6

Darren waits at the foot of the bridge for Colin’s transit van. It’s easy to spot, bright yellow with ‘The Handyman Can’ in curly letters down each side. Colin originally wanted to go with ‘Mr Handi-Job, big or small, I’ll do it!’ And while it was a somewhat accurate description of his role as handyman and jobbing labourer, it was, of course, utterly tasteless and completely unsuitable, which is probably why he liked it so much in the first place. Years ago, the two of them spent a boozy evening racking their brains, Clover fast asleep, upstairs. It’d been a right laugh. They’d even come up with a handyman version of ‘The Candy Man’ song, which was subsequently fixed to each of the van’s back doors in vinyl letters.

Who can take a house move

Handle it with care

Cover it in bubblewrap

And float it down your stairs?

The Handyman Can!

Who can take a bare wall

Skim it smooth as glass

Paper it or paint it, leave

your whole house looking class?

The Handyman Can!

There he is. Darren waves as Colin indicates and pulls over. The passenger door is sticky; Darren gives it a tug and jumps aboard. That song is playing on the radio, ‘Happy’ – he really needs to sit down with his ukulele and work out the chords, Clover will love it.

Colin holds a hand up to his mouth and sneezes, once, twice, three times; his eyes are red and the skin around his nostrils is cracked and peeling. He pulls into the traffic and immediately slows as the lights at the top of the bridge switch to amber. Driving one-handed, he rummages in the glove compartment and the side-door pocket for a tissue. The lights turn green again and someone behind them beeps. Colin sighs, wipes his nose on the back of his hand and rubs it on his shorts.

‘I feel like shit. I didn’t even go to the gym this morning,’ Colin says, voice scuffing the back of his throat.

‘It’s crap having a cold in this weather. Didn’t want to get out of bed. Then I remembered the cure.’

Today’s is a simple job: a house move, no packing, the boxes should be ready, they just have to pick them up, move a few bits of furniture and drive it all to the other side of town. Three or four trips should do it. Colin doesn’t do many of these nowadays, just the odd favour for someone who is moving at short notice and can’t find anyone else or, like today, a friend of a friend who wants it done on the cheap. It’s an interesting job. Once, they arrived to find that the bloke they were moving hadn’t even started packing. He’d not been able to make himself get on with it and was half hiding behind his open front door, face stiff with shame. Colin lied and said it happened all the time. Then they rolled up their sleeves and got on with it. Today’s family, a mother, father and two little girls, is prepared. The girls race around the almost empty lounge. They lie on the floor, perform consecutive roly-polys and attempt handstands. Darren has seen it before; there’s something about kids and empty houses, they turn into little dogs, try to mark every last bit of territory before they leave. The father is bearded and bespectacled, built like a garden cane. He’s wearing fashionably faded jeans and a T-shirt that reads: ‘Greed is the knife and the cuts run deep’. He addresses his wife and children, interchangeably, as darling – ‘Darling, could you just . . .’ ‘Don’t do that, darling’ – and he’s got one of those bracelets, the ones that tell you if you had a good night’s sleep and how many times you’ve farted. He’s probably in IT. The mother looks horsey, it’s in the thighs: sturdy and firm.

‘A hot drink?’ she asks in a soft, posh voice. ‘There’s an open box in the kitchen, for the kettle and so on. Tea? No? Are you sure? Fruit tea? Chai tea? Peppermint, ginger . . . ?’

They jog upstairs to gauge the weight of the empty wardrobes and check out the bed frames that they’ll disassemble in a moment.

‘Viennese whirl!’ Colin mutters. ‘Sounds more like a dance than a biscuit. Would you like some chai tea? Bloody hell. What’s that when it’s at home?’

‘I dunno. I thought it was those slow exercises old people do. I think Edna does it at the leisure centre.’

‘I’ve packed the office equipment. It’s all ready for you to carry downstairs. Keep the printer upright.’

‘Great, we’ll see you at your new abode.’ Colin likes to say that at least once – he thinks it adds something to the occasion.

They lift the packed boxes down the stairs and place them in the lounge. Back upstairs, they take the doors off the double wardrobes and bag up the screws. They wrap the mirrors and fit foam corners, disassemble the beds and carry the frames and mattresses out to the van. While Colin does a last inspection of the upstairs, Darren cases the kitchen. The box containing the kettle is open on the worktop. He peers in; there’s a couple of mugs and several different types of tea. He finds the box of chai and reads the description: cardamom, ginger, cinnamon – sounds like curry. He discovers a small package, wrapped in greaseproof paper – the Viennese whirls. Home-made, that’s a first. And they’re good. Crumbly, round biscuits, sandwiched together with jam and buttercream. He helps himself to another while he rummages in the bottom of the box, which is littered with fridge magnets: letters of the alphabet, numbers from zero to nine, and some cutesy sayings. He digs out the sayings and lines them up.

He can hear Colin’s feet through the ceiling as he checks, making sure there’s nothing, not so much as a micro screw left upstairs. He fingers the magnet about daughters. This has been a happy house. The bloke with the anti-austerity T-shirt, the dark-haired, soft-voiced woman and their little girls have been contented here. He catches echoes of their life in the room . . .

The first time he took something it was a book. He was back at work on the buses, but once in a while, on days off, he helped Colin. Edna took Clover, as she did when he was working, and the cash in hand was welcome – nappies cost a bloody fortune, so did formula. He’d played plasterer’s lackey, lugging buckets of water back and forth and wiping skirting boards clean; he’d done a bit of gardening and a house clearance, and then he found himself accompanying Colin on a removal job: a couple and their baby, graduating from a three-bedroom semi in Churchtown to a detached fixer-upper in Birkdale.

The man was grey and rumpled. He rubbed his head habitually, hard, right where his hair was thinning. The baby had been wrapped in a big scarf and somehow tied to the woman. It dangled, outward-facing, like a joey.

‘He only sleeps like this,’ she said, ‘skin to skin. Every time I try to put him down in his cot, he wakes up immediately and screams the place down.’

Darren opened his mouth to commiserate and closed it as he realised she was proud of the baby’s dependence.

‘Say hello to the nice men, sweetie,’ she said. The baby couldn’t speak, he was only a few months old, barely able to manage the weight of his own head. ‘Shall we watch the nice men pack our things? Shall we? Mummy needs to feed you first, though, doesn’t she?’

He and Colin traipsed in and out of the house, carrying the empty boxes they’d brought with them. Upstairs, there wasn’t much to pack. The master bedroom was minimally furnished and the second bedroom contained a desk, a few shelves and a swivel chair. The third bedroom was the baby’s. Blue and yellow, everything matched: the cot, the bedding, the wallpaper border, the wall stickers, the lampshade, the tiny bookcase – all of it. And the baby didn’t even sleep there, did he? He slept skin to skin, so the whole room was a monument to an imaginary baby, one that enjoyed his own company.

Darren untied the cot bumpers and stripped the bedding; he unhooked the curtains and unscrewed the lampshade. The miniature bookcase was full. It was like a library: Thomas the Tank, Winnie the Pooh, Elmer the Elephant and a whole set of Little Golden Books. As he packed the Little Golden Books, he opened one. Just a quick look to see how small the writing was. Tiny – it’d be ages before the boy would understand the stories, and years before he’d be able to read them himself. While he was flicking through its pages he noticed that the woman had written in the book’s front: ‘Love from Mummy xxxx’. He opened another and it said the same. And another. She’d written in every book; dedicated them all. There was something desperate about it: this is from me, and so is this, and this, and this, and this – see what I’ve given you? It made his skin prickle. He could hear her voice coming from the second bedroom, where she was feeding the baby. The way she talked to him, as if the word I didn’t exist: ‘Mummy thinks you might have had enough to eat for now!’ ‘Mummy’s just going to change your nappy.’ What was that saying? There’s no ‘I’ in team. She was the kind of person who’d say things like that, wasn’t she? He couldn’t get over the way all the stuff in the room matched. It was so staged. He felt shown up by it. None of it was necessary. Babies needed to be fed and clothed. Kept warm and dry. All the other stuff was bollocks. Wasn’t it?

She appeared in the doorway, announcing her arrival in another one-sided interaction with the baby. ‘The man is putting your things away – yes, he is! And then he’ll take them to the new house – yes, he will!’

Darren knelt on the floor and took the drawers out of a small chest, placing them in a neat stack.

‘Are you married?’ she asked. ‘Is there a lucky lady in your life? Someone special?’

‘Just you wait.’ She smiled at him, beatific and wise. ‘One day you’ll know what it’s like to survive on three hours’ sleep, and you won’t mind at all. He won’t mind, will he?’ she asked the baby. ‘No, he won’t!’

Darren smoothed a sheet of paper over the contents of each drawer: neatly folded baby clothes and various accessories – a pair of tiny Nike trainers, a replica England rugby kit, a bow tie on a Velcro fastener, a crocheted monkey hat, with ears.

Her baby was ugly, he thought. Flat-faced and pasty, skinny. Nothing to recommend it.

‘You will, one day. Your biological clock will start ticking and you’ll suddenly get all broody. Won’t he? Yes, he will!’

He tipped the mattress out of the cot, slipped the fitted sheet off and folded it, placing it with the curtains and cot bumper.

‘A little boy to – I bet you’re a football man, aren’t you? – a little boy to play football with. That’d be lovely, wouldn’t it? Who d’you support?’

‘A little Wigan kit. Tiny football socks. That’d be lovely, wouldn’t it? Yes it would!’

Clover wasn’t quite one at the time. She was teething; waking in the night, every night. He frequently felt drunk with tiredness. Everything was fuzzy. It was as if waking throughout the night allowed the dark to seep into you. There were black bits of it floating in his eyes. It had stolen into his ears, which felt blocked and woolly. The shadows had slipped between his fingers, making his hands blunt and clumsy. Clover’s crying would start and he’d force himself into a sitting position, drag his feet out from under the covers, stand on wobbly legs and shuffle down the hall to the front bedroom, where she lay in her cot: half-swaddled, a wriggling, angry, wet-chinned grub of a girl. He’d check her nappy and rearrange her blankets. Fumble for the tube of Bonjela. Rub his finger along bone-hard gums and wipe it dry on his boxers. Then he’d kneel beside the cot, inhaling liquorice and dark as he murmured her back to sleep with whispery word-fragments. He absolutely did mind waking in the night. There was no question about it. He minded a lot. This woman said she didn’t, but she had to be lying, engaging in some sort of elaborate performance – she was like Jesus, nailing herself to a cross of tiredness; look at me hanging here, aren’t I great?

‘Excuse me,’ he said, and he crossed the hall to Colin, who was lifting the clothes out of the wardrobes in the master bedroom and hanging them in special boxes. ‘I’ll be back in five, okay?’

Colin nodded. He looked as if he’d like to say something, but he didn’t; he never did back then. He didn’t dare.

Darren was glad to get out of the house. He sat on the front wall and breathed for a bit. He’d thought he might suffocate in that room: it was so full of expectation – dense with hope and anxiety, each matching item begging love me, love me, love me.

When he went back in the house, the husband was standing at the bottom of the stairs, rubbing his head and calling, ‘Mummy! Mummy! Come here, please.’

Darren glanced up, looking for the bloke’s mother, wondering where she had been hiding when he and Colin cased the rooms. But she appeared at the top of the stairs: Mummy – one boob out, her skin milky white and veined like Stilton.

The baby’s suction broke and her nipple popped out of his mouth, distended and wet. Darren looked away, allowing her time to cover herself.

‘It’s okay,’ she called, in no hurry. ‘It’s natural. It’s what breasts are for.’

He let them have their conversation, and when they’d finished he returned to the baby’s room and finished the packing.

It was after Mummy, Daddy and Sweetie had left for their new house, and he and Colin were loading the van, that Darren did it. He didn’t think about it, he just grabbed one of the Little Golden Books from the box, shrugged off his hoodie and wrapped the book in it. The enveloped book sat on his knee all the way to the fixer-upper in Birkdale. When they got out he left it in the footwell of the van, and afterwards, once everyone was settled and Sweetie’s things had been arranged in a less pristine bedroom, Darren climbed back in the van, lifted the hoodie on to his lap and held it during the drive home.

Colin dropped him off at the bottom of the bridge and instead of going straight to Edna’s to collect Clover, he hurried to the bottom of The Grove, past the FOR SALE sign fastened to his front wall, and down the path. He took the stairs two at a time and burst into the second bedroom; he always did it fast, like ripping off a plaster. It was a mess. People kept asking whether he’d dealt with Becky’s things. They offered helpful suggestions: find new homes for them, throw them away, give them to a charity – you have to accept that she’s not coming back. He would sort everything out when the house sold. It would be both a conclusion and a new beginning. In the meantime, he’d bought a single bed and moved himself into the tiny third bedroom, the room he’d imagined would be occupied by the baby they would surely want, one day. He’d moved Clover into the front bedroom and replaced her Moses basket with a cot.

Becky’s things entered the second bedroom via a weathering process; there were occasional downpours, when he swept up the stairs, arms full of her belongings, and there were times when he was surprised by a single object – an odd sock, a hair bobble, a book, a scarf, a letter – and he cradled it all the way to the bed, laying it down where she had slept, where he could no longer sleep. It was a monument, and a dump.

He chucked the book on the bed. Mummy would miss it one day. She’d think it had inexplicably got lost in the move, like a sock in the wash. It wouldn’t occur to her that it had been nicked. But it would bother her, he thought. She’d wonder where it had gone. She might occasionally look for it; might try to find a second-hand copy on eBay to complete the set, although it wouldn’t be the same, would it? It pleased him to think he had brushed against her perfect world and smudged it.

A daughter is a little girl who grows up to be your best friend. It’s the sort of magnet he should have on his own fridge, an affirmation of cosiness and familial love. In the past, he might have slid it, or something like it, into the back pocket of his jeans. But not today. When he hears Colin coming down the stairs, he chucks the magnets back into the box and carries the small package of greaseproof paper into the hall.

He’s doing a proper tea tonight, even though he’s tired and he’s got work in the morning. Jim’s favourite is macaroni cheese with bacon, so that’s what he’s made. He’s done runner beans, too. Strung and sliced them, nice and thin. To make a point. Jim won’t eat them, of course.

The house seems especially crowded this evening; it usually does when he gets back from helping Colin. One day he’ll sort it out. It was easy to put it off in the beginning, when he imagined it would sell. He kept it on the market for months but no one ever made an offer. Sometimes the people who came to look around asked about the baby’s mum or realised there was something familiar about his face. And as time passed the thought of leaving was harder than staying. He could just about keep up with the mortgage, and he started to think about schools and how he’d manage without Edna next door. It had been easier to stay, mostly. Every so often he and Colin do a house clearance and he is reminded that all his belongings are only his while he is alive, afterwards they’ll just be a job for someone else to sort out, and he comes home feeling panicked at the thought of Clover inheriting the mess and having to sort and dispose of it.

Jim turns up early and plonks himself on the sofa. He smells of arse and cigarettes. Darren considers telling him to go upstairs and get in the bath. He reckons he could get away with it, but there’d probably be a bit of a fuss, which might upset Clover.

Jim tuts and gets off the sofa. He paces to the window, paces back, sits down and stands again.

Jim’s pained expression pisses him off. ‘It’ll be ready when it’s ready,’ he says. ‘What do you want me to do? Climb in the oven and blow on it?’

He returns to the kitchen. Clover was right to pester him. Jim looks dreadful: haggard and fidgety, puffy-faced too, as if he’s just got out of bed. Later he’ll google the side effects of the medications Jim’s supposed to be taking, although chances are he’s stopped them and that’s why he’s not himself.

The kitchen smells of melted cheese and bacon fat. Proper food. He should do this more often. They eat too much toast and too many fish fingers, too many tins of soup and frozen pies – with fresh vegetables, of course, but he could do better. He checks the pasta. The cheese on top has browned. He takes the dish out of the oven using a tea towel and divides the food into three. He adds a big helping of runner beans to each and carries the plates into the lounge, Clover’s and Jim’s first.

When he returns with his own plate he stands in the hall for a moment, beside the unfastened radiator which he needs to reattach before winter, and listens.

‘. . . he was all, “Who watches this rubbish?” And then he switched the telly back on. And there was this woman who had no teeth, and her son was smoking weed all day and robbing her blind, that’s what she said.’

‘But in the end, her son went off with Graham, who’s the counsellor, which means he isn’t allowed to shout at people. And he promised not to smoke weed any more. So that was good.’

Their forks chink the plates. The pasta is cheesy and the bacon pieces have just the right amount of crunch. But Jim puts his fork down. One mouthful and he’s already pulling faces.

He jogs up the stairs, dodging the stuff he’ll get around to sorting at some point. The key to the medicine cabinet is hidden in his room. He kneels on the floor beside his bed and lifts the mattress. There. In the bathroom he unlocks the cabinet, grabs a new box of paracetamol, locks the cabinet, checks it and checks once more, before returning the key to its hiding place.

‘Will you just go, please? It might be something they can fix without an injection.’

‘Is that why you haven’t been yet?’ Clover asks. ‘That’s really silly. It doesn’t hurt. I had a filling and the injection’s just a scratch – that’s what they say as they do it: “just a scratch”. And there’s a sign on the ceiling: “Life is short, smile while you still have teeth.” You can see it while you’re lying on the up-and-down chair.’

Jim hardly touches his tea and he won’t stay and watch telly or play on the Wii afterwards, even though he doesn’t have to be anywhere. Darren gives him a pack of batteries for his remote and stands at the door, waving him off, watching as he strides out of The Grove and heads down the main road towards town.

Most of Jim’s tea ends up in the food recycling bin. What a waste. What a git. Still, he came, didn’t he? He’s not well, but he walked over and tried to eat with them.

‘When Uncle Jim’s not himself, it’s not really him, it’s just something that happens to him,’ he reminds Clover as she waits, tea towel at the ready. ‘Things’ll carry on like this for a bit and then, well . . .’ He raises his arms and makes a you-know-what-comes-next gesture. ‘And after he comes out of hospital he’ll be better for a while. Snakes and ladders, eh?’

‘Your Uncle Jim and me aren’t really friends. Don’t pull faces! I bet there’s loads of people at school who aren’t your friends – it doesn’t mean you don’t like them, it’s just that they’re . . . they’re not like you.’

She’s got him there. He slides the plates into the sink and tries again. ‘Your Uncle Jim and me put up with each other because of your mother.’

Clover goes very still, as she does whenever he mentions Becky. It’s like watching the hackles rise on an animal and he immediately regrets bringing her up.

‘You know that “Happy” song? I heard it on the radio again this morning. When we’ve finished the dishes I’ll get online and see if anyone’s done the chords. That’ll be fun, won’t it?’ he says.

She agrees, and he hums the tune as he scrubs melted cheese off the plates. The kitchen is hot. But it smells of cheese and bacon. And it sounds like happiness.