Only the lonely
“You must know someone.”
I am lying on my back on the single bed, trying to work out what the damp patch above me looks like. It could be a dragon, making that patch in front of it flames coming out of its mouth, but then it would have too many legs.
“What do you mean?”
“To get me such a perfect view of a brick wall.”
I close my eyes as Peter laughs softly, and picture him sitting in his office; the knot of his ugly striped tie loosened slightly, his legs stretched out under his desk and his feet crossed over one another.
“In all seriousness, how is the room?”
“It’s even smaller than your office, but the owners have managed to cram more possessions into it than are in my entire house.”
“Not surprising, given that your house looks as though you’re in the process of moving in.”
“I’m not joking. There’s an ironing board on a hook on the back of the door, so that every time you open and shut the door it clanks loudly against it. I don’t even know why it’s here; I can guarantee that there is nowhere to put it up in this room, and the same goes for the clothes horse tucked away in the corner, by which I mean it needs to be moved to open and shut the curtains. And as if the ironing board isn’t enough, directly behind the door is a CD rack, boasting an impressive collection of Miki and Griff, Andy Williams, The Everly Brothers, and Matt Monro, so that unless you open the door carefully, it hits the CD rack and shuts in your face. On top of it all, there’s a shelf, which is literally a strip of wood resting on top of the bedframe and against the wall, jutting out over the bed.”
“You’re lucky that anywhere had spaces this close to Christmas, especially given your list of requirements.”
I trace the lumps and bumps on the ceiling with my eyes, joining them together in my mind like dot-the-dot (or is it dot-to-dot?). I never understood it, whatever it is called, because you cannot literally just join the dots together; you have to do it in a way that makes the picture. And even then the picture never comes out right.
“Thank you for doing this for me.”
“What are friends for?”
My eyes drift back to the damp patch directly over my head, and I am reminded of hours spent as a child lying in a field or someone’s garden finding animals and people in the shapes of the clouds.
“Not this.”
There is a clock on the wall opposite the head of the bed ticking loudly; one of those old-fashioned alarm clocks with the bells on top, but the size of a normal wall clock. What is the point of that?
“I am considering redecorating my spare room. Any décor tips in this five-star room of yours?”
“So many that I don’t know where to start. The curtains wouldn’t look out of place in a Chinese restaurant; paper-thin, varying shades of beige, and decorated with Chinese symbols. The wallpaper is classic faded-pastel floral, and peeling at the edges, but the gold-stencilled drawings of Victorian scenes, dangling from the walls, add a splash of colour. The bedding is also floral, but the pillows, sheets, duvet, and blanket are all different floral patterns, some with lace and some without; I imagine that each room is a little bit like Russian roulette. You can tell that the ceiling was once white, but it is now closer to grey and decorated with interspersed damp patches, one of which looks like a deformed dragon. The lightshade is salmon pink and heavily tasselled, and I knocked with my arm before when I took my jacket off and filled the room with so much dust that I felt like I was in Beijing with the smog. Oh, and the carpet is beige, although it was possibly pink once upon a time, and its contents could be displayed in a museum.”
“Great. I noted down everything you said, so next time you stay in my spare room I’m sure you’ll feel right at home.”
“This is not home.”
“It’s just an expression.”
I picture Peter’s face; his salt-and-pepper stubble, the sadness in his ice-blue eyes, the dark circles under them more pronounced than they should be, and his crooked half-smile.
“Are you tired from travelling? Have you been able to sleep?”
“You don’t need to tiptoe around me. We both know what you mean.”
The ticking of the clock seems louder than that of a normal clock. I wonder if that is oversized too.
“I am tired. I’ve tried sleeping but not very successfully. I might venture into town later and see if I can get some sleeping tablets from the chemists, but I don’t think I should just yet.”
“Be careful.”
“I am grateful, you know. For everything.”
“I know.”
“Let’s just hope it works.”
“It has to work.”
“I know.”
“Have you got enough to do? Enough to keep you distracted?”
“There’s never enough to do, but I’ve brought enough with me to try.”
I turn my head so that I can see the mountain of books on the floor, beside a stack of paper with a violin case balancing on top. On the tiny bedside table, which is wedged between the stack of tablecloth-filled-storage-boxes and the bed, is a pile of DVDs sat on my laptop. I turn back to face the ceiling.
“And if I get really stuck for what to do, there’s a sewing machine and a bizarre assortment of materials and accessories in my room, which I’m sure I could have some fun with. I might even make myself some better curtains.”
“Good, good.”
If the damp patch was an octopus then it would explain all the legs, but it would not explain that bit in front of it which, otherwise, was the fire coming out of the dragon’s mouth. Maybe a fellow sea creature?
“Just don’t overdo it, will you? That sewing machine sounds like a cause of stress all by itself.”
I try to remember the last time I laughed, not a brief chuckle like now, but actually properly laughed.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to be getting on with. You don’t need me distracting you, even if I do have lots of witty anecdotes and useful décor tips.”
Peter laughs softly and I realise that I miss his laugh, his proper laugh, more than I miss my own.
“You’re sure you’re ok? You’ll be ok?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Good, good.”
“Give my love to Julie and the boys.”
“I will.”
What do we actually mean when we say that: give my love to…? Why do we say that? Is the person actually expected to tell the other person?
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I know.”
I wonder how many people have ‘passed on’ their love to me via Peter.
“Like I said, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I think of all the things that Peter could be doing instead of calling me.
“Take care.”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks for calling.”
“No worries. I’m always on the other end of the phone if you need me.”
“I know. Thank you.”
I bought Peter the phone in his office; it is an old-fashioned, chunky, square phone with a plastic, spiralling cord, and buttons in a circle on the front, like a traditional dial. And it is bright red. I saw it somewhere, I forget where, and bought it for Peter, because we always call him Mr President.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I hang up the phone, blindly place it on the shelf above my head, and push myself into a sitting position. The only noise is the ticking of the clock. I lift the pile of DVDs off the bedside table to retrieve my laptop from underneath them, and then put the laptop in front of me on the bed. I open the laptop and switch it on, catching sight of the CD rack on the opposite wall as I do. While the laptop loads, I swing my legs off the end of the bed and, trying not to think about the last time the carpet was hoovered (or should that be vacuumed?), step over to the CD rack. The selection is terrible, but anything is better than the incessant ticking of the creepily-oversized clock. I choose one at random and clamber back onto the bed, slipping the disc into my laptop as I try to get comfortable on the narrow, lumpy mattress. A window opens up on the screen and, with a shrug, I click on the ‘play’ icon.
"Dum-dum-dum-dumdy-doo-wah
Ooh-yay-yay-yay-yeah
Oh-oh-oh-oh-wah"
This B&B, run by an elderly couple and booked for me by Peter, does not, in accordance with my list of requirements, have a bar. It does however have a full bottle of Port at the back of one of the cupboards in the kitchen, sat innocently among bottles of elderflower cordial and sparkling water, presumably bought for Christmas, in that way people do.
"But only the lonely
Know why
I cry
Only the lonely"
I stretch out my arm to the left of my laptop and clasp the bottle of port. Roy Orbison croons as I twist the lid, and hear that satisfying crunch.
"Only the lonely
Only the lonely"
Having dropped the lid onto the bed, I pull the bottle closer to me and stare into the deep red depths.
I am lying on my back on the single bed, trying to work out what the damp patch above me looks like. It could be a dragon, making that patch in front of it flames coming out of its mouth, but then it would have too many legs.
“What do you mean?”
“To get me such a perfect view of a brick wall.”
I close my eyes as Peter laughs softly, and picture him sitting in his office; the knot of his ugly striped tie loosened slightly, his legs stretched out under his desk and his feet crossed over one another.
“In all seriousness, how is the room?”
“It’s even smaller than your office, but the owners have managed to cram more possessions into it than are in my entire house.”
“Not surprising, given that your house looks as though you’re in the process of moving in.”
“I’m not joking. There’s an ironing board on a hook on the back of the door, so that every time you open and shut the door it clanks loudly against it. I don’t even know why it’s here; I can guarantee that there is nowhere to put it up in this room, and the same goes for the clothes horse tucked away in the corner, by which I mean it needs to be moved to open and shut the curtains. And as if the ironing board isn’t enough, directly behind the door is a CD rack, boasting an impressive collection of Miki and Griff, Andy Williams, The Everly Brothers, and Matt Monro, so that unless you open the door carefully, it hits the CD rack and shuts in your face. On top of it all, there’s a shelf, which is literally a strip of wood resting on top of the bedframe and against the wall, jutting out over the bed.”
“You’re lucky that anywhere had spaces this close to Christmas, especially given your list of requirements.”
I trace the lumps and bumps on the ceiling with my eyes, joining them together in my mind like dot-the-dot (or is it dot-to-dot?). I never understood it, whatever it is called, because you cannot literally just join the dots together; you have to do it in a way that makes the picture. And even then the picture never comes out right.
“Thank you for doing this for me.”
“What are friends for?”
My eyes drift back to the damp patch directly over my head, and I am reminded of hours spent as a child lying in a field or someone’s garden finding animals and people in the shapes of the clouds.
“Not this.”
There is a clock on the wall opposite the head of the bed ticking loudly; one of those old-fashioned alarm clocks with the bells on top, but the size of a normal wall clock. What is the point of that?
“I am considering redecorating my spare room. Any décor tips in this five-star room of yours?”
“So many that I don’t know where to start. The curtains wouldn’t look out of place in a Chinese restaurant; paper-thin, varying shades of beige, and decorated with Chinese symbols. The wallpaper is classic faded-pastel floral, and peeling at the edges, but the gold-stencilled drawings of Victorian scenes, dangling from the walls, add a splash of colour. The bedding is also floral, but the pillows, sheets, duvet, and blanket are all different floral patterns, some with lace and some without; I imagine that each room is a little bit like Russian roulette. You can tell that the ceiling was once white, but it is now closer to grey and decorated with interspersed damp patches, one of which looks like a deformed dragon. The lightshade is salmon pink and heavily tasselled, and I knocked with my arm before when I took my jacket off and filled the room with so much dust that I felt like I was in Beijing with the smog. Oh, and the carpet is beige, although it was possibly pink once upon a time, and its contents could be displayed in a museum.”
“Great. I noted down everything you said, so next time you stay in my spare room I’m sure you’ll feel right at home.”
“This is not home.”
“It’s just an expression.”
I picture Peter’s face; his salt-and-pepper stubble, the sadness in his ice-blue eyes, the dark circles under them more pronounced than they should be, and his crooked half-smile.
“Are you tired from travelling? Have you been able to sleep?”
“You don’t need to tiptoe around me. We both know what you mean.”
The ticking of the clock seems louder than that of a normal clock. I wonder if that is oversized too.
“I am tired. I’ve tried sleeping but not very successfully. I might venture into town later and see if I can get some sleeping tablets from the chemists, but I don’t think I should just yet.”
“Be careful.”
“I am grateful, you know. For everything.”
“I know.”
“Let’s just hope it works.”
“It has to work.”
“I know.”
“Have you got enough to do? Enough to keep you distracted?”
“There’s never enough to do, but I’ve brought enough with me to try.”
I turn my head so that I can see the mountain of books on the floor, beside a stack of paper with a violin case balancing on top. On the tiny bedside table, which is wedged between the stack of tablecloth-filled-storage-boxes and the bed, is a pile of DVDs sat on my laptop. I turn back to face the ceiling.
“And if I get really stuck for what to do, there’s a sewing machine and a bizarre assortment of materials and accessories in my room, which I’m sure I could have some fun with. I might even make myself some better curtains.”
“Good, good.”
If the damp patch was an octopus then it would explain all the legs, but it would not explain that bit in front of it which, otherwise, was the fire coming out of the dragon’s mouth. Maybe a fellow sea creature?
“Just don’t overdo it, will you? That sewing machine sounds like a cause of stress all by itself.”
I try to remember the last time I laughed, not a brief chuckle like now, but actually properly laughed.
“Well, I’m sure you’ve got plenty of work to be getting on with. You don’t need me distracting you, even if I do have lots of witty anecdotes and useful décor tips.”
Peter laughs softly and I realise that I miss his laugh, his proper laugh, more than I miss my own.
“You’re sure you’re ok? You’ll be ok?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Good, good.”
“Give my love to Julie and the boys.”
“I will.”
What do we actually mean when we say that: give my love to…? Why do we say that? Is the person actually expected to tell the other person?
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I know.”
I wonder how many people have ‘passed on’ their love to me via Peter.
“Like I said, I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I think of all the things that Peter could be doing instead of calling me.
“Take care.”
“I’ll be fine. Thanks for calling.”
“No worries. I’m always on the other end of the phone if you need me.”
“I know. Thank you.”
I bought Peter the phone in his office; it is an old-fashioned, chunky, square phone with a plastic, spiralling cord, and buttons in a circle on the front, like a traditional dial. And it is bright red. I saw it somewhere, I forget where, and bought it for Peter, because we always call him Mr President.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I hang up the phone, blindly place it on the shelf above my head, and push myself into a sitting position. The only noise is the ticking of the clock. I lift the pile of DVDs off the bedside table to retrieve my laptop from underneath them, and then put the laptop in front of me on the bed. I open the laptop and switch it on, catching sight of the CD rack on the opposite wall as I do. While the laptop loads, I swing my legs off the end of the bed and, trying not to think about the last time the carpet was hoovered (or should that be vacuumed?), step over to the CD rack. The selection is terrible, but anything is better than the incessant ticking of the creepily-oversized clock. I choose one at random and clamber back onto the bed, slipping the disc into my laptop as I try to get comfortable on the narrow, lumpy mattress. A window opens up on the screen and, with a shrug, I click on the ‘play’ icon.
"Dum-dum-dum-dumdy-doo-wah
Ooh-yay-yay-yay-yeah
Oh-oh-oh-oh-wah"
This B&B, run by an elderly couple and booked for me by Peter, does not, in accordance with my list of requirements, have a bar. It does however have a full bottle of Port at the back of one of the cupboards in the kitchen, sat innocently among bottles of elderflower cordial and sparkling water, presumably bought for Christmas, in that way people do.
"But only the lonely
Know why
I cry
Only the lonely"
I stretch out my arm to the left of my laptop and clasp the bottle of port. Roy Orbison croons as I twist the lid, and hear that satisfying crunch.
"Only the lonely
Only the lonely"
Having dropped the lid onto the bed, I pull the bottle closer to me and stare into the deep red depths.
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