Mine: ‘A powerful, emotive and sensitively written story about love and loss' Louise Jensen

by Clare Empson

  We go to bed for a few hours and the sex is prolonged and intense. When Jake is on top of me, propped up on his hands but staring down into my eyes with a look I have come to know so well, I am filled with love so fierce and strong that the words spill out.

  ‘I love you,’ I say. And then again, again. I love you. I love you. Once I start, I cannot stop. And we lie together in the bright morning sunshine, laughing and telling each other the three words that sentiment cannot cheapen.

  The way I feel when I’m with him, it’s as if everything is magnified, and I don’t want to miss a single second of it.

  ‘I never expected to feel this way,’ I say as we drift towards sleep, and Jake reaches for my hand, holds it between both of his.

  ‘Shit childhoods, low expectations. I think that makes it even better. Don’t you?’

  I don’t know much about his early years, though I’ve tried to fill in the gaps. A father who walked out when he was three, his choice cheap, gut-rotting alcohol that killed him off, alone in a bedsit, when he was thirty-nine. A mother who resented the burden of bringing up Jake and farmed him out whenever she could, mostly to her parents, whom he will never talk about. Once, only once, when we were very drunk, he said, ‘My grandfather was an appalling human being. Him being dead isn’t enough.’

  The look on his face as he said it – not anger, but a kind of defeat – made me understand that whatever it was this man did or said was in some way connected to the scars my fingers seek out at night in the darkness, almost instinctively. It’s as if all his pain is held there in those ridges of tissue, and I want more than anything to draw it out of him and throw it away.

  There is no sound from Tom’s room and no sign of Rick when we wake in the early afternoon.

  ‘Let’s leave them to it,’ Jake says, and we spend the rest of the day alone.

  We do all the things you’re meant to do in an old-fashioned seaside town. We eat fish and chips, heavily doused in salt and vinegar, on the seafront. We walk along the pier with its hall of mirrors and its bizarre penny slot machines – like Crankenstein, a behind-bars monster who cranks into life with glowing eyes and a ferocious sneer – and we sit right at the end of it, feet dangling high above the water, salt wind on our cheeks.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good in my life,’ Jake says after a long moment of silence, and I understand exactly what he means. There’s a euphoria between us today, partly that shared post-coital glow, but mostly, I think, the acknowledgement of love, which has propelled us into a different place.

  He wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, the water beneath us, a grey, peaked mass.

  ‘I know it’s too soon to say this and you’re too young, but I want us to spend our lives together. Since I’ve met you, I’ve started to want things I’ve never wanted before. Stability. Kids. Not now, but one day. We could buy a house together. Am I saying too much?’

  ‘I want those things too,’ I tell him, though I feel shy saying it. ‘All of them.’

  We walk to the harbour talking of the house we’ll buy one day, a conversation had by lovers everywhere, especially when they come upon the picture-postcard perfection that is Southwold. Our favourite house is painted salmon pink and has turrets either side like a toy palace. We stand outside it fantasising about a future that would allow us to buy it.

  The thing is, we need each other equally. I might be adrift without my parents, but Jake has caught hold of me and mapped out my future. And me? I’m on a mission to chase away his darkness, to replace it with warmth and light and love.

  At the harbour, we find a fisherman selling crates of mussels from his boat. We pick up brown bread and butter from the high street, Muscadet from the wine merchant, who tells us it is the only thing to drink with seafood.

  And perhaps the sea air is pumped full of pheromones, because when we return to the cottage, the boys are up and the charge between them is undeniable. Tom is bare-chested and barefoot, wearing only his faded jeans. It feels strangely intimate seeing his torso, with its pronounced definition that speaks of hours in the gym. Both of them are smiling, wide, ludicrously happy grins.

  Rick throws an arm around Tom moments later and says, ‘So. We’re a thing. You probably guessed?’

  We’re laughing so hard, all four of us, that it’s a while before Jake is able to say, ‘Well, thank Christ for that. The suspense was killing us.’

  There’s a little portable radio in the house that Jake tunes to Radio 1, and the distinctive drumbeat and guitar line of ‘All Tomorrow’s Parties’ kicks in, a Velvet Underground song we have listened to so often we had to replace the record. Jake turns it up to full volume while Rick uncorks the first bottle of wine, I tip the mussels into a sink of water and Tom sits down at the kitchen table to roll a joint.

  We sing the chorus, shouting it, a little delirious, and when the song finishes, Jake grabs me into his arms and kisses me, and Rick and Tom do the same, which makes us laugh even more.

  Once we’ve rinsed and de-bearded the mussels, Jake shows me how to cook them, steaming them open in a pot with wine so that the kitchen is scented with hot, sweet alcohol. He adds cream and parsley at the last minute and we eat huge bowls of them, crowding around the little red-topped Formica table, dipping quarters of buttered brown bread into the sauce.

  After supper, we decide to walk down to the beach, taking a detour first to show Rick and Tom the pale pink fantasy palace that will one day be ours.

  ‘See the matching turrets,’ Jake says, impersonating an estate agent with a nasal Kenneth Williams voice. ‘This is rococo architecture at its finest. I think the four of you will be very happy here,’ he adds. ‘There’s plenty of room for all your requirements.’

  Tom laughs and wraps his arm around Rick and the two of them kiss briefly on the mouth. And at exactly this moment an elderly couple pass on the street, out for a night-time walk with their low-slung dachshund.

  ‘How disgusting,’ the man says, and his voice is vicious and bitter. ‘You should be ashamed of yourselves. This is a respectable town; we don’t want people like you here.’

  People like you. Tom and Rick spring apart, and Rick’s face, crestfallen and ashamed, makes my heart ache.

  ‘Ah, but you see, I think you’re the one who is disgusting,’ Jake says, voice calm but cold as metal. ‘With your judgement, your belief that you have the right to insult a complete stranger.’

  Down on the beach, the four of us lying on our backs staring up at the stars, the boys’ good humour is restored. They are holding hands again, I’m happy to see.

  Jake picks out the constellations, stargazing another of his childhood pursuits; not just the obvious ones – the Plough, Orion, the Great Bear – but poetical-sounding ones like Ursa Minor and Cassiopeia. I love this name, its romance; a good title for a song, I say. And Jake, who seems to possess a brain stuffed full of extraneous knowledge, tells us where the name came from, a Greek goddess who was extraordinarily vain.

  And then he says, apropos of nothing, ‘The day will come when you guys will be able to walk down the street holding hands and kissing and no one will care.’

  And, as usual, his generosity of spirit, his bravery, his innate sense of right and wrong breaks me up a bit. I know why I love him, why we all do, me, Rick and Tom. He’s bigger than us, bigger than everyone. He is our mentor. And without him we’d be lost.

  Now

  Luke

  The adopted child grows up keeping his innermost feelings secret. A habit may be formed that leads to clandestine behaviour in the adult.

  Who Am I? The Adoptee’s Hidden Trauma by Joel Harris

  Lunchtime on a regular Tuesday, me and Alice and Samuel in the park. One of the benefits of working in the music industry is that long lunches go with the territory, so there is plenty of time for me to pop back home, make myself a sandwich – smoked salmon and a
vocado on bread that has seen better days – and then head out to Clapham Common.

  I’d expected Alice to be here with Samuel napping on his little sheepskin rug, but instead the house is empty. It’s my house, so why do I creep around it like an intruder, picking up Alice’s things and scrutinising them? A scarf that hangs over the banister, long, thin and made of blue silk patterned with red and cream flowers. I hold it between my fingers; the material is beautifully soft. The instinct to put it up to my face and inhale comes from somewhere deep inside me. I’ve registered her scent – that same sharp, citrusy smell, more aftershave than perfume – before I drop it back on the banister, riddled with self-mockery. What kind of loser am I?

  In the kitchen, I see that Alice has already made something for our supper. Our orange Le Creuset dish sits above a gas ring ready for our arrival. I lift the lid and look inside – beef casserole with squishy-looking root vegetables and the delicious waft of red wine. She made us this casserole once before and it lifts me up to think of her doing it, lovingly preparing a meal for her long-lost son, one she never expected to see (though I suspect she doesn’t romanticise it in quite the same way).

  There are fresh flowers on the kitchen table, which means she must have been out to the high street this morning. I picture her and Samuel buying beef from the butcher, carrots from the greengrocer, irises from the florist. I lean over to inhale the subtle sweet smell of the flowers. Hannah loves irises; uncanny how Alice always picks the right flowers, the two of them so easily, so flawlessly, connected. A needlepoint of jealousy right there.

  My hand hovers over Alice’s sketchpad on the kitchen table; it will contain drawings of Samuel and I long to see them. Any reason why I shouldn’t? I have a little argument with myself while my hand remains poised, ready to flick the cover open. Most people in their own home, knowing a sketchpad is filled with drawings of their son, would just idly take a look. Wouldn’t they? And yet, somehow, I cannot shake the sense that I am snooping, that looking at Alice’s sketchpad is tantamount to reading someone’s private diary. I won’t allow myself to stoop that low. I’m hoping Alice will soon transfer some of her affections onto me; I’d hate to let her down.

  Instead, I make my sandwich, clearing up the debris – plate and knife washed, dried and returned to the cupboard, crumbs swept from the worktop – and then walk out into the early-afternoon sunshine. I look at my watch. All this and it’s only 1.30; there is still time to take a quick stroll around the park before I go back to the office.

  Our house is a ten-minute walk from Clapham Common, depending on which way you go. I take the shortcut through Grafton Square, a classical square with white Regency houses facing out onto a little playground, quick scout around to see if anyone is there, before coming out at the zebra crossing on the outskirts of the park. By entering the common here, you pass the hippy café, purple walls with spray-painted flowers on the outside; ramshackle furniture, vegan brownies and obligatory bare knockers (the breastfeeding kind) on the inside. There are several mothers at the picnic tables, chatting over bowls of lentil soup while their toddlers fight over the Little Tikes seesaw. That will be us soon. I love Samuel at six months so much, his perma-smile, his wild, addictive laughter, his solemn brown eyes and fat pink cheeks. I know I will mourn the passing of each stage.

  At the new skate ramp there are two teenage boys – fifteen? sixteen? – passing each other like synchronistic weathermen as they execute their perfect mid-air turns. I wonder why they aren’t at school, then wonder why I even care. I’m twenty-seven, not fifty. I can imagine Hannah laughing at me: ‘So go report them, Grandpa.’

  Just beyond the skate park is the pond, filled with fat brown ducks gliding above a sheen of emerald scum. I search its perimeter casually, looking out for a tall, dark-haired woman pushing a buggy; she’s easy to spot, this most beautiful mother of mine.

  And at this moment, just as I’m about to leave, Alice and Samuel come into view. They are too far away to see me, loitering under a tree on the other side of the pond. From this distance it looks like Samuel is asleep, Alice walking slowly behind him, steering the pram with one hand, taking her time. The obvious thing to do, the only thing to do, is go and meet them, say hello, a quick chat with Alice, a cuddle with my son if he happens to wake up.

  Instead, I stand, rooted in the shadows, watching until my eyes hurt. For it’s like watching a video of the missing weeks of my childhood, this unguarded view of my mother and the small child in her care. I am silent, motionless, transfixed, addicted to this fragmental scrutiny of everything I lost.

  Then

  Alice

  The months in Italy are, without question, the happiest time of my life. Here, in a country that celebrates pleasure in all its forms, Jake is in his element. Although the band are writing and recording much of the time, we always walk to the café in the little square in Fiesole for our morning cappuccino, and at night Jake cooks pedantically Italian food – polenta, beans, pasta or risotto – and we drink Chianti that we buy from a vineyard in five-litre flagons.

  This is the time when the band become my new family. Tom has always been warm and welcoming, but now I am becoming closer to Eddie too. I have understood his initial coolness towards me was fuelled by a wariness that comes from having known Jake most of his life. He knows the troubled boy who once tried to take his own life, and at times he seems to watch over him with the intentness of an overanxious parent. One morning when we are both up earlier than the others, Eddie and I go for a walk through the hills of Fiesole. At this time of day there’s a coolness in the air and the surprising ripple of a wind feathering through the Italian oaks, still clinging to their greenness despite the months of sun.

  Eddie finds a porcupine spike on the dusty trail we’re following and he hands it to me, ceremoniously, as if passing over a gift.

  ‘You’re good for Jake,’ he says, out of nowhere. ‘He’s more stable than he’s been.’

  ‘He still drinks too much. That worries me.’

  ‘We all do.’

  ‘But with him it’s different. It’s like a mood comes over him.’

  ‘He drinks to block things out. His childhood specifically.’

  ‘What happened, Eddie? Will you tell me?’

  ‘His father was absent and his mother didn’t care much. The real calamity was that he got left with his grandparents a lot of the time and his grandfather was not a nice man. But you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Not the details.’

  ‘I’m sure Jake will tell you when he’s ready. But there’s more to it than that. Depression is part of Jake. He needs to control it but he also has to tap into it sometimes because those intense emotions feed into his songwriting. You’re good for him, though. I hope you stay together,’ Eddie says, and I wonder how he could even conceive of a time when we might be apart. This is no longer a love affair; it’s a combining of our souls and passion. We are everything to each other now, lover, parent, mentor, muse, all of it.

  There is no darkness in Jake in these weeks; instead he is inflamed by the writing and recording of new material, the dedication to music, to self-expression, that is his holy grail. If life allowed him to exist like this, in a cocoon where he is loved and nothing is expected of him, I think his despair would be lifted for ever.

  He throws himself into his work, so that even when we’re talking or drinking coffee or making love, his mind is only half there; less than that. He switches to autopilot, he is present in the smallest way, yet this, to me, is an inspiration. I want to live like this too, fully absorbed, selfish in my commitment to drawing, to art.

  During the days, I often take the bus to Florence and immerse myself in the Renaissance. At the Uffizi, I spend whole hours looking at the flat, two-dimensional paintings of the twelfth century, amateurish alien eyes drawn into foreheads not faces, perspective that is clumsy and unsuccessful. Only once I have fully understood the f
ailings of these paintings – still miraculous and rather beautiful on one level, not least for their immaculate preservation – do I move on to Michelangelo, Botticelli, Leonardo, Caravaggio. This intense study of the Old Masters teaches me more, far more, than my first year at the Slade.

  I stare at these paintings – Botticelli’s Birth of Venus, Caravaggio’s Medusa – until they are imprinted behind my eyelids. I dream of them at night. I wake thinking of the vividness of Caravaggio’s work, smiles that are twisted and cruel, toenails that are ragged and dirty. I am infatuated with his rendering of Italy’s seventeenth-century streets: dark, dusty, full of shadowy corners. Doorways with worn-away lintels and peeling paint, rooms with bare walls and rough brick floors, the raw underbelly of Italy painted with a photographic precision. Gradually my style begins to emerge. I have listened to Robin’s advice, and my sketches and paintings combine the informality of a frozen moment with the classical influence of the Renaissance masters. I paint Jake, bare-chested, in his faded, patched jeans, leaning against a womb-pink wall in the garden of our villa. He has one knee bent, foot pressed up against the wall, and he looks off canvas, his face in profile. I photographed him in the early-evening sun and I work hard to capture the theatrical interplay of light and shadow that characterises Caravaggio’s work, with my futuristic beam of gold picking out the boniness of his chest.

  During these months, there is one painting I am drawn to inexplicably. Every time I go to Florence I find I must revisit The Deposition of Christ by Stefano Pieri, which shows Mary holding up the dead body of her son. There is something about the sorrow on Mary’s face and the beautiful, naturalistic slump of Jesus’s body curved into her lap that I find irresistible. That concentration of emotion, a melancholia I love to immerse myself in. When I show Jake the painting, he proclaims it ‘utterly depressing’.