Page 6 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘I don’t know that.’
And just then, there’s the sound of someone clearing their throat at the other side of the curtain, and Angela pushes it back again, and there’s a man standing there. I know he isn’t staff because he’s dressed in jeans and a tired-looking T-shirt. Angela smiles at him and then notes down my blood pressure on the iPad she’s holding and hurries away.
‘Hi,’ he says.
I look at him. He’s a bit scruffy, his hair slightly too long. Tall and a bit squashy, like he’d be nice to cuddle. He brushes his hair out of his eyes and smiles, and I notice that one of his teeth is at a slightly strange angle and, for some reason, it ups his attractiveness. It’s strange, thinking about whether or not this man is attractive, because he is nothing like David. My husband is all sharp lines and angles, smart clothes and haircuts every four weeks.
‘Hi,’ I say, because it’s been too long since he spoke and he’s looking a bit uncomfortable.
He looks down at the floor.
‘Are you…?’ I’m not sure how to finish the question. What could he be? Not a doctor or a nurse, not a cleaner, I don’t think, or one of the catering staff.
‘I’m a volunteer,’ he says, taking a step closer to me. ‘Matt.’ He holds out his hand.
I don’t shake it, and when it becomes obvious that I’m not going to, he drops his and does a funny sort of cough to cover his embarrassment.
‘What sort of volunteer?’ I ask.
‘Um, I just come and chat to people, bring them a hot drink or a snack. That sort of thing.’
‘Milk and two sugars,’ I say.
‘Sorry?’
‘Tea. You said you bring hot drinks. Could you get me a tea?’
‘Oh, yeah, sure. Milk and…’
‘Two sugars.’
He shakes his head very slightly and I wonder why he’s bothered by how many sugars I take.
‘If it’s too much trouble…’ I say, and then stop, because I can’t finish that by saying I’ll get it myself. It’s clear that I can’t.
‘No,’ he says. ‘It isn’t. I’ll get it now.’
He’s only gone for about five minutes and when he returns, he’s holding one of those small plastic cups you get from a machine and two KitKats. He puts the cup down on my tray table and holds one KitKat out, inviting me to take it. And I want it. I can imagine how good the chocolate would taste, how well it would go with the hot, sweet tea, but I don’t know who this man is or why he’s bringing me things. I shake my head, and he shrugs and puts it down on the edge of the table.
‘Maybe later,’ he says.
I take a sip of tea and it’s too hot and too sweet. When I asked for two sugars, I was imagining a mug.
‘Is it awful?’ he asks. ‘I don’t drink tea, but I know the coffee you get from machines like that is usually pretty dire. I always think hot chocolate is the safest bet in those circumstances.’
‘I should have asked for one sugar. Small cup. You don’t drink tea?’
‘No. I don’t like it.’
I can’t imagine getting through the day without tea. That first one in the morning that I drink in bed if I have the time, or standing at the kitchen counter if I don’t. The one I have mid-morning while I’m buzzing around, doing jobs around the flat. The one I have with my lunch, just before I open up. And the one I have at the end of the night, when my feet are aching and I’m tired of making small talk and I want to curl up in a ball and go to sleep.
‘What kind of a person doesn’t like tea?’ I ask.
And he laughs, and there’s something about the sound of it. It’s rich and warm and it makes me want to laugh, too.
‘I get that a lot,’ he says. ‘So, you haven’t told me your name.’
Something clicks, and I realise what this is. He must be part of some charity that is kind to people who don’t have any visitors, any friends or family. Is that me? Shelley Woodhouse, queen of the Pheasant, everyone’s favourite landlady. How is my only visitor someone who’s taken pity on me? Someone who made a new year’s resolution to do something for the community, or some such bullshit?
