Nobodys Home
Graham wakes before his alarm, as always, at half past six. The flat is quiet, save for the gentle hum of the fridge in the kitchen. He lies there a minute, listening to the sound, then reaches for his glasses on the windowsill. Outside, dawn creeps in grey and thin; a few cars hiss along the wet street.
He used to be getting ready for work at this hour. Up, a quick wash, listening to the neighbours radio through the wall. These days, the neighbour still puts the radio on, but Graham just lies in bed, thinking about how to fill the day. Technically, hes been retired three years, but old habits keep him living by his timetable.
He gets up, pulls on his trackies, heads to the kitchen. Puts the kettle on, grabs a slice of yesterdays white loaf from the bread bin. While the water heats, he stands by the window. Seventh floor, post-war council block, the playground in the courtyard below. His old Peugeot sits there, dusted with grime. He notes, for the hundredth time, that he should stop by the garage and check whether the roof leaks.
His garage is part of a co-op by the ring road, three bus stops down. Years back, he spent half his weekends tinkering there changing oil, chatting with the blokes about petrol prices and the footie. Its all quicker now: the service centre, tyre fitters, everything online. Still, hes never let the garage go. His tools wait there, old tyres, boxes of wire and timber *bits and bobs*, he calls them.
Then theres the allotment plot. A little shed at the edge of a village outside the city, timber walls, paint peeling, two rooms and a cramped kitchen. Close your eyes, you see the boards, cracks in the floor, the rain tapping on the roof. The place came from his wifes parents. Twenty-odd years ago, theyd haul the kids out nearly every weekend. Spuds on the barbecue, transistor radio on a wobbly stool next to their battered camping chairs.
Four years ago, her illness took her. The kids grew up and scattered to their own homes, with families and ambitions and little time to visit. Allotment and garage were left to Graham anchors, really, in his shifting world. Heres the flat; theres the plot; heres the garage. Everything where it should be.
The kettle boils. Graham brews his tea, sits down. On the chair opposite, a carefully folded jumper from yesterday reminds him of last nights conversation.
The kids came over yesterday evening Adam with his wife and their little lad, his grandson. Charlotte and her husband. Tea and biscuits, talk of holidays. Then, as always lately, the conversation turns to money.
Adam says the mortgage is suffocating; rates are up again. Charlottes moaning about nursery bills, kids clubs, uniforms. Graham nods, remembering when every penny had to stretch to payday. Back then, no plot, no garage. Just a damp rented room and hope.
And then Adam, eyes on the floor, said,
Dad, weve all been thinking and weve talked to Charlotte too. Maybe its time you sold a few things? The plot, maybe. Or the garage. You hardly get out there anymore.
Graham jokes it off, changes the subject, but the words dig in: *You hardly go anymore*.
He finishes his tea, washes up, checks the clock eight oclock. He decides hell go to the plot today, just to see how its fared after winter. He wants to prove something, if only to himself.
He wraps up warm, grabs the plot and garage keys from the hallway, slips them in his jacket. In the mirror, he pauses a man with greying temples, eyes a bit tired but still solid. Not an old man, not yet. He straightens his collar and heads out.
He drops by the garage first for a few tools. The lock creaks, door stiff as ever. Inside, the familiar smell of dust, petrol, and old rags. Jars of bolts, boxes of cables, an old cassette marked in blue Sharpie fill the shelves. Cobwebs dangle from the beams.
Graham scans the shelves. Heres the jack he bought for his first car. The planks he once planned to turn into a bench for the plot never got round to it. Still they wait.
He loads a tool box and a couple of plastic canisters in the car, locks up, and sets off.
It takes an hour to leave the city behind. Along the verge, grimy snow still lingers; in places, black earth shows through. The allotment area is still, waiting for springs return; its early for most folk. The gatekeeper, familiar and bundled up in an old parka, waves him in.
The shed greets him in its off-season stoicism. Wooden fence, slightly wonky gate. He opens it and crunches along the leaf-strewn path to the door.
Inside, it smells of damp and wood. Graham throws the windows wide. Strips the bed, shakes out the old blanket. In the kitchen, an enamel pot rests on the counter he remembers boiling up blackcurrant jam with his wife in that pot. Keys hang from a nail, including the one to the tool shed out back.
He wanders through the rooms, fingers brushing the walls and doorknobs. In the little room where the kids once slept, the old bunk beds still there. On the top bunk, a threadbare teddy, one ear held on with a wrap of insulating tape. He remembers Adams tears when he found the bear torn, remembers trying glue, settling for tape instead.
He wanders the patch outside. The last of the snows nearly gone, garden beds black and slick. A rusty old barbecue stands in the far corner. He remembers jokes and laughter on the step, hot mugs of tea in glass cups, voices carried on the wind from neighbouring plots.
Graham sighs, gets to work. Clears the path, fixes the wobbly step, checks the shed roof. In the shed, he finds an old plastic chair, drags it out, sits in the sunlight as it grows warmer.
He checks his phone Adam called last night, Charlottes messaged: Lets have a proper chat, Dad. Were not against the plot, honestly. Just want to think things through sensibly, shes written.
*Sensibly.* Hes heard that word more in the last year than in his whole life. Sensible, meaning money shouldnt be tied up doing nothing. Sensible the old shouldnt be struggling with houses and sheds. Sensible help the young while youre alive and able.
He understands, truly. But out here, in the quiet, with a dog barking somewhere down the lane, water dripping off the eaves, all that sensible talk fades away. Here its not about figures.
He stands, makes a last circuit of the plot, locks the door behind him, and drives back to the flat.
By lunchtime, hes home. Hangs his jacket, sets the toolbag down. In the kitchen, he notices a note left on the table: Dad, well pop by this evening for a chat. C.
He sits and places his hands on the table. So its today. Todays the real conversation, no dodging.
That evening, they arrive as a threesome. Adam and his wife, Charlotte, grandson left with the in-laws. Graham opens the door, they come in, Adam takes off his coat, hangs it up, the old childhood routine.
They sit around the table. Tea, biscuits, chocolates set out but untouched. For a while its just small talk: hows work, hows the boy, the traffic.
Finally, Charlotte glances at Adam, who nods. She says, Dad, lets genuinely talk. Were not trying to pressure you, but we all need some clarity.
Graham feels something tighten inside. He nods, Go ahead.
Adam starts: Look, youve got the flat, the plot, and the garage. The flatthats untouchable, we promise. But the plot you always say its getting hard work. The weeds, the leaks, the fence. Every year, its money.
I was there today, Graham answers quietly. Everythings fine.
Its fine now, Adams wife chips in. But in five, ten years? Youre not going to be around forever, no offence. We have to consider it.
Grahams gaze falls away. The reminder of his mortality lands heavier than she might have intended.
Charlotte speaks softly. Were not saying throw it all away, Dad. Just maybe sell the plot and garage. Split the proceeds: keep some for yourself, and help us pay down our places. You always said you wanted to help.
He had, once. Fresh-retired, picking up the odd job. Thought hed be strong for ages yet, always able to help out.
I already help, he says. I fetch the boy, pick up groceries.
Adam attempts a smile. Dad, its not the same. A real lump sum would make a difference. You can see the rates. Its not about selling *everything*. Just letting go of whats not being used.
The word *assets* feels out of place at Grahams kitchen table. A cold pillar of numbers, paperwork, contracts rises between them.
He sips cold tea. For you, its assets. For me
He stops, searching for words, not wanting to sound mawkish.
Its bits of my life. He gives a faint smile. I built that garage myself. With my dad. Hauled bricks together. That plot you grew up there. Both of you.
Charlotte looks down. Adam is quiet a moment, then says, softer, We do get it. But you hardly go anymore. We see. You cant handle it alone.
I was there today, Graham repeats. Its fine.
Today, Adam replies. But when before that? Last autumn?
A silence falls. A clock ticks in the next room. Graham sees them sitting there, discussing his old age like a project. Cost-cutting, asset management.
So, he says, what exactly are you proposing?
Adam brightens, clearly knowing this ground.
We spoke to an estate agent. She reckons youd get a good price for the plot. The garage too. Well sort the paperwork, the viewings, all of it. Only need a power of attorney from you.
What about the flat? asks Graham.
Wed leave it alone, says Charlotte, quick. Thatll always be home.
Graham nods. The word home lingers. Is it just these walls? Or the plot too? The garage, hours spent swearing at a rusted bolt but feeling needed?
He stands, pacing to the window. Street lamps glow in the courtyard, modern cars, the playground full of children clutching mobiles.
And if I dont want to sell? he asks, not turning.
Theres a heavier silence. Charlotte says gently, Dad, its yours, of course. Your choice. We wont force you. But you did say its getting too much.
My strength isnt what it was, he concedes, but Im still the one who decides what I do with my days.
Adam sighs. We dont want a row. But it looks like youre hanging onto things, and were struggling. Financially, emotionally too. We worry what happens ifyou knowyou go down ill. Who sorts the plot, the lot of it?
A stab of guilt. Hed thought about it: what if he just stops one day? The kids will have to sort inheritance, decide garage to Adam, plot to Charlotte? Not easy for anyone.
He sits back down.
Suppose he begins, falters. Suppose I put the plot in your names, but keep going there while I can?
Charlotte and Adam trade glances. Adams wife frowns.
Thats still the same problem, she says. We cant get there often, Dad. Work, kids
Im not asking you to. Ill go, while I can. Then, well, you work it out.
Its a compromise. For him a chance to keep going to that little patch. For them, certainty for the future no inheritance saga.
Charlotte nods thoughtfully. That could work. But, truth be told, were unlikely ever to live there. Were considering moving out, cheaper houses elsewhere.
Grahams taken aback by this. Adams surprised too.
You hadnt said, he says to Charlotte.
Were only thinking, Adam, she brushes him off. Its just the plot doesnt mean to us what it does to you, Dad. We dont see our future there.
He fixates on the word future. For them, the future is somewhere else cities, jobs, fresh chances. For him, it has shrunk to his patchwork of places. The flat, the garage, the plot.
They circle arguments for twenty minutes. They quote figures, he offers memories. They appeal to his health, he says hed wither with nothing to do. Finally, Adam, tired, snaps:
Dad, you cant dig spuds forever. What happens when you cant get there? Itll all rot away. Well see the ruins once a year.
A flush of anger rises.
Ruins? You grew up with those ruins, son.
That was childhood, Adam retorts. Im grown now. Ive new priorities.
The words drop between them. Charlotte tries to soothe him.
But its too late. Graham feels theyre speaking different languages. For him, time on the plot is life. For them a cherished past, nothing more.
He stands.
All right, he says. Lets leave it. Ill think. Not today, not tomorrow. I need time.
Dad, Charlotte begins, were stretched. We need to sort it by next months payment
I get it, he interrupts. But, well this isnt giving away an old wardrobe.
They fall silent. They start getting ready to leave, long minutes pulling on coats and shoes. At the door, Charlotte hugs him close.
Were not against the plot, honestly, she whispers, We just worry about you.
He nods, not trusting his voice.
After the door closes, the flat is heavy with quiet. Graham sits at the kitchen table, untouched cups and biscuits in front of him. He feels a deep tiredness.
He sits there for a long time, not bothering to switch on the lights. Darkness creeps in. Eventually, he gets up, digs a folder from the wardrobe passport, title deeds, documents. He turns to the page with the plots plan. A rectangle split into squares for each bed. His finger traces each line, as though hes walking the paths for real.
The next day, he returns to the garage. Needs something solid to do. Its cold inside, so he flings the doors wide. Sorts the tools, old junk: broken bits, rusty nuts, cables kept just in case.
His garage neighbour, Bill, calls in from next door.
Having a clear out then?
Just tidying, Graham says. A mans got to know whats worth keeping.
Bill nods. I flogged my own last month. Put the money towards my lads car. Miss the garage, but hes chuffed.
Graham doesnt answer. Bill leaves. Graham stays amongst his boxes and thoughts. Simple: sold it, boys happy. Like giving away an outgrown coat.
He picks up an old spanner, slick with age. Twists it, pretending to work a bolt. He remembers Adam, knee-high, begging to turn it too. Back then, the garage seemed a shared language. Now, Adams lost the knack.
That evening, Grahams back with the documents. Eventually, he rings Charlotte.
Ive made up my mind, he says. Title for the plot goes to you and Adam, half each. But we wont sell, not yet. Ill keep going as long as I can. Afterwards, you decide.
Theres a long pause.
Are you sure, Dad? Charlotte asks, gently.
Sure, he replies, not truly sure at all, but sensing theres no other way.
All right. Well meet and sort out the paperwork.
He puts the phone down. The flat is quiet, but inside he feels not just drained, but faintly relieved. At least now its settled one way or another.
A week later, theyre at the solicitors. Graham signs the transfer pen trembles a bit, but he gets through it. The solicitor briskly points out where to sign, which papers to keep. The kids thank him.
Thanks, Dad, Adam says. Youve really helped us.
Graham nods. Inside, he realises theyre helping him too sparing him future worry. Now afterwards is set down in black and white.
He decides to keep the garage. For now. The kids hint again about it, but hes resolute. He needs the garage not for cars, but to avoid becoming a man stuck at home with only the telly for company. Even they understand that.
Outwardly, life changes little. The flat, occasional trips to the plot now as a guest, really, although he still holds a key. No one stops him going.
The first trip after, its a warm April day. Driving over, it hits him: the place belongs to someone else, in writing. But when he unlocks the gate, hears its groan, sees the road to the door threading through the grass, that feeling slips away.
He steps inside, shrugs off his jacket, hangs it on its old peg. The rooms are the same same bed, same table, same worn-out bear.
He sits on a stool at the window. A streak of sun cuts across the sill, picking out the dust. He strokes the wood, feeling every dent.
He thinks of his kids, busy in their homes, counting up bills and planning ahead. He thinks about himself how his own plans are no longer year-by-year, but season-by-season. Get to the next spring. Dig over the patch one more time. Sit on the step next summer.
He knows, one day, the plot will be sold maybe in a year, maybe five, when he cant travel anymore. The kids will say theres no sense keeping it empty. They wont be wrong.
But for now, it stands waiting, roof solid, shed tools in place, the first green shoots already poking up through the soil. He can still walk the ground, kneel, lift the earth in his own hands.
He walks the boundary, stops by the fence, glances at neighbouring patches. Someones already putting in seedlings; elsewhere, a line of washing dries in the sun. Life, rolling on, as always.
He realises his greatest fear isnt about the place or the tools its about becoming unneeded, to his family and himself. These places proved he still had a role things to mend, to plant, to tend.
Now, that reassurance is fragile. The papers at the solicitors say one thing; his bones, muscles, memory say another. But, sitting on the step, he sees not everything is about deeds.
He takes a flask out, pours tea into his mug. The bitterness inside is still there, but less sharp than that first evening. Decision made. Price agreed. Hes given the kids a part of his life, but gained something too the right to still be here, by memory if not by title.
He looks at the door, the lock, the old key in his hand. Worn, battered. He turns it, clutches the cool metal. One day, the key will pass to Adam or Charlotte, or perhaps strangers buying the place. Theyll slot it in, never knowing the stories it unlocks.
Oddly, this brings both sadness and calm. The world moves, things shift from hand to hand. The important thing is simply to live in your places, while you can not because a bit of paper says so, but because you know that youre home.
Graham drains his mug, stands up. He goes to the shed for the spade. He should turn over at least one bed, for himself. Not for the kids, not for the future owners, not for anyone counting up value but for himself, feeling the earth under foot and in his grip.
He sinks the spade into the black, wet earth, leans on it. The ground yields. The first clod flips fresh, dark, alive. Graham draws a deep breath of soil, stoops again.
The work is slow. His back aches, hands weary; but with every shovelful, something eases inside. As if hes digging up not just the ground, but old fears.
By evening, he sits on the step, wipes his brow. The beds are neatly turned, sky washed pink. A bird shouts somewhere overhead.
He looks at the shed, the footprints across damp earth, the spade leaning idle. He wonders what tomorrow, next year, five years brings. Theres no real answer. But right now, he feels at home.
He stands, heads inside, switches off the light, locks up. Lingers a moment on the step, listening to the hush. Then he turns the key in the door. The lock clicks.
Graham pops the key into his pocket and follows the narrow path back to his car, carefully skirting the patch of freshly dug earth.
