The Balcony

   It wasn’t until Lockdown that Jacob realised he was lonely; before that, he had thought of himself simply as someone leading a quiet life. What he missed most was the noise, secondly the smells: the noise and the smells that had, up until now, infiltrated his subconscious from the balcony below, filling his head with joy, hope and that indefinable feeling of being truly, fully, alive. 

Ire, who lived in the flat beneath Jacob had, until 2020, a constant stream of friends and family religiously streaming into her welcoming home. Jerk chicken, curry goat, fried plantain, roast yam and sauteed callaloo; rich Jamaican spices made their way upstairs to Jacob, where he inhaled the intoxicating aromas like a toddler in a cot, awaiting their first cuddle of the day. The laughter, tears, whispers and raised voices created a compelling kitchen sink drama intermingled with an eclectic mix of melodies from Nina Simone, Sarah Vaughan, Louis Armstrong, Benjamin Britten and - Jacob was chuffed to recognise - the occasional lyrical stanza from Stormzy. This inimitable theatre played out night after night for an audience of one, sitting peacefully on a threadbare armchair on the small, concrete, meticulously pot-planted balcony above. 

Jacob hadn’t had a visitor since last year. His son had made a brief appearance in November, asking for money and had stayed a mere twelve minutes. Prior to that, his drop-ins had become less and less frequent in length and duration: he was a disappointment Jacob had to admit, an orange cream amongst a box of otherwise exquisitely presented rich Belgian chocolates.  

Since his retirement at the start of the year, Jacob’s life had been reduced to a pathetically solitary existence instead of the productive sojourn he had imagined for himself. His wife had really been the social one but she was now luxuriating in a new life on the Costa del Sol with Lynne, her hairdresser of the past twenty years, crimping each other’s roots (in more ways than one). 

So, when Lockdown began and the familiar, intriguing noises and exotic smells no longer emanated upwards - a tube train stopping in an unlit sotty tunnel, with no announcement as to when it was going to start up again - Jacob’s life became reduced to an almost infinitesimally small piece of untethered debris.

 As was permitted, he walked around the graffitied block for half an hour each day and on Mondays allowed himself to loop back via the supermarket in order to complete his weekly shop. Other than that, what was there to do? 

Listening to his radio one afternoon in late March, Jacob’s spirits were lifted on hearing about a clap for the National Health Service that was to start that very evening. He set an alarm for quarter to eight and sat patiently, eagerly waiting for the moment to reward all the hard-working, indefatigable hospital staff, whom he so admired.

Jolted by the buzzing coming from his cheap battery-operated clock, Jacob stood up and put on his warmest woollen jumper, dismayed to notice a new hole in the elbow. The french windows onto his balcony were stubbornly stiff and required a good shove to allow him to step outside. Across the mulberry-hued evening sky, doors opened, windows were pushed wide, curtains drawn back, lights flickered and children stepped onto pavements, cautiously holding their parent’s hands. A trickle of clapping started an impromptu opera that gathered in momentum: a sound of pure, unquestionable support. 

Jacob even found his smile, which he had lost since February, cheering, whooping and clapping as loudly as he could. Wanting to make even more noise, he ran inside and grabbed a pan lid then proceeded to make a preposterously raucous banging, not caring how ridiculous he looked. It was as if thousands of tortoises were knocking their shells in unison, having emerged from a bitter winter’s hibernation. Tears started to make their way slowly down the deep caverns that now lined his once handsome face, some landing in the trap of his upturned mouth. Ten minutes later, the clapping started to peter out and the tortoises retreated to the safety of their individual abodes. 

Jacob had been looking forward to waving to Ire on her balcony like something from a hackneyed Royal Wedding scene; she would have brought her unique enthusiasm, loudness and vivacity to the evening’s spectacle, but she never appeared.

Lockdown continued, some weeks more stressful than others, and The Clap became the highlight of Jacob’s week. Each Thursday he continued to hope for a glimpse of Ire, but it was not to be (though he could hear her comings and goings at different times of the day and night, sometimes even catching the odd snippet of melancholic jazz seeping through the floorboards). 

A month later, Jacob decided to break his routine. He wanted to seek out the first of summer’s gaudy flowers competing with each other for attention in the precisely manicured beds of Regents Park. Putting on his well-worn walking shoes, tying the laces with care, he strode purposefully down the grey, forlorn stairwell looking forward to exploring a new route. 

Shielding his eyes as the sun’s rays forced their way through the windows smudged with fingerprints, he pushed open the communal door and saw Ire coming towards him. He paused, inhaling deeply and slowly, not wanting to make a fool of himself. 

‘Good Morning Ire, you are out early’, he remarked, as he held the door for her, his whole body melting, the last dollop of ice-cream dropping from a cardboard tub. He smiled at her, as they passed, briefly breaking the two metre social distancing guidelines. 

It dawned on him that he had only ever seen her wrapped up tightly in a maroon quilted jacket, often sporting a colourful beanie, until today. 

‘Oh, it is a good morning, isn’t it Jacob?’ Ire replied, smoothing down the creases of her blue and white uniform, a delicate silver fob watch swinging from her well-worn nurse’s scrubs.  

It all fitted into place. His neighbour had been working through the night whilst he had been clapping for her and her fellow workers. Jacob’s heart melted at the corners, filling him with a sense of warmth and yes, love. It was a feeling he had almost forgotten about. Yet, here, now, on his very doorstep he felt such an outpouring of emotion for his long-admired neighbour, he almost did not know what to do with it. 

‘Are you hungry, Ire?’ he asked. 

‘I’m always hungry after a night shift,’ she smiled in return.

‘If you would like, could I treat you to breakfast?

Ire paused briefly and glanced down to her dusty shoes before looking him in the eye, skin wrinkling in the corners like a crumbly pastry.

‘I thought you’d never ask.’ 

Write a story where someone finds comfort in an unexpected event, place, or person.