The History of Us

by Jonathan Harvey

  The boyfriend jumps in. ‘That’s brave!’

  ‘How is it brave?’

  ‘Well, aren’t you the same age as Adam?’

  ‘You’re never too old to learn, Jason.’ I’m impressed by my own belligerence. Especially as I’m speaking such twaddle.

  Of course, I shouldn’t be drinking this glass of white. This large glass of white. Jem, my therapist, would have a field day. I can just hear her droning on about triggers and self-destruction. But this is about self-medication. My friend has died. This is self-preservation. I didn’t want to come to the pub; Adam and Jason press-ganged me. They practically forced this Pinot Grigio down my neck. They may as well have taken a massive funnel to my gob and poured it straight in.

  Yes. You keep telling yourself that, Kathleen. Sometimes the tone of Jem’s voice is that of a slow handclap.

  ‘And what are you studying?’ Jason’s asking.

  ‘Counselling,’ I lie. ‘Well, psychotherapy really,’ I add, because that sounds better.

  They both look impressed.

  ‘You always were a good listener,’ Adam says, as if my life is finally making sense. If only.

  Well it’s only a partial lie. I did do a little bit of counselling, a while back. Compared to some people – those who know nothing about it – I guess I’m a bit of an expert.

  ‘Kathleen used to be a Samaritan,’ Adam boasts to Jason.

  ‘Shermazing,’ he says, eyes wide. I can’t abide people who say ‘shermazing’, but I keep that to myself.

  I think it’s time I left Jem. Things aren’t that bad any more. When I don’t drink, the anxiety disappears. But she’ll never let me go. It’s like she wants me to be dependent on her. I think she’s brainwashed me into thinking I can’t cope without her. Like that time I went to Yorkshire for a fortnight last summer and I informed her I’d have to miss two appointments, and I hoped that was all right. She’d insisted we continue our sessions on the phone each Friday morning. And I bloody agreed to it! Why did I do that? Why? She likes the sound of her own voice, that one.

  Well. She likes the sound of her own silence, every now and again encouraging me to talk about my fuck-up of a life.

  ‘Do you think I’m an alcoholic, Jem?’ I asked last week.

  ‘Do you?’ she threw back at me, without even drawing breath.

  What am I paying her money for? Do I have to decide everything for myself? Does she not have an original thought or opinion in her little Dutch head? I don’t even know if she is Dutch, because she’s one of those annoying therapists who doesn’t give you the steam off her soup. The only thing I do know about her is that she’s human. Though some might say that was debatable.

  ‘I think I have a drink problem,’ I remember I said. ‘Inasmuch as drink is a problem for me from time to time.’

  And then she gave me this patronizing head-tilt. As if to say, ‘See? You’re not as stupid as you make out.’

  Jem. Is that a Dutch name? Her full name is Jem Pammenter-Fry. I thought she’d be good because she was double-barrelled. More fool me.

  Jason is talking, and I realize I’ve not been concentrating.

  ‘Sorry. I’m so sorry. Miles away again.’

  I realize that I’ve knocked back half of my large wine, and they’ve only drunk a centimetre of their pints. I stop myself from taking another greedy gulp.

  That’s it. I’m not an alcoholic. I’m greedy. I must be. Look at the size of me.

  ‘I was asking if you were seeing anyone at the moment?’

  Does he know? Is that why he’s asking? Does he know what a fuck-up I am, and he’s rubbing it in?

  ‘No. No-one at the moment.’

  And I think of Harry Monroe. Tears in his eyes in the kitchen. Saying he can’t do this any more. Saying I’d changed the rules and not told him. Saying I wasn’t the same any more. Me screeching back, ‘We all change!’

  ‘Weren’t you seeing a curator?’ Adam asks.

  I nod. ‘From the Imperial War Museum.’ How apt, I always think, when our relationship became such a war zone. ‘But he was more interested in the Battle of the Somme than the battle for my heart.’

  The chuckle, the response I was after. You see, I’ve planned saying this. It sounds so poetic, even if it’s not strictly true. I reward my wordsmithery with a gulp of vino.

  The first few sips of pub wine always taste like battery acid. After that, it’s nectar from the Gods.

  ‘His loss,’ says Jason. Like he knows me. Like it could possibly be true. I can almost see Mark laughing in my face. One of those desperate laughs that people don’t really do in life, just in movies, where the laugh is hysterical and eventually turns into guttural sobs. The sort of cry-laugh that wins Oscars.

  ‘How did you hear about Jocelyn? Did you see it on the news?’

  Adam nods quickly, then gabbles away, ‘Anyway, have you heard our news?’ he gasps, like everything we’ve said has been the preamble to this.

  ‘No! What?!’ I enthuse back.

  He puts both hands on the table in a ‘wait till you hear this’ fashion. He shoots his other half a look. Jason widens his eyes briefly in a ‘Oh go on, you SCREAM, you tell her’ fashion. I think he’s going to tell me a hilarious anecdote.

  Instead he says, ‘We’ve had a baby.’

  ‘A what?!’

  ‘Not a what!’ he guffaws, rather irritatingly, ‘a baby!’

  ‘Is that humanly possible?’

  ‘Well, he’s not a baby,’ butts in Jason, and Adam quickly agrees.

  ‘Yeah, no. Not an actual baby as such. We’ve adopted a little boy. He’s called Denim.’

  ‘Denim?’ I sound incredulous. They look stung.

  ‘We had to keep the name he was given at birth.’

  ‘Denim’s a lovely name,’ I lie, biting my tongue from adding, ‘And a lovely bit of material. I have . . . many items of clothing made . . . of denim.’

  Strangely, this appears to appease them. And they start showing me pictures on their phones of a pasty-looking skinny lad with ginger hair and John Lennon glasses, and they start filling me in on some rather inappropriate information about his birth mother and all her problems before moving on to how Denim is now flourishing in their care.

  I’m a bad person. I still get a shock when gay people, particularly gay men, have kids. It’s like when men describe their partners as their husbands. Again, it makes me a bad person, but it always makes me want to chuckle. It feels like they’re showing off. Or wiping it in your face.

  Oh God. I sound just like my nan.

  ‘He’s adorable,’ I say, even though he’s not really, but they beam with pride anyway. And then tell me some of his little quirks and foibles, and how he was scared of going upstairs when he first moved in. They make him sound like a puppy.

  I’m impressed. They have a place in London with an upstairs. I’m about to ask where it is when I see Adam’s eyes light up.

  ‘Did you see Mark Reynolds on the news?’ he says, suddenly all gossipy. I prefer him like this. It’s like the old Adam, and I slip back into the old Kathleen too.

  ‘I know. Isn’t it amazing what’s happened?’

  ‘I know! I can’t believe it! He’s everywhere!’

  ‘Like crabs!’ And we giggle. Adam loves it when I’m near the knuckle. In that respect he taught me everything I know.

  Jason tries to join in. ‘Adam said you were at school with that idiot.’

  ‘We were!’ I laugh.

  But before we can say anything else, a barmaid has come over to our table with an oval plate of sandwiches and is plonking them down with a curt, ‘Can you move them glasses?’ We oblige. I’ve finished the crisps on my own, so I scrunch the packet up and pop it in my pocket. Then, as she walks away, I see someone else advancing towards us. This man is about mine and Adam’s age but looks older, due to a completely bald head. But there’s something handsome about him, and he is very smartly dressed. He hold his hands out and says in a thin voice, choked with e
motion, ‘You must be Kathleen and Adam?’

  How does he know?

  ‘I’m Ross.’

  Ah. The priest said in the eulogy that Ross is Jocelyn’s partner. We stand and let him hug us, telling him how sorry we are for his loss.

  I don’t tell him that hitherto I only knew him as Mr Billericay, as that’s how Jocelyn referred to him. Mr Billericay sounds so transient. Like Mr Chelsea and Westminster will be along any moment, just hang tight.

  ‘How did you know what we looked like?’ I’m curious to know. We’d never met, and yet he was on us faster than flies on a buffet.

  ‘She had a photo,’ he says, pulling up another stool. ‘In the living room. It’s still there. So weird, talking about her in the past tense.’

  Jocelyn had a picture of me up in her flat? How bizarre. But it makes me feel less guilty about our lack of contact in the intervening years.

  ‘Of course, of course,’ Adam says, sounding like Jem. Though she’d rarely be that positive or encouraging.

  ‘Talked about you guys so much.’

  Secretly I’m chuffed that the picture must be years old, before the weight gain, and yet he still recognizes me. I allow myself a congratulatory glug of wine for that.

  It’s then that I remember the phone call. The phone call that night from Jocelyn. The phone call where she mentioned Mr Billericay. Anxiety rises in me. I try to quell it with another sip. More dainty this time. It works. I relax. Jocelyn was always saying stupid things for attention. This man seems delightful.

  But maybe everyone seems delightful at a funeral.

  Actually, maybe this isn’t Mr Billericay. I’d better check.

  ‘Are you from Billericay?’

  He nods.

  ‘Yes, she told me. I’ve never been.’ And then I pull a face, because that was such a rubbish thing to say. And he misreads my embarrassment for grief.

  ‘I guess it’s hit you hard,’ he adds. And we nod. Even Jason nods, and they’d never met. Oh well. What can we say? Maybe he doesn’t know all that went on between us. And now doesn’t seem the time to tell him. We probably never will.

  ‘If there’s anything we can do . . .’ Adam says. ‘I mean, I’m sure there isn’t. And I’m sure you have friends, but . . . well, if there’s anything we can do . . .’

  ‘Anything,’ I butt in.

  ‘Then do shout.’

  ‘Yes, do. Anything. Shout.’

  ‘There’s an echo,’ Adam says, joking. But I do find it quite unnecessary. Whose side is he on here? He had as fractious a relationship with Jocelyn as I did.

  Ross nods. A humble nod of thanks. As if it’s the most amazing thing anyone has ever said to him when, let’s be honest, it’s only what everyone says when someone has died. So much so that it feels like it doesn’t mean anything. So I’m surprised when I hear him say,

  ‘Actually, there might be something.’

  ‘Sure,’ says Adam, ‘What is it?’

  ‘What is it?’ I add. A bit too late. I think I might be a bit drunk. How can that happen after half a glass of wine? Maybe Adam had a point, echo-wise.

  ‘I’m feeling a bit . . . overwhelmed by all the stuff in her flat.’

  ‘You didn’t live together?’ I’m surprised by that. I thought they did. I assumed they did.

  He shakes his head. ‘We liked to keep our independence.’ He shrugs, like it sounds daft now. ‘I could really do with a hand to go through it all.’

  I wasn’t sure what to say. He obviously thinks we were a lot closer than we were. He misreads my hesitation and Adam’s for disinterest. ‘I’m sorry. Was that inappropriate?’

  ‘No,’ says Adam.

  ‘No!’ I echo.

  ‘I’m just thinking. It might be quite . . . cathartic for you to go through it in your own time,’ Adam suggests. Which sounds good. Really good. Except, for a second there, I was quite looking forward to rifling through Jocelyn’s stuff. Not just in some morbid way of seeing what she owned, but to take a trip down memory lane, reminisce about everything that happened to us over the years.

  ‘What do you think?’ Adam is looking at me. And then, by way of explanation to Ross, he adds, ‘Kathleen’s training to be a psychotherapist. So she’ll probably have quite a good handle on this.’

  Ross nods, impressed. Nice to know I’ve still got it. Even if I haven’t. I see him thinking, Jocelyn had such clever friends.

  ‘And she used to be a Samaritan.’

  ‘I did, actually,’ I say quickly, though this kind of implies that Adam’s last statement wasn’t true.

  I really want to say that I will take over. That I will go and root through her stuff. But I know this is a delicate situation and – as per – not all about me. So instead, I am honest.

  ‘Ross . . . we’d all drifted apart, these past few years. I don’t know if she told you.’

  ‘I know. I know. But she still talked about you. She missed you.’

  ‘Much as I’d like to help – and I’m happy to help – I think I’d feel like I was imposing.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be imposing, I’ve invited you.’

  ‘Or being voyeuristic.’

  ‘Jocelyn didn’t have many friends. But listen, I appreciate it’s awkward. I can deal with it. Forget I said anything. Honestly.’

  I nod. Adam looks relieved, although he adds, ‘I mean, I’m more than happy to help as well, but . . .’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ Ross is insistent. ‘It’s just . . .’ His voice trails off.

  ‘What?’ asks Jason. Oh, he’s joining in now, is he?

  ‘I have to get it all sorted in the next fortnight, as the lease is up on her flat.’

  ‘She rented?’ Adam sounds very surprised.

  Ross nods. ‘And the landlord’s a bit of a twat.’

  ‘Well, if it’s going to . . . speed things up a bit, I’m more than happy to help.’ I sound so kind, so generous, so selfless. I define altruism.

  ‘Me too,’ says Adam.

  Ross looks grateful. ‘I’ll take your numbers and . . . talk tomorrow. But can I get you guys a drink?’

  ‘We should get you one,’ insists Jason. He has his uses, then. ‘What’s it to be?’

  ‘Single malt. Thanks.’

  Jason looks to me. ‘Wine?’

  ‘Er . . .’ I look at my phone, as if I have somewhere to be and am weighing up the options. ‘Oh, go on then. Large.’

  Jason nods and heads to the bar.

  ‘Ross, were any of her family here?’ I ask.

  ‘You know they were estranged?’

  I nod.

  ‘Well, I did ask them, but . . . they said they’d rather remember her in their own way. Away from the cameras. As it turned out, there were hardly any there. They’re very private people. Unlike her!’

  Adam smiles.

  Ross nods, also smiling. ‘I thought they’d change their minds. I knew they were stubborn. But . . . I didn’t realize they were quite that stubborn. No matter what they thought of her, it would’ve been nice of them to come and say their goodbyes.’

  And then as an afterthought, he added, ‘I don’t get it. But then . . . a lot of the time, I didn’t get Jocelyn.’

  Adam and I both nod.

  ‘I guess now I see where she got her stubbornness from.’

  We both nod again.

  ‘I know a lot of people hated her. But she was a big softie underneath it all.’

  ‘You don’t have to tell us that.’ Adam is smiling. And Ross nods. He knows. We get it.

  Just then, an avuncular-looking man in his sixties comes up behind Ross and taps him on the shoulder. Ross looks up, and then stands to hug him. As he does, I see his back jerk as he breaks down in tears.

  I give Adam a sad smile and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, playing with something in his coat pocket. He pulls out a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘You don’t smoke, do you?’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘I’ll come out with you, though.’

  He d
oesn’t need telling twice. He jumps up out of his seat, and I get up to follow him. It reminds me of being a kid again, following him round like his shadow. As we head out he touches Jason’s shoulder at the bar and whispers in his ear, then heads to the door. I go where he goes, with a brief smile to Jason. I’d rather be outside passive smoking than stuck on my own with the worse half.

  Outside, the fresh air sobers me as Adam lights up. It’s like I come to my senses. ‘Ross seems all right,’ I say tentatively.

  Adam doesn’t look so sure.

  ‘I don’t trust him,’ he says quietly, looking away, as if checking no-one can hear. And I wonder just how much he knows.

  Liverpool, 1985

  ‘Mary’s what?’

  ‘Nan. It’s not a big deal.’

  ‘Say it again. She’s . . .’

  ‘Jocelyn’s playing her.’

  ‘She’s black? The Virgin Mary? Mother of our Lord Saviour, Jesus Christ? Who died upon the cross in his little crown of thorns?’

  ‘The vicar says it’s fine.’ And I wasn’t sure the crown was that little, actually.

  ‘That vicar wants his head testing. Did they not know you wanted that part?’

  ‘It’s a singing part.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m not as good a singer as Jocelyn.’

  ‘You’re in the choir, aren’t you?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So you’re not exactly tone-deaf, Kathleen.’

  ‘Adam says my voice is tinny. Good for harmonies but not for solos.’

  ‘Who the hell does he think he is? Tony Hatch?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Or Mike Sammes from the Mike Sammes Singers? Coz he’s not. He’s a fifteen-year-old kid, same as you.’

  ‘But he’s directing the play, so . . .’

  ‘And making a pig’s ear of it, by the sounds of it. What did the vicar say again?’

  ‘He said, ’coz Mary and Joseph were from Egypt – or Israel, or wherever Bethlehem is, I forget off the top of my head – that it’s feasible they were both a bit . . .’

  ‘A bit what?’

  ‘Duskily skinned.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘Oh Nan, you heard.’