shrug.

      ‘Well, whatever it is, you enjoy it, love.’ Jim smiles back. ‘How’s that brother of yours doing?’

      I want to offload and explain how exasperated I’ve become with him, how he never helps around the house and has yet to find a job, but I find myself unable to. I don’t know if it’s embarrassment or loyalty, or a complete unwillingness to bore the lovely Jim to death with my woes.

      ‘He’s good,’ I say instead.

      ‘Glad things are working out.’ He smiles. ‘I told him he could have a few shifts here to tide him over, but he said he thought things were looking up.’

      Oh, did he now? ‘Yes, apparently so,’ I say.

      Jim smiles again and hands me my penny change, which I pop into the charity box by the till.

      When I finally make it through the front door, relief embraces me, tighter than my shrink-wrapped jacket. I’d make tea, then pull out the envelope and ask Gary if he’d help me celebrate, we’d have the bubbly and then I’d run a nice hot bath, putting that awful journey home behind me. Perhaps I’d book a meal for us at the weekend, at that new pub in town. I could even ask Kieran to come over and make it a real family affair. It would cheer Gary up and I’d quite enjoy the company and change of scenery. I smile dreamily as Gary approaches me.

      ‘I’m goin’ down the pub,’ he mumbles, barging past me and causing a few tins from my precariously balanced bag-for-life to tumble to the floor.

      My heart sinks. Gary always goes out for an evening drink, so it was silly to feel so deflated when tonight is no different. I should have expected it, and it wasn’t like he knew I had exciting news to share with him. I contemplate asking him to stay in but as I turn around, the front door slams shut in my face.

      At least I could have a bath and then make tea in my own time; that was something. My feet sting as soon as the bloodied blisters hit the hot soapy water, but the rest of my body needs a soak just to warm up because apparently it would have killed Gary to pop the heating on. The house is like an igloo and will take a good few hours to warm up. As much as I love him, I could batter him with a cut-price baguette at times.

      After my bath, I heat up the tin of stew and butter some bread, which has started to go a little hard. It isn’t mouldy thankfully, but bread never does seem to go mouldy anymore, which is a little odd come to think of it; I wonder what on earth goes into it nowadays. Still, this piece is okay – it just isn’t deliciously fresh. I could have brought some deliciously fresh bread home if Gary had managed to send a simple text message to let me know we needed some. I shake my head as I take a bite.

      I’d taken pity on him after our mum died. It had hit us both hard as we never knew our father and she’d been both mum and dad to us. I was so close to Mum and she was always there for me and Kieran – so much so that I’d never felt like a single parent. Gary was close to her too and after she died, he’d sunk into depression. He’d already lost his girlfriend, and a year or so after Mum died he lost his job too, but two years have passed since she died and I shouldn’t need to be looking after him anymore. I’d let him move in about six months ago while he got himself back on his feet, but so far he’s not displayed any signs of getting a job and moving out, and he only uses his feet to walk to the pub.

      I place my bowl and bread on the kitchen table and remember the bottle of cava in the fridge. Celebrating alone seems a little sad but what choice do I have? A little glass wouldn’t hurt, would it? One now, and perhaps Gary would have a glass with me when he got back from the pub, I reason. Maybe we could even have a chat about him moving out if he comes home in good spirits. The bottle is disappointingly warm despite having sat in the fridge for a good few hours. The blooming thing has two settings: frozen and lukewarm. I’ve asked Gary a million times to look at it for me or call someone out, but evidently, it’s been too much trouble for him.

      Remembering how fast corks can pop, I take a tea towel from the drawer to catch it in; I’d seen someone do that before at a party. Placing the towel over the cork, I begin to push at it with my thumb as hard as I can. It isn’t budging so I place my hand over it, trying to ease it out, but the thing is stuck fast. I try my other hand: more wiggling, more pulling and even a twist here and there, but it is no good. I even hold the bottle with my thighs and try with both thumbs but it’s useless and my hands are red and sore. Resigned to the fact I won’t be having a glass of bubbly, I dump the bottle on the side and put the kettle on instead before sinking into the kitchen chair, where I cry.

      I hate myself for it because I try so hard to be upbeat and positive, no matter how hard things get, but sometimes things pile up and the weight becomes too heavy to bear. It’s not just the fact I’ve had an awful journey home or that I lost my corned beef. It’s the fact that I’ve never complained about my life being samey and unadventurous in all the years that it has, but the one time I try to brave something new, the cork just won’t pop. I can’t help but wonder if it’s a sign from the gods to quit trying and just accept my fate. I let out a small humourless laugh through the tears before wiping my face and finishing making my tea.

      The house is still and quiet but I’m not in the mood for watching TV. I miss grumpy Kieran barging through the door, hungry, as he always is. Like most teenagers, he spent much of his time in his room, but just knowing he was up there was a comfort. I could always make an excuse to pop in and see him, to offer him a drink or collect his dirty laundry and if he was ever out, I always knew he’d be coming back. Now the emptiness of the house is a feeling rather than a state and it’s odd. But that doesn’t mean I want Gary to stay; he needs to rebuild his own life. It’s just something I’m going to have to get used to. No son, no Mum, no Gary. Just me.

      The stillness thickens and prickles my skin. I’m sure it’s emphasised by the sad deflated attempt at a celebration. Needing to busy myself, I have an idea.

      Kieran’s lifetime collection of junk is still cluttering up his room. It’s all stuff he hadn’t deemed important enough to take to university but apparently felt was fine to leave in my house. I decide I’m going to have a good sort-out. What’s that saying? Clean house, clean mind? I shake my head – that doesn’t sound right at all; I’ve always had a clean СКАЧАТЬ