at it. ‘I am, actually. I hadn’t even noticed.’
I don’t know what it’s like to be in that situation, to feel so bad, so desperate, that there’s no way out, but I imagine a little fall of rain is the last thing he’s worrying about. I hate the idea of someone sitting on the pavement outside in this weather though. He must be drenched and freezing. I could go up there, take him a warm blanket and a hot cup of tea, but that too would mean leaving the phone, and it would eradicate our anonymity.
Privacy and anonymity are the foundations of the charity. The helpline exists so people in a crisis can open up to an unbiased stranger. Callers are routed through a server that hides the number from the person on the other end. Helpline staff are not allowed to ask the caller’s name if they don’t share it, and not allowed to give their own name unless asked. He knows I’m not proper helpline staff, but I still work for One Light. Those rules must still apply to me, even if this is a situation that’s never happened before.
‘Talk to me,’ I say gently, terrified that I’m saying the wrong thing. ‘Why were you thinking of jumping?’
‘We’ll be here all night if I start listing the reasons.’
‘That’s okay. We can be here all night. There’s no time limit. What’s going on?’
‘Everything. I’m a failure at life. My business is going under and I’ve done everything I can to try to save it, and I don’t know what else to do. It was supposed to be a way of honouring my father, but it’s taken every bit of money I had, and it’s dead. I have no customers. My mum is seventy-seven years old and on her feet at seven o’clock every day to help me out because I can’t afford to pay any staff. I’m in debt up to my eyeballs and I got my business rates bill this morning, and I can’t afford to pay even a fraction of it. And just to ice the cake, the rates are going up in January and there’s no way I can pay them.’
Because of the anonymity rules, I can’t ask him outright where he works, but if he’s in Oakbarrow then chances are it’s somewhere nearby. It might even be on this high street.
I sit up on my knees and look over the counter at the darkened road outside. Even the streetlamps have flickered their final death and no one’s bothered to mend them. Oakbarrow High Street used to be a hive of activity, especially at this time of year, but now it’s deader than the burnt-out bulbs in the streetlights. The truth is that I know how quiet things are. I know how difficult it is to get people through the door. Every day, I expect a phone call from Head Office saying they’ve decided to shut our branch down.
‘Well, it’s nearly Christmas,’ I say. ‘People are out shopping in the big towns at this time of year. Maybe things will pick up in January?’
‘There’s a new retail park on the roundabout outside of town. It’s easy to get to, there’s plenty of free parking, and it’s got every kind of shop you could imagine. No one needs to come to high streets anymore, no matter the time of year.’
‘Yeah, but the retail park is a bit … soulless, isn’t it? These business parks are all the same – if you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. I’d rather go to a little high street full of independent shops that actually mean something to the people who own them. That comes across to shoppers, you know?’
‘Well, you must be one of about ten people left in the country who think that way.’
I suddenly feel incredibly sad because he’s so right about the high street. I’ve lived in Oakbarrow all my life. This high street used to be the centre of the universe, especially at this time of year. I remember going Christmas shopping with my mum when I was little and being amazed by it; the sights, the sounds, the smells. The giant tree they put up in front of the churchyard, always at least ten-foot high, lush green branches weighed down with twinkling lights and ornaments that local school children had made. It was magical back then. Shopkeepers would stay open late, decorations of reindeer pulling Santa’s sleigh ran across the road above our heads, snowflakes twinkled on hangers outside every shop, lampposts were wrapped with tinsel and bows and had bright bulbs that still worked.
I look out the window again. The shop across the road is empty, its windows painted white from inside, the shop next to that has a ‘for sale’ sign nailed to its front though the ‘s’ has worn off, and the one on the opposite side has had ‘closing down sale’ notices in its bare windows for the past three years.
Just about the only shops still in business are the charity shop and the bank next door, a coffee shop, a tanning shop, a lingerie shop, and a television repair shop at the upper end of the high street. Even the only pub, that used to be the heart of all village gatherings, has closed in recent years. It used to be called The Blue Drum but some clever vandal has removed the middle five letters, so now it’s just The B um. I hear a lot of regular customers talking about wishing The Bum was still open so they could go up it.
It feels like every one of us is only here to await the death knell. Even the mini supermarket that put the independent greengrocer out of business and contributed to the market closure has shut up shop and run for the hills. Or, more specifically, run for the retail park to be with all the other convenient and cheap shops that make high streets everywhere irrelevant.
‘I wish there was something I could say to make you feel better, but there’s no denying what a state high streets everywhere are in.’
‘At least you’re honest. Somehow, even hearing that makes me feel better.’
Well, I want to make him feel better but I’m not sure commiserating over the state of things was quite what I had in mind. ‘How are you feeling now?’
‘Cold. Wet.’ I can hear his teeth chattering. ‘Stupid for being up here. Stupid for thinking this was the answer. Pathetic for crying down the phone to a stranger.’
‘Hey, that’s not pathetic.’ I wonder if we are strangers. If he works around here, I might know him in passing. I’ve had this job for four years now; you get to know people who work nearby, and his voice does sound familiar. ‘When you need help, the bravest thing you can do is reach out and ask for it.’
‘Or phone a stranger and talk about naked mannequin wrestling.’
The laugh takes me by surprise. ‘Or make them choke on a Crunchie.’
‘Or that.’ His laugh turns into a sob. ‘I shouldn’t be up here. I feel like I’ve let everyone down. My family would be devastated if they knew it had come to this.’
‘You haven’t let anyone down because you’re still here. The only thing your family would care about is you being all right. I know what it’s like to lose someone you love. I promise you, there’s nothing in the world worse than that. Any business that’s failing is just a business, a building, a job. Losing that can be recovered from. You are irreplaceable.’
‘Thank you.’ His voice breaks and I can hear the thickness of tears welling up again. My heart constricts in my chest and I want nothing more than to hug this man I don’t even know.
‘None of us know how much we matter until it’s too late. No matter how bad you feel, you’re so important to so many people. One person’s life touches so many others.’
‘Do you know It’s a Wonderful Life?’
I feel myself sitting up a bit straighter because he obviously recognized the quote. It’s a Wonderful Life is not just a film to me. It was my mum’s favourite,
