It Started With A Note - Victoria Cooke

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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 mind and no amount of mess in Kieran’s room could change that.

      My emergency stash of cardboard boxes from work come in handy once I’ve rebuilt them and filled them with Kieran’s junk. Old school books, piles of posters kept under his bed, superhero figurines he hasn’t played with in ten years and some board games that probably have most of the vital pieces missing.

      My loft hatch is stiff, but the stick I keep for opening it still works if I really yank it, and the steps come down easily after that. That’s something at least. I climb them, pulling the light cord when I reach the top. I clamber over the boxes I’d already stashed up there and feel a little bit of guilt at the fact I’m just as much of a hoarder as Kieran. I pick up a box to make some space and when the recognition of it registers, I have to sit down. For a moment, I just look at it.

      After Mum died, I’d inherited this box. It contains all her little keepsakes: things that Gary would have never wanted in a million years. He was more interested in the sandwich toaster and the little retro DAB radio she had in the kitchen. I know what’s in the box but I hadn’t been able to bring myself to open it yet. I was too heartbroken and now I feel terrible because I’d forgotten all about it.

      I cross my legs on the dusty boards and wipe the lid clean before lifting it. There’s a photo of me and Gary lying on top, which was taken when I was about five and he was eight. I take in my plaited pigtails and brown corduroy dress and can vaguely remember the day. Gary is wearing brown velvet jeans and a red jumper and is looking at me with disdain. We’d been to a park and he’d pushed me over and I’d grazed my knee. He was angry because I’d snitched on him to Mum. God bless the Eighties.

      My father had walked out about a year before that picture was taken and whilst I barely remember him, I do remember Mum’s smile that year. It was always there, plastered on, oversized and exaggerated, but her eyes didn’t crinkle in the corners. It wasn’t until I got older I realised how hard it must have been to maintain that brave face for us and I wish we’d have behaved much better for her.

      I continue to rummage. There is an old concert ticket for Boy George in the box, football match programmes from when she used to take Gary to watch Tottenham Hotspur, and my first pair of ballet slippers. Right at the bottom is an old wooden matchstick storage box that I don’t remember ever seeing before. I pull it out and examine it curiously. It’s quite intricate in its design, and I wonder why it hadn’t been on display at home. It was the kind of thing Mum would have loved to show off on her mantelpiece.

      I take off the lid and inside the red-velvet-lined box is a stack of ancient-looking notelets, each one yellowed and fragile. My heart is beating in my eardrums with anticipation. They are certainly old enough to have been from my dad all those years ago. Perhaps I’ll finally discover where he’s been for all those years.

      Hesitantly, I take out the top one and carefully unfold it. The date at the top strikes me hard: 1916. I have to double-check it before reading on, confused.

       7th February 1916

       My dearest Elizabeth,

       This is the farthest I’ve ever been from home, and I can tell you, France is almost as beautiful as the Home Counties. Perhaps one day, when the war is over, I can bring you and Rose here. The war is going to last much longer than we’d hoped, I’m afraid. Who knows how long we’ll be knee-deep in muck for.

       I hope Rose is looking after you. I know how you worry, but I’ll be fine. We’re working quite closely with the French and I’ve

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