‘Tea would be nice,’ I said, as he reeled in the fishing line and put the lids on his various containers of bait, hooks and lures, and stowed them along with his soggy paperback in a duffle-bag. I picked up the canvas chair and we walked back to the lock in silence.
‘I was going to come to your house,’ I said, finally, as we made our way along the lane to the street where I’d parked the car. ‘But I couldn’t find you on the A to Z.’
‘Ah. No, you wouldn’t. How did you know I was on the island?’
‘The lock-keeper told me. I asked him for directions.’
He nodded. ‘He’s a good bloke – let’s me use his phone, and he’s been bringing me milk and bread over every so often. I’ve been living on sandwiches.’
Rad led the way between two large detached houses down to the river again where we picked up the towpath. ‘I’m just along here. You’ll have to excuse the state of the place. I don’t get many visitors.’ Ahead of us, moored to the bank by a fixed gangplank, was a small houseboat. Its white paint was chipped and peeling and the varnish on the woodwork was crazed and crystalline like shattered barleysugar. The name Wentworth was stencilled on the hull in broken letters. On the deck section stood a folding picnic table and a faded sun-lounger.
‘A houseboat,’ I said, enviously. ‘Lucky you.’
‘It’s not mine; I’m just renting it,’ he said as he helped me across the gangplank. ‘From the same person who lent me the bike.’ He ducked down to unlock the door, fiddling with a selection of keys. ‘I don’t know why I bother – there’s nothing worth pinching,’ he said, sliding the door open and stepping aside to let me through.
I found myself standing in a long, narrow sitting-room and galley area. There was a two-ring gas burner and sink under the windows along one side, with a tiny fridge, some cupboards and open shelves on which were various unappetising tins: pilchards, rice pudding, processed peas and some frankfurters in brine, bearing a price tag for one and fourpence. Rad caught me staring. ‘They came with the boat,’ he assured me. On the draining board stood one cup, one bowl and one spoon. There was a dark wood table and a maroon vinyl banquette in one corner – rather like the seating arrangements in a steak house. The only other furniture was a bookcase, a single armchair, and a low coffee table, on which was one slate coaster, a pile of newspapers and a radio.
‘It’s a misanthropist’s dream,’ he said. ‘There’s only one of everything.’
‘I like it,’ I said, watching him unpack his fishing bag. He put the sodden paperback on the draining board and leaned out of the window to tip the maggots into the river. He collapsed the chair and the fishing rod and stowed them in one of the cupboards. ‘I’d have thought it would move more,’ I said, walking from one side of the room to the other in a couple of strides.
‘It’s got a fixed mooring. It only sways a bit when something big goes past. It’s not like being in a boat.’
While he filled an old aluminium kettle with water and hunted for the matches to light the gas I picked up Huckleberry Finn and tried fanning the pages out so that it wouldn’t dry in a solid block like a barbecue briquette.
‘I do feel bad about this,’ I said, then added innocently, ‘I hope you haven’t lost any valuable annotations.’
He looked at me through narrowed eyes for a second, then caught on. ‘Did I really say that? Christ, I was pompous.’ He added in a pompous tone: ‘I would like to apologise formally for my pomposity.’
‘In that case I accept, on behalf of everyone who knew you,’ I said, and we both laughed.
‘Now I come to think of it, Frances never did replace Narziss and Goldmund, and I never did finish it,’ he said a moment later, from inside one of the cupboards from which he produced several crushed packets of tea. ‘There’s Earl Grey, Lapsang Souchong and something called Relaxing Tea, but I don’t know how long they’ve been hanging around as I inherited them with the boat. Or there’s the normal stuff, which is mine.’
‘I’ll have the normal stuff then.’
The kettle gave a whistle which turned to a scream while Rad dropped tea-bags into two Royal Wedding mugs. ‘You must be the last person in England still using a whistling kettle,’ I said. Through a half-open door at the far end of the cabin I could see a double bed heaped with clothes.
‘Feel free to look around,’ said Rad, following the direction of my gaze. Without waiting for a reply he walked over and pushed the bedroom door open to reveal a small wood-panelled cabin only just big enough to contain the bed and a trunk which functioned as a bedside table. From a pole suspended from hooks in the ceiling in front of the window hung half a dozen shirts and a jacket on wire hangers.
‘Oh, I haven’t drawn the curtains yet,’ said Rad, sweeping the shirts apart to let in some daylight. I couldn’t help laughing.
‘Rad, it would be the work of five minutes for me to rig up some curtains if you want them.’
‘It’s okay. I quite like this arrangement. I’m always awake before it’s light, anyway.’
‘I’m serious,’ I said. ‘If there’s anything practical I can do. I mean how do you get your food. And what about laundry?’
‘Mum comes to visit every week and takes a bag of washing with her and brings everything back clean and ironed the next week.’
‘Crikey – Lexi doing your washing! That’s what I call role reversal.’
‘I know men always say this about women, but she honestly seems to enjoy it.’
‘She’s probably glad to have one of her children living in the same country as her – at any price.’
‘Is that it?’ he said. ‘You’re probably right. I’ll stop exploiting her. This is the bathroom – palatial, isn’t it?’ He slid back a door adjoining the sitting-room area on the smallest conceivable space in which a loo, shower and handbasin could be accommodated. The basin was so tiny Rad would only have been able to wash one hand at a time. ‘There’s another bedroom at the other end; it’s even smaller than mine and full of junk.’ He walked over to the kitchen and opened a round-cornered door which I had assumed concealed a cupboard. Inside was a single bunk like a railway couchette, on which was a pile of clean ironing. On the floor were three cardboard boxes of books and papers.
‘Is this everything you own?’ I asked.
‘Just about. I used to have furniture and stuff, but I sold it all or gave it away before I left England. Mum and Lawrence have got a couple of boxes in their attic. Once you start getting rid of your belongings, though, it gets addictive. You look at everything and think, Do I need it? Do I love it? and anything that doesn’t pass the test ends up in the bin. Sometimes I come back and chuck out another pair of socks just for the hell of it.’
I burst out laughing. ‘You’re mad,’ I said, at the same time making a mental note that my collection of pot-pourri baskets had to go.
‘Well, there was no point in buying anything in Senegal – not that there was much to buy – because I wouldn’t have been able to bring it home. I suppose I’ll have to get back into the habit of acquiring things now I’m here.’
‘Do you think you’ll stay in this country?’ I asked, trying to sound casual. ‘Buy a house?’
‘I don’t know. I’ve made Alan – my replacement – an offer for this houseboat. Here,’ he handed me my tea. ‘Do you take sugar?’ I shook my head. ‘That’s good, because I haven’t got any.’
Lady Diana Spencer smiled shyly up from the side of my mug. ‘I cried when they got married,’ I said. Rad raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘And when she died. I didn’t cry when they got divorced, though. I wonder why.’
‘I can’t remember the last time I cried,’ said Rad. He took a drink of tea. ‘Oh yes I can,’ he added quietly, and I knew the occasion he meant. There was a silence which seemed to set like glue, as we stood there at the table drinking our tea.
‘Look–’ we said, simultaneously, and I ploughed on: ‘I really came here to be of some use, so are you sure there’s nothing I can do?’
He t
hought for a moment. ‘Actually there is something, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Come on then, spit it out.’
‘I’ve been a bit cooped up – first in hospital and now here because I can’t get about. Mum visits, and Dad comes and takes me to the physio, but what I’d really like is to go out somewhere. If you’ve got a car …’
‘Of course. I can drive you somewhere if that’s what you’d like. Where do you want to go?’
‘I was thinking of Kew. Are you sure you don’t mind?’
I shook my head. ‘I’d be happy to go to Kew.’
‘Will Mr Jex be able to spare you for a day?’
‘Mr Jex?’ I said.
‘Your husband. I thought …’
‘I’m not married: Jex is my professional name. I made it up.’
He looked genuinely uncomfortable. ‘When you were introduced as Abigail Jex I just assumed you were married. I suppose I should have guessed you’re not the sort of woman who’d take a man’s name anyway.’
‘I bloody would,’ I said. ‘If you’re saddled with a name like Onions you’d take anything. Besides, I can’t see the point of keeping your own name when you marry – I mean I wouldn’t want to end up with a different surname from my own children.’ I could have bitten my tongue off.
‘You want children, do you?’ he said.
‘I suppose so, ultimately. But it’s not desperately relevant given the life I lead now. Anyway,’ I said, firmly. ‘Kew.’
46
It had been agreed that I would pick Rad up on the next fine day that I was free. I couldn’t reach him by phone; I would just have to turn up. ‘How will you know I’m coming?’ I asked. I tend to prefer more concrete arrangements.
‘I won’t. If it’s fine and you don’t turn up I’ll know you were busy.’
‘How will I know you’re going to be in?’
‘I’m bound to be in. Where am I going to go? I suppose I might be on the island, fishing, but I’ll leave you a note on the door.’
That night I sent up a prayer for drought but for the next three days it rained and on the fourth the sun shone but I was teaching. I was uncharacteristically short with my students and sent one girl off in tears.
‘Stop,’ I commanded, half-way into the piece which I had set her the previous week and which she was evidently sight-reading, having set eyes on it for the first time that morning. I had half considered letting her saw and stumble her way to the bitter end as a punishment, but the sound was intolerable and I called a halt. The sawing stopped and the girl looked up, a combination of fear and relief on her face.
‘Sarah,’ I said, wearily. ‘People always look at great classical musicians and say, “How do they play like that?” as if it’s just a matter of luck. And the answer is that they’ve been practising for hours on end every day for ten, twenty, thirty years.’
Sarah smiled politely, uncomprehendingly.
‘What I’m saying is if you don’t practise – and I can tell you haven’t practised this piece at all’ – I waved away her halfhearted murmur of protest – ‘these lessons are a complete waste of time. You’ll never make any improvement in the half an hour a week we have together.’ I was warming to my theme now. ‘You’d be better off back in the physics lab or wherever it is you’re supposed to be now. You might learn one interesting fact there, which is more than you’re doing here. Do you actually enjoy playing the cello?’
‘Sometimes …’ Her foot traced a scratch in the polished floor. ‘No,’ she conceded. ‘I enjoy talking to you, though. It’s just the practising I hate.’
‘Well, I think you should consider giving up.’ I surprise myself sometimes. I don’t normally recommend this course of action to a pupil with any ability – it’s too much like making a case for my own redundancy – but I suddenly felt inspired to preach Rad’s gospel of minimalism. ‘When I’m having a clear-out at home,’ I improvised, ‘I look at things and think, “Do I need this? And if not, do I love it?” And if the answer is No, I bin it.’ It’s the same with this: you clearly don’t need to play the cello, and you’ve admitted you don’t love it. So …’
‘… Her parents rang up the head the next day to complain that I’d told their daughter to throw her fifteen hundred pound cello in the bin.’
‘And did she?’
‘Er, metaphorically speaking, yes. She’s given up. But the head asked me to be a little more restrained in my careers advice next time.’
Rad laughed. ‘I didn’t think you’d start holding me up as an example to your students.’
‘Oh, but you’ve completely converted me. You won’t believe how many pairs of shoes I’ve chucked out in the last few days.’
Rad glanced at my feet. We were walking along the broad path to the ornamental lake at Kew. He had been sitting on deck on the sun-lounger reading the paper when I arrived, his bad leg outstretched. He had dark glasses on so from a distance I couldn’t tell the direction of his gaze and had to make a long, self-conscious walk along the towpath, wondering whether I was being watched. Just as I came within about twenty yards of the boat he had, without otherwise moving, raised one hand palm outwards, and I knew he’d seen me all along.
In my zeal for clearing out my flat I had of course forgotten the inside of the car which was full of old drink cartons, sweet wrappers, crisp crumbs and broken cassette cases.
‘There was no need to go to the trouble of tidying up for me,’ Rad said, absolutely deadpan, trying to find some footspace amidst the junk.
‘I know,’ I said. ‘That’s why I didn’t.’
‘I feel rather a hypocrite now,’ Rad said, peering into the lake, looking for chub. ‘While you’ve been throwing things out I’ve just gone and bought something. Two things.’
‘What?’
‘The houseboat. And a chair. I decided having only one was a bit anti-social. And now I’ve got the new one I’ve realised how uncomfortable the old one is.’
‘How on earth did you get a chair back there?’
‘Dad and a roof-rack.’
‘The first time I ever saw your dad he was shifting furniture,’ I said, then shut up abruptly, realising that Rad might not particularly like to reminisce about his parents’ move into single beds.
‘He didn’t actually do any of the lifting: he just bullied the two shop assistants. I made sure I was wearing my sling so I wouldn’t be expected to help.’ He raised his bad arm and tried to mime a tennis serve, a pinched expression on his face. ‘I’ll never win Wimbledon now,’ he said, with a hint of self-pity.
‘A distinct possibility, was it?’
‘No. But I don’t like anything to be ruled out. Do you?’
We made our way between flowerbeds laid out like mosaics of purple and pink. Symmetry was king here: tulips all grew to the same height and pansies bloomed simultaneously. Rebel, I urged them silently. Go on: wilt, keel over.
Although it was warm in the sun there was a cold breeze and the sudden blast of hot damp air that greeted us as we entered the Palm House took me by surprise. Condensation streamed down the windows, and high above our heads jets of fine mist bloomed on metal stems. Rad looked up at the balcony running around the inside of the roof. ‘You go up if you like,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure I’ll manage the spiral staircase.’ By the time I’d climbed to the top, my shoes ringing on the treads and making the white iron banisters sing, I was dizzy and breathless. The heat and humidity were overpowering; moisture dropped from the ceiling on to my hair. Through the veils of water vapour below me I could see Rad moving amongst the plants, crouching to read their names. The only other person on the balcony was an old woman in a flowery dress, pop sox, walking boots, a horse-blanket overcoat and a bobble hat. She was making notes in a diary and muttering uninhibitedly. That’ll be me one day, I thought, suddenly. A mad old crone in American Tan pop sox and comfy shoes, visiting botanical gardens and stately homes on my own. A fat drop of water hit my cheek, and as I pulled a tissue from my coat pocket
one of my gloves – a frivolous pink leather thing – which was rolled up inside, sprang out and sailed between the bars of the parapet to land with a slap not a yard from where Rad was standing. He looked up as if expecting an avalanche, and when he saw me leaning over the railing, wagging the other glove in apology he pretended to tut impatiently and picked up its partner. A moment later there was the clang of feet on the stairs and he appeared on the balcony.
‘I accept your challenge,’ he said, handing back the glove, ‘whatever it is.’
‘I doubt it,’ I said, facing him, and for a moment a little current of fake antagonism crackled between us.
‘Excuse me, excuse me,’ said a voice, and we pressed ourselves back against the warm water pipes running around the walls to let the woman in the bobble hat pass us, still muttering.
‘I’m going to end up like her,’ I whispered to Rad, once she was safely out of earshot. He looked critically at her departing figure, taking in the pop sox at half mast, and the moulting overcoat, and then looked back at me with an appraising glance.
‘Ambition’s a terrible thing,’ he said, and strode off to the far staircase before I could think of a crushing reply.
Downstairs we made our way past tamarind and ebony trees, banyan and sugar cane and an oil palm with its hairy trunk like an ape’s arm. In the basement were giant kelps, electric-blue and yellow fish and red algae like crushed velvet.
‘Have you got a garden?’ Rad asked, as we finally emerged from the tropical heat of the palm house to the chill of an English spring.
‘No, I’ve got a window box full of dead things,’ I said, pulling my coat collar over my ears.
‘I can see that gardening might be quite fun,’ he mused. ‘I mean when all other possible sources of fun have been exhausted.’
I nodded. ‘We’re not quite at that stage yet, though.’
He shook his head. ‘No, not quite.’
I could tell he was beginning to flag as we reached the Cherry Walk. His bad leg was obviously giving him trouble, and I noticed for the first time that he was walking with a limp. The sky was overcast by now. It was only a matter of time before we were rained on. We made it to King William’s Temple, which had obscene graffiti scored into the stonework and stank of cigarettes like a bus shelter, just as the first shower came. Tanya is a fridged cow, read one of the messages. Rad pulled a face at the smell and the gougings in the wall. ‘I hate this country,’ he said in disgust. This was how he had been all day – joking one minute and then withdrawn or morose the next. Much of our circuit of the gardens had passed in silence. I stood near the doorway looking through the curtain of water at the steaming gardens beyond. I couldn’t help remembering the last time we had taken refuge from the rain together, in the cottage at Half Moon Street, and didn’t dare catch his eye in case he might have been thinking of it too. ‘Come on, it’s only rain,’ I said, stepping out into the monsoon. I didn’t want to hang around like someone waiting to be kissed.
Learning to Swim Page 33
