Surprise Me

by Kinsella, Sophie

  But I can’t afford tears now. So I’ve somehow put Dan from my mind. As I walk into the library, my chin is firm and my gaze is stern, and I can tell from the expressions of Mrs Kendrick and Robert that they’re both shocked at my appearance.

  ‘Sylvie!’ Mrs Kendrick gasps in horror. ‘Your—’

  ‘I know.’ I pre-empt her. ‘My hair.’

  ‘Looks good,’ says Robert, and I shoot him a suspicious glance, but his face is impassive. Without any further niceties, I get out my scribbled notes and take up a position by the fireplace.

  ‘I’ve brought you both here,’ I say, ‘to discuss the future. Willoughby House is a valuable, uniquely educational museum, full of potential. Full of assets. Full of capability.’ I put my notes down and look each of them in the eye. ‘We need to realize that capability, tap into that potential and monetize those assets.’ ‘Monetize’ is so not a Mrs Kendrick word that I repeat it, for emphasis: ‘We need to monetize our assets if we’re to survive.’

  ‘Hear hear,’ says Robert firmly, and I shoot him a brief, grateful smile.

  ‘I have a number of ideas, which I would like to run past you,’ I continue. ‘First: the basement has been criminally overlooked. I suggest an Upstairs Downstairs exhibition, tapping into the fascination that people have with how the different classes used to live and work. Second: in the kitchen is an old housemaid’s diary, itemizing her day. I rang up two publishers today, and both expressed interest in publishing the diary. This could link in with the exhibition. Perhaps we find the diary of her employer of the time and publish the two together?’

  ‘That’s inspired!’ exclaims Robert, but I carry on without pausing.

  ‘Third, we need to get more schools in and develop the educational side. Fourth, we need to get this whole place online. Fifth, we rent it out as a party venue.’

  Mrs Kendrick’s face drops. ‘A party venue?’

  ‘Sixth, we hire it out as a movie set.’

  ‘Yes.’ Robert nods. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Seventh, we put on the erotica exhibition and make a media splash. And eighth, we focus our fundraising more tightly, because at the moment it’s all over the place. That’s it.’ I look up from my list.

  ‘Well.’ Robert raises his eyebrows. ‘You’ve been busy.’

  ‘I know the condo merchants are circling.’ I appeal to him directly. ‘But can’t we at least give this place a chance to become a modern, functioning museum?’

  ‘I like it,’ says Robert slowly. ‘I like all your ideas. Although again, money. Do not commit any money, Aunt Margaret,’ he adds quickly to Mrs Kendrick as she opens her mouth. ‘You have done enough.’

  ‘I agree,’ I reply. ‘She has. And we don’t need it.’ I can’t help smiling at them both. ‘Because today we were awarded a grant of thirty thousand pounds from the Wilson–Cross Foundation.’

  Susie texted me with the good news an hour ago. And I’ll be honest, my initial reaction was: Great. But … is that all? I’d been secretly hoping for a magical, problem-solving, fairy-godmother amount, like another half-million.

  But you have to be thankful for what you can get.

  ‘Well done, Sylvie!’ Mrs Kendrick claps her hands together.

  ‘Good work,’ agrees Robert.

  ‘It’ll tide us over,’ I say, ‘until some of these projects start generating income.’

  Robert holds out his hand for the list and I pass it to him. He runs his eyes down it and nods a few times. ‘You’ll spearhead all of this?’

  I nod vigorously. ‘Can’t wait.’

  And I mean it: I can’t wait to get cracking. I want to kick-start these projects and see them into fruition. More than that, I want to see them saving Willoughby House.

  But at the same time, there’s a weird feeling inside me that’s been growing all day. A sense that my time here might be nearing its final stage. That I might, some time in the not-too-distant future, move on to a new environment. Challenge myself even more. See what I’m capable of.

  I catch Robert’s eye and have the strangest conviction that he can tell what I’m thinking. So I hastily look away. Instead I focus on the Adam fireplace, with the two huge shells brought back by Sir Walter Kendrick from Polynesia. It’s where we gather every year for Mrs Kendrick’s Staff Christmas Stockings. She wraps up little gifts and makes special marzipan cakes …

  I feel a sudden wrench. God, this place gets under your skin, with all its quirks and traditions. But you can’t stay somewhere just for the sake of tradition, can you? You can’t stay put, just for a few sentimental reasons.

  Is that how Dan feels about me?

  Am I a sentimental reason?

  My eyes start to feel hot again. It’s been such a day, I’m not sure I can hold it together.

  ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll be going,’ I say, my voice husky. ‘I’ll send you an email summarizing everything we’ve discussed. It’s just … I think I need to get home.’

  ‘Of course, Sylvie!’ says Mrs Kendrick. ‘You go and have a lovely evening. And well done!’ She claps her hands together again.

  I head out of the library, and Robert comes along with me.

  ‘Are you OK?’ he says in a low voice, and I curse him for being so perceptive.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Kind of. I mean, not really.’

  I pause by the stairs and Robert stares at me as though he wants to say something else.

  ‘What did he do?’ he says at last.

  And this is all so upside down, I’d want to laugh. Except it’s not funny. What did Dan do? He worked tirelessly for my family with no credit while I called him ‘chippy’ and a ‘fucking cliché’ and drove him away.

  ‘Nothing. He did nothing wrong. Nothing. Sorry.’ I start to walk again. ‘I have to go.’

  As I walk along our street I feel numb. Flat. All the adrenaline of the day has dissipated. For a while I was distracted by the stimulation of doing stuff and achieving change and making decisions. But now that’s all faded away. It doesn’t seem important. Only one thing seems important. One person. And I don’t know where he is or what he’s thinking or what the future holds.

  I don’t even have my girls waiting for me at home. If I did, I could hug them tightly to me and hear their little stories and jokes and troubles, read their books, cook their suppers and distract myself that way. But they’re at a birthday party with Karen.

  I’m walking along in a mist of preoccupation, unaware of my surroundings – but as I near home I focus in dismay. There’s an ambulance outside John and Owen’s house and two paramedics are lifting Owen out of it in a wheelchair. He looks frailer than ever and there’s a small plastic tube running into his nose.

  ‘Oh my God.’ I hurry over to John, who keeps trying to put a hand on Owen’s arm and is being firmly but gently batted away by the paramedics. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Owen is not well,’ says John simply. There’s almost a warning note to his voice, and I sense he doesn’t want to be quizzed on what? How? When?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘If there’s anything I can do …’ Even as I say the words, they sound hollow. We all say them, but what do they mean?

  ‘You’re very kind.’ John nods, his face almost, but not quite, breaking into a smile. ‘Very kind indeed.’

  He follows Owen and the paramedics into the house and I watch them, stricken, not wanting to be the nosy neighbour who stares, but not wanting to be the callous neighbour who turns away, either.

  And as I’m standing there, it occurs to me: there is something I could do. I hurry home, dash into the empty, silent kitchen, and start rooting around in the fridge. We had a supermarket order recently and it’s pretty full, and to be honest, I’ve never felt less like eating.

  I load up a tray with a packet of ham, a pot of guacamole, a bag of ‘perfectly ripe pears’, two frozen baguettes that just need eight minutes in the oven, a jar of nuts left over from Christmas, a packet of dates also left over from Christmas and a bar of chocolate. Then, balanc
ing it on one hand, I head outside and along to John and Owen’s house. The ambulance has gone. Everything seems very silent.

  Should I leave the tray on the doorstep and not disturb them? No. They might not realize it’s there until it’s tomorrow and the foxes have ripped it to bits.

  Cautiously I ring the bell, and form my face into an apologetic expression as John answers. His eyes are red-rimmed, I instantly notice. They weren’t before. I feel a jab through my heart and want to back away instantly; leaving him in his private space. But I’m here now. And so I clear my throat a couple of times and say awkwardly, ‘I just thought you might like … You might not have thought about food …’

  ‘My dear.’ His face crinkles. ‘My dear, you are too kind.’

  ‘Shall I bring it in?’

  Slowly I proceed through the house, afraid of disturbing Owen, but John nods towards the closed sitting-room door and says, ‘He’s resting.’

  I put the tray on the kitchen counter and the cold items in the fridge, noticing how bare it is. I’m going to get Tilda in on this, too. We’ll make sure they’re permanently stocked up.

  As I finish, I turn to see that John seems lost in a reverie. I wait in wary silence, not wanting to break his thoughts.

  ‘Your daughter.’ He suddenly comes to. ‘I believe she left … a small rabbit. Small … white … large ears …’ He describes vaguely with his hands. ‘Not a breed I recognize …’

  ‘Oh! You mean her Sylvanian Families. I’m sorry. She leaves them everywhere.’

  ‘I’ll fetch it for you.’

  ‘Let me!’

  I follow him out to his greenhouse, where sure enough one of Tessa’s Sylvanian rabbits is standing incongruously by the rows of frondy plants. As I pick it up, John seems lost again, this time transfixed by one of the plants, and I remember something Tilda told me the other day. She said she’d googled John and apparently his research on plants has led to a breakthrough in gene therapy, which could help millions of people. (I have no idea how that works, but there you go.)

  ‘It’s an amazing life’s work you’ve achieved,’ I venture, wanting to say something positive.

  ‘Oh, my work will never be done,’ he says, almost as though amused. His face softens and he rubs a leaf between his fingers lovingly. ‘These wonders will never reveal all their secrets. I’ve been learning about them ever since I was a boy. Every time I look at them I learn a little more. And as a result I love them a little more.’ He moves a pot tenderly, patting its fronds. ‘Tiny miracles. Much like people.’

  I’m not quite sure if he’s talking to me or to himself, but every word he says feels like a drop of Wise Potion. I want to hear more. I want him to tell me all the answers to life.

  ‘I don’t know how you—’ I break off, rubbing my nose, inhaling the earthy, greeny smell of the plants. ‘You’re very inspiring. Dan and I have …’ I swallow hard. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter about us. I just want you to know, you’re inspiring. Fifty-nine years.’ I look straight at him. ‘Fifty-nine years, loving one person. It’s something. It’s an achievement.’

  John is silent for a few moments, his hands moving absently around his plants, his eyes far off with thought.

  ‘I am an early riser,’ he says at last. ‘So I watch Owen wake up every morning. And each morning reveals something new. The light catches his face in a particular way, he has a fresh thought, he shares a memory. Love is finding one person infinitely fascinating.’ John seems lost in thought again – then comes to. ‘And so … not an achievement, my dear.’ He gives me a mild, kind smile. ‘Rather, a privilege.’

  I stare back at him, feeling choked up. John’s hands are trembling as he rearranges his pots. He knocks one over, then rights it, and I can tell he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. I recall Owen just now, pale and shrunken, the tube in his nose, and have a sudden, horrible fear that it’s bad, really bad.

  On impulse I grab John’s shaky hands and hold them in mine till they’re still.

  ‘If you ever want company,’ I say. ‘Help. Lifts in the car. Anything. We’re here.’

  He nods and squeezes my hands. And we go back into the house, and I make two cups of tea, because that’s something else I can do. And as I leave, promising to return tomorrow, all I can think is: Dan. I need to talk to Dan. I need to communicate. Even if he’s still in Devon. Even if he has no signal. Even if it’s a one-sided conversation.

  As I get inside our house I’m already reaching for the phone. I dial his number, sinking down on to the bottom step of the stairs, desperate to let him know, desperate to make him understand … what?

  ‘Dan,’ I say as the phone beeps. ‘It’s me. And I’m so sorry.’ I swallow, my throat all lumpy. ‘I just … I wish … I just …’

  Oh God. Terrible. Why am I so bloody inarticulate? John, with all his worries, manages to sound like some elegiac poet, whereas I flounder around like an idiot. I click off, dial again and start another voicemail.

  ‘Dan.’ I swallow the lumps down. ‘It’s me. And I just called to say …’ No. I sound like Stevie Wonder. Bad. I click off and try again.

  ‘Dan, it’s me. I mean, you knew that, right? Because you saw Sylvie pop up on your screen. Which means you’re listening to a message from me. Which I suppose is a good sign …’

  What am I going on about? I click off before I can sound any more like a rambling moron and dial a fourth time.

  ‘Dan. Please ignore all those other messages. Sorry. I don’t know what I was trying to say. What I am trying to say is …’ I pause, trying to untangle my thoughts. ‘Well. I suppose it’s that all I can think about is you. Where you are. What you’re doing. What you’re thinking. Because I have no idea any more. None.’ My voice wobbles and I take a few seconds to calm myself. ‘It’s ironic, I guess, because I used to think I knew you too well. But now …’ A tear suddenly runs down my cheek. ‘Anyway. Above all, Dan … and I don’t know if you’re even still listening … but above all, I wanted to say …’

  The door opens and I’m so startled, I drop my phone in shock, thinking, Dan? Dan?

  But it’s Karen, wearing sneakers and earbuds and her cycling backpack.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ she says, looking surprised to see me sitting on the stairs. ‘I forgot my iPad. Shit, Sylvie, your hair.’

  ‘Yes. My hair.’ I peer at her in confusion. ‘But wait, aren’t you supposed to be with the girls?’

  ‘Dan’s with them,’ she says casually – then, at my reaction, her expression changes. ‘Oh. Wasn’t I supposed to say? He just turned up and said he’d do the party.’

  ‘Dan’s here?’ My heart is thudding so hard, I can hardly breathe. ‘He’s here? Where? Where?’

  ‘Battersea Park,’ says Karen, eyeing me weirdly. ‘Climb On? You know, the climbing place?’

  My legs are already moving. I’m scrambling to my feet. I need to get there.

  SEVENTEEN

  Battersea Park is one of the reasons we like south-west London. It’s an amazing resource – huge and green and full of activities. It’s a fine evening as I reach the gates and people are out in force enjoying themselves. They’re strolling, cycling, rollerblading, riding recumbent bikes and hitting distant tennis balls. Everyone’s relaxed and smiling at each other. But not me. I’m desperate. I’m not smiling. I’m a woman on a mission.

  I don’t know what’s propelling me – some marriage-in-crisis superpower maybe, that causes all your muscles to explode in strength? But somehow I’m speeding along, past all the joggers, tottering in my black high heels, panting and red-faced. My lungs are on fire and there’s a blister on my heel, but the more it hurts, the harder I run. I don’t know what I’m going to say when I see him. I’m not even sure I can string a sentence together – all I have is the odd random word landing in my brain as I run. Love. Forever. Please.

  ‘Argh!’ Suddenly, without warning, I feel a massive jolt, and crash to the ground, scraping my face painfully against the tarmac. ‘Ow! Ow!’ I manage to get
to my feet, and see a little boy in a recumbent bike, who has clearly just bashed into me and doesn’t look remotely sorry.

  ‘Sorry!’ A woman is running over. ‘Josh, I’ve told you to be careful on that bike—’ She sees my face in dismay. ‘Oh dear. You’ve cut your forehead. You should see a medic. Do they have a first-aid place?’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say hoarsely, and start running again. Now she mentions it, I can feel blood running down my face. But whatever. I’ll find a plaster later.

  Climb On is a massive adventure playground for children, full of ropes, dangling ladders and dangerous, hideous, swaying bridges. As it comes into view, the very sight of it makes my stomach turn. Why on earth would you have a party here? What’s wrong with safe activities on the ground?

  As I get near I can see Dan. He’s standing on a bridge, at the top of a tower, with a couple of other dads, all wearing safety helmets. But while the dads are joking about something, Dan seems oblivious to the party. He’s staring ahead, his face shadowed, his brow taut.

  ‘Dan!’ I yell, but the place is full of clamouring children and he doesn’t turn. ‘Dan! Dan!’ I scream so loud that my throat catches and still he doesn’t hear me. I have no choice. Dodging past the entrance barrier, and ignoring the cry of the attendant, I run at the structure, kick off my heels and start climbing up a monstrous set of rope steps that will lead me to the platform that Dan is on. I’m not even thinking about what I’m doing. I’m just getting to Dan in the only way possible.

  And it’s only when I’m about ten feet off the ground that I realize what I’m doing. Oh God. No. I can’t … no.

  My fingers freeze around the ropes. I start to breathe more quickly. I look down at the ground and think I might vomit. Dan is another twenty feet up. I need to keep climbing. But I can’t. But I have to.

  ‘Hey!’ An irate voice is calling me from the ground. ‘Who are you? Are you with the party? You need a helmet!’

  Somehow I force myself up another step. And up. Tears have started to my eyes. Don’t look down. Don’t look. Another step. The rope steps keep wobbling perilously and suddenly a whimper escapes from me.