The Road From Langholm Avenue Read online

  The Road From Langholm Avenue

  Michael Graeme

  Published: 2010

  Tag(s): "love story" "unrequited love" romantic

  Copyright © Michael Graeme 2010

  All persons, events, places, and organisations - corporate or otherwise, depicted in this story are entirely fictitious.

  Originally published on Lulu.com, 2007

  This version, specially revised and updated for Feedbooks, August 2010

  For Rachel

  Chapter 1

  I don't know what drew me back to that house and even now I'm surprised it should have possessed sufficient gravity after all those years to lure me from my course. I recall little of the journey that delivered me there, only a slow surfacing to the realisation that I'd pulled the car over, switched off the engine and had been staring at the place for what already seemed like an age.

  It had changed. I'd been expecting the same painted window frames and the same mahogany door with the little rose window at the top, but it had all been replaced by a uniform white PVC. There had been a willow tree in a corner of the front garden but that had gone too, along with the neatly clipped privet hedge in order to make way for a rather vulgar block-paved driveway.

  The passing of twenty years had left its mark. Or was it longer? Just when was the last time I'd swung my course by Langholm Avenue? I thought I'd finished with all that nonsense by now, but if that were true, then why was I sitting there, forty two years old, going on seventeen once more?

  I was there for an hour, perhaps longer, I can't say for certain but it was long enough to alert the Neighbourhood Watch, who alerted the police, who sent their dowdy little patrol car to investigate my mysterious sojourn. It pulled up quietly behind me and for a moment nothing happened, though I suppose my registration number was being passed through a computer somewhere.

  Endorsements none, I imagined it saying; convictions none; parking ticket in the summer of 1982 or thereabouts - altogether a rather dull biography of my motoring years. Eventually, a lone policewoman emerged. She looked no more than twenty, and she might have been pretty except she seemed at pains to hide this gift beneath a mask of dour severity. I wound the window down at her request, and in her driest tone she said: "Been having a nap have we, sir?"

  Without waiting for an answer, she began to circle the car, inspecting it with a patient and practised eye for the easy hit: road tax, bald tyres, anything broken or hanging off. But even though the old Midget had definitely seen better days, I was confident it had scored well.

  "Live round here, do you?" she asked.

  "Parbold," I replied. But her computer had already told her that. Was she trying to catch me out? And what else had it told her? Did it also know I'd been married for fifteen years? Wife's name: Annie. Supplementary information: Separated at five thirty yesterday afternoon. Reason: Annie preferred wide-arsed gent by the name of Alistair,…

  "I'm going to visit my dad," I told her. "He lives in Arkwright Street."

  "Well, this is Langholm Avenue" she replied. "Forgotten our way have we perhaps?"

  Her tone was irritating, as if she was trying to tempt out my anger, make me swear and shake my fist so she'd have reason to beat me senseless with her stick. She was wasting her time. There was no anger, nothing left inside of me now.

  "Has there been a complaint?" I asked.

  She ignored the question and instead demanded to see my documents - insurance certificate, MOT, driver's licence, the usual. I reached behind the passenger seat and pulled out an envelope which I handed to her. She was disappointed perhaps that I should have had the papers on me, but right then most of my life seemed to be in the car, or at least as much of it as I'd thought to rescue from the house that morning.

  Everything was in order. She scanned through the papers slowly and handed them back without a murmur. Then she looked at the car again, her gaze passing lazily from one end to the other as if she couldn't believe there wasn't something she could book me for.

  "A bit untidy isn't it sir?"

  "I've not had it long. I've changed the tyres, done the electrics and brakes and such. It's perfectly road worthy."

  She regarded me closely, her eyes narrowing for the kill. "Waiting for someone are we, perhaps?"

  "No, I was just thinking," I said.

  "Thinking?"

  "Sort of."

  She sighed. "Mind opening the boot, sir?"

  I flipped open the boot, and stood back while she ran her hands over the surface of my possessions. It was filled to the brim and she didn't know where to start. Eventually, she registered the main items: my antique laptop computer, an old sketch book, my camera gear and a boxed chess set my father had given me for my eighteenth birthday. Then there was the case of clothes, the shaving kit,…

  "Can't get much else in here can you?" she said. "I take it you can prove all this stuff is yours?"

  "I don't suppose I can. It's mostly very old. I've no receipts or anything if that's what you mean."

  "Then how do you explain it?"

  I was puzzled. What was there to explain? Did she think I'd stolen it? "I can't, " I said. "It's just my personal gear."

  She took out the sketch book. It was one I'd kept since my last year at school, a quarter of a century ago. The drawings were careful studies of flowers and figures - better than anything I'd done in more recent times. She flicked through these pictures carelessly, or so I thought, but she was a sharp eyed girl and it didn't take her long to notice the address written in faded pencil at the top of the very first page: Langholm Avenue,…

  "What about this then?"

  Of all the things she could have homed in on, it had to be that! Why not the missing pawn from my chess set, the one I'd replaced by making a near perfect copy at work? Care to explain the difference, sir? Or how about the fact that most of my shirts had buttons that didn't match? Bit untidy, don't you think, sir? No, it had to be the sketch book and suddenly I found myself sweating at the prospect of explaining the inexplicable to a woman who looked like she neither cared nor could ever be made to understand.

  "It was someone I used to know," I began. "It was their house."

  "Does this someone have a name?"

  A name? Of course She had a name but to my astonishment I realised that even after all these years to have spoken it under those circumstances would have been a sacrilege, and I would rather have damned myself by the most transparent lie and gone to prison for it than speak it now.

  "She doesn't live there any more. It was all such a long time ago."

  The policewoman weighed me up while the curtains of Langholm Avenue fidgeted around us on that grey Saturday afternoon. I was clean, as they say; no guns, no explosives, no suitcase stuffed with counterfeit money, no seedy stash of drugs - just a middle aged chap sitting in an old car, apparently thinking.

  "This is a quiet neighbourhood, sir," she said. "I suggest you move on. I'll be back shortly and if you're still here, our next conversation will be at the station. Is that understood?"

  When she'd gone, I sank inside the Midget and turned the key. The engine spluttered uncertainly, then caught and purred. The dials twitched - old dials, silver on black-crackle, telling me an antiquated tale of volts and oil-pressure. Finally, pulling away from Langholm Avenue, pulling out of the past, I felt the name welling up inside of me.

  "Rachel," I said. "Her name was Rachel."

  Chapter 2

  When I was younger, I had a way of dealing with emotional pain. I would take every piece of physical evidence I could lay my hands on, anything that reminded me of the source, and I would throw it away. It's not a bad technique if all you're trying to do is get over being jilted by your
girlfriend because then the evidence might only amount to a sweater, some CD's and a birthday card you've sworn you'll keep for ever. But when it's your wife, things are not so simple. With a wife, the evidence is usually more substantial. For a start, there's the house, a tangle of mortgages, endowments and direct debits,… and sometimes there are children; two children in fact, Stephen and Gemima.

  Already I had not seen them for three days, so deftly were they spirited from the house, the stage being prepared by Annie for that astonishing finale to the fifteen year act that had been our marriage. Afterwards, walking through the house, I'd picked out what few items I could think of as belonging solely to me - the antiquated laptop, the camera, the sketchbook. The rest I'd consigned to an imaginary dustbin until I could get my mind around what had happened.

  The sketchbook was a mystery. I had not looked at it for years, but pulling open the drawer that morning I had fastened my eyes upon it as if remembering something crucial. Then I'd seen the address pencilled on the front sheet. I had written it with care, as if it were a verse from a love poem but I no longer recognised the hand. Indeed, it might have been written by a stranger,… not just the because of the style, but also the sentiment.

  Art had been my thing at school, and even without looking I knew every sketch book I'd owned around that time had carried the same mantra: 11 Langholm Avenue, her house, Rachel's house, a house I'd never been inside,… the house of a girl I'd loved with all my heart, but never really known.

  Unlike Rachel's house, my father's on Arkwright Street hadn't changed at all since I'd grown up, at least on the outside. It was to the north of Middleton, one in a long row of Edwardian terraces, just a couple of miles but a world away from the lower middle-class, semi-detached suburb of Langholm Avenue.

  Arkwright street had an altogether darker look about it. This had been the mill district and it was still easy to imagine the scrape of clogs on cobbles, the clatter of looms, the gasp of steam. Langholm Avenue had borne the lighter vision, the optimism of the sixties - the new, dynamic industries - Leyland Motors, Britannia Electric, but like the mills, they too were mostly gone now, leaving both streets looking weary and frayed in their disappointment.

  In that terraced cottage, my father had begun to sink into his old age, becoming threadbare and worn since his breakdown, since the last pit closed and since his only son had buggered off with some posh cow from Parbold. But then, to the astonishment of us all, only a few years ago, things had changed.

  When I pulled up outside, he opened the front door wearing a pair of neatly pressed Chinos and a GAP shirt. His white hair was brushed back, thin but slick, over his pink scalp and he wore a pair of designer rimless specs. Money had never been a problem, not since the generous Coal Board payout, but with my father, like me, his sense of well-being had always been vulnerable to a fickle motivation. It drifted in and out with the seasons, sometimes standing bare and black against a winter's sky and sometimes swelling with ecstatic blossom, as if at the promise of summer,… or of a woman.

  "Come in you daft bugger," he said and then he looked down at my overnight bag in dismay. "Is that all you've brought with you?"

  "There's some other stuff in the car."

  He eyed the rust pocked outline of the MG in astonishment. "That's yours? What happened to the bloody Rover?"

  "I sold it."

  He pulled a face, pretending he couldn't understand. "What for?"

  "I preferred the look of this one, that's all."

  "But it's a bloody wreck."

  Eleanor appeared behind him then, as always a slightly eerie vision in her long black dress and with her black hair worn long and loose, all the way down to her waist. There was black lipstick, black nail varnish and black eyeliner. Always she was the same, since the first time I'd met her, and according to my father long before then. At thirty five, she was seven years younger than me, but she appeared timeless and might have passed for any age between twenty five and forty.

  "How's my favourite stepson, then?" she asked.

  My father shook his head and took my bag. "He's a bloody dick-head, that's what he is. He should have kicked her out. It's as much his house as hers. Hard faced cow!"

  Eleanor smiled at my father's tone while appearing almost to float towards me. Then she wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me, putting back some warmth into a soul all but frozen by a sudden and terrible rejection. I took a breath, breathing her in, and gave myself over to her scent and to her softness.

  "We'll sort that out later, Jack," she told him and then to me: "I'll ask our Phil to take you over tomorrow and fetch the rest of your stuff in his van. Has she got a solicitor yet?"

  Had she? I'd no idea. It seemed too soon to be thinking of such things. Only yesterday, I'd been a married man. We'd been out last weekend and bought a new sofa, for pity's sake! Then last night I'd come home to find her sitting hand in hand on it with a well groomed, wide-arsed gent! I'd stared at them, imagining perhaps he'd come to sell us some insurance - except why was he holding her hand?

  Annie had looked at me, quite calmly and with the hint of a smile. "Tom,… this is Alistair," she'd said. "There's something you should know,… ."

  Know? What did I know? I was forty two years old and realising, perhaps not for the first time in my life, I knew nothing at all.

  Eleanor looked me in the eyes unblinking, unselfconsciously searching. It was a disturbing mannerism, one few people could endure without distress, unless they knew her,… knew she meant no harm, that her heart was not black like the clothes she wore.

  "Are you all right, Tom?"

  "I'm okay."

  "Kids?"

  "At her mother's."

  "You're still their dad."

  "Am I?"

  But I couldn't think about the children; I had to shut them out or I would go mad. They'd be all right of course; they had the house, their mother, a large contingent of doting in-laws. What was an estranged father in the greater scheme of things?

  "Dad looks great," I said, switching the subject.

  "He's fine," she replied. "We're both fine."

  "I won't stay long. I won't get in the way."

  "Tom, for goodness sake! Anyway, we were expecting you hours ago."

  "I know. I did something,… something a little crazy,… something I don't understand,… "

  I felt her hand on my shoulder, guiding me towards the door. "We'll talk about it later," she said. "Bring your stuff in." Then she looked around to check my father was out of earshot. "How bad is it?"

  It was her openness - the open stare, the eyes wide but soft with sympathy that finally brought the tears, so slow in coming I'd thought I didn't really care.

  "It's finished," was all I could say.

  Once more she folded me quietly into her embrace and held me there, suspended in her stillness until the moment had passed. I was dazed and I was numb with it all, for I'm a steady sort of chap and I'd imagined nothing more until the end of my days but Annie and the children.

  Chapter 3

  There was no television in my father's house. He'd thrown it out the day we'd buried my mum and that was twenty years ago. He said it reminded him of her, a rotund little figure, for ever camped in front of it. Then he told me, years later, it was because he couldn't stand the bloody thing and resented paying the license fee for the superficial crap they served up in the name of entertainment. But I think the truth was he'd just lost interest in everything,… until the day he'd met Eleanor.

  Gone as well these days was the floral patterned paper in the lounge and the yellowing paint-work. In its place there were pastel shades and scatter cushions to co-ordinate the old sofa. This was Eleanor's influence but she had reached my father in other ways, more profound: he was seventy five, but I swear at times he seemed decades younger than me.

  After bringing in the last of my gear, I found him in the spare room. I'd helped him to convert it into a study, a place he could sit down and finally write the book he'd be
en going on about since the eighties - the decline of the trade unions - a sort of therapy, he'd told me, getting it off his chest, forcing all his ghosts into the open. I'd set him up with a computer and everything, but that had been three years ago and no sooner had he started than he'd decided no one cared anyway, so why should he? Instead he'd discovered the Internet. And Eleanor.

  "So, go on then," he said, without looking up from the keyboard. "Why did you dump the Rover? You've not had it six months."

  "I know."

  "It had a good ride."

  "I know. Maybe that was it. Lately I've been feeling remote all the time, cushioned from everything. I wanted to feel the world up close, like when I was a kid - struggling with broken down old motor bikes and clapped out cars."

  "Well, you'll feel the world in that thing all right," he said. "Get a Midget up to seventy and it's like being dragged along the floor on a bloody shovel. You had one before, didn't you? That was a wreck as well from what I remember."

  "Long time ago, Dad."

  "You nearly killed yourself in it."

  "Don't remind me,… but this one won't do seventy, it needs a re-bore. Anyway, how's Eleanor these days?"

  He seemed surprised by the question. "She's okay. Looks okay, doesn't she?"

  "Sure."

  "Then why mention it?"

  I'd meant only to divert him, to fend off his needling over the car, which had begun to irritate me. "It's just,… "

  He paused and looked up from the computer, which I read as a bad sign. "What?" he said.

  "I was just wondering about her clothes - she always wears the same sort of stuff. You know,… all that black. It's more than just a fashion thing, isn't it?"

  He gave me a warning look "That's her business". he said.

  "I just wondered."

  "Well don't."

  "Sorry, I didn't mean anything. You know how I feel about Eleanor."