Sweet Sorrow

by David Nicholls

  ‘I think this is more disturbing, if anything.’ Some time passed. ‘She came in very late last night.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Yes; you don’t know anything about that, do you?’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Well she’s not here, Charlie.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘She’s at the fête.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘I think she’s hiding. She’s not in our good books, you see.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Well. Nice to meet you, Charlie.’

  ‘Yes, you too.’

  ‘Next time, just knock.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, and hurried back along the lane to the church.

  ‘It’s fifty pence to come in,’ said the lady at the entrance. In my pocket, I felt the rattle of keys but no change.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got no cash.’

  The lady frowned and, sensing my bad boy reputation, the man next to her leant in. ‘It is for charity!’

  ‘I know, I just left home without any cash.’

  The man shook his head slowly, but there was no security protocol for forced entry to a village fête. I walked on through.

  ‘Hello? Hey you,’ said the lady. Would they come after me? Tackle me to the ground?

  ‘I’ll pay you back! I just have to …’

  I disappeared into the crowd – this was quite some fête – quickly checking the tombola, the house-plant sale, the cake stall, until I saw her, seated behind a trestle table of second-hand books, reading the back of an orange Penguin. She looked up, saw me, smiled, then removed the smile.

  ‘Hello, Charlie.’

  ‘Hi there.’ We spoke across the table of books.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I had to see you, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You look terrible.’

  ‘I have to explain.’

  ‘Yes, you do have to explain.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Fucking hell, Charlie! Do you have any idea how embarrassing that was?’

  ‘I know!’ I had a joke in my pocket …

  ‘Polly’s furious, even Bernard’s furious. My parents hit the roof.’

  ‘Did they?’ If I produced the joke at just the right time …

  ‘Why do you think I’m here? Anything’s better than that.’

  I laid it down.

  ‘Fête worse than death.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Fête worse than – can we go somewhere?’

  ‘I said I’d watch the stall.’

  ‘Just for a minute.’

  Fran sighed, then stepped across to the neighbouring stall and after some bargaining, she was free to leave.

  ‘So, tell me.’

  ‘What else could I do? I couldn’t just abandon you, I thought you’d worry.’

  ‘And I did worry! I did, but I’m in such trouble, Charlie. You do look terrible.’

  ‘I’ve not slept. Or eaten.’

  ‘What are you wearing?’

  ‘I borrowed it. My other stuff had too much blood on it.’

  ‘Blood! What? Charlie, what happened?’

  ‘Let’s find somewhere.’

  We sat between the tent pegs in the shadow of the refreshment marquee. I’d spent the night rehearsing an account that was both truthful and distorted, and she listened silently, hands in lap, eyes fixed on her feet until I leant forwards and unveiled the bandages. She gasped gratifyingly, but the sympathy was not enough to cancel out an uncomfortable truth.

  ‘But … you were stealing the money?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And now you’re being prosecuted?’

  ‘Maybe. Don’t know yet.’

  ‘Wow. Okay. Okay.’ She took my hand again. ‘I’m sorry. That’s tough.’

  ‘It was a mistake.’

  ‘To steal it? Or get caught?’

  ‘Both, obviously,’ I said, then, as gently as possible, ‘Fucking hell, Fran. I don’t need that from you too.’

  ‘No, I know. I’m sorry.’

  We sat, looking straight ahead. Through the canvas of the tent behind us, we could hear the raffle being called – ‘It’s a blue ticket, number 443. 443, for this beautiful doll’s house’ – to shouts and cheers. Silent, we sat through the bottle of champagne, the hamper, the selection of preserves, a leg of local lamb, a voucher for a cut and blow dry at Scissors, and I felt a terrific sadness at how we’d come to this in the space of one day, unable to speak or to look at each other, the only contact between us the consolation of her head, cricked awkwardly against my shoulder.

  ‘It’s a green ticket, 225. Green, 225.’

  Fran raised her hips, squeezed her fingertips into the pocket of her jeans and unfolded the green strip. ‘I’m a winner.’

  ‘You’d better go and get it.’

  ‘I’ll pick it up later,’ she said, looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Green 225, for this portable CD player,’ said the voice.

  ‘I won’t mind,’ I said.

  ‘I’ve already got one.’

  ‘Last call, green 225.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘Stay here,’ she said, stood and slipped through a gap in the canvas as if stepping onto a stage. I heard her shout ‘Here!’ and there was applause and laughter and recognition at the arrival of the nice local girl. I stood and walked away.

  She caught up with me by the cake stall, the prize tucked beneath her arm. ‘Don’t slip away like that. Don’t be all dramatic.’

  ‘I’ve got to.’

  ‘You can come back if you want. To the house. Meet Mum and Dad.’

  ‘Not now. Another time.’

  ‘Okay. So how will you get—’

  ‘I’ll walk.’

  ‘I can ask them to give you a lift?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’ve got time.’

  She glanced behind her, back to the stall. ‘I said I’d cover for my friend.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, though I already knew I’d not be going back.

  Again, she glanced behind her, then walked up quickly and kissed me. ‘Love you?’ she mumbled.

  ‘You too.’

  Then she held out the box, the portable CD player. ‘Don’t suppose you want this?’

  ‘No, I’m okay. But can I borrow a quid? I need to pay the entrance fee on the way out.’

  ‘’Course.’ She handed me the money. ‘Very thoughtful of you.’

  ‘Well, it’s for charity, so …’

  I passed the cake stall and spent fifty pence on two chocolate cornflake cakes. With my back turned, I crammed them into my mouth, then gave my last fifty pence to the lady.

  Home

  I walked all the way back, just as I had on the morning after the party, that jubilant morning on which I’d made all those resolutions. But change, it seemed, was a myth. There were no new voices and no ways to move through the world except this one, defeated and heading home. Where else would I go?

  I dreaded getting back, today more than ever, not because of what Dad and I had said but because of how it would be ignored as we slipped back into our old ways, the monosyllabic chat, the bickering and temporary truces, the air static with tension. And so I dawdled, and even paused to sleep at the edge of a field, the kind of sleep that serves no purpose except to pass time, like winding forward the hands of a watch.

  It was early evening when I entered Thackeray Crescent and noted that all the curtains were still drawn despite the daylight. Even on his lowest days, this was not something I’d seen before and I felt a sharp twist of panic so strong that I broke into a run, dropped my keys, retrieved them and crammed them into the lock, shouting all the time, ‘Dad! Dad!’, tumbling into the house, taking in the mess downstairs, the ashtray, the TV on too loud, pounding up the stairs and into Dad’s room, my father face down and half naked on the bed,
the whisky bottle on the floor. ‘Oh, Christ,’ I said out loud, threw myself at the bed, put my hand on his shoulder – warm, thank God, but feverish and clammy – and turned him over. The air from his lungs was hot and foul with alcohol but he was breathing and I scrambled through the bedside mess, the bottles and glasses and foil packs, looking for clues. Should I call an ambulance? ‘Dad? Dad, wake up!’ I brushed the hair back from his ear, as if this was the reason he wasn’t responding. ‘Dad? Dad, please talk to me. Can you hear me, Dad?’ but there was nothing, just the rattle of his breath catching the phlegm in his throat and for a moment, I recoiled, sat with my back to the wall, hot tears in my eyes. It wasn’t right; it wasn’t fair to have to deal with these things.

  From films, I knew that sleep was the enemy, and so I scrambled back to the bedside and found the tumbler of water he used to wash down pills. I made a deal: if he didn’t stir I’d call an ambulance. I trickled a little on his cheek and into his ear, then more, then emptied the whole glass. He groaned and I saw the bulge of the cornea move beneath the eyelid as if sealed inside. Heartened, I braced myself, slid my arm beneath his damp armpit and tried to hoist him upright, succeeding only in dragging him down onto the floor with a thump. Downstairs the TV played, Songs of Praise, ‘Lord of the Dance’. Panic rose inside me once again, but what use would panic be? Water was the key. I stepped over his body and into the bathroom, and set both taps running in the bath, tossed the toothbrushes into the sink, filled the beaker with more cold water, returned to the room and once again trickled it onto his head, his cheek, a little into his mouth, which made him splutter and, with a lurch, shift his weight so that he was now half sitting against the bed’s divan base, causing the whole thing to rumble across the room on its castors.

  Now was the time. As he fell backwards, I slipped my arm around his back and into his armpit, pulled up through my knees with all my strength, and now we were both seated on the mattress, with me doing my best to prop him up, a ventriloquist crushed by his own dummy. I felt gravity pull him back and once again thought I might cry with frustration, but instead rolled him forward, rocking him onto his feet then carrying him, throwing him really, towards the bathroom, where he fell forward once again and came to a halt with his head against the toilet cistern and here, thank God, he vomited, violently and wretchedly, for some time, watery stuff, peaty from the whisky. With one hand I rubbed his back, with the other reached into the bath and tested the water and turned off the taps, the water cool and uncomfortable enough to revive him without inducing a heart attack. Five, ten minutes passed while he spewed and spat and mumbled – ‘Oh no, oh, no no no’ – and I helped him stand then, still in his underwear, sit on the edge of the bath and roll into the water like a scuba-diver off a boat.

  On the blaring TV downstairs, the hymns came to an end and the hunt for antiques began. This week they were in Staffordshire, and so were hoping to find some lovely examples of the famous local pottery, but I stayed squeezed between the bath and the door, keeping watch. Dad’s boxer shorts had billowed up and floated on the surface, a Portuguese man-of-war in tartan. There was a tight, high, swollen belly, his chest thin and pale, and I felt that old repulsion, and so took in his face, digging for some old feeling. I saw the folds and creases deep enough to stand a pencil in, the sticky mouth, half open, the stubble peppered with white and as coarse as the bristles on a broom, the thinning hair slicked back with sweat, skin blue and papery beneath his eyes. He was thirty-eight years old.

  I tried to find the traces of the younger man who’d played on the rug through those childhood afternoons. I couldn’t see it, but I felt I ought to try. Of all the resolutions I’d made that summer morning, this one promise remained: to find a way to live together. I would not hide from him again.

  After half an hour, it seemed safe to leave the bathroom. It would require some suppleness to drown in such a tiny bath and so I left him soaking and tidied his bedroom, changed the sheets, laid out clean pyjamas, cleared bottles and glasses and put the pills out of sight in a drawer. I went downstairs, washed up and opened all the windows and all this time, without acknowledging the fact, I was looking for a note. Its absence heartened me, and there had been pills left in the bottles too, and surely if he’d meant to … never mind. I held tight to the idea that it was some solitary party that had got out of hand, a misjudgement, nothing that we would have to name or talk about, nothing to do with things I’d said or done. Returning to the bathroom, I found him in the same spot, the water cold now, and I cleaned and disinfected the toilet and floor while he lay there.

  ‘Okay, time to get out,’ I said, holding out his dressing gown, a butler and his elderly charge. He stood and carefully stepped over the rim then, wrapped in the gown, stepped out of his sodden boxer shorts and walked towards the bedroom. I took his elbow; ‘No – you’ve got to stay awake a little longer’ and we walked slowly down the stairs. On the sofa, I constructed a nest of cushions to keep him upright, and fed him tea and toast and slices of orange. ‘Like a professional footballer,’ he said, sucking on the peel, his first clear words since I’d returned. We sank into the comfy sadism of the Sunday-night detective shows, and now and then I glanced at him, asking questions about the plot when I saw his eyelids grow heavy. D’you think the policeman did it? Do you think it was the wife? Eventually, when I felt that it was safe, I walked him upstairs, opened the window and put him to bed.

  I changed my clothes and tossed the wretched tracksuit in the bin. In the mirror I saw myself, filthy and exhausted. If I felt any pride, then the ragged dressings on my back reminded me of my wrongs. I would need someone to help me change them but that would have to wait. For the moment, I lay down next to Dad. I’d stay awake and keep an eye on him. But sleep overpowered me. I closed my eyes and was gone.

  Results

  It was unnerving to wake up with my father’s head on the same pillow, but at least some colour had returned to his face in the night. I decided that this was the right kind of sleep and so sat and stretched and felt the sting of the scabs on my back, and it all came back. Fran’s awkwardness, the impending prosecution, abandoning the show, the publication of exam results: a medley of disasters that I’d struggle to place in order.

  The best thing I could do, I decided, was hide. The exam results would already be on display – the crowds of kids gathered round, the book-token set punching the air, others red-eyed and confused. I knew the scene already from TV news reports and felt no need to join in. Instead I’d focus all my attention on getting Dad back on his feet, but the day brought a parade of phone calls and visitors, each more urgent than the last.

  ‘Where are you, Charlie?’ It was Ivor on the phone. ‘We need you here now!’

  ‘I’m sorry, Ivor. I can’t do it.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Charlie. We open on Thursday.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Okay. Okay. Look, I’ve talked to Fran, I’ve talked to Polly. I know there was … an incident—’

  ‘It’s not that—’

  ‘We’re putting it behind us. While you’re here, you’re a member of the company, a very valued member. No judgement here.’

  ‘But it’s not that. Not just that.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  I put my mouth close to the receiver. ‘It’s a family matter.’

  ‘Christ, Charlie. This is hard, this is very, very hard.’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ There was silence on the line. ‘I had a good time.’

  ‘So, come back!’

  ‘I can’t.’ More silence. ‘Look, what would you do if I’d been hit by a bus?’

  ‘We’d … cancel the show?’

  ‘No, but if you had to do the show without me.’

  ‘I don’t know, we’d double one of the roles.’

  ‘I don’t have any scenes with Paris. George could do it.’

  Ivor thought for a moment. ‘It’s not ideal.’

  ‘I know.’ I saw a shadow pass the window. I
didn’t want Dad to wake just yet. ‘Good luck, Ivor. And thank you.’ I hung up and leapt for the front door.

  ‘Where were you?!’ Harper stood on the doorstep with the sheepishness that comes with great success.

  ‘Just woke up. How did you do?’

  ‘Good! Really good. I mean better than I thought, because I did, you know, absolutely fuck-all work!’ Even at the moment of his triumph, Harper was determined not to admit to opening a book. ‘“B”s mostly, couple of “A”s. Enough for college.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘You’re not going to go and see?’

  ‘No, you can tell me.’

  He sucked air in through his teeth, a bad football result. ‘It’s not good, mate.’

  I laughed. ‘I know. That’s why I’m not going.’

  ‘There’s two “B”s in there.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I think so. You did better than Lloyd!’

  ‘Well, that’s something.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter anyway, does it? In the long run.’

  ‘No. Exactly. Doesn’t matter.’

  We’d been standing on the doorstep for too long. ‘I’d invite you in, but—’

  ‘No, that’s fine. We’re going to try to get served in The Angler’s if you want to …’

  ‘No, that’s fine.’

  ‘Okay.’ But he hesitated, and I sensed there was something more. ‘Your mum phoned me yesterday.’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Yes. She told me what had happened. With the police and everything.’

  ‘Christ, Mum.’

  ‘I think she wanted me to check you were all right. So …’

  ‘I’m all right.’

  ‘Your back’s okay? The cuts and everything.’

  ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Good. Good.’

  ‘You don’t need to check up on me.’

  ‘Okay. Good.’

  But he wasn’t done yet.

  ‘Charlie, bit embarrassing; this whole stealing-money thing. If it does go to court, if it gets criminal – you won’t mention my name, will you? I’d rather not be involved.’

  And then, and there, any hold that Harper had over me was broken and I could laugh at him too.

  ‘What is this bullshit, Charlie, about you dropping out?’