Nobodys House
Graham woke up, as always, at half six, alarm clock entirely unnecessary. The flat was silent, save for the low hum of the fridge carrying precariously from the kitchen. He lingered a moment, listening, then reached for his glasses on the windowsill. Outside, dawn poured itself in thinly, and the scarce daily migration of cars whisked through puddles below.
He used to spend this time getting ready for work. Hed be on autopilot, shower, kettle on, hear the neighbours radio start crackling through the wall. Now the neighbours tastes in pop hadnt changed, but Graham was left to ponder what to do with his days. Technically, hed been retired three years, but out of habit, he still clung to a schedule.
He got up, pulled on his tracksuit bottoms, shuffled off to the kitchen. Kettle on. From the bread bin, he extracted yesterdays loaf, which had already begun turning into a weapon. While the water boiled, he wandered to the window. Seventh floor, 1970s block, tired playground below. His old Ford Fiesta, gathering an elegant layer of dust, sat in the sparse car park. May as well get to the lock-up today, check the roof doesnt leak.
The garage was three bus stops away, in a row of much-loved sheds. Once upon a time, he’d spent half the weekend down there, fiddling with the Fiesta, changing oil, arguing football and petrol prices with blokes called Stan and Dave. These days, it was all quick-fit garages, online tyre shopping, two clicks and a prayer. But he hadnt abandoned the lock-up. It still had his tools, boxes of old wires, planksall the essentials, as hed say.
And then there was the allotment. Not quite a country cottage, more a lopsided garden shed on the outskirts, with a rickety porch, two musty rooms, and what the estate agent wouldve called a bijou kitchen. Shut his eyes, and he could still hear the floor creak, and the rain drumming merrily on the leaking roof. The plot had been passed down from his wifes parents, over two decades agoa place once bustling with family weekends. Theyd dug potatoes, fried chips over a camping stove, placed a tape player on a wobbly stool like some minor deity.
It had been four years since his wife passed away. The kids were grown and scattered about London, busy collecting their own Ikea flatpacks and wrangling small, sticky children. The allotment and the lock-up stayed with Graham. Familiar points on his personal compass. There was the flat. The allotment. The garage. Everything in its appointed place, safe and explainable.
The kettle spat. Graham made tea, cut a wedge of bread, assembled the sort of sandwich that ensured no interest from thieves. He sat down. On the chair opposite: yesterdays jumper, neatly folded, untouched. He sipped weak tea, eyeing the jumper, replaying last nights conversation.
The kids had visited. Son, wife, and a sticky-fingered grandson; daughter and her bloke. They’d had tea, the usual talkwhos taking a holiday where, grumbling about BA flight prices. Then, as with most family powwows recently, the chat veered off-road and straight into the hedge of Money.
His son complained that the mortgage felt like wrestling a bear, interest rates up again. The daughter said nursery fees were criminal, plus after-school clubs, school shoes… Graham nodded, remembering the days of counting pennies to payday. Not that hed ever had a lock-up or a garden of his own back then; just a rented single room and hope.
Then the son, shuffling his feet, let it out: Dadweve all talked, even Emily. Maybe you should sell something? The allotment, or the garage. Youre not really using them much these days.
Hed laughed it offchanged the subject to the grandsons football boots. But that night, hed lain awake, that phrase stuck on loop: Youre not really using them.
He finished his sandwich, drained the mug, rinsed up. Eight already. He decided he would go to the allotment today. Check the place after the winter, andif he was honestprove a point, mainly to himself.
He dressed warmly, picked up the heavy fob: keys to the lock-up and the shed, shoved them into his coat. Paused in the hall, considering the battered mirror: a man with silver at the temples, eyes a bit weary but still determined. Not exactly ancient. He straightened his collar and left.
He stopped at the garage first. The rusty padlock wheezed, the door stuck as ever. Inside, it smelt of dust, petrol, and those rags you keep meaning to bin. Shelves held tins of bolts, mystery wires, and a cassette labelled in faded marker. Spiderwebs above, a little more elaborate every time.
He surveyed the shelves. There was the jack from his first car. Planks still waiting to become a bench for the allotmenta project never started. Still, the planks sat, ever hopeful.
He took the tool box, grabbed some containers, locked up, and carried on toward the garden.
It took an hour to drive out. Muddy snow was still losing its battle against black earth. The allotment site, snoozing: only the caretaker in a puffer jacket, who gave him a knowing nod.
The shed greeted him with its usual off-season desolation. The fence leaned, gate protesting. He crunched up the narrow path, last years leaves crumbling beneath his boots.
Inside, the smell was a mix of old damp and wood. Graham cracked the windows. He yanked the blanket from the bunk, dust billowing. In the kitchenette, the familiar battered enamel pota family relic. Bundled on a nail: keys, all for shonky outbuildings full of even more tools.
He wandered the little place, ran a hand along the grain. The kids old bedroom still a rickety bunk bed, and atop, a bear with one ear Sellotaped inelegantly. He remembered his son howling after tearing it, Graham having to fix it with electrical tape instead of proper glue.
Outside, most of the snow had lost to the mud. Beds were dark and sodden. In the far corner, their rusty barbecue sagged hopelessly. He recalled cooking sausages, wife and him on the porch with tea in those glass mugs you only find in English gardens, hearing some neighbour cackling at her own joke.
Graham sighed and set to work. Tidied the path, hammered the wobbling step, checked the shed roof. Found a plastic chair, plonked it outside, and sat basking in half-hearted sunlight.
Checking his phone, he saw sons missed call, daughters message: Lets have a proper chat soon, Dad. Were not anti-allotment, but lets be sensible. Sensibleincreasingly the family motto. Sensible meant money shouldnt gather dust. Sensible meant pensioners shouldnt deal with overgrown sheds. Sensible meant helping the kids out while youre still around.
He understood, truly. But right now, sitting in the sun, listening to a distant dog and the drip of thaw, all that sensible talk felt distinctly irrelevant. This wasnt a money spreadsheet.
He stood, did another lap, locked up, and drove back to town.
Home by lunch. He divested himself of parka and tools, flicked on the kettle. Only then did he spot a note on the table. Dad, well pop over tonight. Need a chat. E.
He sat, palms flat to the surface. So, tonight then. Time for an actual conversation.
That evening, they arrived in a trio: son, his wife, daughterno grandchildren this time. Graham let them in, greeted them as ever. His son hung his coat, toeing off shoes almost as automatically as when he was six.
They all gravitated to the kitchen, perched at the table. Graham deployed the full panoply: tea, biscuits, sweets. They managed to ignore everything but their nerves. Polite chit-chat ensued: grandkids, traffic, weather.
Finally, Emily gave her brother a look, the relay baton of Family Responsibility. Dad, lets really talk. Were not trying to bully you. But decisions need making.
Graham felt a hard little knot tighten inside. He nodded. Go on, then.
Son started: Look, you have the flat, the allotment, and the lock-up. The flat, obviously, is off-limits. But the allotmentits getting harder. Each year, more money vanishes on repairs, new fence, leaky roof.
I was up there today, Graham said quietly. Its fine.
Well, its fine now, piped up his daughter-in-law. But give it five years? Ten? Sorry, but you wont be around forever. We have to be realistic.
He looked away. The words stung. She probably hadnt meant them harshly, but they hung in the air like cold custard.
Emily spoke with more care: Were not saying you should just ditch everything. What about selling the allotment and garage, splitting the money? Some for you, rest for usmight clear some of the mortgage. You always said you wanted to help us.
He had said it, when retiring still felt like a joke, when he took on the odd job for pin money. Back then he believed hed shoulder on for ages, lending a hand when needed.
I help in other ways, he said. Pick up the grandson sometimes, buy a bit of food shopping.
Son snorted. Dad, thats not the same. We need an actual lump sum, to breathe a bit. Youve seen these repayments. Were not asking for everything. Justwell, youve got property you barely use.
Propertyan odd word in his kitchen. Graham felt as if some invisible pillar sprouted between them, made of spreadsheets and loan agreements.
He took a mouthful of cold tea. Thats property to you, he said slowly. For me, its
He hesitated, not wanting to sound like the opening chapter of a sentimental autobiography. bits of my life, really. I built the garage with Granddad. Dad helpedits full of memories. The allotment, the lot. You both grew up out there.
Emily studied the floor. Son was silent for a while, then quietly: We get that. Truly. But you barely go any more. We notice. Everything just sits there. You cant manage it alone.
I was there today, Graham repeated. Its fine, truly.
Today, echoed his son, but when was the last time before that? Autumn? Come on, Dad.
Silence. Graham heard the clock ticking in the next room. He realisedpainfullythat they were discussing his future like a business plan: rationalisation, asset transfers, cost-benefit analysis.
Alright, he said. What exactly are you proposing?
Son clearly had this scripted. We found an estate agent. Says the allotment could fetch a decent price. We can handle viewings, paperworkthe works. Youd just need to sign the forms.
And the flat?
Wed never touch your flat, Emily said briskly. Thats your home.
The word home lingered. Did it mean just these concrete walls? Or did the allotment count? And the garage hed once spent winters swearing at rusty bolts, but feeling like a proper dad?
He stood, walked to the window. The car park below was dim and indistinct under the sodium streetlightsjust as it had been twenty years ago, though now altogether shinier cars.
And if I dont want to sell? he asked, back still turned.
Their silence thickened. Then Emily said, Its your choice, Dad; we know that. But we worry. You keep saying youre tired.
I am more tired, he agreed. But Im still capable of deciding what I want to do.
His son let out a sigh. Dad, were not ganging up on you. But honestly, it feels like youre hanging on to things, and its hard for us. Financially, sometimes emotionally, too. We worry what if something happens to you. Who sorts out the garage, the plot, the legacy?
A glancing blow of guilt. Hed pondered the samewhat if he checked out one winter? Theyd be left untangling paperwork, inheritance, splitting things they never asked for. Hard times.
Returning to the table, Graham sat.
What if he started, then faltered, we transferred the allotment to you and your brother? Ill keep going up as long as I can. After, you do as you see fit.
Emily and her brother exchanged looks. His sons wife frowned. But then its still our headache, Dad. We cant visit every month. Weve got jobs, kids.
Im not asking you to visit. Just let me have this while Im able. After thatyou choose.
It was a compromise. For hima lease to hold onto his bits of the world for just a little longer. For themcertainty that the admin was in order for the future.
Emily weighed it up. That could work. But, honestly? We probably wouldnt use it ourselves. Were even thinking about moving up Northcheaper houses, new jobs.
Grahams eyebrows shot up. You never said.
Were only talking, she said, brushing it off. But the point isthese places dont mean to us what they do to you, Dad. In our heads, theyre the past.
He locked onto that wordfuture. For them, it was Up North, new jobs, new schools. For him, it was dots on a map. Flat, lock-up, allotmentthe triangles of a life.
They argued for another twenty minutes, circling the same drain: numbers from his kids, nostalgia from Graham. They cited his health, he repeated hed crumble without a project. Eventually, his son, exhausted, snapped:
Dad, youre not always going to be able to lift spades and knock in nails. What then? The place falls apart? We come by, once in a blue moon, and see the ruin?
Graham felt an angry lump rising. A ruin, is it? he shot back. You played on that ruin for years.
Yes, Dad, but that was then. Lifes different now.
The words hung in the air, heavy and irreversible. Emily tried to smooth things over:
Rob, steady on
But the point was made. Graham realised, abruptly, that they were speaking different languages entirely. For him, the plot was wrapped up with living; for them, it was a mementofond, but not essential.
He rose. Fine. Lets leave it. I need to think. And I do mean thinkthis isnt flogging a wardrobe on eBay.
They fell silent, gathering their things without hurry. At the door, Emily hugged him, whispered, Were not against the allotment, Dad. We just worry about you.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
After they left, the flat filled with silence. Graham gravitated to the kitchen, sat amongst the abandoned teacups and untouched biscuits, feeling the days weight catch up.
He sat there as daylight failed, flats across the courtyard blinking into life. At last, he went to the cupboard, pulled the sheaf of paperspassport, title deeds, notes on the lock-up and the plot. He thumbed through it all, landing on the tattered page of the allotments plan: one rectangle, divided into garden beds. He traced the lines, as if the graphite could transport him to a spring afternoon.
Next morning, he went to the lock-up. Needed a bit of hands-on work. The inside was cold, silent. He flung open the doors to sun, sorted tools, started binning tat: bent nails, mystery wires hed kept just in case.
His garage neighbour, Malcolmolder and veteran of three bypassesleaned in: Whats with the clearout?
Just a bit of a tidy, said Graham. Trying to see what I actually use anymore.
Too right, Malcolm nodded. Sold mine last year, you know. Gave the cash to the lad for a car. Miss my old Triumph, mind. But hes happy.
Graham nodded. So simple, as if discussing a battered raincoat.
He picked up the heavy spanner, remembered his son at six, begging for a go. Back then, hed believed son and father would always have oily hands together, that garage, allotment, carwere a family tongue. Turns out, his son now spoke fluent mortgage.
That evening, he got the papers out again. After much mulling, he rang Emily.
Ive made up my mind, he said. Well transfer the allotment, split between you and Rob. But not selling yet. Ill keep going as long as Im able. Afterup to you.
A pause.
You sure, Dad?
Sure, he lied, though it felt like cutting off part of himself. But what else was there to do?
Alright, she said gently. Well sort the paperwork tomorrow.
He hung up, settling into the hush of the flat. He felt not just tired, but unusually lighter, as if, in facing the inevitable, the burden shrank slightly.
A week later, they sat at the solicitors. Graham signed the gift papers, his pen trembling only a little. The solicitor dictated, plodded through instructions, ticking boxes. The kids thanked him.
Dad, youre a lifesaver, said his son.
He nodded; really, they were saving him the trouble of worrying about afterwards. Now, afterwards lived safely in filing cabinets.
He decidedlock-up was staying. For now. The kids dropped hints it would help with the car loan, but he stood firm. The lock-up was his reason to leave the flat, to avoid being glued to daytime telly. That, at least, everyone understood.
Life nudged on. He still lived alone in the flat, still visited the allotmenta guest now, technically. But he retained a key, and nobody stopped his visits.
The first time back, alone, was a pleasant April. Driving out, he pondered that the shed was no longer his in name. Someone else’s problem, on paper. But when he unlocked the gate and saw the familiar path, the feeling faded.
Inside was unchanged: the old bunk, battered table, the teddy with its DIY ear op. He sat by the window, watching dust in a brilliant sunbeam, stroking the woodwork, thinking of the childrens hectic lives and his own shrinking plansno more ambitions, just hoping for one more spring, one more round with the spade, one more summer tea on the porch.
He knew one day, theyd inevitably sell it. A year, five? When lifting tools got too much. Sensibleof course it was. But for now, the plot endured. The shed stood. Shovels in the lean-to. Potato shoots bursting through.
He wandered round a bit, peered over the fence. In neighbouring plots: a figure planting beans, someone else hanging out washing. Life ploughed on, unbothered.
Suddenly, it hit himthe heart of his anxiety wasnt just about the plot and lock-up, but about being left redundant. Useless, to his kids, to himself. These places reassured himproof he still counted, still fixed, dug, mended.
Now, that certainty felt thinner. Papers at the solicitor’s said one thing, but rituals said another. Perched on the porch, Graham realised that real ownership wasnt always about names on a deed.
He poured tea from his flask, took a long, astringent sip, listened to himself. Still a bit raw, but less acute than that raw post-discussion night. Things were settled, cost known. Hed ceded a claim on something precious, but found something else: the right to belong in this space, by virtue of memory if not law.
He eyed the old lock. One day, his kids or some stranger would fit this key and have no clue why the metal was worn smooth. That, oddly, felt fitting, and also a little reassuring. The world moves; hands change. What matters is to spend time with your place whilst its home, before anyone must remind you otherwise.
Graham finished his tea, stood. He fetched the spadeat least one bed must be dug over, for no one but himself. For hands and nerves, not future owners or children counting proceeds.
He pressed the blade into the earth, booted down. The spade cut in; the old rhythm came back. The scent of soilalive, generational. With each turn, warmth seeped in, easing his tension. He was burying anxiety as well as weeds.
By early evening, hed perched on the porch, forehead streaked with dirt. Neatly turned earth glistened under a blushing sky; a blackbird blared defiance. He looked at the shed, the rough tracks across his domain, the spade leaning on the wall. He thought about tomorrow, next year, five years ahead. No answers. Just a sense that, for right now, he was right where he should be.
He stood, wandered in, switched off the lights, locked up. On the porch, he paused, inhaling quiet. Then, turning the reluctant old key, he locked the door.
Key in his pocket, head high, he picked his careful way down the pathavoiding his own freshly dug row, for now still, genuinely, his own.
