‘Somebody will get flattened, and the driver will be blamed because the sympathy is always with the pedestrian,’ Robert said. ‘People play silly buggers with the lights and expect to get away with it.’
‘Well, it’s good, then, that you didn’t bring the car up.’
Yes, she decided, she would meet Hartley of course, at unit seventeen, but only to tell him that they had to finish, that their friendship, fulfilling though it was, had to give way before the overall context of their lives. She knew it would be painful for them both, that she would lose a part of life still special to her — but not essential. Hartley must be made to understand, and both of them would get over it in time. The loss of sexual excitement wasn’t the main thing, more that the comradeship, the community of attitudes, the happy distraction and mutual admiration had to be let go. That was the reality, and there was no other way. She had enjoyed the certainty that she was the most important person in Hartley’s world, and she was drawn to his personality without fully understanding it. But even the best of experiences must end.
‘Shall we go into town for lunch?’ she asked Robert. ‘Do you feel like it?’
‘Sure. I’d like that. I’m feeling okay. Not doing handstands, but not too bad. I think my system is actually getting used to some of the stuff. I’m sleeping better, for one thing.’
‘Good. We’ll do that, then. Perhaps that place by the ferry terminal. It’s not too noisy and there’s always something going on. I think I’ll do a bit of shopping later, and you can taxi back here. You’ll need to take a jersey with you, though. Sometimes there’s that breeze from the sea and you feel it more now. Why don’t you ring for a taxi? Give me twenty minutes to get finished here.’
But Robert was in no hurry to prepare to leave. He went to his workplace at the end of the table. ‘I found a couple of really good ones of the Aspen Street house,’ he said. ‘Come and have a look.’
She assumed interest and joined him, taking one of the photos he offered. The Aspen Street house was the first place they owned: brick, two bedrooms, decramastic roof and an open carport rather than a garage. The photograph showed Sarah in gardening clothes standing beside a slim silver birch that she’d just bedded in.
‘I was pregnant then,’ she said, but there was no sign of that in the picture. She was tall and strong and with an attractiveness that was part genetic disposition and part youth itself.
‘You looked sexy even in those clothes,’ said Robert.
‘I had a waist then — even pregnant.’
‘I don’t remember taking it.’
‘You didn’t,’ she said. ‘Mum was down giving a hand to tidy the place up. You would’ve been at work. There’s one of her somewhere on the same day, standing by the gate, I think. When you come across it keep the three together.’
She didn’t need to find the photograph of her mother to have her image in her mind as sharp as if she stood beside her, and all that had been around them that day so many years ago, reformed also. The rough, neglected lawn, the wheelbarrow full of plants, the chill, spring wind that caused her mother to push back her hair with a wrist rather than the damp, soiled gardening glove. The way her mother rustled her hands in the rhododendron bushes to dislodge the brown and shrunken stalks of past flowers. Sarah stood still in a conscious effort to hold the memory in all its exactitude, but it went as suddenly as it had come, and she was left with just the flat photograph of herself. ‘Mum did a hell of a lot for us in that place,’ she said, ‘especially when Donna was a baby.’
‘I liked your mother,’ said Robert, ‘and your dad, too. They were closer to me in many ways than my own parents. Your dad died far too early.’
‘I was so lucky, and never realised it at the time. Good people, but so sad for Mum later on. Life’s so unfair sometimes, isn’t it.’
How angry and upset her mother would be if she were still alive, and knew Sarah was going to lunch with her husband, and then on to a motel to be with her lover. It was exactly the sort of deceit she had most despised. That end point was easy to condemn, but was reached by way of a hundred small decisions each equivocal in itself and so difficult to rescind. Her mother would never know of Hartley, could make no accusation from the grave, yet Sarah felt a strange sadness that she’d let her down, and as distraction went to the kitchen and began emptying the dishwasher. The loss of her mother’s good opinion was quite certain, even though it would never be expressed. She loved her mother and felt ashamed to have failed her. Again she saw her in the garden of the Aspen Street place, slight and cold, but willingly giving all she could to help her daughter, as she always did. I won’t cry, Sarah told herself, and she drew in a long breath.
‘Have you phoned the taxi yet?’ she said from the kitchen, knowing he hadn’t.
‘Just doing it,’ said Robert, who wasn’t. ‘Sarah pregnant in the Aspen Street garden’ he was writing on the back of the photograph.
ROBERT ENJOYED LUNCH ON the waterfront, not so much the food, but the view of the harbour, and the parade of men and women from so many levels of city life, most in that protective mode of self-absorption that allowed them to stand on trains and buses close enough to feel the body heat of others, without any recognition of their presence. The less energy he had himself, the more he was absorbed in the activity of people around him, especially those in the careless possession of health. He watched two guys with skateboards flipping on and off a low metal railing, each catcalling derisively at the efforts of the other. They were young men, not adolescents: tall, muscular, with both easy grace and sudden power, and aware of the spectacle they made, although taking no apparent notice of anyone who watched. ‘Silly buggers,’ said Robert with tolerant envy. ‘You wonder how they get the skateboard to jump up like that.’
‘A skill born of idleness, I suppose,’ said Sarah. ‘Guys like that take accomplishment for granted just because they’re young.’
‘Well, you don’t know anything else then,’ said Robert. ‘When you’re older you remember being young for comparison. You’ve been there. When you’re young, old age is just a concept.’
‘Hey, we’re not old yet.’
‘You know what I mean,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a few years on you.’ He was quiet for a time, seeming to watch the skateboarders, then he turned to her. ‘I’m not too much of a sad sack, am I?’ he said. ‘The last year or two have been pretty ordinary, I know, but I’ll make it up to you when all this is over. We’ve got plenty of good times ahead of us still, haven’t we? And we’ll make the most of them because of the crap we’ve been through.’
‘Of course we will,’ she said. He must have considered death rather than recovery, but she wondered if it had ever occurred to him that she might leave before either eventuated. Well, there would be no need for that now. He would have gone on, though, she was sure of that. He had a stubborn resilience, born of selfishness, or pride. She was for a moment curious about his reaction if she’d told him she had a lover and wished to end the marriage. ‘When you’re better, we should go down and have a long visit with Donna and the girls,’ she said.
After she’d seen Robert to a taxi, Sarah took one herself to the Spanish motel. Hartley was there before her, as she knew he would be, watching at the window, opening the door so she could slip in without being kept waiting, drawing her to him for a first kiss.
‘Look at that thundercloud. It’s going to piss down soon,’ he said. ‘It was on the forecast and now it’s building up for sure. Anyway I bought some sushi. I bet you haven’t had anything to eat.’
‘I have, though,’ she said. ‘I’ve been at the Viaduct Basin.’ But she took a piece, not from hunger, but because it allowed a small delay.
‘I’m so glad you’re here. It seems ages.’ Even though she hadn’t finished eating, he stepped close, his body very straight, and with hands on her bum, pressed her to him. Sarah remained passive, still chewing, then she swallowed.
‘There’s stuff we need to talk about,’ she said.
‘But afterwards,’ he said. ‘Talk can come afterwards. I’ve been waiting for days.’ And often in that time he’d imagined her taking off her clothes, or himself removing them which was even more arousing. How familiar yet revelatory were such memories, how closely observed, how much a consolation when he was alone.
‘No. It can’t wait. It has to be now,’ she said.
She drew his arms away, and went and sat on one of the two upright chairs by the table. The sky was almost absurdly dark, there was one intense shower that slapped and bounced raindrops on the asphalt outside, and then the clouds rolled away without thunder, and sunlight gleamed on the wet surfaces. It had briefly claimed their attention, but then it was over and there was just the diminishing noise of water in the drains from the motel roof. The dramatic cloudburst was entirely indifferent, yet to Sarah the coincidence oddly heightened the significance of her decision.
‘I’ve made up my mind,’ she said. ‘I can’t do it any more. When I thought I might leave Robert because of us, then it seemed okay, but now that I know I won’t leave him it changes everything. To go on making love now, even the meetings, is just selfish pleasure and deceit, isn’t it. Somehow for me it’s an all or nothing thing and I’m not going to leave him. I’m sure now. I’m sorry, but — I’m sorry.’ She tried to look at him as she spoke, but it was too painful to keep her gaze direct, and she found her glance flicking away, and back again. She was aware of her own voice, and it seemed to have a tone of prim imposture quite foreign to her intention.
Hartley closed his eyes as she spoke, gave a small grimace as denial. He pulled the other chair close and sat leaning towards her. He took her hand in his. ‘You’re frightened,’ he said. ‘I can understand that. Jesus, what we’re deciding is the rest of our lives. Of course it’s a huge ask, especially for you, but we’re in love now and everything else has to be measured against that. Okay?’
‘I’m sorry. I’ve spent hours going over and over it, driving myself half crazy. I can’t toss away everything — not now. I can’t even say that we should continue as friends, because that’s probably too difficult, and dangerous as well. We got carried away. I suppose because we had so much in common. Also I was looking for support maybe. These things happen — you slide downhill into them somehow. I know a lot of it’s been my fault. It’s just that …’ Her voice wavered, and she had to stop, but then forced herself on. ‘I don’t regret it, none of it, but it’s got to end now.’
‘You don’t mean it,’ he said. ‘It’s just all too much at the moment. That’s it. What you have to remember is that there’s two of us, not just you by yourself: two of us to work through it all so that we can be together in the end. Okay, there’s issues for sure — of course there’s stuff that’s bloody hard. That’s life. We’re together, though, that’s the big thing.’
His hand tightened around hers; he leant even closer as if proximity could ensure an emotional bond. Sarah had the unpleasant and abrupt understanding that he wasn’t open to reason, that his devotion was unswerving. Only the most plain, almost brutal, declaration had any chance of penetration, and she made herself meet his gaze.
‘I’m finishing it. Right now, right here,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry for hurting you, but I can’t do anything about that. It hurts me as well. There’s too much against us and I should’ve seen that at the start, but you don’t, and one thing leads to another. Anyway, I’m sorry, but I’m going now and I can’t see you again.’
‘You can’t walk off just like that and pretend something so important is over.’ His voice was almost gentle, as if improbability in what she said was self-evident. ‘Everything will work out if we stick together. Love finds a way. We can make it work. We can come through it.’
‘Going on about everything only draws it out,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I made any promises, and if I did then I’m sorry, but I can’t carry on now. It’s driving me silly so I can’t think straight. All of it has to stop.’
‘We’re meant to be together,’ Hartley said, but she didn’t reply. To talk about it was painful and called for futile explanation. How could love become so sad? Why couldn’t he shut up and let her go before it was all too much?
She pulled her hand slowly from his grip, stood up and moved to the door. Hartley followed her closely. He wanted to drive her home: it could rain again, he said, but she wished to walk, to arrive back to Robert with an interval between the two men. Already the asphalt of the motel was drying, faint vapour drifting from the surface, the sky almost completely blue. A man was taking cases from a white car not far away. His little daughter was standing watching and he said, ‘We’ll ask Mum if she wants the stuff on hangers,’ and they went inside. How could the rest of the world be imperturbable when Hartley and Sarah were in the firestorm?
‘Goodbye,’ she said, and gave him such a rapid hug that he wasn’t quick enough to clasp her. She wanted to thank him for all they’d had together, but it would seem so out of place, when she was refusing the things most important to him. She wanted to say have a good life and be happy. And even in that most difficult farewell she wanted to say — don’t forget me. That they had to give up all they had formed together, didn’t negate the value of it. Love is special, whatever the circumstances, but sometimes it comes at the wrong time and won’t fit with the rest of life’s jigsaw.
‘I’ll text. We’ll work everything out, you’ll see,’ said Hartley loudly as she walked towards the street, but she didn’t trust herself to reply, or to turn to see him. ‘I love you, Sarah, we’ll make it work,’ he called, as a young man might do. Maybe she’d never see him again, and one part of her hoped for that, while another suffered a pang that almost caused her to stumble. It’s for the best. It’s for the best, she kept saying to herself, and made herself walk on, conscious of the physical effort of moving her legs and the awkwardness in her arms. She felt taken apart in both body and spirit. The glances of people passing seemed to have a quality of both pity and complacency, the sounds of the city around her were strangely muted.
How reduced and ordinary the motel seemed once Sarah had gone. Hartley wanted to be away from it, but stood inside for a few minutes in case she came back, as he was willing her to do. He had an odd and passing inclination to rough up the bed so that it would appear they had made love as usual, but knew that no one cared, or kept a tally, that the cleaner would register just brief satisfaction for one less chore. He felt pummelled emotionally, weakened by Sarah’s withdrawal of love.
He went to the office and gave the key to the guy with the tartan slippers and hair as stiff as that of a dead dog. ‘How was that for a dump of rain? Jeez,’ the man said.
‘Came down all right,’ replied Hartley woodenly. He was thinking of Sarah walking steadily away, going back to Robert and a life accumulated over many years. He could see Robert as he’d been when they met in the apartment — a big, capable man depleted and bemused by illness, and trying to come to terms with that. Someone no longer capable of being the partner that Sarah deserved.
When he was home, Hartley began to prepare a rather complicated stir-fry meal from a cook book with a bright cover showing assorted cupcakes. He wasn’t hungry, but he needed to be doing something as he thought about what had happened and what his response would be. A restless urgency wouldn’t allow him to sit still, or even stand on the deck and look over the bush towards the city. He rattled about in the kitchen, but the ingredients he prepared meant nothing to him. He noticed his hands were shaking, and he observed that with a detached curiosity.
Of course Sarah had become frightened: she’d realised that the greatest price of their love was pain for others close to her. Maybe even her daughter wouldn’t understand. She had to be supported, encouraged to make the right choice, convinced that he’d stick by her and that it was worth all they would go through to be together. Sarah’s misgivings had to be overcome by redoubled love and commitment on his part.
He would write a letter, Hartley decided. It came
to him suddenly and with such impact that he paused in the slicing of mushrooms. He’d never written to her before. Surely there was a permanence and open declaration about a letter that other communications lacked. He began again on the vegetables, sorting phrases as he did so. It would be their first love letter, and he imagined they would read it and smile years later when all the present difficulty and agitation were over. Yes, he would write a letter and it would be a path for Sarah to follow back to him. The more she wavered, the stronger he had to be for both of them.
‘My darling Sarah’, he would begin, and he would describe for her the sky blue curtains and pillows of the bedroom bought for her, and the trips they would have together in warm, dry places where gumboots were unknown and language unintelligible, yet wonderful to listen to for musicality alone. He would put up a fight for her to prove his love, and that the future lay with him, not Robert. Yes — ‘My darling Sarah, Now or never they say, and it must be now and ever for you and me’ — that’s how he would begin.
He left the littered bench of the kitchen and went to his desk to write, but almost at once the shivering distortions of migraine began their drift across his vision, and he stood up in search of his pills. He would write in the morning if he were up to it. He turned away from the evening sun and prepared to lie down in the bedroom with the blue curtains drawn, his half-prepared meal forgotten. I can persuade her, he reassured himself. I can do it.
How he wished that Sarah was already with him. Robert wasn’t the only one in her life who needed comfort. The familiar ache in his left temple began, but he tried to keep his focus on Sarah. When he was walking with her, even their gaits were synchronised and they moved naturally together, talking at a Magnus table, always with close attention between them, lying on the motel bed, close enough to see individual eyelashes, and the depth of folded green-grey in the iris of her eye that reminded him of the favourite glass marbles he possessed in boyhood. Within the glass were fixed sweeps and veils of multi-coloured aurora. Tors they were called then. Yes, tors, and you played keepers, but never gave up the tors if you lost, proffering only lesser substitutes. It was the recollection of boyhood marbles and Sarah’s eyes that comforted him before the pain became the single awareness.
Love as a Stranger Page 17
