The Old Call
The telephone had begun to vibrate across the table just as he was fastening his battered briefcase, already thinking of supper and his small batch of evening chores. An unfamiliar number lit the screen. He almost ignored it, but something made his hand linger. There was uneasy breathing on the other end, and then a voicefamiliar but not quite placed, like an old tune caught in the back of ones mind.
“Listen… its me. Simon. Remember?”
He sat at the edge of his chair, the office suddenly close and stifling. Simon from Year Eight, Simon with squared exercise books and perpetual grazes on his knuckles, with that habit of chuckling when things turned serious. He hadnt seen Simon since their National Service days, save for a fleeting wave at Kings Cross, Simons face half out a train window as he disappeared.
“I remember,” he replied, surprised at his own steady voice. “Where are you?”
“In town. Listen, do you fancy a chat? Only brief, promise.”
He suggested the café by Victoria Station, where he sometimes lunched on idle Fridays. Simon accepted with an eagerness that felt as though he might already be waiting nearby.
He arrived early, settled at a window seat so he had a view of the door and watched strangers hurry along the pavementmothers with prams, a suited man barking into his mobile, a few laughing teenagers. While he waited, he tried to picture Simon as hed become: blots of memory flickeringhauling planks for a school workday, Simon covering for him when he bunked off physics, Simons crooked handwriting on a letter from the barracks.
When Simon finally appeared, it was abruptly, as though he feared he might lose his nerve. Hed broadened, face leaner, but those eyes still held a sparkmirth and wariness both. His coat was out of season, and he clutched a thin shopping bag.
“Well, hello, mate,” Simon said, clapping him awkwardly on the back, in the way one might at a funeral or awkward class reunion.
They ordered coffee and sausage rolls. Simon spoke readily, tripping over his own stories. He spoke of odd jobs in the north, stints at construction sites and as a night watchmanhis voice weary, but peppered with laughter when recounting old school tales. He remembered the nickname theyd given their Design & Technology teacher perfectly, and at this, something warm unfurled within him.
“And yourself?” Simon asked, giving him a look. “Still with your… you know, paperwork?”
He noddedmanager at a housing association, a little semi he kept alone since the divorce, rare phone calls with his son. Life steady, solid, dull. He didnt lament, just listed the facts.
Simon listened with a peculiar intensity, as though weighing a suit of stability for size.
“Listen,” Simon said, setting his cup down gently, voice friendly but dense with meaning. “I wont fob you off. I wouldnt askexcept, well, I need a bit of help. Only for a couple of months. Im between addresses, no proper job yet. The paperworkswell, its complicated. If I could just register as living with you a short while, lay my head for a bit, itd make all the difference.”
He hesitated. The words “register” and “stay for a bit” settled heavier than the cake on their table, conjuring images of his modest flat: the narrow hall with its doormat, the familiar hush of his kitchen evenings, the bedroom where he slept alone. He could almost see unfamiliar shoes at his door, anothers voice echo in the loo, conversations running late into the night.
“Simon,” he started carefully, “thats not just a tick in a boxits a responsibility. Taking you in… you see what I mean.”
“Course I do,” Simon grunted, waving it away. “Im not daft. Its justotherwise, Im sunk. I need a leg up. Youve always been the reliable one, you know? Everything in order. I just want a foothold.”
He realized then how Simon had mapped out their old roles: one always sensible, one always scraping by, and in Simons world, the sensible one was duty-bound to lend a hand.
“Look,” he said, “where are you staying tonight?”
Simon beamed, triumphant. “A mates. But its not ideal. You know how it is.”
He offered Simon a night on the settee, just to spare him trekking across the city. No promises beyond that. Simon agreed so quickly, he didnt even ask where hed be sleeping.
That evening, he laid out clean linen on the sofa for Simon, retrieving guest sheets from the airing cupboard: the set he kept for rare visitors. Simon removed his shoes and placed them neatly by the wall, as if eager to demonstrate respectability. He washed his hands long and deliberately, as though scrubbing away the journey.
“Thanks,” Simon said before settling in. “I wont forget this.”
He woke in the small hours to the sound of someone tiptoeing to the kitchen, fridge door quietly opening and closing, a chair creaking. He stayed put, listening to these unfamiliar signs of life. By morning, Simon was up, cheerful, joking, proposing they run errands together.
“I need to pop into the council office,” Simon said, adding, “see about the paperwork. Youll come? They always fob me off otherwise.”
He took a short leave from work. At the Council, Simon put on a confident front till the receptionist asked for his ID.
“Lost it,” Simon replied quickly. “On the road. Ive filed a report.”
She explained that nothing could be done without the proper forms. Simon began to raise his voice, then stopped short and looked over at him.
“Youve always been good at talking to people,” Simon murmured. “Say something for me, will you?”
He tried, but rules were rules. Outside, Simon lit a cigarette, exhaling with frustration.
“See what I mean? Everywheres closed doors,” he muttered. “All I needs a signatureto say Im at yours. Thats it.”
He noticed how Simons requests shifted with ease: “registering” became “a signature,” “staying for a bit” became “a couple of weeks.” The words lightened, easier to swallow.
That evening, another storya woman hed lived with whod thrown him out, debts mounting. Simon told it as if the world were at fault, but sometimes the fatigue in his voice was painfully real.
“I know Im no angel,” Simon admitted, staring into his tea. “Ive made a right mess of things. But Im not asking you for a fortune. Just a chance to get started.”
The next day Simon was out “on a meeting,” returning late with bags of food and a bottle. He set everything on the table with an air of possession.
“Come onlets drink to old friends,” Simon declared.
He declined the drink, poured himself tea. Simon drank alone, and the talk grew louder.
“Remember when I had your back at school?” Simon burst out suddenly. “Those lads behind the gymyoud have been done for if I hadnt stepped in. I never thought youd just see it all as paperwork now.”
His chest tighteneda mix of anger and shame. Yes, Simon had stepped in then. But did that mean his own home, his stability, now owed itself to Simons crises and schemes?
“Im not keeping score,” he replied, “but I cant risk everything. Ive got my life set upmy job, my home. I just cant.”
Simon laughed, bitterness in it.
“Risk! You sound like an accountanteverything in boxes. Whats left of friendship then?”
He didnt have an answer at once. Friendship at fifty isnt playground stuff. Its knowing that if an old mate walked out of your life again, youd remain wholebut a little lonelier.
On the third morning, Simon brought out some papers.
“Here,” he said, spreading them on the kitchen table. “Just needs a signaturebit of a guarantor thing. Its for a position at a warehouse. They wont take me without it. You only have to vouch Im reliable.”
He skimmed the sheets. Small print, heavy with legalese, promising to reimburse losses if Simon faltered. No figure, just ominous liability.
“Simon,” he said, pushing the papers back. “Thats not nothing. Its legally binding.”
“Everyone does it,” Simon urged, lowering his voice. “Its a technicality.”
“Then let someone elsethe manager or whoeversign.”
Simon leaned back, eyes briefly wounded, almost childlike.
“You dont trust me,” he said.
“I know its tough for you,” he answered, “but I cant take responsibility for things I cant control.”
Simon wandered to the window, hands in pockets.
“You know what stings most?” he said at length. “I thought you were the one bloke who wouldnt turn away.”
Perfectly judged, like a knock to the solar plexus. He felt the tug to explain himself, to prove he wasnt cold. But if he started down that road, hed already lost.
Turning from the kitchen, he sat at his old laptop, typing Simons full name and birthdatescraps he rememberedinto the public records. It took a while, but debts turned upnothing ruinous, but enough to be wary. He stared at his reflection in the darkened screen.
He called his ex-wife, not for advice as such, but for her common sense. She listened, then said quietly:
“Youre not obliged. Help comes in many forms. Just never sign anything or register him. You may never get rid otherwise.”
Hed known that, but her steady voice eased the knot inside; as if shed given him permission not to play hero.
That evening, Simon camped in front of the telly, as though nothing had passed. Then, out of the blue:
“Got one morecould you lend me five hundred quid? Ill pay it back next month. Just got to clear a bit of trouble, else I cant get this job. Wouldnt ask, but the people involved… well, you know.”
He stared at Simon, knowing it wouldnt end there. Five hundred, the next time a thousand, then “just a bit more.” Each ask would come with, “you remember, dont you?”
“I dont have the spare cash,” he repliedonly a small falsehood, the money instead ring-fenced for home repairs. He didnt want Simon knowing that.
“Come off it,” Simon scoffed. “Youve got the flat, decent jobyoure hardly strapped.”
“Im not pretending,” he said. “This is me saying no.”
Simon was silent. The kitchen filled with the drone of the fridge. He watched Simon get up, jaw set.
“So thats it,” Simon said. “Youre chucking me out.”
“Im not,” he replied. “But heres what I can offer: Ill pay for a hostel for three nights, or give you details of a charity that helps with documents and work. Ill drive you there tomorrow. But living here for weeks, registrations, guarantees, lending moneyno.”
Simon let out a short laugh.
“Hostel? What are you playing attreating me like a down-and-out?”
“Im treating you like a grown man,” he said, “whos in a rough spot but shouldnt drag others down with him.”
Simon grabbed his bagstill resting by the wall, contents clinking.
“Fine.” He sounded smaller now. “I get it. Youre all sorted now. Live your life.”
He wanted to say something, something that didnt leave the air so poisoned, but nothing came. Instead, he fetched his wallet, drew out some notes. Not five hundredtwenty.
“Take it,” he said, firm. “For tonightfood, a bed. Thats all I can do.”
Simon looked at the cash, then up at hima flicker of gratitude, quickly armored over.
“Keep it then,” he muttered.
“Take it,” he repeated, voice unyielding. “Its not a loan. Its just help.”
Simon pocketed the note, left without another word. The door closed gently, not in anger.
Alone in the hallway, he listened to Simons footsteps fade on the stairs. He returned to the kitchen where Simons guarantee forms still sat. He gathered them, tore them slowly above the binpaper stiff, resisting, as if reluctant to let the matter go.
He slept badly, memories churning: concrete schoolyards, barracks bunks, the old bustle of the railway station. He wanted to call Simon, say “Come backlets talk properly.” But he knew for Simon, “properly” meant giving in.
By morning, he rang Simons number.
“Where are you?” he asked, when Simon picked up.
“Not your problem,” came the gruff reply.
“I can still take you to the support centre,” he said. “This morning, if you want.”
There was a long pause. Muffled voices and street noises filtered down the line.
“No need,” Simon said at last. “Ill manage.”
“Alright,” he replied. “If you change your mind, text me.”
He hung up, feeling a complex releasenot joy, exactly, but the relief of stepping out of someone elses drama. He hadnt made himself a saint nor a villain; hed only drawn a clear border.
Before work, he stripped the bedding from the sofa, took it to the bathroom and set the washing machine running. The spin of the drum and the dull thump of a button against the door seemed to close a chapter.
In the hall, his old leather brogues waited beside the mat, precisely as always. He shrugged on his coat, checked his pockets for keys, and stepped out. The corridor smelled of fresh paint, a reminder after the recent redecorationand somehow, that scent seemed like a quiet reassurance: one may go on living, without pretending that the past hands out claims over the present.
