The Waif and the Stray

"Ok."

He gives me the address, but tells me he'll meet me at the bus stop on Portland Road anyway. I bite down hard on my lip to stop the surge of hope. It might be a shitheap. It might be a trap.

I forcibly stop myself from thinking like that, because in truth, Jude has been nothing but good to me since the day we met on the beach. Me exploring Brighton like it was actually another planet, him rolling a cigarette and watching the tide. I know he fancies me but he's never been aggressive about it. A bit cocky, but that's not a crime. He's shared his food and drink with me on some days; his jokes and stories and frustrations with not being able to read on others.

I stand up, gathering the bags into my hands to trudge down the hill to catch the bus.

His head is bent over his phone, so I see him from the bus before he sees me. Which is a rarity, now I think about it. Usually, he's the one calling to me from his vantage point in the street. The warm evening light catches his hair, picking out more of the red. He's in shorts again. This hot weather is insane.

"Hey."

"Hi." I feel horribly self-conscious now that I'm here.

Self-conscious about how I look and about carrying my stuff with me like I'm proper homeless. Which I am, but I've been denying that inconvenient truth for weeks now, somewhat aided by the weather, actually, since it's made it possible for me to sleep outside without getting cold or wet. He takes the rucksack out of my hands without another word, and slings it over one shoulder before setting out. Maybe he's as freaked out at our unfamiliar situation as I am.

"It's this way, up here."

I follow his lead until we reach a big red brick house. The paintwork might be shabby, but it's a proper house and I'm already doubtful the rent will be affordable. But Jude opens the front door without knocking and calls out towards the back.

"Al?"

A huge bloke with lots of black hair appears in the hall.

"You must be Lou. Come on in and we can show you the room. It's in the attic and it's got a few bits of my stuff up there, but if you like it, we can clear it up over the weekend. I don't usually rent it out, but Jude here tells me you're in a bit of a tight spot."

I'm surprised at how tentative he sounds. Nervous, almost. He's smiling too, holding out his hand like I should shake it. His is a gentle grip. I follow both of them up the stairs -- three flights of them -- until we're standing in a room with sloping ceilings and windows that let in the beautiful evening light as if it's a cathedral. I stare at the shapes and shadows, at the piles of books and guitars against one wall.

"Uh, this is the shit I'd move out, if you like the room, that is. There's a sink in here from when this was all divided up into little bedsits, but the bathroom is just one floor down. There's five of us living here..."

I've stopped listening, because I can't believe my luck. I try to stop blinking in case everything disappears when I close my eyes.

"You like it?" Jude's voice, suddenly close to my ear.

I shiver, despite the heat.

"It's great. But how much is it?"

Al names a price that is more than reasonable for such a big room. As if he knows the doubts running through my head, he adds that the five of them are used to splitting the rent between them, and so anything I might add will be extra.

"And," he adds, a nice smile on his face, "it doesn't look like you're gonna be heavy on the wear and tear, but maybe you take hour-long showers or something, so we'll see how it works out once we get the next lot of utility bills in. Deal?"

I spin round once more, unable to not notice the fact the door locks from the inside. A leftover from its bedsit days, I suppose.

"Fuck, yes. Deal."

My excitement is showing, however hard I might be trying otherwise. I swing around and catch Jude's eye. He's grinning wide. Maybe I am too.

"Ok. So --," Al interrupts, "you might as well stay here from tonight, if you want."

"What about the others?" I ask.

"They're gonna be fine about you, we're a laid-back lot, but come downstairs to meet 'em anyway. You can go back for the rest of your stuff later. Tomorrow, or whatever."

And dammit if Jude doesn't catch my eye a second time, because he knows there isn't any other stuff. My pathetic collection of bags -- that's all of it. Everything. The sum total. He doesn't say a word, only follows Al out of the room and downstairs into the big kitchen, a loyal keeper of my shame.

"You must be Jude's mate. Lou?" a tall girl with long braids asks me, her eyes assessing me, but not unkindly. "Nice to meet you. I'm Eliza. Call me Elli."

"Yeah, nice to meet you Lou. I'm Piotr, and that lump over there is Rick. Mo's out at work. Want a cup of tea? Al was just about to put the kettle on, weren't ya?"

Piotr, a wiry sort with glasses and tatts, chucks a dirty grin in Eliza's direction while Rick, who isn't just a lump but a boy with nice curly hair, waves at me. Can they really be this friendly and nice? Maybe. The kettle is fired up, mugs filled and tea served while everyone chatters at me, asking me the sort of questions normal people ask. It's comforting and scary at the same time, reminding me how long it's been since I felt like this.

Everyone starts shuffling around the table to make space until Eliza suggests the garden would be more fun. Stepping outside is like stepping into a world of light and colour.

"Wow. It's beautiful out here."

I look around. The garden is bursting with plants in brilliant shades of green that look exotic to my naïve eyes. Strings of fairy lights and prayer flags overhead. Huge cushions in bright pinks and yellows everywhere.

"It's Eliza's magic," Al says, hints of pride, and other things too, in his voice.

We sit outside in the long, slow onset of night-time. I do my best to field everyone's questions, and even to ask some of my own, reminding myself to behave like a normal person. I tamp down the nerves and run through the positive mantras my therapist used to make me memorise for times like this. Looking around, it's hardly 'Lord of the Flies' territory. Not a conch in sight. I almost laugh at myself. Almost.

We drink our tea, and another, until it's late enough for the yawns to be infectious. Jude had sat on the kitchen step, rolling cigarettes and at one point taking a lengthy phone call for which he stepped back inside the house. I was starting to think he might have left altogether by the time he walked back into the garden, bending down to speak directly into my ear.

"Hey, I gotta go, but you seem ok here."

I nod, answering the rise in his voice.

"Great. These are good people. I'll catch you tomorrow."

I nod again as he pulls up and makes his goodbyes to everyone else. I stand, suddenly wanting to see Jude alone, but when we get to the front door, my mind is a blank.

"Thanks," I manage, in a tone that's just a world of awkward.

He knows it too, because he just tips his chin down, a flick of his eyes to mine, and then he's gone.

"I, um, I'm gonna take a quick shower, if that's ok," I blurt out to the gardenful of housemates, turning on my heel before they can see how ashamed I am, how much I'm suddenly and painfully aware of how desperately I need a shower; how dirty I am. It's been three days since I managed one. I'd got freaked out at the snide comments from the guy at the leisure centre about how often I went there, and hadn't found an alternative place.

By the time I've scrambled to the top of the house my lungs are fighting for breath. Jude must have taken all my bags up when he was taking that phone call earlier. As I look more closely I realise there's bedding here too which wasn't here before. I examine it, rolling the cotton cover in my fingers, recognising the smell. I wrap it around me and sit on the bed, trying to shut my eyes and close my heart to the kindness here. And failing. He'd seen I had no bedclothes, just from the size and number of bags. No wonder he was gone so long with that phone call. I hug it tighter, inhaling his scent. And I cry for the first time in years.

+++

I get a surprise call from work the next morning. Extra hours, which I grab with both hands.

"You look better," my supervisor tells me as I sign in.

"Um, thanks, I think."

He taps his pen against his palm. "I was starting to think I was going to have to have one of those blood-curdling 'wellbeing' management conversations with you."

He's teasing me, but I shudder anyway.

"Looks like we might be a bit short the next few weeks, so if you're up for more work, Lou, say the word and it's probably yours."

I shoot him a grateful look. It's only shelf-stacking and stock control, but Kevin's a decent bloke and the rest of the team are mostly ok. Plus, now I have a room of my own, I suddenly want, more than anything, to be the most reliable tenant Al's ever had. Plus, I have a duvet and sheets to buy, so Jude can have his own back. Suddenly, all these plusses in my life.

"Great. Can you finish off those visual checks on the dry goods first, then come back to me when you're done?"

"Sure thing, Kev."

I dart off down the aisle, keen to get started. Last night has been the first good night of sleep I've had in longer than I care to remember. I'd finally managed to text Jude a totally inadequate 'thank you', hoping he'd understand that my gratitude included his quiet gift, and get myself under the shower. By the time I'd done all that, he'd texted back with a simple thumbs up. I'd lain in bed, then, wrapped in his smell and thinking about how much smart phones and emoticons must do for people like Jude. Before I knew I'd fallen asleep, my alarm was waking me up. And now I can smell him in my hair. It's distracting.

+++

It's twelve hours later when I let myself into Al's house. I nearly squeak with excitement at using the key he gave me last night, and finding myself inside a place I could call home. Nerves rattle through me as I hear voices from the kitchen. I remind myself this could be a new beginning for me, and I put on my best face.

"Hey Lou, been at work?" Al turns his massive body to face me, hands dripping water on the floor.

"Yeah. Got some extra hours today."

"That's great."

"I also transferred two weeks' rent to your account."

"Yeah, I saw that. Thanks," he turns back to the washing up.

"I'll have enough for the next two weeks by the end of this week," I add.

"Yeah, sure. What're you up to this evening? Any plans?"

"Plans?" I echo, reminding myself again that I'm in the world of normal now, where there's such a thing as plans for the evening.

"Yeah. Plans. Or are you the sort who just goes with the flow?"

I laugh, not knowing what to say.

"Want to see what I finished today?"

"Ah, sure?"

"I make furniture, you know? Out here in the shed. Come and look."

I follow him, curious now, since I hadn't noticed a shed last night. It's at the end of the garden, behind a huge tree fern, which Al brushes aside to open a door into a long but light-filled shed.

"You make this?" I turn to him in surprise. "I've seen this for sale in some of the shops around here."

He looks pleased, as well he might. The tables he makes are lovely. Now I'm beginning to understand the look and style of the kitchen cupboards and furniture in the house.

"It's beautiful. Did you train as a cabinet maker or are you self-taught?"

He raises a surprised eyebrow, then tells me he trained at college, did an apprenticeship with a cabinet maker in Hampshire before moving back here. He talks me through some of the pieces in the shed, running his palm over them.

"Hey, Al, you in the shed?"

We both look back at the sound of Jude's voice.

"Yeah, in here, Jude," Al replies, giving me a funny wink.

"Oh, Lou, hi." Jude bites down on a grin. "You showing her your woodwork and collection of varnishes, are ya?" he tips his chin at Al who tips his back, in that action that only blokes do.

"Yeah fuck off, Jude."

"These tables are lovely, though, Jude," I protest, but both of them wave me off, like it's an old joke between them.

"It's the only way he knows how to impress the girls and boys, Lou, don't fall for it."

"What do you want, anyway, you old pikey you?"

"Ouch. Hear that prejudice, Lou? That's inciting a hate crime, that is."

"Fine. I'm putting the kettle on, and you two can sort out whatever your business is with each other."

"Mine's with milk."

"See, I told you she'd fit in."

I allow myself a tiny smile at Jude's comment and leave them to it, whatever it is.

I'm reaching for the teabags when Jude comes into the kitchen.

"How are you getting on? Did you get a good night's sleep?" he asks.

Is that a slight flush creeping up his neck? I choose to ignore it and reach up again, but his arm reaches the shelf before mine.

"Al might need to move this shelf down if you hope to reach it, don't ya think?"

And, yes, that flush is definitely there. I dip my eyes before they meet his. Awkward, I don't think I've seen Jude awkward before. But then, this is the first time we've been indoors before. No easy flow of people, animals and traffic to cast our eyes over and share pithy comments about.

"You want some tea? And yes, it's great here. Don't know how to thank you."

"No need."

He puts the tea cannister in my hand rather than on the counter top.

"But --"

"Naw, Lou, honestly, it doesn't need saying."

I pluck teabags into my fingers and drop them into three mugs.

"Well, ok. But I'll buy some sheets and a duvet at the weekend, so you can have yours back," I almost whisper this, not wanting Al to hear.

Jude nods, more as if he's confirming what he'd suspected; that I didn't have any bedding of my own. With both of us now flaming red in the face, I pour the boiling water into each mug, hoping Al's staying in the shed until we manage to lose the blushes. We hover for a few seconds longer, before Jude picks up two of the mugs.

"C'mon, let's go make some ring stains on Al's new tables."

"Why do you tease each other like that?"

"Because he's my best mate, that's why."

Which makes no sense to me at all. Blokes are weird.

Just as we step out into the garden, he pauses. "But I'd really like it if you'd help me to read a bit better, Lou. Wasn't joking about that."

He says it so quietly I know he doesn't want Al to overhear. And it drives a little splinter into my heart. There's none of that cockiness here now.

"Why don't we give Al his tea, and make a start, then? There's plenty of books in my room we can try out."

I catch the end of some emotion crossing his face as I turn to look at him. Surprise. Or gratitude? We deliver the tea to Al, more barbed comments passing between them, then Jude follows me back into the house. By the time we've climbed up to the attic, I can hear him wheezing behind me. It reminds me of Malia.

"Can I ask you something about your asthma, Jude?" I begin cautiously.

"Like what?"

"Do you take both the blue and the brown inhalers?"

"Yeah. Why?"

I tip my head, not wanting to look like I'm making a big deal out of it, examining Al's piles of books, looking for something to start off with, as he throws himself onto the bed. They're a weird mix of things. Old college textbooks, some romance novels, some sci-fi, some comic books. Remnants of past tenants, I think to myself.

"You take the brown inhaler every morning, do you?"

He pauses before answering. "Not necessarily."

I straighten up to look him in the eye, getting serious. "Jude --"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But it doesn't make much difference."

"I knew someone who thought the same thing, until she had a massive asthma attack that put her in hospital, and she got a right telling off from the doctors about it. The brown inhaler is like --" I'm struggling at the limits of my medical knowledge, so I start to pull my phone out of my back pocket, because only google can help me now. "Wait a minute, and let me look this up, Jude, because it's important you understand."

"How come you know this stuff anyway?"

"Like I said, I once had a mate who had bad asthma."

"A mate?"

I look up from the screen. "Yeah. A mate."

He holds my eye until I feel weirdly compelled to explain further.

"She was one of the girls I shared one of my foster homes with, if you have to know. Malia."

"Malia? Foster homes -- plural?"

"Yeah. More than one of them, that's how plural works, isn't it?"

"Touchy cow."

I smile back at him. I hate talking about my past -- hardly a newsflash by now -- but he sort of eases me into it.

"Well, anyway, back to your asthma management. Let's look at this article here, because it explains all about why you need to take the brown inhaler every day, ok?"

I hold out my screen towards him and he nods his assent. I sit on the edge of the bed and he sits up so we can both look at it together.

"Now this is a news piece from 'The Sun' so let's see..." I switch the phone sideways to make it easier for both of us to read. "'Short of breath. Are you using your asthma inhaler wrong? Experts' warning comes as death rate jumps 20%,'" I read the headline aloud.

I snatch a look at his face, at the way his eyes seem to be following the text on the screen.

"Which words do you think you could read in the next line?" I ask him.

And do my best to ignore the dark flush blooming over his neck, and the physical, gut-twisting reaction I have to his hesitancy; it seems so unlike the Jude I've got to know, as he stumbles and fights his way through the next seven words of the article, finally halting at the word 'million'. I listen to him, feeling out of my depth as any kind of teacher, and at the same time wanting nothing more than to help him learn to really read. Because I want him to be able to tease and swagger his way through reading in the same way he teases and swaggers his way through the rest of life. I can't bear this hobbled version of Jude. It's not right.

We continue reading right to the end of the article. From this, I conclude he knows most of the letters, and simple, short words, but the longer ones defeat him.

He sits back a little. "Is there something more we can read that's about the preventer inhaler and how it treats the inflammation, because I don't know much about any of that. I feel stupid. I've had asthma all my life and I don't know the first thing about it."

Which drives another hot splinter into my heart and before I know what I'm doing, I've leaned in and kissed him. On the mouth. Just really quick. Nothing more than a brush of our lips. I draw back, very hot and very embarrassed.

"You're not stupid, Jude, you just can't read. And we're going to change that," my voice wavering and high.

I type into my phone, ignoring the slight shake in my hands and the thumping in my chest, and doing everything I can not to look at him, for fear of what his expression will be. Is he shocked? Horrified? Worse -- amused -- by the kiss? All I know is he stays stock still, sitting back on his hands, until I find an article that seems to explain asthma in simple language.

"Ok, let's read this," holding the screen like before, and begin to read aloud again.

After a few seconds he sits up, tips his head to mine, and seems to follow me as I read to him. I pause at the end of the introductory section.

"More?"

"Uh-huh."

So I continue, reading to the end of the article.

"Thanks, Lou."

"You're welcome, Jude," and I dare to look at him.

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. I wait, suspended, dreading what he might say. Whether he's going to call me out on the weird kiss or not.

Instead, he says, "No-one's ever read that much to me."

"Honestly? Wow."

"Yeah, no lie. So, thanks."

I watch him swallow, feeling awkward, acutely aware we're sitting on my bed, alone in my room. Which is a long way, and much different, from sitting on a camp bed in the busy streets of Kemptown.