Just Haven't Met You Yet

by Sophie Cousens

  We work in companionable silence, occasionally holding something up we’re unsure of, waiting for the other to point to the pile they think it should go in. I feel useful, filling bin bags and folding clothes for the charity shop.

  Picking up a box of videos, I flick through the titles. ‘Psycho, Strangers on a Train, To Catch a Thief, someone really is a Hitchcock fan, then.’

  Ted leans across to look, then he spreads his legs wide on the floor and pulls the box between them.

  ‘I used to treasure these,’ he says, picking one out, tapping the label fondly. ‘These were my teenage years – Hitchcock on a Friday night, Mum baking wonders for my friends in the kitchen.’ His eyes sparkle as he turns the VHS case over in his hands. ‘I went to this special screening of Vertigo a few years ago. As soon as the film started, I could have sworn I smelled fried dough.’ He spreads his fingers in front of his face and inhales, as though replicating the experience. ‘Your mind can play tricks on you like that.’

  ‘What’s this?’ I ask, holding up an old-fashioned frame with a photo of Ted dressed as a boy scout, with a terrible, crooked bowl haircut. ‘So, you were a boy scout. I’m guessing you failed to get the Cut Your Own Hair badge,’ I say with a laugh.

  ‘That is embarrassing,’ says Ted, his eyes creasing into a smile as he holds out a hand for it. ‘That will be first on the bonfire pile.’

  ‘No! I like it, you look cute.’ I pout at the photo, ‘I almost wouldn’t have recognised you without all the facial hair.’

  In the same box, I find another faded photo of a small boy holding a stick in his mouth, wearing a felt headband with paper ears pinned to it. I start to laugh. ‘Oh Ted, this is the most tragic fancy-dress outfit I think I’ve ever seen.’

  Ted reaches across for the photo and grins when he sees it.

  ‘This wasn’t fancy dress. When I was six, I was so set on getting a pet, I basically became a dog called Leonard for a month until my parents relented and got me a real one.’

  ‘Aw, you were the weird dog boy as a child, that’s adorable.’ I make a face of mock pity.

  ‘OK, no more photos for you,’ he says, taking the box away from me, his hand brushing against mine. ‘I’m guessing there are no embarrassing photos of you in the world then, Lady Muck?’

  ‘Oh no, there are definitely some bad ones. I had a full-on head brace at one point. I had donkey teeth as a teenager.’ I stick my teeth out over my bottom lip to illustrate. He shakes his head, rubbing a hand across his lips to hide a smile.

  ‘No, you still look good, even when you do that. No sympathy points for you.’

  It’s interesting to watch someone else ride the emotional seesaw that is excavating the life of a loved one. Ted’s mood shifts from fond recollection, as for the videos, to laughing with me over old photos, through to frustration at the sheer volume of junk, back to melancholy over finding his mother’s kitchen scales at the bottom of a damp box. I find I already know the nuances of Ted’s facial expressions. His brow furrows into two distinct lines between his eyebrows when he’s concerned or upset, but when he frowns in jest, only one of those lines appears. So much about him feels familiar to me somehow, even though I’ve only known him such a short amount of time.

  After about an hour, I look at the progress we have made, but notice Ted has added nothing to the ‘Keep’ pile.

  ‘You’re not keeping anything?’

  ‘I don’t want any of it. It’s depressing, that a life boils down to this,’ he says, waving an arm across the room.

  ‘You have to keep something, surely? How else will you remember?’

  Ted rubs his face with both his hands.

  ‘I don’t see my mother in these things; I don’t see Dad here either. This is just life’s detritus, the rubbish we leave behind.’ His voice becomes sharper. ‘Mum’s gone, and now Dad’s going to have to try and sleep in an unfamiliar bed, and for all his bluster, I can see he is terrified, because he knows I am taking him to that place to die—’ Ted thrusts both palms into his eye sockets and lets out a low, guttural sob that takes me by surprise.

  ‘Oh Ted,’ I shuffle over next to him and put an arm around his shoulder. ‘I know, it’s hard.’ He leans into me, and we just hold each other for a moment. But then I become aware of the smell of his neck. It feels heady and intimate in a way I hadn’t intended, and I pull back, self-conscious. Standing up, I cross the room, to put space between us.

  ‘Now, what is all this?’ I say, with forced brightness, as I pick up a large jar full of multicoloured sea glass. ‘Was this your mum’s?’

  Ted looks at the jar. ‘Yes, she collected tons of the stuff over the years.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, ‘and I saw your face when you first told me about sea glass and your mum – that’s a happy memory. You should pick a few pieces to keep, and the rest we’ll scatter back on the beach tomorrow, let someone else have the fun of finding them.’

  His mouth nudges into a smile, and I feel pleased that I might have said something helpful.

  ‘My mother’s scent,’ I say, ‘it’s the strongest memory I have of her. I keep a bottle of her perfume by my bed at home.’

  ‘Patchouli soap, floury hands, and Elnett hairspray,’ says Ted, ‘that’s what my mother smelt of.’ He picks up a small, quilted bag from the pile next to him. ‘She loved anything and everything patchouli. She even tried to get Dad into patchouli tea at one point, but he was having none of it.’

  ‘Patchouli, right,’ I say, taking the bag from him and making a new pile next to me. Sitting down cross-legged on the floor, I pat the carpet opposite, indicating Ted should sit the same way. ‘We’ll keep that. Now, your dad, close your eyes, what do you think of? What do you want to keep of his?’

  Ted’s gaze meets mine across the dimly lit room and my stomach contracts. Then he slowly closes his eyes as requested.

  ‘I think of all the things he used to be able to do here: his furniture making, playing the guitar, his love of sailing. I think of my mum, them laughing, this house, our dogs, all the things he loved, all lost to him.’

  There’s a lump in my throat.

  ‘Gerry wouldn’t want you to focus on what he’s lost. What does he still have?’

  Ted pauses, closing his eyes again, humouring me.

  ‘His sense of humour, I don’t think he’ll ever lose that.’ Ted bows his head, thinking. ‘The sky, he never tires of studying the constellations. Gin, not a lot, and never before six, and he does an excellent cheese board.’

  When Ted opens his eyes, they are swimming with emotion.

  ‘Laughing up at the night sky with a gin in your hand – sounds good to me,’ I say.

  I wonder if Ted feels this intense to everyone. I am now so aware of his physicality, of when he is looking at me. No doubt it is simply the situation, the lateness of the hour, the heightened emotion of what we are doing here.

  ‘Thank you, Laura,’ he says, his voice almost a whisper. He looks me square in the eyes and some internal part of me is laid bare beneath his gaze.

  When I look away, I try to focus on something solid in front of me, and we get back to work, emptying boxes. Opening a battered shoebox, I find it full to the brim with jewellery.

  ‘Oh, look at all this!’ I gasp. ‘Was all this your mother’s?’

  Ted comes over to see what I’m looking at.

  ‘More likely my grandmother’s,’ he says. ‘Dad said you could always hear her coming, she wore so many necklaces and bangles. I doubt it’s worth much, just dress-up jewellery.’

  The box is crammed full of so many beautiful, intriguing objects that my hands don’t know what to pick up first: delicate ivory hairslides shaped like leaves, rings full of purple and green stones, a beautiful brooch of a rose on painted porcelain, and a golden bangle lined with tiny silver bees. Vera’s Vintage would bite your arm off for such a treasure trove.

  ‘My mum used to repurpose old jewellery; she would have loved this stuff.’

  I glance up
and see Ted watching me, a charmed expression on his face.

  ‘Have it if you want,’ he says.

  ‘No, I couldn’t. These are your family heirlooms – you should keep them.’

  Ted picks up a long golden necklace with a stone missing. I find myself wondering how easy it would be to replace the stone with sea glass, how great that could look, the contrast between the ornate chain and the simplicity of a piece of weathered glass.

  ‘I don’t think any of it is quite my style,’ says Ted.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I say, holding a necklace up to his beard, ‘bejewelled beards are all the rage these days.’

  ‘Are they now?’ he says in a deadpan voice.

  I hold up more jewellery to his face and laugh as I attach earrings to his beard and then balance several bracelets on his head. He sits still, allowing me to decorate him like a Christmas tree. It feels strangely intimate, and when my eyes finally settle back on his, we just sit, looking at each other for a moment.

  ‘You should have it,’ he says. ‘Anything that makes your face light up like that – my grandmother would want you to have it.’

  ‘Can I take a photo of you?’ I ask.

  ‘If it’s for you, not your followers,’ he says, keeping his face still so none of the jewels fall off. Turns out Ted is incredibly photogenic, with his tanned skin and dark, expressive eyes. I scooch around to show him the screen, smiling at the photos, but when I glance up to see his reaction, he is looking at me, not my screen.

  The room suddenly feels warm. Putting my phone down, I carefully take all the jewellery off Ted, studiously avoiding his gaze. With the jewellery safely in the box, I pick up a tray full of papers and letters.

  ‘Did they have a good marriage, your parents?’ I ask, searching for a thread of conversation to pick up, trusting words more than what is unspoken in the silence.

  ‘The best,’ he says.

  ‘Can you see yourself ever getting married again?’ I pause, then add, ‘If you do get divorced, of course.’

  He picks up a cork coaster and spins it in his hands.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ He lowers his eyes. ‘I can’t imagine anything like that right now. Though funnily enough, this weekend has been the first time in a while I’ve felt fine about her being gone.’

  ‘That’s great, Ted, that means you’re moving on. You can’t see yourself with anyone else though?’ The question sounds loaded; I don’t mean it to be, I’m just curious about him, about how he feels.

  Ted’s pupils look like heavy weights, rising from a murky sea as he turns to me and says, ‘I don’t think I can be anything to anyone at the moment.’

  He says it slowly. It feels almost as though he’s trying to let me down gently, or warn me off, in case I have misinterpreted his friendliness towards me, or this energy between us. I’m embarrassed that he might be remembering my flirty drunken behaviour on the beach.

  ‘Well, when you are ready to meet someone, I can highly recommend airport baggage carousels. Just go and rummage through a few bags until you meet the woman of your dreams.’ I flash him a silly grin, ‘It worked for me.’

  He frowns, with two creases on his forehead rather than one.

  ‘So, letters, keep or bin?’ I ask, with a clipped, efficient tone.

  ‘Maybe flick through, check we’re not throwing away anything crucial.’ Ted holds out a hand, and I pass him a stack of papers.

  My pile is old gas bills from years ago, letters about Jersey Heritage membership, Scamp’s vaccination certificate. Gerry’s filing system could definitely use some improving. Then, amongst the typed letters, I come to a handwritten piece of paper. It looks to be the second page of a letter, though the first page isn’t here.

  If you need me urgently, you can contact me via the details below.

  All my love, Belinda

  And then there is an email address and a telephone number.

  As I scan the words, my chest contracts; my fingers squeeze the letter, bending the paper where I’m clasping it. Belinda, Ted’s wife, wrote to Gerry; her phone number is right here in my hand. Did Gerry intend to keep this from Ted? I should give it to him, he could call her, find out where she is, finally have some closure. But then I look up at him and see how tired he looks; how emotionally draining this night has been – it’s nearly one in the morning, I’m not sure he needs to see this tonight. My mind feels paralysed by the responsibility.

  ‘What’s that?’ Ted asks.

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I say quickly, shuffling the paper to the bottom of the pile. ‘Your dad wasn’t the best at filing paperwork, was he?’

  I didn’t even consciously decide to lie, I just heard myself do it.

  ‘That’s an understatement,’ Ted says.

  When he goes upstairs to the bathroom, I find the letter again and stuff it into my handbag. I don’t have any kind of plan here, I just don’t want Ted to have to deal with that right now – I’ll keep it safe, give it to him tomorrow in the clear light of day.

  I hear his feet on the stairs and look up to see Ted run a hand through his hair as he walks down, tilting his hips to avoid the wooden pillar at the bottom.

  ‘Well, you’ve made more progress in a few hours than I’ve made in weeks. You’re ruthlessly efficient.’ He yawns, ‘Maybe you can get inside my head and do the same sort of clear-out.’

  ‘Maybe I can,’ I say. Then he looks at me, and for a moment, it feels like he wants something more from me.

  ‘You need your bed. I’m going to head back to the cottage. Thanks for—’ For what? What am I thanking him for? ‘I enjoy talking to you, Ted.’

  ‘Me too,’ Ted ruffles a hand through his hair. ‘Let me help you to your bed, I mean – to your house,’ he says, stumbling over his words. ‘I’ll bring a torch, it’s dark outside.’

  I smile at his embarrassment.

  ‘Such a gent.’

  He picks up my case, then grabs a torch from the kitchen and shines it ahead of me, walking with me to the cottage door.

  ‘Thank you for tonight, Laura,’ he says, looking down into my eyes. ‘I’m glad you got into my car yesterday.’ There’s an invisible pull in the air, as though I don’t want him to leave, and my mind jumps back to that moment on the beach, when I wanted to nestle my face into his beard. ‘Sleep well.’

  ‘Night, Leonard,’ I say, feeling on safer ground making a joke. He smiles back and I pat him on the head. ‘There’s a good doggie.’

  ‘Night, Lady Muck,’ he says, and then turns to walk back up the slope.

  As I watch him go, I wonder at how different these two men are who I’ve spent the evening with. Jasper is energetic jazz, whereas Ted is the steady beat of a low drum. Jasper is loose-leaf Oolong; Ted, a warm mug of builder’s brew. I shake my head as I open my front door, unsure why I even feel the need to compare the two.

  LETTER RETURNED TO SENDER

  23 September 1991

  Dear Annie,

  I’m sorry I upset you calling things quits over the phone. Whatever happens, please don’t think our summer in Jersey meant any less to me than it did to you. It was a wonderful few months – I think what made this summer so special, though, is that it was always only going to be the summer, Annie.

  I’ll be in Greece for six months, then who knows where. I go where the work is and I know from experience I’m not cut out for long distance. I didn’t make any promises, did I? I never talked about the future; you can’t lay that on me.

  Please call if you want to talk, I hate to hear you upset. I’d like us to stay friends.

  Love Al,

  PS, please send back my grandmother’s coin. I will repay you whatever you spent on it.

  Chapter 18

  My mother and I are sitting in my old bedroom, the one she turned into a jewellery workshop. The floor is piled high with trays; little compartments designed to store Christmas decorations, which Mum uses to stow her magpie finds. She’s laying out some treasures on the mottled oak desk: a golden ring w
ith the diamond missing, a collection of hairslides covered in tiny pearls threaded onto delicate silver wire and shaped into flowers.

  It’s these details that trick me, make me believe the scene is real. How does my brain furnish me with such detailed deceit? The way she tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear, but twirls it girlishly first, just for a moment. The blouse she’s wearing, with coffee stains on the cuff; her nails, always clipped painfully short, the lilt of her voice, ‘Laura, pass me the thingamee, will you?’ And I know exactly what she means.

  I have these vivid dreams less frequently now. A painful pleasure, but I would not be without them. They are a chance to see her again, to spend time in her company. On waking, when the deception is realised, I feel the sorrow of losing her all over again, but then my mind scrabbles to collect up the breadcrumbs of detail that will keep her real.

  I scribble down everything I can remember in my diary: the coffeed cuff, the thingamee, the hair twirl. These are the details my waking mind forgets, but without them her memory might blur, eventually distilling her to a series of photos and anecdotes like Dad. I must hold off the distillation for as long as possible, so I’m grateful for the dreams.

  After writing my notes, I can’t get back to sleep. My shin feels sore from last night, and I notice the skin to one side of the plaster is bruised. Since it’s nearly six, I eventually give up trying to rest, open my laptop, and stare at the screen. Belinda’s letter sits accusingly on the bedside table. Why did I take it? I shouldn’t be involving myself in Ted’s life like this; I’ve got enough of my own problems to deal with. I stow the page of her letter back into my handbag, resolving to just give it to Ted as soon as I see him this morning.

  But between the dream, Belinda’s letter, and my evening with Jasper and then Ted, there’s too much swirling around my head to be able to focus on work. I skim-read a few chapters of Tiger Woman, but it only makes me feel inadequate. I am so un-tiger.