I could tell something was wrong the moment he answered, a weariness in Ross' voice that his words couldn't hide.
"Hi Lesley, how ya doin'?"
"Fine, Ross. Seeing my aunt in hospital later this afternoon. Meeting my dad tonight."
"Your aunt getting any better? She's been in for quite a while now."
"Yeah," I said, "she's out tomorrow, assuming the tests stay clear."
"Great news," said Ross, not entirely succeeding in his effort to sound encouraging but sincere nonetheless.
Ross considered me to be his closest friend. This pleased me, even if he'd never have claimed that anyone's friendship with him should be considered any kind of honour, but rather, an acknowledgement of an otherwise difficult achievement. He was an oddball, sometimes funny, despite an ascetic lifestyle, but he could be trusted.
"So what's eating you?" I said. "You sound a bit low this morning."
"Hungover."
"Hungover?" I replied. "I thought you were on the wagon?"
"Exactly six months and two weeks to the day, I've now fallen off."
"But why? It seemed so easy for you."
He had, as far as I knew, given up the booze completely and stayed dry since before Christmas. This was unexpected news.
"This fucking weather. This fucking country. It's July for fuck's sake."
It was shocking to hear Ross swear more than once in an entire conversation, let alone three times in one sentence. But what passes for a summer in Scotland can get anyone down, especially on the west coast.
"Yeah, it's shit," I agreed, "I don't blame you for feeling a bit low." Concerned that his old habit might be back, I said, "Tell me what you're thinking."
"Well, you know I gave up because decades of overindulgence seemed finally to have caught up with me, physically and no doubt mentally too."
"Go on," I said.
"This shit weather can sometimes be like a trigger. We never get a proper summer here - and then it's the full-on darker, damper and colder season again before we know it."
"Yup. Go on."
"I watched a woman yesterday walk on the wet pavement across the street. She had on a quilted anorak, for fuck's sake. Then a guy came along and not only did he have on a long coat, but also wore a woolly hat with a bobble on top. This is fucking July, Lel," he continued, "and right now they're enjoying a heatwave not that far south of here. Neither wonder Scotland is a nation of fucking alcoholics."
"There's more to it though, isn't there." This was a rhetorical question. I knew something deeper was eating at my friend. "What's really going on with you?"
Ross sighed, and I could almost see him turn away from his phone in an attempt to order his thoughts.
"You know I like my solitude?"
I stayed silent and waited.
"Well, lately I've felt lonely at times: Me, the man who loves to be alone, behind a locked door with the privacy button pressed."
"What do you think changed?" I said, as much surprised as curious about his admission of loneliness.
"Well you know my family's now all gone - my dad and brother because of the drink. You've probably also realized that I effectively ended a bunch of friendships over years of moving around the country."
"Yeah, I know that stuff." I was sympathetic but wanted Ross to get to the nub of what was bothering him.
"I've just run out of road. It feels like I've hit a wall or something."
"Oh dear," I said, "I guess it's an age thing as well?" Ross was nearing retirement age, though he didn't usually harp on about that.
"Yeah, but it's not a regret thing, about my past, awful though I can easily paint that."
"So you're just having a good wallow?" I offered, with a gentle laugh, trying to cheer the mood of this increasingly difficult call.
"Probably," he conceded.
"What did you drink last night?"
"A couple of those small tins of G&T and a nice Bordeaux."
"You drank a whole bottle of red wine, on top of two gin and tonics?"
"Er, yes."
"Neither wonder you're fried and frazzled this morning," I joked.
Just then I heard a disgusting sound, like someone clearing their sinuses and preparing to spit it out.
"What was that noise?" I said.
Ross laughed and said, "There's a guy walks about, usually early in the morning, back straight as if he has a poker up his jumper. He doesn't swing his arms at all, and he looks weird with his arms down at his side as he strides along. He talks loudly to himself, heaves out a bunch of snot then gobs it out. That was him, just outside my window."
"Some kind of Tourette's?"
"Maybe, though he doesn't spasm, and I've never heard him swear."
"Just another of the local loons in your wee seaside village then?" I said.
"Like I am now as well," he shot back with a laugh.
We went on to talk about the state of the world, stuff we'd seen on YouTube and shared with each other, chatted about some books we'd read recently. I felt by the end of the conversation that I had my old friend back.
"What are you doing today?" I said, readying to wrap up the call.
"I need to tidy the front room and hoover the floor. There's empty bags all over the place and piles of books that need putting away. The place looks like it's been ransacked." He paused, "Then there's the spiders."
"Spiders? You surely mean pink elephants."
"Ha ha, very funny. No, I really need to hoover."
"Well, I need to get ready for visiting my auntie."
"Hope - OUCH! - she's in good form," said Ross, apparently wincing with pain.
"What happened there?" I said.
"Pain again in my foot," he said. "Anyway, thanks for calling. Sorry about the moan. You really did cheer me up."
"Yeah, no bother. Speak again soon," I said before hanging up.
I thought back to a conversation we'd had last year, just before he gave up his drinking, back when he mentioned the possibility he might have chronic kidney disease.
For fuck's sake.
Proverbs 23:29–35 - KJV