It has taken him twenty-five minutes to walk from the station to the avenue on which the Finches live. His hair is freshly trimmed and he wears his new winter coat, half price in the Boxing Day sale at Rackhams. Howard, his shopping companion since he was thirteen, thought this one particularly dashing. His fifth Christmas without seeing his mother. He’s ready for the new term. Ready to see Gloria.
The cool air shoots into his lungs like peppermint. The branches of the plane trees lining the street are thick black fingers reaching for the blue sky. His leather shoes hit the pavement with a crisp clap-clop as he lets his suitcase swing loosely. The metal clasps on either side of the handle squeak briefly with each of his steps. His left hand is deep in the silk lining of his pocket, clasped tightly round the key to the Finches’. He’s missed Gloria over Christmas and has decided to be more forthright about his feelings. He takes no notice of the semi-detached Georgian houses, the few traces of dirty snow on the pavement. The avenue is simply a broad funnel of excitement, down which he’s happily tumbling towards her.
At the doorstep, he imagines for a moment that this is his house and that inside, his wife is waiting for him.
‘Hello! I’m back. Anyone in?’ The hallway is warm. It’s not the feel of an empty house.
‘In the kitchen, William. Happy New Year.’
Even lovelier than he remembered, that full, textured voice, the slight Cockney inflection. Smiling, he puts his suitcase on the bottom stair and hangs his coat over the blue ball next to the yellow one, on which Gloria’s russet coat hangs as usual. No other coats.
‘Happy New Year to you too!’ he replies. ‘Kettle on?’
‘For you? Always.’
He smooths his hair and walks down the busy brown carpet towards the stippled glass of the kitchen door. Pushing it open, he thinks of his resolve to be bolder.
‘Hello, favourite Finch.’
‘Better not tell my parents that!’ she bats back, grinning too as he stands in the doorway.
There’s rock and roll coming from the transistor radio and there’s a plate of mince pies on the counter. It’s warm and cosy and Gloria is smiling her most lovely smile at him. But his has disappeared and he’s not even looking at her, or the pair of scissors in her one hand and the comb in the other. He’s looking at the man sitting on the chair that’s normally in the dining room, with a white towel round his neck, smattered with black semi-circles of cut, wet hair.
‘Ray! What are you doing here?’
Remaining very still as Gloria takes the scissors to his head, laying her free hand on the bare nape of his neck, Ray replies, ‘What does it look like? I’m getting a haircut.’
Sitting on the counter, almost enjoying the scorch of hot tea down his throat, William watches Gloria carefully wipe the hairs from Ray’s neck.
‘There you go. Smart as the best of them, Ray. No one can have a go at you now.’ She looks over at William. ‘You should give them what for, William.’
Fury bubbles in his chest, but he keeps his face blank. ‘Who?’
‘Those miserable buggers on your course who told Ray to get a haircut.’
‘Maybe they were trying to help,’ he replies, looking at Ray. ‘Everyone wants you to do well, you know that, Ray.’
‘Well, I think it’s rude,’ says Gloria, taking the broom from the cupboard and making decisive sweeps across the lino, gathering Ray’s hair into a silky wet pile at her lovely feet.
William slides down from the counter and takes the dustpan and brush from the cupboard under the sink. He kneels before Gloria, sweeps up the hair and tips it in the bin. Ray jerks upright. ‘Oh, I was going to send a lock to my mum!’ He winks at William.
‘Help yourself.’ William gestures at the bin.
‘Anyway, William,’ Gloria says, bright and breezy, ‘how was your Christmas?’
‘Good, thanks.’ He hops back up on the counter, determined to look at home. ‘I helped in the mortuary a lot.’
Ray laughs, and William could kiss Gloria when she says, ‘Good for you, I bet your uncle loved having you back.’
‘What about you, Ray?’ William puts the pad of his finger on some toast crumbs left on the worktop; one, two, three of them. ‘How was Leeds?’
‘Didn’t go.’ Ray shakes the towel in the sink, fiddling with his collar, and then sits back down. ‘There was snow forecast and I didn’t want to get stranded.’
‘And would you believe,’ Gloria says, hands on curved hips, ‘his landlady went away for two days and left him without any heating or hot water! At Christmas!’
Ray looks from Gloria to William and back to Gloria, mouth turned down, his eyebrows slightly raised.
‘Awful,’ William says, not believing a word, and then, because he can’t stand it any longer, ‘So how did you—’
The front door opens and Mrs Finch is in full flow coming towards the kitchen. ‘They may be half price, but do we want psychedelic curtains in the lounge … William!’ He jumps down from the counter; she approaches with open arms. ‘Welcome back!’
‘Happy New Year, Mrs Finch,’ he says as she squeezes him round the waist. Mr Finch stands behind, in William’s sightline. ‘Happy New Year, Mr Finch.’
The kitchen is full of them now. Ray is the only one sitting, in the chair that shouldn’t be there.
‘My! Don’t you look smart, Ray!’ Mrs Finch rests her hands on Ray’s shoulders. ‘I told you Gloria would sort you out.’
William is confused. Mr Finch claps his hands and says, ‘So, William, we did it. Are you pleased?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Took you up on your suggestion.’
‘What suggestion?’
‘What other suggestions have you made?’ Mr Finch laughs. ‘Offering the spare bed in your room to your friend.’