Chapter Seventeen #2
They park up at the place marked on Tamara’s map, a curving street of bungalows with small gardens in front, just like Myffy’s place.
They must have all been built around the same time, with the same covered porches and wide driveways, all of them covered in a thick layer of snow.
Nash senses he might have a lot of snow-clearing in his immediate future.
‘Do we split up and take one side of the street each, or go together?’ Christopher asks, peering at the map in Nash’s hands.
‘I think together, seeing as there’s only one of these. Plus, the horny old ladies can’t overpower us if there’re two of us.’
‘Having met Myffy, I don’t think we should put anything past them.’
The first couple of houses are dark; clearly some people are away for the holidays.
Nash feels a bit awkward about peering into people’s windows.
It makes him feel like a kid again, really.
Sneaking around the neighbourhood just to see how other people live, inadvertently looking for signs that they feel the same way he does about his life and himself.
Not that you can tell that kind of thing from someone’s house, obviously.
In truth, he probably didn’t really know what he was looking for, in the same way there were quite a few seemingly unknowable yet known things about himself.
He just wanted some kind of recognition that he wasn’t alone, perhaps.
The third door down is where things start to get interesting.
The man, who will not share his name, refuses to open the door and only speaks to them through the letterbox, insisting that he is both fine and uninterested in any help they might be offering.
Nash is suddenly very thankful that they don’t have guns in this country, as this man is giving off all kinds of doomsday prepper, don’t step on my lawn or I’ll shoot energy.
Well. He’s pretty sure they don’t have guns.
Either way, they walk away from that one swiftly.
The next few are, thankfully, a bit more normal.
Families who need some help getting some food in, and one woman whose American-sized car’s battery needs a jump-start off their van so she can go and pick up her mother from down the coast, not that he’s convinced she’ll get much further than the Sainsbury’s.
Either way, Nash takes over this delicate operation and is quietly relieved when both the car springs to life and the van doesn’t die, as it was a little touch and go on that front.
At another house, they clear the snow off an older couple’s drive so they can get around more easily.
It had nearly been a few shades of disaster as Mengsan and Nancy had been poised ready to pour a kettle’s worth of boiling water all over their steps, and Nash yelling at them to stop had almost resulted in them throwing it all over him instead.
God, do none of these people know anything about clearing snow?
Seemingly not. Hot water on snow is only good for creating a slick of black ice.
In a sweet little house further down the road, an elderly lady asks Christopher to use his ridiculous height to hang up some fresh fat balls in the trees in her back garden for her birds.
That’s all Joan was worried about. Not her safety, not the limited food she had in the pantry.
Just her birds. They all stand in her kitchen watching as the tiny little birds flock to the hanging fat balls, while Nash insists she make a small shopping list so they can pick her up some bits.
It takes them nearly two hours to cover both sides of one street. But all they can do is keep going.
A lithe old man in a smoking jacket-type velvet dressing gown informs them that no, he doesn’t need anything as he’s sorted and sharing resources with his neighbours in their cul-de-sac, but insists on lending them his hiking thermoses.
Nash has never been more thankful for instant coffee, the feeling starting to come back into his fingers as the coffee works its magic and his brain wakes up.
Their new friend Cecil also kindly offers to top it up with a bit of whisky, which Nash is reluctant to turn down but does, just to be good.
The rest of the cul-de-sac seem just as sorted, with a striking man in exercise gear called Ted finishing up clearing all the drives and paths, and taking charge of everyone’s care.
Upon seeing how little of their map they’ve managed, Ted insists they take his number so he can pick up where they would be leaving off later on.
Two more cul-de-sacs down – one of which has taken a similar approach to Ted and Cecil’s gang, by organising themselves, and another where it seems as if everyone absolutely hates each other.
Every single house visit ends with some comment about one of their neighbours.
Given they’re already flagging, it doesn’t exactly brighten the spirits to hear from Marjorie that May is shacking up with Gerald only because he’s got a hot tub, or to hear from May to disregard anything Marjorie tells them because she’s a word-that’s-not-suitable-to-be-repeated-in-polite-company.
As they walk out of this cul-de-sac of hell, Nash feels all the energy start to leak out of him. Really, he should probably warn Christopher that he’s flagging, but he hasn’t got The Headache yet, and another sip of Cecil’s nuclear coffee spurs him on a bit longer.
Clearly, Christopher is flagging too. ‘One more?’ he asks with the weary determination of Tom Hanks in Castaway trying to get over that wave bank.
‘One more,’ agrees Nash.
They come across a few more empty houses – some family homes, some clearly houses that are rented out for holidaymakers in the summer – on the next street, one that has clear views of the sea.
At the last house on the row, they find a couple called Pearl and Don, who seem to be doing all right.
They’re the kind of old people who could give him a run for his money in the healthiness stakes, all wiry and bright-cheeked.
Nash feels his phone ping, and as everything seems pretty okay, he takes the opportunity to check it. It’s a message from Kurt. His stomach turns, but he opens it because he’s going to have to get this over and done with today.
Except, it appears the universe has done him a solid today.
Kurt: Update re: contract – there’s been a leak about one of the production companies trying to write off a movie for tax breaks, so they’re dealing with the public backlash. Have asked to pick up the conversation after Christmas. Call you tomorrow still?
‘Thank FUCK!!’ Nash shouts, which alarms Christopher, Pearl and Don, and causes birds to flee their trees. Somewhere in the distance, a dog starts barking. ‘Sorry. I just had some big news.’
Nash sprints away to the pavement to reread this message.
This has saved him. Some cash-grabbing executives, determined to throw away the hard work of a team of creatives for the sake of a tax write-off, have saved his ass, for now.
At least now there’s a chance of him getting back to LA to talk all this through with Kurt face to face, rather than having to admit he’s trapped in the UK.
There’s time. He has time. And yes, he might still be snowed in across the Atlantic, but there’s a chance he can fix this.
He hears Christopher say a friendly goodbye to Pearl and Don, before he strides over and takes Nash by the elbow. ‘Could you, perhaps, not shout obscenities next time we’re trying to help people?’ Christopher mutters sternly.
‘Sorry. I just got a good bit of news.’
At this, Christopher just screws up his face, as though Nash told him he’d just picked them up some roadkill.
‘What, Calloway?’
‘It’s nothing.’
Obviously it is something from the speed that Christopher stalks back in the direction of the van, but Nash has no idea what it could be.
‘So . . . are we done?’ Nash asks.
‘For now.’
No further explanation required, apparently. Fine, they’re done. He really needed to stop for the day anyway but he’s sure he’d have preferred it to be a conversation, not just a diktat from Christopher.
‘Right, so why don’t you spit out whatever is bothering you while we’re out here freezing our balls off?’
Nash is not sure he’s ever seen someone so angrily open a vehicle door. ‘It’s just hard enough doing this without you not taking this whole situation seriously.’
‘I’m always serious about snow safety,’ Nash grins, hoping to defuse whatever pissy little mood Christopher has conjured. He clambers into the van and Christopher just won’t look at him. ‘So that’s not it. What am I not being serious about then?’
Staring straight ahead, the words start to pour out of Christopher.
‘No, I mean . . . you’re not being serious about helping everyone.
This isn’t like one of your . . . I mean .
. . one of those Christmas films where everyone saves the town.
We have to help everyone out or someone could get really hurt. ’
Nash arches an eyebrow. ‘I want to help, Christopher. People need help, and I have the ability to do that. Mostly. And I’m really confused as to why you think I’m not taking it seriously.’
Christopher starts the engine, and Nash is grateful for the very small amount of heat that starts to flood through.
‘Well, you did just scream fuck very loudly.’
‘Right. Not my best moment. But I’ve been doing just as much as you this whole time. So, I don’t get it, Calloway? What’s your actual problem?’
Christopher’s brows furrow and he shuts his eyes briefly, shaking his head, as though the words he’s saying aren’t quite right. ‘I just don’t want you to feel you have to just because . . .’
‘Just because you’re not throwing me out into the snow, is that it?’
The blush that takes over Christopher’s face is a pretty solid answer.
This might be the most confusing conversation Nash has ever had.
How did they get from happily helping all these strangers out for two days, to Christopher accusing Nash of not taking things seriously, or doing it just because he felt he had to?
Why does Christopher seem to have this impression of him being a total dickhead?
Is this his fault? He thought they were just playfully bantering half the time, but maybe he’s misjudged all of it.
‘Christopher. Yes, you care about these people and yes, you need help to help them, and also yes, you are giving me shelter. All those things can be true at once. But that’s not why I’m doing this. I don’t feel beholden to you specifically – we barely know each other.’
Christopher seems to shrink a little at least.
‘This is just the right thing to do. Plus, if I didn’t help, I’d be an enormous prick.’
‘I don’t think the prick part is affected by whether you help or not,’ Christopher says, and Nash can’t tell if it’s a joke or not.
‘I might be a prick sometimes, but at least I know when I’m being one. You’re acting like, just because I want to help, I pissed in your closet?’
‘Wardrobe.’
‘Keep correcting me, and I really will.’
‘Will what?’
‘Piss in your wardrobe.’
‘Please don’t.’
‘Then what is this? Are you just upset that I’m muscling in on your home? Taking the Boy Scout glory? None of this is making you seem particularly not a prick, by the way.’
Quietly, Christopher starts the van’s engine, and they start driving in tense silence. ‘Look, I don’t mean to seem like I’m upset you’re taking my glory. That’s not . . . that’s not what I mean at all.’
‘Then why don’t you tell me what you mean instead of being such a—’ Nash searches around desperately for a word that’s not prick and for some reason lands on, ‘Huffy-pants. Real Heffalump energy.’
‘I am not huffy,’ laughs Christopher, seemingly in spite of himself. ‘I didn’t even know you guys use that word?’
‘It’s just the right word for this general vibe, isn’t it?
You are the huffiest man alive. And God knows where I heard it, apparently I’m becoming a local.
Connecting with the community. That’s what I thought you wanted.
Or didn’t want, because who knows what’s going on in this conversation any more?
’ he says, on the edge of snapping. His head hurts already from how much they’ve done today, but this confusing conversation is making it so much worse.
With a deep sigh, Christopher says, sadly, ‘I really care about this place, Nash. It’s my home and I really want everyone to see me as someone who cares about the community.
And I want to be someone who shows they care.
I’m sorry if it sounded like I was angry at you, I’m not.
I just want to know that you’re as serious as I am. ’
‘I don’t think there’s ever been a person in the history of the world as unfailingly serious as you, Christopher. But why do you think I would say I wanted to help if I didn’t?’
‘I don’t know,’ Christopher sighs, pulling into the bakery drive. ‘That’s precisely why I’m asking. You have a very . . .’
‘A very what?’
‘Misanthropic vibe about you, sometimes.’
Well. Fuck this guy, honestly. Nash has had enough of this conversation.
He jumps out of the van and slams the van door shut hard behind him.
He needs to get out of here, away from this man for enough time for him to cool down.
From the back of the van, he gets out the shovel because if he doesn’t have something to do, he’s going to blow up.
Christopher gets out and tries to follow him. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t—’
Nash wheels round, holding up a hand to make Christopher stop following him. ‘Just because people have let me down doesn’t mean I should let down people who are relying on me. I’m not a prick, Calloway. Stop treating me like I am.’