COCO POPS AND COUNTDOWN

Tom Buckley first began to walk invisible aged eleven. By his nineteenth year, he had never quite succeeded in breaking the habit. He overheard his drama teacher using the expression when discussing three sisters from Yorkshire who pretended to be men in order to get their novels published. Tom had little interest in either Yorkshire or a nineteenth century family called the Brontës, although the concept of hiding in plain sight very much appealed to him.

This rather dramatic lifestyle choice stemmed directly from the bullying Tom received from what felt like an entire battalion of his peers when it became known that his parents’ marriage had ended. This sad event occurred when Tom was still quite young, yet did not become public knowledge until he started high school. By then, he had grown accustomed to the situation, and rather enjoyed spending half the week with his broken-hearted and lonely father, Len, and the other half with Sadie, his blissfully happy mother, and her wealthy husband.

Tom’s stepfather, Bruce, a tall burly man, owned the local dairy as well as other food related enterprises. He was a businessman of means, who liked nothing better than to shower gifts on his new wife and the baby son she had borne for him barely six months into the marriage. Even though Tom knew he would never be as special to Bruce as Freddie so clearly was, he didn’t mind having a half-brother, and looked forward to the day they might be able to kick a ball around together.

Like thousands of other eleven-year-olds, Tom started Year 7 wearing his brand spanking new uniform, and carrying the requisite number of heavy books, never dreaming of the ordeal in store for him. Word soon emerged that Tom’s mum had ‘run off with the milkman.’ It was a difficult case to defend, as Bruce had indeed been a milkman for many years before buying out the dairy, and often bragged of his strong work ethic.

The onslaught of cyber-bullying that followed these disclosures reduced Tom to a one-dimensional sliver of the boy he had once been. The adults in the case had little or no knowledge of bullying that did not consist of fisticuffs in the playground or stolen lunch money, and assumed that whatever was going was merely a flash in the pan which would resolve itself in due course.

A wretched and disbelieving Tom did his level best to walk invisible through the school corridors until the dire situation was unexpectedly resolved by Sadie. Taking a sharp bend too quickly one night, she lost control of her Lexus and ploughed into a tree. She was rushed to hospital but never recovered consciousness. In a manner both absurd and ironic, the news of the tragedy was plastered across social media platforms within hours.

The bullying immediately stopped, but it was too late for Tom’s mental health. Motherless and vulnerable, he found himself unable to bounce back from the years of abuse and emotional torture. After the funeral, he neither visited nor spoke to Bruce or Freddie. He lived with his dad, and remained at the school that had been the scene of his torment. He neither encouraged nor discouraged friendships, and spent the years between twelve and sixteen merely going through the motions. Tom Buckley perfected the art of walking invisible, and began to regard his shadowy half-life as the norm.

Tom attended the local Sixth Form at Len’s suggestion. He had no clue what he wanted to do with his life, and college was somewhere to go five days a week. Things did improve somewhat away from the old school and its reminders, yet Tom still left college ambitionless. His internal compass provided no guidance. He was cast adrift without basic radar or navigational tools.

Len almost regretted the insurance policy Sadie had purchased upon her marriage to Bruce. The pay-out after her death was held in trust for her boys until they reached eighteen. Tom had been drawing an allowance from his capital since leaving fulltime education, which in Len’s mind gave him all the excuse he needed for doing nothing. Nothing that was, except hanging around the house playing Halo, or worse still, crashing out on the couch eating cereal and watching ridiculous quiz shows.

The day everything changed was a Thursday. Until then, things continued with the Buckleys in this less than satisfactory fashion. On the morning of that red-letter day, Len stood at the foot of the stairs and pondered the possibility of staying home. He had accounts to sign off and two interviews lined up, but were they as important as his only son?

He placed a tentative step on the first stair tread, then hesitated. Was he seriously considering overthrowing his plans for the day in the hope Tom might listen to reason and get his life on track? Len sighed heavily then picked up his briefcase and left the house, not bothering to close the door quietly.

A couple of hours later, Tom awoke and was unable to get back to sleep. At ten a.m., he reluctantly dragged his lanky frame out of bed and took a long hot shower. He usually showered at one o’clock then went downstairs in plenty of time to watch Countdown at 2.10. It felt odd to be clean so early in the day, and he felt irritated at the knowledge of the surplus time on his hands. The quiz shows did not start until after lunch. What was he to do until then?

When he was reasonably dry, he dragged on clean clothes then made his way to the kitchen on bare feet. He filled his favourite bowl to capacity and, after adding plenty of milk, wandered into the sitting room and made himself comfortable on the sofa opposite the large plasma.

As per his usual habit, Tom grabbed the remote and switched on the TV. BBC 1 immediately began to play. This was normal as it was Len’s favourite channel, although Tom’s mission was to get rid of it as quickly as possible. He had a couple of episodes of The Chase recorded which would keep him entertained for a while. He pushed the button that usually brought up the programme planner, but nothing happened. No matter what buttons he pushed, the screen refused to budge. There was only one thing for it. He would have to reset the digital box. Glaring murderously at the screen, Tom leaned forward and placed his bowl of Coco Pops on the glass coffee table.

That was when it happened. A seismic shift deep inside Tom’s psyche meant he suddenly registered what was happening on screen. A long-dead memory resurfaced. Tom smelled the onions his mother used to sauté in butter, and the herbs she chopped with her special knives. He heard her singing as she stirred sauces with long-handled spoons. With the tips of his fingers, he caressed the creamy texture of the leftover cake mixture she used to let him eat from the bowl.

Tom could barely breathe as an invisible hand stroked his hair while he absorbed the process taking place. He sat as still as a modern-day work of art while he watched the action play out and waited for the end result. When it was finally over and the credits rolled, he found he could move. He pressed the off button then slowly ate his soggy Coco Pops. Afterwards, he put his bowl in the dishwasher then went next door to ask Mrs. Ashton where he might buy a kilo of brown onion, unsalted butter and various other ingredients.

‘The Farmers’ Market in the next town,’ she informed him with a quizzical look. ‘That superstore on the retail park stocks a full range of produce, but you can’t get there without a car. You might be as well to stroll down to Tesco Express near the roundabout. Don’t forget to do an inventory first. Many’s the time I’ve gone shopping for ingredients, only to find them in the back of the cupboard later. Waste of money.’ Mrs. Aston tutted and lifted her hand in a polite goodbye before closing the door on him.

On the evening of the day everything changed, Len arrived home later than usual. When he turned the key and pushed open the door, a smell greeted him which was simultaneously strange and familiar. The woman who accompanied him noticed the puzzled expression on her colleague’s face but chose to remain silent. It has been a long day and she was tired, wanting only to hurry home to her cosy flat so she could put her feet up.

She followed Len into the kitchen and was greeted by the sight of a lanky teenage boy who had his dad’s rather long, narrow face, albeit embellished with considerably more acne. His blue eyes fixed upon her in a way that made her want to squirm.

‘This is Jenna from work,’ Len spoke hastily when he saw the way his son bristled. ‘She’s just come by to collect a file. What’s going on?’

‘I made French Onion soup,’ Tom replied in a calm voice, his shoulders relaxing. ‘I saw a lady called Nigella making it on TV, and decided to give it a go. Would you like to try some? I made enough for four, so there’s plenty.’

Jenna was on the point of refusing the offer of sustenance when she felt Len’s elbow surreptitiously digging into her ribs. ‘Just give us a minute to wash our hands,’ he said, then herded her out before she got a chance to speak. Outside the bathroom door, Len provided Jenna with a clear and concise rundown of the life Tom had led since Year 7. She quickly grasped the essentials, and agreed to follow his lead.

They washed their hands and dashed back to the kitchen before Tom could change his mind about the soup. There was no fear of that. He had ladled the mixture into deep bowls Len had not laid eyes upon in over a decade, and topped each one with six neatly trimmed cheesy croutons.

It had been a busy day at the coalface of office life for Len and Jenna, and they spent five minutes silently wolfing down the soup and cheesy topping. Jenna eventually raised her head and addressed the chef with, ‘What do you think of Nigella, Tom? Do you fancy her?’

‘Why would I fancy a woman old enough to be my mother?’ the young man looked horrified by the suggestion. ‘She must be forty.’

Len and Jenna sniggered into their soup, and Tom shrugged at their blatant lack of maturity.

‘I never knew we had a fancy blender,’ he decided to change the subject. ‘I found it at the back of the cupboard earlier. I’m planning to buy fruit and yoghurt tomorrow and start making smoothies.’

‘Blimey,’ Len regarded the boy in astonishment. ‘What else did you do today?’

‘I applied for my provisional licence,’ his son replied casually. ‘Will it be okay for me to use some of my capital to buy a car? Once I pass my test that is.’

‘Absolutely,’ Len didn’t bother to disguise his shock. ‘Since when do you like smoothies?’

‘I don’t,’ Tom shrugged, ‘but I’m hoping if I eat more fruit and veg it might clear up my acne. It can’t hurt, can it?’

‘It certainly can’t,’ Jenna jumped in before Len said something to rock the boat. ‘As you have an interest in cooking, have you considered training to be a professional chef?’

‘I haven’t made any decisions about the future yet,’ Tom replied rather mysteriously. ‘Who’s for the last of the soup?’

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On the day after everything changed, Len rather reluctantly pushed open the front door and stepped across the threshold, tentatively sniffing as he moved. There was a definite aroma of something delicious hanging in the air. He rushed to dump his briefcase and wash his hands before strolling casually into the kitchen, as if it was perfectly normal to find Tom installed there instead of parked in front of the TV.

Tom was certainly there, although he was not alone. A much younger boy was dancing around the kitchen shaking a stainless-steel container with both hands. He stopped when he saw Len, and blushed slightly.

‘Hi, Dad,’ Tom waved carelessly from his position in front of the hob. ‘You remember my brother Freddie, don’t you? I hope it’s okay that I invited him around for dinner. I’m making a prawn stir fry. I saw a guy called Jamie doing it on TV.’

‘Of course,’ Len managed to squeeze out the response. ‘You’re very big for your age, Freddie.’

‘He takes after Bruce,’ Tom agreed. ‘He looks like Mum though.’

‘He certainly does,’ Len’s eyes roved across the boy’s face, absorbing the pointed chin and green eyes that were so reminiscent of his ex-wife.

‘I didn’t want to go around to their house so I tracked Freddie down on Facebook,’ Tom continued, unaware of the effect the guest’s presence was having on his dad. ‘We discovered a bottle of rum buried in a cupboard, and he’s making you a Mojito.’

Taking the hint, Freddie sprang into action, grabbing a tall glass he had prepared earlier. He poured the cocktail into it with something akin to a flourish and topped it off with mint leaves, a slice of lime and a black straw. Then he rather timidly proffered the finished drink. Len accepted it and took a delicate sip.

‘Delicious,’ he declared, his eyes never leaving the boy’s face. ‘Welcome to our home, Freddie. It’s great to see you.’

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A month after the day everything changed, Len almost ran through the front door, so keen was he to reach the kitchen. To his delight, he found both Tom and Freddie in situ. As usual, Tom was standing in front of the hob while four different pots simmered, bubbled and merrily hissed.

‘Nicely timed, Dad,’ he greeted Len happily. ‘Freddie is whisking you up a Singapore Sling, and I’m testing my skills with all things Pan Asian. You’re in for a treat. Shame you didn’t invite a friend, there’s enough for four.’

‘I told my dad it’s okay for him to start dating,’ Freddie volunteered. ‘I’m getting sick of looking at the miserable old fart crashed out on the couch every night.’

‘I know what you mean,’ Tom grinned at his brother. ‘Lonely Dads are freaking hard work. Bring on the sexy ladies.’

‘Go ahead and share the news, bro,’ Freddie’s face creased into a smile that was so like Sadie’s, Len’s heart spasmed inside his chest.

‘Bruce offered me an apprenticeship,’ Tom fixed his eyes on Len. ‘When I’m qualified, I might even start my own business.’

‘You’re going to be a chef?’ Len asked before taking a swig of his Singapore Sling.

‘A butcher,’ Tom thumped his chest proudly. ‘Folks will always need meat, and I like the idea of providing a service.’

‘Congratulations,’ Len held up his glass and toasted his son. ‘Words cannot express how proud I am of you.’

‘Never mind all that soppy stuff,’ Freddie thumped his brother’s arm. ‘Feed us now, butcher boy, before we starve.’