Douglas is five, and everyone knows it.
His parents know. The neighbours know. The postman, the lady in the shop, and the man who stopped next to Douglas to tie his shoelaces know. Five is a big number, and Douglas is ready to burst with pride.
"I'm five now," he says to Graham, who sits next to him in maths. "When are you five?"
"Not until summer." Graham doesn't sound disappointed, and Douglas is surprised. Waiting until summer? He can't imagine that.
"I'm five now," he says to Sally, who sits next to him in art, her long blonde pigtails draping in the red paint. "When are you five?"
Sally gives him a high-nosed, raised-eyebrow look. "I'm already five. I was five a whole month ago."
Douglas pretends that he doesn't hear that.
That night there's his favourite meal and a cake with five candles and a big blue icing number five on it. There are even five chairs around the table, and even though Douglas knows that there are always five chairs around the table, he feels like it's all part of the day.
"How old are you?" he asks his mum when she's tucking him in bed with a little more force than usual, working hard to stop him from wriggling.
"It's rude to ask a lady's age," she says, with a huff and a smile. "You'll want to remember that, when you get older."
"You mean you don't people to know how old you are?"
His mum smiles again – a tired smile that makes the lines around her eyes look like bird's footprints in the snow. "When you get to my age, you won't want to tell anyone either."
Douglas can't understand that – can't understand not being excited about a birthday. Being five is great, but being older, as old as his mum or his dad, must be even more exciting.
"But mum-"
"Go to sleep." She kisses his forehead, finally getting him to lie still. "You'll understand, one day."
"No I won't," Douglas says, frowning. "Birthdays are great."
She gives him another kiss – 'for luck' – and leaves without speaking.
Douglas is fifty-five, and hasn't told a soul.
Fifty had been bad enough. At least when he was fifty he had a wife and a daughter and he was the captain of an aeroplane which had working no-smoking signs and engines that didn't threaten to give out every half-hour. A plane where the food was just bad, rather than a deadly concoction of the steward's wild imagination.
Helena leaving hasn't helped. Douglas has seen the tai-chi teacher, once or twice. He keeps telling himself that he's not much younger than Douglas. No more than ten years. Ten measly years.
Suddenly, it feels like a lifetime.
He glances across the cockpit at Martin – Martin with his fresh thirty-three years, and his bright hair and freckles that make him look even younger. Douglas has never been jealous of Martin before – certainly not of the way Martin looks – but now age-gap starts to nag at his thoughts.
Martin won't say anything bad if Douglas were to tell him it's his birthday – were to mention in passing, 'hey chief, I might be wrong, but I think today is my birthday. This makes me feel fifty-five. One thing we could do is go out celebrate. How does that sound to you?' Martin will blush and stammer and say 'Douglas, you didn't tell me, I haven't got you a present' and Douglas will brush it off and everyone will go for a drink and maybe a meal and nothing will change, except that Martin and the others will know how old Douglas is. He hasn't been excited for a birthday since he was a student and 'birthday' basically meant 'get horribly drunk', but he's never felt ashamed of his age before now. He's not used to feeling ashamed.
He feels old. He doesn't think he's ever felt so old.
The rest of the flight only leaves him feeling more out of sorts, and by the time they land all he wants to do is go home. He doesn't pretend to do paperwork. He doesn't take the time to wind Martin up. He doesn't even say goodbye. He just leaves.
The drive home is long and lonely, and the house is dark and cold. Douglas reheats leftover chili for the third night in a row – usually he likes to cook, but he hasn't felt like it of late – and drinks orange juice. He wishes that it was something stronger. He misses Helena. He makes a cup of tea. He thinks about the number fifty-five and how big and scary it is, how close it seems to even scarier numbers like 'seventy' and 'eighty'. The tap drips at regular intervals, like a heartbeat.
Douglas is on his second cup of tea, perched on the barstool with his cold, half-eaten chili in front of him, when the doorbell rings.
Douglas knows who it is – only Arthur can ring a bell so rapidly, with so much enthusiasm, in such a short space of time. Douglas shuffles to the door, noting the time on the clock over the oven. It's late. He hopes nothing is wrong. The thought of anything being wrong – with Carolyn, with Martin – makes his skin prickle as his hand closes on the handle, but Arthur is smiling when the door swings back, so Douglas lets himself relax.
"What is it, Arthur?"
"I brought you this," Arthur says, holding out a box, wrapped in deep blue paper. "I was going to give it to you at the airfield, but you left before I finished the hoovering." He smiles a little more. The thought crosses Douglas's mind that Arthur could break records for smiling. "I never forget a birthday."
Douglas blinks as Arthur pushes the box into his hands. "You didn't say anything about it earlier."
"No. Well." Arthur shuffles his feet. "Mum said that when people don't mention their birthday it means they don't want you to either. But you can't go through the day without a present."
Douglas forces himself to smile, and finds that he doesn't have to force very hard. "Thank you, Arthur."
"You're not mad that I mentioned it?"
"No." Douglas realises he means it – he feels the words in his chest, not just his tongue. "I appreciate it. Really."
Arthur grins wide enough to make Douglas's jaw ache and trips back to his car. Douglas waves to him from the front step, then goes back into the house. He wonders if he should have invited Arthur in for tea, but he's just spent the last nine hours holed in a metal tube with the man. Perhaps he's had enough Arthur for today.
The sound of tearing wrapping paper fills the silent house, and Douglas can't supress a laugh as he pulls a fistful of toblerones out of the box. He should have guessed.
I had a guess at Douglas's age - I'm not sure we ever find out for sure what it is. If someone knows, feel free to tell me and I'll adjust the chapter.
Thanks for reading, feedback welcome.
To be continued.