In a House by the Road

The road was never quiet; it hadn't been quiet in fifty years. There was so much traffic now that it seemed like rush hour all day, all week and all of the year. Not so long ago there had been a lull on Christmas Day, but not now. The road thundered without respite or rhythm.

Two lanes in each direction made for twelve metres width of continuous traffic. Then there were a couple of metres of pavement along which walked no-one in their right mind, and then the little brick walls of the houses with their grimy gates. The grime was no reflection on the householders; nothing by the road could be kept free of oily droplets, diesel-impregnated dust or the finely ground powder of tens of millions of tyres.

Beyond the walls came the little front courtyards. Once upon time, in a distant past all but forgotten, these had been gardens, but now they were all yards. Little could live in this roadside zone; between the pollution and the weed-killers of people who took the simplest of approaches to maintenance, even the hardiest of weeds found themselves in a hostile environment barely equalled elsewhere on Planet Earth.

The front walls of the houses came next, with their dirty UPVC window frames and occasional vain attempts at marking one dwelling out from the next, as if someone might one day have occasion to say “Okay, so you'll come past two hundred and seventy three grey boxes and ours is the one with the distinctive pebble-dash. You can't miss it.”

Martin's gate was a rusty wreck and the front yard still had the rose bed spaces in between the patio slabs, although no roses had lived there for many years. In the breach created by neglect, dandelions made hard work of life in every crack and corner. The front door was a mostly peeled once blue that had seen, a long time ago, better days. A heroically tough fungus was slowly eating the door from the bottom up.

The glass in the front windows shuddered as the trucks passed; only congestion slowed the vehicles enough to put an occasional stop to that. Of course, Martin could only imagine the wheeled monsters that shook his house so. He never opened the curtains to look out at the road.

Between the glass, itself wearing a thick patina layered on over the years, and the yellowed curtain linings, there was a desiccated world-between-worlds, the place where flies went to die and be mummified in the dusty sediments on the old window sill.

“Don't go out there!” his Dad used to say, or “Close the bloody door Love, I don't want Martin to wander out.” There had been a time when the power of these words had been held in abeyance, but after a remission of some years, the years of youthfulness and hope perhaps, they had come back into full force. Martin remembered his Dad everyday, every morning to be precise, when he came down the stairs into the dark hallway and glanced, just for an instant, at the front door. Martin's Dad had hated the road.

Normally, not long after he had come down, thought about his Old Dad and then gone back down the hall into the kitchen, the first of the day's planes went over. A slight tightening of Martin's face around the corners of his mouth was all that remained of the grimace he had once made as each flight went over. As every tile on the roof quaked, Martin's shoulders hunched, no more than a tense half inch; his back tightened. Had anyone ever been there to watch, they might have noticed that the man seemed to shrink, only to regain his normal stature, for ninety seconds or so, before the next flight changed his shape again.

A cup of tea came next, much deserved after the night he had passed Martin would always think. The cup rattled in the saucer and the tea quivered in the cup. Martin didn't notice any more how much he shook, he just sipped his tea and he waited nervously.

Most days he heard the neighbours on the right in the morning. It seemed to Martin that a large part of their routine involved screaming up the stairs at their kids. The walls weren't so thin, but Martin could still make out every word. “Get up you two” it normally started, before deteriorating quite quickly into swearing, stamping and the slamming of doors.

To be fair, the people with the kids were normally quiet in the evenings. It was the music-lovers on the other side who reserved their noisiest hours for when they came home from work. Martin's brutal education in their musical tastes had begun two years earlier, and now he knew by heart every inescapable, predictable and repetitive track that they played. It ground him down over weeks and months.

There were rare occasions when both sets of neighbours were quiet; occasionally this would coincide with the road being less audible than usual. Sometimes roadworks slowed it down. It was in these moments that Martin would always hear something from the back garden, that unkempt patch, several metres of greenery between the back door and the back gate.

Martin didn't look out there very often, but he had noticed that the grass and the weeds had almost overwhelmed his Mum's whirligig washing line; there seemed to be quite a lot of plants growing actually on the shed roof, and the back wall had nearly disappeared into the mixture of wild and gone-wild foliage that Martin considered, when he thought of it at all, to be something like the wildlife corridors he had heard about on Country File.

There were cats out there, and, Martin supposed, the things they hunted, the rats and the mice. Judging by the noise they made, probably more rats than mice. It was useless for Martin to try to enjoy quiet moments, his hearing tuned straight into the drama of nature-red-in-tooth-and-claw that was more or less always unfolding just beyond the back door.

The only person who ever opened the back door was Martin's sister Anne. Anne had her own key, although she might as well have had Martin's. He never used it.

'Hello Martin Dear' Anne would call when she came in. There followed without fail the sound of her dumping the shopping down on the kitchen table. 'How are you feeling today?'

At that Martin would push himself up from his chair in The Other Room and go to see his older sister. There came the day when she kissed him, and gave him the same concerned look she had reserved for him since he had been tiny, but instead of saying 'shall I put the kettle on?' she said 'Auntie Jo isn't very well Martin Dear, she's not very well at all.'

For a few seconds Martin's thoughts were wholly with his Mum's sister Jo. 'What's the matter with her Anne?'

'She's had a fall Martin. She's in hospital.'

Suddenly Martin's thoughts snapped back to the last occasion he had had to leave his house, to the death of his Mum, to the funeral and, before that, the hospital. Vivid and terrifying memories assaulted him, of the huge building, of the officials and the doctors, of his Mum lying there dying, and then dead. His left eye twitched; he could feel sweat sticking his shirt to his back.

'She would love to see you you know. She asks after you all the time.'

All Martin could do was stare at Anne. His eye twitched and he sniffed.

'Really Martin, she was always so good to you.'

'I..... I' Martin managed. 'It would kill me.'

'Of course it wouldn't kill you Martin. Don't talk nonsense. You'd come with me in my car and I'd be with you all the time.'

'I just don't think I could do it.'

Anne's face changed, she suddenly looked very cross. From time-to-time she tried to encourage Martin to go out of the house, or to see if he could get some help for the way he was, but this was different. Martin felt little again, scared.

'There is an old lady in the hospital who looked after you as often as Mum did when you were little. She loved you and still loves you, but you won't make the effort to go out and see her.'

'It's not that I won't make the effort Sis. I'm just not up to it.'

'You're too selfish. That's the truth of it. Auntie Jo's got broken bones, what have you got? You've got issues Martin. You might panic, but she could die.'

'Don't say that. It's not my fault.'

'Nothing is ever your fault Martin. Well you can unpack your own shopping today. I am going to see our Auntie Jo.'

Martin watched his sister turn away from him and walk out; a wave of utter misery crashed over him. His eyes followed Anne as she negotiated the overgrown path and struggled through the back gate. He caught a glimpse of the parking and the garages beyond. Anne's car started and she drove away. It was only then that Martin realised with horror that Anne had left the back door open.

His hand fell to the kitchen table and he held on. It felt as if he was being sucked towards the vastness of open space; the kitchen floor felt slippery, sloped even, towards the back step. Martin felt sick with something like vertigo. He summoned the last of his will and launched himself from the table edge to the work surface by the doorway. As he took hold there with one hand, he threw his other hand at the door and slammed it against the world beyond.

Martin sank to the floor and sobbed. By the time he got up it was already dark outside. Slowly, disconsolately, he unpacked his shopping.

Sunk deep in despair, Martin would have wished to think about his Auntie Jo, he would have liked to have sent her a card or flowers. But instead of that, all he could think about was his wretched life and how right Anne had been to tell him off. He was cross with her, of course, still angrier with himself. The one thing he didn't consider was a trip to the hospital. That was impossible.

That night Martin slept even less than usual; he found strange solace in the music from next door, and when it finally stopped he felt lonelier than he ever had before.

Three days passed and Martin heard nothing from his sister. A couple of times he got as far as picking up the phone to call her, but he knew that she would still want him to go with her to the hospital to see Auntie Jo. The thought of that summoned bouts of horrible nausea, and Anne's number remained unused.

He wasn't sure of the time the next morning when he was woken by the noise outside, but it must have been quite a lot earlier than he usually got up because for a moment, bleary-eyed, he wasn't sure if he was still dreaming, or if the sounds of screeching tyres and crashing metal were real.

Martin had heard accidents in front of his house before, but never anything like this. The report of collision after collision continued for what seemed an age, long enough for him to sit up in bed and come to his senses. By the sound of it, a car turned over; something else smashed into a brick wall; car alarms sounded left and right, and then, worst of all, the screams and the crying began.

Climbing out of his bed, Martin thought about pulling back the long-closed curtains. His palms sweated profusely and instead, he went downstairs, wincing at the noise and picking out cries of distress from the general cacophony.

His feet carried him all the way to the front door itself. For the first time in years he stood on the doormat at the extreme limit of his world. He raised his hands and placed them on the wood, leaned forward ever so slightly and rested his ear against the panelling. He felt himself shudder; he was dripping wet and breathing hard.

He listened to his breathing and to his pulse racing in his ears, but he couldn't ignore the terrible sounds of suffering coming from the accident outside.

An instant later Martin staggered backwards, recoiling from the roar of an explosion in the road. His ears rang and he coughed as dust fell from the hall ceiling. After the blast, just for a moment, everything seemed quieter, but then the cries of the injured came all too clearly to Martin's ears once again. He shook his head, trying to clear his senses. It seemed as if someone was right outside; the moaning was too close at hand for it to be otherwise.

Somehow, Martin stopped thinking, his fear fell away and he opened the door. At first is was stiff, then the bottom hinge gave way and it swung loosely open, admitting blinding light and deafening noise all at once.

Later on Martin could not explain what had happened to him in the minutes and hours that followed. From the bloodied and stunned but largely unhurt lady by his front door, to the lorry driver whose life ebbed away as Martin held his hand, and all of the others in between these two, he moved offering help and bringing solace. He did this without thought to the open sky above his head, to the strangers all around or to the dreaded road beneath his feet.

They told him afterwards that he had saved at least two lives; that he had put himself at considerable personal risk before the emergency services arrived. Martin didn't really remember the details.

He had a letter from the Mayor; he even spoke to journalists and appeared fleetingly on local television news; he had a commendation from the Police and was generally considered a hero, albeit an unlikely one. 'You'll probably end up going to The Palace and getting a gong' Anne had said to him confidently.

And that of course was one of the best things to come out of the accident for Martin: he and Anne were once again on speaking terms. He took that trip to the hospital to see Auntie Jo, and the old lady made sure to introduce him to all of the other patients on her ward, and, it seemed, to most of the medical staff in the whole place.

She had held his hands and smiled at him. 'Oh your Mum would be so proud of you Martin. When I saw you on the tele the other night I couldn't help crying. You were so brave.'

As he walked to the car park with Anne, Martin said 'I didn't really have a chance to find out how Auntie Jo was doing did I?'

'Never mind Martin, she was thrilled to see you. That's all that matters. You made her happy. She's probably trying to marry you off to one of the nurses right now.'

Martin's face reddened. 'You don't think so do you?'

'I'm only teasing you Martin. Come on let's go home and I'll make you a nice cup of tea.'

They drank their tea at the kitchen table and Martin could see the same look of wonder and admiration in Anne's eyes that had been written all over Auntie Jo's face. He had surprised them. That much was certain. He had surprised himself.

'Well Martin Dear' Anne said at last, 'I had better get home to Pete and the boys. You know that we are all so proud of you don't you? I shall see you soon. She kissed him and hugged him, held him then at arms' length and looked at him as if he were a treasured possession. He blushed furiously.

'Goodbye Anne' he said, 'See you Thursday as usual then?'

'Well' Anne started and then seemed to reconsider. 'Oh all right then, I shall bring the shopping as usual. Bye bye Dear.'

Martin felt very much like slamming the back door and bolting it, but instead, with shaking hands, he closed it gently. As he poured himself another cup of tea the lid of the teapot rattled. He waited for the next flight to pass overhead.

'It is even worse out there than I remember' he said aloud. 'That was terrible. I shan't be doing any of that again.'

He took an unsteady sip of his tea and shrank a little as aircraft engines rumbled high overhead.

'If the Queen wants to give me a gong' he said firmly 'she'll have to come here with it!'