It is hard to appreciate now, but there was once a time before mobile phones and text messages when people communicated with each other by sticking notes to refrigerators using magnets. It got to be so commonplace that it became the secondary purpose of fridges themselves. Families would leave dinner instructions, teenagers would explain their whereabouts, and unhappy wives would initiate divorces, all using short Hemingway-esque messages affixed at eye level using coloured magnetic letters. In fact there was widespread panic in the refrigeration industry when text messages became popular. And then, when free texts became available, the National Association of Subzero Appliances (the other NASA, as they called themselves) brought a case to the Supreme Court, citing an infringement of their right to earn a livelihood.
It was by this vestigial medium that Helen had learned that Hungry Paul had got up early that Saturday morning to make his own way to the hospital to visit Mrs Hawthorn. It is the nature of the medium that there is little space for explaining motives, but Helen surmised that Hungry Paul had woken up early with anxiety about the Chamber of Commerce prize-giving that day, and wanted to find something to do to take his mind off things. As Helen had often observed, there is no better cure for one’s own worries than to help someone else with theirs.
Helen picked the note off the fridge and folded it into quarters, turning it over in her mind at the same time. It had often been the case that whenever Hungry Paul showed initiative in this way she reined in her natural inclination towards encouragement, experience having told her that such sorties were usually undertaken with maladroit enthusiasm and mixed results. To his credit, Hungry Paul had overcome his wavering commitment and social awkwardness to stick with volunteering at the hospital. He and Mrs Hawthorn seemed to share a kindred peace, sitting together quietly holding hands like Larkin’s Arundel tomb. Surprisingly, he had even found a groove with Barbara and all her garrulous energy, which verged on brassiness, and which would ordinarily make Hungry Paul ill at ease. Helen put it down to the fact that he was about the same age as her own grown-up absent children, and sometimes that can be enough to create a familiar set-up on which to base a pleasant half hour. Barbara, to her credit, had quickly figured out that Hungry Paul was happier when conversation was incidental to an absorbing activity like draughts or Travel Scrabble, free from eye contact and leading questions.
Helen had expected that she would need to harry Hungry Paul to keep him involved at the hospital, though she had no greater plan in mind than to get him out of the house to make himself useful. The fact that he had gone visiting of his own volition should have been a signal that the vessel had been launched and was now capable of continuing under its own power. But Helen had developed a habitual resignation to the fact that Hungry Paul would forever fall short of full independence. He might get tantalisingly close at times, which would give her cause for hope—a new hobby, murmurings about a full-time job, passing references to apartments available to let—but, like so many people, the ability to discuss his ambitions seemed to satisfy his need to pursue them. Ideas led to well-meaning effort, led to messy disappointment, led to retreat and an affirmation that maybe a change was not needed after all. It was a cycle that seemed to be renewed and repeated under its own momentum. Meanwhile, Helen and Peter were getting older. The house was no longer mortgaged and was too big for them as a couple. Nothing looks as much like old age as dead space that has been dusted and vacuumed meticulously. Helen and Peter had friends who had deferred their plans only to find themselves in ill-health or widowhood; others kept on working because they needed the money or couldn’t face the anonymity and loss of status that comes with retirement. She and Peter, on the other hand, had always wanted to recreate the relationship they had had before they became parents. After years of struggling with money and worry, they had fantasised about getting their lives back when they retired, a carefree window of however many years before the inevitable worst happened.
And yet, there was part of Helen that wanted to hang on to Hungry Paul. He had been at home so long that he had taken the edge off any relationship tensions that she and Peter might otherwise have had. Two people rattling around in a big house have a habit of getting under each other’s feet; an abundance of free time does not, as it turns out, provide a cure for impatience. Helen had kept working two days a week ostensibly to allow her to get to full pension age, but really she just wasn’t ready to find out whether her fantasy of an open-ended, unencumbered life with Peter would stand up. Hungry Paul brought life to their routine and had become an amulet against that fine film of loneliness that can settle on a big empty house. His pottering and general availability for incidental chats and activities that are more fun with two people, all allowed her to give Peter the time alone he had always craved, while keeping at bay her feelings of exclusion.
‘Good morning love,’ said Peter as he came into the kitchen after his usual Saturday lie-in, a habit from his working life that he had retained in retirement. ‘How did you sleep last night?’ he said, kissing her head and standing behind her as she looked out over the sink at the garden.
‘Fine, thanks love. Are you a bit congested? You were a little snorey last night,’ said Helen.
‘It’s spring. Hay fever is probably on its way. Any sign of our son and heir? If he’s sleeping in I’ll go ahead and make the porridge for the two of us.’
‘Go ahead. He left a note—he went to the hospital to do some visiting. All by himself.’
‘I’m impressed—good on him. You might have started something there,’ said Peter, measuring out the porridge.
They settled into their Saturday breakfast, still in their pyjamas, with Peter reading the unfinished bits of yesterday’s paper. After a while Helen put on the radio just to have some chat in the background, something Peter could have done without.
Helen looked out at the back garden at the bird feeders that had been restocked by Hungry Paul before he went out. Some chaffinches were at the seed feeder, picking out the bits they liked and spilling the rest; a pair of jackdaws was marshalling the fat balls. ‘Have you given any more thought to our trip?’ she asked, ‘I mean once the wedding is over, we’re pretty open. Maybe we should do something a bit special.’
‘You won’t need to ask me twice. I’m game, but I thought you wanted to think over whether we bring His Nibs? He won’t want a long flight.’
‘I know, but I was thinking about what Grace was saying. Maybe it would be good for him and us if we just went ourselves,’ said Helen.
‘I agree. Amen. Where would you like to go? I’d prefer not to go on any snooze cruises or anything too sedentary. Outside Europe maybe? The States maybe or somewhere less western? Argentina? How about Vietnam?’
‘Maybe not Asia. Grace is going to Kyoto so she’ll think we’re following her.’
‘Asia is pretty big you know, even though it’s only this size on the map,’ said Peter holding his hands three inches apart and laughing.
Helen turned down the porridge to stop it bubbling over. ‘Let me think about it. And we better not say anything for now. We don’t want to upset anybody.’