Progress is accepting that I’ll never know their conversations. Somewhere in between the Sandbach Services and Audlem are the reasons why he killed her, and I have no way to access what was said. That thirty-minute car ride is a vacuum. In the weeks after she died, I did everything I could to make myself imagine it. I tried to put my mind there like a hidden camera. But all that I could see was blankness and the only things I heard were ricochets of older arguments: useless worthless idiot don’t have to explain myself to you I can do what I want why don’t you shut your fucking trap for once always blaming someone else for your mistakes don’t you ever have a plan I mean where’s your self-respect you’ve always wanted me to fail you love to see me fall down on my arse don’t you there’s nothing you like better than humiliating me god I wish I’d never met you nobody can stand you always whining at me always whinging you don’t know you’re fucking born your parents dumped you even your own son has no respect for you I can’t stand to be around you any more I never loved you anyway oh yeah and what you going to do about it eh yeah right that’s what I thought all talk.
As more time passed, that car ride became easier to see. Unwanted images would drop into my head in idle moments. When I was unpacking the textbooks from my school bag, they would come to me. When I was lathering my face with medicated soap at bedtime, they’d come to me. When I was standing in the cafeteria line, while I stood at bus stops in the rain, when I was helping my grandmother clean the fish tank, when I was lacing up my shoes, when someone else was pondering a move at chess club. Fragments of my parents’ old discussions would resurface and I’d let their voices play, trying to make them fill the shapeless space within me.
I would hear my father bleating to her about Pascoe: ‘And it was probably the only time I saw my old man teary-eyed, the day he left the farm, but when I bring it up with him today, oh no, he denies it ever happened, tells me not to bring up ancient history, and now his story goes that Pascoe wasn’t meant to be hired in the first place, all his work was shoddy, and I’m saying, Dad, I was there for crying out loud, I know how much you liked him, you’re not fooling me, I know how good a worker he was too, especially when it got to hay time, I mean, I know he fixed the elevator for us after it exploded, didn’t he, no questions asked, what more d’you want? And I’m not ending up that way, no chance, I’m not gonna be another Pascoe he can wipe away like shit he trod in and won’t speak about, so yeah I let him fucking have it, didn’t I? Right in the head. And you know what? It felt good. It was a fucking relief.’
I would hear her trying to divert him from his purpose: ‘Like those weekends in the caravan. We were happy once, that’s all I’m saying. Those camping trips you used to take me on—incredible. Slumming it, my dad said, remember? A static caravan in Cornwall, Phil, you said, if that’s slumming it, you want to get out more. His face! No one ever spoke to him that way apart from you. I’ve never had more fun in my whole life. Those early days with you—my god. You know what I’m talking about. You know how good it used to be. I loved you more than anything back then. And it never really leaves you. I mean, we can fix this. Whatever you’ve done, we can fix it.’
I would hear her making promises: ‘Just tell me where he is, Fran, please, just tell me where he is. I swear to god, I’ll give you anything you want. Everything I have. I’ll empty my account. I’ll give you anything. The house. My car. I’ve got diamonds in my dresser drawer worth thousands. You know that. You can have them. Anything you want. Just, please, Fran. Tell me where he is and this won’t matter.’
I’d imagine him goading her: ‘Maybe we should go and meet that headmaster now, eh? Let him see us at our best. I’ll bring the gun in with me. We can have a chat and see if he can overlook that maths mark. We can talk about what cartridges are best to use. I’ll bet he’s shot a thing or two in his time, posh fella like him. Yeah, we can talk about that seventy-six and see if he changes his mind.’
I’d imagine her goading him: ‘If you’re going to kill me, Fran, for god’s sake change this music, will you? I’m not dying to this awful noise.’
I’d hear her dreaming up escape plans: ‘You could drop me here and catch a ferry into France. You’ve got your passport in the back, right? All your other stuff is here. I wouldn’t say a word. No one’d be chasing you. You’d have time. And once you’ve made it there, you just keep going. Anywhere you want. Find work. Do anything. Take a train out to Bulgaria. You’ve got friends there, haven’t you? Let them help you out. Go there. Work in a vineyard or something. I wouldn’t say a word. It’s got to be a better plan than what you’re doing now. Fran, listen to me. Fran. You can do it. You can go.’
I’d hear his validations for the place they ended up: ‘My mother was christened at St James’s, did you know that? Yup, this is where they wet her head and told her she was saved. I always thought it would be bigger, the way she used to talk about it. But you know how it is. Everything’s so disappointing in real life.’ / ‘Does there have to be a reason? I was looking at the atlas and it caught my eye.’ / ‘Yeah, I know it doesn’t look like much. I mean, it’s just a paddock. I used to have this big idea that I could buy the plot one day and build a house on it, and that’d be my start in life. But my old man wouldn’t lend me any money, so it just sort of fell away, the whole idea. I’ve kept coming back to visit it, to see if it’s been snaffled. And here it is, look. Still a fucking paddock. What a waste.’
These conversations loop and overlap.
They start but never finish.
I haven’t found a way to stop myself creating them.
I’ve spent so many years inventing explanations for what cannot be explained that I can barely differentiate the real voices from the phantoms in my memory. The worst part is, I know that my imagination was inherited from him. My father could construct a frame of lies in less time than it took a better man to shrug his shoulders, and it frightens me how much I share this capability—their speeches bloom inside my head so readily when I permit them. I cope with the problem. I stave it off. I occupy myself with enough work that I can bypass all the idle moments of the day. At night, I gulp down Ambien—sometimes I need two of them to mute the chugga chugga clank. Treatment of the symptoms. It doesn’t seem sustainable, but I’m yet to find a medicine for the cause.
She was six years older and her hair was shaved so close that when she stepped in from the rain she only had to run her hand across her scalp to dry it. She no longer had the gangling posture of her television days, no slump, no cradling her other elbow while she stood. Instead, she had the feigned disinterest of someone who’d grown used to being looked at, examining the restaurant with a blank expression while the waiter hung her coat. I was sitting in the deeper reaches of the place, where it was emptiest. The serviettes and breadcrumbs of the late-departed lunch crowd were being tidied all around me. She was escorted down the aisle towards my table. Her rubber clogs made bright gymnastic squeaks on the parquet. The embroidered pattern of her blouse shone as she moved. When she noticed me, she slowed her strides so much the waiter had to turn and check she was still following. I stood up to greet her, and the first words she said to me were: ‘Oh my god, I thought you were—I mean, you really do look like him, don’t you? I actually had a weird feeling for a minute there.’ My smile must’ve seemed uncomfortable. ‘Shit, is that completely the wrong thing to say? Oh god, it is. I can tell from your face. Okay. You know what? Let’s wind that back and start again. Agreed?’ She held out her hand across the table. ‘I’m Eve. Nice to meet you.’
‘It’s nice to meet you, too,’ I said. ‘Thanks for finding time for me.’
‘Oh, not at all. It’s good to get out and do civilised things. They’re keeping the reins pretty tight at the minute.’
The waiter pulled out the chair for her. As she sat down, her eyes still scrutinised me.
‘You’re not even allowed out for lunch?’ I said.
She took her menu. ‘Sure, but once it gets to dress rehearsals they try and
keep you within a mile radius. Close enough to send the AD out to get me with a lasso. The trouble is, round here, there’s—’
‘Can I get you anything to drink?’ the waiter said.
‘Tap water is fine. How fresh is that jug?’
‘It was here when I arrived,’ I said.
‘Then maybe let’s refill it,’ she told him. ‘And could I have a few slices of lemon? Just, you know, on a little dish or something. Don’t put it in the jug, is what I’m saying.’
The waiter nodded and went off.
‘I hope this place is okay for you,’ I said. ‘I don’t know London very well.’
‘Actually, I was just about to say you picked the ideal spot. There aren’t really any good places to eat in this neck of the woods, so if I absolutely have to stay in Waterloo, then I usually come here. It’s the best of a bang-average bunch.’
‘Oh good. I think.’
She grinned, lifting her menu. ‘Are we going to be eating, like properly eating, or should I just order some coffee and a massive slab of tiramisu?’
‘I don’t mind. Whatever you’ve got time for.’
‘Well, how hungry are you?’
I was too nervous to be sure. ‘Fairly, I suppose.’
‘Come on. Are you an eight? A six?’ She studied the first page, screwing up her face. ‘Because I’m about a four. There was a tub of mini-donuts doing the rounds backstage and I must’ve had about a hundred of them. I eat such crap when I’m nervous, and I’m terrified about this play. I might just get a cappuccino or something—but you get what you want.’
‘All right.’ I decided to order what she ordered. It was important to me that she didn’t sense any inequity between us or feel the pressure to uphold our conversation longer than she wished. The waiter returned with the water jug and her lemon slices. She asked him for the hottest cappuccino he could make, then told him: ‘Drown the froth with chocolate. You can hold the shaker thingy over it for twenty seconds. And I’ll have some of those little italian biscuits on the saucer, you know the ones I mean.’
‘And for you, sir?’
‘That sounds good to me as well.’
‘Nothing to eat for you today?’ He gave me a slow blink of disapproval, as though he’d personally hand-picked each item on the specials board.
‘No, sorry,’ I said.
Eve laughed. ‘Don’t apologise. You’re not obliged to order food.’ She watched the waiter traipse off with our menus. ‘If you went to a gallery, they wouldn’t make you buy a Giacometti, would they? They’d be happy if you bought a postcard. So don’t let them guilt you.’ Then she turned to study me again, thinning her eyes. ‘I didn’t know London much when I was your age, either. First time I came down here on my own I nearly wet myself just looking at the tube map. I still feel that way sometimes and I’ve been living here ages. You reach a point where you forget how big it is.’
‘Yeah. It’s not like I don’t come here, I just try to stay away from theatre land, if I can help it.’ A dryness came to my throat.
‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I get you.’ And she offered me a top-up from the water jug, filling both our glasses. I took a sip. ‘In case you’re wondering about the hair, it’s for the play. I don’t usually go for the hooligan look.’
‘I think it kind of suits you.’
‘Ah, you’re sweet. It’s really just a gimmick they came up with. If the script is bad, do something drastic. That seems to be their thinking. We’ll see if it works.’
‘Is it a decent role? The character you’re playing, I mean.’
‘I dunno. I’m still trying to suss her out.’
‘I thought the show opened soon.’
‘Yeah, the previews start on Thursday. Bad of me, I know, but here’s my problem: I really hate the play. It’s corny and I want to rewrite all my lines. I’m meant to be this woman who leaves prison and can’t get herself together. This local gang thinks she’s a snitch and they take over her whole life. They move into her flat and won’t leave her alone, so she has to sort of prostitute herself to get rid of them. It’s like, what do they call it? A sting operation. I wouldn’t waste your money on a ticket—trust me. It’s just the kind of thing some old Etonian writes so he can look more urban and humane. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad for the work. I need it. I’ll take the lead in anything in my situation. And, you know, I had been looking for a good excuse to get my hair cut for a while.’ She laughed self-consciously, picked up a lemon slice and began to peel the rind from it. ‘I’m jabbering at you, aren’t I? I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure what to expect today, and—it’s just, Christ, you remind me of him. It’s so hard to look at you and not feel—you know what I mean.’ The lemon flesh was dropped into her glass, the residue was sucked clean off her fingertips. ‘I’m finding it all a bit spooky.’
‘You don’t have to explain,’ I said. ‘I’m just grateful that you’re here.’
‘Yeah, well. I wouldn’t be too grateful. I can’t remember all that much about him, if I’m honest. I think I tried to banish him from my memory—we all did, right? But I’ll do my best.’ She de-rinded the next lemon slice with her teeth, spitting the pith out. ‘And then maybe you can stop pestering poor Richard, eh? He’s pretty weird about his inbox.’
She was referring to her agent. I’d sent him fifteen emails in the course of eighteen months, each one ‘FAO: Eve Quilter.’ The first of them was typed up on a slow computer at the local library; it had taken weeks to draft because I couldn’t find a way of mentioning my father without undermining the whole message, and everything I thought of made me sound revengeful. I’d settled in the end for something earnest and confessional: ‘Really I just want to ask you a few questions about my dad, that’s all, because I’m finding it quite hard to move on with my life, and hearing small details about him is the only thing that seems to help.’ A month passed with no reply, so I’d sent another, and another. I’d changed the message every time, becoming more and more apologetic. The last was sent from an internet café near school, where kids from chess club went to play their networked games of Half-Life. While I was typing, someone at the terminal beside me was shooting indiscriminately at US Marines with a bolt-action rifle:
Dear Eve, I hope you will forgive my perseverance. I haven’t given up on the idea that some day we might get a chance to talk, but I understand if you’d prefer to forget about my father entirely (I would do the same, in your position). There are so many things he ruined in my life that I’m still trying to understand how to move past them and be happy. I feel that speaking with you, even just for a few minutes on the phone, would help me so much. Please write back and let me know if you have any time to spare. I’m sorry for troubling you again. Kind wishes, Daniel Jarrett
At this stage, I’d stopped expecting a response. Writing to Eve Quilter had become habitual. Even if it wasn’t fruitful, it had made me feel like I was doing something, and I thought of it as an equivalent to my grandmother’s Sunday churchgoing: I was dispatching prayers into the ether. But then, one afternoon in January, I was home alone, revising for a Physics mock exam, and the telephone rang. When I answered, the voice that came back was American and rather forthright. He said his name was Richard Beck, the talent agent, and was I the Daniel Jarrett who’d been emailing him? ‘You’re persistent, my friend, I’ll give you that. I’ve never forwarded so many emails in my life.’ He was calling at Eve’s urging. ‘Look, she just wanted me to reach out and test the ground a little, check you’re not some grown-up wacko living out of his garage—the internet is full of loons who want to meet a pretty actress, so you can’t be too careful.’ I had answered all his questions and told him that I had some questions of my own about Eve’s time on The Artifex. ‘I don’t think she’d have a problem with that. She feels bad for ignoring you this long, so let me run it by her, okay?’ The next day I’d received an email from her Yahoo address, saying she would like to meet and talk. She was in the last rehearsals of a play at the Young Vic but she coul
d ‘pinch an hour’ on certain dates ‘anywhere in Waterloo’. I did an online search for restaurants and we arranged a time.
Now there she was at last, a table-width from me, and all that I could think about was how to introduce the question without scaring her away.
The waiter appeared with a tray of cappuccinos and our biscuits. He set them down and fussed over the placement of the sugar bowl. Eve rubbed at her brow as though it were a carpet stain, one-fingered. ‘You can just leave that,’ she told him. ‘I don’t take sugar.’
‘Me neither,’ I said.
Off he went again, tray under arm.
‘What was I saying?’ said Eve.
‘You were telling me you don’t remember him that well.’
‘Right. Right. I don’t.’ She stared down at her coffee and turned the cup round on her saucer—she was left-handed, like my mother. ‘Mostly, thinking back on it, the clearest memory I have is how quiet the set was afterwards. They cancelled filming for about a week, I think, then everyone just came back into work and, click, tape was rolling again and no one was prepared. You could tell that no one wanted to be there. I mean, especially the people in make-up, right? Chloe was like proper family to them, and they were just bereft. Everyone was going through the motions, trying not to get upset with everyone else. But there were still so many scenes to shoot, it was so difficult to focus. How that series got finished I’ll never know. We fucked up every single take, I swear. It was a wreck.’ With this, she slid her hands across the tablecloth and gazed at me, as though to read my fortune. ‘Listen, if at any time I sound self-pitying, throw something at me, okay? I mean it. I know our problems were pathetic in comparison to yours, but I can only tell you what I went through at the time. And basically the show was done the moment the news broke. I remember Maxine took it hardest. I mean, if you watch those later episodes, her whole performance is so ragged. It was tough to watch her act that way, because she’d poured her heart into that role and made it something brilliant—but she just lost belief, I think. Not in the show, as such. In her reasons for doing it. She spent a lot of time with Chloe in make-up every day. And I remember her saying to me after we wrapped—you know that voice she had—Enjoy the party,m y love. There’s no chancei n hell we’re coming back next year. And, of course, she was right. Because she wouldn’t sign up for it. Which I understand, I guess, but I was young—it wasn’t like I had a load of other projects lined up at the time. I think she went straight off and did that film about Lord Lucan—did you see that? It was sort of trashy. But, yeah, I mean, it hit the rest of us quite hard. I haven’t done any TV at all since then. Did you know that?’
A Station on the Path to Somewhere Better Page 24
