Chapter Five
And the next day he’s off. When Eddie asked for ‘a lift’ he actually meant, ‘Move the entirety of my possessions all the way across Scotland after a full day’s work.’ But of course that’s fine. We’d have driven him to Finland if it meant assisting our son on his first rung of proper independent living. And now, as we park as close as we can to Eddie’s new Edinburgh home, I’m grateful that Frank and I are doing this together because, actually, I feel quite choked and emotional as this is really it. Our last child is finally moving out.
Dad wasn’t involved when I left home. He hadn’t offered to help, and Mum and I hadn’t wanted him there. Although I was only moving from Glasgow’s Southside, where I’d lived with Mum, to a house-share with friends in the West End, it still felt like a momentous occasion. The unspoken message was that the two of us wanted to tackle – and savour – it together. Mum was a tiny, bird-like woman and her many admirable qualities hadn’t included physical strength. However, together we’d lugged my numerous boxes upstairs to the top flat, and afterwards we’d cracked open the bottle of cava she’d bought as a celebration.
‘It’s lovely around here,’ I enthuse now as Frank and I help to carry Eddie’s worldly goods along the street. We’re close to The Meadows, in what looks like a charming neighbourhood on this sparkly, snow-dusted evening.
‘Yeah, it’s great,’ he enthuses. We pass a cosy-looking bistro, an independent bookshop and a grocer’s specialising in French delicacies. Delicious salted butter from Brittany, reads the chalkboard in the window.
‘Is it much further?’ I ask, my arms starting to ache now.
‘Next street,’ replies Eddie. In fact, my box – with a skateboard balanced on it – is becoming heavier by the second. Even Frank, who’s strong and muscular, lets out a groan over the weight of his load.
‘What’s in this? House bricks, Eddie?’ he calls out to our son, who’s marching ahead – carrying only a pillow, I notice now.
‘Just stuff! Not much further!’
Frank catches my eye and we smirk, exchanging a silent message: This is it. Finally, this is it. Although it turns out that Eddie’s flat isn’t in the next street; somehow he misread Google Maps. And now, instead of bistros and French delicatessens there’s a deserted chippie with a smashed window and a shabby takeaway with two men arguing loudly inside. Finally, just as it feels as if my arms are ready to pop out of their sockets, Eddie stops abruptly and announces, ‘This is it!’
‘Thank God for that.’ Frank exhales loudly as we set down the boxes at the shabby front door. Beside it, the entry system has numerous buttons and handwritten stickers denoting flat numbers and multiple surnames. Eddie peers at it and jabs at a button, and a moment later we’re buzzed in.
Lit by a grubby sealed wall light filled with flies, the hallway is cluttered with bikes and packing crates. Flyers are scattered all over the chipped floor tiles. ‘Top floor,’ Eddie tells us, and obediently we lug the boxes upstairs.
The flat door opens, and here’s Raj, clearly delighted to see his old mate. ‘Hey, come in!’ he enthuses, and there’s a flurry of hugs and backslaps as we all step into the musty-smelling flat, grateful to dump Eddie’s possessions in the hallway.
As if Kilmory Cottage hadn’t been full enough already, Raj and Calum were near-permanent additions for meals and movie nights when the boys were younger. I loved that stage, before teenage hormones kicked in – when our kitchen was full of young people, all chatting happily around the table while I dished up lasagne from a giant tray. The kids had so many sleepovers that sometimes it felt as if we were running a small hotel.
‘Let me show you around,’ Raj enthuses.
‘This is great, Raj!’ I say, my gaze skimming the hallway’s peeling wallpaper and cracked ceiling. Posters have been tacked up haphazardly, and an assortment of trainers have been kicked off in a corner.
‘Yeah. We love it.’ Raj beams. ‘This is your room, Eddie.’
He opens a door off the hallway and Eddie pokes his head in, but doesn’t invite us to see. Instead we’re ushered through to the open-plan kitchen-cum-living room. A clearly ancient sofa is strewn with faded throws. There are more posters, and a shrivelled spider plant trails from a wonky bookshelf. It’s like an extension of a boy’s bedroom – although the only plant life in Eddie’s bedroom has been the mould in his abandoned coffee cups. But endearingly, the boys have obviously tried to personalise the place, and make it homely. Candles in wine bottles are crammed onto the mantelpiece and a large embroidered floor cushion dominates the centre of the room.
‘Welcome, man.’ Raj grins. ‘Your new home!’
‘Brilliant,’ Eddie says, and I can see how happy he is to be with friends of his own age, just as he should be.
‘Calum’ll be back soon,’ Raj tells him. ‘We’ll go out for a few beers later.’
‘Great!’
‘Sure we can’t help you unpack, Eddie?’ I ask.
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ He shakes his head. Then Calum appears, and as they’re lovely, well-brought-up young men, there’s the offer of tea or coffee before we head home.
‘No, they’ll need to get back,’ Eddie says quickly.
‘Actually, I could do with a cuppa.’ I shoot him a quick look. ‘ Thank you , Calum.’ Eddie looks as if he’s in actual physical pain as tea is made, and we drink it. Then relief floods his face when I say, ‘Okay, we’d better get going.’
‘All right, Mum. Great!’ So we get up to leave, and as we head along the hallway I can’t resist peeking into his room. The walls are dingy magnolia and marred with various scuffs and stains. There’s a melamine chest of drawers, a small wardrobe leaning precariously to one side, and a lumpy bare mattress on the single bed. My heart squeezes as Frank and I exchange a quick look.
‘Shall we get you a few things,’ I start, ‘just to make it more homely?’
‘No, it’s all right.’
‘Honestly, I don’t mind, love. I could order some stuff, have it sent here—’
‘There’s nothing I need. Nothing ,’ Eddie says firmly.
I eye the tall, narrow bedroom window. In lieu of a blind or a curtain, a faded bath towel has been nailed up. ‘How about a curtain, Ed?’ his father suggests.
‘No thanks, Dad.’
‘Or a blind?’ I add. ‘We could easily order a—’
‘It’s all right ,’ Eddie insists, in a tone that says Stop fussing, old people!
Then he virtually manhandles us downstairs, like a bouncer dispensing of undesirables, as I implore him to take care in the restaurant kitchen (I can’t stop thinking about his grated thumb) and to set an alarm so he’s not late for work and to at least try and get some sleep before he starts.
‘Yeah-yeah,’ he mutters.
Outside, on the pavement, I will myself not to cry as I pull him in for a hug. ‘Look after yourself, darling,’ I gush.
‘Yeah, take care, son,’ Frank says, his voice cracking a little. He hugs Eddie too.
‘I will. ’Course I will.’
‘… And if you need anything, Eddie,’ I add. ‘Anything at all—’
‘Mum, please stop worrying,’ he says, grinning and shaking his head now. ‘You can trust me, y’know.’ Then he steps back into the scruffy hallway and firmly shuts the door.