An old man in Sunderland who owned the Universe. And kept it in a jam-jar in a dusty cupboard under the stairs.

The sun was just rising when a teaspoon clang-clang-clanged around the inside of his second cup of tea of the day.  Norman Aitkinson had always been an early riser, it was a habit that was hard to shake after eighty-seven years.  As a younger man he’d rose for his job in an accountancy firm, a firm owned by his father, and there was a benefit to being an early bird.  But now when he got up in the morning it was before the sun and he would wake his neighbours with lawn mowing or whatever other task he could find for himself to while away the long morning hours.  He sipped his tea and felt the little aches and twinges in his arm as it raised the cup.  His rheumatic bones were suffering in the cold weather.  He stood at his kitchen bunker and watched the blurred bird shapes catching worms in his back garden.  The grass was a hazy green oblong, he couldn’t tell if it needed cut or not.  It could wait until Spring, if he was still around then.  Norman drained the tea from
his mug and washed it, clanking it onto the draining board.  It was time to check the jar. 

He creaked in concert with the floorboards of his old house as he pottered through to the hall, passing the African tribal masks and big game pelts hung on the walls with long nails.  The spoils of a travelled man were his to enjoy, but they weren’t his trophies, they had been gifted to him by his great uncle: an adventuring explorer and local legend that had made his fortune back when the world was still teeming with discoveries not yet made.  Norman hadn’t left his home town of Sunderland in over a decade, he kept telling himself he was too old to travel and, besides, he couldn’t stray far from the jar.  He took a heavy, black iron key out from under the priapic fertility statue on his hallway cabinet and turned to the cupboard under his stairs.   The door to the cupboard was weighty and wooden, he slotted the key into its lock and it gave a satisfying, familiar thunk.  He advanced into the gloom, the only light coming from the winter morning sun filtered through his sitting room windows and from the jar itself.  A soft glow emanated from the streaked glass of the jam-jar, illuminating the plain, dusty shelf it rested on.  The contents of the jar were marked by a carefully applied sticky label sporting a severely outdated style of handwriting.  Norman brought his eyes level with the jar, his spine popping, and peered inside.  He knew that his eyesight wasn’t good enough anymore to see the beauty contained in the jar, but he had to check it was still in there, and safe.   He ran a hand over his chin, the thin, stubbly skin rasping at the touch.  Time for tea.

Waiting for the kettle to boil Norman surveyed himself in the back of a teaspoon.  He checked throughout the day for white, dried spittle deposits at the corners of his mouth, it was an appalling old man trait that he despised in others and refused to succumb to.  Dread filled him at the thought that one day he would begin to forget to check, or his eyes would get so decrepit he wouldn’t even be able to tell when he looked ancient and foolish.  He scowled at his old face, he had never really come to terms with the fact he wasn’t in his twenties and full of vigour anymore.  There was nothing he could do about the puffy bags under his eyes, or the scored wrinkles that ran across his forehead, they were as much a part of him as his love of The Archers or his special jar.  Norman tilted the spoon and found a feature he could do something about, his shaggy hair.  Going to the barbers had always been a treat for Norman, he had always savoured the buzzing of clippers on his head and neck.  It sent shivers and thrills down his spine and he left the shop with a smile on his face and the fingers of ghosts on his back.  In his youth it had been a pleasant regular experience and nothing more.  But as the years galloped on and his family and friends had passed away one by one his regular haircut took on a more significant role in his life.  It was now the only direct human contact he got.  He’d tried lots of different barbers over the years in an attempt to find someone who would cut his hair well and without chit chat.  The sordid gossip of the salon had never interested him, he had no desire to give his life story to someone he was sure would be telling everyone they knew about it while clucking and tutting like judgemental hens.  He needed silence to savour the familiar chills of razor on scalp.  Luckily he had found someone to cut his hair who wouldn’t press him for holiday plans or trifling minutiae, a young woman called Becky Watson who worked at The Barbers Pole, fifteen minutes walk from his house.  He took the weighty key, made sure his cupboard was locked firmly and went to locate his hat.  Leaving the house made him feel uneasy but longish hair made him feel lazy.  I’d rather disquiet than slovenliness, he told himself while pulling on his aged winter jacket.

Norman shivered as he entered The Barbers Pole, half from the cold that had wormed its way into his skeleton and half from the expectation of seeing Becky.  It wasn’t just the exquisite sensation of his haircut he was anticipating, on his icy walk he’d made a decision.  He had a proposal for Becky and was going to have to break his self-imposed vow of silence to deliver it.  The smell of sanitised scissors wafted over to him as the owner nodded at him respectfully and Becky turned from the coiffure she was styling to give a little wave and wan smile.  He took a seat, feeling like he’d walked into a hall of mirrors, reflected eyes watching him from strange angles.  He flapped open a copy of the Echo on his lap and tried to distract himself with the football news.  He was tetchy being away from home, it wasn’t a stretch of the imagination to picture the hoodlums he saw daily smoking in the cul-de-sacs of the estate kicking down his door to see what they could find to sell.  He wouldn’t mind if they took the ceremonial spears and drums, he had never been much of a fighter or musician anyway, but couldn’t stomach the thought of them finding the jar and what they might do to it.  He fretted the time away until the barber’s chair swung round to face him and Becky asked

‘Your usual trim today Norman?’

‘Aye, love.’ he croaked, throat dry from the exertion of the walk and the space of time since his last cup of tea.  His voice sounded horrifically elderly to his ears and he self-consciously harrumphed to himself as he sat down in the chair.  Becky pulled a thin black sheet over him, it felt funereal.  He watched her through the mist she sprayed over his head to wet the hair, her mirror image daydreaming as she set to familiar work.  She was young, in her early twenties, and he knew from his brief conversations with her and her boss that this was her first job since graduating from college.  Norman had always regarded her as a decent person, she made a good first impression because she possessed a strange confidence.  She peered from behind her trendy blonde fringe as if to say ‘this is for work, I’d prefer something more normal’.  She understood the importance of respect, she’d always treated Norman as a man first and not as an old codger, a frail pet for society to coo at.  For this she held his highest esteem. 

The scissors she held glinted as she made him less top heavy, the snipping sound silvery so close to his ears.  She looked up into the mirror to appraise her work so far and caught Norman’s eye.  He coughed hurriedly, a little embarrassed to have been caught looking (he didn’t want her to think he was lusting over her, mainly because he wasn’t) but before he could indict himself with an apology she asked

‘Is everything okay?  I haven’t taken too much off have I?’ in her bright, engaged way.

‘Nar, that’s canny pet.  I was just getting lost in my thoughts.  Carry on please.’ he sighed.  She held his reflected gaze for another second, pregnant with meaning, and then set back to work with an almost imperceptible shrug.  Norman mentally cursed and fixed his eyes on a tub of Brylcreem so they wouldn’t wander.  Becky bustled around in his peripheries, brushing shorn hair from his shoulders and attaching the head onto an electric shaver.  He had to broach the subject, he didn’t have much time.  He sat, fighting through the fogs and cobwebs in his mind, trying to find a way to bring up the jar and her part in it.  No light-bulb was suddenly illuminating a good idea, he couldn’t find the light switch.  Just as his mental turmoil reached a peak, he spotted a movement in the mirror that became Becky’s boss coming through from the back room to talk to her.  A tap on the shoulder and Becky turned to be led away a few paces for some privacy.  The Barber’s Pole was a small establishment, snug between a newsagents and bookies, and the three of them were the only ones in the little space available.  Despite the short distance from Norman that the conversation was taking place, all he could hear was a murmuring susurrus of their chat.  Even if he’d wanted to eavesdrop (which he wouldn’t, it was against his conservative code of conduct) he couldn’t have heard anyway, his age-deafened ears and the traffic on the road outside conspired to cover his ears in muffs made from entire sheep.  As he inspected the excellent job Becky had performed so far, the conversation did become audible with an abrupt

‘You promised me!  I need that money Michael...’

from Becky who was shushed into a quieter tone by her boss straight away.  They continued to talk while Norman thought.  If Becky was short of money he could certainly help her out, he hadn’t had to worry about his finances in years thanks to his inheritances.  He didn’t think she would accept a donation, no-one likes to feel like a charity case, but if he put it in a certain way, say asking her to come and do some basic housework for him in exchange for a few twenty pound notes, he could get her to his house for a proper chat and be able to show her the jar in person.  It was a simple, workable plan and there was only one thing stopping him from carrying it out – himself. 

Norman thought often and deeply about the watching eyes of society, how his actions would be viewed by the community.  Despite not wanting to get actively involved with the denizens of the estate he lived on, old age had not soothed the feeling that the neighbourhood was watching him, and judging.  He wasn’t sure about the propriety of having a young woman come to his house and he paying for her services, whatever those services might be.  It was a struggle with himself between the urgency of the situation and the opinions he held which were chiselled into his calcified brain.  He had to make a decision.  A movement in the mirror before him broke his reverie, he looked up to see a sad faced Becky clutching her scissors, clamping them tight.  He hadn’t heard her footfalls on the patched carpet of unswept, razed hair.  She didn’t say a word but resumed her work with a resigned determination.  The haircut would be complete in a matter of minutes, Norman had to act.  He tried to justify to himself his invitation for Becky.  There was no getting round it, if Becky was seen coming alone to Norman’s house there would be a scandal amongst the gossips and lips and tongues would denounce him as a dangerous eccentric.  And yet... He wasn’t going to be around much longer, this he knew, and he didn’t want to just write a Will and leave it to the lawyers when he died.  Handing over the jar had to be done in person.  There should be some kind of a ceremony, he thought, the jar is the most important thing in existence.  He had to stop caring what other people thought of him.  After all, he told himself, I’m sure they don’t care what I think of them.  Norman felt an unfamiliar relief pass through him then gritted his teeth and said

‘Ah’m sorry love, I couldn’t help hearing just now.  Are yae not getting enough hours in here?’

The scissors ceased their snipping.  The room was silent except for a radio playing somewhere in a back room.  Becky was not used to him initiating a conversation.

‘...No,’ she said, wary, then ‘There isn’t enough money coming into The Barbers Pole for Michaels liking so it looks like I’ll have to get a second job to make up my wages.  Finding something might be easier said than done though, eh?’

Becky had returned the scissors to the back of Normans head and continued snipping.  She worked slower however, in anticipation. 

‘Aye love, it’s terrible.’ he tried, flexing conversational muscles he hadn’t used in some time ‘I were thinking... I’m not getting any younger and there’s plenty of work that needs done in my house that an extra pair of mitts would really help with.  If yae were willing tee help me out with my chores I could pay yae for your time.’

The proposal floated in the air, fragile as a soap bubble.  He waited for her to accept it, or pop it with her clippers and held his breath. 

‘I don’t know Norman...  Maybe I should get my CV together and start handing it round.  There must be something going.’

‘Yae would really be helping me out.  I could pay you £10 an hour, cash in hand.’ he said.  He didn’t want to say it out loud, but looked at her reflection in the mirror with eyes that said No funny business.  I promise.

The cogs turned in her head, he could almost see the thoughts forming: I could do it in the meantime while I applied elsewhere, it wouldn’t be taxed, if he does try anything I can easily fight him off he’s so frail, he wouldn’t do anything anyway, he’s a decent old bloke.

‘Okay then.’ she said, finally ‘I will do it.  Do you want me in for a trial shift?  I’m free all day tomorrow.’

His heart swelled, a feeling he hadn’t had in years, and he forced himself to talk slowly when he said

‘That would do nicely.  How’s noon for yae?’

The next day Norman rose at his customary time of 6 am.  He ran his hand through his freshly tonsured hair while he boiled the kettle for breakfast tea and thought about the day ahead.  Today he wears his Sunday best, an old, old suit, its’ age disguised by expert re-stitching.  Standing in his kitchen, wearing his best clothes with a nervous lump in his throat he feels like he has a date, it rejuvenates him, giving him more energy than he is used to having in the mornings.  Though what he has to do is more important than courting.  Norman surveyed the familiar rooms of the house, since he was fastidiously tidy he had to admit that Becky was not going to have much to clean when she got there.  It was imperative that he have enough time to steel himself and talk to her properly so he decided to make a mess to occupy more of her time.  He clocked an heirloom on the mantelpiece that he had never warmed to, a letter opener in the shape of a crocodile made from African teak, and knocked it over onto its’ side.  It was a start.  Twenty minutes later the house was a calculated disarray, he completed the ruse by stamping around in his back garden in his wellingtons (still wearing his best suit) and then traipsing mud all over his kitchen floor.  As soon as he was finished he wanted to undo what he’d done, leaving his house in a state made him cringe to himself, as if the ghost of his dear mother would descend to give him a ticking off for such sloppiness. 

He retrieved the key and entered the star chamber where the jar was kept.  It occurred to him that this might be the last day he would be in ownership of this magical jar.  The jar had never brought him much, he hadn’t tried to use it to achieve fame, or to further the realms of science or to blackmail people into doing what he wanted with the threat of the whole Universe ending as his bargaining chip.  These things weren’t his style.  The jar was Holy.  And Holiness, to Norman, should always be private.  As the baleful light from the jar lit his face for possibly the last time, he hoped that Becky was of the same opinion.  He sets it down and checks his watch while flicking the switch on the kettle.  It’s only 7.20am.  Still hours before Becky would arrive.  He took his tea through to the sitting room and sat in his favourite hard backed chair, feeling his spine crackle like radio static.  He turned on the TV to try and take his mind off his date with fate later in the day, sipped his tea and settled into an old man daydream, the kind that drips with nostalgia for good times that have gone.

He is woken from his pensioners sleep by a metallic whine, his hearing aid complaining from being pressed up against the back of the chair.  There is another sound, which takes him a minute to recognise as he regains his senses.  The door!  Someone was rap-rap-rapping on his front door, he floundered in his chair for a few piteous seconds then got to his feet, instinctively checking his watch to see that it was 12.30pm, but in his confusion he couldn’t place the significance of the time.  He tottered through to the hallway and fumbled the door open to find

‘Becky!’

She stood, wringing her gloved hands together, sheepish. 

‘Sorry I’m late Norman.  To be honest I slept in, it’s my first day off in ages.  Would you still like me to clean up for you?’

He took a second to gather himself, to stop the bewildered ‘What?’ from tumbling out of his mouth.  He remembered why she was here and recovered well.

‘Aye, if yae’d still like to be paid for it.  Come on in out of the cold, love.’  He ushered her inside and closed out the winter behind them.  Norman turned to take her jacket to find Becky staring in awe at all the souvenirs, knick knacks, ornaments and stolen goods from other cultures that crammed every surface and were pinned to every wall.  She turned to him and her eyes became spotlights when she said

‘This place is like a museum!  It’s amazing.  Did you collect these on your travels?’

The assumption was always that he’d brought these curios back from their native lands to stuff his house with.  He didn’t mind, it was after all his house.

‘Nar,’ he admitted ‘I inherited these from my great uncle, yae’ve probably heard his name, popular in these parts.  In his youth he travelled constantly and made his fortune by being the first white businessman to exploit countries around the world.  Nivir been further than London meself truth be told, and even that made me anxious.  I’m a Sunderland lad I suppose.’

She nodded, a little disappointed that he didn’t have the rich, adventurous background she’d expected from seeing the decorations.  She caught herself and hurriedly said

‘Oh, sorry Norman, I didn’t come here to stand around with my mouth open gawking.  Where are your cleaning products, I’ll make a start?’

He smacked his dry lips together.

‘There’s nar hurry love, I’ll get the kettle on and mack us a brew-’

‘No, I’ll get started, I’ve wasted enough time already.’

Norman started to make his way to the kitchen with Becky following.

‘Haway, it’s freezing out, I’ll get yae a brew tee warm your bones before yae get stuck in.’

‘It’s fine, I’ll warm up as I work, is this where I should be looking?’ she pointed to the cupboard under the sink.

‘Aye, that’s it, I’ll make yae a cup for taking around the house with yae.’

‘Okay, that’s great, thanks Norman.’ she said, gathering up armfuls of antibacterial wipes, dusters and furniture polish.  He could see she was determined, as she left the kitchen and he plonked teabags into his teapot he let her go and planned his next move.  How could he bring up the jar?  What could he do to keep her in the house long enough for him to work up his courage?  He poured the tea and brought her a mug, she was already busy dusting the bongos hanging in his sitting room.

‘Here yae are, love.’

‘Ooh, thanks, I’ll make sure to use a coaster.  You go and put your feet up, I’ll come and get you if I need anything.’

‘Alreet Becky.’

He took his cup of tea into his study.  He’d been in here earlier, messing the place up, but now it seemed like it would take a sprightly two minutes for Becky to clean it.  Norman decided to make the place a midden, out of sight of Becky, so that she would be here for a good couple of hours and he could bring up the jar in his own time.  He reached down to pick up the wastepaper bin and then scattered bits and pieces of rubbish around the room.  She’d be at this for a while.

It took Becky a lot longer than she expected to tidy and clean the house.  Every new room she went into seemed to be more unruly than the one she had just finished with, and Norman kept trying to start conversations about her life and distract her with cups of tea.  Still, she was almost finished, she mused as she looked out of the window at the drastically dipping winter sun.  There was only one major job left, mopping the mud darkened kitchen floor.  She walked through the house to look for Norman, turning her head this way and that to take in all the antique trinkets hung up in the hallways.  Norman was sitting on a stern chair with a strange look on his face, an expression she couldn’t quite place.  He didn’t look up when she came into the room.

‘Norman?’ she called and he snapped out of it.

‘Sorry, miles away.  What can I do for yae love?’

‘I’m almost finished, if you can show me where your mop and bucket is I can do your kitchen floor, then I’d better get going.’

He absorbed this information.  The full time Becky had been in his home he hadn’t brought up the jar, it hadn’t been the right time, and he hadn’t known how to go about it.  He could see an opportunity here though, he just had to play it right.  The mop was in the same cupboard as the jar.  He could show her the door and let her discover the Universe herself.

‘Aye, of course, yae’re a star.  The mop’s in the cupboard under the stairs, I’ll just get the key for it.’

He hoisted himself from the chair, taking Becky’s hand to make it easier for himself.  She offered her hand not because she thought he was incapable of getting out of the chair independently but because she wanted to make his life easier.  He walked through to the hallway, tipped the statue and retrieved the key.  Then he handed it to Becky, his heart thudding.

‘It’s only a wee room, the mop won’t be hard tee find.’ he said as she pushed the key into the lock and turned it, the door yielding for her, the only other person apart from Norman to have ever seen the inside of the cupboard.  She entered the cupboard and the door swung partially closed behind her, obscuring his view.  He didn’t want to interfere so he stood in stasis, waiting.  The only items in the room were the mop and bucket, his ironing board and the entire Universe.  Starlight crept out of the gap between the door and frame.  Then Becky moved the door out of the way with her foot and he saw her, cradling the jar in her arms as she would her own newborn infant.

‘What is it Norman?’  she asked in a voice diminished by staring into the infinite.  He let out a shaky breath, unaware he’d been holding it. 

‘It is what it says it is.’ he said, showing her the identifying label where someone has scratched the word ‘Everything’.  She shakes her head, frowns, but can’t take her eyes from the milky wonder she is holding. 

‘Let me explain,’ Norman started ‘Yae remember me telling yae about my great uncle?  He would disappear on his travels for months at a time, then return with his plunder and dump it with my father.  When they both passed I got a visit from a solicitor saying that my fathers’ Will specified me tee inherit my great uncle’s loot, but there was a secret clause within it that told him tee deliver one item personally.’

He stopped to make sure Becky was listening, her eyes hadn’t left the jar.  She looked sceptical but couldn’t deny the beauty of the jar and was spellbound by its’ light.

‘Please, go on.’ she urged.

‘The one thing he gave me were a tea chest, he told me not tee open it while he were there as the Will said it were highly private.  So I took it back yem and opened it, there was a letter tee read that tried tee prepare me for finding the whole Universe in a jar.  But I didn’t read it all, couldn’t believe what it were saying.  I reached into the sawdust of the chest and found the jar then spent hours staring at it.  I read the letter properly, totally incredulous, but it started tee convince me.  The only other thing in the chest were a piece of A4 card with the title “Deeds to the Universe” and various stamps and calligraphy tee make it look important.  So I’ve nivir had any solid proof that it is what it says it is.  The best evidence is just looking at it though, doesn’t it look like the Universe in a jam-jar?’

Becky considered the question.  She looked from Norman back to the jar, captivated by it, and made a decision to believe.

‘Yes.  It does.  Why are you showing this to me?’ she asked.

‘Well, just as it were passed on tee me, I’ll soon have to hand it owah to someone else.  I’m getting old, every day my body has prepared a new treachery for me, I knar I won’t be long for this world.  I could write a Will, but I have nar family to leave the jar to.  I want yae to have it.’

Becky took a half step backwards, her face twisted into a position she had no control over.  She would’ve dropped the jar in shock had every atom in her body screamed at her that she was holding the most significant object imaginable. 

‘I... don’t know what to say.’ said Becky, looking totally overwhelmed.

‘Yae dinnit have to say aye you know, I understand if yae’re not interested.  Yae just always seemed to me like a decent-’

‘No, no, it’s only that... I’ve never really had much of anything to call my own.  Having three sisters and two brothers makes for a thrifty home life, none of us ever owned much of anything.  And now you want to give me everything...  I was never going to say no.’

She choked on a small sob, tears trickled down her reddened cheeks.  Not knowing what else to do she hugged Norman, squeezing him tight and thanking him for his gift.  He holds her, the embrace is more than a man and a woman, it is private, Holy.  She promises to come back and look after him in his old age, as long as he’s here to be looked after.  Norman tells her that she’ll have to sacrifice some of what she knows as her life if she is going to protect the jar properly, she says she doesn’t care, she’ll do a good job.  They talk, and the words that pass between them are not for the ears of anyone but the Keepers of the Universe.

Later, Norman is alone again in his home.  He had wrapped up the jar in bubble wrap and put it back into the same tea chest it had been given to him in, then sent Becky on her way.  He wonders if he will see her again.  It is now dark both outside and in, the sun has gone down and he hasn’t bothered to turn on any lights.  He sits in his hard backed chair, with no need to check that the jar is safe and no tea to keep him going.  The central part of his life, his reason for being for so long, is gone.  Gone to the person who was most important to him.  He sighs, and with it the frustrations, the difficulties, the hardships of his life leave him, evaporated into the air.  He is very tired.  In the dark, in his home where he tried to live his life right, he closes his eyes.