Nightingale Point

by Luan Goldie

  It’s all clear up until a point: the heat in the flat, the splash of melted blue ice pole on his white T-shirt, David arriving for the keys, and Pamela, red-eyed and tearful, passing him that letter through the black bars of the security gate. Then it all stops with a bang. After that he can only recall the sound of a sharp ringing bell, the smell of sulphur, and Elvis, encouraging him, reassuring him, and saving him.

  That damn letter. It’s not even worth thinking about what it would have done to Malachi if he found out about it.

  The room brightens.

  ‘Why are you two sitting in the dark?’ Malachi asks. He looks thin, his shirt hanging off him. Tristan makes a mental note to order a tub of ice cream with dinner.

  Malachi’s only just started talking to Tristan again. It isn’t quite the same as before, but at least there is some conversation between them. Still, it hurts to think that their relationship is damaged. It hurts more than anything else Tristan has endured over the last six months.

  ‘I don’t have the energy to move,’ Harris says.

  ‘I didn’t even notice it get dark.’ Until Harris came in, Tristan thought it was still about one o’clock. The days seem to fly when he’s at home doing nothing other than ‘studying’.

  He treads slowly over to the sofa and lowers himself down next to Harris, who stretches out his legs.

  ‘So, let’s talk film choices.’ Tristan pulls a bag of videotapes between them. ‘I got Se7en, I got Casino – I know you love yourself a bit of Sharon Stone – Ace Ventura, which is obviously one for Elvis. These are all pirates, but all right copies.’

  Harris observes one of the photocopied covers closely before he bends over to pull off each of his socks. ‘They all look terrible.’

  ‘Come on, this stuff ain’t even out in the cinema yet. Give it a chance. You liked Johnny Mnemonic.’

  ‘I tolerated it,’ he laughs.

  Tristan knows Harris still needs to pretend that he regrets allowing them to move the television–VCR combo into the living room, but really he loves an action film as much as anyone.

  ‘Mal, you wanna watch something with me and ’Arry tonight?’ He asks hopefully, like a real beg-a-friend.

  Malachi shrugs, non-committal as always. Probably the best Tristan is going to get from him tonight.

  ‘Come on, ’Arry, what we eating?’ He throws his arm around Harris. ‘I well fancy some curry goat. You up for driving me down the takeaway?’

  ‘Tristan, I’m exhausted. Order something to be delivered.’

  ‘I’ll go and collect it,’ Malachi says with huff. ‘Hurry up and decide.’

  ‘You want me to hobble on down with you?’ He never misses a chance to be alone with Malachi. ‘Be good to stretch my legs,’ Tristan tries again, but Malachi is staring out of the window at something in the close.

  ‘Mal, what’s up?’

  ‘Mary’s outside.’

  Tristan pushes himself up and goes over to his brother’s side. The street lights always come on too early in the close and everything looks brighter than it should be. One of the kids has fallen from his bike and now stands with one trouser leg rolled up while his friend inspects for damage. A car slowly reverses into the drive across the way. One of the neighbours pulls her wheelie bin up the path. And then, on the other side of the close, is Mary, her feet hidden by the build-up of brown leaves, her face lit brightly by the orange lamp above her head and what’s left of the fading sun.

  No one speaks. No one knows what to say. Tristan hears his watch beep in acknowledgement of the hour – a reminder to take another line of painkillers. Harris sits on the sofa, blank-faced like he’s not bothered, like he’s not been waiting for her to return all this time. Missing Mary was the one thing they all had in common, the thing that helped them to bond. But Harris never spoke about her and the only sign she had ever been with him at all was a photo of them both cuddling outside some church. Sometimes, Tristan found himself slipping into doing an impression of her, mimicking one of her sayings in the hybrid Manila-come-London accent of hers he had perfected over the years, and everyone would recognise it and laugh, but afterwards there was a weird, sad silence. The bottom line was Mary left them all, and it was kind of painful.

  ‘’Arry, what you going to do?’

  The fan of takeaway menus falls to the carpet as Harris sprouts up and heads out. The temperature of the room drops as the November chill enters. Tristan and Malachi edge closer to the window and watch as Harris’s bare feet take the leaf-covered path, flanked by cut-back rose bushes and wilting pink flowers, before stopping.

  ‘What’s he doing now?’ Tristan asks in frustration. ‘Why’s he just standing there?’

  Malachi leans his elbows on the ledge like a keen bird watcher. ‘I dunno, Tris. Give him a chance.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Chapter Forty-Four ,Mary

  She finds herself grateful for the cold, the way her eyes water in the stinging, frosty breeze, the sensation of her toes going numb within her plimsolls, the feeling of being woken up sharply. As she enters Vanbrugh Close, her stomach churns with emptiness. If only she had eaten something before she left Julia’s home, then she would not feel so weak and light, so insubstantial. The streetlights come on, signalling the failure of the weak autumn sun, its inability to see the day out. Everything is now too bright and too real. She needs more time, even a few more minutes in the dusk to gather her thoughts and strength. Two schoolchildren on bikes skid to avoid her. Their unbuttoned blazers flap open to reveal the thin lemon shirts of the school Harris teaches in. They’re untouched by the cold as they show off for one another, tipping their bikes up onto the back wheels like the kids on Morpeth Estate used to.

  Mary should have waited until morning before coming here.

  The front garden is a little sparse, in line with the season, and the path is covered with leaves. Inside a light blinks on and she imagines Harris at the switch, illuminating the room, like a shop window for all the neighbours to see the mess and clutter of his home. There is a figure at the glass, familiar, but not Harris.

  Mary grips the handle of her bag tightly. It contains all she owns in the world: Harris’s work shirt, navy jogging bottoms, her broken fob watch, some newspapers and a few items of clothing bought by Julia.

  ‘Stupid old woman,’ she mumbles. ‘Cross the street, cross the street.’

  The front door opens and Harris appears. He stands in the doorway, motionless, his expression unreadable. Then quickly he walks down the path, until he is on the other side of the street, facing her. The teenagers, now back on their bikes, whizz between Mary and Harris. He waits till they have passed before he crosses and takes her in his arms. The smell of his embrace is so familiar: heavily spiced stews and cigarettes on a cold patio. A shiver passes between them and she doesn’t know if it’s her body or his that has succumbed to the cold. His back convulses with sobs and she’s embarrassed for him, for herself, for anyone happening to walk or drive by and see the scene: two old lovers crying in the middle of the pavement. But she can’t stop herself.

  She pulls away slightly and looks down at him, at his astonishingly tanned bare feet on the wet ground. ‘You’ve got no shoes on.’

  ‘So what?’ He takes her hand and they walk together up the path.

  Malachi emerges. He stops at the threshold and leans on the doorframe. He wears a thin-looking red shirt and pulls his shoulders up towards his ears with a shiver before giving Mary one of his brief hugs. She’s shocked by the size of him. Has he always been this tall and lanky?

  On the stripy woven mat by the door sit the brown sandals Harris wears in all weathers, alongside two large pairs of white trainers.

  ‘Tristan?’ She hears the shock in her own voice at finally seeing the damage. Even after all these months, she pictured, at the most, a cursory bandage, a bruised face, some quick-healing scabs that would not alter his young face too much. But his left eye is slanted, the colour replaced with grey, and his face is li
ttered with small scars.

  Still, she awaits the toothy smile she’s missed, the crush of one of his bear hugs, and when it doesn’t come she goes to him.

  ‘Hello, sunshine.’ He feels rigid in her arms.

  She takes a few steps into the middle of the room, the middle of them all, and feels so small. All the words she practised on the way over vanish and she can think of nothing to say.

  Harris’s sniffing breaks the silence. He takes a napkin from his pocket and says, ‘I wasn’t sure you would ever come back.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Again, she’s shocked by how Tristan looks, how much the child she always saw in him has gone.

  ‘I’m going to make some tea,’ Harris says and goes into the kitchen.

  She sits on the sofa and puts her bag by her feet.

  ‘It’s good to see you,’ Malachi says.

  She smiles, grateful for his kindness. She wants to tell him she’s sorry about Pamela, about running off and leaving them, about them losing their home and having to stay here, but she can’t speak. The bungalow seems so different with the boys, oddly not crowded, but their influence is clear: a television, a stack of pirate videotapes, crisp packets and magazines on the coffee table.

  Harris places a mug of tea in front of each of them, leaving one for Tristan on the side, along with a tablespoon inside a jar of sugar. Mary laughs.

  ‘What?’ Harris asks.

  ‘I never thought about what it looked like here, with you three living together. It’s very strange.’

  ‘It made sense,’ Harris says, embarrassed by his own generosity. He sits on the arm of Malachi’s chair and they sip their tea silently. ‘Won’t you join us?’ he asks Tristan.

  There are empty spaces either side of Mary, but Tristan shakes his head, wobbling slightly as he leans on the window frame.

  Finally, Mary puts down her cup. ‘My husband …’ She falters. ‘My husband David and I were married for over thirty years. We were not together for most of that time, but still.’ She looks up at Harris, prepared to see hurt in his eyes, but also some kind of understanding. ‘He was my husband and I cheated on him. I started something I shouldn’t have. I kept so many secrets. From everyone. I knew David had died, I felt it in my stomach that day.’ She turns to Tristan. ‘And at first I thought you were gone too, and I blamed myself because I knew something was going to happen but I didn’t know what to do about it. So I did nothing.’ Her voice breaks. ‘I did nothing except come here.’

  ‘You can’t blame yourself, Mary.’ Harris comes besides her and takes her hand.

  ‘But I did. I don’t anymore. I’ve grieved for my husband. Now I want to start rebuilding my life.’

  Tristan huffs.

  ‘Tristan, please say something to me.’

  ‘What do you want to hear?’

  ‘Anything. I am trying.’

  ‘So what if you’re trying? You should have tried when I was lying in the hospital bed. When I couldn’t remember shit. When Mal got turned away from his girlfriend’s funeral.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Malachi cautions.

  ‘Why should I? She’s rolling back in here like it’s a day later and nothing’s changed, but she needs to know what it’s been like.’

  She’s seen Tristan kick off many times over the years, especially at his mum and Malachi, but never has it been directed at her. It hurts. She thought she was prepared to hear it today, to feel his neglect and accept how much she hurt him, but it stings more than she predicted.

  ‘You couldn’t even be bothered to call me back. I called the house so many times. Every week at one point, and Julia couldn’t get you to the phone.’

  Those days, an awful blur where Mary wore the same clothes and ate what little food her daughter pushed in front of her. Unthinking, only feeling all she had lost. It was like coming out of a tunnel, when the haze of grief finally began to subside, when she realised that although she lost David she still had her family, her children and grandbabies, her boys and Harris. She needed to get them all back.

  Harris puts his arms around her as she starts to cry.

  ‘It’s been half a year,’ Tristan shouts. ‘Half a year. So how can she expect to walk back into open arms from everyone?’

  She jumps as Malachi slams his cup down on the table. ‘We’re all trying to forgive someone something here, Tris. Every one of us. Remember that.’

  The look that passes between them has weight to it, another thing Mary has missed. But she no longer has the right to intervene in their arguments.

  ‘I knew you weren’t alone. I knew you had each other. Even my children, they shared a womb and they’re not as close as you two; they don’t look out for each other like you two do. So I knew I could stay away and you would look after each other. You would be okay.’

  ‘But it wasn’t okay. We weren’t okay.’ Tristan is shouting again. ‘Why the fuck does everyone keep leaving us to get on with it? I can’t believe that you, of all people, walked off. I don’t get it.’

  ‘Tris.’ Malachi takes hold of his brother’s shoulders as he tries to calm him down, but Tristan shrugs and looks directly at Mary. ‘You’re like all those teachers we had, those social workers. But no, actually, you’re worse than them because you pretend to be different. You pretend we’re part of your family. But we’re not. We’re no one to you.’

  ‘Don’t say that.’

  ‘It’s the truth. You’ve proven it’s the truth. I can’t deal with this.’ He walks off, away into a bedroom.

  Malachi rubs his face with both hands and sighs.

  ‘Tell me the right thing to say to him,’ she pleads.

  He keeps his face covered and shrugs.

  ‘Malachi?’

  ‘Mary, I don’t know anymore.’

  She follows Tristan down the corridor. The television goes on inside the end room and she hesitates, wondering if maybe he needs time to calm down. But time is the problem here; she’s already wasted too much of it. She opens the door to what must be the tidiest part of the bungalow, void of the knick-knacks, photos and bowls of potpourri Harris scatters about the place. The television gets louder and Tristan focuses on a wildlife programme, the kind he’s always loved watching, shouting encouragement at the screen as if his words can save the wildebeests from getting devoured by lions. Mary sits beside him and reaches out to touch his face, like she used to do so freely. She was always pinching the cheeks he never quite lost the chub from, or patting the fluff that gathered on his chin. ‘Bum fluff’, she called it, much to his annoyance.

  ‘Stop.’ He pulls away. ‘I don’t get why you’ve bothered to come back at all.’ His voice is littler now and he seems almost tearful.

  ‘To say sorry.’

  ‘Well, you said it now, so …’ He stalls and in this moment Mary takes the remote from his hand and turns off the television. He doesn’t protest, but continues to ignore her, focused on the now blank screen.

  ‘I made a mistake. Too many mistakes. I wasn’t well; I had to stay away. But I’m better now, stronger than I was. Before I was acting like a stupid old woman. Worry, worry, so much worry. About you and Malachi. My children. My grandbabies. The hospital. David. Harris. Everything I was worrying about all the time. For what?’ What else can she say? How can she explain to him how much she’s missed him? How terrified she now is that he will reject her? ‘I’m sorry I missed your birthday.’ It’s probably the wrong thing to say, but it’s been hanging over her, the fact that she missed this marker. He had told her of his ambitious plans for his sixteenth: the VIP area he and his boys would dominate in a club, the gold velvet suit he had seen some rapper wear in a magazine and wanted to copy.

  ‘Surprisingly, you didn’t miss much.’ He pulls a pillow towards himself and leans back.

  ‘I will make it up to you.’

  ‘It’ll take a bit more than a cake to make up for this.’

  ‘I can try, if you’ll give me a chance to put this right.’

  ‘You been gone six months.
That’s long. What did you expect?’

  ‘The talk show reunion,’ she admits.

  Tristan snorts. They both always used to comment on how strange it was that no one ever screamed and shouted during these TV reunions, why the abandoned daughter never swore at her dad, or why the adopted son never lashed out at his birth parents who wanted him twenty years too late.

  ‘I wanted everyone running to me, hugging, crying, saying: “Oh Mary, we missed you, we missed you”.’

  He stifles the smallest of smiles and she uses this as an in to take his hand, but it remains limp in hers and eventually she lets it drop.

  ‘I saw David,’ he says suddenly. ‘Right before it happened. He knocked at the flat, looking for the keys, looking for you.’

  In all these months she never considered that David would have crossed paths with anyone other than death that day. So it’s odd to hear he spent his final moments with Tristan.

  ‘How did he seem? What did he say?’

  ‘I’m not sure. My memory of everything is kind of muggy. I can only remember bits and pieces.’

  ‘Oh. Of course. It must be difficult to think about it.’ But she wishes he could tell her something about David that day, his last.

  ‘He literally collected the keys and left. I’m sorry, there’s not much else to say. He looked the same as he always did, I guess tired from the long journey.’ Tristan finally looks at her and smiles. ‘Smooth, he looked proper smooth.’ He laughs and she wipes her eyes. ‘I missed you, Mary. Why didn’t you call?’

  ‘I was scared. At the start I had to get away. And then a few days became a week. Then it was already months. Then it got longer and longer and I lost myself.’