Page 75 of Waiting for a Bright New Future

“Do you think I should report it to my boss?” Stuart spoke quickly before he lost her.

Lillian fiddled with her cardigan. “Interference. It’s not always good.” She paused and then her face lit up. “Interference — that doesn’t happen with the television anymore, does it? It used to spoil the picture. Things weren’t how they were supposed to be.” Lillian smiled at him triumphantly. “Everything went all fuzzy and you had to hit the television. Hard.” She slapped her thigh for emphasis.

Stuart smiled and patted her hand. That sentence, “Things weren’t how they were supposed to be”, repeated in his head as he walked to his own house. Nature knew how things were supposed to be and when man interfered, things got warped. Did William want his life to follow nature’s plan rather than be controlled by the medicine and pills he’d spent his life prescribing for other people?

Stuart’s head felt like the knot in tug of war, as he tried to decide the best path of action. The blare from the television as he opened the front door was the last straw. He marched straight into the lounge and turned it off.

“I can’t stand that noise,” he said. “I can’t hear myself think. Haven’t you got homework to do?” He regretted the words as soon as they shot from his mouth.

Eunice and Shayne shrank back into the sofa cushions, their eyes wide and their mouths making a little O shape. Florence came in, bringing the smell of shepherd’s pie with her.

“What have you done to upset Mr Borefield?” Florence’s voice was angrier than his own.

The children seemed to have lost the power of speech.

“It wasn’t them, it was me.” He sat down and put his head in his hands. “The television noise is wearing me down. Perhaps you could do something else?”

“You could play outside until tea’s ready.” Florence was casting him anxious glances. “Let’s give Mr Borefield some peace.”

“It’s raining.” Shayne’s voice was whiney. “And my wellies got left behind at Dad’s.”

“Grandma said you’re a story-maker, Mr Borefield.” Eunice looked at him with bold eyes. “She says you’re in charge of stories at the library and that one day, if we’re good, you’ll tell a story just for us.”

Florence mouthed, “I’m sorry.” All Stuart’s ingenuity had been used settling the library toddlers that morning. William weighed on his shoulders. Jayne nagged about his lodgers. Stuart’s head pounded. There were no children’s books in the house for stories.

“Drawing!” Stuart said. “You could do some drawing.”

“We don’t have paper and pens here, Mr Borefield,” Eunice said. “There wasn’t room in the packing for our toys.”

“Please don’t keep calling me Mr Borefield. It makes me sound like my father.” He looked at Florence. “Is it OK if they call me Uncle Stuart?”

A wave of relief passed over Florence’s face and she nodded.

The easy option would be to blend into the sofa and say they could have the television on again. But that wasn’t right. He remembered his own childhood. So much pleading to be allowed to tag along with his big brothers and then being left behind as they sprinted away from him at the first street corner. The misery of his mother’s death. He had that tragedy in common with these youngsters. He remembered those dark days when he’d been left to his own devices for long periods, his brothers were young adults and his father had been preoccupied. What was it he’d really longed for at that time?

Attention. Someone to pay attention to him. Lillian had tried but, being only a neighbour and with her own family, she was limited in what she could do.

“Let’s go to the supermarket while your grandmother finishes cooking tea. We’ll buy some drawing stuff.”

The children looked at each other and a flash of excitement passed between them. Then they looked hopefully at Florence.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” She was looking at him.

“We’re going to be living together for a while, I think we should get to know each other a little.”

There was a flurry of coats and shoes and orders from Florence that they must be as good as gold and remember their manners.

The supermarket didn’t have the range of drawing things that Stuart would’ve liked but he let them each choose what they wanted. At the till he paid for two carrier bags so they could each carry their own new treasures. After tea they were allowed to draw one picture each before bed and Stuart learned a new diplomacy skill: the art of praising a child’s drawing while at the same time teasing out the subject of the picture. In tandem with Florence, he managed to discover that Shayne had drawn a picture of Stuart’s car with the sun glistening on its roof and Eunice’s portrait showed Stuart bending down to stroke Tibby.

“You are both fantastic artists,” Stuart said, feeling strangely warm inside that both children should want to do pictures focusing around him.

Jayne wasn’t happy when he spoke in glowing terms about the children the next day. Lillian watched the conversation between them and then spoke quietly to Stuart when Jayne was in the kitchen.

“She still hurts from not having her own babies. I may be a bit doolally at times but I can recognise pain in my own daughter. She hasn’t said it in so many words but she sees you living at such close quarters with another woman as a threat. Now that woman comes with grandchildren, something she can never offer you, she feels even more threatened.”

Stuart suddenly realised how little he had truly considered Jayne’s feelings and felt ashamed. When she came back in the room, he took her hands.

“Can you have Monday off work and we’ll go ring shopping? I don’t want you going around with a bare left hand any longer.”

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