Tom Newland’s latest novel is an involving, heartfelt tale of Frazer and Caitlin and their struggles through parenthood, grief and new beginnings. Below is an extract which sees Frazer visit a potential new house for his young family.

Something Like Happiness
By Tom Newlands
Published by Pheonix

Being a parent had altered Frazer in all sorts of ways. Every Saturday morning, growing up, Jamie would sit with his dad and the two of them would pick a spot in the Apex for their game. Frazer would start the same way each time, taking his son’s small hand and letting the boy feel the warmth of his palm. It was always important to let Jamie know what was going to happen, so Frazer would say, ‘Now, what we’re going to do next is sit together and play Two Taps!’ 

Caitlin would be at Debenhams. The flat at would be quiet, so they might start in the living room. Frazer would spread Jamie’s toys around them: his robots, his ducks, every one of his lorries. He would lift a vehicle or a figurine and press the boy’s fingers against it, guiding them around the shape. ‘Spiky,’ Frazer would say, or, ‘Smooth.’ The boy’s fingertips pressed lightly around the surface of the toy, pausing at a crease, or a wheel. ‘Cold,’ Frazer would add. ‘Plastic.’ When Jamie had held the toy for long enough, when he had touched and had a good wee think, he would tap the back of his dad’s hand twice, then they would move to the next. 

When they had exhausted Jamie’s heap of toys he would toddle away, hungry for textures, and point at things – to the sofa, or the coff ee table, or the carpet. Frazer would kneel, placing the boy’s hand on the fibres. ‘Soft,’ he would whisper, letting Jamie rub the texture around with his palms, walk the length of the surfaces with his fingers like a tiny explorer. His dad would smile watching these wee movements; it was a kind of orientation, a way for Frazer to turn the world around Jamie into something predictable. It was how he said to his son: you belong here and this is your home. 

But there were days when Jamie was tired, days when he could do nothing but miss his mum and cry. On mornings like that, Frazer would sit his son on his lap and let the boy rest his head against his chest, the rhythm of his breathing calming them in tandem. Only when Jamie lifted his hand and brushed it across the fabric of Frazer’s sleeve would the game resume. Just a wee tap, then another. 

After, Jamie would sometimes shuffle to his feet and wander to the window. He would stand there, palms flat on the glass, feeling the chill that was coming through. Frazer stood behind him, hands hovering in case the boy lost his balance, watching his son slapping the pane – unsure at first, then faster, like the beat of a drum. Frazer would answer the gesture automatically, tapping Jamie’s back in the same pattern. It struck Frazer that the boy was beginning to map moments, too – morning light on cold glass, his dad’s presence at his shoulder. 

It was one evening at the end of that winter that Frazer realised that these little explorations had changed him as much as they had his son. Watching Jamie examine each new surface, Frazer began to understand how tentative his own steps had been since becoming a dad. He had thought parenthood would land on him like some mad revelation, but instead it had arrived in little instants: in the weight of Jamie’s hand, in lifting him onto his shoulders, in guiding him around the flat. Most of their early understandings of one another had happened inside the four walls of the Apex. 

Tomorrow there would be the battle of breakfast, toys kicked up and down the floor, Caitlin racing off to the shop. But for now, there was only the two of them. He carried him through the flat, switching off the lights one by one. At the bedroom door he paused, feeling Jamie’s breath warm against his collarbone, and understood that these moments would outlast his uncertainty, outlast the boy’s childhood, maybe even outlast the Apex. He laid Jamie down, squished his pillow how he liked it, then brushed a final touch against the back of the boy’s hand. Two taps, light as a promise. And Jamie, somewhere near sleep, returned them. 

Talk radio burst in loudly when Ines started the engine. Her car was small and red with tatty footwells and moss growing in the rubber folds of the window wipers. Through the passenger window, the multistorey looked hollow and gloomy around them. 

They rolled from one traffic light to the next as they headed towards the ring road. Frazer could remember being out this way with his dad, when he was young. Back then, the eastern outskirts of Calderknowes had been thistly playing fields and collapsing sheds but now, as they swung into Donaldson Drive, Frazer saw a sea of biscuit-coloured homes, a triangular swing park, quartz-dotted footpaths that joined one bland thing to another. He sunk low in his seat and thought, name the emotion, claim the emotion. It was panic. Apex Court was his home; not a plan or a diagram, not alloy numbers screwed to a door, but home – a hunger and a pulse, a link, something that bumped inside him like a second heart. He could never square the person he was with someone who would live in one of these new houses, and more than his own anxiety he worried for his relationship with his son. Moving would change all of their lives. 

The house assigned to GULLEN. F, [DUNNE, C; DUNNE, J] was a square, two-bedroom, semi-detached home with a slate roof and a black front door. Ines pulled in. Four uncurtained windows faced out across a young lawn with a wee decorative fence around it. The grass was patchy still, but this would be their front garden. 

Apex Court had held Frazer when he was small and it waited while he sprouted and it knew all versions of him. The flat had watched him outgrow a hundred awkward haircuts; it had seen his first kiss, heard the silence that followed. It knew the thud of arguments, the stillness of grief, all the uneven rhythms of daily life. Frazer had never laid eyes on this place. This new house would be a stranger. 

He took his seatbelt off and started to scratch with his thumbnail at the felty bit of the passenger door. While Ines clicked her side open and got out, Frazer stared at the movement of his thumb. She knocked at his window, waving, but he shook his head. Then the door swung open, and before he could protest she had a hold of him, dragging him, both her arms hauling from under his armpits. He scrambled out and tumbled to his feet, shouting, ‘Do you mind?!’ 

Ines faced him, spinning her car keys on one finger. She smiled and pointed theatrically to number 31. ‘Now look. Magnificent.’

Something Like Happiness by Tom Newlands is published by Pheonix, priced £20.