**Uncle Paul, or Life Goes On…**
I sat at the kitchen table, staring blankly at the wall. Nothing interesting there, no answers to my questions. I sighed and glanced at the half-drunk cup of tea, diluted to its last strength. No more tea leaves, no money to buy any. I stood, poured the tea down the sink, rinsed the mug, and filled it with lukewarm water from the kettle. Drank it down.
How had I ended up here? There had been everything—a job, a flat, a wife, a daughter… Now, nothing remained.
***
I was fifteen when Mum brought a man home. She clung to his arm, cheeks flushed.
“This is Uncle Paul. He’s going to live with us. We got married,” she said, fidgeting with the collar of her silk dress.
Uncle Paul looked much older than Mum, shorter and painfully thin. He studied me carefully, unbothered by my scowl.
I wasn’t a child—I’d guessed Mum had someone. She’d often disappear in the evenings, lying about meeting a friend. She’d return with a dreamy look, a guilty half-smile, and faded lipstick. I didn’t mind the freedom.
Everyone said Mum was beautiful and young. Nice to hear, though I never saw it. She was just my mum—no worse than others’. But young? Anyone over thirty seemed ancient to me.
I never knew my dad. Mum didn’t like talking about him. And now, Uncle Paul. Hadn’t the two of us been fine? I turned and walked to my room.
“James!” Mum called after me, voice cracking.
I slammed the door.
Later, she came in. “He’s a good man, reliable. Life will be easier with him. Don’t be jealous—you’ll always be most important to me.” She smoothed my shoulder. “I’ll fry some potatoes for dinner. Be decent with him, alright?”
She fluttered around Uncle Paul, glowing. I burned with jealousy. Guilt made her generous—more pocket money, as if that fixed it.
“Don’t be angry with your mum,” Uncle Paul said once. “She’s a good woman. You’re nearly grown. In a few years, you’ll have your own family—think how hard it’ll be for her alone. I’ll look after her.”
I scowled but knew he was right. Credit to him, he never pestered me about school or dreams.
After graduation, I announced I wouldn’t go to uni—I’d join the army. Felt like an outsider in my own home.
“Smart move. The army teaches discipline. Respect. You can study later if you want—education matters. Serve first, figure it out after,” Uncle Paul cut in, silencing Mum’s protests.
A year later, I returned, taller, broader. Mum wouldn’t stop hugging me, cooked a feast. For the first time, I let Uncle Paul embrace me too. We drank together—I got tipsy too fast.
“What now?” he asked. “Too late for uni this term. What can you do?”
“Let him rest,” Mum interjected.
I mentioned my army driving license—cars, lorries, repairs.
“Good. My mate runs a garage—I’ll talk to him. Decent pay, but hard work.”
“I’ll take it.”
A month later, with my first wages, I announced I’d rent my own place.
“No!” Mum cried. “Who’ll cook for you? You’ll just drink, chase women—”
“Hush, Margaret. Weren’t you young once?” Uncle Paul silenced her. “He’s right. Can’t bring girls here.” He left, returned with keys. “Take my old flat. Small, outskirts, but fine for one. Got it in the divorce. Tenants are leaving soon.”
“Be careful with women. Don’t rush. And go easy on the booze,” he warned.
I moved out. Mum visited at first, bringing soup, until I got a girlfriend, Lucy. We lasted two years. I started distance-learning engineering.
No idea why we argued, but we split easily. Felt like she’d picked the fight to leave. Then came others, until fiery-haired Emily. Men stared when we walked together. I seethed; she laughed.
A year from graduating, scared of losing her, I proposed. She said yes. Right after the wedding, she announced she was pregnant. Lucy had been careful—I’d assumed Emily was too.
Mum doubted the baby was mine. I ignored her. The real worry? A one-bed flat wouldn’t fit a child. Uncle Paul sold his place, chipped in, and I bought a two-bed.
When Lily was born, Mum whispered she didn’t look like me—dark hair, not blonde or red. “Premature, but healthy. Get a test.”
I refused. All babies looked the same. Hair could change.
Then, coming home, I saw Emily talking to a dark-haired man in the car park. She stammered an excuse when she spotted me. I remembered Mum’s words but said nothing—until I saw him again.
“Oi.”
The man turned. Slight accent. “Yeah?”
“Stay away from Emily and Lily. See you near them again, I’ll break your legs.” I’d filled out since the army—he left fast.
Emily fried cutlets at home; Lily played on the floor. Normal. Maybe I’d imagined it.
Then she confessed. She’d never stopped loving Lily’s father—he’d left before she could tell him. Now he was back, demanding she leave me.
“Go,” I said.
I watched from the window as she loaded their things into his BMW. Couldn’t believe it. Waited, hoped. Then I drank. Lost my job.
A classmate offered work at his auto shop. Months later, cash vanished from the safe. He told police I’d seen him stash it. No proof, but suspicion stuck. He dropped charges when I sold the flat to repay him.
I rented a dingy bedsit on the outskirts. No wife, no home, no job, no money. Life in ruins. The landlady threatened eviction if I didn’t pay. Where would I get it? Mum had died of cancer. I’d forgotten Uncle Paul.
***
A pigeon landed on the sill, cocking its head at me.
“Sorry, mate. No crumbs,” I murmured, approaching the window.
Sunlight soaked the courtyard—fresh grass, budding trees. Kids slid down a plastic slide; mothers chatted. A teen hung upside-down from monkey bars. How long since I’d stepped outside?
I craved one last breath of spring air. Yanked the window open. The pigeon startled, wings scraping metal. I leaned out. Four floors up—might not die, just end up crippled.
The medicine box in the wardrobe held aspirin, cough syrup. Not enough. Chugging it could wreck my kidneys, but death wouldn’t be quick. The light fixture? Imagined swinging from it.
In the bathroom, the mirror showed a gaunt, bearded stranger. Looked half-dead already.
The razor was blunt. I fetched a kitchen knife. The phone rang—shocking, after months of silence. A chirpy tune grated my skull. I answered.
“Jim?” A frail old voice.
“Yeah.”
“Uncle Paul. Remember me?”
“Yeah.”
“Been poorly. In hospital. Come see me. Need to talk.”
“Where?” I eyed the knife’s dull edge.
He named the hospital.
“Alright.” Only after hanging up did I realise I hadn’t asked what was wrong.
The bath was full. I sank in, remembering too late I’d left the knife by the phone. Too lazy to fetch it. Shaved badly after, hands shaking. Dressed in my least-worn clothes. Fifty pence crumpled in my pocket—bus fare there, walk back.
The ward stank of antiseptic. I scanned beds until he called me. Barely recognised him—shrunk further, face like a dried prune.
“Didn’t know me? You look worse. Sit.” He nodded at the bed edge.
I sat.
“How… how are you?”
“Old. Second heart attack. They moved me from ICU today. First one was after Margaret died.” His voice rustled like leaves. “This one…” A weak hand flapped.
“Keys in the drawer. Take the flat. Won’t be needing it. Papers there too. Savings book, power of attorney. Not much, but something. No one else to leave it to.” Pause. “Ah—the car. Old Rover. Neighbour’ll show you the garage.”
“Uncle Paul, I—”
“Don’t. Not angry. Young lives get busy. See you’ve hit rough times too. Bury me by Margaret, get a headstone. That’s enough.” He shut his eyes. “Go. Tired.”
“Thank you. I’ll come tomorrow.” I squeezed his papery hand.
Went straight to my childhood flat. Didn’t want the bedsit. Same as ever—Mum’s portrait on the wall, smiling down.
Found vodka in the fridgeThe following morning, as sunlight spilled through the curtains, I looked at the woman sleeping beside me and knew—for the first time in years—that life wasn’t just going on, it was beginning again.
