Deadlines...Chapter one

When he and Joseph had first considered buying the house they’d wondered whether the sound of the trains would be intrusive, but decided they liked the property enough to take the risk. It originated from the Victorian period and had been the residence and workplace of a succession of Station Masters. It retained some original features, including a handsome enamelled moulding depicting a train, which was screwed to the red brick wall at the front of the house. Underneath the plaque was a heavy brass plate engraved with a plain statement The Station Master’s House. Michael had wanted to replace it with a new plate engraved with a new name, one that read Michael and Joseph’s house, or similar. Joseph wouldn’t hear of it. The plate was a part of the history of the house and it would remain. Besides, he had patted Michael’s’ bottom, The Station Master’s House had a ring to it that he rather liked.

The garden, cultivated from scrubland at the back of the house, was large and long with plenty of mature well-established shrubs such as hawthorn, which served to filter away the worst of the noise from the tracks. What remained, aside from the sporadic rude shriek of a goods train, was an oddly harmonious background hum, a friendly clickity click at intervals during the day, declining in regularity throughout the night.

Michael’s nocturnal thoughts turned from trains to other modes of transport, ones that had a less soothing affect on him. They chased away all desire to try to regain the state of sleep. Sitting up carefully, so as not to disturb the slumbering Station Master, he swung his legs out of bed and stood up, intending to go downstairs and get a drink.

He was halfway down the stairs when the landing light snapped on making him jump almost out of his skin.

  “What’s the matter?” Joseph gazed enquiringly from the top stair managing to look authoritative even though he was stark naked and had sleep-rumpled manga hair. “Why are you sneaking around in the dead of night, again?”

  “I’m not sneaking. I rather resent that implication. It suggests something covert, when I was just thoughtfully trying not to disturb you. I had a weird dream and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I was just going to make myself a cup of tea. You go back to bed, go on,” Michael flicked his fingers in a ‘off you toddle’ kind of gesture. “I won’t be long.”

  “I warned you not to read that revolting book before settling down to sleep, it’s little wonder you had a bad dream.” Showing no sign of conveniently toddling off Joseph stretched out a hand, curling a peremptory forefinger, “back to bed. I’ll make the tea.”

Michael’s very pretty face developed an unattractive frown. “There’s no need. I can make my own tea perfectly well. I know you find it hard to believe, but I can actually plug in a kettle without mayor mishap. I don’t need mothering.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Joseph crisply. “I’ll make the tea. That way there’s less chance of you being tempted to substitute it for something else, like you did the other night when you couldn’t sleep. I don’t want you missing your footing and crashing down the stairs again. It’s a miracle you didn’t break your neck. These stairs are steep and they require sober negotiation at the best of times, never mind in the dead of night.”

The frown on Michael’s face deepened as his clandestine intention was rumbled. “I thought a small tot of whisky or brandy might help me get back to sleep. I’ll just have the one this time.”

  “No. Having one at this hour will simply make you less able to sleep and it will give you a headache. You don’t have the metabolism to cope with spirits, you know you don’t.”

  “I’m over the age of eighteen, I have the ID to prove it and I want a whisky. One won’t kill me for heaven’s sake.”

  “I said no and I meant no. You’re having decaffeinated tea and liking it, so put that scowl away and get back to bed.”

  “Joseph!”

  “Now, Michael.”

Michael pulled a face, but headed back upstairs.

Getting back into bed he watched sourly as Joseph lifted his bathrobe from the back of the bedroom door, slipping it on before heading down to the kitchen to make the tea. Decaffeinated tea! He hated bloody decaff tea. What was the point of tea or coffee for that matter without the caff?  It was like drinking wine without the alcohol, there was just no rhyme or reason to it. The trend for decaffeinated this and alcohol free that did not meet with his approval. The so-called health experts had everyone running scared about what should and shouldn’t be consumed. It was taking all the fun out of life. The way society was going if anyone died with a smile on their face, they’d be brought back to life and sentenced to live it over again, while being strictly monitored to prevent them from enjoying it. It was an erosion of personal freedom. People had a right to choose whether or not they wanted to be healthy.

He irritably scratched at his head. Besides, what use was tea for brooding over? Even tea with the caffeine left in was no good as a brooding companion. Serious brooding, in order to be properly observed, required a serious beverage, the hard stuff, not bloody tea. Tea was for old people who had gone far beyond brooding over life’s injustices.

As if to give voice to his grumpiness a train whistle screeched as a late goods train rumbled down the track outside. He might be mistaken, but there seemed a hint of Joseph’s voice in its whistle blowing. He suddenly sighed, reluctantly admitting to himself that drinking spirits usually did result in a headache and while a few drinks meant he fell asleep fairly quickly, he rarely stayed asleep for long.

All in all it was probably best not to push Joseph on the subject of alcohol, not so soon after the falling down the stairs at three in the morning incident. He had meant to have just one single malt whisky in a cup of hot milk, but he didn’t like hot milk, so he just had the malt without the milk. It went straight to his head and wiped out his ability to say no when he generously offered himself another large one, then a third, before deciding to return to bed. He could have sworn there was a stair where he was attempting to put his foot, but it had been an illusion. His foot had hit air and he’d gone arse over tit from the top right to the bottom of the stairs.

Fortunately he was inebriated enough for his body to have taken on a rubbery quality, which enabled him to bounce rather than shatter. He’d accumulated a few bruises, but nothing serious. He’d thought it quite funny, but the Station Master had not been amused at all. In consequence he had come over all Government Guideline and limited him to a strict number of units per day for an undisclosed period of time. In this case the units were single rather than plural. In other words just one, a glass of wine with dinner, which was far, far lower than even the Government Guide suggested. As Michael had said at the time, shortly before he ended up over Joseph’s knee, it just went to prove that democracy was simply a dictatorship waiting to fall into the wrong hands and what had once been merely a suggestion or recommendation then became an absolute order and source of persecution. That wasn’t why he ended up over Joseph’s knee. He had ended up over Joseph’s knee not for words, but for action. To be precise it was for throwing an expensive wine glass across the room in a display of democratic bad temper at not being permitted another glass of his favourite Wolf Blass chardonnay. Dictators didn’t care for that kind of freedom of expression, especially not his dictator who ruled the domestic empire with a hand of iron and upon occasion a paddle of wood.

 Lying back against the pillows Michael gazed up at the ceiling hoping Joseph wouldn’t be too long with the tea, not that he was eager to drink it or anything. He just didn’t like being alone for any period of time. His personality craved a constant audience. The ceiling, despite the benefit of several coats of quality white emulsion, still had fine cracks in it. The trains caused vibration to pass through the land and gently jostle the house causing hairline cracks in walls and ceilings. It was nothing serious according to the surveyor. The Victorians built solid so there was no danger of the house tumbling down. The cracks were just like wrinkles on a face, he said, an inevitable part of the aging process. Michael stopped staring at the ceiling and abruptly sat up again. He hadn’t cared for the analogy of wrinkles.

He turned his scrutiny on the wallpaper left behind by the previous owners as an asset, it being recently applied and appearing in the Estate Agents’ blurb as: ‘newly renovated master bedroom.’ It was a Laura Ashley pattern, shaggy oriental flowers in bilious shades of mauve. The curtains matched so that when drawn everything blended and you couldn’t tell exactly where the window was. The effect was claustrophobic. It would have to go. The whole house needed redecorating. Michael wanted to hire people in, but Joseph, Sir Parsimonious, said they could do it themselves at a fraction of the cost. It would be fun he said, something for them to do together on weekends and holidays. Michael gave a heavy sigh. Much like decaff tea, DIY was not to his taste.