The Codes of Love

by Hannah Persaud

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he says.

  ‘About time,’ she says. ‘So what is it?’

  ‘He eats the dates from the calendar …’

  ‘Good.’ She ruffles his hair.

  ‘And drinks the water from the springs in the bed …’

  ‘Genius, I knew it,’ she says, smiling. ‘Lock me in a room with you any time.’ He pulls off the motorway. ‘And how does he get out of the room?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘How does he get out? He’s locked in …’ she says, sighing loudly.

  ‘That wasn’t part of the question,’ Ryan says.

  ‘Yes it was. In fact, it’s probably the most important part of the riddle. All well and good to eat dates and drink spring water, but they’re not going to last for ever, are they?’ She swings herself around in the passenger seat to face him.

  ‘Technically you don’t know that. It doesn’t actually say how long they’ll last,’ Ryan says, laughing at her frustration.

  ‘It’s common sense that they’ll run out at some point. Everything does,’ she replies.

  ‘Okay, let me think. By the way, do we need to stop for lunch on the way?’ Ryan asks.

  ‘Nope – I’ve got it covered. Picnic, check. Dinner, check. Wine, camping pasta, everything we need,’ she says. He makes a mental note to insist on a proper dinner tomorrow, something nice, out somewhere. All well and good to be frugal, but he’s not exactly cash-strapped.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘How does he get out?’

  ‘He eats dates, drinks spring water and using strings from the guitar he unpicks the lock.’

  ‘There’s no guitar, I told you,’ she says, looking out of the window now. ‘You’re doing it on purpose.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Getting it wrong.’

  ‘Why would I be deliberately getting it wrong – how does that make any sense?’

  ‘THERE IS NO GUITAR! It’s a piano.’

  ‘I got it!’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘Did too. Listen. He eats dates from the calendar, drinks water from the springs in the mattress and uses the key from the piano to unlock the door. Ta da!’

  ‘Finally.’ She turns to him. ‘I know what I’d do if I were locked in a room with you, a bed, a calendar and a piano.’ He reaches for her right hand with his left and entwines his fingers into hers.

  ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘I’d destroy the calendar so that time was irrelevant and we’d make sweet music on the bed.’

  He scrunches up his nose. ‘Listening to Leonard Cohen, no doubt. You’re so cheesy. If I was with you I’d choose the guitar over the piano so I could use the strings to tie your hands to the bed.’

  ‘I’m cheesy? Leonard’s pure poetry.’

  It’s been a month since they were last together. Twenty minutes to the cottage now, another eight tortuous gates. This time they have almost a week; he’s lied to Emily, knowing that this long would be pushing it. He doesn’t think that she believed his excuse about needing to spend time with his mother, but it’s a safe bet that she won’t follow him up to Manchester to find out; his mother’s loathing for Emily is reciprocated entirely.

  They arrive by midday. The cottage and then the caravan come into sight, the cottage unrecognisable, clad in scaffolding and tarpaulin. The trees are resplendent in their leaves and the evergreen forest banks behind them, bending to the breeze.

  ‘Welcome home,’ Ada says to herself, climbing out of the car. He likes that she calls it home, this half-restored cottage and a rusting tin can on wheels. He feels the reassurance of returning, the sense of belonging. As a child his homes were transient spaces, an endless move one to the next, his father’s debt chasing his heels. When he was old enough to make decisions for himself, he promised himself he would have a house of his own. It took him eight years to qualify as an architect. By the time he graduated he had a scar in the centre of his forehead where he had rubbed his finger in concentration. It started off small, a tiny graze, but as the scab formed he picked it. Every time it was about to heal he rubbed it and it would crack and split again. Eventually it gave up healing and resigned itself to remaining a small thumb-sized crater in the middle of his forehead. Finally though, he had a job creating homes for other people.

  Next he moved on to his second goal: to create a family. At university he’d been too busy for girlfriends and his single-minded focus on studying was off-putting to the most ardent of admirers. He knew though that he wanted the family that he had never had. He met Emily in a café when he spilled his coffee on her notebook, and in the second where their hands clashed awkwardly over a pile of napkins, he knew that she was the one. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, out of his league and he knew it. For the first time, though, he felt that he had something to offer, a promise of a lifestyle, a hope. He listened lots and talked little and realised that despite appearing to have it all, a part of her was lost. He made himself indispensable over the following months, and slowly but surely she started to need him too. Need, he realised, was a powerful thing. When he finally summoned the courage to kiss her, she kissed him back. He thought that this was all that he could ever hope for and he waited for her to realise who he really was, a dreaded call or a subdued meeting in a darkened bar. It didn’t happen and his world altered irrevocably. He discovered the joys of intimacy, a world that he knew little about. Experienced and spontaneous, Emily was everything he was not. While his peers were getting hot under the covers, he was studying. When for a brief period he was invited to parties, he’d bury his head in a book in a corner and shut out the couples on the dance floor. The invitations dwindled quickly. No one ever approached him. But Emily seduced him slowly and delighted in nominating herself his tutor. He longed to experience the world through her eyes and when she accepted his proposal of marriage six months later, he could not believe his luck. Though her proposal of an open marriage made his blood curdle, eventually he agreed to it, worried that otherwise she’d walk away. He wouldn’t get another chance like this and he didn’t really believe that she would utilise the freedom anyway. His naivety played a hand. He was aware there was a discrepancy between his needs and hers, her libido exceeding his, but he would work at it – after all, marriage was about effort.

  Everything was perfect in the early years. They all needed him back then: Emily through her postnatal depression. Sam and Tom with their tiny perfect bodies and warm giggly cuddles. He’d never been so happy. But the balance shifted as the boys got older. Emily emerged from the sleepless years more resilient, stronger. Resentful, he thought sometimes.

  He never wanted anyone other than Emily. It’s just straightforward sex, Emily had explained to him. Without ties. But for him it didn’t add up. There has to be something deeper, he insisted. It’s not a mechanical thing. Old-fashioned and repressed, she called him. He didn’t have an answer.

  ‘Sentimental,’ Emily called him. He accused her of being sexist.

  ‘For decades men have been derided for explaining their indiscretions as beyond their control, so why is it okay for a woman to do the same?’ he’d asked her.

  ‘It’s not the same,’ she’d replied, ‘because twenty years ago it would have been unheard of for a woman to imply that her needs were as justified as a man’s. I’m just pushing for the same freedom that men have claimed for years. Still, there was something about her logic that didn’t sit right.

  He loves it here at the cottage, his home life and work receding. Here the only task is to eat, sleep and fuck. In the afternoon they check on the workmen and head to the lakes. Soon the days will be shorter. They want to make the most of the light. The staircase is going in today and he can’t wait to see it. Now, above all else, he longs for them to be inside the four walls; he’s tired of the caravan that is disintegrating around them. Originally they’d thought to keep it there for guests. What guests would sleep surrounded by moss and rust? A foolish idea for a future they have not plann
ed. It has bothered him lately, what lies around the corner.

  They picnic by the closest lake. Ada crouches low and puts her fingers in the water. The water is sky blue despite the grey clouds that hang like puffed clouds over the tops of the hills.

  ‘It’s the granite in the water that makes it blue,’ he’s explaining, but she cuts him off with a finger to his lips.

  ‘Shh, don’t ruin the magic of it with science. Taste it.’ She puts her finger in his mouth and it tastes of earth and iron.

  ‘It’s magic in its own way,’ he insists, ‘the granite absorbs the light from the sky and reflects it back through the water.’ She sighs.

  ‘No, you’re wrong, the blue is the lake’s memory of summer days, stolen from the sky. But the lake is cursed, because although it carries the colour of summer in the water, it can never feel the sun. It must be torture to see the sun but never feel it.’ She tilts her head back to the sky and closes her eyes. For her this is a land of sixteenth-century highwaymen and winged dragons, of trolls resting beneath the bridges and pterodactyls screeching through the sky.

  After they eat she peels back her layers one by one in the clouded light and dives into the water. Her body enters without a sound. She swims underwater; the only sign of her is a ripple. Diving in after her, the water crushes his lungs. Forcing his way up to the surface, he breaks through, gasping. She is beside him now, her shoulders fragile against the rugged elbow of the mountain behind her. Back on dry land he passes her a towel and her phone falls onto the ground. He notices a missed call. He picks up her phone and drops it into her bag.

  Back outside the caravan, the warmth of the car is welcome and they sit inside it longer than they need to. The radio station they were listening to is replaced by a static crackle. Ada slips a CD into the player and Leonard Cohen’s gravelly tones fill the space.

  ‘He’s so depressing,’ Ryan says.

  ‘Listen to the words,’ Ada says. ‘He’s one of the greatest philosophers of our time; one of the greatest romantics too.’

  ‘Each to their own,’ Ryan replies, removing his keys from the ignition. ‘It’s all love and death, it’s so bleak.’

  ‘That’s all there is to life,’ Ada says.

  They prepare for evening. The temperature falls while they sit outside. The trick is to wrap up warm before the cold seeps in. Their thermal long johns and their vests live here permanently, tightly sealed inside a dry bag to prevent the damp seeping in. Ryan pulls on his goose-down jacket and his hat, then lights the wood-burning stove they bought last time they were here. Ada slices chicken breasts and peppers, rinsing her hands from the water container intermittently.

  ‘What’s the occasion?’ he asks, his mouth watering as the onions caramelise in the pan, their sweetness mingling with the woodsmoke.

  ‘Surprise,’ she passes him a glass of Viognier, and clinks hers against it. He wraps his arms around her and inhales the fresh smell of her skin. His desire cuts straight through his hunger. ‘Thought we deserved a decent homecoming – it’s been so long,’ she says, returning to the frying pan and adding soya sauce.

  They had planned to examine the cottage and the new stairs, but they’re too tired and it’s late. In bed their lovemaking is gentle. She wraps herself around him. Afterwards they lie on their backs listening to the rain return, slamming against the roof. The caravan rocks and Ryan pulls the covers over himself, up to his neck. Ada twists and turns, restless.

  By daybreak he feels sick from the motion of the wind. He sits and peers out through the checked curtains that hang limply against the plastic windows. Condensation sticks the edges of them to the frame.

  ‘Shall we move in to the cottage today, assuming the stairs are fit for purpose?’ He shuffles to the edge of the bed and tugs back the lock on the door, kicking it open with his foot when it sticks. It’s a gorgeous morning, the rain of yesterday gone and the sky washed clear of clouds.

  ‘Why not?’ Ada says, laughing and clambering over him to get out first, ‘We have stairs, a roof, windows. There’s no stopping us.’

  Apart from the fact that the walls are not watertight. It seems, according to the builder who Ryan spoke to, that the windows are not sealed properly, and the downpour of yesterday has seeped through the joins, pooling in streams and running across the floors of the cottage. Ryan looks in dismay at the mud. The builder wasn’t happy to be disturbed on a Sunday and refused to come out until tomorrow.

  ‘It’s okay, we can move in anyway,’ Ada says, dragging her dry bag across the floor, leaving soil marks. ‘Anything is better than the rust hut.’ As they swing the door of the caravan shut, it falls off its hinges.

  ‘Thereby ensuring that we can never sleep here again,’ Ryan says with satisfaction.

  The new staircase is glorious, spiralling upwards. Dust motes spin in the air above it. The wrought-iron handrail winds up to the crog loft, anchoring the space above. They’ve saved five feet of floor space by putting in this design, space that will eventually be filled with a sofa and a rug.

  ‘You first,’ Ada says, her foot poised at the bottom step.

  ‘Beat you there,’ Ryan shouts, sprinting from the door and doing an impressive hurdle over the bottom of the bannister before crashing unceremoniously onto the floor beside the fire. He definitely felt something twist and is worried he heard a crunch.

  ‘Shit.’

  Ada crouches down beside him and removes his shoe.

  ‘What were you thinking? Do you think you’re an athlete? Does it hurt a lot?’

  ‘On a scale of one to ten, it’s a nine.’

  She peels off his sock, which reveals an ankle that’s already twice it’s normal size, an angry bruise spreading up his leg and down towards his toes.

  ‘Should I call an ambulance?’ Ada says.

  ‘No reception,’ he says weakly. He lies down on the concrete floor. It’s damp and cold. He twists his head and puts the side of his forehead against it.

  ‘I’ll get some ice,’ Ada says, jumping up and disappearing out of the door. More of a problem that the walls aren’t watertight if he is to spend the night on the floor, he thinks, focusing on a spider’s web above his head. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply.

  ‘Can you move your toes?’ Ada asks, back with a bucket. Putting her hands underneath his armpits, she hoists him onto a chair and he is reminded again of the surprising strength of her. He focuses on his toes and with immense concentration manages to move the big one.

  ‘Good, that’s good. And your ankle?’

  He can move it a fraction to the right, and not to the left. ‘Okay if I want to walk in circles,’ he jokes. She lifts his foot into the bucket with cold hands and within seconds the pain is gone, his ankle numb.

  ‘Thank you.’ He grasps the ends of her fingers with his. ‘I’m such an idiot.’

  ‘That you are.’ She smiles, leaping to her feet. ‘Because now I get to go upstairs first and you’ll have to see it vicariously.’ With that she bounds up the stairs two at a time. He hears her clattering above him, her footsteps on the floorboards creaking from one end above his head to the other, until they stop.

  She’s silent for a long time.

  ‘Ada?’ Nothing but the rustle of old paper and the sound of the trees. She must have opened the shutters. ‘Ada?’

  He’s aware of a trickle of water running across the floor and pooling around the base of the bucket; on the far side of the room a tarpaulin flaps against the outside of the window. No, it’s not quite ready here. It’s cold too. They’ll need to buy some firewood. He glances at his ankle, now the size of a small football. What timing. He tilts his head to the side and listens carefully. What is she doing? Something drops on the floor above and rolls noisily above his head.

  ‘Ada? It’s not funny – what are you doing?’ He’s about to haul himself onto his good leg and drag himself up the stairs if he has to, when she appears at the top of the stairs, face flushed.

  ‘Look what I found,’ she says,
clutching a cardboard box to her chest. She walks down the stairs carefully, placing the box on his lap. ‘I need to go and buy wood and some firelighters for this evening, but you can keep yourself busy while I’m gone,’ she says.

  ‘I’ll come with you. I could do with a change of scene,’ he says.

  ‘Nonsense,’ she says, dismissing him with a pat to his head, ‘you can barely walk. I won’t be long and then we’ll get this place warmed up. I’ll get the name of a doctor too, just in case.’ She nods at his foot and then starts coughing, her eyes streaming. She runs to the kitchen and hunches over the sink, running the tap. Back in the lounge she downs a glass of water.

  ‘What was that about?’ he asks.

  ‘The smoke. Caught me right at back of my throat,’ she says. Ryan looks at the empty, disused fireplace.

  ‘What smoke?’ he asks.

  ‘Please tell me you smelled it too?’ she says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand.

  ‘I can’t smell anything,’ he replies, ‘Are you sure you’re okay? You look pale.’

  She swings her satchel over her shoulder and pulls on her wellies.

  ‘Strange,’ she says, distractedly.

  ‘The cottage is in the middle of nowhere, Ada, the fire’s not been lit for years. If you smelled anything, perhaps they’re burning wood in the forest …’ She grimaces.

  ‘Probably my imagination. Right, I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ He nods and lifts the top off the box on his lap.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Can you get some painkillers too?’ He listens to her footsteps until they blend with the birdsong and are then replaced by the car revving. She accelerates and then she is gone.

  The pain is replaced by a dull throb. Upstairs the shutter bangs against the wall. Ada must have left it open. No wonder it’s cold. Ryan zips up his jumper and pulls the hood over his head, his wrist catching the box that she’s left on his lap and knocking it to the floor. Above his head the rolling starts again. The crog loft is on a slope. It is inevitable that things will slide in his direction. He forces his hands to unclench from the arms of the chair and, wincing, stands on his good leg. The movement knocks the bucket over and his swollen foot is free. Pain shoots up it as it touches the floor. Melting ice scatters.