Hot Air Balloon

John Cotton lived alone. When he had retired – early, at fifty-eight – the people in his family had teased him about what on earth he was going to do now, and he’d always replied ‘There’s not enough hours in the day.’ The first time he said it, it seemed true. He’d gone to Leek market; gone for walks down the lane and over the fields; watched his discs of Downton Abbey; and gone to his sister’s, Dee's, for Sunday tea. But these things soon changed from things he did because he wanted to, to things he did to fill the time. Trying to get to sleep, he would be pestered by the thought ‘Where did the years go?’ and he would lie awake thinking it must be some kind of sin to live like this. Now, after more than a year, if anyone had asked him the question of how on earth he filled up his days, he might have shrugged and said ‘It’s not easy, but you keep to your routine.’ But they had stopped asking it.

One thing he placed more and more value on was good customer service. When he went to the shops or to a village pub for his lunch, nothing could enrage him like being ignored by the person who served him. He would brood on it all day. It would be enough to make it so he never went back to that Tesco, or that Garden Centre, or that pub, and it would set him off thinking dark thoughts about how everything had gone wrong in the country and everything was fucked.

All folks wanted was a friendly smile, a word about the weather, and if they didn’t get it, they had a right to complain. That was why he liked Ben.

Ben was the lad who worked the frozen food aisle at the local supermarket. He was a blond lad, tall, and he had a funny bouncing walk that made you want to giggle whenever you saw him. John called him ‘Tigger.’

‘Hey up, Tigger,’ he’d say loudly, turning into the aisle with his trolley on a Friday morning. He’d punch him on the arm.

‘How’s it going, mate?’ Tigger might say, putting a box of frozen chips to the floor and standing up to look at him. ‘You’ll get me sacked, you will. Never mind. What d’you say to a sad violinist?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Keep your chin up!’ And laughing, Tigger would slap John on the arm, pick the box up, and carry on putting the chips on the shelf. Sometimes John stayed, and the two of them would talk happily until one of the managers walked past, when Tigger would flash John a look and say ‘Right. Best get on before I get the sack, mate.’ Then John would leave, and that day would be a good day.

It was March – March already. John was always alarmed when he saw the date – alarmed at how far into the year they were, and alarmed by what year it was; it always sounded – futuristic. His parents were both dead. Indeed, lots of the people of his early life were now died and, John knew, this was how you died. Very slowly, everyone who knew you, and everyone you knew – in life and on telly – dropped away until you were an old man with nothing left to keep you there. One-by-one, all the strings that tied you to the world were cut, till finally, in the end, nobody knew you and you knew nobody. It was a different world – yours had been replaced – and there was nothing for you to do but quietly float up in its wake.

He became restless. He couldn’t read his books anymore; he would sit with them for five minutes and stand up again, pacing the room. In the early hours he would lie awake thinking foolish, long-put-to-bed thoughts and sweating into the covers. He bought new clothes: new corduroys and sweatshirts in a range of colours; a red cravatte. He had never cared much about football, but now he kept the radio tuned to a sports station all day, and knew all the fixtures, and was interested. He drove around aimlessly. He bought some mouthwash. He went frequently to the supermarket.

‘Hey up, Tigger. Shame about that rabble on Saturday.’

‘I know – they all want fucking shooting, mate. Hey, they've invented a new drug to cure depression in lesbians.’

‘Oh–’

‘It's called trycoxagain.’

‘That’s right. I say, it looks as though we’re in for a storm.’

At Dee’s, his sister’s, where he had been going for his Sunday tea the last twenty years, it was said he was a new man. Nothing went unremarked upon. ‘You’ve lost weight, John.’ ‘New cravatte, John?’ ‘What’s that smell, John? Aftershave?’ ‘You never used to like football, John.’ ‘You’ve been to Tesco again, John?’ ‘That’s funny. You never used to tell jokes, John.’

‘He’s got a woman in his life,’ said Dee’s husband. ‘That’ll be it.’

‘That won’t be it,’ said Dee. ‘But it’s definitely something.’

‘It’s not anything,’ said John. ‘I don’t know what you’re on about. Now shut up, the both of you.’

But he did know what they were talking about: it was impossible to hide it. John found that he was thinking more and more about Tigger from the supermarket. He knew it was foolish, but he couldn’t help it. Things Tigger had said would seem to grow in significance as the days went by, until John, who’d thought nothing of them at the time, clung to them at night, repeated them, lived on them. The way it happened was this: he’d see Tigger and they would speak as normal, and John would go home. Then, over the next few days, the idea of Tigger would grow in John’s mind until he was always there, talking to him, laughing along with him, commenting on the little things that only John could see as he went about his day. As it reached its climax and it became painful for John to even be awake, alive, he’d see Tigger again, they would speak as normal, and the process would begin again. Sometimes he avoided that supermarket and went weeks without seeing Tigger, and those times he wouldn’t think of him so much. But he always went back. He would imagine Tigger’s surprise at how much weight he had lost. ‘He’s no good for me, that lad,’ he thought. In the daytime he knew – almost knew – that what was in his head was ridiculous, but at night he convinced himself it could be his, and worked himself into a rage for not doing anything to claim it.

Weeks passed and winter turned to spring. John spent most of his time in the garden. In May it would be his birthday; he would be sixty. All the family would be there, thirty or fourty people in a marquee. He knew what he would do. He would hire a hot air balloon and they would take rides up in it. He had always wanted to go in a hot air balloon. Yes, that was what he’d do. It was the thought of this, the lovely, perfect thought, that got John through the next few weeks, and as they went by, he added to it with new details and new faces. He saw it all; he lived for it.

‘Hey up, Tigger. Have you got a joke for me today?’

One of the managers was standing nearby.

'Not today,’ said Tigger, turning around to talk to another customer. ‘Hold on – I’ll be with you in a second, sir. Right –’ he turned back – ‘how can I help you, sir?’

‘Have you ever been up in a hot air balloon?’

'Me? No. Why?’

‘Never mind why.’ John passed him an envelope, and tapped his nose.

‘What’s this?’ John smiled, and Tigger took his freezer gloves off and began to open the envelope. He was about to pull out the invitation when the manager came over.

‘Ben, we need you over on cereals – what’s this?’ The manager looked down and took the envelope from him. She was reading for several seconds. She looked up at John, and turned to Tigger. ‘Sorry, Ben, do you know this gentleman?’

'Not really.’

'Oh.’ She looked back at John, and spoke slowly. ‘Well. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to take this from you now, or else you can have it to take home again, OK? Would you like it back, sir? OK. There you go. OK. Ben, you can go now. Thank you, Ben,’ she added, as Tigger bounced away. Facing John, she smiled and turned to looked at the aisle behind her. She turned back and, as if she’d forgotten he was there, said ‘How many I help you, sir?’

'I’m fine, thank you,’ said John, and went home.

On the day of his birthday all the family went up in the hot air balloon. There were more than thirty of them – cousins, nephews, nieces; their kids. It was a clear blue day. As the balloon went up and up, he looked down at everyone in his garden. They would all be gone tomorrow. He sipped from his champagne glass and thought: Here’s to the rest of my life.