by Alison Booth
‘Hello?’ Charlie sounds breathless. How lovely it is to hear her voice even though it’s barely half a day since I left home.
‘Hi, darling.’ I picture her in her dressing gown, standing dripping by the phone. I have a knack of calling her when she is in the bath.
‘I’m not in the bath.’ Charlie is laughing; she can often read my mind. ‘We’ve just come in from seeing a film. How was your trip?’ Her school friend, Amrita, is staying with her in my absence. Practising for going to university, Charlie calls it. Presumably this means drinking and maybe smoking, but you have to let go at some stage. This is the first time I have left Charlie at home for more than a day or so but I’m not really worried. Both of them are more mature than some of my colleagues and Amrita’s parents live only a street away.
I tell Charlie about my day but I don’t mention Anthony.
‘Anyone worth talking to?’ she says.
‘No, not really.’
‘A long way to go for nothing.’
‘The interesting part comes tomorrow.’
‘That’s when you give your talk,’ she says, laughing. ‘By the way, I got a letter today, from Marge in Australia. She said she found some old photos and things that I might like to have.’
My hand clutching the phone becomes clammy and I grunt a response.
‘She stuck them in a cupboard after Grandpa died and forgot all about them. I’m so thrilled, Mum.’
‘Is Marge going to send them to you?’ My heart is thumping too hard. I walk the few paces to the window and inhale deeply, feeling the cool air fill my lungs. For years I’ve known that at some stage I’ll have to tell Charlie the truth. And for year after year I’ve procrastinated.
‘I’ve written to her saying I’d love to have them. You’ll be interested too, Mum.’
‘Very.’
When we’ve finished talking, I shut the window, fighting against the wind that has risen. Old photos and things: I don’t like the sound of that. I open a small bottle of Scotch from the minibar and take two sips. For medicinal purposes, that’s what Charlie’s grandfather used to say.
The window frames and shutters are rattling in a syncopated rhythm as the gale howls around the hotel, trying to find a way in. The waves are crashing against the rocks no more than thirty metres away from where I’m sitting, on the raft of my double bed on the edge of the ocean.
I finish the Scotch and follow it up with a glass of still water. My muscles relax as the alcohol takes over. Slipping between sheets that feel cool and slightly damp, I put my arm around the spare pillow, a substitute for the lover I’d like to have, and pull the covers up over us both. It’s been years since I’ve wanted the comfort of a man in my bed. It’s not just any man I’m thinking of, it’s the one with the beautiful hands; the one who sat opposite me at dinner.
The man I barely know.
I slip abruptly into sleep.
* * *
We are in Cornwall visiting my parents, who have a house on the south coast. They have hired a large rowing boat to take us out into the bay. Perhaps we shall reach the small rocky island not far from the shore and picnic there. My father pushes the boat off from the stone quay. He and Jeff are rowing; they are perched side by side in the middle of the boat, and pull us effortlessly into the deeper water. My mother and I are sitting in the stern. Charlie, kneeling on the narrow seat in the bow, is watching the boat cutting through the smooth satin of the sea. Next to her is a small pile of books.
It’s one of those rare summer days when the light is so alive that the air seems to be throbbing. Glancing back at the village, I spot my parents’ cottage, white-washed like all the other houses lining the harbour, and marked out by the profusion of blue and white flowers spilling over the low front wall; my mother is never garish with her choice of plants. The low hill behind the town has been burned a golden yellow by the unusually hot summer.
When I turn seawards again, the water has changed. There are huge waves rolling in, even though we are still ten metres or so from the end of the wall that shelters this little harbour. The sky to the south-west is covered with low black clouds and a curtain of rain is advancing rapidly towards us.
‘We should go back,’ I tell my mother.
She smiles placidly at me. ‘You always were a worrier. Your father will look after us.’ And she turns her gaze back towards the island as we plough over the waves, moving erratically from peak to trough.
‘Let’s go back!’ I shout to my father and Jeff. My voice is caught up by the wind that has risen, and is thrown back at me.
My father and Jeff say nothing; they grin tolerantly at me as if to humour me, or perhaps to save their breath for the effort of rowing. They have their backs to the swell, and are continuing to pull at their oars as if there is nothing wrong. Leaning forward, I grab Jeff’s knee and point behind him. But he laughs and carries on rowing in complete harmony with my father.
Once beyond the rocks, piled up to shelter the harbour entrance, we are caught up in a raging, boiling sea that tosses our boat about, as if it’s an insignificant piece of driftwood. Jeff and my father are forced to stop rowing and the boat spins dangerously around, full circle, so that we are still pointing out to sea. My mother and I are hanging on grimly to the gunwale and Charlie is crouching in the bow.
‘Turn around!’
‘Go back!’
Jeff and my father are yelling at each other, while simultaneously grabbing at the oars that have been wrenched out of their hands by the force of the water. My father’s oar is still in the rowlock, but Jeff’s has slipped out and he reaches it only just in time to prevent it from vanishing into the waves. By some miracle they manage to turn the boat about and we are catapulted back into the relative calm of the harbour. The bottom of the dinghy is filled with water and I find Charlie’s sodden books at my feet. I pick them up and fan through the pages.
‘I’ve got your books, Charlie!’ I shout through the gap between the two rowers. It’s starting to rain and I tuck the books under my shirt.
‘Charlie!’ I call again.
And at that moment I realise that Charlie has gone.
Rain is streaming down my face and it’s hard to see clearly. We cannot spot Charlie anywhere.
‘Charlie!’
‘Charlie!’
We are all screaming now.
And then I wake up shouting and my face is streaming with tears.
Chapter 4
NOW
I wrench myself fully awake and stagger across the room to where the light switch should be. My skin feels cold and damp and there is panic rising like bile in my throat. My heart is racing; my feet are poised for flight as I grope my way along the wall. But there is no way out, no escape from this feeling of loss.
I wipe my eyes with the sleeve of my nightshirt. My vision clears and I see a glimmer of light: green digits on a radio clock that show 01:20 hours. Here I am, not in Kentish Town but in my hotel bedroom on the Spanish edge of the Atlantic. And I can’t have slept for much more than an hour.
I put on my suit jacket and unfasten the windowpanes and shutters, to let the wind blow into the room. Kneeling on the floor, I breathe deeply until my fear has gone; as it always does once I’m fully awake. For a moment I wonder if I should phone Charlie. But no, she is fine, this is an irrational fear. Charlie will worry that I am worrying about her, instead of having the good time that I want her to have while I am away.
The moon is no longer visible and, as I watch, the last of the stars are obliterated by a swift-moving bank of clouds rolling in from the west, just like in my dream. For years these dreams of loss have plagued me; loss of my family or my friends, or even of inanimate but important objects like keys – valuable objects that will keep the forces of nature at bay.
While I’m kneeling, the wind drops. The background roaring of the waves appears to grow to a crescendo, until suddenly the drumming of rain drowns this out. As the clouds release their burden, I lean over the sill and
hold my face up to the downpour, until my dream is washed away and the water starts to dampen my jacket.
But I stay here by the window, looking out at the wet night.
I think of Jeff and me adrift on the Atlantic Ocean on our way to La Spezia, on our honeymoon all those years ago. We must have passed right by this stretch of Spanish coast.
But Jeff is dead. For nearly ten years Jeff has been dead. It is still hard sometimes to comprehend this. The man I once loved so much is now a pile of bones under the ground in a cemetery in Somerset. Yet he lives on so vividly in my life. And in my actions.
I think of Anthony again but it’s no longer a pleasant fantasy of what might happen between us. Instead, my stomach contracts into a tight knot, and a black wave of apprehension washes over my body. I fill my lungs with air and the anxiety eases, but I stay there peering out at the rain, until the dampness starts to soak through my suit jacket and I remember that I have to wear it again tomorrow.
Back in bed I’m feeling wideawake. I log into my laptop and open my talk for tomorrow afternoon – this afternoon now: Dishing up mini-organs: How to grow pluripotent stem cells in the laboratory. I begin to read. Work is soothing; work is a panacea. After an hour or so I’m ready to try sleeping again. The rain has stopped and the waves are a distant regular pounding. Adrift, afloat, I am on a calm sea again.
* * *
I wake up late and dress hurriedly. Breakfast is over and the conference has begun by the time I pick up a coffee from the machine in the foyer. There are only a few empty seats in the auditorium, all at the back. No one I know is sitting here. My colleagues are further forward; punctual people who remember to set their alarm clocks. Only after I locate Anthony sitting in a middle row do I realise I’ve been looking for him. The coffee is reviving and I begin to feel like a member of the human race again.
The morning flashes by. One by one the presenters stand up in front of this audience of genetics and biomedical experts; one by one they give their spiel, show their visual aids, receive their questions, defend their ideas; and one by one they return again to form the audience for the next presentation. In spite of the variety of languages that the participants speak in their own countries, the academic language and customs are the same the world over.
Anthony gives his lecture immediately before lunch. He briefly mentions the work of his team on cloning, but his purpose here, he tells us, is to provide an overview on the subject. His talk is well structured, his logic is flawless; but there is nothing dry about his presentation, for he speaks with great passion, gesturing as he talks with those beautiful hands. At the end, a man with a strong Greek accent raises the inevitable question of human cloning for treating infertile couples. Anthony explains about the enormous failure rate in cloning, and that even when an animal has been successfully cloned, its DNA usually contains abnormalities. Anyway, he says, we all know that developments in transforming mature skin cells into stem cells will remove any medical need to clone embryos.
‘That is what I am working on,’ says the Greek man. It becomes apparent that the reason he asked a question was to allow him to put forward his own research; he expands on this for several minutes until he is halted by the chair of the session.
‘Not before time,’ whispers the North American woman sitting next to me. ‘That guy always uses question time to push his own work.’
Over lunch the suppressed comments of fifty academics are no longer held back, but erupt from fifty mouths in a deafening roar of conversation. Adrenaline is pumping, ideas are flying – new ones and old ones, original ones and plagiarised ones. There is gossip too, real and invented, about people here, people absent, people known and unknown. All the time I am conscious of Anthony. I swivel around so that I am aware of his position, able to plot his co-ordinates, observing him while not observing him. And I am conscious too that he is aware of me. He never has his back to me. Whoever joins his group or mine is manoeuvred into place so that even with the ebb and flow of people, his face is always turned towards me.
Talks, more talks, and then a half-hour tea break. It is my turn next, but first I must collect my notes and USB stick from my bedroom. As I cross the hotel lobby, a tall figure swings through the door from the outside and stops. Anthony, wearing running shoes, an old T-shirt and shorts, stands dripping in front of me. A bead of sweat makes its way slowly down one cheek; slowly, so slowly, caressing his skin. And I realise that I have raised my hand, and that it’s only a few centimetres from his face, that it might touch it and scoop up the little droplet of water. Quickly I pull myself together and push my hair back from my forehead with my raised hand as if this was my original intention. All the while he is talking to me and I have been responding, but I don’t know what we have been saying. I am conscious only of my hand and his face.
During my talk, I avoid looking directly at Anthony, but I am aware of his presence. Aware that he’s leaning forward slightly, that he’s listening intently. The paper is going well, people are laughing – and in the right places too; this must be one of my best presentations. When it is over and the questions begin, I look at Anthony and see that he is smiling at me. He catches my eye and nods his head, the briefest of movements. I look around: am I the only one who has seen this connection?
* * *
The noise in the room where the reception is being held is loud and it’s escalating. I take a glass of wine from the table of drinks and stand at the edge of the crowd, watching. Everyone is talking at once. There are little threads of conversation connecting people. Someone says something that is imperfectly heard; someone else throws back a few words that are loosely related, or perhaps not related at all. And so it goes on: Chinese whispers of conversations, threads of conversations becoming hopelessly entangled. Soon people are speaking even more loudly. Because they can’t hear what others tell them, they shout what they have to say, so the level of sound ratchets up, until no one can hear. No one is listening and everyone is speaking, everyone but me. I am out of it. I cannot see how to join in any of these conversations.
At a light touch on my elbow, I look around. ‘Nice talk you gave,’ Anthony says. ‘It’s a bit noisy in here, isn’t it? Shall we take a stroll around outside?’
We weave our way through the crush towards the French doors; past chunky sweaters, svelte cashmere tops, tailored jackets. No one notices as we brush past. People ordinarily prone to avoid contact are oblivious of our touch. At last we reach the deserted terrace. There is something about Anthony on his own that makes me feel as though we’ve known each other a long time, as though I won’t be judged and found wanting if there are gaps in the conversation. And there are no gaps. My words spill out spontaneously and join his; they hang in the air and vibrate. We warm to our theme; our threads of conversation being woven into a coloured tapestry, an almost tangible connection between us.
As the sun begins to sink below the rim of the ocean, we lean on the parapet and look out to sea. The wind blows up a fine mist that caresses my skin and tastes salty on my lips.
‘I’m flying back to London tonight,’ Anthony says.
I look away quickly so that he can’t see my surprise and disappointment.
‘My taxi will be here soon. I thought if I didn’t drag you away from the reception that would be it. We’d never have a chance to talk.’
‘I assumed you’d be going back with the rest of the Brits tomorrow.’
‘I’m flying to Boston tomorrow. I’m on leave at Harvard this term.’
There is silence apart from the crashing of waves. We stand, side by side, looking over the ocean towards North America. ‘Off to the New World,’ I say eventually. ‘Like Christopher Columbus.’ There is a tight band around my throat and my voice is scratchy.
‘Except that he went for a little bit longer than me. I’m coming back for a few days at Thanksgiving. There’s something I wanted to ask you, Sally.’
‘Ask away.’
‘Perhaps we could go out for dinner when I c
ome back. Get to know each other. It’s a couple of months away, I know...’
I steal a look at him. He is still gazing towards America. Lightly I touch his arm and he turns to look at me. ‘I’d love to. Perhaps you might phone me before then though?’
But neither of us can find a pen or a phone. We scrabble through our pockets and I search my bag in vain. I think of running into the hotel to retrieve my mobile but why waste these last few moments before Anthony leaves. I explain that my home number is unlisted but he reminds me that he can easily find my work number online. Then he kisses the tip of my nose. ‘I’ve wanted to do that since yesterday,’ he says, laughing.
I touch my nose with my forefinger; a butterfly caress, like Anthony’s kiss. His face is glowing in the evening light. The red-gold disc of the sun slips down the sky and casts a blazing ladder of reflections onto the sea. Perhaps we are starting a voyage; perhaps I am finishing a voyage; who knows what might happen.
When he goes, I don’t turn to watch. I keep my eyes on the sun as it sinks below the horizon.
Chapter 5
THEN
When my father collected me for the second time at Redruth Station he seemed so much older than he had nearly a week ago. Charlie and I had fled London the week before, and had been staying with my parents for only a few days before I realised I needed to go back to London to collect a crucial bundle of notes that I’d forgotten and that I needed to finish writing up my thesis. It hadn’t been a pleasant trip and I’d been so glad to see my father again, waiting on the platform at Redruth to meet me. But I’d swear his skin was greyer than it had been when he’d collected Charlie and me those few days earlier, and there were lines on his face that I’d never noticed before. Or maybe I just hadn’t looked at him properly, so absorbed was I in my own worries.
