Never Too Late To Change - 2. Expectations

Andy Harper stood in the chilled food aisle of the local supermarket, trying to make up his mind. He thought it would be a friendly gesture to take Eric something to eat when he visited. He'd started off by wondering whether he should buy a selection of fresh stuff, so he could prepare something while he was at the cottage. Of course, he hadn't met his first client yet, so he'd have to guess what the old man would like. His food preferences weren't one of the things listed in his file. Andy had thought of several things which could be possibilities.

In the end, though, he'd decided in favour of convenience, which was why he was standing in front of a refrigerated display of ready meals. Everybody liked a curry. Didn't they? Not that he'd ever bought one ready made. Andy decided on chicken korma with rice. Easy to deal with, and not too spicy. Good choice, he thought.

As he walked out of the town centre towards Eric's address, Andy considered what to do and say when he met the old man. His cottage was in a part of the town he didn't know very well, and he had to keep on looking at his phone for directions. He was more than a little nervous, and he wished he'd paid more attention to his training. A good first impression was important, but he wasn't sure how to achieve it.

When he reached his destination, Andy looked in consternation at the semi-derelict condition of the cottage. The whole area was unlike his part of town – he was used to the prosperous, large houses and their accompanying well-tended gardens. His professional hackles rose as he surveyed the over-grown mess of grass, brambles and bushes that was the garden in front of him.. Hmm... he could quite easily do something to make it look presentable again. That would be one topic of conversation to start with.

Andy strode up the footpath and rang the doorbell.

Eric hadn't been able to settle all morning, even though he knew the appointment with Andy wasn't until two o'clock. He was just too full of anticipation and nerves. He hadn't finished his lunchtime sandwich because of it – it had tasted like he was eating sawdust.

The sound of heavy boots on the path outside gave him some warning. Then, the chimes of the doorbell, which still made him jump. Finally.

Eric opened the front door to greet his visitor. A smiling young man was standing on the doorstep.

“Hi there, Mr Whitehouse. I'm Andy Harper. From A Helping Hand? Pleased to meet you. … Err … I couldn't help noticing the state of your garden on the way in. Needs some work, doesn't it?”

Eric frowned in annoyance. He knew the garden had gone wild, but he was long past being able to maintain it. The two lads who'd helped in the past, were at university now. He let his visitor in without saying anything in return.

Andy stood and gazed around the living room. He took in its chaotic state, which was quite unlike anything he'd seen before. And it didn't look particularly clean. His eyes widened, and he breathed in through his nose, slowly. Then he looked for somewhere to sit.

“Is it OK if I move the stuff off here? It would be better if we're both comfortable while we have our chat.” Andy pointed at an armchair which was almost submerged in a sea of junk mail and flyers. The only other chair was obviously his client's

Eric grunted in reply. So far, the visit wasn't going as he'd hoped. He'd seen the look on the young man's face as he'd first come in. Bloody cheek. He wasn't here to be judged – he did the best he could. Eric went into the kitchen to make some tea while his visitor stayed in the living room. Probably poking around and being nosy.

Andy felt himself shivering. It was surprisingly cold and damp in the cottage. When he first arrived, it hadn't been too noticeable. But now he was sitting still, he really felt it. He even thought about putting his jacket back on. It didn't appear to bother the old man, though.

“Shall I turn the heating up a bit for you, Eric? Sorry. Is it OK to call you by your first name? Mr Whitehouse seems very formal.”

Eric only heard the second question over the sound of the kettle boiling. He stuck his head round the kitchen door and nodded. “Yes, I don't mind being called by my first name.” Then he turned back, returning to the job of making the tea.

Andy waited a moment, then repeated his first question. “About the heating, Eric? It is chilly in here. Is that the control knob over there?”

Not getting a reply, he got up and headed over to the central heating controller on the wall. It wasn't on. Oh … He found that strange, given how cold a day it was. Andy looked around for any other heat source. The only thing he could see was an ancient, one bar, radiant electric fire. That didn't look safe, never mind effective.

Eric had finished making the tea, and slowly brought the cups in, one by one. Andy was still standing next to the controller knob.

The old man noticed and grunted. “I don't have the heating on during the day – it costs too much. If you're cold, I suggest you wear something warmer the next time you come.”

If there was to be a next time. Despite his resolution of the day before, Eric was losing his patience. He sat down with his tea and looked at his visitor. He saw a young man – late twenties, perhaps? Andy was quite attractive, dressed in his jeans, work boots, and a light cotton sweater.

Hnh .. No wonder he was bloody cold.

Eric tried to see anything which marked out the young man as being gay. Not that he had any real experience to go on. Neat, trimmed beard? Earring? What had he read about somewhere? … Gay… dar? Well, he didn't think his had ever existed. As for how Andy looked and dressed, he imagined many young men were exactly the same.

Andy was starting to feel uncomfortable. This wasn't going how he'd imagined it would. Where was the friendly opening chat? They'd got on OK when he'd phoned. He didn't want to get down to business straight away. The course had emphasised the importance of getting to know their clients as people. He looked up. Eric was sitting huddled round his cup of tea, trying to draw warmth from it. Andy noticed how many layers of clothing the older man appeared to be wearing. All worn, frayed, and shapeless.

He opened his mouth and started talking to fill the growing silence. “Maybe you're wondering why I'm doing this? Well, …”

He chattered on nervously for a few minutes, until he noticed that the old man had turned the TV back on. Andy rapidly changed the subject to food – everybody was interested in food.

“I was passing the supermarket on my way here, so I took the opportunity to bring something with me for your tea tonight. Oh, and I picked these up as well. I thought you'd find them helpful, Eric.”

Eric watched as Andy produced a handful of takeout menus – bright, gaudy, and almost certainly expensive.

“I don't hold with spicy food; it gives me the shits.”

“Oh … OK … There's a couple of pizza delivery places as well …”

Eric sighed in exasperation. “And how much would I have to spend for the food to be delivered?”

Andy didn't know. He looked at the Chinese menu. “You'd have to spend a minimum of ten pounds for delivery.”

Eric's eyebrows shot up. “That's my food budget for three days or thereabouts.”

Andy gulped. He and his fiancé thought nothing of ordering food in. He found the plastic carrier bag, fished out the curry and gave it to Eric.

“This is what I've got you. It's very easy to prepare, and it's only a little spicy. I hope you enjoy it.”

Eric looked at it suspiciously. “How much do I owe you?”

Andy smiled at him. “It's fine. Think of it as my treat.”

Eric insisted on paying the three-fifty. “I'm not made of money, but I have my pride.” Holding the pack in his hand, he looked at it doubtfully. “What am I meant to do with it?”

“You just need to heat it through. The instructions are on the back of the packaging.”

Eric peered at the closely-typed print, knowing that he wouldn't be able to read it. He only had a pair of cheap, non-prescription reading glasses which were no longer good enough.

“Well, young man, you'd better tell me what they are. My eyes aren't what they used to be. Better still, write them down.”

Andy got up, and found a piece of paper and a pencil amongst the clutter. He copied out the instructions, making sure he wrote in large, clear letters.

When he'd sat down again, Andy smiled again at the old man, and launched into what he was sure would be his pièce de résistance. He thought it would help Eric greatly, especially as the weather was bad, and he knew the old man didn't have his own transport.

“If you like, Eric, I'll set you up an online account with the local supermarket. They'll deliver, and I'm sure you'll find it useful. The site's very easy to use.”

Eric gawped at him in disbelief, and cackled humourlessly. It would be laughable if it wasn't so patronising. Had the young man bothered to find out anything about him as his client? He knew about 'online ordering', just about.

“Look around you, laddie. What don't you see?”

Andy flushed with embarrassment. He looked carefully at the living room and its contents. The TV looked to be at least fifteen years old, there was no DVD player, no sound system. The only phone he could see was for the landline, and it looked to be the same vintage as the TV.

With a sinking feeling, he realised there was no computer, no laptop, no tablet, in fact, nothing remotely electronic. Shit. Should he have noticed when he first came in? Probably … He'd been too busy looking at the junk. Stupid, stupid, stupid. He'd just made a complete idiot of himself.

He gulped again, then found his voice. “Mr Whitehouse, err … Eric, I'm really sorry. It looks like I've been making some assumptions I shouldn't have. It won't happen again. Perhaps we'd better leave it there for today? I'll report back to Helping Hand as I'm sure you will.”

Andy tried to smile brightly as he shook Eric's hand. “It's been great to meet you.”

Underneath, there was a thought he'd made rather a mess of the whole thing. They hadn't even got onto what he might do for the old man. Well, it was his first go. He'd do better next time.

Eric closed the front door, and wearily made his way back to the living room. The telly was still talking to itself in the background. He sat back down in his chair, feeling numb. All his hopes of yesterday in tatters. He'd been daft to make such a thing out of it.

All because one self-centred, patronising do-gooder who thought his world was everyone else's.

Eric sighed – he'd better contact the charity in the morning, and request a change. He'd accept anybody they offered instead. Eric imagined to ask for another gay man was out of the question. And, anyway, the first one hadn't been any help.

Was part of it his fault? He'd had so little practice talking to other people, being polite and hospitable. Making allowances. Although the young man hadn't exactly helped with his 'I know better' attitude. That first remark of his still grated.

He sat for quite some time, staring into the middle distance, lost in so many gloomy thoughts. The winter light faded until he was sitting in the near dark. Finally, his stomach demanded attention, rumbling loudly. Eric lurched back into the present. He hadn't gone shopping in the morning. There wasn't any food … It was stupid of him, but he hadn't dared go out, just in case something made him late. Fat lot of good that did him

Then he remembered the pack of processed gunk the lad had left behind. Better than nothing if he wanted some supper. There was no way he could afford to go to the pub again, not after what he'd coughed up earlier.

Eric got up and shuffled into the kitchen, clutching the pack and the written instructions. Once the oven had warmed up, he bent down slowly, and carefully placed the pre-filled tray inside. He looked around for something to keep him busy while it cooked. If he went back to the living room to wait, he'd only start drowning again in his own misery and self-pity. One ruined day wasn't worth it, or so he tried to tell himself. But in the end, he knew that wouldn't stop him from brooding.

Washing up. It always needed doing. Eric purposefully kept his mind on the job in hand, cleaning, and carefully handling every item. He'd lost enough things to breakages over the past few months.

Done. Everything was stacked neatly. He dried his hands. Was the food ready?

Eric bent down as far as he could to open the oven door, and reached in. He didn't have a proper oven glove, just an old cloth. It wasn't very good. Somehow, he managed to grab hold of the filled tray, then clumsily tried to remove it. His hands hadn't been good all day and they chose that particular moment to go on strike.

The container tipped up, the thin covering film peeling away from the tray, but he couldn't make his hands move. Horrified, Eric watched as the contents spilled out on the floor in slow motion – the chicken in its brightly coloured sauce, and the separate portion of rice. He finally managed to save the remnants of the rice and a dribble of the sauce. Everything else was lost; he couldn't bend or stretch that far, now it was on the floor.

That was the final straw …

Everything that was wrong about his life suddenly overwhelmed him – the silence, loneliness, fear, anger, rage even. Eric propped himself up on the counter top, and helplessly cried slow, bitter tears.