A Minute's Rest

Maria was asleep again. She’d been sleeping a lot recently, despite Frank’s efforts to keep her up. He’d even put Midsomer Murders on. She’d have made a great detective, she always said. If only those bigots down at the station would have taken her in back when she was younger. By the time the world had started catching up on feminism and women’s rights, she was too old and too out of shape. She could barely walk up the stairs without wheezing; wouldn’t have passed the fitness test, that’s for sure. Years of Marlboro Reds and hearty home-cooked dinners had seen to that.

So instead, Maria had her detective shows.

Frank hated them. Wasn’t keen on all the death and deception — he’d seen enough of that in his lifetime — but he put up with them because they made her happy, and that made him happy. Even when she spoiled the ending five minutes in.

Frank preferred the game shows. The ones with the big jackpots, like Who Wants to be a Millionaire, though he wasn’t too much a fan of the new host. Technically the host wasn’t new, Maria kept reminding him, since he’d replaced Chris almost seven years ago, but he was new enough to Frank, and he didn’t like it. He watched reruns instead, didn’t mind seeing the same episodes again and again. He liked being able to root for the players and know they were going to win big – liked knowing that your life could change so much in a matter of minutes.

Maria used to snore when she was younger, like a bloody freight truck, though she always denied it when Frank said as much. She was quiet now, though. Almost silent. It was the weight loss, probably. Between the cancer and the constant drag of old age, she’d shed her entire outer layer, leaving her wiry and skeletal.

And she’d been sleeping a lot. Frank understood it, the exhaustion. They were more than two decades into retirement, and his bones were getting stiff. He’d been a soldier once. He’d stormed Normandy just three days past his sixteenth birthday. He’d survived the trenches – weeks of being cramped in them, his entire body submerged in the silt. He’d shot, and been shot at, almost every day for months. His body had been put through everything a body could be, and now it ached constantly. That’s what they didn’t tell you about war. You think you’ve escaped it, but it’s still there, waiting dormant under your skin.

He’d been a soldier once, and now there was little he could do but sit in his armchair and watch television. Without Maria, it would be torture being confined like this. With her, though, it was bliss. The peaceful, loving home she’d written to him about while he was away. That was what had got him through the war, and the reality of it had gotten him through every day since.

He switched the television over. Nathan had set it up for them so that with the press of a button, they could swap between the game shows and the crime dramas. All of it, technology and the internet and everything that came with it seemed like magic to Frank, but his grandson shrugged it off like having the whole world at your fingertips was nothing new.

Chris was laughing about something with the contestant, Derek. Frank remembered this one. It was one of his favourites. Derek was getting nervous, all pink around the gills, brows furrowed even as he laughed. They were on the £100,000 question, getting to the hard stuff. The life changing stuff.

Frank had learned more watching this show than he ever had at school. He and Maria would take turns guessing at the answers.She’d always guess wrong, and he’d guess wrong too, just to make her laugh.

Frank turned the volume down a little, though it wouldn’t have woken her up anyway. He spoke softly as Maria lay back, her mouth ajar. Figured maybe in her subconscious, she’d hear him. Like those tapes she’d tried to get rid of her smoking habit. She’d sworn they worked, even though Frank had found her secret pile of squashed butts under an overturned pot in the garden.

So he spoke to her, of nothing in particular. Sometimes his words would spark recognition — he’d said the same thing yesterday, or the day before. He’d apologise. His memory wasn’t what it used to be. She said nothing in response, her silence an absolution.

He was telling her about the birds when the doorbell went. Magpies, if his eyesight was to be relied on. There were three of them in the garden, two adults and a baby. Frank had taken to feeding them at lunchtime, carrying the small chipped bowl of sweetcorn down to the end of the garden and standing a few paces back to watch them eat. This past couple of weeks, he’d been later than usual, reluctant to leave Maria alone, and they’d started swooping down, pecking at the windows. He could hear them even from a room away. Tap. Tap. Tap.

The chime of the doorbell stopped and the knocking started, loud and persistent. Frank stood with difficulty, grunting involuntarily at the effort. He folded his blanket, checked the zipper of his coat. He hated the cold — most older people do, it seeps into the bones too easily when your skin starts to thin — but Maria loved it. The cold kept her fresh, alive. Frank worried about their savings and took to turning everything else in the house off unless it was absolutely essential. Only allowed himself one hot drink a day, kept his showers to under three minutes. Combined, their pensions were still a pittance. They couldn’t afford the luxury of everything, so he made it a balancing act. Cold air on, lights off. TV on, no shower.

The bell rang again, a horrible shrill noise. He’d have to get Maxwell to change it. There was an advert on the television recently for a new one which could play tunes. Maybe they could get it to play Clare de Lune. Maria would like that.

Nathan knew sites where you could get things for a quarter of the price. Kids can do anything nowadays. Give them five minutes and an internet connection. Nathan had explained it all to him, but Frank couldn’t even remember the name of the site now. Even if he could, he couldn’t work out how to turn the bloody computer on.

“Be two minutes, love,” he said to Maria, closing the living room door closed behind him.

The doorbell went a third time before he reached the latch. He fumbled with it, cursing the arthritis that was starting to set into his joints. Soon enough, he wouldn’t even be able to make a cup of tea, and then where would they be?

Not that Maria had much of an appetite anymore, but she used to be a fiend for it. Five cups a day, ten on a particularly cold one. She had a certain way of saying his name when she wanted one, all tilted up like it had a question mark on the end. The question itself was implied. He could hear it still, kept waiting for her to ask. She would, inevitably. And when she did, all he wanted was to be able to march straight over to the kettle and make her one.

The worst thing about getting old wasn’t the inability to do anything for himself, it was the inability to do anything for her.

Maria had outright refused to get a nurse, even when Maxwell had insisted. He’d brought one with him to the house once — just to try it out, he’d said — and Maria had kicked up such a fuss that a neighbour had called the police. Maxwell had had to explain the situation, apologise for the wasted time. He’d always been good with his words, ever since he was a kid. God knows where he got that from. Certainly wasn’t either of them. Frank was a soldier by training, Maria was one by disposition. Diplomatic reasoning never came easily to either of them.

He should have known it was Maxwell at the door. He always was the impatient one. Even if he wasn’t, Marlene had her big fancy job up in Edinburgh now and hadn’t been down to visit in months. She tried to call when she could, but that was a rarity too. Neither Frank nor Maria blamed her. If anything, Maria was proud of her distance and saw her as a baby bird flown free from the nest. That Marlene was so successful and independent was a testament to their childrearing skills.

Maxwell was successful too, in his own way. He’d spent eighteen years as a stay-at-home dad, and was struggling to find work now that Nathan was off at university. His wife was a doctor, and earned more than enough to support them. Their family were no strangers to strong women — Maria had undeniably set a good enough example of that — but Frank could tell that the lack of independence was wearing on him. He visited more often now than he ever did when Nathan was little, bringing them things, checking up on them. Frank put up with it because he knew it made Maxwell feel useful. He needed someone to look after, otherwise he lost his sense of purpose.

Frank understood that feeling well.

“God, it’s freezing in here,” Maxwell said, kicking the door closed behind him. He had a bag of groceries in his arms. Filled, no doubt, with vegetables. Alyssa was a life-long vegan, and had converted Maxwell soon after they got together. Apparently that meant that he no longer had to respect anyone else’s God-given right to eat meat. “Is the air-con broke?”

“We like it cold.” Frank followed Maxwell through to the kitchen, tutting when he started unloading the bags. “Did you bring steak? You never bring any steak. You know it’s my favourite.”

“That stuff’s awful for you, dad. You’ll get clogged arteries. Did you watch that Cowspiracy thing I told you about? It’s wild. You’ll never want to eat meat again, I swear. Where’s mum at?” He folded the emptied brown bag and placed it beside the bin, a pointed reminder that they should really be recycling.

“I’ve been eating beef for ninety seven years,” Frank said, bending down and stuffing the brown bag into the bin. “I’m not going to stop just because some whacko new age documentarian tells me to.”

“Technically, you’ll have been eating beef for ninety five years. Unless you developed teeth abnormally fast.”

Frank grunted. “Cuppa?”

“Nah, you’re alright. I just wanted to check in. Neither of you ever answer the bloody phone.”

“Takes too long. By the time I’m half way there, it’s stopped ringing.”

“That’s why you get a mobile. Then it’s, you know, mobile.” Maxwell had always looked more like Maria as a boy, but with the thick patches of grey above his ears and thick lines setting in by his eyes, he was becoming more and more like Frank by the day. He rubbed his eyebrow, and looked around. “Where’s mum?”

“Sleeping.”

“She’s always sleeping.” Maxwell crossed his arms, leaning back against the counter. “Have you told the doctor about it? Maybe there’s something wrong.”

“There’s nothing wrong, you just get tired when you’re old.”

“You don’t sleep half as much as she does.”

There was a tap at the window. Two taps, loud, insistent. There was only one magpie today, the baby, it’s head tilted so that it could look in through the window. It spotted Frank and tapped again. Frank waved it away. He’d feed them once Maxwell left. They could wait.

“I couldn’t sleep through that bloody doorbell if I wanted to. Does my head in.”

Maxwell rubbed his hands together, hunched his shoulders. He was only wearing a shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly up to his elbows. “It really is cold in here, dad. I don’t think this can be good for you.”

“Does marrying a doctor make you one yourself?”

The magpie tapped again, louder, and then took off to the end of the garden. Back to its family.

“You don’t need to be a doctor to know it shouldn’t be…what is it, like five degrees in here?” He walked over to the thermostat in the hallway, bending down to look at the numbers. “Jesus, dad, it’s two degrees.”

Frank shrugged, an awkward movement, the weight of his bones fighting against it. “It’s not that cold. Used to get down to minus numbers when I was a kid.”

“Yeah, in the middle ages maybe. We have heaters now. Indoor plumbing. High speed internet. Facetime. Oh, speaking of.” Maxwell moved quickly, barrelled through the hallway, down to the living room door.

“Hang on,” Frank said, hobbling after him. His heart was pacing erratically. “Your mum’s sleeping in there.”

“I’ll be quiet.” He opened the door, lowered his voice as he crept into the living room. “Nate left his phone charger in here last time he came ‘round, and it dies like five times a day cause he’s never off the bloody thing. He’s been stealing Alyssa’s and it’s driving her nuts. Keeps telling him to stop moving it from our room but he won’t listen. She almost slept through a surgery the other day because it ran out of juice.”

“I can get it for you,” Frank offered, but Maxwell was already stooped over the television.

“It’s fine, I’ve got it. Last thing we need is you popping a joint or something.” He knelt down, fiddling with the extension cable, and resurfaced moments later with a plug in his hand. He wrapped the cable around itself, and turned, stopping when he saw his mum staring back.

“Crap, sorry mum,” he said, whispering, as though that was going to help anything. “I was just getting Nate’s charger. Kids and their phones, you know?” He took a step toward her, and Frank stumbled into the room, desperate to get to her before Maxwell did.

“Come on now, Maxwell, she’s tired.”

“Mum?” He ignored Frank, pushing forward, leaning in closer. The room was dark, but her body was illuminated by the pale glow of the television. She was sat, rigid, her milky eyes fixed on him — no, on the tv — her jaw hanging down.

There was clapping from the television, the audio stuttering as Maxwell stumbled back, knocking into it.

“Oh my God.”

Frank reached out, took him by the arm. “Maxwell, calm down.”

“Dad, she’s—”

“She’s fine,” Frank replied.

He turned then, looking at Frank for the first time, wild-eyed. “She’s not fucking fine, dad. She’s dead!”

“She’s fine,” Frank said, more firmly this time. With more conviction. He didn’t look at her, couldn’t bring himself to see what Maxwell had.

She was fine.

She had to be fine.

“We need to call an ambulance,” Maxwell said. He fumbled for his phone, and Frank felt an energy he hadn’t in months, maybe even years. He lunged forward and slapped the phone from his son’s hand.

“No,” he shouted. He balled his hands into fists, and brought them down onto his son’s chest. Maxwell barely even registered the attack, just watched, dazed, as Frank continued hitting him. “No, no, no, no.”

“Dad,” Maxwell choked out, holding his arm out to block the punches. “Dad, stop it.”

Frank’s arms slowed, his heart hammering ceaselessly, restricting in his chest. “Please don’t, Maxwell. Please don’t. I can’t. Live without her. I can’t. Don’t make me.”

He slid down onto the ground, body curling in on itself.

Was breathing always this difficult? He strained, rubbing his palm against his chest.

“Ambulance, please,” Maxwell said. “Yes, I’m at 42 Churwell Avenue—”

There was an explosion.

Different to the ones Frank was used to, the ones that evidenced the presence of the Germans. He still had nightmares about those sometimes, woke up in a sweat, certain he would never be able to hear again. This noise wasn’t like that. Wasn’t so persistent.

It wasn’t until it began to dissipate, to fizzle out, that Frank recognised it for what it really was.

It was clapping.

Cheering.

Maxwell was still talking, but Frank couldn’t hear him over the noise.

“Congratulations, Derek,” Chris’s voice echoed through his head. “You are now a millionaire!”

Frank leaned his head back against the television screen, the audio buzzing against his skull. He remembered this episode. It was one of his favourites.

“Anything you want to say, Derek? Now’s your chance.”

He was vaguely aware of Maxwell speaking, grabbing his arm. He seemed panicked. Frank wanted to help him, but he couldn’t muster the energy.

“Wow, I really just…gosh, I don’t know what to say.” Derek was crying.

Frank was crying too. Why was he crying, again? He’d forgotten something, he was sure. Something important, though he couldn’t figure out what.

His body felt numb, the world softening and pulsing around him, fading in then out.

He needed to feed the magpies. That must have been it. They were waiting for him. He tried to tell Maxwell — if he couldn’t feed them, at least his son could — but all that came out was a muffled groan.

“Oh my god, dad?” Maxwell was holding his face up. Shaking him.

It’s fine, Frank wanted to say, I’m fine.

Because he was fine, wasn’t he? Just tired. So awfully tired.

He closed his eyes, tried to focus on what Maxwell was saying, but all he could hear was Derek’s tinny voice in his ear.

“I mean it’s just amazing,” he said. “How your entire life can change in just a few minutes.”