No Ones Home
Once, a long time ago, Frank would always awaken without need of an alarm at half past six sharp. The house would be silent, with only the low, gentle hum of the fridge in the kitchen. For a moment, he would listen to that sound, reaching for his glasses on the windowsill beside his bed. Daylight crept into the grey city, and the odd car hissed along the wet tarmac outside.
He used to be getting ready for work at that hour. Up, into the bathroom, listening to the neighbours radio coming through the thin terraced wall. Now, although the radio still played on the other side, he would lie there a while, considering how to fill the day. He had, by all accounts, been retired for three years, but out of old habit he kept to routine.
He got up, pulled on some trackies, and headed into the kitchen. He put the kettle on, carved a slice of yesterdays loaf, and, whilst the water boiled, stood by the window. He was seven floors up, in an old tower block, looking out over the communal green and the battered play area below. His decrepit Ford Escort sat beneath the window, dust speckling its paintwork. Without thinking, he reminded himself to pop into the lock-up and check for leaks.
The lock-up was in a row of garages a bus ride away. Hed once spent half his weekends there, tinkering with his car, changing the oil, exchanging banter with the local old boys about the price of petrol and disappointment with the footie. These days, you had garages for repairs, tyre fitters who booked you online, car parts delivered at a click. Still, he never left the garage behind. His old spanners, battered tyres, cables, wood offcuts, and all manner of odds and endshis bits and bobswaited there.
Then there was the cottage. A draughty wooden bungalow in an allotment plot outside Reading, with a narrow porch, two poky rooms, and a kitchen barely fit for one. If he closed his eyes, Frank could still summon up the cracked floorboards, the creak of the door, even the drumming of rain on the roof. The allotment had come down from his late wifes parents. Back thenover two decades agotheyd all pile there every weekend, children in tow, digging beds, frying up potatoes, and setting a battered radio on a stool.
His wife had been gone four years now. The children had shot up and scattered to flats of their own, families of their own. The cottage and the lock-up remained. They anchored him, gave shape to his days. There was his flat, the cottage, the garageeverything in its right and proper place. Simple. Comprehensible.
The kettle whined. Frank brewed a mug of tea and set himself down at the table. Across from him, a woolly jumper was folded neatly, left out from yesterday. He ate his sandwich, staring at the empty chair, thinking back on last nights conversation.
The children had come overa son and his wife, towing along Frankie, their little boy, his grandson. His daughter and her husband, too. They drank tea, shared the usual stories of holidays, juggling whod take which week off. But as always seemed to happen now, talk turned to money.
His son griped about the mortgagerates going up, payments mounting. His daughter moaned about nursery fees, after-school clubs, uniforms. While they talked, Frank nodded, half-smiling. He remembered counting pennies until payday himselfin those days, hed had none of these places, only a rented room and hope.
Then, with a nervous glance between them, his son ventured, Dad, weve been thinkingme and Sophie. Kate too. Maybe its time you sold something. The cottage, or the garage. You hardly go these days, do you?
Frank had laughed it off and changed the subject, but the words wormed away in his mind all night: You hardly go these days.
He finished his tea, washed his mug, checked the clock. Eight oclock. He decided hed head to the cottage after all, see how it had survived the winter. And perhaps, in doing so, prove a pointat least, to himself.
He dressed warm, fetched the ring of keys from the old hook in the hall, and slid them into his jacket pocket. At the hallway mirror he paused, staring at the grey hair at his temples, the wrinkles gathering at the corners of his eyes. But he was still sturdystrong. Not yet an old man. He adjusted his collar, straightened his back, and stepped out.
He stopped at the garage first, picking up a few tools. The lock creaked, the door groaned as it always had. Inside, it smelt of dust, old petrol, and rags. Jars of screws lined the shelves, boxes of cables, a battered tape marked, in faded marker, The Kinks. Cobwebs hung overhead.
Frank surveyed his hoard: a jack bought for his first car, lengths of timber intended for a never-finished bench at the cottage. The timber still lay there, expectant, as if time were an inexhaustible resource.
He grabbed the toolbox, a couple of plastic petrol cans, closed up, and drove west.
The journey to the cottage took an hour. Dirty snow lingered along the laybys, black earth poked through in patches. The allotment was silent and sleeping still, the season not yet begun. The warden, an elderly lady in a faded parka, nodded as he passed the gate.
The cottage greeted him with its usual stillness. The wooden fence sagged, the little gate hung askew. He pushed it open, crunched along the path strewn with last year’s brown leaves, and climbed onto the porch.
Inside, the scent of old timber and musty cool greeted him. Frank flung open the windows, peeled the ancient cover from the bed, dust billowing out around him. The kitchen, no bigger than a cupboard, had a chipped enamel pan on the tablethe same one in which his wife once stewed up rhubarb for jam. A ring of keys still hung from a rusty nail by the door, the biggest belonging to the garden shed, where the ancient spade and rake lay.
He wandered the cottage, trailing his fingers across familiar walls and worn doorknobs. In the tiny bedroom was a bunk bed, the top littered with a forlorn teddy bear missing an ear. He remembered patching it up, wrapping the ear in electrical tape after glue proved useless, his boy crying until it was mended.
In the garden, only scraps of snow remained. The vegetable beds were slick and black, the cast-iron barbecue rusting in the corner. Memories crowded him: the sizzle of sausages on the grill, mugs of tea with his wife on the porch, laughter drifting across the fence from the neighbours.
Frank sighed and set to work. He tidied the path, banged a loose board into place, inspected the sheds roof. He dragged a sun-bleached plastic chair into the yard, flopped down, and let the sun warm his face as it climbed above the trees.
He checked his phone. Missed calls from his son, a message from his daughter: We need to talk, Dad. Lets be sensible about the cottage. Sensiblea word repeated around him more and more these days. Sensible: dont let money just sit, dont wear yourself out as an old man, help the young while you still can.
He did understand them, he truly did. Still, sat there with the dog barking in the distance, water dappling down from the gutter, all that being sensible felt a lifetime removed. None of this was about logic or calculation, not really.
He pulled himself up, gave the place a final circuit, locked it up, and set making his way back to the city.
By lunchtime he was home. He hung his tools in the hall, flicked the kettle on, and only then saw the note on the tablea scrap of notepaper in his sons handwriting: Dad, dropping by tonight, we need to talk. F.
He sat with his hands flat on the table. So, tonight, thered be none of his usual wit to dodge the subject. Tonight, it would be plain and open talk.
That evening the three of them arrived together. His son, daughter, and daughter-in-law, leaving little Frankie with the in-laws. Frank greeted them, let them in. His son hung his coat on the same peg hed used as a boy, not needing to look.
They took their seats at the kitchen table. Frank brewed tea, laid out biscuits and sweets. No one touched a thing. For a while, they made idle chatterhow was Frankie, work, the traffic in town.
At last his daughter looked at her brother, and, getting his nod, turned to Frank. Dad, lets be honest. We dont want to press you, but we all need a decision.
Frank felt his heart squeeze. He nodded, Go on.
His son began, Look, Dad, you’ve got the flat, the cottage and the garage. The flat, not touching thatnever. But the cottage well, youre always saying it’s getting harder. Beds, roof, fencemoney goes into it every year.
I was out there today, Frank said quietly. Its fine.
Now its fine, put in his daughter-in-law. But give it five or ten years. Sorry, but none of us lasts forever. We have to keep that in mind.
Frank turned away at these words, understanding she meant no hurt, though the bluntness cut all the same.
His daughter spoke gentler. Were not saying throw everything away. We just think it makes sense to sell the cottage and garage, split the moneysome to you for comfort, the rest to us and Sophie. We could pay off some of the mortgage. You always said you wanted to help.
Which was truehe had said that, in those first years of retirement, back when he still picked up bits of work. Hed imagined himself strong for decades, always able to chip in.
I do help, he reminded them. Pick up the little one sometimes, buy your odds and ends in the shops.
His son gave an uneasy smile. Dad, thats not enough. We need a lump sum to breathe. Youve seen the numbers. Were not saying give everythingjust well, things you hardly use.
His sons word for itpropertyfelt like an imposition in Franks own kitchen. He felt a kind of invisible pillar rising between themof numbers, plans, mortgage statements.
He sipped his tea, now tepid. For you, its just property, he said at last. For me its
He hesitated, searching for the right word, not wanting to sound melodramatic.
Its slices of my life, he managed. I built that garage myself, with my father. We lugged every brick together. And the cottageyour mother and I, thats where we raised you.
His daughter dropped her gaze. His son, after a pause, answered in softer tones. We know, Dad, really. But you hardly ever go now. Its all standing empty. You wont keep it up on your own.
I was there today, said Frank.
Today, sure. And before thatautumn? Dad, honestly.
A heavy silence. In the next room, the ancient clock ticked. Frank saw themas if from a distancesitting in that familiar kitchen, discussing his old age as a sort of logistics plan. Asset optimisation. Inheritance management.
Fine, he sighed. What exactly are you suggesting?
His son brightened, as if this ground had been well rehearsed. Weve spoken to an estate agent. The cottage could bring a decent price. Sell the garage too. Well handle everythingviewings, paperwork. All youd need is to sign the forms.
And the flat? Frank asked.
Flat stays yours. Always, said his daughter quickly. Thats your home.
The word home landed differently. Was home just these four walls, or the cottage too? The garage where hed felt so alivefighting stubborn bolts, but certain of his purpose?
He rose and went to the window. Outside, the lamplight cast a pale glow on the green. Nothing much had changed from twenty years before, but the cars were newer, and the children on the play area toyed with phones.
And if I dont want to sell? he said quietly, still facing the glass.
It grew even quieter in the kitchen. His daughter replied, Dad, its your call. We cant force you. Were just worried. Youve said yourself youve not the strength these days.
Ive not the strength I once had, he agreed, But I can still decide what to do.
His son sighed. We dont want a row, Dad. But, honestly, it feels like youre clinging to things, while were strugglingfinancially, emotionally. If something were to happen, how would we cope? Whod sort out the cottage, all your gear?
A stab of guilt. Hed wondered that himselfwhat if he suddenly went? The children would be left with endless paperwork, deciding who got what.
He sat back at the table.
Suppose I transferred the cottage to you two? Id keep visiting while Im able, then its yours to do what you see fit.
His son and daughter exchanged glances. His daughter-in-law frowned. Dad, its still a burden. We cant go every weekend. Weve jobs, kids.
Im not asking you to go, Frank replied. Ill manageuntil I cant. After that you decide.
A compromise. For hima chance to keep the place a little longer; for themthe certainty, less future hassle.
His daughter mulled it over. Its an option. But lets be honestneither of us will move there. Were looking at other cities. Cheaper housing, better prospects.
Frank blinked at this. He hadnt known. His son looked equally surprised.
You never said, he told his sister.
Its just an idea, she shrugged. But thats the point, Dad. The cottage isnt our future.
He caught that wordfuture. For them, their future was elsewhere: other towns, careers, other dreams. For him, the future had shrunk to a handful of old haunts: flat, garage, cottage. Places where every nook charted past years.
They circled the point for a long while. They quoted figures; he recalled memories. They brought up his health; he pointed out that idle days would kill him faster than any physical task. At last, his son snapped, somewhat brusquely, You cant lug spades forever, Dad. One day youll have to stop. Then itll all rot and fall to bits. Well turn up to nothing but a ruin.
Frank tasted anger. A ruin, is it? You loved running about there as a boy.
As a boy, his son replied. But Im grown. Ive other things to focus on.
The words hung in the air. His daughter tried to interject, James, thats
But the truth was out. Frank suddenly knew they spoke different languages. For him, time at the cottage was living; for them, merely relics of childhood.
He stood. Very well. Leave it with me. I need time to think. Not today, not tomorrow.
Dad his daughter began, But our mortgage is due…
I know, he said. But its not like selling an old wardrobe.
They left soon after. In the hallway, shoes shuffled. At the door, his daughter hugged him close, whispering, We dont mind the cottage, Dad. Were just worried about you.
He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.
When the door clicked shut behind them, the flat seemed even emptier. Frank sat at the kitchen table, staring at the untouched tea and biscuits. Weariness swept over him.
He sat like that for a long time, daylight failing outside, windows across the courtyard kindling with yellow light. Eventually, he went to the cupboard, pulled down his file of paperwork: passport, deeds to the cottage and garage. He paused at the allotment plantiny rectangles marked out for each old vegetable bed, tracing one line along the paper as if it were the real path beneath his feet.
The next day, Frank made for the garage, seeking something to do with his hands. He flung the doors wide to invite in the chilly spring sun, set about sorting through the clutterbroken bits, rusty bolts, spare wires saved just in case.
His neighbour, Mr. Jenkins, stooped with age, poked his head in. Throwing out the junk, then?
Tidying up, Frank replied. Deciding what I really need, whats just taking up space.
Sounds about right, Jenkins nodded. I sold mine last year. The lad wanted a car, so there you are. Dont miss the garagehes happy.
Frank only nodded. Jenkins shambled off. It seemed as straightforward as chucking away an old jacket: sold, job done, son pleased.
He picked up an old spanner, worn smooth by a hundred hands. He twisted it as though to tighten a bolt, remembering his son, years ago, pleading to have a go. Frank had believed then that fixing cars would always bring them together. Now, his son spoke a different language; the old one had been left behind.
That evening, he sorted the documents again, and rang his daughter.
Ive decided, he told her, the words thickening his throat. Well put the cottage in your namesyours and Jamess, half and half. But Im going to keep going there while I can. No selling, not yet.
Silence on the line.
Are you sure, Dad? she asked gently.
I am, he said, though inside he felt as though things precious to him were being spliced away, yet he saw no other way forward.
Okay, she said. Lets meet tomorrow, see how its best done.
He hung up and sat quietly in the gathering dusk. A strange relief crept over him, as if hed reached the only possible decisionunavoidable, after all.
Within a week, they had been to the solicitors. The transfer was signed over tea and short, careful explanations. Franks signature wobbled faintly. The children stood by, full of thanks.
Youre doing us a huge favour, Dad, his son kept repeating.
But Frank understood he wasnt just rescuing them; they were rescuing him from the anxiety of what comes after. Now, that was recorded in official papers.
He chose to keep the lock-up, for now. The children hinted again, but he stood firm: it would be his so long as he was able. They at least understoodit gave him something to do, a place to be. Better than wasting away in front of the telly.
On the outside, nothing much changed. Frank still lived in the flat, still drove out to the cottage, now technically only a guest in the house hed long thought his own. But the keys were in his pocket, no one forbade him to visit.
The first time he returned after the change, the April sun was shining. He travelled out, wrestling with the notion that the place, by rights, belonged to someone else. Yet when the little gate creaked open and he saw the well-worn path, the idea of it being not his melted away.
He stepped inside, draped his jacket on the hook, sat on the same stool beside the window. The sunbeam glanced across the dusty sill, and Frank ran his hand along the wood, feeling every ridge.
His thoughts drifted to his children, busy with their city lives, debts, and plans. His own plans grew ever shorternot years, but seasons. To last another spring, dig over the beds one more time, sit on the porch in the brief English summer.
He understood that, in time, the cottage would go. Perhaps in a year, perhaps five, when he could no longer visit. Then, of course, they would be rightnot to burden themselves with an empty house. It would be only sensible.
But for now, the cottage stood. The shed was still weatherproof, spades still in their place, new sprouts braving the March frost above the turned soil. Frank could yet pass the ground, bent and older now, but able.
He wandered the patch, paused by the fence, eyeing the neighbouring plotssomeone already setting out runner beans, someone elses washing flapping from a line. Life carried on.
Frank realised his fear wasnt only of losing these places. He was afraid of being left unnecessary, surplus to everyone and himself. These rituals, these visitshis way of proof that he was still here, still needed.
Now that proof felt fragile. The papers at the solicitors said one thing, his habits another. But there on the step, in the sunlight, he saw that not everything worth having is written in deeds.
He fetched his Thermos, poured a mug of tea, and tried to listen to himself. There was bitterness, but less sharp than that first night. The choice was made, the cost accepted. Hed given up to the next generation something deeply his, but got, perhaps, something else in returnthe right to remain in this place by memory, if not by law.
He gazed at the familiar door, the old padlock, the cherished key. The key was worn and battered, heavy in his palm. Someday, it would pass to one of the children, or to strangers theyd sell to. They would turn it in the lock, unknowing of the weight of all those mornings.
And curiously, that thought made him sad, but also peaceful. The world shifted, places changed hands. What mattered was the time spent in your own corner, while it was yours, not by any legal deed, but by feeling.
Frank drained the tea, rose, and fetched the spade from the shed. He would dig over one bed at leastjust for himself. Not the next owners, nor the family counting the money, but himself, so that the touch of earth could still ground him.
He pressed the spade into the soil, forcing it down with his boot. The earth turned over, damp and fragrant underneath. He inhaled the scent, bent to his task.
He worked slowly, muscles aching, but with every movement, something loosened inside him. As if, in turning the earth, he uncovered not just roots but the tangled worries of his heart.
At dusk, he sat again on the porch step, wiping the sweat from his brow. Neatly turned clods lined up on the bed, the spring sky blushed rose overhead. A blackbird sang.
He gazed at the cottage, at the faint tracks hed left across the soil, at the spade propped against the door. He thought of tomorrow, of next year, of years beyond, with no clear answer. But for now, there was a quiet certaintya sense of belonging, right where he was.
He stood, switched off the lights, locked the door behind him. On the porch, he paused for a breath of the evening air. Then, with a click of iron, he pocketed the key and walked back along the narrow path, careful not to disturb the freshly turned ground.
