British Winters Read online

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Invention of an Intervention

  What has happened? A predictable burning wreck of a situation, that’s what has happened. I have shown myself to be a sad brute of a human being; someone who sleeps, works, and complains in a rut of an existence, watching and commenting on the bad choice of others, whilst knowing full well that it is me who is the maker of bad decisions. I am not a rolling snowball cascading down the mountain of life, I am a thirty-two-year-old man sat on his fat arse unwilling to play the game. Fearing failure, I choose not to take part. The thing with Jenny was exciting because it was a step back, so terrified of moving forward, I was delirious with the prospect of a backwards option. I have no real feelings for Jenny Weir, to be honest I hadn’t thought of her as often as I had claimed, not until that drunken meeting a few nights back. It was this ill fated reunion that let the demons loose, flooding my mind with unfulfilled urges, disguising fantasy as infatuation. Infatuation with the idea, not with the woman, not even with the act itself; infatuated with the idea of undoing something from the past. Could it be done, if so what else would it change? Me? Life? I think the hope was it would change the possibilities, that if something the past me had failed to do was achieved by the present me, all would change. I would become an achiever of things; I could get things done, I could leave this town, meet new people, life would be full of endless possibilities only constrained by a personal sense of responsibilities, and what responsibilities do I have? No partner, no kids, no mortgage, no career; there really is no life to speak of at all. However, I didn’t succeed - the past is unchanged, the present me is no wiser than the past me, just older and grumpier, so I’ll drink.

  “Nails, a double, please.”

  “What are you doing back here?”

  “Taking my father’s torch. I’d like to kill any self worth I have left.”

  “No!” The voice, loud and commanding, came from the direction of the door. It was Barry - Barry from the AA meeting.

  “Leonard, don’t.” The Nails’ face changes to a look of surprise, as this stranger addresses me by his Christian name.

  “Barry, I...”

  “I’m not here with judgement, Leonard.”

  “Why is this guy calling you Leonard?” Nails asks, and rightly so.

  “Erm.”

  “Someone is watching over you my friend, someone who had me drive past at this very moment to see you enter this house of temptation.”

  “Nails, I can’t really explain this. Well, I could, but it wouldn’t sound good.”

  “You have nothing to explain to this merchant of pain. You are coming with me or I’ll call Ted and the others and we’ll drag you out.”

  “Noel, you go with the crazy man, because I don’t want him bringing his other loony mates.”

  “I’ll deal with this, don’t worry.”

  “This isn’t a face of worry.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  The night has turned to rain as Barry and I sit in his myrtle green Vauxhall Astra, which is currently parked in front of The George. The rain drums loudly on the Astra’s roof, water flowing densely down the windows making it hard to see through them. All that is definable, from the world outside, are the orange glowing orbs of the street lights.

  “So, your real name is Noel.”

  I nod. “And your real name?”

  “Barry.”

  “Oh, I just thought everyone gave fake names, in keeping with the anonymous part.”

  “Actually, we’re not an AA group; we’re just a volunteer-run help group. We’re not affiliated with any organisations.”

  “Oh.”

  I want to tell him; tell him that he need not worry about me, that I don’t have a drinking problem. To say that would reveal me to be an enemy in their community, a parasite feeding off their sorrow to make light of my own and he probably wouldn’t believe me anyway. The first sign of a man with a problem is the man who says he has no problem.

  “I think the best thing to do is go back to mine and get you sobered up.”

  “Might that be a little weird, Barry?”

  “Would you prefer to go to your house?” Fuck no, I can’t have him know the whereabouts of my fortress of solitude.

  “Maybe not, because… I’ve got alcohol there.” Not technically a lie.

  The drive to Barry’s was a quiet one. I prayed for him to turn on the radio, but not much chance of a God you don’t believe in answering the prayers of an atheist. Straining to look through the passenger side window I feel lost in a town so small I should know every alley, every patch of dirt and every paving stone.

  “What street is this?”

  “Denbigh Lane just off Fennel Way.”

  “Oh, I know where I am, just behind the school.”

  “That’s right.”

  Silence falls again. The car turns in to what had to be Barry’s driveway. Barry’s home is a detached bungalow in the nice part of town, which I have to say, is quite a bump up from the squalor of Jenny’s digs. Dragging my feet, we enter Barry’s abode; the juxtaposition of the two places goes beyond aesthetics - Jenny’s place, though a somewhat wretched hive of scum and villainy is at least beating strong with life, whereas Barry’s home seems dead inside. I also live alone but my home looks lived in; Barry’s doesn’t feel that way. I have images of him sitting in a permanently pulled out chair at his kitchen table, just home from work sitting there watching the clock, waiting for an acceptable time for him to go to bed, in a king sized bed with one side that is never unmade.

  “Please, go to the lounge and make yourself at home. I’ll put the kettle on. Tea or coffee?”

  “Tea, thanks.”

  Barry disappears into the kitchen and I enter the living room where very little living is ever actually done. The seating has a floral design and has a look of an older person’s taste; I’d place Barry in his mid forties. Nothing in the room seems to fit with the man; I realise that I know very little about the guy but this is the room of a retired couple not of a single man. Barry is on the phone to someone in the kitchen; his voice is calm, nevertheless, he is intentionally low talking so I cannot hear what is being said, which I find concerning. What’s the plan here? Am I to spend the night? Does Barry have a spare bed or will I be crashing on the doily-covered couch whilst he sits watching over me in case I try to bolt in the night to get a fix? A plaque on the wall says: ‘You’re the greatest Grandad in the whole world’ and has a cartoon of an old man cutting some hedges. I’m starting to worry that this isn’t Barry’s house and the dead rotting corpses of the real owners are buried in the garden.

  “One tea as ordered.” He brings it in on a wooden tray, with two cups, a silver sugar bowl shaped like an apple, a plate of biscuits and a plastic cow.

  “What’s with the cow?”

  “It’s a milk jug.”

  “Oh, right, obviously.”

  No sooner had I added the necessary milk and sugar to my tea and picked out a biscuit, bourbon - I always go for the bourbon - the doorbell rings. Barry gets up, not surprised in the least that someone is ringing his doorbell at 12:40pm. It must be the person he was talking to on the phone. What have I gotten myself into? Why did I get into a car with some bloke I’ve only met once and on that occasion I refused to give him my real name. It’s Ted, Ted and Sandra. They come in and sit either side of me on the couch, Barry remains standing. I hope this is it and we are not waiting for the rest of the group to turn up. I felt awkward before and the awkwardness is definitely increasing with each added person.

  “We were worried when you weren’t at last night’s meeting.” Sandra as always looking as though she could at any point burst into tears.

  “I didn’t really know what days the meetings were on. I kind of found you by accident.”

  “There are no accidents, Noel.” Barry drops the bombshell that my name isn’t Leonard.

  “Noel, that’s a very festive name.” Ted never asks anything of you. Stay, d
on’t stay, I just want you to know I’m staying. He’s that kind of guy.

  Barry makes Ted and Sandra a drink and then they start asking the questions.

  “What has made you slip back into your old ways?” - not said in a disappointed way, more of a ‘to fix something you need to know why it broke’ way. This is an intervention; these strangers are so concerned with the actions I am taking, so concerned with the destructive path I am heading down that they have gathered to box me in; gathered to make me face my demons.

  “We are all weak, Noel. We all wish to fall back into a life where nothing matters.” How does this work? Ted talks of them all wanting to give in, who’s stopping them?

  “But together we are sturdy, holding up any one of us who falters.”

  I’m kind of starting to see why cults are so appealing. It’s a failure of one’s own strength; the pack is stronger than lone wolf and all that. And Noel Winters is one weak puppy. This group could be good for me or could become another crutch for me to lean on which could come in handy as I’m doing a pretty good job burning down the one I have at the moment.

  “I didn’t fall, Ted. To be truthful with you all, I never actually stood up. I drank before the meeting that I came to and I drank after the meeting.”

  “Do you expect us to be shocked?”

  “No, Ted, guess not, but you can’t hold me up. I’ll just end up draining you guys and you have your own battles to fight.”

  “A drain?” says Barry. “Tonight I walked into a pub for the first time without having a relapse. That took strength and I got that strength from my need to help you, Noel. So in what way are you a drain?”

  “Jesus, that’s awesome, Barry. No really it is. I didn’t even think about it. You went into a bar, the last place you should go, that’s such a massive step forward for you. Well done, mate.”

  “A step I couldn’t have done without you.”

  Ted and Sandra give Barry three big cheers and I don’t hesitate to join in. My rather lame failure tonight has led to Barry’s truly amazing victory and I can take a little joy from that.

  “Ok, I’m done.” I announce.

  “You’re done?” Sandra questions.

  “With drink. I swear on all that I hold dear I will never touch another drop.”

  “And what do you hold dear?” enquires Ted.

  “Hannah, my little sister, I swear on her that I’ll stay dry.”

  I don’t say that lightly, I’d never use Hannah’s name lightly. I may not be a major league drunk yet, but it is a problem. I’m drinking more and more and my father’s genes are part of my genetic makeup. Maybe it’s nurture, maybe it’s nature; either way I feel he has passed something on to me - a weakness to addiction or the need to avoid… well, everything.

  The four of us talk some more about the testing nature of the world; the shit that gets thrown your way and the shit you bring upon yourself. After another round of tea and finishing off the last of the biscuits Ted and Sandra seem satisfied that my pledge to remain sober is not a fickle gesture to fob them off, and they head out to their separate houses where, like Barry, I imagine them sitting in silence staring at a wall clock, with every tick of the second hand, trying to beat back their horrible addiction.

  “I have a spare bed if you’d like or you can sleep down here. I don’t mind either way.”

  “What’s the deal with this house, Barry?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “The wallpaper, the doilies, the Grandad plaque.”

  “Oh, it’s my parents’ house. After Jane kicked me out, I lived in a B&B for a while and then Dad died. Mum had passed away years earlier and so I got this place. I’m an only child so there were no other siblings to squabble over who gets what and I just moved in. I didn’t have the heart to change anything. Mum and Dad worked so hard to get this place just the way they wanted it.”

  “How long since you moved in?”

  “About six months. I reckon it’s what got me sober; getting drunk in here made me feel a bit like a naughty boy. After university I moved back in here for a while and Dad said, ‘I don’t care how old you are under my roof it’s my rules.’ It’s still his roof.”

  “Is the spare bed...?”

  “His? I’m afraid so.”

  “I’ll crash on the couch.”

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind.”

  “I’m already cosy.”

  “Alright, I’ll go get you a pillow and a blanket.”

  The blanket is vintage and probably the one Barry’s mum used to tuck him into bed with, back when he was a boy. The house isn’t dead; it is static in time - a museum to a time before Barry had buggered it all up. I guess I’m not the only one trying to deal with the future by looking to the past.