BARNABY
Hate, Spite and Cabbage
Twenty five years ago a baby had been born to the most disagreeable partnership on the planet.
Herbert Turner, a taciturn lawyer from Manhattan had met Gladys when he came into her shop to return (and loudly complain about) a pair of shoes. Then, by the sheer amount of pig-headedness that culminated between them in the months that followed, they decided to marry and resent each other for the rest of their lives.
They bought a house that they hated, in a neighbourhood they despised and slowly went about moaning away every day of their days.
In time Gladys got pregnant and reluctantly gave up the job she hated in the offensive shoe shop.
The baby was born and they named him Barnaby, a name that they probably detested and raised him on a diet of bitterness and cabbage soup.
His teacher called him stoic, but he wasn’t stoic, he was bored. He wasn’t even miserable, he never cried because what was the point?
One day, when Barnaby was in his senior year of High School, his old man sat down in his chair which was too soft for his liking, picked up his paper that was too expensive for his tight-fisted wallet, and then promptly died.
The coroner reported he had suffered a heart attack.
What heart? Thought Barnaby as he stood on the edge of the rectangular hole watching the coffin disappear into it.
It rained that day. If he’d been alive Herbert would have complained.
The next few years passed uneventfully. Gladys complained about being on her own and having to look after the horrid house that now seemed to stink of acrimony (and cabbage)
As soon as he could Barnaby moved out of that house and into the city. He worked as a janitor in big office building and forcibly wasted most of his wages on phone calls to his mother and alcohol to forget them.
*
But six months ago, Barnaby Turner had awaked at an ungodly hour of the night to phone call of a completely different kind. Upon answering it he was a little disturbed but more irritated to learn from a Doctor Clarke that his Mother had suffered a stroke and had been taken to hospital, though her life wasn't in any danger she was apparently in some distress and was asking for him.
Five months ago, after many tantrums, many shouting matches and a crate load of pamphlets on nursing homes it was decided that Gladys Turner would not be returning to her house.
Four months ago, after yet more screaming matches it was decided that the aforementioned house would be put on the market so the proceeds could fund the move to what was clearly the most expensive nursing home in the brochure. It was a compromise reached through spite between mother and son and Barnaby couldn’t wait to sell the damn thing to the first person who would piss his mother off most.
Three months ago he had shown Blaine Anderson around the property for the first time. Blaine was a respectable young business man with a good income and savings rate, an impressive degree and ambitions of publishing a book. He was friendly, courteous and polite.
He also kept a copy of vogue in the passenger seat of his car, wore bowties, ankle cropped trousers with woollen vests and had a boyfriend called Kurt.
He was perfect.
Two months ago Blaine and Kurt put their offer down on the house, it was more than reasonable and he accepted it without a second thought.
Last month he had been to collect the last of his mother’s things and lightly dropped into conversation with his dear old ma that he had sold the house to a delightful gay couple (“To a what couple!?”) that he was sure she’d absolutely ADORE.
The woman had almost hyperventilated and he had unfortunately been asked to leave by the nurses before he excited her any further.
He drove home with a smile on his face that night singing along when Shirley Bassey came on the radio.
Yes this had all worked out quite nicely.
*
It was a few weeks later that something very much unexpected happened.
It started, once again with a phone call.
Barnaby was surprised to hear Blaine’s voice, though it made a welcome change from his mother.
“Kurt was looking for some space up in the loft of the house and he found a big trunk of old clothes and books and stuff” Blaine told him “We didn’t just want to take it to a charity shop or something in case there was something in it you wanted, so er, I'm around most days if you wanna come pick it up? Or if you’re not fussed…?”
Barnaby was about to tell him that he could do what he liked with it, burn it for all he cared, he had everything he needed in his apartment, and he certainly did not want a trunk of his parents junk. But then he found himself agreeing anyway.
What the hell? He was curious to see how they were settling into the house of hate, and how the uppity old neighbours were responding. He’d never really thought about that when he sold up. The whole “Gay” thing had obviously crossed his mind, not that he gave a toss either way. He just knew it would annoy his mother.
“Sure Blaine” he said “I’ll be round tomorrow”
*
The house looked the same as it always had, no rainbows flying out the sides, no unicorns gazing in the front garden. The only thing that was different was the mail box. The bold print “Turner” had been replaced with “Anderson & Hummel” and someone had drawn a little smiley face in the “o” of “Anderson”. It made Barnaby scoff. Happy? ahhahaha.
He knocked on the door and waited. After about ten seconds it opened.
Blaine wasn't wearing his little bowtie and vest today. He looked terribly ordinary. In fact he looked a little scruffy.
His clothes were clean but casual, a hoodie and sweats, his hair brushed but rough and perhaps a couple of days’ worth of stubble on his chin, he was wearing glasses and looked tired but smiled brightly anyway.
“Hey” he said
“Hi” Barnaby returned and followed him into the hall. He almost gasped aloud.
The hall looked so… different… the horrid wallpaper was gone replaced by soft blue paint, it seemed bigger, brighter and there was something else too that he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Blaine showed him into the living room. The uncomfortable chairs had been long removed before the house was old but the where now replaced by low set, stylish sofa’s and a glass topped coffee table. But the thing that struck him the most was the photographs.
His parent’s had had three pictures in the house.
One of their wedding day where Gladys looked wonderfully misshapen in a too tight lacy dress and Herbert looked bored and stiff in his ill-fitting suit. It was a wonderful conversation (complaint) starter.
One of Barnaby as a baby, sitting up in a pram in a woolly sweater that made his neck itch so much it turned red and gave him a perpetually miserable expression.
And one of Herbert’s car. No kidding.
Kurt and Blaine had loads of them. There was one of them on the fireplace, they looked young and they were laughing, arms thrown around each other.
On the walls there were five frames, some of them held multiple pictures though, faces repeating themselves as they squashed in next to each other.
A really tall looking man with a crew cut and a goofy grin.
A large black woman kissing a white gye, with blond hair and big lips, on the cheek.
A woman with straight brown hair and a smile that could probably blind people in real life wearing graduation robes and brandishing a degree with a man Barnaby recognised as Kurt dressed in identical attire and looking at his degree like it was an alien life form.
A line of boys in blazers.
An Asian couple pulling faces.
A big group photo of kids on some sort of stage holding a big trophy.
A bald man looking a little strange in a suit beaming at a laughing woman with gingery hair in a wedding dress.
And wasn't that the guy from the credit ratings adverts spraying Blaine with a water pistol…?
A life…
A happy life, full of smiles and laughter.
“You okay man?” Blaine asked and he realised he’d been staring.
“Yeah sorry, miles away” he smiled tightly.
Blaine nodded and showed him the trunk. He had been right, he didn’t want anything from inside of it and resolved to ditch it in a skip or a charity shop (whichever came first) on his way home.
He was offered to stay for coffee which he accepted and they fell into a surprisingly easy conversation. Blaine talked about the city and Barnaby tried to agree with all his passionate sentiments but the truth was he’d never been to time square or the Empire State building or Brooklyn Bridge…
“Kurt used to drag me sightseeing all the time when we lived there “ Blaine laughed as he drained his cup “there was this little coffee shop we used to go to…”
Barnaby had stopped listening but he watched Blaine’s face with curiosity. Every time he talked about Kurt, Kurt’s dream, Kurt’s college, Kurt’s scarves… his eyes lit up like he was genuinely excited to bring him up once again.
Barnaby had the feeling that light would still come on even if he was talking about Kurt’s psychotic rampage with a chainsaw or Kurt’s twelve hour lecture on the properties of dust bunnies… And that confused the hell out of him.
*
Barnaby drove home on a daze. Not quite sure what, but there was something niggling at the back of his mind.
The next week he got one final phone call from his mother then, like his father before her, sat herself down, contentedly miserable and had another stroke, she hung on grimly for a couple of hours just to make everyone’s life difficult for just a little while longer, but eventually she grumbled herself to sleep and never woke up again.
He went to her funeral and dutifully cleared out her belongings from her room in the home and that was the day it finally clicked.
The house didn’t smell like cabbage anymore.
He thought about the smiling faces peering out of the photo frames and that stupid little light that he didn’t understand in Blaine’s eyes…
Without warning or conscious thought, a crooked smile stretched over his face. He shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment something building in his chest. When he opened them again he found himself staring at the stack of papers he’d been sorting. With a hoot he threw them in the air and they scattered across the floor and without a second glance, he left.
By the time he got in the car his laughter was damn near hysterical and attracted several odd looks from the other residents sitting in the care home gardens.
Barnaby didn’t care.When he got home he made a pot of coffee, filled a flask and drove out to Brooklyn Bridge, he stood out there till it got dark and the lights of the city twinkled like stars.
The house wouldn’t smell like cabbage again for a very, very long time.