Breakfast Epiphanies

The room is unfamiliar. I don’t know how I got here. That is, I can’t remember arriving. The reason I’m here, I do know. I fell off the wagon. As is often the case, when I begin to find my bearings after the tumble, I start from a place I don’t recognise.

The last time I fell off was nine months ago. The wagon had been climbing a steep incline for what felt like forever, but I managed to keep control long enough to make it to the crest of a hill, looking forward to some respite. The breather was short lived. There was little flat road to enjoy before a descent that was steeper than the incline. The wagon went speeding down. I soon panicked, lost my nerve and − with a significant jolt − was hurled out at a pace.

In a fluster, I drove to The King’s Arms, an old-fashioned pub in a village just out of town, where I could be reasonably sure I wouldn’t be known by anyone. That time, I did wake up in my own bed the next morning. Feeling like death warmed up, I had a definitive sense of guilt that my memory couldn’t assign to anything. I looked out of my bedroom window. I had driven home! I checked my car for damage. There was none.

When I eventually got back on the wagon, there was another big hill to get up. After several months, I still couldn’t see the top. The weariness fostered complacency. At the slightest disturbance, I allowed myself to be ejected out the back, pretending not to notice a hand reaching out to me that could have prevented my fall. With little consideration, I made my way to The King’s Arms again, this time by taxi.

And now, I’m lying flat on my back, sweating, emptied of hope and filled with shame, in the single bed of a small guest room with soft-blue painted walls, on which paintings of quaint countryside villages hang. The mattress seems new. The quilt and pillows, all cream-coloured, are soft. There’s a big bottle of water and a packet of paracetamol on the nightstand, which also has some potpourri in a rounded wooden bowl. The bed is lengthways along the side wall, with the top end at the opposite corner from the door. I can see there’s a built-in wardrobe with mirrored sliding doors. I’m not ready to look at my reflection yet. The drawn curtains are navy and thick, but they’re letting light in from the side, making my eyes twitch and aggravating the throbbing behind my right temple.

**********

I’ve washed down two paracetamol, retching as the water brought the disgusting dryness in my mouth and the coating of some kind at its roof to my attention. I got the shakes putting the lid back on the bottle of water and returning it to the nightstand, but managed not to dampen the potpourri. I’ve turned onto my left side and folded half of the pillow over my face. I’m failing to get back to sleep, realising it was a need for the toilet that woke me. Everything in the body except my bladder is reluctant to function.

***********

I eventually managed to pull myself out of bed. The toilet was at the other end of the landing. I passed two rooms with closed doors to get there. There was light snoring in one, but otherwise no signs of life about the house. I think I must have woken someone with the flush though. I heard the opening and closing of a door. Nobody came out onto the landing. After washing my hands, I gave my mouth a good swilling out.

When back in the guest room, I picked my jeans up off the floor and searched my pockets. Wallet, keys, and phone are all there. I checked the phone and was pleased to find I’d started no digital arguments. It’s only six o’clock.

Now, I’m back in bed, face down in a pillow, eyes shut tight, my thumb pressing down on my right temple. The only distraction is what sounds like a polite back and forth between a couple of finches or sparrows outside.

*********

I woke up a minute ago, feeling like I had a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. I immediately reached for the water and drank at least half a litre. The throbbing of the temple isn’t there. Existential dread is. Vague, imageless memories of an argument bother me. I checked my phone again to see if I made any calls. I didn’t. I get up and look in the wardrobe mirror for signs of having been in a scuffle. There’s nothing there, but my reflection smirks at me. I hear conversation downstairs. I’ll get dressed, freshen my face up in the bathroom, and find out who my hosts are.

*********

The top two stairs creaked loudly as I made my way down. A conversation that was happening in the kitchen stopped mid-sentence. When I was halfway down, a new line of conversation began. The voices sound soft and older.

Five photos hang at a perfect gradient on the wall. All feature an indistinct but seemingly gentle older couple, probably in their sixties. In two of them, they’re joined by what appears to be their son, a tall, well-built man about my age, that is, early thirties. They clearly aren’t the kind of people I would get on a session with. Something feels off here.

I’m hovering on the bottom step, feeling too grubby and dishevelled for a conversation with lovely old people. Anxiety is suggesting I scarper out the front door. My stomach wants me to follow the smell of bacon, promising me it can keep it down. 

‘Are you joining us for breakfast, then?’ a woman’s voice calls out, as if she knows what I’m weighing up.

I can’t bring myself to do the dash. I head through to the kitchen.

Sat at a table with a bowl of fruit in the middle and a generous spread of cooked breakfast foods on either side, are the old man and woman from the photos. Though nothing in the photos sparked familiarity, I now recognise them clearly.

They came in the pub about an hour after I arrived, had a meal together, and stayed for drinks. When my wandering eyes fell on theirs, they smiled and raised their glasses. I returned the greeting. I was sure I saw them looking over at me more than a few times during the night.

I loosely remember talking to the old man at the bar later and him convincing me to down a whiskey with him. I’m getting a hazy memory of the tall young man having joined them soon after and of being instructed to wash down a whiskey with him also. I have a picture in my head of him walking strangely.

‘How’s your head this morning?’ the old boy asks with a chuckle and friendliness that seem a little forced.

‘I’ve been worse. Thanks for the water and paracetamol,’ I nervously reply, taking a seat as encouraged by the woman.

‘You’re welcome. Just help yourself,’ the old lady responds, gesturing toward the spread with what appears a similar effort required to portray friendliness.

‘Thank you. This looks and smells amazing,’ I reply, an effort on my part required to pretend I’ve not noticed theirs, and that I feel as welcome as they want me to believe I should. I load my plate with two rashers of bacon, two juicy pork sausages, a hash brown and some baked beans, before picking two triangles of toast from the rack and buttering them. ‘I’m really sorry. I don’t remember your names,’ I then say, pouring myself a glass of apple juice and drinking half in one go. The sugar momentarily reverses my sense of depletion.

‘That’s OK. At our age, we’re more than used to forgetting some things,’ the lady replies. ‘Elizabeth,’ she then informs me.

‘Arnold,’ the old man says heartily, without looking up, as he cuts some bacon.

In between eating a fantastic breakfast, I engage in small talk, including complimenting them on their nice house and the picturesque garden that can be seen through the kitchen windows. Though they try to conceal it behind overt politeness and occasional laughter, it soon becomes clear that the shame I feel in my current state and the blemish I consider myself to be making on this scene, are feelings they both agree I should be experiencing.  

‘Do you remember how you wound up here?’ Elizabeth eventually asks, right as I’ve taken a bite of sausage. There’s a sneer in her smile that makes it obvious she knows I don’t.

Not wanting to elicit more disdain by talking with my mouthful, and not wanting to keep them waiting either, I shake my head.

Arnold tells me they were leaving at the same time as me. Then he carries on, ‘You looked like you had a few, and we could tell you’re not from around here, so we thought we would keep an eye on you. We’ve had friends tell us they’ve been taken for mugs by taxi drivers out here late at night, there not being much of a choice, other than driving drunk,’ he says, then stops to pluck a piece of bacon from between his teeth. I dip my eyes and blink while thinking about having driven home drunk before and suspect his pause was designed to make me have such a reaction. I could swear there’s a look of accusation in his eyes. Elizabeth seems to be studying me.

‘The taxi driver that turned up, was trying to make you pay up front. We didn’t trust him not to swindle you. It took some convincing, but we managed to persuade you it would be best to spend the night at ours, so you can get a bus or call a friend for a lift in the morning,’ Arnold then tells me. I want to believe the lingering feeling of having started an argument last night can be done away with, and the associated guilt foisted on a faceless taxi driver, but something tells me Arnold’s being dishonest.

My stomach is glad I chose the kitchen, but my gut is telling me I’d be better off standing at a bus stop now. Not in any position to cast my doubts on them, I instead answer, ‘That’s very kind of you. I feel like I should at least pay you something. The bed was so comfortable, and this breakfast is just what I need,’ drinking the remainder of my apple juice, hoping the sugar can keep me alert. I notice the shakes again.

‘Don’t be silly, dear. We don’t need your money,’ Elizabeth replies, the signs of contempt behind the smile slipping into her tone.

My conscience is telling me the contempt is warranted and not limited to my present showing, but my memory won’t fill in the gaps. I’m getting angry at myself for winding up here, and at them for letting me stay at their house and feeding me, when they clearly dislike me. A slight twitch of my cheek is picked up on by Elizabeth, who seems to enjoy my frustration.

‘You do make a cracking breakfast, Liz,’ Arnold tells his wife, mopping up some baked-bean sauce from his plate with a bit of toast. ‘It must be good if George is able to keep it down,’ he follows with a low effort chuckle, and a wink. I say it certainly is good, grab at my stomach with a self-deprecating remark, and we all share laughs without the slightest sincerity to them.

***********

This façade lasted another five minutes, our masks slipping so many times that we must have all looked absurd. My mind all jittery from the effort, I was thinking of just getting up and walking out, when

a creak at the top of the stairs sent a shudder through me. The following steps, slow and heavy, feel ominous.

There’s a sudden look of pleasure in Elizabeth and Arnold that really unnerves me. ‘I have to say, of all the unfamiliar people I’ve had breakfast with, you two are by far the nicest,’ I nervously blurt out, aware they know I’m lying, well and truly done in with the pretence.

They look at one another. Arnold nods. An icy countenance replaces the practiced warmth in them both. ‘We might be unfamiliar to you, but we have crossed paths once before. You made quite the impression on us,’ Elizabeth answers. ‘Morning, Jake,’ she then says over the top of me. I turn to see Jake − the younger man from the photos − stood in the doorway, his head having to duck slightly.

‘Morning, mum. Morning, dad,’ Jake responds in a voice that seems proportionately deep for his stature. ‘Morning, George,’ he then says to me. There’s no emotion showing in the muscles of his face. His eyes though, they stare right into mine as though he knows every secret of my soul, including something my memory is keeping secret from me. Knowing that whatever is going on here is about to be clarified, and that I won’t like the reveal, my conscience is in turmoil. I remove my hands from the table and put them on my thighs, pressing firmly to try and calm the shaking.

‘Morning,’ I respond feebly, barely able to make eye contact.

Jake walks over to the table, a limp in his left leg. He rests a hand on my shoulder as the other pulls back the chair beside me. The scrape of its feet against the stone floor sends a shiver through me. Jake feels the shiver and tightens his grip a moment, as though to savour it.

‘I get the feeling you don’t remember me,’ he says, then takes his hand from my shoulder and sits down. I’ve still no idea who these people are, but all six of their eyes torment me. My chest is heaving.

‘I do apologise, but Arnold wasn’t quite honest about your dealings with the taxi driver,’ Elizabeth starts. ‘He didn’t want to take you because he had seen you being sick on the pavement as he arrived. You waved some cash in his face and argued a while, but he wasn’t interested,’ she adds, giving free reign to her scorn.

‘I’m so sorry for involving you in that,’ I reply, head bowed, and chest sunk.

‘It could have been worse. You could have been thinking of driving home,’ Arnold responds.

My instinct to lie and tell them I never would is overruled by the obvious insinuation that they know I have. The throbbing in the temple is back. I can hear my own breath. My thighs are trembling as much as my hands.

‘Er, no. I have before. Can’t believe I was that stupid once,’ I answer, sweat gathering on my forehead.

‘Once?’ Elizabeth replies with implied disbelief. Perhaps I shouldn’t feel too bad about Arnold’s bending of the truth. I guess we should let you know the real reason we were keeping an eye on you as well. You see, we would have stopped you getting a taxi regardless,’ she follows. ‘Do you want to take it from here, Jake?’ she then asks.

Jake waits a few seconds, while looking straight at me. I can’t hold his gaze. I face forward, but his eyes are still levelled at me. Without animation or inflection, he then describes himself, Elizabeth, and Arnold having sat at a table near me in the pub about nine months ago. He tells me I was joined by a local known for getting overly drunk and arguing. Over the course of the next couple hours, I apparently outdid him for belligerence. I picture myself in the scene, unsure if it’s a recovered memory or the image Jake is painting. Either way, I know it to be true. I begin to apologise for my obnoxiousness, knowing there’s worse to come. Jake waves the apology away.

‘We were leaving the same time as you. I’ll give you your dues. You did hold the door open for us. You soon overtook us on our walk down the road - storming along, you were. When you got to a good twenty metres ahead of us, you crossed over with barely a glance either way. We watched in disbelief as you got into your car. I came across the road to talk some sense into you. You wound down your window. You wouldn’t listen to me, so I went for your keys. You pushed my hand away, swore at me, wound up the window, then drove off.’

Anticipating another apology, he raises his hand to signal I stay quiet. Then he moves his chair back and takes the sock off his left foot, which is misshapen. ‘Your back wheel went over it,’ he tells me.

My soul has flushed out of me. I’m babbling apologies and claiming I mustn’t have known. He raises a hand again to effectively silence me, though all sorts of voices are competing in my head.

‘I was lying on the floor in agony, but I remember you stopping fifty metres up the road. Your car door opened. You looked back. Then you closed the door, turned your lights on, and drove off again,’ he finishes, putting his sock back on before casually grabbing a piece of toast.

Still babbling apologies, I tell them to call the police and I’ll admit to everything.

Arnold scoffs. Elizabeth rolls her eyes.

‘We don’t like to bother the police around here with problems we can resolve ourselves,’ Jake tells me.

My shakes are out of control. The breakfast and juice churn violently in my stomach. I feel sure I’m about to either throw up or pass out.

Jake’s hand goes back on my shoulder. ‘Come on now. This fear is excessive,’ he calmly says.