When he arrived he parked and made his way across the communal courtyard to Oliver’s halls of residence, feeling a little out of place among the student population in his steel-toe-capped work boots, padded-knee trousers and with the Siddley logo on the chest of his polo shirt. He suspected that most of these students had parents who wore suits and felt the flush of inadequacy as he walked the pathway in the uniform of the maintenance staff. Another reason for Oliver to achieve more – so he might never know what this felt like. Nick wanted him to sit behind a big desk one day like Julian Siddley and not stand in front of it, nervous about asking for an afternoon off. He looked around at all the kids, loping around in twos or bigger packs, some wearing University of Birmingham T-shirts and all laughing, chatting, holding files or with backpacks slung over their shoulder, lest anyone be in any doubt they were esteemed scholars. And he more than understood their pride and the confidence they exuded. These were kids with the whole world at their feet. And he made no secret of the fact that he wanted Oliver to be one of them.
‘I’m not going to university, Dad. I’m getting married. Kerry’s pregnant . . . Dad . . . Dad? Say something!’
He made his way along the corridor, which now had a very different atmosphere from when he had experienced it on drop-off day. Then it had been quiet, a little subdued, gloomy almost, with the nerves of all newcomers and their parents bouncing off the bare magnolia-painted walls. Now music wafted from under doors, he spied posters stuck to walls, laughter filled the communal kitchens and the whole place felt a lot more personalised, more like a home and less like an institution, and one where a party was about to break out.
He knocked on Oliver’s door and stood back, swallowing a flutter of nerves and wondering how his son might appear. He pictured the pale-skinned, red-eyed distress; the haunted look that had been his son’s mask during Kerry’s funeral. Nick braced himself for whatever Oliver’s emotional needs might be, remembering the boy’s breakdown on the day of his results, when the grief he had tried to keep at bay finally caught up and overwhelmed him. He would never, ever forget the sight of his son crumpled and coiled on the welcome mat by the front door, so entirely broken, hurting more than he ever had and lost to his grief. Even the memory of it brought a lump to Nick’s throat. He offered up a silent prayer that his son’s meltdown today was not on the same scale, not only because he doubted his own ability to cope right now, but mainly because he did not want to see him go through anything close to that again. And again Peter’s words came to mind.
‘Grief is not a linear journey. Sadness is not a sequential thing. Your thoughts and feelings will dart this way and that, like a jagged rollercoaster that can drop you to the lowest low and raise you up to the highest high, and you have to almost sink back into it, submit, go with it and not judge it. In the beginning you will live at its will, but then, as time progresses, if you’re lucky, the tide changes and you will find you’re gradually taking back control. Your grief will be a little more under your own control, and that really is the start of true recovery, when you can set the pace and choose your moments . . .’
It was a second or two before Oliver opened the door, and the greeting was not what Nick had been expecting. In fact, it was in such contrast to the image he had painted that it shocked him.
‘Hi, Dad.’ The boy beamed and stepped back, holding the door open, almost with a flourish to his hand, to allow him entry. ‘Come in!’
Nick exhaled, realising only then that he had been holding his breath.
‘Are you okay?’ He looked him up and down, searching for visible signs of distress or harm, and found none. In fact, with a slight flush to his cheeks and his eyes bright, Oliver, if anything, looked positively chirpy.
‘I am now,’ Oliver offered with an undercurrent of laughter. ‘But I had a bit of a wobble this morning. Sit down.’ He pointed to the chair at the desk, on which he had placed a rather flat, garish cushion with a cactus print on it.
Nick sat. It felt odd to be in his son’s environment. A guest. He felt his pulse settle, lulled by the atmosphere in the room and his son’s demeanour.
‘So, let me get this straight.’ He was struggling to get a handle on the situation, which only hours earlier had sounded like the most extreme emergency, and yet now, judging from Oliver’s manner and smile, felt like nothing of the sort. ‘You said you wanted to leave university?’
Oliver sat down on the bed and rested against the wall, where more bright cushions lined up along the wall had turned it into a sofa of sorts. It was highly creative and a surprise that his son, who was happy for his bedroom at home to resemble the local dump, piled high with dirty clothes, empty cups and the contents of discarded folders, had this flair.
‘I had a bit of a panic.’ Oliver sighed, rubbing his palms together.
You had a bit of a panic? Me too after I took that bloody call! He kept these thoughts to himself. ‘Right.’ Nick felt the stir of frustration in his veins; he had cut his shift. Driven over a hundred and fifty miles and had sat with a twist in his gut for most of the journey, over a bit of a panic. ‘What was it made you panic, son?’ he asked, trying to keep his tone level.
‘I got my reading list this morning.’
‘Your reading list?’ He wasn’t sure what that was and again felt a flash of ignorance.
‘Yes, all the books we have to get and study for our first year, and it’s a big list, Dad. Not only the textbooks we need to have, but recommended reading as well. I guess I freaked out.’
Nick took a breath. ‘So you called me over a list of books you have to read?’
Oliver nodded. ‘I felt a bit overwhelmed.’
He stared at the boy and ran his thumb over his stubbly chin. ‘You know, Olly, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve driven for the last few hours with my heart in my mouth. I didn’t know what was waiting for me. A bit overwhelmed . . .’ he repeated, shaking his head. ‘Your mum has died, her treatment was rough on all of us, we didn’t have a proper Christmas last year when things were too bad, we’ve lived off rubbish food’ – he laid his hand on the small pouch of stomach that sat over the waistband of his trousers – ‘we’ve stayed up all night on too many occasions because she was too sick to lie down, the Hoover caught fire on your birthday, Treacle ate part of your “A” level project, we haven’t had so much as a day trip out let alone a holiday for more years than I care to remember, we got through that soul-crushing funeral, and yet you nearly lose the plot over being given a list of books to read?’
‘Yes.’ Oliver blinked.
‘I see.’ Nick took a deep breath. ‘But just to clarify, you’re feeling okay now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ he offered, with a hint of sarcasm that he hadn’t intended. Nick suddenly felt very tired, realising that adrenaline and anticipation had been his fuel for the last few hours. He couldn’t remember when he had last eaten.
Oliver sat forward. ‘I spoke to a couple of the guys here, and Tasha, and they all said I needed to look at it logically. I mean, it’s not like I have to read the whole list, and even if I did, then I get to do it over a long period of time.’