I wonder if people stop to think before they utter their dying words. I remember my Grandad while he was seriously ill with heart trouble. Back then I was only 12 years old, and was sitting by his bed keeping him company. Suddenly his face lit up with delight. He was looking into space and cried,”It’s Gladys! She’s come to fetch me. Wait! I’m coming, Gladys!” and then his head fell forward and he was dead; gone to join my Gran. Just like that and it was such a shock for me.

Six years later my mother’s head fell forward in just the same way. I was sitting holding her hand, witnessing her final terminal hours, despite my needing to revise for my A levels instead. She had emphysema from too many fags, and liver disease from too much alcohol. Slowly she turned towards me, appeared to study my face, then said, “God. You’re so ugly!” Immediately afterwards her head fell forward and that was it. Gone. I wondered if she’d considered those words before uttering them, they were so hurtful. It seemed to me that she did. I was simultaneously filled with anger and grief, and losing control I raised my voice. “You stupid cow, killing yourself with booze”, I exclaimed to the ward. “Your leathery face and bruises make you at least as ugly as me!” She was only 58 but looked 88. She had never loved me as a son expects, yet all the same, this was a loss I’ll never forget.

So now it’s ten years later, I’m 28 and alone, just as you’d expect for someone as ugly as me. For two years I’d been my mother’s carer and her poor health and depression and had got me down. Yet I remember  making so much effort to get her approval through providing help and kindness. I had yearned for love and appreciation in return; fat chance of that; it never happened. She was too self involved to really notice me. The only decent thing she ever did was leave me our house. There was nobody else to claim it. My dad disappeared years ago.

I looked in the mirror. Yes. Ugly. No girl could fancy me, the way I am: cross eyed, big nose, a hunch back, and a limping left leg like Quasimodo of Notre Dame. At least I’ve got an interesting job though, and this helps to keep me cheerful. The only other thing I inherited was the dog. Ma used to feed it, but now I did -  walking him once or twice a day; an elderly whippet called Nesbit.

At first people would come up to me and referring to my mum would say “I’m sorry for your loss” - a cliche that can sound either authentic or perfunctory, depending on how sincerely it’s expressed. It was my next door neighbour Jenny, a single mother, who was truly sympathetic; yet she never uttered those words at all. She’d come round to walk Nesbit for me. She even offered to wash my sheets, which I let her do in exchange for flowers, chocolates and baby-sitting. It was a good arrangement. She was 6 years older than me, living with Sophie, her five year old, a quiet, intelligent kid. Sometimes I would drop round and spend the evening child minding while Jenny went to meetings or visited family in the next town. It was the least I could do. And I’d do odd jobs like cutting her hedge, once the fledgling birds had flown.

I knew nothing about the man who had presented Jenny with her daughter. It wasn’t my role to ask, but one day she told me anyway - he’d had a fatal car accident before Sophie was born, leaving Jenny bereft.  Slowly, our relationship developed since we had plenty in common. She’d ask me in for soup at lunch times when I’d been on a night shift and had just woken up. Then, when I was working day shifts I would invite her round to watch a Netflix in the evening, while Sophie did crayoning at the table. She was a smashing little child; called me Uncle Jake. Jenny and I also read and discussed the same novels, our own book group of two.  Being a loner, when I wasn’t working I read a great deal, giving her my books when I’d finished them.

And then summer was upon us and Jenny wanted to take her daughter to the seaside, so they packed their things in my car and I drove them to an air bnb in Braunton Sands for a week, promising to drive down the following week to fetch them home again. Once they’d settled into their accommodation, we strolled to the beach enjoying the sunshine, and went paddling for an hour or two in the shallows, it was delightful, a lovely beach and not too busy; but then I had to get back home for some night shifts; I’m a staff nurse in A&E.

With nobody next door it felt profoundly quiet that week, just me & Nesbit, and I realised in my solitude that actually, for me at least, this friendship with Jenny was something I’d come to rely on; more than just a friendship. I trusted her implicitly; enjoyed her company whenever we were together, and was missing her. She had become my best friend, and I couldn’t help wondering if she cared for me too, despite my Quasimodo appearance. What is love anyway? I wasn’t feeling passionate about her, I was still an ugly virgin at 29 and didn’t have the confidence a lover might have. It wasn’t a matter of falling for her good looks either, which is what drives many relationships. But I haven’t described her to you have I? Petite, slim, blonde hair and blue eyes, humorous, intelligent, confident and excellent company. It was just a case of her not having had much luck in life; any more than I had. Because of Sophie, she was unable to take on a full-time job, so instead she volunteered in a charity shop on odd days while Sophie was in primary school.

When the week was up, I didn’t go down to Braunton Sands as promised. They texted me saying they were coming home by National Express; to see the countryside. I can’t remember the last time I had travelled by coach and texted back with - “home-made soup and trifle on arrival”. Sophie loves squidgy trifle.  At the bus station, a sun kissed child climbed down from the bus, running up to me with ‘Uncle Jake!’ while Jenny put down her suitcase, put her arms around me  and kissed me on the lips for the first time ever. ‘I’ve missed you’, she said. “You can’t”, I replied. “I’m ugly”. “No Jacob” she said, ‘You’re a beautiful person, and we’re going to move in together” “That’s good”, I replied, “‘cos I love you.” In my whole life, this was the first time I’d actually belonged to anyone.

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