Gravity

Huddlestone Phillips

Published in Pure Slush
Volume 7 January 2023

Writers Studio Amsterdam
Winter reading 2019

That was the day she filled the bath with Lux Flakes. “Best way to soften the skin,” she’d said. I remember a towel twice my size, a hairdryer chord twisted in knots, and a smothering of talcum powder on my skin. Then back-to-the-womb warmth from the cosy electric blanket.

I recall my grandmother closing my storybook as I feigned sleep. It had birds in it: wings, flight patterns, and the kind of insects they liked to eat. There was a kiss on my forehead as she turned to descend the stairs. An echo of applause came up the staircase, with a voice that announced Opportunity Knocks on the TV. “Sings like our Shirley,” she’d said to my grandfather back on the settee.

I remember the patterns in the curtain. Their ever-changing shapes, like clouds that rolled across the sky; a Viking boat that would transform itself into a house on fire. A woman with her infant as she escaped the flames. Images like these would follow me. A yellow haze danced back and forth on the wall from the gap between the curtains. The tap of tree branches on the panes of my window. And footsteps outside as they crunched across the gravel. It’s all very clear to me now. I’d listened to the clatter of keys on the front door as they repeatedly missed their spot. “I just need some space,” she’d said.

“I’ve given you everything,” he’d said.

“You’ve given me fuck all.”

“You can’t leave me.”

“Watch me,” she’d said, as they’d both stumbled through the door.

That night a yelp ripped through my body and tore me from my sleep. I stepped towards my bedroom door—one, followed by the other. The creak of the floorboards, like lost souls from beneath. Hidden behind the door, I put my ear to the wood before looking; I could hear my father halfway up the stairs, then looked to see what I thought was red paint on the wall. And on hearing me, he turned.

I remember that look, his eyes wide open, then hushed voices from down below. My grandfather had passed him, scooped me up, and then placed me back in my bed. He was pulling my sheet back over my legs, hushing me to be still. I focused on my bedside clock; Mickey Mouse had flicked his arm to a quarter over midnight. I squeezed my eyes so very tightly closed.

(Another faded memory—I was sitting on the bus with my mother another week later, just the two of us huddled together for warmth. Air bit at the tips of my fingers. Clouds billowed from our mouths. She held me tight to her chest and I felt her quickened heartbeat. And as she pressed the button to stop, the bus came to a halt. She opened the striped pushchair and dropped me into its clutches. My feet skipped along the stones as we trundled forward. Playground. Preschool. Police station. Our destination I don’t recall.)

I remember this part of my story more clearly. A week later, I heard footsteps crash up the stairs to our home and a shout that rang in my ears. My eyes shut tight. My hands twisted the wet corner of my pillow. And as her voice screamed out, I held my breath for an eternity as I listened to the sound of my mother falling down the stairs once more.

It wasn’t long before the ambulance arrived. I can see the man in the fluorescent yellow jacket. The smell of disinfectant on him. I looked deep into his eyes and could see inside him—like I could feel the beat of his heart. I remember the trickle of blood from her ear. I can see it all now.

The following week, my grandparents sat on either side of me in the car. The silence only broken by the squeal of the tyres as the car turned into the church. I remember the expressions people wore; as if all pigment were sucked away. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins, all assembled outside the church. Even the strangers, scavengers that clung to the moment as they fed on my emotions. I remember an oil slick inside, sloshing back and forth from somewhere deep within.

I can see the yellowed slabs of stone that sat upright in the grass, awkward teeth left to sallow in the cemetery with only insects for company. I felt the cold mist on my face as everyone gathered. As my grandmother pulled me in close and withdrew deep into her arms, I bit down upon my tongue and savoured the blood. Gravity’s pull taking me down, deeper into the earth.

Fried Eggs on Dave

Huddlestone Phillips
Published by the Walled City Journal
Published also by Jupiter Review
July 2021

Don’t answer. Don’t even open your eyes. Just let the water trickle over you and leave it to ring. You reach around in the suds, trying to find the lost soap. The phone echoes up the stairs and you shout his name, hoping you’ll be heard above the TV. 

‘Get the phone Dave,’ you shout. You call out twice, but there’s no reply.

Dave. You forget how you first met him. One moment you’re moving into student digs, the next he’s a permanent attachment to your life. He is always there. In the bar. In the kitchen. In the class. In your face. Well, almost. Dave stands at half your height, puts on wedged shoes for the extra inch and wears a faux leather biker’s jacket. He keeps a plastic Woolworths bag permanently around his wrist; says it’s so he won’t forget. Leaflets, comics, chess pieces and a stale cheese sandwich – he keeps all manner of personal goodies within.

Your hangover is relentless. After letting down an unwanted date, your evening included six bottles of special brew at the pub, a kebab, and a blackout in a public loo. You managed to make it home, and according to your skin-tight jeans, pissed yourself in the process.

Dave is socially awkward yet has a master’s in history. His ideas are non-conformist and he’s a recognised talent. When he talks his sentences come together like questions from a crossword. To some it might seem nonsense. But if you take the time to listen, Dave’s words can play on your mind for weeks. Dave sits at number 13 in the UK chess championships. 

‘Dave,’ you shout, ‘get the sodding phone will you.’ – Nothing.

Dave keeps comics scattered in piles around his bedroom; mountainous islands rising up from his lino floor. Each collection is separated into the various superheroes, which start with Aquaman and end with Wolverine – no room for a TV of his own. You recall his Christie’s brochure with Batman first editions. Dave pays rent one magazine sale at a time.

Outside your window a pigeon struts back and forth along the sill. She follows a path between steel spikes and bird shit splattered on the glass, then tucks her head into her wing. You find the soap and rub it hard against your skin. 

You take an N50 marker pen to Dave’s face sometimes when he falls asleep in your presence. He has this thing of walking into your bedroom, turning on the TV and sitting at the end of your bed. He doesn’t say anything, he just sits with the plastic bag by his side, eats whatever he’s managed to find, and stares with intent at the screen, like you’re not reall there. Last night you wrote ‘keep out’ spelt backwards on his forehead and collapsed into bed. 

The phone stops. You turn the hot tap and let it run. Free hot water, free heating, free lost property for your wardrobe. The perks of renting above a laundrette. You close your eyes again. Don’t go to the college today. Ask for an extension. Play sick.

Dave has no respect for food. Or more to the point, he has no time for it. When pushed by hunger he will call for a takeaway, but mostly he is too engrossed in your TV to make the effort. One time, he fished remnants of fried egg from the pan after you let it soak in the sink.

‘What’s going on Dave?’ you say, but he’s too engrossed to notice.

‘You can’t eat that shit,’ you tell him, but he just finishes it up, polishing it off with the same fork – you feel violated.

A month in, you take a road trip to see your mum. You don’t know why you take Dave, you just do. You’re tired. Maybe too hungover to drive. And when you get there, you collapse into bed, leaving Dave with your mother in the kitchen. Upstairs, you hear the frying pan on the stove and a softness to his voice. One year later your mum still asks after him.

You allow your tongue to run over the cold sore on your lip. You try to convince yourself it’s drying out, no longer the fungus it once was. Cracked and raw, like a tiny radish stuck on display for all to see. It feels larger now. Dave says it’s a transmittable infection and pities you less for it than he should. Just as he’s a rising chess champion and published in various history journals, you are quite simply, infectious. 

You dip your head under the surface of the water. The warm sensation soaks up the pain from your hangover. Your arms and legs tingle like sunburn, and as you hold your breath …10…15…20…the phone starts up again and you lift your head from the water. You know Dave can’t hear it, and on the sixth ring, you pull yourself out of the bath and make your way down the stairs. But then you slip, and while reaching for the handset you land on your arse at the bottom. You take a moment to gather yourself, and the ringing stops. All you can hear is the TV with Dave watching a quiz show in your room. You listen to him muttering the correct answers before each contestant. 

You leave the phone off the hook, take another paracetamol from the cabinet, and return to the bathroom. You lower yourself into the water, turn on the tap, and wait for the pain to disappear.

The light goes out, leaving the whole house in darkness. That jar of coins you keep above the electric meter, the one you top up whenever the electric fails, Dave’s never placed a single penny in the meter himself. When funds run low, you march him to the cashpoint and take what’s due. Before going out last night you recall dropping your last coin into the meter with a dissatisfying clunk.

Together we are beautiful

Huddlestone Phillips
Published by the Bookends Review
Published also by Two Sisters
July 2021

Walter Whitstable catches a flight on short notice the day before the opening of the city’s music awards ceremony. After a half hour, the plane starts coming in to land at an awkward descent. Walter pulls his sleeping mask over his face and begins humming along to Fern Kinney’s sole hit from her youth; lyrics that speak to him of what once was - to a calming effect. As a subject of an article titled One-hit Wonder Whitstable, Walter feels he’s been poorly represented. Slanderous little shits he thought...yes, he often felt like this about the press. For Walter, the invitation to present at the awards ceremony meant opportunity, exposure and a return to centre stage; Jimmy Osmond had pulled out last minute for unknown reasons and Walter was asked to step in. The host had booked him for his uniqueness, his depth of talent, and because everyone else was busy. Walter braces himself for landing.

The hotel receptionist that checks Walter in has the name Susan sewn into her blouse. She smells of cigarettes, beer and bad nights out. This puts him at ease; Walter’s been clean from substance abuse since his wife left him but being around his kind of people made him feel better about himself.

Walter looks through the adjacent window to see the oncoming summer rain as it darkens the sky to a ruder shade of purple. The air was still outside, yet when you breathed it in, it felt dull and moist. The receptionist compliments Walter’s designer baseball cap which he recently bought to hide the thinning hair. Walter does not see himself as a hat kind of person; beanies, bowlers, flat caps and fedoras, none of them feel right to Walter.
‘I like your perfume,’ he says. He doesn’t actually like it; he just feels it’s the right thing to say. ‘It’s Anaïs Anaïs,’ she says. She pronounces the Anaïs with just two syllables, the way people do when they don’t know better. Walter doesn’t care - for a cheap pharmacy perfume it’s a pretentious name anyway. ‘Smells great,’ Walter says.

Walter’s fall from grace has not totally destroyed his credibility within the music circuit; he was still getting bookings. ‘A day feels like a lifetime when you’re constantly pushing for the next gig,’ he’d said to his manager. Walter senses the receptionist staring at the sweat patches in his shirt, and she turns to retrieve his key. ‘Spa stays open until 8pm each evening,’ she says, ‘there’s an indoor pool, sauna and jacuzzi.’ Walter thanks her and takes his bag.

On the way to his room Walter sees the Spa is near empty; a lone female in a black swimsuit and cap is doing the backstroke down the middle of the small pool. He watches the way her arms rise, and how her breasts heave with each stroke. Walter lingers a beat too long, and then shuffles forward.

Walter enters the lift. He lets his head fall back against the breakfast deals poster and sighs.  He wonders if this is his moment. He’d show them. Walter unbuttons his collar, self-doubt creeping up from within.

A green carpet running along the floor, walls and ceiling leads him to his room. Sliding his key against the door handle, Walter enters the bathroom, strips himself down and tosses his clothes down onto the lino; he has a thing about taking a hot bath with every hotel stay; his way of letting it all go. As he turns the tap, he looks back into the mirror to see a blotchy face, one too many chins, and a hint of morning toothpaste lining his bottom lip. Walter lets the water run as he sits on the side of the bath. He closes his eyes.

Walter recalls how his wife was a fanatical swimmer and that she liked to remind him how she’d given it all up for his ‘so-called’ career. In fact, she would often talk about moving back home to where she grew up. It had just taken her a long time to really mean it. She was always talking about her former trips to the lido; It was always about the water for her. The truth was that Walter has never actually learnt how to swim and was unable to join her. Backstroke, breaststroke, front crawl, side stroke, trudgen, even the doggy paddle eluded him. Walter is the very essence of a non-swimmer, and to this day he does not own a pair of trunks.

Walter enters the bath and turns his head to the side, resting his cheek against the cool blue ceramic edge. He listens to the water sloshing around his body. In the misted bathroom mirror, he pictures the lone swimmer from the spa approaching him. Removing her swimming cap and all-in-one Speedo, her red hair drops around her shoulders - her bare flesh translucent against the lino tiles. She lets her swimwear fall to the floor. And as the longing grows within, he rises to meet her. His eyes meet hers; he can sense her every breath, and as she lifts her arm, she slaps Walter square in the face.

The night Walter’s wife finally did leave him him, the night he wanted to forget, he recalls it being the worst night of his life. He imagines her carrying her bags past him, though he can’t be sure of the memory; he’d slept right through everything, even when the car doors had slammed shut. And as he pictures his wife and daughter slipping away in his prized E-Type, he remembers how he’d remained out cold in the armchair until daylight. That was the last time he’d injected anything into his body. Walter struggles with sleep even to this day.

Walter’s thoughts turn to his daughter Britney who’d made the effort to reach out to him the previous month; that she wanted to see him was of some conciliation. And when they’d met at his home, he was relieved she recognised him. Britney had explained how she’d had to be self-sufficient in their teens. He’d felt himself squirm when she explained how her mother had fallen for a local water polo captain; she’d said the man was a bit too touchy-feely in the deep end of pool for her liking. Britney had decided moving out was the only option. Walter felt disappointment in himself for not being there for her. She had left with a book of baby photos, a cuddly toy from when she was seven, and his sole hit as a signed 12-inch single from the shed. Walter wonders whether he will ever see his daughter again.

…

That evening, Walter stands to the side of the stage with the podium in clear view. As the hostess turns toward him the clapping begins, and a spotlight swings his way; the crowd are covered in a smoke-filled haze somewhere between green and grey. He knows, that they know, he’s the stand-in guy; the make-do celebrity for the evening. He feels a shortness of breath and the words for his presentation all tumbling upside down in his head. And all Walter can think about is the conversation he’d had the morning after his wife had left him.
‘I’m sorry,’ he says, ‘I…’

‘I need you to send on my things,’ she says.

‘I won’t touch another line,’ he says.

‘I’ll need my spare goggles,’ she says.

At this point Walter began to sob.

‘I’ve booked myself in to the clinic,’ he says.

‘I need you to go into my side drawer,’ she says.

‘Come home,’ he says, ‘I can’t do this alone.’

‘In there you’ll find my reading glasses, my book, and my personal massager.’

‘What about Britney?’ he says.

‘Just don’t remove the bookmark,’ she says.

Walter hears the applause as the hostess delivers one nauseating crowd-pleaser after the other. Were those inserts he could see inside her bra? Yes, he was sure of it. He sees the microphone to the side, how it was fixed way too high for him, and the length of her stilettos. He watches how she crosses her palms to avoid clapping her fingernails together. When Walter breathes, it’s something heavy, no, not so much heavy - no it was more of a solitude, like a sense of loss coming across him. Walter starts humming, mouthing to the lyrics in his head;
‘Now we are beautiful,’ Walter takes a breath.
‘I think we’re beautiful,’ Walter pushes back his shoulders.
‘Together we are beautiful.’ Walter brushes caution to the side.
Walter bounds across the stage towards the hostess. Smile for the audience Walter, smile. This is your moment, your calling. Walter knocks into the water jug. With a frown the hostess leans forward to embrace him. She carefully tucks her talons around his collar, pulls him in a little closer, and whispers into his ear, ‘Do me a favour Whitstable,’ she says, ‘try not to fuck it up for everyone else.’ Walter looks her in the eye and lets the back of his hand brush against her breasts. He can feel the warmth of her body against him. Stepping back, the hostess reveals her most dazzling smile. And as Walter turns toward the audience, he sees a spawn of dilated pupils returning his gaze. His hands begin to tremor as he tears the golden envelope open, and he mis-pronounces the winner’s name. And as the crowd erupts, Walter’s heart sinks. Walter can feel a breath on the back of his neck.  

Catching his reflection in the glass, Walter pours himself some water and nudges the jug to the side. As the gothic-looking wannabe approaches, Walter pushes the microphone-shaped award into her hands. He opens his mouth, but nothing seems to come. And as Walter scuttles toward the exit he leaves the hostess and the winner to their embrace.

Back in his room Walter changes into the hotel dressing gown and begins flicking through the selection of pay-per-view movies. He settles for a recent Charlie’s Angels remake in the hope of distraction. Ten minutes into the movie Walter pauses on a fight scene and empties the entire contents of the minibar out onto his bed.

That night Walter struggles to find sleep. Images of his failure haunts him with every twist and turn. He pictures the competition judges mocking his every lyric. His ex-wife wearing her synchronised swimming outfit is in the panel. He recognises the utter look of disdain. The water polo captain sits beside her; his smile sickens him to the core. Walter cannot find any kind of comfort in his bed. With the sheets wrapped awkwardly around him Walter consumes the last of the miniatures. At some time between darkness and light Walter finally passes out.  

It is midday the next day. Walter checks himself before the bathroom mirror and pats away any unwanted marks from his two-piece purple suit. Walter exits the room and makes his way downstairs. As he approaches the Spa, he finds himself alone. All he can hear is the sound of the filter ducts bobbing back and forth. As Walter approaches the poolside, he feels the gentle ripple of water lapping at his feet.

Walter removes his clothes and places them on the bench. He steps up onto the side and walks to the very end of the diving board. Curling his toes over the edge, Walter can feel the textured pattern beneath his feet. Walter Whitstable takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Everything is perfect

Huddlestone Phillips
Published by Cleaning up Glitter
Published also by Two Sisters.
September 2019

There’s this thing we have, a routine we both share. Ruth makes holes in the earth. I drop a seed into the hole and then she covers it over with soil. And we repeat the process over. Ruth carefully moistens the earth with the watering can, and places each pot in line to ensure maximum exposure to sunlight. It excites me when Ruth tampers down on the dirt to seal in the seeds with her index finger. Sometimes, when I'm with her, I have thoughts; I imagine Ruth taking advantage of me in my sleep late at night. Ruth takes an empty planting tray from the floor and places it on the shelf before her. As she puts it down on the surface, I notice how chewed the skin is around her nails. I make a mental note to pick up cuticle restorer from the pharmacy in the morning. As she turns towards the wooden trays, she begins rifling through the empty pots, casting them aside one by one. She sucks in air through her teeth.

‘The seeds Kevin’ she says, ‘where are the fucking tomato seeds?’ 

I note the tremble in her voice. Ruth drops the tray to the floor and gives me that dead-eyed stare. It’s accompanied by the pout that tells me I'm inherently wrong about everything—the very same look her sister gave me when I ate all the meatballs at Christmas. As I check through the pallets, she huffs and raises her hands to her temples.

‘You left them at the till again didn’t you?’ she says.

I knew I had fucked up. Last week it was the Bounty bar at the petrol station, this time it was the sodding seeds. I decide to busy myself by picking up a grow bag and dropping it down by the rhubarb. As I lift the second bag, Ruth discards her gardening gloves and throws them to the floor. 

‘you’re an utter cock, Kevin,’ she says. 

‘Sorry’ I say.

‘Your crap is giving me a migraine,’ she says.

‘Sorry, I repeat.

‘You can sleep in the spare room tonight. 

‘Oh,’ I say. ‘But isn’t it…’

‘No’ she says, ‘it isn’t’ And she heads off indoors.

Ruth means everything to me. I love showing her off at the Rotary club. For a 62-year old she’s beautiful, highly intelligent and has all her own teeth. As my second wife, Ruth is the kind of woman that loves pampering. Now that we have a shared bank account, she says I don't even need to do the shopping with her. Ruth encourages me to take more interest in my personal development and books me to go away on learning courses pretty much every weekend. My love for her is all-consuming, and I show it every morning with a cup of Silent Whisper Lady Grey from Waitrose. She tells me we don’t need friends when we have each other, and she’s right. ‘Loving you is easy when you’re beautiful’ said the great Minnie Ripperton, and I couldn’t agree more.  

I hang up Ruth’s gloves and douse the ‘strawbs’ with the watering can. I have this thing where I like everything to be just so in my potting shed. I love that within the confines of these four walls, I can take comfort in knowing that everything has its place. The hedge-trimmer is kept oiled and maintained on a bi-monthly basis, the handles to the rake, fork, and spade regularly soaked in sesame oil, and the blades to my Wilkinson garden shears carefully sharpened. I know it’s a little over the top, but my shed is the one place in my life where I feel in total control. Ruth not only tolerates this, but she also encourages me to spend as much time there as possible.

So, here’s a thing. I know all about David, her ex-boyfriend. Why Ruth keeps all his postcards is beyond me. Sometimes when Ruth goes off to Pilates classes, I open up her wardrobe to check the box and see if there are any updates. David writes to her every week. They seem pretty straight-forward, things like where he’s staying in the country, the kinds of people he meets, and the hotels he is staying in. The pictures are invariably of well-known landmarks; the latest card from Blackpool shows an image of a tower, a stick of rock with the name through the middle and people enjoying donkey rides along the promenade. In his latest postcard, David writes; Dear Ruth. This week I’m in Shepton Mallett, on the A303 heading towards Stone Henge. Remember Stone Henge!? We sure made it a Summer Solstice to remember!!! Yours always, David. He has this annoying thing where he makes his signature look like a smile. I ensure everything is returned in the correct order before placing them back inside the wardrobe. And I go about my day trying to forget the cards. Reading between the lines make me sure things aren’t right. 

A week later, Ruth and I are setting up the dinner table for the two of us. Ruth is on edge, I can sense something is out of kilter with her. Her hair is tied in bunches, and she keeps saying things under her breath. It’s then that she chooses to bring up her ex; 

‘You remember I told you about David’ she says. ‘I think he’s coming to stay.’ 

I feel my eye twitch–David has never come to visit before. To me, he’s a former relationship way past its sell-by date, and I’m not sure what to say. I consider my response; too negative, and it will rile her. Too upbeat and she will say I’m being sarcastic. I picture myself slamming the door in his face when he arrives, and Ruth thanking me for it. 

‘He’s just a friend,’ she says.

‘Is he traveling for work, or just visiting relatives?’ I say.

Ruth wanders through to the kitchen. I hear drawers abruptly shutting as she returns into the room with that look on her face. I regress instantly to errant schoolboy mode; shoulders down, hands in pockets, with ‘sorry’ written all over my face. 

In our first year together, Ruth and I had been on a caravan holiday somewhere between Devon, Dorset or Cornwall. I never knew which was which. That’s when Ruth first told me about David. We’d decided on a romantic picnic by the cliffs–An escape for us both from the suburbs. I’d seen her scratching the dry skin on the back of her hands, and when I saw the blotchy marks rising on her neck, I realised this was not going to be good news; I guess I was more attentive back then. So, I listened to her telling me about the ins and outs of their relationship, how they had met, how they’d fallen deeply in love, and about how at times had felt so close they were inseparable. Until she says, he started seeing someone else, and then things had fallen apart.

I gather from Ruth that David had messaged her at the weekend while on the road, and had told had her he was passing. She continues to say they hadn’t seen each other since they went their separate ways, but had mailed from time to time. Now his wife had left him, and taken his dog too. He seemed pretty down, she says. So, I wasn’t excited when she said he was coming to stay. I decided this wasn’t the time to bring up the postcards.

It’s early evening when David turns up. Ruth is pegging out the laundry in the garden; she never pegs out the washing. That's when I see him walking up the driveway. He has a matching pair of Louis Vuitton suitcases, the expensive ones with the swing tags, big gold letters, and stuff. I can tell by the cut of his suit, the pointy shoes, and the side-parting that things were not going to pan out well for me. He rings the doorbell, and I wait for a beat before opening the door; like I have other things on or something. I can see his distorted form in the frosted glass, and I hear myself sigh.

As David enters the house, I am polite and courteous. I take his coat and offer to carry his bags to the spare room. As we walk through to the kitchen, I’m a bit taken aback by his gaze. 

‘Hello,’ he says

‘Hello,’ I respond. 

He has a lazy eye, and I’m was unsure which one to look at when he talks. Were it not for his wandering pupil; he would have been more handsome, I guess. I do my best not to stare. I smile, gesture him in, and take him through to the kitchen 

‘Gosh.’ David says, looking into the garden, ‘Ruth hasn’t changed a bit’.

‘Tea?' I offer, and I switch on the kettle.

‘I hope you don’t think I’m imposing,’ he says.

‘Well.’ I say. ‘It’s only a quick visit. We love to have friends over’.

I notice David scanning the glasses in the kitchen cabinet. He admires my collection of Toby jugs and takes down my 1982 Royal Wedding mug from the shelf and turns it in his hands. 

‘Quite a piece,’ he says, and returns it to its place. 

I smile politely, correct the angle of the mug, and walk him through to the garden. 

David kisses Ruth awkwardly on the cheek. 

‘Gosh,’ he says, ‘look at you.’

‘How long has it been?’ she says.

‘Well now,’ he says, ‘let me…’ 

‘I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on.’ I say, but by then they have both walked away. I mumble something about tea and return to the kitchen. From the window, I note how she curls her hair around her finger as she talks, how she touches him on his elbow repeatedly. Better to let them get this whole re-connection thing out of the way. He will soon be on his way.

One evening, during week two of this over-extended stay, the three of us take off to the Red Lion pub. I wasn’t sure who had initiated the idea, but we were sitting in the corner of the bar with two local beers, a chardonnay, and a bag of dry roasted nuts. 

‘So,’ he says, ‘how did you both meet?’ or words to that effect. 

I guess I was too embarrassed to admit that we were two lonely souls looking to fill our empty lives when we met; that what had started as companionship at the allotment had slowly flourished. That was when David had changed the subject to stories about himself; he was more comfortable listing his cars, his money, and the cities he had visited.

My concentration drifts. I hear David leaning in to repeat a question.

‘Did Ruth ever tell you about us?’ he says.

This shakes me. He uses the word us as a collective ‘us’ as in the two of them, an item, an ownership of something. I feel sweat collecting under my armpits, and my forehead becoming waxy. I become fixated with his face; this chameleon, able to adapt to his surroundings, and luring me in. His intense concentration. And so many self-congratulating compliments. Pretty soon, I find myself on a sixth beer, and my words beginning to slur. I lose focus as the conversation moves towards their history together. I can hear Tom Petty sing Free falling on the jukebox and in my mind see them both locked in some tantric position in front of me. As I drift in and out of the moment, I became fixated by the tip of David’s nose as it bobs up and down as he speaks. I watch how Ruth touches her sternum whenever he makes her smile. She is happy; happy like I’ve never seen her before happy. I’ve wanted to reach all of her–and I realise something; that we’d never really connected, nor have I made her feel special. It’s always been just a co-existence. I drift further out, and some time may have passed.  I think I hear him say something like ‘Let’s move on.’ As we approach the taxi rank, my legs buckle, and I black out.

While nursing my hangover the next morning, I avoid the growing request list on my screen; I’m distracted by the thought of them both back at our home. This morning while he’s out running I strip his bed, put his sheets in the wash, and I place his Louis Vuitton collection on his mattress. I’m hoping this will make it clear his stay is over. I even return his toothbrush and shower gel inside their wash bag. Last night I had stupidly offered to extend his stay further. I was trying to please Ruth. I pull out a bar of Snickers from my top drawer and open the wrapper. My laptop pings as another IT request comes in. 

It’s from top floor management. 

I pick up the handset, and I listen. 

I take a deep breath. 

‘Have you tried turning it off and on again?’ I say. 

I replace the handset and drop my head to the desk. 

I google ‘unwanted vermin.'

I spend my remaining hour at work scrolling.

The cold evening wind forces the bushes back and forth as I pull into the driveway. Removing my keys, I approach the doorstep to find the front door ajar. I rush through to the lounge and see David down on the floor; the postcards set in a perfect circle of around him, my garden shears are lodged in his upper chest. 

‘Shit Ruth?’ I say, ‘who did this?’

Ruth is on her knees by his side, her eyes glazed over, and her hands covered in blood; she makes no reply. Her makeup has run. Checking his wound, I grab the sofa cover and pack it in around the garden shears, his chest heaves up and down in quick succession. 

‘He needs to get to the hospital’ I say.

Ruth glares at me as David rasps something incomprehensible. I lift him and stagger out towards the car. Ruth takes the back seat next to him. 

We make our way toward the hospital. Ruth offers no explanation of what’s happened and avoids all eye contact; I guess things are pretty much broken between us. As I drive, I picture the car swerving to the verge and flipping over onto its roof. I switch on the radio, slow my breathing and tighten my grip on the wheel. Tom Petty plays out, and I start mouthing the words to his voice; ‘It’s alright if you love me, it’s alright if you don’t, I’m not afraid of you running away, honey, I got the feeling you won’t.’ 

With a sinking feeling, I look back in the mirror and study her eyes for a sign–anything. David is resting on her lap, and she strokes his hair. I see her biting down on her lip–I want to tell her everything will be okay, but she drops her gaze to the window, and I feel utterly broken. Bubbles of red rise from his lips and I begin to fixate on his condition. I hadn’t noticed until now that his eye had corrected itself. I see my blood-soaked sofa cover scrunched up close to his chest. Looking into the distance, the city lights come into view. 

‘Don’t worry,’ I say, ‘we’ll soon be there,’ 

My foot tips down hard on the accelerator. 

I pull into the visitor’s parking zone of the hospital; a red brick building with its name mounted in lights above the entrance. I check the angle of my car and open the rear passenger door and check David's pulse. He rolls his head to the side and gasps for air.

‘We’ll soon have you fixed.’ I say.

‘Shut it,’ Ruth says.

‘I was…’

‘Kevin,’ she snaps, ‘just hurry the fuck up.’

I rush forward to grab one of the visitor’s wheelchairs from inside the entrance. David tries to mouth something to me as I place him carefully in the blue chair.  Ruth hushes him to conserve his energy by places a finger to his lips. As we approach the welcome desk, we see a nurse, mid-fifties and heavy makeup mid-conversation on the phone. Her lipstick runs further than the outside the line of her lips. I put both hands on the glass screen in the hope this will bring her conversation to a close.  

‘Excuse me?’ I say. 

The nurse tips the phone away from her ear 

‘Yes?’ She says. Her lower jaw juts forward.

I gesture towards David. ‘This man needs a doctor.’ I say.

 ‘Are those garden scissors?’ she says. 

‘Wilkinson.’ I say.

‘I see,’ she says.

Her shoulder hunch together and she covers her mouth to the phone.

Moments later, David is placed on a bed and wheeled through to theatre by the duty doctor and an orderly. Ruth and I follow on behind. He’s still breathing. The anaesthetist dressed in darker blue follows on. He has one of those decorative surgical caps like it’s a bandana or something. He says something positive, but I don't hear him. Ruth and I follow in silence as the metal frame clunks through a series of automated doors. I notice pictures on the walls, their angles all askew. And I know that Ruth knows exactly what I'm thinking.

Ruth and I sit outside the operating theatre. With the lights down low, only a hand full of staff remain on the ward at this late hour.  Unable to sit still, I notice a small gap in the door. I crouch down to let Ruth join me. We see the doctor preparing David for surgery. The anaesthetist applies a mask to David’s face, and I see his eyelids close. The doctor works quickly to remove my garden shears and stem the bleeding from the wound. The nurse is mopping the doctor’s brow as David’s body begins to shake uncontrollably as the lights on the machine next to him turn red. Alarms begin to sound. I use all my strength to stop Ruth from bursting into the room, and she begins to sob uncontrollably.

‘I am so very sorry.’ I say.

Ruth desists, allowing me to console her. 

A further ten minutes pass before the doors swing open. The doctor approaches us both.

‘He’s going to be okay,’ he says, ‘it was touch and go. Unfortunately, the patient is paralysed from the neck down. He may be here for some time.’

Ruth lets out a gasp. 

The orderly wheels David from the room.

We both rise as he passes and follow him to the lift. 

Ruth approaches his side.

A relief passes slowly through me. 

And I wonder if this is what my life has culminated to. 

This very moment.

Now.

‘Hello David,’ I say. ‘How about we go somewhere more interesting?’

David does not respond. He’s still under. His face is puffy, and a mark sits where the mask once covered his mouth and nose. His wound has been replaced with 24-stitches in a near-perfect line. As I take in the sheer beauty of the needlework I listen to the life support machine attached to his bed; a rhythmic chorus of gas, beeps and pumps all playing to the beat of his heart. It’s beautiful. And as two women in police uniforms approach, I feel the touch of Ruth’s hand in mine.  

Lucky

Huddlestone Phillips
Nominee V.S Pritchett award 2020
Royal Society of Literature

Sunday. In the darker months of winter, I like to check the thickness of the ice down by the lake. I keep one boot on the edge and the other on the ice, then rock back and forth with caution. I step out further across the hardened surface and repeat the process over, until I hear the low groan of the ice. Sometimes I hear a deep groan, and then I know I’m pushing my luck.

That afternoon Lucky and I walk further around the lake to the bench, the one with my father’s name engraved into the backrest. He never got to sit on it, but I knew it was his favourite spot. As we approach the far side of the lake Lucky is the first to notice something is wrong. He starts barking towards the ice-covered water, his anxious shrill telling me something’s not okay.

In the distance I see a woman standing on the outer edge of the ice. Her arms wave up and down and she’s screaming. She’s too far for me to hear clearly.
‘I’m too far away,’ I say.
I hear a response, but it’s still muffled. I take a mint from my pocket and suck it in, I wasn’t okay with shouting. My dad used to tell me to keep my voice low in case I went around scaring people. He said that a lot.

 Lucky and I make our way around the edge of the lake. It takes a few minutes to follow the icy path towards her. Lucky pulls at his leash as we approach, and I take a tighter hold to keep him safe.
‘It’s my son,’ she screams, ‘he’s fallen in the water.’
Closer now, I can see a hole has formed in the ice where the woman is standing. A kid is bobbing up down in the cold water like a fishing float with his arms wrapped around a green football. The woman has laid herself out across the ice and is trying to reach out towards him. I tell Lucky to sit and I check my pockets for a chew.
‘Do something for Chrissake,’ she says.
I search around in the bracken and find a long branch, hoping it will help. Returning to the ice I drop down on all fours and crawl towards the hole. I can see the boy gasping for breath and float the branch out towards him.
‘Take a hold of the other side,’ I say, ‘we can pull him towards us.’
His mother takes the other end, and with a little movement back and forth, we manage to hook the branch into the hood of his coat and drag him to the side. Holding his collar, we haul his body over the edge and out onto the ice between us.  I see his mother grabbing her kid and telling me to call 999. ‘Hello…yes…Ambulance’ I say.

As she turns away, she takes my phone and begins shouting into the mouthpiece. I smile at the boy and start pulling faces at him. As she returns, she wraps him into her long grey coat. I notice his lips are blue. He seems totally removed from the situation, like he’s watching us from elsewhere.
‘Hello,’ I say, ‘you in there?’
I place my hand on his cold wet cheek and his mother just glares. I note how his skin feels cold to the touch. And I sense myself zoning out. This sensation I have. It reminds me of my father, as he took his last breath. To when the cancer had taken him away. I’d watched it chasing around his body until even his skin had turned yellow. That was when I’d been asked to prepare his body when he passed. On the day of his burial, they’d taken me to a spiritual centre on the east side of town. There was a long metal trolley in the basement where they’d placed his body. A man with beard and long gown passed me a towel and a bar of soap. I wasn’t so upset at his passing; I knew I’d get over it. His skin felt cold, just like the kid’s, but his face was all askew and there was mess spilling out from nearly every hole. It took everything I had not to bolt. But here I am today, with Lucky, having moved on from the experience. This time I’m saving someone’s life.

This ability to see things. It all stems back to my childhood. I was approaching eight when my mother left; she said things got too much for her. And soon after that he sent me away to boarding school. He explained how my mother had been better with small children, and how we both needed time apart. That’s when I found Lucky.

I watch the ambulance approach and turn to the kid.
‘Hey,’ I say, ‘that was a close one. Soon be back in action.’

The ambulance pulls up and two members of the crew approach.

‘Thank you,’ the mother says, ‘we’ll let them take it from here.’
She follows her son’s stretcher towards the ambulance. Lucky and I stand aside so as not to get in the way. They wrap the boy in some kind of silver blanket and strap a red belt across his chest to hold him in place. Her eyes remain totally fixed on him; I’m guessing the whole situation has taken her by surprise.

‘Just glad the both of you are okay.’ I say as the driver closes the door.

‘What about the ball?’ I ask, but the siren drowns out my voice.

That evening, Lucky and I take the bus to the hospital. Despite the lateness in the day I knew it was important to check the kid was okay.

I watch his mother’s expression drop as we approach.

‘I brought his ball,’ I say.

‘He’s asleep,’ she replies.

His face is covered with an oxygen mask.

‘I never played myself,’ I say, and place the ball at the bottom of his bed.

‘Jesus,’ she says.

‘Quite a day,’ I say, ‘you’ll be telling this story for years.’

‘He needs rest,’ she says.

‘Some story indeed,’ I say.

The mother turns to her boy and takes his hand. Her head falls forward to his shoulder and she begins to cry.

‘Well, fingers crossed,’ I say.
Feeling tiredness setting in, I take Lucky’s lead and we turn to leave.

Monday. Lucky and I make our way across through the snow-covered pathway to the post office to drop off a vintage Mitchel 300A fishing reel. Don’t get me wrong, I have nothing against fly-fishing. During the holidays, my father and I would often head down to the lake. He’d pack his bag with cheddar sandwiches and a flask of tea, and we’d take the long stone path down to the water. I loved watching him cast. When I try to fish, I make it look more like I’m throwing a stick rather than casting a fly.

Mary greets us at the post desk. She’s the only other person in the village who says hello to Lucky. ‘Hello Lucky,’ she says. She takes my parcel to the scales to check the postage. A second customer enters the shop. I recognise her freckled complexion and left arm that doesn’t swing as she walks. Ignoring me, she takes an energy drink from the fridge and asks Mary for a pack of Marlborough Lights from the back shelf. I feel something forming in my mind. It’s a very clear sensation like water seeping in through a hole in the back of my head.

‘Shanna,’ I say to greet her.

‘Hello,’ she says, ‘How’s your father?’

I stare at the dark heavy bags beneath her eyes.

‘Two summers,’ I say.

‘Huh?’ she says.

‘That’s your time,’ I say, and I smile. 
Shanna hesitates. She doesn’t reply. Then she pushes past me and shuffles away from the post office, tossing her cigarette wrapper to the floor. My father used to tell me that there’s no easy way to take bad news. I know my exact date. I’ve always known really. And I’m okay with it. I take Lucky’s lead, and we exit.

Tuesday. I have a part-time job at the retirement home Tuesdays and Thursdays. It’s on a voluntary basis so as not to affect my benefit payments. It’s something I started soon after my father passed. ‘Each day’s a fresh challenge,’ I tell Lucky, but it’s pretty straight forward. I start the morning by serving tea to each of the guests. This in itself can fill a whole morning; I’m not one to rush. Some of the guests like to stop for conversation, even if it’s just to talk at me; I’m told I’m a good listener; I always maintain eye contact, and nod when I’m being talked to.

At noon, the duty manager comes down. She calls it her ‘meet and mingle time’ and I see her quietly counting heads. Last time one of the guests disappeared she said there was all sorts of paperwork to be filled in.

‘Shall we get everyone ready for lunch?’ she says.

‘Yes Mrs. Smith’ I say.

‘Shirley’ she says.

‘Yes Shirley Smith,’ I reply.

‘Oh piss,’ she says, and she strides toward a confused looking Mr. Samuels.

 I lean forwards to one of our longer serving guests.

‘Lunchtime Mrs. Harris,’ I say to her.
Mrs. Harris has a thing for wandering past the gates when nobody’s looking.

You’ll have to speak up,’ she says.

‘Lunch,’ I say.

‘Do I know you?’ she says.
She rises slowly and walks towards the dining area, muttering under her breath. I watch Mr. Samuels return from the toilets with a fresh pair of trousers on. The duty manager leads him through for lunch.

Wednesday. The incident with the boy is still playing on my mind and I decide to pay him another visit. Nothing about our trip to the hospital seems okay and Lucky seems less than willing to let me put his collar on. The number 47 bus to town is early and a warm front has set in. I feel out of sorts.

In the intensive care ward, I approach the bed where the green ball sits in the side trolley. His mother is sitting silently with her hands placed across her lap. She does not greet me as I approach.

‘How is he?’ I say.

‘He’s gone’, she says, her face is almost white.

‘I see,’ I say. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were both okay.’

‘Don’t you get it,’ she says, ‘he’s dead.’

And she buckles forward in her seat.

‘I’m so sorry for your loss’, I say.

I know this as the correct response. I watch as his mother continues to sob and try to imagine how she must be feeling. It’s a deep level of emotion. I reassure myself that it’s something I’m better off without.

I turn to Lucky.

Let’s go, boy,’ I say. ‘I think they need their space.’

 Sitting on the top deck of the bus I question why I hadn’t seen it coming. Had I known I could have told her. All the signs were there, even Lucky knew it. I lean back into my seat and stare down at all the passers-by. The evening quickly approaches, and I take an apple from my pocket. I let the juices from it spill down onto my chin.

Thursday. Lucky and I head out for our early morning walk before making our way to work. With drizzle in the air, the snow has continued to clear from the path. The ice covering the lake has turned grey, forming wide patches of water towards the middle. At the far side I see a lone figure sitting on the bench and we make our way over. As we approach, I recognise a wandering Mrs. Harris from the home. Her hair covered with a clear plastic headscarf and her pale blue coat pulled in close around her. Her shoes are all muddied. I take a seat beside her.

‘Hello Mrs. Harris,’ I say, and I take a seat beside her.

‘I used to know your mother,’ she says, smiling to herself.

‘How did you get yourself here?’ I say.

‘She used to bring me to this very spot,’ she says.

‘Mrs. Howard will be missing you,’ I say.

‘This was when you before you were born,’ she says.

‘We need to be getting you back,’ I say.

‘She says, ‘Betty, one day Bill and I will have a boy.’

‘I think we ought to go,’ I say. I rise to my feet, and she takes my arm.

‘Funny,’ she says, ‘she was so certain of it. Like she knew all along.’
As we make our way back to the bus stop Lucky follows on behind.