Never
…Simon shot out onto the roof, fuming, shivering, and froze mid-step, staring. She was a completely ordinary old lady in a faded raincoat, with wispy lilac-grey hair on her little head, skinny, with spindly hands clasped together in her lap, and feeble legs wrapped in sandy coloured stockings, plopped into a pair of wide orthopedic shoes. His dad always cracked, Say your goodbyes to youth! about shoes like those.
Yes, on this granny, the one Simon was gawking at, were those very shoes. And yes, a completely unremarkable old dear. The kind hed let have his seat on the bus. The kind he squeezed past in the queue at Tesco. They clustered on benches round the old, peeling council flats. And that, Dad said, was their proper placewarming in the sun, in peace and quiet, quietly finishing up. Or hanging on, as his father twisted, sneering.
Only Simons granny sitting here, the one he eyed in astonishment, wasnt planted on a bench but instead perched at the very edge of the chilly, rain-slippery green roof, swinging her legs while staring forward. Slivers of sunset were cut off by brooding navy clouds, light piercing just enough to make the granny squint. She fiddled with something, found a beret, plonked it on her head, tucking the limp curls away with knobbly, arthritic fingers, her face a shade pinker for the dying light.
Simon gulped.
Theres no place for a granny here! Not in the least! Everything was supposed to be different! Just him, Simon, unlucky, distraught, resolved yet wobbly, green roof beneath his trainers, the sun a brutal, mocking eye, sharp and unkind, with mist crawling over the pavements below. And that was it! And the falla short, terrible flight with an ending so final that his mother would spend the rest of her years wringing her hands with grief over his grave. Serve her right for what she did, Simon decided.
That fluffy beret, though, had tangled up his plans, knocked every bit of importance and drama out of him. Showing off in front of an audience seemed vulgar; hed hate for the old lady to start tutting and shrieking, Help! Someone, quick! and grabbing at his arms, his ankles, his shoes Then everyone bustling far belowlike antswould turn their heads, spot Simon, and alert his mother whod dash straight over from work, sobbing, shouting up at him that she loved him, and she couldnt live through this!
Simon’s dad, Nigel Edward Jones, did something important at a research institutewhat, exactly, Simon never caughtand hed sum people up as textbook normal. He liked that word, Nigel, and used it a lot. The neighbour next door, Mr. Harris, was, by Dads measure, not at all textbook. Harriss wife was apparently all sorts of off. Simons teacher? Textbook. But his old design & tech teacher, Mr. Clarkthat one had apparently tipped past normal years ago.
Dads cleverness was legendaryhe was a bit like a psychiatrist, although he didnt treat, just observed, logged, and penned articles. Proper academic. Dad himself put it like this:
I, Simon, watch society going to the dogs. Youve no idea how many vices are popping up everywhere. Just look at your classmates.
Nigel would draw in breath, ready to begin a full deconstruction of Year 10s collective failings, but then MumBridgetwould butt in.
Oh, shut up, Nigel! Thats not fair! Simons mates are perfectly lovely, leave off! Ive had enough of your armchair analysis!
That usually started a row.
No, Bridget didnt like what he said, but she married him anyway, knowing full well what she was getting. Except…
Youve changed, Nigel. You judge people, you put everyone in boxes, and
I simply grew up, darling. Open your eyes, take off your rose-tinted glasses. The worlds a mess. Simon needs to know this!
At which point, Bridget would clamp her hands over her ears, shake her head, and leave the room.
Still, shed loved him for being so clever, with his boundless knowledge and hundreds of books. He was always impressive companybrilliant to take along to the theatre, or to dinner parties, able to chat to anyone. Sure, her mates thought him a tad dull, but that was probably just jealousy.
As a husband, Nigel seemed ideal. Or perhaps Bridget just didnt know different; she never pondered it much.
Nigel pursued her, courted her beautifully. He was never pushy, no rushing or pressure, just gentle kindness and endless praise of her wit.
A girl, living alone in a new city, craved affection. Her own mother and gran had never been big on praiseshe was always cack-handed and a bit of a dunce. Yet Nigel saw her differently, put her up on a pedestal, recited poetry, whispered words that sent Bridgets heart skittering around her chest, right up to her throat until she could barely breathe
Bridget met him at the research centreher uni placement, doing boring paperwork and stats. Out of everyone, Nigel noticed her, and she fit his textbook profile perfectly. The rest is, as they say, history
They married swiftly. Nigel wanted children at once. Bridget had a rough birth, took ages to recover.
Nigel wasnt thrilled, but blamed the NHS. Useless lot! Someone ought to sue! Ill get that hospital shut down, just watch!
Baby Simon favoured his motherfreckly, ginger, almost white eyebrows. Nigel frowned and muttered but was mollified the minute the boy flashed a grin at himwho could resist?
Simon did everything earlier than his peersthanks to Nigels mother, Mrs. Joan Jones. At five and a half, Nigel decided Simon belonged in school.
Hes not just textbook, Bridget. Hes exceptional! Must nurture that.
So they tried. School, clubs, swimming. Bridget ferried him from drama to violin to swimming lessons every afternoon. Evenings were for reporting back to Dad.
Nigel Edward Jones would sip his tea from delicate porcelain, nibble on Kendal mint cake, nodding or scowling at reports of Simons progress. When the scowls came, it meant todays efforts were, yet again, subpar. But development, Nigel believed, leaps in burstssometimes you plateau, then suddenly breakthrough andbam!a flood of glory, and of course, Dads acknowledgment. Whose son is Simon? Thats right
Simon grew, his father aged. Nigel was eleven years older than Bridget, already going grey (from the stress, apparently).
Worried about what? About the world, obviously. His findings were always grimkids growing dim-witted, adults growing mean, the arts withering away
But youll survive, Simon. And kids like you. I wont see itthe worldll carry on, tragicallybut you will. Cue dramatic pause; Dad would wait for wife and son to plead with him to live to a grand old age, to see great-grandchildren, to
But Bridget, increasingly, stopped saying anything, and Simon would turn away, growing more like his father…
Rows at home became constant. Why? Simon didnt know. He was sent off to do homework.
Even best mate Mike said, Parents have rows. Itll pass.
Mikes family werent textbookthey drank. Nigel forbade Simon to be friends, but whats a lad to do? Mike was fun, friendly, easy to be with
But the rows didnt stop.
One afternoon, back from swimming, Simon paused by the front door.
Mum was shouting in the kitchen.
How could you, Nigel? Its your own mother! Weve more than enough roomlet her live with us, lets help her. Or Ill hire a carer. Its cruel, what youre planning! Its like dumping an old dog on the street!
She stoppedcomparing his mum to a stray dog perhaps too much…
Dad answered, voice tired. Simon caught only inevitable, Ive sorted it all, and something about Bridget.
Nigel blamed herthat she disappointed him, she didnt understand, that shed been vetted, her family tree reviewedher dad died young, her mother a capable accountant, her gran a retired headteacher…
Alls fine, Bridget. Should be perfect! Just mustve missed a flaw somewhere. Some worm in the apple. Youre nothing without me.
Thanks to you, Im nothing, Bridget corrected quietly. Its my fault, really. God, I was proud you chose me. Not Elaine, not Julia, me. I thought it was love. Turns out you were just analysing. Well, good for you. Ill never forgive you about Joan. Never. Get out!
Simon, anxious, his stomach knotted with hunger, caught his mum’s eye through the crack of the door, and before she could say anything, he bolted from the flat, down the stairs, and outside, running for blocks. Still in his ears: Get out!
Kicked out. Shed kicked Dad out. How could she?! What now? What good was life without Dad, who always knew best, sorted everything? What now?
When he finally stopped running, Simon bent double, palms on knees, catching his breath…
No, its fine, he told himself, Shes riled. Tomorrowll be the same as always. He wandered home.
But the next morning, it happened. Nigel Edward Jones, out with a suitcase and a bin bag, not even a slice of toast for the road. Mum packed shirts and suits and socks into the case, bundled slippers and odds into the bagcologne, notepads, loyalty cards, newspaper cuttings Dad always kept.
What are you playing at?! Dad barked, grabbing at his thingsglasses, hairbrush, his book for bed, Dickens probably…
Bridget dodged deftly.
Get a grip, Bridget! Youve lost your mind! he shouted, arm raised.
Out. Get out. What? You going to hit me, then? All youre good forswinging your fists. Go swing them somewhere else.
With total calm, she carried the bag into the hall, tossed it onto the floor. Something inside clinked, smashingprobably the reading glasses.
Youll regret this! Ill have you on your knees begging, and Ill lock the doorI
She slapped him. A ringing slap, stinging her palm. Bridget clenched her fist, hiding it behind her, eyebrow raised, whispering:
This is my house. You came in, now you go out.
Simon, shes off her trolley! Danger to the public! Ill ring worktheyll lock her up! Dad jabbed a finger at Bridget, cheeks puffing as he raged.
Shed already opened the door and lobbed his suitcase onto the hall floor, threatening to throw out the bag after.
Dad choked, clutched it, growled, and left, grumbling that hed report her and have her sectioned.
He didnt say goodbye to Simon. Probably forgot.
Mum, whats happening? Simon finally asked as she vigorously swept the hall, lips clamped.
Ill not live with your father anymore. Hell do his living elsewhere, Bridget replied briskly.
Simon stared, numb. Youre joking? Just another row. Hell come back, wont he?
No. Bridget smiled sadly, shaking her head. Not like before. Finally. Dad wont be back. But you can call him, you know.
She clattered to the kitchen, slamming cupboards, humming to herself Water ran in the background.
Simon skipped school, wandered aimlesslyhow could he possibly focus? He needed to think…
How did you live without a dad? The thought left him clammy. Dad hated holding Simons sweaty hand, would shake him off, wipe his palm on his suit jacket.
He should ring Dad, ask what to do now.
After almost two hours of walking, Simon dug out his mobile, rang Dad. No reply. Then a rejected call. And again.
Finally, Dad picked up.
What? She sent you, did she? Tell her to crawl back to me on her kneesmaybe then Ill consider coming back. Got it? Dads voice roared so loudly Simons ears ached.
Dad, its not that I just wanted to ask” but Dad interrupted, shouted more, called them both names, and hung up.
But Simons not a monster! Dad misunderstood! Mum at fault here, not him.
And she never explained, either. Must be her fault, if Dads so angry. And its all because of her
That night, Mum sat silent, cup after cup of Earl Grey, chain smoking out the window. Next morningshe declared they had to bring Joan Jones, Dads mum, to live with them.
Why?! Shes got her own flat. Not enough space as it is! Simon moaned. Dad said gran was not textbook anymore,” now just a problem. “Shes lost her marbles!”
Enough! Mum snapped, banging the table. Joan just needs help. Shes old! Shes done loads for us, Simon. Looked after you when you were little. When times were hard, shed give us her savings. She babysat youremember how ill you always were at nursery? Simon, its obvioushow can you not see? Its simply the right thing.
Simon cast a stern look at his mum. He didnt know what was rightonly Dad ever seemed so certain.
You never ask anyone. I dont want this! Youve ruined everything! Why?!
We cant live with your dad anymore, Bridget explained simply. Hes put his own mum in a care home. Shes our Joanyour gran!
Bridget wouldnt explain further, spelling things out was pointless. Simon was big now; hed figure it out. Besides, when Mum said, that’s how it would be.
Simon stormed away to his room.
He made up his mind. After school, ensuring Mum wasnt in, he scribbled a note on his lined paper: it was all Bridgets fault, shed ruined his life forever. Writing it stoked old slights, every past sting. The worstshed thrown Dad out, now forced them to take gran in. HER decision, HER fault…
…Simon stood on the roof, shirt puffed behind him in the damp, cold wind. Shivers raced down his back.
The granny must have felt chilly tooshe shuddered, peeped over, and spotted him.
All right, love, Simon croaked awkwardly.
And you, unless youre here for business, eh? she replied, fixing him with a beady eye. Come for some sun? Sit yself down hereplenty of space. The little woolly beret bobbed as she patted the roof next to her.
Simon wanted to shout, to explain that this wasnt some sunbathing trip, that hed left a note on the kitchen table all about Mum destroying their lives.
But he didnt. He tiptoed over, conscious his trainers were echoing like drumbeats, that someone below would definitely call the fire brigade, and then everything would descend into mayhemand the drama would be for nothing.
Sit, no need to rush. Theres time, the old dear said, as if she already knew why Simon was up here. Look, the suns kissing the earth.
Simon looked up. Clouds edged together, shutting the sunlight away like tired eyelids.
The suns kissing the earth His heart gave an odd skip, sticky heat flushing his face.
His gran, Joan, used to say that, back before she was sent away. Theyd sit in her little bungalows porch, watching the dusk, grass crackling beneath them, and Gran would smile, See, Simon, the suns kissing the earth. It vanished for years after Dad stopped letting them visit, packing Simon off to summer camp instead.
It brought back Joan, two months ago, pale and sunken, eyes lost
The granny on the roof busied herself, then pointed down.
Over there, she said with a nod.
Whats over there? Simon asked.
Well, thats the best spot if you fancy jumping. Not onto the carstheres lilacs there. Poor lilacs, been here ages. Were all right here though, arent we? The old lady smiled.
Simon scowled, tempted to snap back about minding her own business, but
Go home, please. This is not the place for old folk, its dangerous!
Wheres the place for us, petal? The granny shrugged, adjusting her collar. Were always in the way, a bother. When were up and about, bright as a button, were tolerated. But laterbest if you just disappear. But, ah well, we havent long left. Youll get to skip and hop for years and years, God willing. We oldies just take in whats left. Might as well enjoy a sunset or two, right?
Simon frowned. Dad hated when the oldies moaned about health or being sidelinedalways joked that the pensioners had it cushy now, everything handed over, never content…
Simon used to agree, but…
Go home. Theyre probably worriedalready searching, Simon ordered. All you old people do is cause problems!
That was Dads line about Joanalways making trouble; going missing and needing to be searched, leaving dinner burning, locking herself out, that kind of thing.
Yes, yes, Ill go in a second, she mumbled, then brightened. But youd get bored without me, wouldnt you? I leave, you fuss about. Keep out of trouble, eh? Its not worth it. She nodded, all-knowing.
Ill decide that! Simon clenched his fists.
Of course, of course. But, Mums probably frantic.
Let her stew then! She ruined everythingkicked Dad out and now dragging his mum in here. I dont want this! Its my right to decide!
You do have the right But sometimes you need to break things to save them she said quietly.
Break what? Adults always act like they own uschoosing who we are, what we do, which parent to have. Well, let her be alone then. Everything was fine ’til
And then one day, til is too late,” the lady sighed. “Best you talk. And only if then youre so sure, jump away. Only, dont hurt the lilacs. Theyve lasted longer than most. People will come and go, summers will come, and you wont. Never can mean a lot. Youll suffer a bit, thats life. But then, its never again. And thats that.
The word never rattled in Simons chest, echoing. Never Never see Dad again, never drive, never snog a girl, never be called clever Simon ever again. Neverjust two syllables, but so much collapse behind it.
He was scared. Not for Mum (still too angry), but for himself. And most of all, there would be pain. The granny said there would be. Shed knowa whole life lived!…
Suddenly it was properly cold and nearly dark. Clouds had strangled the red stripe of the sunset. He now wanted, more than anything, to go home.
Except granny Shed never make it across the wet roof alone.
Come inside for tea, Simon blurted. You cant stay here!
He reached out, gently tugging at her sleevebut she clung tight to the rail.
No, love. I belong out here. Id only be trouble at yours. Go on, off you pop. Ill stay put.
No.
Yes! she protested, hopping slightly to prove her stubbornness.
So Simon, puffing and slipping, headed to the attic door.
Hed fetch someoneMum at least! Together theyd get the old dear home…
***
Bridget listened, baffled, as Simon breathlessly explained. He then grabbed her hand, pulling her all the way up the stairs, up the rattling iron ladder, out onto the chilly roof, and pointed: there.
Bridget squinted into the dusk, frowning.
Is this some prank, Simon? Is this why you were on the roof? Theres no one here, love.
She was just here! Right there! Its too dangerous, what if shed slipped?
Simon crept to the edge, peeking over the parapet.
Bridget, beside him, seized his hand and shut her eyes.
Nobody belowjust the people who should be: the caretaker, a few passers-by, streetlights flickering to life, a dog tearing across the green.
Shes gone then, yeah? Simon said hopefully.
Looks that way.
She said what Gran used tohow the sun kisses the earth. Remember? Gran used to say that
Bridget knelt on the damp roof, stretching her legs. Her face sagged, eyes glistening. It was chilly, yet Bridget liked itit clarified her thoughts.
I remember. Joans in a care home now. Dad did all the paperwork. I visited todayshe Simon, she was eating her porridge with her fingers. No one gave her a spoon; they were short-staffed. She cried while she ate. She didnt want to ask for help. Im sorry I didnt tell you sooner. I wanted your dad to stay your herohes your dad. I thought wed just bring Gran home, help her; youd understand. It isnt right for her there. She should be at home, with tea in a proper mug, a sofa to curl up on, not an institution.
At this point, Bridget burst into tears. Her mother, still with it, rang daily to check up and issue instructions, but time had been cruel to Joan…
Simon didnt really know what you did for a crying Mum. But he hugged her, pressing close, just like he used to as a little kid after nightmares, hot and shaking, and Mum would let him under her duvet, pat his back and whisper, Its all right. Now it was his turn to whisper that. And the notethe big dramatic goodbyewas lying in the kitchen bin. Goodbye to all those nevers hed imagined.
***
Bringing Joan home was far from easy. Nigel accused Bridget of only wanting Grans pension; he forbade the care home to let her visit. But somehow, the staff always seemed to forget the ban, letting her in by accident.
Soon after, Nigel brought in a solicitor, made Joan sign the flat and garden over to him, so neither his son nor ex-wife inherited a thing.
That was the price for Joan’s freedom.
Take her! Take the old crab! Off she popsgood riddance, Nigel said cheerfully, waving them away.
Joan moved in with Bridget and Simon. Was it easy? Never. But one thing would always be true: Simon and Bridget would never regret rescuing Joan.
Simon often thought back to the old lady on the roof, there in the wrong place at the right time. Where did she come from? Hed study the rooftops, but he never saw her again. Nor, he was certain, was there a resident like her.
But sometimes, watching the sunset, Simon remembered that slender frame and silly beretso out of place up there, but so necessary that night. Both he and the old granny had landed exactly where they were needed. Whether she was a ghost, an angel, or just a trick of the mind who cares? What mattered was that for Joan, for Bridget, and for Simon, the sun would meet the earth many, many more times. Pity his dad never saw it that way. He still thought they were not textbook or just a little round the bend. Well, let him. He was a scientist, after all. If science had ever explained love, it missed the mark. Either it exists or it doesnt. Dad never had much of it.
