The Story of Joe Brown. Rose Doyle
Joe Brown was a quiet fellow.
“In the library …” she echoed as she pushed open the door. “That’s nice.”
The room was to the back of the house. It had more frills and flounces than Joe cared for. But it was bright and the bed looked comfortable. It was also clean. Everything the hostel was not, in fact.
“Will it do?” She sounded even more worried. Joe nodded and her expression became one of relief. “I’ll need a few days to sort things out,” she said. “Could you ring on Friday?”
He rang on Friday and moved in on Saturday.
Late in the evening, after he’d unpacked and sorted his few belongings, he wandered down to the kitchen to make himself a nightcap. He didn’t really want one, but he was hoping to meet Julia before going to bed. He met her daughter instead.
“I’m Angie.” She half-turned from the fridge. “I suppose you’re the lodger.” She gave him a cursory look before turning away to click her long fingernails on the fridge door. “Mum never has anything interesting in here.” She was sulky and tapped her foot impatiently. “Always the same old junk. Would you like a yoghurt?” She made another half-turn, trying to smile and failing miserably. Her eyes were unfriendly. She looked to Joe to be about eighteen.
He felt as if he’d been hit in the stomach with a wooden plank. He’d been a fool, again. He’d slipped back into James Mulberry behaviour. He’d arrived here in a haze of bright dreams and silly ideas about himself and Julia becoming friends. More than friends, perhaps, in time. But his landlady was married. She had a grown daughter whose father, Julia’s husband, would no doubt arrive home any minute. If he wasn’t already in the house. Joe Brown had been very, very stupid. A woman like Julia was bound to be married.
He’d been spending too much time alone, losing touch with reality. This was a wake-up call and he’d better pay heed. He would not be so stupid again. As Joe Brown, he would pay his rent, keep his nose clean and put nonsense about cosy friendships with his lovely landlady out of his head.
Angie sat at the table eating a yoghurt. She made a half-hearted effort to be pleasant. But it was clear she didn’t like him moving into the house. As dark as her mother was fair, she was every bit as good looking, though in a different way. Where Julia was doll like and blue eyed, Angie was strong boned with large brown eyes. She lacked her mother’s lightness of touch too. She probably took after her father in temperament as well as appearance.
“We won’t see much of each other,” she said. “I work at night. In a club.”
“Sounds interesting,” Joe said. Angie shrugged. When the kettle boiled, she raised her eyebrows at him but didn’t move.
“I’ll just make myself a cup of tea,” Joe said and got himself a mug.
“Whatever.” Angie shrugged and finished the yoghurt. “Mother says you’re a librarian.” She looked bored.
“Yes,” Joe said.
He was the library handyman, in fact, and lucky to have any job. But Angie didn’t look like a library user, so let her think what she liked. It wasn’t as if he’d never been a librarian. In prison, when they’d discovered his liking for books, they’d put him in charge of the library. But there was no shortage of people who liked books outside of prison. And libraries preferred to employ people without criminal records. Keeping the windows and the gutters clean was his job these days.
“Do you like to read?” he asked Angie.
“Nope. It’s a stupid, boring waste of time.” She reached behind her and turned up the volume on a small white television sitting on the work top. “Reading’s for nerds –” She stopped and shrugged. He finished the sentence for her.
“Like me?” he offered.
“If the cap fits.” She shrugged again. “What good did reading ever do you?”
The way she looked at him said it all. Angie Ryan was seriously under-impressed by her mother’s lodger. He could have told her that reading had got him out of prison ahead of time. Instead, he said, “Would you like me to make you a cup of tea too?” and reached for a second mug.
“All right,” Angie said. Joe turned the kettle back on. It was white with a gold handle. Everything in the kitchen was either white or gold. The floor tiles were white with grains of gold running through them. It all looked very expensive.
Julia came into the kitchen while the kettle was boiling up again. “I’m glad to see you’re making yourself at home, Joe,” she said, filling the room with her smiling good humour. “And so is Angie. Aren’t you, my pet?”
“Absolutely,” Angie said.
“Have breakfast with us in the morning,” Julia invited. “There’s no need to be shy or to stand on ceremony. It’s nice for us to have a man about the house. Isn’t it, Angie?”
“Wonderful,” Angie said. “Just wonderful.”
Chapter 3
Joe’s days formed a pattern after that.
The dull November mornings dawned a lot brighter in his new room than they had in the hostel. He found it easier to get up and a lot easier to feel hopeful about life.
Every morning he had a breakfast of cereal and toast with the Ryans, mother and daughter. Julia usually had it on the table for him when he arrived down to the kitchen.
“I’m not much of a cook,” she said the first morning, laughing. “If you want boiled eggs, I could just about do them. Anything else you’ll have to do yourself.” She was wrapped in a soft, white towelling housecoat, her face smooth and young looking.
“Toast and cereal are just grand,” Joe said. A coffee on its own was what he was used to. It would have done, but he didn’t tell her that. He liked her fussing about him.
The days in the library, fixing and cleaning, became almost pleasurable now he had the evenings in Copper Avenue to look forward to. It took only a week for him to begin thinking of the house as home.
Most evenings Julia was there when he arrived in. There would be pizzas or TV dinners in the oven and a bottle of wine open on the table.
“Please don’t be embarrassed,” she said the first evening. “I like company for my evening meal and Angie’s never here. You’ll be doing me a favour, eating with me.”
So eating together became part of the pattern too. They talked a lot, about nothing much but easily. Julia never asked him about himself. He never brought up the subject of a Mr Ryan. If he was dead or gone, fine. Better still if he’d never existed.
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