Jamie Fewery
Page 19
hung over the dwindling time they had left together, a reminder that
he was not perfect, perhaps not even fundamentally good. That any
eulogising of him as a family man at his funeral was, for a time at
least, entirely untrue. Tamas had made mistakes that would for ever
dent his daughter’s memory of him, a bitter, devastating chaser to
any love she felt.
‘Can I suggest something?’ Tom said, as they passed a huge road
sign that read LONDON and THE SOUTH.
‘As long as it’s not another one of those grief coping things you
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found online. You know one of those links was just a Mumsnet forum?’
Tom ignored her. ‘Forgive him,’ he said. And when Esme looked
up he didn’t know whether she was going to break down in tears
or throw her bottle of water in his face. ‘He was a good man, Es. I
know he made a fucking clanger—’
‘A two-year clanger. Probably longer.’
‘Fine. A long fucking clanger. But he cared for you. Massively.
You were everything to that man and he did a lot for us. He gave
us that money for our deposit when we bought the house,’ Tom
said. Her dad’s first punch up with cancer a couple of years before
led him to cash in his pension, savings and stocks to gift Esme the
money that would allow them to put a down payment on their first
place together in West Hampstead.
‘Only because he thought he was going to die.’
‘Even so. I just think there’s a time to let things go. People can
be good and do bad things. Life isn’t all just split into binary things where one cock-up – however massive – makes you a bastard for
ever. And you like being around him, Es. I’ve seen it. You love to
talk to him, to play games. Fuck, why would I have been to Leicester
God-knows-how-many times if you didn’t like both your parents?’
‘I know,’ she said, matter-of-factly. ‘I know you’re right. It’s just
that it made a perfect marriage imperfect. There’ll always be that
thing hanging over it. Noelle.’
‘A perfect marriage? Come on, Es.’
‘Look, I’m sorry if I don’t sound particularly forgiving about it.
But I’ve had a pretty shit year, what with this and—’ Esme stopped
before she could say what they both knew she was thinking.
You.
They drifted back into silence. Tom turned up the radio again to
hear a reality TV star pick his favourite all-time record (which was
less than six months old).
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‘You’re right,’ she said final y, her voice more forgiving and gentle.
‘I know you are. It’s just they were together for so long before it
happened. Every time I think about it I imagine what my mum
must’ve felt at the time. And I wonder how she can still love him
and stay married to him.’
‘Till death us do part is bloody ages, Esme,’ Tom said, wondering
if it would open up the path he wanted to go down. ‘Thirty, forty
years. People are bound to have bad moments. Maybe it’s better to
forgive than to give up. Like your mum did. When you’ve put in
all that time.’
Esme said nothing.
Tom wanted to tell her to reconcile the man she loved with his
mistakes; to see his life as a whole, rather than a series of incidents she could sort neatly into ‘good’ and ‘bad’. Maybe with that, he
thought, some of her old self might return.
‘How long though?’ she asked, as they drove past junction twenty,
the rain becoming more deliberate.
‘What do you mean?’
‘How much time do you have to invest before you can forgive
something like that?’
‘I don’t know. Ten years?’
‘Fifteen,’ she said. ‘Maybe more. Not enough can happen in ten.
Look at us. What are we, seven?’
‘Eight! Which I suspect you knew,’ Tom said, looking at Esme
who had that playful, mischievous look on her face that came out
every time she wanted to play a game, wind him up or ask a difficult
question.
‘I’m sorry. About all of this. You’ve got enough to worry about.’
‘It’s fine. It’s understandable. I’ve never been in your position.’
‘Except that you are now. My dad is basically your father-in-law,
no?’
‘I suppose. I’ve never really thought of that before,’ he said.
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‘You’re family, Tom. As good as, anyway. All that’s lacking is the bit of paper.’
Tom feigned a laugh. Was there some validity to what Tamas had
said earlier? Was she changing her mind about marriage?
Tom looked over to her in the passenger seat. It seemed trite to
say that he saw a girlfriend sitting there. The word implied a certain juvenility. Inexperience. Youth. Esme was more than that to him
now. They were a million miles from the two people who’d met at
a fancy-dress party in Stockwel . She was a different woman from
the one he’d approached when her friend went out for a cigarette at
just the right moment.
Tom thought back to what Tamas said to him earlier. She had
changed, but had he changed her? Annabel said something similar
before and had a point. Esme felt differently about so many things.
Art, politics, how much time they should spend in front of the telly
each evening. Why not this?
Maybe it would even be good for them. A way to repair some
of the dents that had been dealt to their relationship over the past
year. And a way for Tom to protect what they had together, what he
knew he’d need every day of his life.
The events of the year had pushed them to the limits. And
through it all, Esme had stood by him and supported him. But
how long would she continue to do so? The next time something
happened – and there always would be a next time – there might
be nothing tethering her to him. She may have once said a marriage
certificate was just a bit of paper, but what if it was the thing they needed most?
‘You alright?’ she said, bringing Tom back around again.
‘I’m good. You?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘I was just wondering how long we’ve got left
together.’
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It took Tom a moment to realise that she was talking about her dad.
‘As long as possible, I hope,’ he said. And as the song on the radio
faded to make way for the news, Tom’s mind was made up.
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CHAPTER SIXTEEN
7 – 8 pm
THE WRONG QUESTION
TO ASK YOU
September 2016 – Laura’s house, St Agnes, Cornwall
The beach was nearly empty, their only company that evening an
elderly couple holding hands and walking barefoot across the firm
sand and salty puddles of the evening’s
low tide. The chilly breeze
whipped around his bare legs, as he pulled his ratty, dark-blue hoodie around him and zipped it up. Cold sea water spilled over the tops
of his flip flops and toes.
‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ Esme said.
‘It is.’
‘Do you ever think you could live somewhere like this?’
‘I think the thinking of it is easier than the doing. It’s a big change. I think you’d go mad outside of London.’
‘ Psh.’
‘The other day you got annoyed because you had to wait three
minutes for a Tube train. Out here you’d be waiting three hours for
a bus.’
‘I could adapt. It’s a slower pace of life here.’
‘That it is.’
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Tom looked around. They were very nearly getting to the spot.
He had found it two nights ago on a run around the cove. A little
inlet between two patches of rock that formed its own sun trap at
just about ten past seven. There would be a little bit of sea water still covering the sand. But that would be okay.
It had been a struggle to even get her to come out that evening.
She had been sat on the decking in Laura’s garden sipping a gin and
tonic and reading a book. Tom had to pretend that he was restless,
fancied a walk and a chat, a bit of time, just her and him.
‘Can’t we just do it tomorrow?’ Esme had said, closing the thriller
she was reading in that slightly irritated way she did when Tom
interrupted her halfway through a sentence.
‘I’d really rather now. I think it’d be good to get out,’ he’d said.
‘I’m feeling cooped up.’
‘You’re in a lovely garden in a quiet part of Cornwall and all we
can hear is the waves. How on earth are you “cooped up”?’
‘I don’t know. But I am,’ he said, insistently.
Eventually he talked her round enough for her to abandon her
drink and her book. Although Laura’s kids running out into the
garden in their pyjamas might’ve helped his cause.
Now, Tom led Esme across a little rocky wall that separated them
from the place and stopped, ankle deep in seawater.
‘Here,’ he said.
‘What do you mean here?’
‘Just this little spot. Nice, isn’t it? I found it earlier. Thought I’d show you.’
‘Suppose. It’s a bit wet, though,’ she said, looking down at her
submerged Birkenstocks. ‘The tide’s coming in. We’ll be knee-deep
in a minute.’
‘Well, yeah. But . . .’ he trailed off, half losing track of what he was saying. His heart had started beating faster and there was a touch of
panic in his voice. ‘Just sit down there, would you? On that rock.’
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‘Why would I sit on a rock?’
‘I want to show you something.’
‘Tom, are you alright? You’re being like Toots,’ she said, referring
to Laura’s attention-seeking daughter who often forced Esme to sit
down and watch while she danced or sang, or told long and elaborate
stories about people in her class at school.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You’re acting strangely.’
‘I said I’m fine,’ he insisted. ‘I’ve got you a present. Now sit there and close your eyes.’
Cautiously, Esme did what he told her to, as Tom rummaged
around in the side pocket of his cargo shorts.
It was when she heard the splash of his knee dropping into the
water that Esme opened her eyes.
‘ Tom.’
‘Esme. Now, I know—’
‘Tom, what the fuck are you doing?’
‘Es, please,’ he said, looking up at her. She seemed taller than she
might, the camber of the beach sloping down towards Tom.
‘No! I can see what you’re doing and I’m telling you, don’t.’
‘But—’
‘Don’t you even dare say what you’re about to, Tom. Don’t open
that box.’
‘Esme,’ he said, pleadingly. But she was up now, over the little
rocky wall – now submerged in sea water – walking quickly away
from him back in the direction of St Agnes. He shoved the ring into
the pocket of his hoodie and followed, calling her name and begging
her to stop. Until, after a few minutes, she turned to face him.
‘What?’ she said. They’d almost reached the small row of shops
and huts at the top of the beach, the smell of frying chips and distant bubble of noise from the pub.
‘I just—’
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‘What, Tom? What? You just thought you’d throw out a quick proposal? Just thought you’d see what I think about the idea? Just
thought you’d go and buy a bloody ring and plan this little walk,
hoping I might change my mind about the whole thing?’
‘No, I—’
‘I don’t know how many fucking times I have to tell people,
Tom. This is not some little whim I’m likely to go back on because
I fancy a nice piece of jewellery. I thought you of all people might understand that,’ she said, turning to walk away, then turning back
to face him again. ‘Does Laura know about this?’
‘No.’
‘Because I fucking swear—’
‘Esme, no one knows.’
‘My mother?’ she said, to which Tom said nothing. ‘Are you
telling me that my mother knows you were going to do this?’
‘No . . . Well, not really. That I know of, anyway.’
‘Tell me, Tom.’
He looked at her, hair blowing in the wind that came across the
Cornish cliffs to shake the gorse bushes and fan their scent around
the heathland. Her cheeks were red in the gloom, eyes big and set
firm on him. He could see that she was angry. It was in her eyes.
‘If I find out that you and Mum were in on this together,’ she
continued, ‘then I’m getting in that car and I’m driving straight back to London,’ she said, pointing in the direction of Wales. ‘Alone.’
Tom hesitated for a moment. Unsure if what he was about to
say – what he wanted to say – would make things worse or better.
But he was here now. And there was really no point in telling her
anything but the truth.
‘It was your dad.’
Esme waited a moment, taking it in. ‘My dad?’ she said. ‘What
do you mean?’
‘That time he spoke to me, the day before he died, remember?’
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She took a second to process it. Remembering back to the previous November, when they were up visiting her parents in Leicester.
At five the next morning, Esme received a call from her mum:
Tamas had collapsed at the top of the stairs, apparently ill from the
chemotherapy. By seven o’clock he was gone. Esme had arrived at
the hospital half an hour too late.
‘You asked his permission?’ she said, incredulous. ‘So all that shit about me forgiving him, and how great long marriages are – that
was just to get me to come around?’
‘No—’
‘When does it stop, Tom? For years we had people asking us
about it.
I thought by now it’d be a closed book.’
‘Esme, you’ve got it wrong.’
‘Answer me one thing,’ she said, ignoring him. ‘Is this about last
year?’
‘No.’
‘Because I swear, if this is your way of apologising for lying to me for years about your . . . your problems,’ she said, searching for the word, ‘then you’ve just made things a lot worse.’
‘Esme, listen!’ Tom said firmly, grasping both her hands as if to
stop her from lashing out at him. He took a deep breath. ‘Your dad
told me to marry you. He thought that you didn’t really mean all
the anti-marriage stuff.’
Esme said nothing. Gradually hurt began to replace anger. Her
eyes looked watery, though might that have been from the wind.
‘He said that he wouldn’t be around to see it. But he wanted to
know that it would happen. So . . .’
‘My dad,’ she said, sadly, as though every unreconciled emotion
and issue that had been bubbling around since his death had all
come back to the surface in that moment. ‘So you’re doing this for
him, then?’
‘No, I—’
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‘Or are you doing it for you, Tom?’ she asked, to which he said nothing. ‘Because I really need to know why you’ve put me in this
position. Is it something you actually want? Or are you trying to
appease my dad?’
‘Both. I suppose,’ he said, looking down to see the water around
their feet again, the tide encroaching a little further on the land.
‘So, it was just me, then? All this time? Just me who didn’t want
all that bullshit. Me who thought that we could be just as happy
without it. And every time I was asked about it, or you were asked
about it, you were actually just thinking “Ah she’ll change her mind
soon enough. She’ll come around.” ’
‘It wasn’t like that!’
‘What, then? For nine fucking years we’ve said we didn’t need
it. We were just fine as we were. And you knew all along why that
was. But now here I am, standing in the fucking sea, realising that
every word of it was a lie.’
‘Esme,’ he said desperately. ‘It wasn’t.’
‘How?’ she shouted. ‘Tell me how you weren’t lying . . . Tell me
how you weren’t simply lying again. I thought we were a team. You and me. Esme and Tom. We did things our own way.’
‘We still can.’