Never Too Late To Believe - 23. Learning Possibilities

It was Monday morning, Eric reminded himself. Standing in the garden, he was hanging out washing that should've been done the previous Friday. A sharp breeze tugged at the sleeves of a formal shirt as he pegged it to the line. The chill meant one of the faded red plastic pegs fell from his hand. Bending stiffly at the waist, he retrieved the peg from the grass. The shirt billowed and flapped in his face as he straightened up. At least it appeared to be a good drying day.

He grimaced. Doing the washing was a reliable, unchanging chore. Unlike the rest of his life. That chopped and changed on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. He paused, holding a pair of badly-darned, greyish socks. Lurched might be a better description for the emotional highs and lows of the past few weeks.

One sleeve of the white cotton shirt reached out, blindly seeking his cheek. Eric glared at it. He would have to iron the damn thing. That meant remembering to get the shirt off the line while it was still damp. His old, heavy iron had no fancy steam button. Maybe that was a sound reason for him wearing his usual creased, soft-edged clothes. Then he reminded himself the shirt needed to look good if the next time it would be seen was the boys' wedding.

With a shrug, he placed the socks on the line and reached down for the next garment from the plastic clothes basket.

Windblown and chilled, Eric dumped the empty basket just inside the front door and hurried to put on the kettle. Tea was another anchor in his life, except when Adam served his pale green, tasteless version.

Mug to hand, he sank stiffly into his usual chair. Why hadn't he put on an extra jumper before going out? The upheaval was playing havoc with his routines and the ability to think straight. Plentiful fresh air and the manual occupation had taken him away from his damned computer. A roll of the eyes followed. Websites, newspaper articles, so many people offering up their opinions on sexuality and relationships. And gender identities. His head spun. He thought his stock of words had doubled over the weekend. Not that he'd remember what most of them meant.

Except, this self-education – brainwashing, a voice muttered at the back of his head – would help him grasp how many different lives were being led out there, beyond his own narrow horizons. He savoured a slurp of tea, steaming and darkly flavoursome. With the pause, he realised the interrupting rogue voice held distinct echoes of his mother's brittle, agitated tones. Maybe her ghost objected to any loosening or expansion of the moral framework left over from his youth.

He sighed and let his eyelids droop. A long-forgotten memory, astonishingly vivid, rolled in and filled the otherwise blank canvas. The mid-1970s. His parents' house. Although working, Eric still lived at home – he couldn't afford anything else. Not for the first time, he'd entered the spotless but dingy living room – seemingly unchanged throughout his youth – after the evening meal to find his parents arguing over a copy of that day's Daily Mail. Huge, black lettering screamed the latest sensational news from the Jeremy Thorpe trial.

His mother, dowdy in an over-washed blouse and skirt, repeated her views that Thorpe was a good man. An MP, married, a public figure, he was – he had to be – above the lurid accusations levelled by his male lover. To one side of the memory, Eric wondered why she clung on so hard to the idea of Thorpe as pillar of the establishment. His parents' exchange followed a set pattern, each not listening to the other. As always, her husband closed the pointless argument with a rant about how pansies, queers, effeminates infected every level of society. He always worked himself up. They were a poison destroying a great country. Anyone could see Thorpe was a poofter, a lying, filthy poofter. That particular evening, his father had hurled the word 'cocksuckers' into the mix. The storm of hysterics that resulted was spectacular even by his mother's standards.

He, though, was driven further and further into himself. Eyes still closed, Eric let out a long, slow, slightly ragged breath. Maybe that should've been the push he needed to escape. Another long breath. Escape to where? He'd known so little of the outside world. Instead, he'd kept his head down, escaping to his own room as often as possible to read normal, unsatisfying books from the library, or seed catalogues. A couple of years later, he moved positions to another local estate, one which offered tied accommodation.

His breathing was the only thing to disturb the silence. After a couple of minutes, Eric stirred. He needed more of that fresh air.

Eric enjoyed the sunshine on his way back from the riverside. His head felt clearer for the walk. He'd deliberately kept up a steady pace, not stopping until he got there, taking pleasure only in his circulation and loosening muscles. Being ambushed by memories was becoming routine. Things he thought safely locked away. His mouth twisted. Maybe he needed to revisit the past? See it with new eyes.

His feet kept walking until he jolted to a halt, unsure what had caused it.

“Hi, Eric! It's a lovely morning, isn't it?” Emily Standish waited by her front gate, a couple of bulging shopping bags at her feet. She had the air of a woman repeating something.

Eric's face coloured. It was his habit to return from the river along the path opposite the cottage. He'd avoided anyone from the house since the wretched party. No longer, it seemed. He managed only, “Morning.”

The woman approached. “Eric, I'm sorry not to have seen you for a while. Did you have a great time at our housewarming? I missed you at the end.” Her smile was open and friendly.

He shifted his weight. “Parties aren't my kind of thing.”

The smile opposite brightened. “We appreciated you coming. Oh, and giving your gardening advice.” Emily glanced back at the bags. “Actually, I'd like to talk something over with you.”

His shuffling stilled. “Pardon?”

“Don't look so surprised.” A warm chuckle followed. “It's nearly lunchtime. Why don't we have our chat over some homemade soup and a sandwich?”

“Err.” Eric blinked. “Err… yes. Thanks.”

“Great. Come with me. You know the way.”

Eric stared into his bowl. Only a small amount of the thick chicken and barley soup remained in the solid, pale green bowl, so unlike his own chipped, over-used crockery. He took another spoonful and chewed with care, taking time to work out what the other ingredients were. Carrots, peas, and some kind of shredded cabbage – that much was obvious. The background tastes, bright and peppery, defeated him.

Emily Standish stood at the island worktop making cheese and cucumber sandwiches. Eric swallowed the soup in his mouth when she looked up.

“Good recipe, isn't it? I can give it to you, if you want. Though–” She hesitated. “It works best when you've got leftovers from Sunday lunch.”

Eric shrugged. He cleared the bowl.

“I'm sure you could use a stock cube and a small amount of pre-cooked chicken,” she continued. “Andy might be able to help. It's a filling, healthy meal.”

His tastebuds and stomach agreed.

“And really good value. In fact, if there's enough space in your freezer, you can save a couple of batches for later.”

Eric chewed thoughtfully at his thumb. A hundred and something pounds remained from the donated money. He thought to keep it back for a rainy day. Would it make sense to buy a second-hand fridge-freezer with a larger freezing compartment? Another question for Andy.

Emily brought over the sandwiches and sat down. She took one wholemeal triangle and held it for a moment or two as if she were about to take a bite. Changing her mind, she laid the sandwich on her side plate. “Eric, it probably won't be a surprise if I say the reason for our chat is the garden here.”

A mouth full with his own sandwich spared Eric from making a reply.

“Once Andy has finished the high-level garden work, it'll be up to me and Nigel to keep the plants and trees thriving.” She rolled her eyes. “Alive might be a more achievable goal. My husband and I can barely scrape a single green finger between us.”

Eric continued to chew, smiling inwardly, and enjoyed the crisp cucumber's bite.

“Anyway–” Emily smiled at him and gave a small shrug. “Long story short – I'd like to learn more about gardening. A lot more. Nigel's a lost cause. He's good with a lawnmower and that's about it. So I wondered whether you'd agree to pass on some of your knowledge?”

Looking across at his neighbour, Eric raised an eyebrow. A tug of interest warred with a tightening in his guts.

She hurried on. “Eric, we'd like to offer you a retainer – say, enough to cover the first hour of instruction on any given day. I don't know how any sessions I'll need but– ”

Eric let his sandwich drop and pushed the plate away. He stood up. “I spent forty years being at other people's beck and call.” Heat flared in his face. “I'm not going back to it.” He turned. “Thanks for–”

“Mr Woodhouse. Eric. I apologise. Please give me another minute of your time.” Emily too was flushed. “In no way did I want to give the impression you'd be our employee.”

One hand gripped the edge of the practical, laminate-covered table. “Yet that's what you meant.”

She ran fingers through messy, dark brown hair. “God… you'd be a consultant, Eric, our resident expert, free to walk away from our arrangement at any time. I can't emphasise that too strongly. And the fact that any session would be by mutual agreement. That goes for date and duration.”

Instinctive resentment faded slowly. Eric sat down. “Why me? I'm no expert.”

A smile returned to the woman's face. “But you are. You really are, Eric. You might not have Andy's diplomas, degrees, and other bits of paper. Instead, we'd like to tap into those forty years of practical expertise. Your invaluable, hands-on knowledge.”

Heat from another source pooled in Eric's face and neck. He pulled at the collar of his checked shirt. The flicker of interest steadied and grew. He gave the smallest of nods. “Why offer to pay me?”

“Why on Earth shouldn't we?” Emily regarded him thoughtfully. “You wouldn't believe how much we spent on an interior designer for this place.” She rolled her eyes. “And then ignored most of it. Your knowledge is valuable, Eric. I'm sure you'll be a great teacher.”

Another nod. Maybe he might get a new fridge-freezer. He finished eating. “I'd better get back.” Though what for, he didn't know. The shirt perhaps? With a scrape of chair legs, Eric stood up.

His host copied him. “Thank you, Eric. Could you give us an idea of what would be an acceptable fee?”

Mind blank, he blinked and stalled for time. “Err… well, I dunno. Ehm.” Ten quid an hour sounded a nice, round figure. He considered the thought. Fifteen? Indecision caused a prickly heat. He didn't want to let the opportunity slip by asking too much.

“Nigel and I wondered whether twenty-five pounds an hour would do?” Emily cocked her head. “It's far from the market rate, I know, but we wanted to find a balance between asking you favours as a neighbour and as you said, regarding you as an employee. Have a think. We'd pay one hour's worth every week, regardless of whether I make use of it or not. Extra time would attract the same amount.”

“Blimey!”

She smiled. “Let's leave it there, Eric. I know we've rather sprung this on you. If you change your mind, that's absolutely OK. Maybe I'll have to resort to snagging you like I did today.” She held out a card. “Here's our number. Let us know your decision. If it's a 'yes', Nigel will concoct a short memorandum so we all know where we stand.”

Eric scratched his head as he took this in. “OK. I'll have to sleep on it.”

“Good idea.”

He turned to leave.

Emily accompanied him to the front door. “Hope to speak to you soon, Eric.”

His mind was in such a whirl, he left without replying.

After a morning spent on mind-numbing but necessary admin, Andy lay sprawled out on the sofa and scrolled idly through his phone. He let loose a whistle of admiration. Ben, the young man from Adam's work, was evidently pursuing West Mercia Police's inaction on his case through every social media channel he could. His accusations of incompetence and anti-queer sentiments had gained traction. Some of the boost came from LGBTQ pressure groups. Andy wondered if local or regional news outlets would be next. The resulting noise was a smart move from the young man or his legal representative. Scrolling down, he spotted a non-committal but clearly interested response from the area's police and crime commissioner. Even better.

Grinning, he closed the app. Time to phone Eric. After the older man's doubts, Andy was determined to phone every weekday. Only for while, until everything between them got back to normal. He waited. Finally, the call connected.

Hello? Eric's voice sounded bleary.

“Oops. Eric, have I woken you again?” He heard a yawn. “D'you want to phone me back when you're ready?”

And spend money I don't have?

His grin widened. It was such a typical Eric answer. “Sure?”

Emily Standish invited me to lunch out of the blue. Wouldn't take 'no' for an answer. Ate twice what I'm used to.

“Wow. Good?”

Yeah. She's given me the recipe for the soup – chicken, vegetables, and barley. A pause followed.

Andy waited. He suspected there was something else. Had Emily put his suggestion of employing Eric's talents to use? The silence lengthened. “Great,” he said finally. “We'll try it out. How was your weekend?”

A loud sniff followed. My head's so full of bizarre new words, I feel like a bloody dictionary.

Andy smiled to himself.

Though I'm still not sure what the difference is between… ehm, non-binary and ehm–

He visualised the older man screwing up his eyes in concentration. “Genderfluid?” he offered.

Possibly. All the words blur into each other after a while.

“I'm not surprised. You've put a lot of work in, Eric. I'm impressed.” He was. For Eric to make a concerted effort to acknowledge the queer world in which he lived was one of several things they'd discussed the previous Friday. They'd had a long chat – another long chat – after their return from Ross-on-Wye. “Don't make the same error I did when I first visited you though.”

Hmm? Amusement was mixed in.

“Behind all those labels, exemplars, and characteristics are people. Real, living people with feelings and their own histories. Eric, what does the word 'empathy' mean to you?”

Dunno. Doesn't sound like a word I'd remember.

“OK. I see it as imagining yourself in the same world as the one experienced by another individual. You might not have any similar life examples of your own, but you're willing to listen and make the effort to understand how they see the world. So, coming back to that infamous day–”

A tinny chuckle made Andy blush furiously. I'm listening.

“Jeez – I was an opinionated, fucking idiot, convinced I knew the best for you. You tried to explain and I didn't listen.”

Another chuckle. Chicken curry?

“Don't!” Andy supported his head on one fist while looking down at the polished floor. “That fucking ready meal summed me up, didn't it? I ignored you, your tastes, any dietary preferences, and more general things like your ability to handle the packaging. That evening, Adam took me apart. I mean, he was his usual perfectly reasonable, controlled self, but fuck was he seething underneath.”

I was hardly the welcoming host.

“I got what I deserved.”

No.

Andy sat up at the reply, its finality startling. His lips quirked. Eric was definitely working on his emotional show and tell. “Oh?”

He heard Eric's breathing and with it, the sense the other man was coming to a decision.

Andy, do you recall why I called A Helping Hand?

“You felt alone and you couldn't cope with some aspects of your day-to-day life.” Many of the charity's clients said the same thing.

Eric let out a long breath. Well – sort of. I've thought a lot about it recently. … The honest reason? The prospect of getting through winter without Hazel, my homehelp, scared the hell out of me.

Andy gripped the phone tighter. The metal protective case bit into his fingers.

The council withdrew her at the start of May. I managed during the summer. It didn't matter that I ate nearly all my food cold. I enjoyed the odd extra trip to the supermarket when the sun shone. The cottage's draughts and dodgy heating weren't a problem. But of course, it got colder. The nights drew in. Soon, I went out only when I had to. It made me realise how much I relied on Hazel.

“How often did she visit?”

Three times a week – Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Not long visits, but those thirty minutes brought me colour, life, gossip, and her cooking. I loved her shepherd's pies. And the tales about her good-for-nothing family.

There was a pause. Andy thought he heard a slight gulp, almost a swallowed sob.

I don't know what would've happened if you hadn't come into my life, Andy. I dread to think–

His eyes stung. Andy blinked rapidly and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Eric, you made that first move. You decided to reach out. It was your courage that allowed you to ask for help.” The words burst out with an unexpected intensity which only added to his emotions. “Thank god you did.” He took a breath. “It's a pity you got lumbered with me.”

A smattering of giggles lightened the mood. Andy reached over for a paper hanky and quietly mopped his nose.

That's my point though, Eric continued. I should've been grateful. What were the chances round here of getting help from someone like me?

“A gardener, you mean.” He larded the comment with faux innocence.

Of sorts.

The dry retort made Andy grin. He stifled a snigger. “You're right though. Carers should be as diverse as their clients. As Adam put it one time, there's still an overwhelming assumption all older people are cis and straight.” He paused. “I've learnt so much from you and from working with you.”

You saved me, Andy.

The silence that followed crackled along the connection, pulling at Andy's emotions again. “You saved yourself, Eric. Claire and I helped – that's all. Thanks for telling me, though, I appreciate your openness. OK. Shall we change the subject?”

Yes.

Andy thought the reply sounded a little watery. Giving himself a mental shake, he made a deliberate attempt to brighten his tone. “So, tell me, why was Emily so keen to feed you lunch?”

Their garden.

“You setting up in competition to me?”

Hardly.

He imagined Eric rolling his eyes.

No, seems like neither she nor her husband will know what to do with the garden once you've finished with it.

Andy smirked to himself. Result. “Oh, yeah?”

At first, she sounded as though she wanted me at her beck and call. Soon put her right on that.

Andy settled down again and listened as Eric filled him in on the details. Then they discussed plantings and what his new pupil might want to learn. Time sped by. Andy didn't care. He and Eric were back.

Later, Eric stumbled out into the garden and his washing. He was stiff from too much sitting but his legs wobbled strangely. In fact, his whole body felt oddly light, as if not quite connected to the reality of Monday. He frowned. If this was what he got from making himself uncomfortable – vulnerable, Andy had called it – then maybe he wouldn't indulge often. If ever again. Part of him recognised the good side to his confession, the lightening inside him.

Cursing himself for a sentimental fool, he reached the washing line. One hand caught hold of the wretched dress shirt. Dry. Bone dry. He scowled. Of course, it had to be dry. With a shrug, he tossed it into the clothes' basket. Friday would be along soon enough.