for FICTION
Norman’s kitchen is the very definition of shipshape. The gleaming kettle is lined up next to a box of Yorkshire teabags and the sugar bowl to the left of the hob.
On the opposite side is the butter dish and empty metal toast rack.
‘Milk and two?’ I call through. This is only my second visit, too soon to muck up Norman’s precious cuppa. He’s only allowed two a day apparently, though he’s hazy on the reason why.
‘Please Sadie, love.’
As I pour boiling water into his mugs, I hear the click and crackle of the needle against vinyl followed by the distinctive tones of a muted trumpet. Norman’s having a clearout. His daughter-in-law, Vicky, got him onto that lovely woman Marie Kondo and he’s decided to get rid of anything that doesn’t spark happiness. From what I can see, Norman’s far from a hoarder, but who am I to quibble.
Norman’s my first ‘befriending’ as they call it. I’m not sure he needs me at all, but he is lovely. I’m new to this volunteering so it’s like dipping a toe into warm water. Norman’s pretty independent but his sons both live too far away to drop in on a regular basis, which is where I come in. Maybe it’s realising as I get older that we’ll all need help one day.
I put the tea tray down on the coffee table. The living room is in a state of managed chaos, piles of books and boxes forming an obstacle course that makes me concerned for Norman’s aged hips. A fall at his age wouldn’t end well.
‘Do you need a hand?’
I ask. He’s not listening to me, he’s standing in tartan-slipper-shod feet with his back to me, staring at the spinning disc on the record player. ‘This song was playing when we had our first kiss.’
‘What was your wife’s name?’ I ask carefully. I was told that Norman was a widower but I’m not sure if it’s a recent development.
‘Mary. We met at the Lyceum Ballroom. She loved to dance did my Mary. And she loved a bit of Ella.’ He held up the album cover. I’m no jazz aficionado but even I know who Ella Fitzgerald is. ‘Was this during the war?’ I say. ‘The war?’ He wheels around. ‘How flipping old d’you think I am?’
Whoops. ‘Maths was never my strongest subject at school.’
‘Or history.’ But he has a twinkle in his eye. ‘To be fair, I was alive during the war but only just. No, I met Mary in 1957. She’d only been in London a week. Came over with her sister from Barbados. Both nurses.’
He gestures towards the mantelpiece, and I see the wedding photo in the gold frame. They look so young, the pair of them, barely into their 20s, a decade younger than I am. They’re standing in a church doorway, she all in white, her waist tiny. And they look shockingly happy. I can’t imagine being that h
