William Penhaligon of Number 22 had not opened his curtains in three years. He preferred the house dim. Dim meant peaceful, quiet, manageable. Dim meant he didn\u2019t have to see the rosebushes that had grown wild without June\u2019s neat hands to clip them back.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He hadn\u2019t meant to vanish from the neighbourhood. He just\u2026 drifted away. Covid restrictions arrived, and where others felt their world shrink, William felt an odd sort of relief. No need to pop into the shops. No obligations. Delivery vans brought him tins and teabags, socks and screwdrivers, all without him having to cross the doorstep.
And once the world opened again \u2026 well, he simply didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Still, turning seventy felt like it ought to mean something. He acknowledged it by making himself a slightly more luxurious breakfast: an extra sausage. He ate it alone, in silence, then put the plate in the sink and closed the kitchen door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The day passed uneventfully.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was sometime after midnight when the knocking began.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Soft, polite tapping, knock-knock-knock<\/em>, coming from his bedroom window. This was alarming because his bedroom was on the first floor, and even the milkman couldn\u2019t reach that height.<\/p>\n\n\n\n William sat up, heart thudding. \u201c<\/strong>Mr. William Penhaligon? Your file has reached the top of our queue.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n On the windowsill, cross-legged as if it were the most natural seat in the world, perched a man of indeterminate age. He wore a rumpled grey suit, biro tucked behind one ear and held a clipboard that seemed to be made of smoke and old letters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWho who are you?\u201d William stammered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The stranger gave a neat bow of the head. William blinked several times. \u201cThis is a dream.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n Broome consulted his clipboard. \u201cYou\u2019re welcome to believe that sir, but I\u2019m required to proceed regardless. Now, according to Section 14B, you\u2019ve been \u2018stalled in unresolved grief\u2019 for \u2026.let\u2019s see \u2026.\u201d He turned a page, \u201c one thousand and ninety-five days. You\u2019ve remained on the same metaphorical page for almost exactly three years. Regulations oblige us to help you turn it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI don\u2019t want to turn anything,\u201d William muttered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Broome gave a sympathetic sigh; the sort people give when they\u2019ve seen many cases like yours. \u201cOdd\u201d Thought William \u201c\u2026 why is he speaking in Bold Text?\u201d he could see the worlds quite clearly nice neat and bold black text. He shook his head but before he could protest, the room dissolved, not with a jolt, but like the gentle unravelling of a daydream. When it came back into focus, they were standing in his living room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n But it wasn\u2019t the living room as it was now. June\u2019s yarn basket by the hearth. William reached out, a reflex, but as his fingers brushed the chair, it crumbled into soft grey mist and vanished.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Broome made a mark on his clipboard. \u201cVery good. Acknowledgement achieved.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat are you doing?\u201d William whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWe don\u2019t erase,\u201d Broome said gently. \u201cWe release. Big difference.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He led William through another shifting of air and memory, into the kitchen. On the fridge was the last shopping list June had written: His throat tightened. \u201cPlease don\u2019t\u2026\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n But Broome only touched a corner of the paper. It lifted, curled into vapour, and dissolved.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Another note on the clipboard. \u201cExcellent. One more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n The world tilted again, and they stood before the hallway mirror. The reflection staring back at William was almost a stranger, pale, withdrawn, older than he remembered being.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Broome reached inside his smoky clipboard and pulled out something solid: a birthday card. A real one, warm to the touch, with a faded blue envelope.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI thought I\u2019d lost that,\u201d William murmured.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cYou did,\u201d Broome said softly. \u201cPeople often lose the things they most need to find.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n William opened it. \u201cBill, His breath hitched. The words blurred. He pressed the card to his chest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Broome cleared his throat. William closed his eyes. For the first time in years, he let the grief move, not crush, not drown, but move<\/em>. And something inside him, something that had been held tightly shut, loosened.<\/p>\n\n\n\n When he opened his eyes, Broome was stepping back onto the windowsill.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cOur work here is done. You\u2019re cleared for resumption of life. Try the outdoors sometime, it\u2019s still there you know\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWill I see you again?\u201d William asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Broome smiled kindly. With a faint whfff<\/em> of displaced air, he was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n The next morning sunlight pushed through the curtains and, unusually, William let it. He rose, dressed, and descended the stairs, each motion a little stiff from disuse.<\/p>\n\n\n\n He opened the front door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Cool morning air washed over him, smelling of damp hedges and someone\u2019s burnt toast. The Close was waking birds, bins, children, all of it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n As he stepped onto the drive, Michael from number 24 straightened up from inspecting his bin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWell I\u2019ll be,\u201d Michael said, grinning. \u201cMorning, William! Haven\u2019t seen you in a bit.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n William found himself smiling back. A line from an old song rose up in him, unbidden but welcome\u2014the song he and June had danced to in the Stand Hotel in Portstewart in 1974: At the end of the Close, the kids from number 16 were chalking a hopscotch grid, arguing loudly about who got to draw the star in square nine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n One of them spotted him. \u201cMorning, Mister Penhaligon!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMorning,\u201d he said, surprising himself at how natural it felt. William chuckled. \u201cMaybe in a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n He kept walking, down Nether Oak Close, past the hedges and the parked cars and the rising day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n And though he couldn\u2019t quite name the feeling, it was something like beginning again.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" This Nether Oak Close story came from a Sunday morning random music selection of Jim Croce’s “Lover’s cross” .. the line “Pages where mean for turning” echoed across the years from when I heard it first and this story appeared in my noggin .. Click Read More to find out all about the department of turning the page<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":208,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[4,18],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-207","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-stories","category-nether-oak-close-stories"],"yoast_head":"\n
Another knock. Then a voice, prim and mild:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c<\/strong>Caseworker Broome, Department of Turning the Page. Very backed up we were, after the pandemic. Thousands of people stuck. Regrettably, you\u2019ve been pending for some time.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c<\/strong>Most people say that at first. Shall we begin?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It was how it had been.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The framed print of Dunluce castle, she\u2019d insisted on hanging slightly crooked.
And her armchair, angled toward his, with the faint depression of her body still in the cushion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
tea, porridge oats, marmalade, and something nice for pudding.<\/em>
He had never taken it down.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Inside was June\u2019s handwriting rounded, neat, familiar:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Promise me we\u2019ll keep turning pages.
Love always, J.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201c<\/strong>This is the final item in your file. Acceptance triggers release. Once you\u2019re ready\u2026 the page turns.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cNot if all goes well.\u201d<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cFeels like time to turn a page.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
These pages were meant for turning\u2026<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
The little girl with the plaits pointed at the hopscotch. \u201cWant a go?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n