Read by Silas Hawkins
The day had got off to a poor start. Jim had taken three nuisance calls by ten o’clock. To the first caller he had simply said, no thanks, and put down the phone. To the second he had responded to the enquiry, how are you today, sir? with the reply, I’m fine, how are you? And Mark, who had introduced himself at the other end of the line, had said that he was fine too. That’s about it then, Jim had told him. I don’t think we have anything more to say. Then he’d put the phone down. His wife had called down from upstairs. I like that one!
When Jasmine (or was it Jamsin? he didn’t quite catch the name) – when she rang, on behalf of somebody offering solar solutions, he was poised to go off on a rant, along the lines of, did I ask you to call? No I did not! It was the regular reply of a near neighbour, and always seemed to leave her in a better mood, and Jim had been keeping it in reserve for when he was really pissed off. But something, whether or not it was the timbre of Jasmine’s voice is hard to say, something made him pause, and a feeling of goodwill flooded into him. Cold calling is a lousy job. He pictured her in headphones in a little booth, far, far away, doing what she had to do to make a living.
Jim politely told her that he had no solar problems requiring a solution, and then, without thinking it through, he said, look, if you’re ever passing this way, pop in for a cup of tea, and we can have a proper chat. Jasmine wished him a great day, and ended the call.
*
It was several months later, and after a string of days that hadn’t been great at all, that he thought he heard the doorbell ring. He shuffled down the hall to answer it and saw a slim, dark haired young woman of Asian ethnicity with fierce looking eyes standing on the doorstep. Jim stood up straight, and looked up at her.
Yes?
He heard her speak his own name.
Yes.
It was Jasmine, she said. She reminded him that he had said she should call around for tea, if she was passing by.
Jim opened his mouth. Memories of conversations and fragments of conversations rattled through his brain like small change through a sorting machine.
You were the girl with the solar solutions, he said. I thought you must be in India or somewhere.
She was from Glasgow, she said but had wondered if that’s what he’d thought. She smiled, like someone who has just won a small prize, and he saw her turn aside.
Don’t go, Jim said. I promised tea and a chat. I remember. Come in. Come in.
That would surprise her, he thought, and make her pause. Jim stepped out over the threshold and looked both ways.
Seriously. Why not? You came all this way. You wanted to see! Of course you did. I would have done the same, when I was younger. What sort of crazy old fool is he? A cup of tea, and a chat? You drink tea, don’t you? I don’t know much about Asian people, or Glaswegians come to that, but you do drink tea I think.
Drink tea, she echoed.
He stepped back into the hall, and suddenly saw the place differently. God, what a mess it was.
You’ll have to take it as you find it, he said, and he held out one hand in the direction of the sitting room door. We’ll go in here, he said. He pushed the door open. There was a patina of dust on the head of the seated wooden figure placed just inside, and a stream of light, shimmering with motes, ran in through the gap of the bay window curtains.
I haven’t been in here this morning, he said. He hadn’t been in for weeks.
He sensed that she was still standing at the threshold. It would be absurd, he thought, for her actually to step inside. A single young woman. An unknown old man. Risky. A crazy risk to take, and for what? But it had become important to him that she should; disproportionately, vitally important.
Is your wife in? Her voice sounded distant, as if it came not from just a few paces behind him, but all the way from India. His hand, which was still outstretched towards the door, fell to his side and he seemed to shrink.
No. She’s no longer with us, he said. It’s been a few weeks now. We’re getting used to it, bit by bit. Things slide though. I should draw those curtains, he said. He stepped into the sitting room and crossed to the bay window and pulled back the curtains. It wasn’t a particularly sunny day outside, but the room was instantly overwhelmed with light. I never was much of a one for dusting, he said. Neither of us was. Life’s too short for dusting, she used to say.
He was talking as if to his own reflection which showed vaguely in the window glass, but knew that she had followed him inside and was now standing at the door of the room, behind him.
What a lovely room, he heard her say.
Yes, it was, he said. Not big. None of the rooms in this house are big, but they were all nice. People said we should knock through. He turned around and pointed to the fireplace. The kitchen’s the other side of that wall. We could have gone either side of the fireplace, opened it up. We couldn’t see the point though. Neither of us particularly liked big rooms.
It’s perfect the way it is, she said.
Do you think so?
It looks like a room people have been happy in.
A burning sensation started in the corners of his eyes.
Yes they were. I’ll put the kettle on. It won’t be a minute. I have Darjeeling, Earl Grey, English Breakfast. We liked our teas. Do you take milk? I’m not sure I have milk. Or lemon? No, I don’t have lemon.
Yes. Sit down, sit down, there. That’s right. Make yourself at home.
He blundered out of the room and went to the kitchen. How had he it let it get into this state? The kitchen table was covered. It was buried under all sorts of junk. There were piles of clothes. Newspapers. Crockery, not all of it clean. There were areas, like the lairs of small animals; his seat by the window, the path to the stove, to the sink, that were empty, waiting for their beasts to return. There was a space where he stood to wait for the electric kettle to boil, from which he looked out over the back garden, watching the clouds form shapes reminiscent of animals, faces, space ships, shapes that would slowly morph and disintegrate. He filled the kettle and switched it on. He poked his head around the door into the hallway and shouted, I have biscuits! She answered, yes, he thought. And anyway, whatever she had said, he would carry through the biscuits on a tray with the tea things. He could eat a biscuit, he realised, whether or not she wanted to.
There were packets of biscuits that well-wishers had brought him, half a dozen of them. There were unanswered e-mails, hundreds for all he knew. There were bundles of cards, some still unopened. There were messages filling the answer-phone. Why had he not noticed all these things before? Why had he not responded to them? Tea. He would make tea and they would chat.
He recalled the meals they had taken with friends around this table, sometimes lingering all night long though the fire blazed away unappreciated in the sitting room. What did it matter? All that mattered was that you should take tea, or meat, or wine, or whatever you had, and chat, and be with the friends you still had.
That was what, he told himself. That was what she had come all the way from India to show him.
Jim carried his tray of tea things down the hall. The front door was open, and Jane from next door was standing there.
Are you all right, Jim? She asked. I saw you looking you out a couple of minutes ago.
I’ve just made tea. He held up the tray. Would you like one? He nodded towards the sitting room door. In there, he said. I’ll put this down, and get you a cup.
Jane stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. You’ve got two cups already, Jim, see?
So I have! That’s lucky.
He passed through to the sitting room and set the tray down on the coffee table. Jane followed him in.
Well, I’m glad to see you’re looking after yourself, she said. Chocolate digestives, no less!
You’ll have to have it black, I’m afraid. I forgot to get milk, he said.
He straightened up again and looked around the room. Something, or somebody was missing. Of course. He still hadn’t got used to it.
(c) Brindley Hallam Dennis, 2017
Brindley Hallam Dennis writes short stories. He lives on the verge of Scotland. His stories have been published, broadcast and performed – sometimes by Liars’ League! He blogs at www.Bhdandme.wordpress.com
Silas Hawkins continues the family voiceover tradition (he is the son of Peter 'Dalek' Hawkins & Rosemary 'Emergency Ward 10' Miller). Favourite voice credits: Summerton Mill, Latin Music USA & podcasts for The Register. Agents: [email protected] / [email protected]. Website: www.silashawkins.com
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