The Flatshare: A Novel

On the way to meet Johnny White the First. It’s very early – four-hour journey there, then three buses to get from Johnny White the First’s place to HMP Groundsworth, where I have a 3 p.m. visit with Richie. Legs stiff from train seats with limited leg room; back sweaty from carriages without air conditioning. As I roll up shirt sleeves further, discover old Post-it note from Tiffy stuck in the cuff. Something from last month about what the strange man in Flat 5 does at 7 a.m. Hmm. Embarrassing. Must check clothes for notes before leaving the flat.

Greeton, home of Johnny White, is a surprisingly pretty little town, stretched out flat on the matt green fields of the Midlands. Walk from bus station to JW’s address. Have emailed him a couple of times, but am not sure what to expect in person.

When I arrive, a very large and intimidating Johnny White barks at me to come in; I find myself immediately obeying and following him through to sparsely furnished living room. Only distinctive feature is piano in corner. It’s uncovered and looks well treated.

Me: You play?

JW the First: I was a concert pianist in my day. I don’t play so much now, but I keep the old girl in here. It doesn’t feel like home without her.

I’m delighted. It’s perfect. Concert pianist! World’s coolest profession! And no pictures anywhere of wife or children – excellent.

JW the First offers me tea; what appears is a thick, chipped mug of builder’s brew. It reminds me of tea at Mam’s. A strange moment of homesickness follows – must go and see her more.

JW the First and I settle on sofa and armchair, opposite one another. Suddenly realising this is a potentially difficult subject to broach. Did you have a love affair with a man in World War Two? Is perhaps not something this man wants to talk about with stranger from London.

JW the First: So, what was it you were after, exactly?

Me: I was wondering. Umm.

Clear throat.

Me: You served in the army in World War Two, yes?

JW the First: Two years, with a short break for them to dig a bullet out of my stomach.

Find myself staring at his stomach. JW the First flashes surprisingly dynamic grin at me.

JW the First: You’re thinking they must have had a job finding it, aren’t you?

Me: No! I was thinking there are lots of vital organs in the stomach area.

JW the First, chuckling: German buggers missed those, lucky for me. Anyway, I was more worried about my hands than my stomach. You can play the piano without a spleen, but you can’t play the piano if frostbite’s eaten your fingers off.

Gaze at JW the First in awe and horror. He chuckles again.

JW the First: Ah, you don’t want my old war horror stories. Did you say you’re looking into your family history?

Me: Not mine. A friend’s. Robert Prior. He served in the same regi­ment as you, though I’m not sure it was exactly at the same time. Do you happen to remember him?

JW the First thinks hard. Scrunches up nose. Tilts head.

JW the First: No. Doesn’t ring any bells. Sorry.

Eh, was long shot. One down, though, still seven on list to go.

Me: Thanks, Mr White. I won’t take more of your time. Just one question – have you ever married?

JW the First, gruffer than ever: No. My Sally died in an air raid back in forty-one, and that was that for me. I never found anyone like my Sally.

I almost get teary at that. Richie would laugh at me – he always calls me a hopeless romantic. Or ruder things to that effect.

*

Kay, on other end of phone: Honestly, Leon. I think if you had your way, all of your friends would be over the age of eighty.

Me: He was an interesting man, is all. I enjoyed speaking to him. And – concert pianist! World’s coolest profession, no?

Amused silence from Kay.

Me: Still seven to go, though.

Kay: Seven what?

Me: Seven Johnny Whites.

Kay: Oh, yeah.

She pauses.

Kay: Are you going to be spending all your weekends traipsing across Britain trying to find an old man’s boyfriend, Leon?

I pause this time. Had sort of planned on doing that, yes. When else am I going to find Mr Prior’s Johnny? Can’t do it during working week.

Me, tentatively: . . . No?

Kay: Good. Because I see you rarely enough as it is, with all your visits and your shifts. You do see that, don’t you?

Me: Yes. Sorry. I’m—

Kay: Yep, yep, I know, you care about your job, Richie needs you. I do know all that. I’m not trying to be difficult, Leon. I just feel like . . . it should bother you more. As much as it bothers me. The not seeing each other.

Me: It bothers me! But I saw you this morning?

Kay: For about half an hour, for a very rushed breakfast.

Flash of irritation. Gave up half an hour of three-hour power nap to allow for breakfast with Kay. Deep breath. Notice where we are out of window.

Me: Got to go. I’m pulling into the prison.

Kay: Fine. Let’s talk later. Will you text me what train you get?

I don’t like this – the checking-up, the texting about trains, always knowing where the other person will be. But . . . it’s unreasonable of me. Can’t object. Kay already thinks I’m a commitment-phobe. It’s a favourite term of hers at the moment.

Me: Will do.

But I don’t, in the end. Mean to, but don’t. It’s the worst argument we’ve had in ages.