THE YEAR OF OPEN DOORS
some tea. Just a quick cup.’
She wipes the tears with the back of her wrist and glares, not trusting that you’ll stay. She turns and goes to the kitchen. You sit on the corner of her bed, staring at the TV while it talks to itself. How are you going to get out of here? You can’t spend all day watching telly. What if an employer calls and you’re not home? Do you honestly think they’ll call back? You see, this, this right here, is your problem.
The woman appears in the hall with a mug of tea in each hand and you sit straighter hoping she didn’t catch you mumbling to yourself.
‘Here ye are, son,’ she says, handing you the tea and from the pocket of her dressing gown she produces a Kit-Kat. ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’ Together, you watch Countdown. You sitting with your jacket on and her shouting, ‘You’re useless!’ at the contestants. The tea is warm and sweet. You don’t usually take sugar but the more you drink the more you get used to it.
A commercial break comes on. You put down the empty mug and shove your hands into your jacket pockets. They contain house keys, a tube pass and a postcard leaflet. Someone must have handed the leaflet to you in the street. On the back it reads,
2-4-1 Drinks. Tuesday nights.
At the Space Station.
On the front is a black and white picture of some dapper chap with a smug smirk. He has hair like a game show host and he’s dressed as an astronaut. It crosses your mind that this photo might originally have been part of a 1950’s cigarette commercial. You watch the old woman while she stares open mouthed at a toothpaste advert and wonder how long she has lived here, alone like this? On the windowsill beside her bed is a collection of framed photos. One shows a couple standing rigid outside the front of a house. Another is of a man in uniform. There’s a family in winter coats on the beach. You imagine her gazing at these faces every night while she waits for sleep to finally come. You pick up one of the frames and it comes apart in
‘I’M FRIGHTENED, SON. IT’S BURNING! WHAT CAN WE DO? I’M JUST A WEE LASSIE. I’M ON MA OWN.’
your hands, the back pops off and the glass slides onto your lap. Typical. ‘I have to go now,’ you say, getting to your
feet.
‘Are you leaving as well?’ she says. ‘Suppose you’re away to work?’
‘Uh, not exactly.’ ‘So you will be staying for your dinner,
then?’
‘No, I have to... I have to go to work. I’m
sorry.’
Her tears start, immediately. ‘You’re away
and you’re never coming back.’
You watch her crying into her hands. Blue light from the TV flickers across her skin. The picture frame lies broken on her bed. The Book says, ‘Every setback is merely an opportunity.’ You grab the pieces of the picture frame, slip the leaflet of the astronaut under the glass and secure the back by bending the metal clips with your fingernail. ‘Look, I’ve got you a present!’ you say, showing her the framed leaflet. ‘This is a picture of me, at work. I’ll leave it here on top of the telly. See? There you are. Now you won’t need to feel frightened because I’ll always be right here in the room with you.’
She wipes tears from her eyes and peers
intensely at the photograph.
‘That’s no you. Can you not tell by
looking?’
You pick up the photo and take another look. The astronaut’s teeth are Hollywood perfect. His confidence is bullet proof. ‘I’m no daft, son. I know who that is,’ she says, giving you a dead bolt stare. ‘That’s your uncle Dennis fae the War.’
You look at her and again at the photo.
‘Sorry Gran, you’re absolutely right,’ you say, ‘that is uncle Dennis. But...but you’ve always said I look just like him, haven’t you.’ You hold the frame next to your face and try to smile like the guy in the picture. Her eyes flit between the astronaut and your most successful grin.
‘Aye, I’ve always said that,’ she says. ‘You’re just like your uncle Dennis. He was always a good man. So good.’ ‘Aye, he was,’ you say, sensing victory. ‘And what’s more, you were always his favourite, did you know that?’
Her stare softens, wanting to believe. ‘Oh definitely. Uncle Dennis would say it all the time. ‘She’s my number one favourite’ he would say.’
‘My number one favourite,’ the old woman
repeats softly to herself. You hand her the frame and she leans back into her easy chair, gazing down into the astronaut’s smiling eyes. She strokes the outline of the photograph with her finger. Applause from a studio audience bleeds from the TV while you stand for a minute staring down at the cysts growing out of her scalp. Without disturbing her mood, you change the channel on the television to an old black and white musical. She looks up and sways gently along to the music, humming to herself. As quietly as possible, you sneak back along the hall, open the front door and pull it closed behind you.
Jason Donald’s debut novel is Choke Chain. He has received nominations for the Authors’ Club First Novel Award and a Scottish Variety Award. 22 Jul–5 Aug 2010 THE LIST 27