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8
Jack
It was nearly 5.30 by the time I got home. I couldn’t be bothered to stop at the supermarket, so I was going to have to cobble something together out of whatever I had in the fridge. Maybe I’d do a pasta puttanesca, my classic can’t-be-bothered dish. I walked around the already-familiar curved driveway of Marlowe Court and up the front steps of the middle block, holding the door open for Dave from the first floor, who was a plumber and had been very helpful when I’d just moved in and I couldn’t get the boiler to work. There had been a few days between Tom moving out and me moving in and it had been like an icebox inside the flat when I’d arrived.
The block’s foyer was like a faded kickback to the 1920s, with terrazzo flooring and a giant mirror along one wall. I bypassed the tiny, rickety lift, which I hadn’t yet been brave enough to use, and started up the stairs. On the second floor, a door swung open with a creak and a familiar face appeared.
‘Is that you, Jack?’
I came to a stop. ‘Everything all right, Clive?’
Clive was the beaming, elderly man I’d met the day I’d moved in. He’d watched me from his doorway, cheering me on as I’d lugged my two huge suitcases up the stairs (the lift – which I would have used on that occasion, actually – had been out of action, which Clive said was par for the course).
‘Could you do me a favour and open this damn thing for me?’ he said, handing me a jar of strawberry jam with a quivering hand. I took it from him, smiling.
‘Course I can,’ I said, opening it easily with one turn, but then leaving my hand on it, pretending I was finding it more of a struggle than I actually was. I didn’t want to make him feel bad; he was over eighty now, but at six-foot and broad, he’d probably been twice as strong as me, once. I thought it must be hard to lose that; to think back to what your body had once been able to do.
‘Thank you, Jack,’ he said, taking it from me. ‘It’s very nice to have such helpful neighbours.’
‘Any time,’ I replied. ‘So how’s things? Have you been making any of that rum punch you were telling me about?’
Clive threw his head back and laughed, a gravelly rumble that always made me feel like joining in, whatever my mood. His big, booming voice with a Jamaican lilt echoed pleasantly around the stairwell. ‘I’m out of Guinness,’ he said. ‘Once I pop to the shop again, I’m going to make another batch.’
‘I’ll pick some up for you tomorrow,’ I offered. ‘I’ll drop it in after my shift.’
‘That’s very kind of you,’ he replied, his face lighting up.
We both looked round as the front door slammed shut and footsteps started up the stairs. There was something fascinating about the comings and goings of the block; I found it comforting to know I was surrounded by people on all sides, residents from different walks of life and cultures and family dynamics – students, single mums, young professionals, all living in close proximity to each other, mostly getting along, from what Clive had told me. I felt like maybe I could be myself here in a way that I hadn’t been able to be in my last house-share, which had been full of other actors who all seemed to be doing better than I was. In that respect, it had felt no different from being at home, where it had been my golden-child brother, Dom, I was always trying to keep up with. Except I could never compete with his straight A grades and his captainship of the football team and his successful Oxbridge applications. It had been a relief when I’d discovered acting in sixth form – I’d only joined the drama club because one of my mates was but then it turned out that acting was something I was quite good at. Really good, actually, if the teacher’s constant praise was anything to go by, and for once, my dyslexia hadn’t held me back.
The footsteps came to a stop as Rebecca appeared at the top of the stairs. She had her shoulder bag in one hand and a Tesco carrier in the other.
‘Hello, love,’ boomed Clive.
‘Hi Clive,’ she replied.
She was ever so slightly out of breath.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘All right?’ she said, putting her bags down and brushing her hair out of her eyes.
‘Do you need any help with those? They look heavy,’ commented Clive.
‘I’m fine, thanks,’ she said. ‘It’s my own fault for getting carried away in Tesco.’
I could see a four-pack of Heinz Baked Beans peeking out of the top of the bag. Maybe she slummed it with beans on toast like the rest of us when American Boy wasn’t around, then.
‘Right. Better get all this in,’ she added, picking up her shopping and brushing past me up the stairs. ‘See you soon, Clive!’
‘Lovely girl,’ stage-whispered Clive when she was out of sight.
I heard her putting her key in her front door on the floor above, then the door slamming shut behind her. The wind seemed to catch them on our floor, I’d noticed, and I had to go to great lengths to close mine quietly when I came home from a late shift.
‘Yeah, she seems all right,’ I replied. ‘A bit schoolmarmish, maybe,’ I added. ‘I constantly feel like she’s going to tell me off.’
Clive tutted at me. ‘No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong.’
I laughed. ‘Probably,’ I said.
