Life In Parks Read online

  Chapter 3

  The evening after the excursion into town, Matthew was again the last to the dinner table. While his mother served a tuna salad meal, his father was chatting animatedly with the old lady and none of them paid him much attention.

  It became apparent that his father was describing the nature of his work, explaining how he spent his day staring at a computer screen, like most others in the small data-processing company where he worked. With his admission complete, however, the old lady let out a chuckle.

  ‘Christ! My son-in-law’s got himself a woman’s job.’

  A glimmer of a smile appeared on Matthew’s lips, which he suppressed by concentrating on bitterness. He remained stony-faced while his mother took her place at the table, and then as his father began the prayer of thanksgiving that he was ordered to deliver. He clasped his hands together; but this time, instead of closing his eyes, he sat watching the old lady. As he blocked out his father’s attempted prayer, he found that the more intensely he watched her, the more reasons he could think of to dislike her and everything that she had brought to his life.

  With the prayer concluded, the old lady stabbed her fork into a lettuce leaf, raised it to her nose, and replaced it uneaten onto the plate. ‘Another veritable feast,’ she mumbled to no-one in particular. ‘So, tell me, Robert, when are you going to get a proper man’s job?’

  ‘What’s wrong with the one I have?’ he smiled in return. ‘The money’s good. It’s a simple nine to five, and I get a company car.’

  ‘Yes, but computers, what are they? Fancy typewriters. In my day, if you sat in front of a typewriter at work it meant you were a secretary. And that’s no job for a man. As far as I’m concerned, any man who comes home and isn’t covered in mud and sweat, then he hasn’t done a proper day’s graft. You take my Tony, for instance. He lived a working man’s life and died a working man’s death.’

  ‘How do you die a working man’s death?’

  ‘I mean exactly what I say. He died while on a job, digging up a road. The poor man punctured a gas-main with his pickaxe, and the ash from his cigarette set off a massive explosion. There wasn’t much left of him afterwards, apart from his boots.’

  ‘That sounds a pretty gruesome way to go.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Quick and relatively painless. Anyway, he went just as he wanted to go, with a pickaxe in his hand and a cigarette in his mouth. You should have seen his send-off, though. We put all his tools alongside what was left of the body, and it must have taken ten men to carry the coffin.’

  ‘He was buried, I assume.’

  ‘Yes, Robert, as is the Traveller way. I have to admit, though, that I don’t much like the idea of being stuck in the ground, just to become food for maggots and worms. When I go I’d much rather be cremated.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ her daughter remarked. ‘It wasn’t so long ago that witches were burned at the stake.’

  ‘That’d suit me just fine, Deborah. Go and fetch the matches.’ Wistfulness came to her voice. ‘He was a good man, my Tony. And men like him don’t stop grafting just because they die. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s up there working this very minute. One thing I know for sure: If Heaven wasn’t perfect when he arrived, soon there’ll be a new driveway leading up to those Pearly Gates.’

  For his part, Matthew was unstirred by the old lady’s words. The grating of his ill-temper, coupled with growing fatigue, had ruined his appetite and the last thing he wanted was to listen to her. At that moment all he desired was solitude.

  ‘I’m sorry, mum,’ he said, getting to his feet, ‘but I’m not very hungry at the moment.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do with your dinner?’ she replied. ‘You’ve hardly touched a thing.’

  ‘Put it in the fridge. Maybe I’ll eat it later.’

  ‘I hope so, Matty. You know I hate wasting food.’

  ‘Oh, give the boy a break,’ the old lady interceded. ‘If he’s not hungry, he’s not hungry. I must admit, I’ve never been a fan of rabbit food, either.’

  ‘Sorry, mum,’ Matthew repeated as he opened the patio door and stepped into the garden.

  After collecting a carton of fish-food from the shed, he traipsed to the pond at the bottom of the garden.

  He opened the carton and flung a handful of pellets into the murky water, watching as a dozen or so brightly coloured fish swam to the surface. Once the frantic feed had subsided, he settled on the garden bench beside the pond and inhaled deeply. He listened to the sound of water trickling and tried to empty his head of sombre thoughts. He desperately wanted to think about Carla. But no matter how hard he tried, as soon as a mental picture of that girl formed in his head, it would quickly change to an image of the old lady, wearing sunshades and her golden summer-hat.

  Around thirty minutes had passed when his mother approached from the house. ‘I put your dinner in the fridge like you wanted,’ she said, sitting beside him. ‘By the way, it’s safe to come back inside; your grandmother has gone to lie down. I don’t know what you did to her today, but you certainly wore her out.’

  Matthew looked up at his bedroom window just as a silhouetted figure was drawing the curtains.

  ‘So, how did it go this afternoon?’

  ‘Fine.’ He shrugged.

  ‘What did you do? Where did you go?’

  ‘We went to the market, like you wanted.’

  ‘I see. And that’s all?’

  ‘Pretty much. Afterwards, I took her to the top of Orchid Hill, but we didn’t stay long. She wasn’t very impressed: she thinks our town is a ‘shit-hole’.’

  ‘Does she indeed?’ His mother raised an eyebrow. ‘This from a woman who’s spent the last fifteen years living in a caravan. And there were no other problems?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ She eased against the uncomfortable bench.

  For a time they sat in silence, watching the fish as they swam around, causing mild ripples on the water’s surface.

  ‘And did your grandmother have much to say for herself, besides the fact she doesn’t care for our town?’

  ‘Not a lot. She spoke about her life with the Gypsies. Oh, and I found out that she shop-lifts.’

  ‘Shop-lifts? That’s not surprising; she always has been light-fingered. Did she give you the old spiel about only taking from the rich?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Matthew’s tone suddenly hardened. ‘Mum, would you answer me something truthfully?’

  ‘I’m always truthful, you should know that. What’s on your mind?’

  ‘It’s nothing much, and I know it may sound stupid. But … is she really a clairvoyant?’

  A smile broke on his mother’s lips. ‘A clairvoyant? Why, what’s she been saying?’

  ‘Just things.’

  ‘Come on, Matthew, you don’t believe all that rubbish, do you? Tarot cards and crystal balls? You’d be better off reading your horoscope in the newspaper every morning.’ She faced him and rested a hand on his. ‘Listen, son, I grew up with all this clairvoyant mumbo-jumbo, and I can assure you that she knows as much about fortune-telling as you and I do; namely, nothing. So, whatever she’s been saying, I suggest you take it with a huge pinch of salt.’ Shaking her head, she looked towards the house. ‘Really, son, I thought you had more sense than to be taken in by nonsense like that.’

  Matthew stayed behind as his mother walked up the garden path. Alone now, he looked at the blue sky, inhaling through his nose, holding his breath for a couple of seconds before exhaling. He closed his eyes, the pressure of his thoughts easing, the sound of trickling water hypnotic in his ears. And when he opened them, he did not feel quite so alone. Getting to his feet, he headed towards the house, refusing to look at his bedroom window, behind which a spectre lay resting.

  The old lady failed to re-appear for the remainder of the evening, and with her presence no longer shadowing him, Matthew experienced certain tranquillity. He sat with his
parents in the living room, content to watch an action film that he had seen many times before. Although he grew increasingly weary, his tiredness now complemented his air of light-headedness.

  Later on, when his parents had gone to bed, he lay on the couch and drifted to sleep with no trouble at all. The dream that illuminated his mind was the fantasy he thought he had lost: sat upon the brow of Orchid Hill, hand in hand with Carla North.

  His dreams were so engrossing that when morning came he did not want to rise. He heard his father coming and going, and his mother pottering and fidgeting, but each time he was woken he would roll over and allow his dreams to ease him back to sleep.

  When he finally made the effort to drag himself up, at just after eleven o’clock, although his head felt clouded, his mind was rested and at peace.

  He walked into the dining room, where his mother was ironing shirts, and continued to the kitchen. There he happened upon his grandmother as she stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing a small piece of fabric with her bony hands. He smiled, watching in silence. The old lady turned to acknowledge him, and his smile broadened as he realised that the fabric she was working was a pair of cotton briefs.

  ‘What are you looking so happy about?’ she remarked, continuing to scrub the material.

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all.’

  ‘Good. Anyone would think that you’d never seen a woman washing her smalls before.’

  As he prepared a bowl of cereal, Matthew noticed the ill-fitting dress the old lady was wearing, something he thought belonged to his mother. Glancing into the garden, he spotted the shimmering silver dress in which the old lady had arrived hanging on the washing-line, and he began to wonder if she had brought with her just one set of clothes. Indeed, his assumption was expounded a couple of hours later when the sequinned garment disappeared from the line, only for his grandmother to emerge wearing it once more.

  While the two women spent the afternoon with their respective laundries, Matthew lay in front of the television watching children’s programmes that he had outgrown many years before. He kept out of the old lady’s way, not wanting to provoke the confused emotions that her presence could raise. At three o’clock, however, the woman came into the lounge with an offer that cast a shadow over his buoyant mood.

  ‘How do you fancy coming to the pub with me?’ she said, blocking his view of the television.

  ‘You are joking, aren’t you?’ Matthew answered.

  ‘Why would I be joking? You should have realised by now that my breath is too precious to waste saying things I don’t mean. So, what about it? Do you want to come or not?’

  ‘To be honest, it’s not me you’ve got to convince. It’s my mum. You know I’m underage?’

  ‘Underage, nothing. If you’re old enough to dream about naked women, you’re old enough to go for a quiet drink. You leave your mother to me.’

  Much to his consternation, his mother gave the outing her blessing. What is more, she handed Matthew some money so that he would not have to rely on his grandmother to buy all the drinks.

  Within the hour, he and his grandmother were setting off towards The Red Pheasant public house. Although she carried her handbag like before, this time she left her hat and her sunglasses behind.

  Located two streets from his house, Matthew had walked past that pub building countless times, but never before had he set foot inside. It took them less than ten minutes to arrive, despite taking a leisurely pace so as not to over-exert the old lady. All the while, an uncomfortable nervousness was building in his stomach.

  The anxiety increased as he followed his grandmother through the doorway and into the dimly-lit public bar, trying to hide the look on his face that hinted he was too young to be there. He was thankful that the bar was almost empty and that nobody enquired after his age. He was even more relieved when he spotted a couple of youths, sat in a corner, who were a year below him at school.

  ‘So, what do you fancy?’ the old lady asked as they waited to be served.

  ‘I don’t know. A beer, I suppose.’

  ‘Nonsense. Beer is for fat, lazy oafs ... like your father. If you want to start acting like a man, you’d better learn to drink like one.’ She called to the barman: ‘A couple of whiskies when you’ve got a moment.’

  Before Matthew had had the chance to object, two tumblers of whisky were poured and placed before them on the counter. The old lady collected one of the vessels and waited for her grandson to take the other before touching her glass to his.

  ‘To the future,’ she said, raising the tumbler and emptying its contents with one gulp.

  As she placed the empty tumbler onto the bar-top, her face portrayed almost orgasmic pleasure. Matthew, meanwhile, raised his tumbler to his nose to gauge the aroma before taking a sip. The moment the liquor touched his throat, however, his face screwed up in abhorrence and his body recoiled.

  ‘A bit strong, eh?’ the old lady remarked with a smile.

  ‘A bit,’ Matthew replied, stifling a cough.

  ‘Never mind. I’ll get the man to water it down.’

  She called out to the barman to dilute Matthew’s whisky with coke and ordered another shot of unadulterated spirit for herself – this time a double.

  When the modified drink returned, Matthew was pleasantly surprised by the taste. He found he was able to endure the new concoction without contorting his face; yet there remained enough of an alcoholic kick that, with every sip, he experienced a warm sensation inside.

  The old lady selected a table in an alcove by a frosted window, and no sooner had they settled than she produced some money from her handbag and told him to fetch another round of drinks.

  When he returned, Matthew placed the drinks on the table and casually asked: ‘How can you drink it neat? Doesn’t it burn your insides?’

  ‘Years of practice, dear boy.’

  He watched as she took the tumbler and swallowed a mouthful, and a grin came to his lips.

  ‘Wouldn’t it be easier to buy the whole bottle?’

  ‘Believe me, that’s been done many times before. Not so long ago, I could drink just about anyone under the table. I’ve been in plenty of drinking contests in my time, and I’ve seen grown men pass out before I was even tipsy.’

  Listening attentively, Matthew’s eyes were drawn to the old lady’s beaded necklace and crucifix, which seemed so prominent against the golden dress.

  ‘I’m not trying to be funny, but doesn’t it go against your religion to drink so much?’

  ‘Rubbish,’ the old lady retorted. ‘There is nothing in The Bible to say that alcohol is bad. Jesus himself turned water into wine. Besides, if God hadn’t wanted me to drink so much, he wouldn’t have made me so damn thirsty all the time.’

  Matthew continued drinking at his own unhurried pace, only gradually acclimatising to the alcohol and the ambience of the establishment. Nevertheless, he found that with every mouthful of liquor he downed, his inhibitions were steadily dismantling.

  His grandmother, meanwhile, maintained her incredible rhythm of drinking. Like the old professional drinker that she claimed to be, she showed no sign of wear and tear. Whenever her tumbler was empty, she would pass some money across for her grandson to go to the bar. It was after he had returned from one such visit and placed a drink for them both on the table, that she broached a subject that rekindled his unease.

  ‘No doubt your mother’s told you what a wicked, terrible parent I was when she was growing up.’

  Matthew hesitated, unsure where the conversation might lead. ‘To be honest, she doesn’t talk much about the past.’

  The lady nodded. ‘That’s probably for the best. There’s not much point raking over old coals. You can only get covered in dirt.’

  ‘I know she hates you, if that’s any consolation.’

  She tilted her head ruefully. ‘Unfortunately, some things can’t be helped.’

  While the old lady drained her tumbler, Matthew only briefly en
joyed the unsettling effect of his jibe. Almost immediately he regretted his words and tried to make amends.

  ‘I guess it can’t have been nice losing contact for so many years,’ he said sombrely.

  ‘It was the best thing for both of us. We couldn’t bear to be around each other any longer; nineteen years was more than enough. The only solution was to go our separate ways.’

  ‘Is it true that the last time you and mum spoke was on her wedding day?’

  ‘More or less. Maybe once or twice afterwards, I don’t remember.’

  ‘Why? Did you not like my dad?’

  ‘It had nothing to do with your father. It was about your mother and me, plain and simple.’

  ‘So, what’s changed? I mean, you’re here now.’

  ‘Time has changed. Nothing else. Our feelings are no doubt the same.’

  ‘And don’t you have any regrets? You’ve missed lots of things.’

  The old lady pushed a pile of loose change across the table and her voice resumed its former harsh tone. ‘Regrets are for the stupid. Now, be kind to your grandmother and fetch her another drink.’

  From that moment onwards, the conversation never returned to family history, and in the smoke-filled environment of the bar, Matthew lost sense of time. While the old lady described some of her former drinking feats, empty glasses continued to accumulate on the table and proved the easiest way to mark the passing minutes. Nevertheless, when the barman cleared the glasses, time itself became an irrelevance.

  When Matthew tried counting how many times he had been to the bar, he reckoned that his grandmother had downed twelve glasses of neat whisky. He was startled to realise that he himself had finished seven tumblers. But he found that the more he drank, the more he liked the taste. It was not until he had gulped his eighth adulterated whisky, however, and then risen to his feet, that he felt his head swirl for the first time.

  Taking leave of his grandmother, he headed for the bar.

  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the barman, ‘could you tell me where the toilet is?’

  ‘Down the corridor, on the left.’

  As the bartender pointed, Matthew followed his finger with an alertness in his mind that did not correspond with the unsteadiness of his step. He entered the lavatory and was confronted by a large metallic contraceptive-dispenser, mounted on the wall. He stood for a moment, amazed by the boldness of such a machine. Snapping out of his daze, he hurried to the urinal for fear that somebody would catch him standing before the dispenser. Nevertheless, while he urinated, he continually peered at that symbol of sexuality, which seemed to cast its shadow across the whole of the gentlemen’s toilets.

  After rinsing his hands, he headed for the exit. As he passed the brazen machine, he lifted his hand upwards, allowing his fingers to brush its side. The tips of his fingers made contact with the metal casing and a surge of anticipation, almost like electricity, coursed to his loins.

  With a smile on his face and a swagger in his step, he exited the lavatory and moved directly to the bar to purchase another round of drinks – this time from the funds his mother had given him. He returned to the table and handed his grandmother her whisky, and proceeded to gulp half his own drink before resuming his seat.

  Sitting too quickly, however, it momentarily felt as though his head were no longer connected to his neck and were free to float round the public bar. He blinked and, as his focus returned, he eased against the chair-back, wallowing in a newly discovered self-satisfaction.

  ‘What are you looking so happy about?’ the old lady remarked.

  Matthew stared into her unblinking eyes, enjoying his inflated poise. ‘I was just thinking about what you said yesterday: about how wonderful it must be to be able to see into the future.’

  ‘It has its advantages. Why?’

  ‘No reason. Just curious.’ He took a swig of drink. ‘So, don’t keep me in suspense. Tell me what the future holds for me.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to know.’

  ‘Yesterday I didn’t. But maybe now I do.’

  The lady remained stony-faced. ‘All right. If you want to know the future, nothing could be simpler. If you carry on drinking the way you are, you are soon going to be sick.’

  The smile widened across his lips.

  He finished his drink and stood, shaking off the dizziness that fazed him. Then, as if for no other reason than to rile his grandmother, he made for the bar to buy another round.

  When he returned – with a tumbler of liquor in each hand – he retained his spirited vein of mockery.

  ‘Now that you’ve got me interested, how about letting me in on the secret. This fortune-telling business; can anyone do it, or is it just for ‘special’ people?’

  ‘Matthew, my dear, why do I get the impression you’re making fun of me?’

  He raised a defensive hand. ‘I’m just showing an interest. Who knows, perhaps I have ‘the gift’ as well?’

  As the old lady reached for her tumbler, her tone softened. ‘Were you aware, young man, that most of my childhood was spent in an orphanage?’

  Slightly confused, he shook his head, causing his vision to blur.

  The old lady continued: ‘It was an orphanage run by the church, and it wasn’t a picnic, I can tell you. Some of those nuns were vicious bitches. The thing was, we always had so much time on our hands.’ She swilled the whisky in the tumbler. ‘They made us study hard and forced us to read books all the time, books upon books upon books. It just so happened that most of the books I read were murder mystery novels. You know the sort: an old spinster is staying in a country mansion, there’s a murder and it’s left to her to solve the crime. Reading them time and again, I began to understand the nuances and be able to spot the clues. There came a time when I could uncover the murderer long before the end.’ At last she took a sip. ‘From that point on, the books became no fun at all. You see, the thing I came to realise was that I didn’t actually have to read a single paragraph beyond the opening chapter. If I wanted to know whodunnit, assuming I hadn’t guessed already, all I had to do was flip to the final chapter, where the old lady would gather the suspects and reveal who the murderer was and why.’

  By now Matthew was having difficulty concentrating on his grandmother’s words.

  She went on: ‘Fortune-telling, you see, is not so different from picking up one of those books. If you want to know what’s going to happen, basically all you have to do is flip forward a few pages.’

  Matthew peered up, his thoughts re-awakened. ‘You’re saying it’s like reading a book?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, yes.’

  He smiled and slurred a response. ‘And where do you find this fabulous book? Down at the local library?’

  ‘You’ll know how to find it, if you truly want to. An honest eye can always read the truth.’

  As Matthew began rocking on his chair, contemplating his grandmother’s words, a sudden wave of sobriety overcame him. The conversation had descended to a profundity that he had not intended and the edge had been taken off his warm glow. He took another sip of his drink, provoking a convulsion within his gut. ‘OK, this book. This fantastic, amazing book of life. What happens if you don’t like the story-line? What happens if you don’t like the way it ends?’

  The lady shrugged. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do. I mean, you can’t rewrite the future – or the past for that matter – just because you don’t like the plot-line. The only one with the power to change the story is the author.’

  ‘And who’s that?’

  Her eyes signalled towards the ceiling. ‘The man upstairs, of course. The Lord Almighty himself. That’s why it’s important to be on good speaking terms. You never know when you might need to ask Him for a favour.’

  Matthew finished his drink and placed the empty tumbler on the table. He got up and walked unsteadily to the bar, trying to ignore the rumbling in his stomach and the sudden jarring inside his head. He paid for two more d
rinks and took a swig from one while standing at the bar. He had barely swallowed a mouthful, however, when an anguished expression flashed across his face and, slamming the tumblers onto the bar-top, he dashed to the toilet to vomit.

  As a result of his first proper visit to a pub, Matthew vomited a total of eight times. He was sick twice in the pub toilet, twice on the short walk home, and a further four times in the bathroom back at the house. Eventually, aided by his father, he was taken to his bedroom, where he was left to sleep off his drunkenness with a bucket resting by his side.

  His stomach was strained from vomiting and his head revolved as much with eyes closed as when opened. Nevertheless, when his head touched the pillow, he fell into a profound sleep full of incoherent dreams. Probably he would not have woken until morning had he not been disturbed by his father, who came to help him vacate the bedroom so that his grandmother could retire.

  Scarcely able to open his eyes for the pounding in his head, he got to his feet and followed him, head bowed, into the hallway. The old lady was outside, waiting for him to emerge. He proceeded to the stairwell without acknowledging her, turning only when she called his name. He then looked up through the bloodshot eyes of suffering and saw her, unsmiling, with arms folded across her chest. For a moment she said nothing and simply gazed at the bucket he was carrying. Soon a smile broke on her lips, and for once it appeared almost a smile of affection.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Bad,’ was all he could muster in response.

  ‘I’m not altogether surprised.’ She spoke softly, again without malice. ‘But don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll be all right tomorrow; tomorrow has a habit of forgetting. Just so long as you remember the important lessons in life, that’s all anyone can ask.’ Her smile straightened as she winked at him. ‘Well then, God bless you, Matthew. I hope you feel better in the morning.’

  ‘I hope so, too. Goodnight.’

  Anxious to continue onwards, he staggered downstairs to the lounge, pushing his grandmother’s words to the back of his mind along with the other jumbled mess of his thoughts. He sat on the makeshift bed of the sofa, straining to pull off his shirt. Finally, he curled up like a foetus and buried himself in the soft quilt. His mother ensured that the bucket was positioned close to his head; yet she need not have bothered, as he had already evacuated the alcoholic toxin from his body.

  He fell asleep almost immediately, barely registering his mother’s words of admonishment over his foolhardy state.

  He did not stir until daylight next morning, when he discovered his mother shadowing over him again, almost as if she had been there all night. The only difference was that, now, in one hand she carried a mug of tea, while in the other, she held a small white tablet.

  ‘This will help your head,’ she said, passing him the medicine.

  It was not until Matthew sat upright that he began to appreciate the intensity of the headache of which he had been forewarned.

  ‘You’re a silly boy,’ his mother said. ‘How did you get in such a state?’

  He swallowed the tablet with a shallow gulp of tea and a grimace. ‘You were pretty keen on me going to the pub, yesterday.’

  ‘Come on, son, be fair. I wanted you to spend time with your grandmother. I certainly didn’t expect you to come home blind drunk.’ Her severe expression eased as she leaned and planted a kiss on his forehead. ‘Anyway, let’s not argue today, not on your birthday. Many happy returns, son. There are some cards waiting for you in the dining room.’

  Matthew managed only a couple more sips of tea. He allowed time for the analgesic to take effect before making the effort to stand. But as a wave of disorientation clouded his head, he promptly flopped onto the sofa, his stomach churning as if about to convulse with sickness. He managed to avoid vomiting, yet dared not move until the undulations had subsided. At last he attempted to stand again, this time enduring the disorientation. He inhaled deeply and set off along the hallway, his legs aching beneath him, the duvet wrapped round his bare shoulders to protect him from a chill.

  On the dining room table he found a pile of envelopes, all of which bore his name. He pulled up a chair and sat, allowing time for his constitution to settle, before sifting through them.

  He opened the card from his parents, which had on its front a picture of an electric guitar. Inside the card was some money, as there was inside the card from his paternal grandparents. Next he opened an envelope that displayed the postmark of the southern seaside town where Warren, his best friend, now lived. Tucked inside this card were photographs of naked women, clippings from a men’s magazine, which he stuffed inside the envelope in case his mother walked into the room.

  Despite the fact his headache was easing, he felt little joy on the morning of his seventeenth birthday. The only thing that would have enlivened his spirits, he believed, was to find an envelope sent by Carla North. This year, however, like every other year, there was no such envelope awaiting him.

  He refused the plate of toast that his mother brought him, the mere smell of which caused his stomach to turn. Instead, he walked into the hallway with the duvet draped across his shoulders. He strode forlornly upstairs and headed for the shower, hoping to wash the sweat from his body and the taste of sickness from his mouth. For more than thirty minutes he stood beneath the jet of water, until a modicum of vitality returned to his body.

  After the shower, with just a towel wrapped round his waist, he pushed open the door to his bedroom and stepped inside. Confused by the darkness that greeted him, it was only when he spotted the silhouette of his grandmother on the bed that he realised his predicament. He stood for a moment rooted, whispering an apology for the intrusion.

  Receiving no reply, he hastened to the chest of drawers and grabbed some fresh underwear, a clean T-shirt, and a pair of jeans. With clothes in hand, he headed towards the door, glancing at the tranquil body as he went. None of his actions had provoked the slightest murmur, and the thought crossed his mind that perhaps the whisky had caught up with his grandmother, too.