getting home (2)

He picked himself off the floor and went through to the living room. Jess sat where she’d been before, although she’d changed into a dressing gown. The lights were on. There was a mug of tea and some buttered toast by her table and he saw the same on a table by the sofa for him.

“Sorry about nodding off there. A bit cream-crackered from the drive and all that…”
“That’s alright son, you must have needed it. Have some supper.”
He sat down, took a bite of toast and picked up his tea.
“Aye you’ll not notice those windows tomorrow.”
He eased back into the sofa and they both sipped away.
“How’s wee Caitlin?”
There was a crunch as he bit into his toast, chewed and swallowed.
“Ach Nana, she’s my wee smasher.”
“Everything’s all right then?”
He blew on his tea and let the rising steam coddle his face.
“Oh aye, things are fine. I just needed a wee bit time away out in the old country air. A few days off work and that…”
Jess put down her cup. Her left hand tap-tapped away on the wooden arm of the chair.
“Aye, and sorry about the short notice. I hope it was alright to come.”
Her hand was still busy with its Morse Code on the chair, he noticed.
“Just for a bit of the old country air, and that. Like when I was wee.”
“It’s not a problem son. Any time. Stay as long as you need to. Do you need to phone Carol-Ann?”
“Nah.”
He looked out the window, but could only see the interior of the living room reflecting back. He wondered if the tap-tapping was a secret message of dashes and dots telling him what she really thought. What nonsense! He needed to give himself a good shake, his head was still thick from the bedroom.
“I might nip out for a ..eh.. a wee walk.”
“Please yourself son. I’m away to bed in fifteen minutes anyway.”
“Should I take a key?”
“Nobody locks their doors in the village. Mind and turn the hall light out before you go to bed.”

 He tidied up and went out down to the road and followed its path alongside the loch towards the village. A bird meep-ed from the deep dark of the forest behind the houses. There was a chilly breeze coming in off the water that moved in the trees. Alexander zipped up his jacket.
 He took his time, enjoying the gentle lapping sound of the water and the odd straining groan of boats moored a little way out. He thought of bed springs, of bedrooms. Last night seemed such a world away now, a hallucination. Out here walking with the tang of seaweed in the air, with the billion-fold pinpoints of starlight piercing the night, he felt utterly removed from his Glasgow life.

 Eventually he reached the village proper and saw the open-armed light of the pub window. He realised he was holding his breath. His head was still a little grimy from his interrupted sleep earlier. The pub door opened and he heard laughter burst from its warmth. He walked a little closer then stopped. In his jacket pocket his fingers scurried around looking for it. Between the coins and sweetie papers and tufts of tissues he found it.
He took out the little square of paper, unfolded it and read:

It’s not the going home.

It’s the getting home.