Read an Excerpt
1
Morning Morning. Kate hated the morning. Hated the ache inside her. As the day progressed she could bury herself in her work. In the evenings, well, it's always possible to push the thoughts from your mind. To cram other things in so they lose their place in the scheme of things. Or to scatter them, send them tumbling so they don't make sense. There are ways.
She drew back the curtains and looked out across the garden. It had been so tidy. It wasn't large, you didn't get large gardens in the neighbourhood, but it was difficult to maintain. Maybe she could rise a little earlier each morning and work in the garden before heading out. She liked the idea but the days were getting shorter and colder. Colder days. Her breath condensed on the window as the thought pushed against her. She'd been cold for so long.
She pulled her dressing gown tight around her and returned to the chair in which she had sat awake all night. In the sofa opposite her was the man who had literally fallen through her front door the night before. Despite the bruises she could see that he had a good face, the face of someone you felt at home with. Suddenly she dropped to her knees beside him, then delicately pinched a wayward strand of his black hair and pushed it back. She should wake him, he would have to leave soon.
She remembered how Patrick used to come home from work, lie back on the same sofa and watch the evening news. Often as not he would fall asleep for half an hour, then wake up full of energy. And then they would eat together. And after that they might do some decorating, or listen to some music. Or he might take her in his arms and make love to her. Shewould feel warm and safe afterwards, resting against him as she slowly drifted into sleep. And if she ever had nightmares they were forgotten in the morning, brushed aside by one of his smiles.
Now she saw a stranger in his place. Leaving him she moved into the kitchen. Water gushed into the kettle with a venom she found almost painful, cups clinked onto the worktop and she turned her attention to breakfast. Breakfast for two, she thought, just like old times. When the toast was ready she spread it with butter and jam and poured the tea. As she came into the room he woke with a start.
"Hello," she said, and he sank back into the sofa. "How do you feel?" she continued. He gave no answer. Dazed and confused he attempted to focus on her. "It's not every day a man collapses on my doorstep," she said prompting him.
"You..." He winced and carefully prodded his right cheek. Satisfied that he wasn't badly hurt he continued. "You let me stay."
She smiled. Behind the smile a question bubbled up from her subconscious. Why did you let him stay? Why? Something about him was... familiar. Some fragment of memory... No, of course they hadn't met. She would remember. To let a stranger stay in her house. What was she thinking of? What would Patrick say if he were...
"What else could I do?" she eventually responded. "Dump you back out on the street? I made you some breakfast. Sugar?"
"What?"
"In your tea?"
"Oh, no thank you."
Kate felt embarrassed. She was not one to go into blustering overdrive to break the ice, but settled down into her chair opposite him. It would be very difficult for him to imagine what sort of person she was. Dressed only in her gown there were no clues. She wasn't tall, had shoulder length dark brown hair, and large light brown eyes. She looked up from her breakfast and caught him studying her. She had a coy kind of smile, hinted at for a moment at the corners of the mouth and then lighting up the whole face.
"This is good," he said, holding up a piece of toast.
"You're welcome. How do you feel?"
"Oh, I'll be fine, don't worry."
"You look like you've been knocked about a bit. You don't sound too good either."
"I do feel a bit shaky. This tea will sort me out though."
She returned to her breakfast. The moments dragged by and the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece grew louder. She glanced towards it. Her eyes flitted around the room. It shouldn't be so untidy. Dust had been allowed to settle for too many days. How long had it been since she'd thrown open the windows and let fresh, clean air back into the house? Her attention snapped back to her guest. He does have a good face, she thought, a kind face.
"What time is it?" he said, turning his head to look over his shoulder, but then wincing in pain.
"It's a quarter to eight."
"Um, I don't know your name."
"It's Kate, what's yours?"
"A quarter to eight," he mumbled, seemingly ignoring the question.
Again she smiled, but with a certain lack of patience. "I have to get ready for work. Finish your toast. There's more in the kitchen if you want it."
"It's Joe," he said, turning his head to follow her, but she had already left the room.
The living room had a soft charm to it, filled with the little touches that women bring to a home. Ornaments, lace and so forth. His thoughts went back to his birthplace, so stark and lifeless by comparison. Yet here too there was a sense of decay, a sense of emptiness. He tried to place it. He liked the carpet, a deep rustic burgundy colour. She had matching curtains tied back. Beyond the wooden window frame he could see the top of a garden fence covered in ivy. In the corners of the room to his left were hi-fi speakers mounted on stands. Near one of them was an impressive looking stack of equipment to drive them. On a cabinet there was a small television. The walls were pure white, but largely covered by wall units and pictures. The wall units held rows of books, mostly paperbacks, some videos, a vase of flowers. The pictures were mostly simple pen and ink drawings of old buildings but there were a couple of water-colours, one of which he particularly liked. It managed to convey the impression of vast rolling fields of wheat.
A sound in the kitchen drew him out of his reveries. He picked up his breakfast tray and struggled to his feet. As he approached the door it opened from the other side. Tray and contents were snatched from his hand. As they tumbled through the air he thought to catch them, but the next instant they crashed to the floor. Kate was laughing, as if someone had told her the funniest joke.
"I'm sorry, I..."
"Don't worry," said Kate, "I'll clean it up."
"Look, I should be going."
"Oh, yes, I'll show you to the door."
This morning, for Kate, it seemed as if the hall went on forever. She'd been cold for so long. A moment ago she had been laughing.
"Help! I can't seem to..."
"Oh, the latch, everyone has problems with it. Here..."
"Thank you. You've been very kind." Standing in the open doorway he added, "I'm very grateful."
"You could come back... some time... um... I'll cook you some dinner." The words had seemed to fly out of her mouth with a life of their own. Now they seemed to fly back into her brain. Echoing back at her. He didn't reply immediately. He was silhouetted by the light behind him. There was something about him. "Please, I'd like you to."
"I... I'd like that. Tonight?"
"Tonight it is. Eight o'clock sharp."
"Goodbye Kate."
"Bye."
She closed the door, leant her back against it and waited for her heart to stop racing.
He climbed the steps onto the street. The night before he had fallen down them, had slammed against the door. The door had opened. He felt himself falling again but then clicked back into the present. Then the door flew open and Kate rushed out. She drew up suddenly, surprised that he was still there and not halfway down the street.
"Um, I still don't know your name."
"It's Joe. I'm sorry I didn't answer before, I was a little confused."
"You've a right to be. I'll see you tonight. Eight o'clock. Don't be late. Um, do you know where to go from here?"
"Yes, I was heading for the tube when... I'll see you at eight."
Turning, he stepped into the road and walked away. As he reached the other side he tilted his head back. There was not a cloud in the sky. He breathed in deeply and continued along the pavement. He noticed a cat clawing at the contents of a rubbish bin that had been turned over. He picked up the cat and held it in his left arm. It snuggled against him in a most agreeable fashion while he righted the rubbish bin with his free hand. Most of the rubbish was still inside the rim and so fell back inside as he picked it up. He clutched at the remaining debris and dropped it back inside also. Turning his attention to the cat, he asked it whether it had a home to go to. The cat replied in the affirmative so he released it. Noting that his shoes needed cleaning he continued on his way, happy in the knowledge that everything was right with the world. The clock was ticking.
Copyright © 2001 by Chris Butler
