A Place To Live – Part 1

Lost after the death of his husband, Jack reluctantly moves into a retirement complex to rebuild his life. There he meets Mukisa, a Ugandan refugee who also feels adrift. How will both their lives change?

Mukisa Okello ceased dusting the ornaments in No. 6 and peered out of the first-floor window. He didn’t recognise the vehicle that was drawing up outside the retirement development. Was it someone new? Someone who’d stay and give him generous tips for helping them with their housework? More than one of the flats stood empty, though Mukisa remembered seeing people moving furniture into No. 8 the day before. He remained at the window, watching, squinting against the bright spring sunshine. After a minute, he opened it slightly so he could hear what was going on.

 

“Come on, Jack. We’re here!”

Jack Hollingsworth grimaced at his niece’s bright, mumsy voice. He wasn’t one of her kids, sulking because she’d taken their phone away. Fortunately, he was in the car while she was outside. Not for long. The door nearest to him opened and a perfectly manicured hand appeared, fingers spread, waiting to be taken hold of. He didn’t move. The hand went away, to be replaced by his niece’s face as she bent down.

“Come along, Jack! We haven’t all day to get you settled. Daryl needs the car back. I promised he’d have it by two at the latest.”

Daryl was his niece’s second husband. Something big in advertising? Whatever … Jack didn’t care. The hand returned, flexing with impatience. He spurned it. Instead he hauled himself out of the car slowly, persuading increasingly stiff joints to flex as they ought. He hadn’t been to the gym in a long time. Not since Gabe fell ill. And then afterwards, he hadn’t cared. No-one to keep fit for.

Jack straightened up slowly. He took the opportunity to inspect the bland, designed-by-committee building. An African-heritage face quickly withdrew from one of the windows. Perhaps the man realised he’d been spotted? Too young to be a resident. Maybe he was a care worker?

“OK.” His niece’s voice had changed to her I’m-in-charge mode.

More than anything else, this infuriated him. He’d run his own life successfully – with Gabe’s help – for more years than his niece had been alive.

“Everything was delivered yesterday by the movers and put in the places allocated. Daryl made time specially to check on his way home.”

He frowned. “My piano?”

His niece tutted. “No, Jack. How many times have we been through this? There’s no room for even a baby grand here. And anyway, you wouldn’t want to disturb the other residents, would you?”

“But …”

 

The months had gone past without him really noticing. Looking after Gabe when he was home, visiting the hospice, the funeral … Only very recently some of the fog had lifted. Jack wondered about the decisions taken during that time. How many would he later regret? The flat looked as though it might be one. When his niece suggested moving closer to where they lived, he’d said ‘yes’ almost out of habit. Things happened so quickly after that. … His beloved piano.

His niece pursed her lips in annoyance. “Jack, darling. Surely you recall the auction? You were there with us, at the front.”

Did he? Not the auction as such, but the house clearance, yes. Oh, yes. Adding to his emptiness, watching their combined goods and chattels being removed with only the bare minimum kept back. His niece thought it imperative the schedule kept on track. He never really gathered why there was such a rush. He was probably an item on her list, to be dealt with so she could get onto something more enticing.

He shrugged, not wanting to give her satisfaction of an answer.

His niece frowned. “It was the Thursday before the offer was put in on the house. You remember? Took us all by surprise. The estate agents couldn’t recall the last time a place sold so quickly.”

Their home. His and Gabe’s. A house and garden both of them loved. His eyes filled. He stood by the car – lost, bereft.

His niece tutted again. Jack wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt. She opened the car boot and briskly removed the two suitcases containing his clothes and other personal items. Without asking whether he wanted to take charge of them, she wheeled the cases the short distance to the communal entrance. He stumbled along behind, still not sure it was for real.

 

“Where are your new keys, Jack?”

“Err …” He searched his pockets without success, then he found the keys in his beloved messenger bag.

‘Manbag’, Gabe always called it – and not in a good way, either. He’d always grinned back. It was capacious and stylish. What more did he need?

The keys were taken off him.

“Now don’t forget you’ll need this key …” His niece demonstrated. “As well as the one for the flat. OK? Watch while I open it.”

Jack’s blood pressure rose. What was he? Some fucking shadow of a human being with no capacity to look after himself? With difficulty, he swallowed the incipient rage. She was only trying to be helpful – to ensure she discharged her familial responsibilities to the letter. He calmed down a little. … What was it about the road to hell?

He found a smile from somewhere. “I imagine it takes everyone here a while to find their way around.”

His niece smiled brightly back. Taking a suitcase each now, they entered the building.

 

“Here we are. It looks so much better with furniture in it. Compact and cosy.”

His niece stood in the middle of the living area, a self-congratulatory smile welcoming him in. Jack noted the low ceiling, the mean, small windows. He ignored her and made straight for the daylight. His heart sank. The view displayed the parking area and beyond that, the main road. A couple of struggling saplings and a patch of grass were the only vegetation to be seen. Finally, he dragged himself away, by which time his niece had moved into the kitchen.

“Jack?”

He rolled his eyes and sought calming thoughts. “Yes?”

“Come in here a moment, will you?”

With reluctance, he followed her into the small kitchen. Poky would be a better word. As he entered, his niece pointed at a round box attached to the ceiling.

“See? A smoke alarm.”

Only once had he left something on the hob to burn. Jack’s nostrils flared. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa, worn out by the strain of caring for Gabe. Yes, the fire left scorch marks and smoke damage looked bad, but he’d put it out before the situation got any worse.

“Oh, and don’t forget there are personal alarm cords or buttons in every room.”

“Yes, thank you. I did notice them.”

Jack grimaced. It was hard to avoid the bright emergency red amidst the sea of magnolia and beige. Corporate, risk-avoidance decorating, so bland it made him want to scream. As a graphic designer, he loved colour. And patterns. Some of his pictures would add spice.

He peered out into the living area. Where were they?

He turned back to his niece. “Why aren’t any of my pictures up? They must’ve arrived with the rest of the stuff?” During the house clearance, he somehow managed to rescue his pictures.

“Daryl thought they’d be too in-your-face in a small flat. Some of the patterns did his head in. How do you live with them, Jack?”

He and Gabe were both fans of Bridget Riley and her op-art style. Jack loved trying to imitate some of her more eye-popping designs.

“I like them, and I’m the one who’s living here.” His anger increased.

His niece flared up as well. “If that’s all the thanks we’re gonna get …”

Her phone rang. Jack saw her biting back the rest of the comment before she answered it.

“Yeah?” … “We’re done, Daryl.” … “Yeah, ’bout on my way.” … “Jack’s settled. As much as he ever is.” … “Bye.”

Jack and his niece glared at each other for a couple of seconds.

She gave way first. “As I was going to say, the pictures are in storage. They’re some distance away though. Daryl won’t have the time to go there ’til we’re back from holiday. We’re only doing our best for you, Jack.”

That phrase again. He nodded, not risking saying anything.

“Anyway, gotta fly.” His niece did one last look around. “Don’t forget we’re on holiday from Friday for three weeks. Tuscany. We’ll call in when we get back.”

After a couple of perfunctory air kisses, she left.

He waited until he closed the door before he muttered, “Good riddance.”

He sunk into his favourite chair, tired now as he always seemed to be. How had he got onto the conveyor belt which had brought him here? His shoulders were rigid with stress and suppressed anger. Jack smiled to himself. It would be fine. He’d just go and play the piano for half an hour: that always cured his moods. … A strangled sob escaped. Why? Why had he ever agreed to it being sold? To stop the rage seeping through his defences, he recalled one of the best sessions of music making they ever had. Him and Gabe.

**********

“Come on, love! How much longer are you going to take getting that A-string in tune?”

Jack sounded the equivalent note on the piano yet again.

His husband looked up from his violin and glowered at him. “For your information, it’s a new string, and I’m sure the wretched peg’s slipping as well.”

He made a show of tightening the tuning peg.

Jack wasn’t impressed. “Excuses, excuses.”

The mulish look he got back soon dissolved into a broad grin as Gabe thought of a riposte.

“You, of course, know exactly how to tune that beast to perfection?” Pointing to the grand piano.

“Me?” He smirked in return. “Yeah, of course. Every time.”

The fake confidence lasted for a moment or two before they both started giggling.

Shaking his head, he opened up his music, studied it briefly, and blew out a long breath.

Gabe heard. “You’ll play it fine, sweetie. You always do.”

“Oh, yeah?” His eyebrows went up. “I manage to keep up by busking half of it. Franck must’ve had hands twice the size of mine. You’re the one who makes this sonata worth playing.”

He saw Gabe put the violin down, carefully as always, and his husband moved to embrace him from behind.

“We’re both getting older, J. I can’t find the right glasses to read the music nowadays.”

Gabe reached down and captured his hands, removing them from the keyboard, examining each of his fingers. Jack peered back over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised high.

Gabe gave him his answer. “I love your hands. You know I do, J. Your fingers are the stuff of my fantasies. Slim, perfectly formed, oh so flexible…”

A seductive inflection on the last word made him snort. “Yeah … less so than before, I fear. Old age.”

“But more than enough to light my fire, sweetie.”

They kissed, then separated to get on with the serious pleasure of playing music.

 

Nearly twenty minutes later, they got ready for the last movement. Jack loved the opening. He led from the start, and Gabe followed on behind. The canon was the mirror image of their life. In matters financial and legal, Gabe was boss, often deciding their holidays, nights out, and food as well. Things where he didn’t usually bother to have an opinion.

As the movement progressed, they were both in the zone – concentrating intently, feeling the music, and listening to each other as much as to themselves. They were one, creating music with as much passion as if they were making love. Two men playing with an intensity they rarely achieved – any musician achieved. Jack found himself managing passages in the piano part he’d previously despaired of. His fingers were ablaze. The joy and delight fed back into their music.

They reached the middle section. Jack revelled in the glorious sounds coming from his beloved grand piano. The lid was fully up – Gabe had to bite into the strings with his bow to match the volume when they were both playing loudly. He managed the stretches and figuration of the piano part like never before. There was a short period of calm, but soon they were both hurtling towards the finish. He and Gabe poured their hearts out up until the closing ecstatic violin trill and the final chords. It was done.

Jack’s head fell forward onto the piano’s music rest, his breath gasping. He could hear Gabe panting in the background. As he picked himself back up and turned to speak, his husband mopped the sweat from his brow with the sweater he’d taken off before they started.

“Holy shit! Where did all of that come from?”

Gabe grinned back. “Wasn’t it amazing? Fucking amazing. I’ve no idea what happened, but I’ll never forget it. Us. You. I’ve never heard you play that piano part with such fire.” He put his violin down. “Better than a little blue pill any day.”

He snorted. “Since when have you ever needed ‘assistance’?”

Gabe shrugged. “Yeah … well.” His expression changed to one of desire and need. “Feel like putting me to the test?”

Jack got up to give him a kiss and a grope by way of a reply.

Their lovemaking was just as ecstatic, joyful, seemingly synchronised to perfection …

**********

Weeping, Jack sat in his armchair. He had no idea how much time had passed. Lost in memories. The best of times with Gabe were swiftly followed by the worst. His husband complained of feeling like something was stuck in his gullet, as if a piece of food was lodged and couldn’t be shifted. After persistent pleas, Gabe made an appointment with a doctor. A diagnosis of oesophageal cancer soon followed. That was the start of the long journey which now left him there, in a soulless, cramped flat, alone.

After a while, he cleaned his face up. Life continued, and it had to be lived. Knees and back creaking, he hauled himself out of the chair. Sitting too long. It was time he got back to some regular form of exercise. Gabe was no longer an excuse. A glance at the clock showed it to be early evening. Had he really spent that long living inside his head? The flat was shadowed as the setting sun had long since moved away from that side of the building. He didn’t bother to put a light on: the gloom suited his mood. What he did need though was sustenance. He’d eaten nothing since breakfast.

The small, cramped kitchen was a little lighter because its window faced in another direction. Jack opened a couple of cupboard doors at random: one cupboard was empty, the other full of crockery. Frowning, he tried another. Pots and pans. Their wok, a favourite of them both, was stuffed behind everything else. Was there no bloody food in the place? He yanked open the fridge door. Its pristine, empty interior looked brightly back at him. He was about to let loose a tirade of foul language when he recalled a conversation with his niece. The time she offered to do a food run for him, he’d snapped back that he was ‘still as capable as the next man’ of looking after himself. The offer hadn’t been repeated. He sighed.

He couldn’t face going out in a strange area to shop. The same went for the local takeaways – he had no idea which were worth patronising. Both required energy and concentration, something he conspicuously lacked. Jack got a drink of water, downed it in a couple of gulps, then decided to go to bed. A lonely, empty bed awaited just him and his thoughts. There was nothing else to stay up for. Tomorrow would be another day.

 

Mukisa Okello jerked awake, sweat pouring off him in the warm, stuffy night. It was the usual nightmare, the one that never quite went away. The small, packed inflatable boat, without power, and at the mercy of the elements. The people traffickers reneged on their promise and instead, left their human cargo to float, or not, in the Mediterranean Sea.

Mukisa lay back, trying to still his breathing and his thumping heart, Usually, he awoke just as the sea overwhelmed him, filling his mouth, nostrils … Why? He didn’t know. He was one of the few rescued and taken to Italy. Maybe it was the guilt for those who didn’t make it? A rumour went around that the boat was leaking and many jumped overboard. They drowned before the rescue vessel arrived. He being too cowardly to leave, survived.

His mouth had a salt tang to it. Mukisa probed it with his tongue before remembering the slice of cheap, takeaway pizza he’d eaten the previous evening. Three years in the UK and he still missed eating cassava and millet. Even the peanuts tasted different. He got up and sat on the edge of the lumpy mattress. There wasn’t a lot to survey. A tiny attic bed-sit in an unwelcoming, inner-city neighbourhood. A cool-box and a faulty two-ring hob were his kitchen. Hardly any green outside, and the pavements gave up the day’s heat as he tried to get to sleep. The early-morning sun was creeping round to the skylight, his only window. Work called. He pulled on his clothes and after stopping for a quick drink, hurried down the stairs and out the shabby, battered door.

 

Jack sat at the table in the living room, nursing a cup of hot water for breakfast. It was like some extreme detox diet. Shaking his head, he continued writing out the list of what he needed. As it grew, he resigned himself to making several trips to the local supermarket. By bus, not car. That was another decision he’d have to revisit. There were car parking spaces for residents. Hell, he saw the wretched things every time he looked out of the window.

Snatches of his niece’s voice started up. ‘You won’t need a car, Jack. The shops are so close.’ Since when had he only used the car for errands? As their work lives slowly wound down, Gabe and he often went out for the day on impulse. For fuck’s sake, he wasn’t about to become a hermit. His niece again: ‘Cars at your age are an expensive luxury.’ What? He was still closer to sixty-five than seventy. Maybe he’d said ‘Yes’ just to shut her up. Whenever he wanted solitude in his grief, there she was, busily organising what didn’t need it, her brisk, cheery tones grating on his soul. Jack sighed. He sounded pissed off by what she’d done. That was unfair. Gabe always got him to see the other side. She meant well but did everything to her agenda. No dissent allowed.

 

As he put the finishing touches to the inordinately long list, Jack’s stomach let out a prolonged complaint. He needed to get moving. Levering himself up, the doorbell rang. He looked down at his sleep shorts and disreputable tee. He shrugged. Whoever it was would have to take him as they found him. On opening the door, he saw a middle-aged woman standing there. Her eyebrows twitched upwards before she’d managed to restrain them. He held his ground, not saying a word. He wasn’t in the mood to be gracious, and he was starving.

“Mr Hollingsworth?”

He nodded.

“Good morning. I’m Wendy Clarke, the manager for the development. Welcome.”

“Hi.” Desultory greeting out of the way, Jack raised his own eyebrows in an unspoken question. He hoped keeping the woman out in the corridor would make her visit as short as possible.

The woman smiled briefly before continuing. “I hope you’re getting settled in? This is just a courtesy call to remind you of various things …”

With the skill honed from many boring meetings, he zoned the woman out while keeping an attentive expression on his face. His thoughts went back to the list. Even the most urgent things would represent a big shop, but he didn’t want to risk online ordering until he’d seen what the store was like. Anyway, he hardly had clients hammering on his metaphorical office door. For the moment, his time was his own.

A silence grew.

He hastily refocussed on the woman. “Sorry?”

“I said the ladies of the social group here would be so pleased to have another man onboard. If you were willing, that is?”

“Hmm …” Only if he were dead. “I do have my design consultancy to revive. I expect that to occupy my time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some urgent food shopping to do. I’ve nothing in at the moment.”

The woman’s expression changed to one of professional sympathy.

“Yes, your niece said you’ve been recently widowed. I’m sorry for your loss. It must be so awkward, taking on running things for yourself. Women can be so much better at some of the day-to-day tasks in the home, can’t they? Now, our domestic help service …”

As she burbled on, anger rose up inside him without warning. How dare she? How fucking dare she? With difficulty, he swallowed it back down. He always did the cooking and the shopping. Gabe and he shared other household tasks. Thinking of his husband made tears come to his eyes. Jack stood there, willing her to stop. He didn’t dare open his mouth.

Finally, she must have noticed. “Oh, and don’t forget that lunch is served in the restaurant every day. Very nice to meet you, Mr Hollingsworth.”

With that, she left. He didn’t say anything in return. Jack wiped his eyes before he went back inside to get changed.

 

Late one Thursday morning, Mukisa approached the door to No. 8. The newest resident did indeed require his services. Mr Hollingsworth. He said the name to himself twice, stumbling in a different place each time. He wasn’t like the other residents with their fixed routines. Mrs Fairfax in No. 11 always wanted her flat dusted on a Monday, vacuumed on a Friday. Mr Hollingsworth didn’t know what he wanted a domestic help for. ‘There’ll always be something’ was his comment when Mukisa first met him. The older man chatted for the rest of the half hour. Nothing personal, just asking about living in the development and the other residents. He didn’t gossip about the people he worked for – though there’d be plenty to talk about – he just talked generally. To his cost, he knew what rumours whispered from ear to ear could do.

He knocked. On hearing a brisk “Come in!”, Mukisa pushed the door open, dragging his trolley of cleaning equipment behind him.

“Morning, Mukisa.” The older man didn’t look up from his computer.

“Good morning, Mr Hollingsworth.” Despite practising, he still got his tongue caught up.

There was a chuckle as the other man continued working. “Call me Jack, Mukisa. It’s a hell of a lot easier.”

He blinked. Different again. None of his other clients allowed that.

He risked asking a question. “How did you know it was me?”

The older man looked across. “What? Just now, you mean?”

Mukisa nodded.

“Easy. I’m a musician. I heard you wheeling your stuff along the corridor before you got here.”

“Oh … err … What do you play, Mr Hollingsworth? Sorry. Jack.”

A sad expression appeared on the other man’s face. “Piano. Only my grand was sold before I moved here.” He sighed.

Mukisa thought it best to get back to business. “What would you like me to do?” The flat looked clean and tidy.

“Ehm … Oh yes, there’s a heap of ironing. It’s still in the machine.” He pointed towards the kitchen. “Everything else is in the cupboard behind you. Thanks.”

 

Mukisa retrieved everything he needed and got down to work. After a short while, his client stretched in his seat, then closed the lid of his laptop.

The older man turned round. “Right. I’ll leave you to finish off here, Mukisa, while I venture into the restaurant. I haven’t got anything in for lunch.”

He continued ironing. “OK, Jack. Where would you like me to put your clothes?”

“I’ll show you.”

They both went into the bedroom. He noticed a number of framed photos – both on the wall and the bedside table. At a glance, they all seemed to be of men. No women. His heart rate quickened. He was both listening to his instructor and dealing with his own thoughts. Might the other man be like him? He swallowed, trying to contain his excitement. Could it be possible?

“OK, Mukisa?” Jack looked at him. “Clear about everything?”

He dredged swiftly through what he’d heard. “Yes, Mr Hollingsworth. Sorry again, Jack.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Once back at the ironing board, Mukisa kept working until his client left. Putting the iron down, he returned to the bedroom. The lure of the photos was too much. The central picture on the wall was of two men, much older than him, at a wedding. Their wedding? It looked like it. One of the men was Jack Hollingsworth. He stood in front of it for a full minute, drinking in every possible detail. This was the stuff of his dreams ever since he knew who he was.

The reality he’d left in northern Uganda was so very different. Fleeing a lynch mob baying for his blood because a rumour went the rounds that he’d been seen in the company of a convicted homosexual. Mukisa sniffed back his tears. He hadn’t known the young man, but his heart bled for a life to be spent in prison. He only managed to get away from Yambe with help from other hidden gay men, willing to put their freedom on the line.

Somehow, he would ask the older man the questions he needed answers to.

© 2108, northie

Part 2 will post this time next week. Instead of giving you an extended excerpt, I decided to post the full story, broken up into more manageable pieces. If you can’t wait, the full story can be found here . A Place To Live was submitted to my home site, Gay Authors for their latest anthology of short stories. You can explore stories submitted by other authors on the theme of Good Intentions here.