Never Too Late To Explore - 12. Homelife

Eric stood in his own living room, looking round at the familiar, welcoming clutter. It was so good to be back home. He took a deep breath and let it out again. He was no romantic, but he felt the cottage came alive when he walked in. Earlier, Andy dropped him and his things off, stopping long enough to help with the unpacking. The ankle took his weight now, but it still needed care. The young man promised to come back at lunch-time to take him food shopping. Apart from some milk and bread his friends gave him, he didn't have anything in. Not that he felt hungry – they sent him off with such a huge cooked breakfast, he wouldn't want anything until tea time.

He went to get a hot drink. His kitchen was small, and not filled with the latest gadgets, but he found it just right. Compact – that was the word. He didn't have to traipse across an expanse of tiled floor just because he forgot something vital. The old man smiled a little. He wasn't ungrateful; just pleased to be on his own turf again. His two friends never stinted in their hospitality over the two whole weeks he stayed with them. The old TV caught his eye. It would be different going back to watching programmes as they were broadcast. He'd never thought about it before. Now, he had a sense of how old-fashioned it was – waiting for the schedules wasn't something his friends did. He sighed. He didn't have the money for on-demand services, or a new TV, so the schedules it would have to be.

Suddenly, Eric's eyes filled with tears. Nobody ever showed him such kindness earlier in his life as the lads did. Not even his parents. The thoughts opened up yet another avenue for his regrets. If his parents had offered him such unconditional love in his youth, would he have turned out a different man? He rubbed his eyes briskly, brushing the wetness away. Would he ever stop ruing things he had no control over? Shaking himself out of his blue mood, he went to get some tea.

Mug in one hand, stick in the other, he sat down at his computer table and opened his laptop. Under Andy's gentle guidance, he gradually got into the habit of checking the news online. Not only the gay sites; he looked at the BBC, and the Guardian. Nothing he had to pay for, though. Old habits dyed hard. It still felt odd to read the news on a screen rather than from something he held in his hands. Reading one story reminded him of a thought from earlier. Ought he to buy his friends a present?

They wouldn't expect one, but he felt obliged. Two weeks of being provided with everything, it was the least he could do. Not that he had the faintest idea what he would buy them. What might he afford that they didn't already have? The old man looked out at the early April sunshine and showers. This year he felt the Spring in his bones somehow. Maybe the present idea was enough excuse for a day out to Leominster? He wanted some seedlings for his garden as well and he remembered passing a likely-looking plant shop when he was last there with Andy.

The idea of an expedition on his own gripped Eric. He spent the next hour peering at the screen, tapping away, trying to work out how he could get there and back. The bus service was so infrequent as to be useless. He didn't want to hang around for ages, waiting for the next service. With those heavy showers, he could get soaked, or his ankle might cause trouble. Looking at the information, the old man decided to splash out and take the train. The journey was quicker and maybe more comfortable. Some of the clapped-out buses he saw serving the outlying places shouldn't be allowed.

When his friend returned, he showed the young man his plans.

Andy grinned. “See? You'll be disappearing off to all kinds of places soon. Abroad even?”

Eric frowned. “I don't think so. I've no wish to consort with foreigners. Not that I've got anything against them, mind. No, Leominster's quite far enough for me.” He put on his coat and cap.

Andy held the front door open. “Come on. Let's get you stocked up. When we're back, I need to talk to you about Claire's idea.”

He searched his memory without success. It happened more often these days. “Err …”

“You know: the video.”

He hoped that idea would've faded into the background. Obviously not. “If you like.”

They walked out to the car.

Later, after they put everything away, the two men sat drinking their tea.

Andy decided to breach the video topic again. “Now you're settled back here and you haven't got an audience, what do you think of my manager's idea? It'd be a great boost to the charity's profile, I think. We might even get some media coverage out of it.”

His companion concentrated on his drink. When he spoke, he addressed his words to his mug. “I'd feel a total idiot talking to the camera. And as for journalists …” Eric looked up. “You can deal with them yourself, young man.”

“Thought you might say that.” He smiled back. “You'd be talking to me though. Remember?”

The old man looked unconvinced.

“Like we said when Claire came round for dinner, I'll ask you questions. They'd be there to prompt you. Sort of giving you the topics to talk about.” He put his mug down and picked up his phone. “Would you like a taster? I could ask you a couple of questions now and show you the results.”

Eric eyed what he held in his hand. “Is there nothing that gadget of yours can't do?”

He laughed. “Of course, there is. It doesn't do the cooking. Or the washing up, for that matter. So?”

The other man hesitated, thinking hard. “Since there's only the two of us, I suppose it won't matter if I make a fool of myself.”

“You'll be fine.”

Andy got up and pulled his chair closer until he was opposite his client. Eric looked on as he moved the handset back and forth, trying to get a good picture. Finally, he settled on a standard head and shoulders shot.

“OK, Eric. I'm now recording our conversation. Don't forget to speak clearly.” He smiled at the other man who still looked uncomfortable. “Why don't we start off with you giving the viewers an introduction?”

The man opposite sat more upright in his chair. He cleared his throat by coughing several times. “Hello. Err… I'm Eric.” He stopped. “Do I have to give my surname?”

“Don't think so. I can't imagine it'll make any difference.”

“Oh. OK.” He took a breath. “Hello. I'm Eric. Ehm… I'm a retired estate worker and gardener.”

“Excellent. See? That wasn't too bad, was it?”

“Any fool can say their name.”

Andy chuckled. “True. Let's try a question now. What was your life like before you applied to A Helping Hand?”

“Blimey.”

Eric took time assembling his thoughts. Andy turned the recording off until he was ready.

“OK?”

“Yes.” He frowned in concentration.

“Don't forget to look at the screen. Recording... now.”

“I was stuck in a rut, I suppose you could say. I lived from day to day, each one pretty much the same as the last, and I survived off very little money. My life had no purpose. That's all changed now.”

“Yay! You aced it, Eric. That sounded fantastic, and it's all true.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Give me a minute or two and I'll show you.”

Eric watched Andy tapping away at the phone's screen, doing whatever he needed to do. Every now and again, he played the short videos that accompanied some news stories on his laptop. He shook his head at how difficult he found it all. How long did it take him to realise they often started with an advert? And as for getting the sound to work… One eyebrow went up. They always made things so difficult – a volume control on the video and on his computer? It took a phone call to Andy to sort him out. Or was it Adam that time? The two lads seemed to take it in turns to answer his daft computer questions. Half the time he couldn't tell was going on in the videos anyway. He found the images small, sometimes confusing, and often too quick for his old eyes and brain to register.

The young man stopped working on his phone. He stared at the screen instead. Perhaps he was watching the completed video. Eric shifted in his chair; he felt acutely embarrassed.

After a couple of minutes, Andy looked over to him and smiled. “OK. It's ready. The sound isn't wonderful – as you'd expect – but it'll give you an idea. A proper video camera with a sound attachment ought to produce a much more polished result.”

He came and stood by Eric's chair, showing him the on-screen controls. The old man felt like closing both his eyes and ears. Nevertheless, he clumsily pressed the arrow and sat watching himself perform. The digital him appeared to do quite well. Particularly after Andy removed all the gaps, stutters, and other stuff. In fact, he came across as knowing his stuff. Eric's lip curled. What had he said? Nothing much beyond the basics: a few clumsy sentences, edited to sound presentable.

He peered at his on-screen self. Presentable was not a word he'd use to describe what he wore. His shabby, dull-looking clothes depressed him. It was OK when he wore them; with no mirror in the place, he never had the chance to spend time admiring himself. He looked even closer. His hair was a mess. When did he last run a comb through it? And his hands never allowed him to shave properly. He ran his fingers over his chin and jawline. Yes, he missed several small patches. Wasn't that part of the idea though? To see him as he was, warts and all. He sighed. That bit would be all too easy.

“What d'you think, Eric?”

Andy's voice jolted him out of his mood. He turned. “Hardly recognised it was me talking. It could've been worse. Well, you made me sound better than I was.”

The young man gave him a one-armed squeeze around his shoulders. “I'd say you were great. A bit more practice and you'll almost be a natural.”

“Hardly.”

“Let me know when you decide about the video. I think it could be fun.”

“Fun? You've a strange idea of what that is. I'll think about it.”

“OK.” Andy reclaimed his phone and put it away in a pocket. “Right … Don't overtire your ankle. I'll call in tomorrow – it'll be the afternoon 'cause I'm meeting Adam's mother to discuss wedding arrangements before then.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless of course, you're planning to disappear off to Leominster?”

Eric gave a short chuckle. “No; the end of the week looks sunnier.”

“Good. Anyway, you'll need a day or so to get settled back here.” Andy headed out. “See you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

Felicity Partington tugged at the sleeves of her blouse. They were long enough to cover her wrists, but the light, silky material tended to fall back on itself, exposing her forearms. Some of her shirts buttoned tight, however they would be too uncomfortable to wear. She folded back a sleeve to expose the latest crop of bruises. Twelve hours on, the colours were intensifying: plenty of blues; fortunately, little purple. The swelling wasn't too bad; she'd suffered worse. During the argument, her husband didn't apply his full force when he dragged her arms up and pinned her. Hardly something to celebrate.

She sat down in front of the vanity and stared into the mirror. A tired, pale face with a bruised and abraded cheek looked back at her. That was doubly her fault. She failed to mention today's meet-up with Andy. Had she done so, Oliver would've avoided her face. The slaps on their own wouldn't have caused too much trouble, only the second one – a brutal, open-handed swipe – made her lose her balance. She fell hard against the edge of one of the kitchen cabinets. Moving her head sideways, she inspected the damage. If make-up didn't do the job, a plausible excuse would be needed. With a sigh, she reached for one of her faithful standbys and started to apply it.

Only the other day, she thought their latest truce was bound to end soon. How long had it lasted? A couple of weeks, at least. Hardly a time of sweetness and light; more, an uncertain absence of trouble in which Oliver always had the upper hand. Power inevitably lay with him because she never knew when he might let fly. What happened the day before demonstrated that amply. The pair of them hosted one of their regular social gatherings – drinks and nibbles, rather than a sit-down meal. Amongst the thirty or forty people present, she felt safe to join a discussion on politics. Two glasses of wine loosened her tongue and she dared to voice her own opinions, not those of her husband. They weren't radical or extreme – in fact, they found vocal favour with a couple of the younger male guests.

She happened to look round and there he was, staring at her. The expression on his face made her blood run cold. It only lasted a couple of seconds before being replaced with something more urbane. She knew well which reflected his true feelings. She excused herself to the group, going kitchenwards for more wine. After taking several deep breaths, she felt a little less sick. Although she wanted to stay there for the rest of the evening, it wasn't possible. Another guest came in, looking for a cloth. She forced a smile, offered to help, then took herself back into the fray. To delay any longer would've invited further retribution.

Her husband barely contained himself until the last guests drove away. The accusations and questions came thick and fast with no time to reply. Why do you always show me up? How dare you flirt in front of me. Your opinions are worth shit. When he stopped, face red with rage, she didn't know what to say. Her normal reflex of vocal appeasement deserted her for some reason and she stood there, speechless. No wonder he lost control. Felicity dabbed and smoothed the cream onto her skin, regarding herself in the mirror. How had it got so bad between them? Her eyes filled until she had to stop what she was doing. It was becoming unbearable.

Andy strolled down the High Street, enjoying the mild, damp April morning. The warmth heralded Spring. He arrived at his favourite café-cum-bookshop. The bright, inventive displays in the front window always caught his eye. Sometimes he spent money on books, but they were mostly as presents for his Mum and Dad. Noting a new title on cycling as a possibility for himself, he went inside. He was a little early for his chat with Felicity, yet he spotted her, already seated, at the back of eating area. The book would have to wait.

He headed over to greet her before ordering. From a distance, she seemed weary – pale and slumped in her seat – before she noticed his approach and gathered herself. Instead of her usual smart blouse, she wore a loose, over-sized sweater – almost as if she'd raided her husband's wardrobe.

He gave her a smile. “Hi, Felicity. How're y... Bloody hell! What's happened to you?” He tried not to stare too long at the large bruise and graze on one side of her face.

She grimaced. “It was an accident. Silly me – I tripped over the vacuum cleaner in the kitchen. I can confirm the cabinets are solidly built.”

“Looks painful. You OK? I can easily run you home, you know.”

“You always cheer me up, darling. I'll find that much more pleasant than sitting, feeling sorry for myself at home.”

Her smile looked strained. Andy leant in and kissed her other cheek.

“If you're sure. OK – what would you like? My treat.”

She indicated the empty cup in front of her. “Another cappuccino, please, and… I'll indulge in a chocolate slice, since you're paying.”

“Coming right up.”

Something puzzled him about Felicity's explanation. As he stood in the queue, Andy tried to chase down what it was. Finally it came to him: Adam's parents employed a cleaner. So what was she doing in the kitchen with a hoover? Accidents happened, but…

“Yes? What can I get for you?”

Andy focussed on the student working behind the counter. “Sorry. I'll have…” He rattled off his order, paid, and went to wait for the drinks to appear.

It didn't take much imagination to see Oliver as a bully. Was that the case? Again Andy's train of thought was interrupted by his order arriving. He loaded up a tray and headed back to their table.

He took a sip of his flat white. “Where do you want to start? There's so much to do.”

Felicity smiled back at him – a much more genuine effort than before. “I've come prepared.”

She reached down for her bag. Delving into her shopper, she produced a jotter and pen. Holding them up for inspection, her wrist emerged from the sleeve of her jumper briefly before she covered it up again. It was long enough for him to see the bruises. His jaw dropped as he drew breath.Their eyes met. Andy was completely out of his depth. He didn't know what to say or do. Instead he looked to his companion for guidance.

After a moment, she cleared her throat. “What are your plans for the day itself?”

With difficulty, he prepared to follow her lead. If she didn't want to talk about it, he couldn't force her. That wasn't the end of it. No way. Felicity might not wish to discuss it, but he had to raise it with Adam. Together they'd think of something.