Nightly Caller and the Cost of Peace
Not again, I muttered, staring despondently into a sink full of soapy water.
The kitchen clock ticked relentlessly past 1:15am. The whole house was still. From the other side of the wall, little Emilys quiet breaths could be heard. Upstairs, I guessed, Sarah was already half-asleep. The lamp under its frosted shade cast a yellow pool of light over the table, where a lonely mug stood, filled with cold chamomile tea.
The doorbell cut the silence like a blade. Long, insistent, with those short breaks just long enough for a pitiful please, not again, not tonight to form in my mind.
Upstairs, I heard Sarahs sleepy, but knowing whisper:
Is it him again?
I dried my hands on my dressing gown, stifling a yawnthe kind I ached to turn into a message for the world: Im sleeping, please go away. On the way to the door, a mixture of irritation, a twinge of guilt over that irritation, and a weighty, blanket-like weariness weighed me down.
Through the peephole: a familiar figure. Broad-shouldered, in an old leather jacket and a tweed flat cap shoved back. My father-in-law, Roger Clark, as always, stood half-turned to the door, one hand bracing against the wall, the other clutching a big cardboard box.
At his feet, one of those ever-present supermarket carrier bags with a green logo. I knew already it held a packet of oatmeal biscuits. Always the same ones.
I opened the door.
Danny, lad! Roger beamed, as if we were meeting at midday. Still up, are you? Grand! Ill only be ten minutes, promise.
Hello, Roger, I managed a polite smile. Its, er, the middle of the night, just to point that out.
Middle of the night? Rubbish! he scoffed. Nights young yet! And so am I, least while my legs keep working. Will you let your poor old dad-in-law in, or what? Got a real treasure here.
He hefted the box, its faded label reading 8mm Film. Someone had once scribbled in biro on the corner: 1978. New Years Eve. Home. The box smelt of dust, mothballs, and a time I only knew from photos.
Found it, can you believe! Roger was already elbowing his way into the hall, not bothering to wait for a proper invite. Was at my mate Stans, up in his attic. Thats mine! I said. He didnt believe me till he saw your mums handwriting on the label. Eileen wrote that, he said.
The name of Rogers wifegone a decade nowhung in the narrow hallway like a ghost.
Sarah appeared, squinting into the light in her faded T-shirt and joggers.
Dad Her voice was rough with sleep. Its gone one in the morning.
Thats the best time for memories! Roger grinned. What are you moaning for, love? At your age, this was when the parties really started!
Every cheerful syllable of his rang in my skull like a knock against my tiredness. Yet, part of me thought, Hes on his own. It gets dark and lonely there. Maybe hes scared, deep down.
Lets go to the kitchen, I said aloud, swallowing a sigh. Quietly thoughEmilys asleep.
Course, well be as quiet as church mice, Roger promised, already shrugging off his jacket with a rustle.
Church mouse, I thought, that rings the doorbell like a fire alarm.
***
Roger always sat on the same kitchen chairclosest to the radiator. Cant have a draught on the old back, hed say. I handed him a mug, poured his tea on autopilot, running a night shift service.
Sarah, still yawning, sat opposite her father and eyed up the box.
Whats that, then? she asked.
Our family tapes! Roger announced, ceremoniously thumping the box down. Film reel. Old, but still ticking. Theres your mum, you as a nipper the old Christmas tree, dodgy salads, and Auntie Cathys nosethe size of Yorkshire! He burst into hearty laughter. History, son. History.
I perched at the side, propping my head up with my hand. The kitchen clock ticked off every minute1:27, 1:28 Roger, on the other hand, seemed just to be winding up.
I remember, we opened the door just after midnight he was saying animatedly, Stan and his wife came over. Frost on the ground, snow everywhere, but we always said, Come in, doors always open! And your mumEileenshe said something about nighttime doors should always be open for anyone who truly needs it
I nodded. That phrase stuck to my mind like a cockleburr.
Dad, Sarah wiped her eyes. Whenll we actually watch it? Isnt that why youve lugged it over?
Thats the plan! Roger brightened. But Ive not got anything to play it on now. Thought you might have one, Danny?
Yeah, sure, Dad, I snorted. We keep an 8mm film projector in the airing cupboard, right next to the harpsichord and the printing press.
Roger, as usual, missed any hint of sarcasm.
Well, well sort it! he said, optimism undimmed. Theres shops thatll digitise this sort of thing. Danny, you’re clever with computers, youll manage. Meanwhile, let me tell you about it
And off he went, tales of their first camera, of filming up the allotment, of Eileen laughing with snow down her neck. His words poured out like never-ending tea from a bottomless pot. He had no sense of the hour; he was living on memory, not time.
I listened in fits and starts, feeling more than following. One line drummed through my head: Got to be up by seven, Emily to nursery, work report to finish, cant keep my eyes open
***
A soft sound jolted me.
In the kitchen doorway stood a small figure, in pyjamas covered in pink stars. Emily rubbed her eyes, hair sticking out all over.
Daddy she mumbled, tripping over the threshold.
Em, sweetheart, what are you doing up? I leapt up, gathering her close before she banged into the table.
I wanted a drink, she murmured sleepily. And I dreamt about Granddad again.
Roger brightened at the word Granddad.
There you are! he exclaimed, sitting straighter. Kids always sense these things.
Emily peered at him through sleep-fogged eyes, still half in her dream.
You visit me every single night, she said gravely. You just keep knocking and knocking. I cant close the door, cos the handles always too hot.
I felt a chilling knot at the pit of my stomach. Sarah frowned.
Whats with those nightmares? she whispered.
Nightmares? Not at all! Roger declared, certain. Its her spirit reaching out.
Or just longing for quiet, I thought, but only said,
Emily, lets put you back to bed, darling. Granddad can visit you again another time.
At night? she whispered.
I looked over at Roger. His eyes were honestly baffled, almost childlike.
He can visit in the daytime too, I said gently. Thatd be even better, wouldnt it?
Emily sniffled and wedged herself tighter into my shoulder.
I carried her back to her room, tucking her in and listening for noises from the kitchen. Rogers voice hummed away, even softer now, but still far too lively for this hour.
I smoothed a hand over Emilys hair and thought wearily: Every time its the same. His just ten minutes always spins into an hour of chatterbiscuits, tea, heavy eyelids, and our whole system thrown into chaos.
The hall clock ticked, drawing the hands steadily towards two. I drew a deep breath. My patience, like an alarm clock, started counting down its own final minutes.
***
And yet againat one in the ruddy morning! I was grumbling to my old uni mate, Lisa, on the phone a week earlier. He treats us like a 24-hour caff, this one.
Lisa sniggered in sympathy.
Daniel James Clark, you have my sincere condolences, she intoned with playful solemnity. Your house is now officially haunted by the night ghost of the previous generation.
Oh, ha ha, I sighed. No, seriously, Lisa. I cant even get to sleep properlyalways in my head, hell come ringing again. And he does! One oclock, half-past midnight, always just for ten minutes.
Think of it as a challenge, Lisa snorted. Nightmare mode: get up, pop the kettle on, listen to monologue. Your prize? Biscuits.
I couldnt help but laugh.
And its always the same biscuits, I said. Those stodgy oat ones, green packet. I honestly cant stand looking at them anymore.
Its practically a badge of office now, Lisa joked. Set him up with a visitors curfew.
Meaning?
Ring him at one a.m. for a change.
Thats harsh, I huffed.
Sorry! Lisa broke into laughter. But honestly, you need to set boundaries. Otherwise, hell truly believe its all fine, so long as you answer the door.
I mean, hes my father-in-law, Lisa. Hes all alone. His wifes gone, Sarahs his only child. How am I supposed to just say, Roger, no more dropping in at midnight? Hes got high blood pressure, all those memories
Youve got a child and a job too, mate, Lisa reminded me. Boundaries arent a crime. Sometimes, looking after yourself helps everyone else, oddly enough.
I went quiet. Boundaries sounded so uncomfortable. Id always thought being a good son-in-law meant putting up with things.
***
Rogers first midnight visit was about six months after Eileen died.
Back then, I thought it was a one-off. Grief that had to be shared in the dark, because daytime was too noisy, too busy.
We were in bed. All was dark, with only a faint patch of light filtering across from the window. Silence was rounding into sleep when the doorbell thumped through the night.
Who on earth? Sarah bolted upright.
The ring was urgent, ever-so-slightly desperate. I scrambled into my jeans, blinking hard.
Maybe somethings happened.
We opened the door to find Roger Clark on the stepdishevelled, no jacket, just an ancient jumper and no cap. His eyes glistened.
Sorry he said, though he was already inside before we could ask him. Couldnt stay at home. Its just empty in there.
He brought with him the sharp tang of tobacco and the chill of the outside world. The now-familiar green-packaged oat biscuits dangled from his hand.
Dad, you okay? Sarah asked, fear in her voice. Is it your heart?
No, no, Roger said, but his gaze was off somewhere. I just needed to see you.
Something loosened in my throat. I remembered Eileens funeral, Roger wringing his cap. That lost, disoriented look.
We sat him in the kitchen, put on a brew. That first night, he barely told any stories; he just sat quietly and muttered at times:
She was ever so fond of having a cuppa at night
His hands shook when he broke a biscuit in half.
Saw these in the supermarket today, he said in a low voice. We met right at that shelf, me and Eileen. Both reaching for the same box. She said, You take them, Im watching my figure. And thats when I knew I wanted to marry her.
That first night, I just felt sorry for him, not annoyed.
Come any time, Roger, I said, seeing him out in the early morning. Were here for you.
I didnt realise Id meant it literally. From then on, he came whenever he needed to. Only, his need almost always came after midnight.
After the first came the second visita week later. Then a third. Soon, I couldnt remember when wed last had a long gap.
***
Sarah shrugged when I tried to talk it over with her.
You know Dads always been a night owl, shed say. He worked late his whole life. Stayed up, reading, pottering. Even when I was a kid, Dad might be in the kitchen at two in the morning with a book.
That was in his own house though, Id say gently. Now its ours.
Our house is just an extension for him, Sarah would reason. Hes lonely in his. And probably scared, especially at night.
I get scared too, Id admit. Because I cant get any sleep. Because Emily wakes up. Because every time that bell rings, my hearts in my mouth.
Shed go quiet. There was always a line between her and her dadshe too was caught in feeling both exasperation and sympathy. Hes my dad always hovered, stopping a straightforward conversation.
One night I couldnt take it anymoreand didnt go down.
I lay there pretending to be asleep. Sarah went this time. Door creak, footsteps scuffed, voices murmuring.
Half an hour later, I heard muttering and tiptoed to the kitchen door.
Roger sat alone at the tableSarah must have pleaded tiredness and gone. He had a stack of old photos out. Only the desk lamp lit up the scene, making it a little island of memory.
Eileen, look at you he whispered, gazing at an old snapshot. That dresssaid Id go off you if you put on weight. Shouldve told you, love You were perfect.
He turned over another photograph.
Theres our Sarahstill snotty as anything. Remember that telly? Sat for hours watching movies with you. Remember when Stan turned up at 1am and we kept him till three? You said, Let them come, let people in while they can. Shut the door only when were gone.
He talked to himself, but in those halting phrases was more than memorya plea: Let me have some home, somewhere, even if only at night.
I stood, heart crumpled. He wasnt a monster. Just an overgrown boy, lost in the empty night.
That didnt lessen the irritation. But it added a twist of pity, which made everything more confusing.
***
I decided to try humour.
Early summer, a warm night, bedroom window tilted open. Doorbell on schedule. Instead of shoving on my faded dressing gown, I draped my silliest silk one over my pyjamas and stuck on the sleep mask Lisa had given mepropped up to see, but left it dangling for effect.
Oooh, look at you, film star, Sarah smirked.
Thats right, I grumbled. Tonights exclusive screening: At Home with Roger Clark: Midnight Edition.
I answered the door, all theatrical bravado.
Good evening, I said. Welcome to our exclusive midnight service. On offer: tea, biscuits and terminal sleep-deprivation.
Roger roared with laughter.
Thats the ticket! Young peoplewhat a lark! Used to think you lot were pensioners alreadybed by ten, up at six.
In the kitchen, I made a noisy show of rummaging about for coffee, tapped the oven timer sat on the counter.
We could start a new tradition: midnight à la Italiano. Tea, biscuits, a bit of music. The only catch is the alarms still set for six, sorry.
Oh, but lad, think of the memories! Roger waved his hand. When I was a boy, wed take night trainsproper adventure. Tea in glass holders, everyone chatting. Best stories always came out after dark.
Then he said, Theres doors in life you should always leave open. In case someone needs in, badly enough.
That sentence drifted over me, sad and dangerous both.
Hardly fair, I thought, when those someones forget there are other people inside. Instead, I quipped,
And theres also windows that need shutting, or youll catch your death of cold.
Roger missed the edge of my reply. Away he went, stories rolling, oblivious to the gathering storm behind my smile.
***
One night, I decided not to open the door.
Emily was ill, feverish and restless. Id only just tucked her in whenlike clockworkthe bell rang.
Not now! Please! I whispered.
Sarah was at work, just me and Emily. I froze. The bell rang again. Then again. Silence.
I slowly counted to a hundred, then two. My heart thudded. See? whispered that mean inner voice, You dont open onceand the world doesnt end.
In the morning, taking out the bins, I spotted a damp packet of green-label biscuits left on the step. There was also a tiny, almost childlike note: Asleep. Didnt want to wake you. R.
That was all. No guilt-trip, no complaint. Just biscuits.
I felt both prickly with shame and mad: Why should I feel guilty for needing to sleep?
***
After another visit, the house felt heavy, soggy as an old blanket.
Emily had caught a chillkept creeping out to the kitchen when Roger was telling jokes. Her temperature shot up; she coughed all night. The bags under my eyes were darker than ever. At work, I barely made it through the day, fuelled by instant coffee.
That evening, stirring soup listlessly, I looked at Sarahand something inside snapped.
I cant take this any more, I said, staring down.
What dyou mean? Sarah was filling the kettle.
I mean, I spun round, I cant keep living by his nightly schedule. We arent a round-the-clock tea-parlour. We have a child, Ive got work. I dont even feel like this is my home anymore.
She opened her mouth for the usual, But hes my dad but I raised a hand.
No, hang on. I hear it all the time: Hes your dad, hes lonely, its hard for him. Well, what about me? Im a husband, a father, a human being with a body, a nervous system, and boundaries. Its like no one thinks to ask how Im coping.
She was quiet.
How about this, then? I bit my lip. Tonight, when he arrives, lets actually talk. The three of us, properly. No jokes, no just for ten minutes. Ill tell him: I need nighttime for myself, for my family. No more midnight calls.
Youre going to ban him coming?
I want him to drop injust not after nine. Hes not out of our lives, just out of our nights.
Sarah let out a long sigh.
He might be upset, she admitted.
Too late. Im already upset, I said quietly. With both of you. Ive been pretending for a year this was all fine. My okays have just been little capitulations to someone elses habits.
Saying it out loud brought a strange clarity. She nodded.
Alright, she said. Tonight then. Ill back you.
***
When I saw the film box clutched in Rogers hands that night, it all made sense.
Family Christmas, 1979, read the label. He dumped his jacket over a chair and put his treasure on the table with pride.
Look at this! he said for the hundredth time. Found it! A whole lifetime in here!
Maybe, could we chat first? I began, as Sarah poured tea.
Chat? Roger seemed surprised. Lets have a look at the film, cheer ourselves up, talk about sad things later!
Sarah caught my eye. I nodded: Go on.
I put a mug in front of Roger, took a seat opposite, and felt my throat tighten.
Roger, I began, Were so pleased you found the film. And were always happy to see you. But we need to talk.
Oh? Whats so serious youre bringing up at this hour? he tried to joke.
Actually, I do want to talk about the nights, I said, levelly. Yours, and ours.
Rogers smile faded.
Go on, he said, trying to appear at ease.
You come over a lotalmost always after midnight. For you, the nights for memories. For us, its sleep. Sarahs got work tomorrow, I do too. Emilys got nursery. When were woken every night were exhausted.
Rogers brow darkened.
Am I getting in the way? His voice was unexpectedly soft.
Sarah stepped in gently.
Youre not a bother, Dad. We love you. But the late visits theyre draining, for me and for Emily too.
I nodded.
Im anxious at every ring of the bell after ten, I admitted. My heart races. I cant relax. And Emilyshe keeps saying someones always knocking at night. Keeps her up.
Roger looked from Sarah to me, then down at the box.
I just thought it was like old times. Me and Eileen used to drink tea at midnight. Porchlight always on, front door open. We said, If someone knocks in the night, they need to.
We need to sleep in the night, I said gently, but firmly. Not because we dont care, but because we doabout ourselves and our family.
A silence stretched.
Roger stared at his hands, trembling slightly.
So, you dont want me to visit?
We do, I said quickly. Very much. But not past midnight. Daytimes fine. Evenings, before ten. Just give us a ring before you come. Well put your favourite tea on, have a proper catch-up.
Sarah added,
Dad, we love having you over. Just not when were crawling to bed.
Roger was silent, then, in a small voice,
I didnt realise it was such a burden. Just thoughtif Im awake, maybe you are too
I felt something inside me slowly unclench.
He wasnt thoughtless; hed just lost track of time. For him, everything had stopped the night Eileen died.
So lets do this, I said softly. I really want to watch that film. But lets do it Saturday, during the day. All of usEmily too. Well make it like Christmas 79.
Roger looked at the box and then at me.
And what ifat nightIm struggling? he murmured.
If youre truly unwell, ring, I said evenly. But not for a cuppa, not every day. If theres an emergencywere here. But for tea and biscuits, lets keep it to daylight.
Sarah nodded.
Dad, I added, I want proper time with you, not groggy midnight chats I cant remember. Right now, Im not taking in a word you say.
Roger finally smiled, sad and gentle.
Silly old fool I am, he said. I always thought, Just ten minutes cant matter
Weve had over a year of just ten minutes, I replied gently.
He nodded.
Alright, he sighed. Lets save the film for Saturday. Best I head off for tonight.
Ill see you out, I said.
At the door, he fiddled with his coat for ages.
Danny, lad, he said at last, if I ever ring too late
Ill think youre in trouble, I replied. And Ill worry. But I cant always come running. Im only human.
He nodded. There was something new in his eyesmaybe a hint of respect.
***
Saturday afternoon came quickly.
The projector, dug out from an old schoolmate of Sarahs, sat on the table. The living room looked like a makeshift cinemacurtains drawn, a hastily pinned up white sheet for a screen.
Roger sat closest to the projector, clutching the film like a rare jewel. Emily curled on my lap, cradling her favourite stuffed rabbit. Sarah wrestled with the wiring, trying to coax the old thing to life.
Finally, the projector whirred into action. The beam caught the darkness and the faded images danced on the wall.
A young woman in a cotton dressEileen, full of light. Next to her: Roger, not a grey hair on his head. Their arms wrapped around each other, their smiles brighter than sunbeams. Between them, little Sarah, chubby-cheeked and eager.
Their Christmas tabletangerines, pilchards, tinsel. The camera pans: a handwritten cardboard sign by the door Our home always open. Even at night. For family.
The words pierced me.
Roger sniffled quietly.
She wrote that herself, he whispered. Wanted it where everyoned see.
On film, Eileen laughs, flings open the door, beckons someone in: Come in! Dont be shy! Light, laughter, bustle the clock in shot: 1:05am. Underneath, someone has scribbled: Always welcome, always open doors.
Roger could only sit there, shaking and weeping softly.
Emily grew heavier in my lap, fast asleep with her little fist wrapped around my wrist.
The projector whirred onEileen washing up, Roger kissing her cheek, Sarah dancing round the tinsel.
I finally understood. Rogers nocturnal visits werent just a habit. They were an attempta desperate oneto recapture when doors meant joy, not the fracturing of boundaries.
***
When the film ran out and the room darkened again, Emily snuffled deeper into my arms.
Roger wiped his face.
Im sorry, he said suddenly. I truly thought I was doing something good. That if I came to you by night, I wasnt alone.
Youre still not alone, Roger, I said softly. Even without the night patrols. Lets leave the doors open in the morning for a change.
A couple of days later, I went to the corner shop. I picked up a packet of those oat biscuitsand a shiny new thermos. Silver, with a little black mountain pattern. Keeps warm for 8 hours, the label said.
At home, I packed the thermos carefully in a box, added the biscuits, and a little keyring. On a card, I wrote:
Roger, our house is always open to you. Especially in the mornings. Thermos to keep you warm. Key, so you can pop in when were expecting you. Please call ahead. We love youDan, Sarah, Emily.
I rang him in the daytimemy first time initiating it for ages.
Hi Roger, how are you? Were doing a morning tea tomorrow. Come by any timebefore midday works best.
He actually chuckled, relief in his voice.
Is this an official invitation? he asked.
A new tradition, I answered. No more night shifts.
Next day, Roger arrived spot on ten, having texted ahead: Setting off now, pop the kettle on. He stood in the doorway in his best shirt, clutching a bunch of daisies.
These are for you, Dan, he said shyly. For your patience.
Tucked under his arm: a big teddy bear, wearing a nightcap.
And for Emily, he added. A night-time guardian, so Granddad can visit her with stories, not knocking doors.
For the first time in ages, my smile was genuine.
Come in, Roger, I said. Teas ready.
Sunlight painted gold rectangles across the kitchen table. The tea was hot, the biscuits crisp. Emily, fully rested, snuggled her new bear. Sarah told her dad about her latest project, and he replied with an old standby about mistaking the night train for the day one.
It was Roger, with all the same stories. But the time was different: morning, not midnight. A visit by arrangement, not by intrusion.
That night, as I tucked Emily in, she yawned,
Mum, Granddad didnt visit in my dreams last night.
How did that feel? I asked.
She thought for a moment.
It was good. I just slept. And then he was really here in the morning.
I smiled quietly in the dark.
Lets keep it that way, I whispered.
That night at 1:15am, the house was silent. The bell didnt ring. For the first time in ages, I woke up because I was restednot from someone elses habits.
I realised Id learnt to voice my own boundariesnot through rows, or shame, but with honest words. The world hadnt ended because of it. Roger hadnt disappeared from our lives. Hed just stopped coming at midnight.
And that, it turned out, was victory enough for us all.
