The Man Who Didn't Call

by Rosie Walsh

  ‘So we’re just drinking in the middle of the day,’ I surmised happily. ‘While everyone else is working. We’re just sitting here, drinking.’

  ‘I’d say so.’

  ‘We’re drinking in the middle of the day and now we are quite drunk. And we are having a nice time, I think. ’

  ‘Will we resume conversation, or are you going to spend the afternoon making statements?’

  I laughed. ‘As I said earlier, Eddie: clarity. It keeps me on the straight and narrow.’

  ‘OK. Well, I’m going to just eat some crisps and drink my beer. Let me know when you’re done.’

  He opened the crisps and passed them over.

  I like him , I thought.

  Since arriving in this secret garden, Eddie and I had sifted through our childhood memories and discovered hundreds of historical intersections. We’d walked the same hills, been to the same sweaty nightclubs; we’d sat on the same towpath at sunset and counted dragonflies dancing above the reed beds in the old Stroudwater canal.

  All of this had been separated only by a couple of years. I imagined sixteen-year-old me meeting eighteen-year-old Eddie, and wondered if he would have liked me then. I wondered if he liked me now.

  Earlier on I had told him about my non-profit organization and he’d been delighted, had asked me endless questions. He understood straight away the difference between our Clowndoctors and the regular entertainers who’d visit a children’s hospital. And he understood that I did it because I couldn’t not, no matter how many funding cuts we suffered, no matter how frequently our guys were treated as mere party clowns. ‘Wow,’ he’d said, after I’d showed him a clip of two of our Clowndoctors working with a child who’d been too afraid to go into surgery. He looked actually quite emotional. ‘That’s incredible. I . . . Good for you, Sarah.’

  He had shown me pictures of the furniture and cabinetry that he made in a workshop on the edge of Siccaridge Wood. That was his job – people commissioned him to make beautiful things out of wood for their homes: kitchens, cabinets, tables, chairs. He loved wood. He loved furniture. He loved the smell of timber wax and the crack of a biscuit joint tightening in a clamp, he told me; had given up trying to force himself to do something more profitable.

  He showed me a picture of an old barn: small, stone, with a gently pitched roof, sitting in the sort of forest clearing that’d be right at home in a Hans Christian Andersen tale.

  ‘That’s my workshop. It’s also my home. I’m a real-life hermit; I live in a barn in a wood.’

  ‘Oh good! I’ve always wanted to meet a hermit! Am I the first human you’ve talked to in weeks?’

  ‘Yes!’ Then: ‘No,’ he added quickly. In his eyes I caught the edge of something I couldn’t grasp. ‘I’m not actually a hermit. I have friends and family and a busy life.’

  After a pause he smiled. ‘I didn’t need to say that, did I?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  He cleared the picture of the barn from his phone, just as it started ringing. This time he switched it off, although without any visible irritation. ‘Well, that’s my job, anyway. I love it. Although there have been years when I’ve earned almost nothing. They’ve been less fun.’ A tiny spider crawled up one of his arms and he watched it, pushing it gently away when it tried to enter the sleeve of his T-shirt. ‘A few years back I even thought about getting a proper job, something with a guaranteed pay packet. But I can’t do a nine-to-five. I’d . . . Well, I suspect I’d struggle. Maybe die. Something bad would happen; I wouldn’t survive it.’

  I considered this.

  ‘I find it rather annoying when people say things like that,’ I said eventually. ‘I think only a tiny handful of people would actually choose to be in an office nine to five. But you have to remember, most people don’t have a choice. You’re quite privileged, being able to do something like cabinetry out of a workshop in the Cotswolds.’

  ‘True,’ Eddie said. ‘And of course I know what you mean, but I’m still not sure I agree. It’s my contention that everyone has a choice, in everything. On some level.’

  I watched him.

  ‘What they do, how they feel, what they say. It’s just somehow become the received wisdom that we don’t have a choice. About anything. Jobs, relationships, happiness. All beyond our control.’ He shooed the tiny spider back into the grass. ‘It can be frustrating, watching everyone complaining about their problems, never wanting to discuss solutions. Believing they’re a victim of other people, of themselves, of the world.’ That tiny hairline fracture had returned to his voice.

  After a beat he turned to me, smiling. ‘I sound like an arsehole.’

  ‘A bit.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to sound unsympathetic. I just meant . . .’

  ‘It’s OK. I know what you meant. And it’s an interesting point.’

  ‘Maybe. But expressed very poorly. I’m sorry. I’ve just . . .’ He paused. ‘I’ve been quite worn down by my mother recently. I love her, of course, but I sometimes wonder if she even wants to be happy. And then I feel awful because I know that it’s pure brain chemistry, and of course she wants to be happy.’

  He scratched his shins. ‘You’re just the first person I’ve talked to in the last few days who hasn’t been feeling sorry for themselves. I got carried away. Sorry. Thank you. The end.’

  I laughed, and he leaned back, letting one of his knees fall sideways so it landed on my leg. ‘I’m having an even better time than I would have done with Lucy the sheep. Thank you, Sarah Mackey. Thank you for giving up your Thursday afternoon to drink pints with me.’

  My chest filled with thick spirals of pleasure. And I let it, because it felt good to be happy.

  Eddie went to the loo soon after and I deleted Jenni’s app from my phone. Rebound or not, I hadn’t felt this happy in a man’s company – in anyone’s company, really – in a very long time.

  ‘There’s something in this valley, isn’t there?’ Eddie said later. Even he wasn’t sounding sober anymore. The landlord had locked up for the afternoon and told us we were welcome to stay in the garden as long as we wanted.

  ‘The devil’s furnace?’ I suggested, fanning my face. ‘For someone who lives in southern California, I’m unconscionably hot. Where’s the Pacific when you need it? Or a pool. An air-conditioner at very least.’

  Eddie laughed, angling his head towards me. ‘Do you have a pool?’

  ‘Of course not! I run a non-profit!’

  ‘I’m sure some charity executives pay themselves enough to have a pool.’

  ‘Well, not this one. I don’t even own an apartment.’

  He looked back up at the hot bar of sky. ‘Yes, the devil’s furnace is here,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘But there’s something else, don’t you think? Something old, or secretive. It’s always felt to me like a back pocket, this little valley. Somewhere where all sorts of stories and memories are shoved. Like old ticket stubs.’

  I couldn’t agree more, I thought. I had more ticket stubs shoved down the back of this valley than I cared to think about. And it didn’t matter how many years I had spent living away from the place: they were still here, every time I returned. Echoes of my sister at every turn of the tiny River Frome; snatches of song in the old beech trees; the feel of her hand in mine. The mirror-stillness of the lake, just like the day we drove back from the hospital. It was all still here. Just out of sight, but never out of mind.

  We lay there talking for hours, a part of him always touching a part of me. My heart expanding and contracting like hot metal.

  Something was going to happen. Something had already happened. We both knew.

  At some point Frank the farmer arrived to check his sheep and repair his fence, and gave us some cola and a packet of Cheddar from his shopping. ‘I owe you,’ he’d said, and then winked at Eddie as if I couldn’t see him.

  We drank the entire bottle of Coke and ate almost all the cheese. I wondered if Reuben’s new girlfriend – who had apparently taken him on a date
to a juice bar – had ever drunk several pints of cider, passed out in a pub garden with a stranger and then snacked on Coke and Cheddar. I found that I couldn’t have cared less.

  I felt like I was at home. Not just with Eddie, but here, in this valley, where I’d grown up. For the first time since I was young, I felt like I was somewhere I belonged.

  Our secret valley finally cooled as the broiling sun dropped off the side of the world. A twilight fox skeetered across the car park. Small groups of people came and went, the quiet clink of glasses and cutlery muffled by the sluggish rustle of trees. Bright stars stapled an inky sky.

  Eddie was holding my hand. We were back at our table. We’d eaten something – lasagne? I barely remember. He was telling me about his mother, and how her depression was beginning to spiral downwards again. He was going on holiday in a week with a friend, windsurfing in Spain, and was worried about leaving her, even though she’d told him she would be fine.

  ‘Sounds like you’re very good to her,’ I said. He hadn’t replied, but he’d lifted our locked hands up and just kissed one of my knuckles.

  And now the pub was closing, for a second time, and even though we hadn’t discussed it, even though I was still technically married, and meant to be suffering deep emotional trauma, even though I had never gone home with a stranger before – especially to a barn in quite literally the middle of nowhere – it was as clear as the cloudless night that I was going home with him.

  Using the light of my phone, because his was so cracked the torch no longer functioned, we walked hand in hand along the tangled, silent towpath, past forgotten lock workings and glassy black pools of water.

  He let me into his hermit’s barn – which really was in a woodland clearing, flanked by beautiful old horse chestnuts and dimly glowing cow parsley – but there were no elves or satyrs or silken-haired faeries here, just an old army Land Rover and a small patch of darkened lawn, at which Eddie stared suspiciously while he got out his keys. ‘Steve?’ I thought I heard him whisper. I didn’t question him.

  He opened the door. ‘Come in,’ he said, and neither of us could quite look at each other, because it was happening, now, and we both knew already that it was bigger than the next few hours.

  As we walked through the stilled machines in his workshop, I breathed in the pungent scent of cut wood and imagined Eddie in here: planing, hammering, gluing, sawing. Making beautiful things out of beautiful materials with those large brown hands. I thought of those hands on my skin and felt quite foggy.

  We passed through two heavy doors – essential, he told me, for sawdust control – and finally up a flight of stairs to a big, open-plan space, full of old lamps and shadowy beams and gentle creaks. Outside, the trees moved slowly, black against black, and a fine twist of cloud wandered across the headlamp moon.

  I got a glass of water in his kitchen and heard him behind me. I stood there for a while, eyes closed as I felt his breath on my bare shoulder. Then I turned round and leaned against the sink as he kissed me.

  Chapter Seven

  Dear You,

  Look, I’m married. And I’ve a horrible feeling you already know.

  I wasn’t lying when I told you I was single. And I definitely wasn’t lying about how you made me feel.

  Reuben and I separated about three months ago. The thing that finished us off was that I couldn’t give him a baby, but I think we’d both known for a very long time that we’d come to the end of the road. It’s a long story – probably beyond the scope of Facebook Messenger – but it was very hard for him.

  I was so horribly relieved when he sat me down; I knew what he was going to say. I only wished I’d had the courage to say it myself, years earlier. I sat there opposite him with a phone charger in my hand, weaving the cable round and round my fingers until he took it, and then I cried, because I knew he needed me to.

  Is that it, Eddie? Is my marriage why you didn’t call me? If it is, please try to remember how it felt when we were together. I meant it all. Every kiss, every word, every everything.

  I read the message three times and then deleted the whole thing.

  Dear Eddie, I wrote instead.

  I suspect you’ve found that I am married. I would dearly love the opportunity to explain the whole thing to you, face to face – although I want you to know right now that I am not married any longer: the website is out of date. I was – and still am – single. And I want to see you, and apologize, and explain.

  Sarah

  Tommy, Jo and Rudi were long gone. I had been crouching in the back of Tommy’s car for nearly half an hour.

  I was going to have to get out.

  Chapter Eight

  Tommy was standing on a sad little platform in the middle of our old school field, talking into a PA system. He was pretending to find it funny that the equipment was punctuating his speech with burping noises.

  I scanned the assembled crowd. Why were Mandy and Claire here today? Did they not have better things to do? Did they not have jobs ? My lungs felt like they’d been bundled into a tiny chamber behind my nose. I couldn’t stand the prospect of seeing them. Not now. Not in this state.

  ‘Hey.’ Jo appeared from nowhere. ‘How are you doing?’

  ‘Great.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ she said quietly. ‘Even if Tommy feels he has to hang around, we’ll be done within the hour. And I’ll keep an eye on you.’

  We watched in silence as Tommy talked about Matthew Martyn. A real inspiration to his pupils . . . Has worked tirelessly on this programme . . . Makes all the difference to work with people like Matt . . .

  ‘Look, I . . . Um, are they here?’

  Jo slid her hand into the crook of my elbow. ‘I don’t know, Sarah,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what they look like.’

  I nodded, trying to breathe deeply.

  ‘What have you been up to, anyway?’ she asked. ‘Hiding on the car floor? ’

  ‘Mostly. I messaged Eddie. About being married. Then I put on too much make-up. And now I’m here.’

  There was a short gust of applause, and we turned to watch as Tommy handed the microphone over to Matthew Martyn. Matthew was one of those men who’d spent so much time working out that he had to carry his enormous arms at an angle, like a penguin. He and Tommy slapped each other on the back as they swapped places.

  ‘Right,’ Jo said. ‘I think I’d better go and wait for him. After Matthew’s speech it’s mingling time.’ I watched helplessly as she walked away.

  After a few minutes Rudi sauntered up, holding a glass of champagne. ‘This is so boring, Sarah,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And Tommy’s being weird.’

  ‘It’s because he’s nervous,’ I told him, removing the champagne from his hand. ‘Do you ever behave?’

  ‘No.’ Rudi smiled, then pointed at an all-weather running track that hadn’t existed in my time. Hurdles were arranged across the lanes closest to us. ‘Can I go and jump over those things?’

  ‘If you promise you’ll stick to the lower ones.’

  ‘Epic!’ He ran off.

  Wretched memories oozed from my skin like sweat as I scanned around me again. I hated this place. And no matter how juvenile it was, I hated Matthew Martyn. I didn’t care that he’d been a teenager: he’d made another boy cry, again and again and again, and he’d derived pleasure from it. He was talking now as if he’d designed the bloody programme, not Tommy.

  I was halfway down Rudi’s champagne when I saw Mandy and Claire at the back of the crowd. Ten metres away, maybe less. I darted my gaze away before I was seen, taking with me a few fragmented details: a blue-and-yellow dress, a fringe, back fat straining over a bra strap. I lowered the glass, my arms moving like those of a robot in a crude animation. My face flared red.

  Then: ‘Sarah Harrington?’ a voice whispered near my left shoulder. ‘Is that you?’

  I turned to find myself face to face with my English teacher, Mrs Rushby. Her hair was a little grey now, but
still scrolled into that elegant twist that we’d all tried to copy at some point during our school years.

  ‘Oh, hello!’ I whispered. My voice was laced with hysteria.

  Mrs Rushby, without warning, gave me a tight hug. ‘I wanted to do that years ago,’ she said, ‘but you’d gone off to America. How are you doing, Sarah? How have you been?’

  ‘Great!’ I lied. ‘And you?’

  ‘Very good, thank you.’ Then: ‘I am so pleased to hear you’re well. I really hoped it would work out for you in California.’

  I was touched. Not just that she’d hoped for better times for me, but that she had remembered me at all. Then again, I thought, I hadn’t been a very ordinary pupil by the time I’d left.

  For a short while, protected from the crowd by Mrs Rushby, I started to feel a faint whisper of confidence. I made a couple of jokes and felt pathetically happy when she laughed. Did anyone ever lose the desire to impress their favourite teacher? I wondered. More than nineteen years had passed since I’d been in her A-level English class, and yet here I was, trying to make clever gags about revenge tragedies.

  Mrs Rushby, thankfully, changed the subject when she realized I couldn’t remember John Webster’s name. She told me she’d seen a news piece about my charity when she’d taken her family on holiday to California. ‘Something to do with entertaining children in hospital, isn’t it? Clowns?’

  I relaxed as I slipped into even safer territory: work. Clowndoctors, I explained, as I had done a thousand times before. Not clowns. Trained to support the kids, normalize their medical experience, make the hospital environment feel less intimidating.

  As I spoke, I glanced over at Mandy and Claire, still there at the back of the crowd. The blue-and-yellow dress and the fringe had belonged to Claire; the back fat to Mandy. Her once-spiky little frame had expanded by at least five stone since school, something I’d probably have prayed for back then. Now I felt nothing. She looked over at me, then quickly away.

  Mrs Rushby excused herself to hand something to another teacher and I downed the rest of Rudi’s champagne, just as the railway level-crossing alarm – a sound I hadn’t heard in years – started up in the distance. And for a second I was back in the mid-nineties again, a teenager wading through uncertainty and emotional hubris, exhausted by the effort of just living. A ladder in her tights, a thin attempt at a knowing smile smeared across her face. Trying so hard to get it right with Mandy Lee and Claire Peddler.