The Grass Memorial

by Sarah Harrison

  ‘You mean that I’m not.’

  ‘It takes two . . .’

  ‘If you only knew,’ he said thinly, pulling his arm from under her and reaching for his cigarettes, ‘how unconvincing you sound.’

  ‘All right.’ She sat up. ‘All right. Your brother’s been divorced twice, which you see as some sort of failure. And yet –’ she looked at him ‘—you’re here with me. How do you rationalise that?’

  He blew smoke over his shoulder.‘You want me to get divorced?’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘Ha!’

  She hung on to her temper. ‘It’s not. But if everything was perfect you wouldn’t be here. Guy at least recognised the imperfections and got out. Both times.’

  ‘He ran away. Couldn’t cope.’

  ‘And you do, is that it? This is what you call coping, is it? Managing the marriage and the mistress, keeping all the plates spinning?’

  He seemed to think about this, before saying flatly: ‘I suppose it must be.’

  Now she couldn’t conceal her anger. ‘Listen to yourself! You make it sound as though it all just happens to you, as if free will hadn’t been invented.’

  ‘I was having a stab at truthfulness,’ he said. ‘Obviously, I’m out of practice—’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody condescending.’

  ‘—whereas you, I know, are never less than transparently honest, and have been living the life of a nun.’

  It wasn’t the words themselves that hurt, it was the intention to wound. ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Very well. Your flat, your call.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘But let me ask you something, Stella. If tomorrow say, I were by some divine intervention to be suddenly free, no baggage, no guilt, no debts financial or emotional – what difference would it make to us?’

  ‘If you have to ask, I’m not going to tell you.’

  ‘Girlie answer.’

  Nettled, she snapped: ‘A big difference.’

  ‘Ah,’ he raised a finger, ‘but would it? Would we spend more time together? Live together? Have babies together?’ Suddenly he put up a hand and caught her by the chin, twisting her head round hard to look at him. ‘Will you marry me, Stella?’

  To buy time she prised his fingers away. ‘Don’t do that!’

  He gave a pinched, sarcastic smile. ‘Exactly.’

  He’d left then. The clock had showed two in the morning, he was good at these dog-hour departures, the car (a BMW these days) zooming away into dark, empty streets, every rising gear change telling her to put that in her sodding pipe and smoke it. She hadn’t had time to make her cutting, perceptive points about the precise difference that his freedom would make: that it would enable them to look at each other properly for the first time, unshadowed by the drama of his infidelity; to assess what each had to gain, and to lose; to decide, in all probability, that they’d be poison for one another, and to get out before it was too late.

  And tonight was the same. Yet again she’d been robbed of the opportunity to tell him how greatly she despised him, how pathetic he was, and how little she cared whether he lived or died.

  Stella was on the edge of sleep – had just had that abrupt sensation of fading that went with the body’s finally giving up and giving in – when Victoria Mansions’ fire alarm went off. The red numbers on the clock said 3:37. She wasn’t prepared to believe it, and rolled over, but in less than a minute there were voices outside, and some community-minded person banged on the door of the flat and shouted, ‘Fire alarm! Everybody out!’

  She could only remember it happening twice before and on both occasions it had only been a practice, tactfully signalled a week or two in advance. But there was no doubt now that there were people in the hallway, and the alarm blared on and on until finally she lurched out of bed, pulled on a coat and boots and obeyed the summons.

  Out in the street the Mansions’ residents numbered about forty, including at least half a dozen elderly people she’d never seen before in her life, two families with toddlers and a crying baby, and an Indian couple with three teenagers. The teenagers were fully dressed in outsize trousers, baggy parkas and big shoes, having clearly not been to bed at all. A police car was parked at the kerb with its blue light flashing.

  The chairman of the Residents’ Association was all urbane efficiency, moving among his flock in a Burberry and Wellingtons, disseminating information.

  ‘Stella!’ he said as though they had bumped into one another over the food counter at Harrods.‘We were starting to worry about you.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ she said. ‘Where’s the fire?’

  ‘No, not a fire, a bomb scare.’ He held up his hand to stem the anticipated wave of panic. ‘The Asian lads noticed a flight bag in the back hallway which they said had been there since they went out. The boys in blue are investigating as we speak, but they assure me that nine out of ten of these things turn out to be false alarms.’

  ‘When will we know?’

  He shrugged, loving it. ‘Lap of the gods. If they haven’t sorted things out to their satisfaction in a quarter of an hour or so they’ll find us some accommodation elsewhere for the night.’

  ‘It’s a quarter to four. There won’t be any night left.’

  ‘Perhaps not. Got a show on at the moment?’

  ‘The run started last night.’

  ‘Ooh, dear . . .’ He was a mite reproving, this was an emergency after all. ‘Still, can’t be helped. Maybe tonight’s the night for your understudy.’

  He had no idea, she didn’t even pretend to laugh. She was absolutely twitching with tiredness, she could have lain down on the pavement and slept. The last thing she wanted was to be spoken to, but there was evidence among her fellow residents of bonding in adversity, of the spirit of the Blitz coming into play, little stories about their quixotic rescuing of rings and bears and cookery books . . . the men saying you had to take this sort of thing seriously, the women joking about eyeliner and clean underpants. She perched on the edge of the grubby brick wall, aloof and grubby. There were only two things she wished she’d brought with her and one was her car keys. The other (and here she had some sympathy with the story-tellers) was ‘Only Sleeping’. It would be a crime if the handsome soldier and his horse were to be wiped out completely after all this time, their uplifting message of comfort blown to smithereens by the IRA.

  The BMW slid between her and her thoughts. ‘I know it’s not an original line,’ said Robert, leaning across to talk through the passenger window, ‘but can I interest you in the fuck of a lifetime?’

  Her line was scarcely original either. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Cruising for women, stupid. Get in.’

  ‘I can’t just disappear, we’re in the middle of a bomb scare.’

  ‘What were you planning to do, give them your rendition of “We’ll Meet Again”?’

  ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen, I haven’t got my keys – what am I saying? The whole place could blow up!’

  ‘They haven’t cordoned you off – look, will you get in or the rozzers will be after both of us.’ He pushed the door open.

  ‘Don’t drive off.’

  ‘I won’t. I was planning to be invited up for coffee. Get. In.’

  She climbed in. The warmth of the car, the softness of the seats, the smell of cigars and peppermint, the plaintive blandishments of Miles Davis, were like an embrace. It was hard to remember how much she hated him.

  ‘I’ve got to say . . .’ he barked with laughter, and continued to laugh as he pulled her head towards his ‘. . . you look like absolute hell.’

  She fell asleep in the car. An hour later the chairman tapped on the window to say they were allowed back in. The flight bag had turned out to be full of what he called ‘dirty mags’, which seemed to indicate that it might have been a hoax. No one would have dreamed of pointing the finger at the teenagers who had reported it, but they all had their suspicions. The caretaker went round with his skeleto
n key opening people’s doors for them.

  Robert came in with Stella, and then it all came back to her. The broken candles, the telephone directory slewed against the wall . . . She faced him, still wrapped in her big coat, arms folded

  ‘Look, I’m not sure I want you here.’

  ‘I can’t say I blame you.’

  ‘So where were you?’

  ‘Seppi called, his daughter’s not well.’

  ‘Your niece.’ She didn’t quite know what point she was making, something about pecking orders and priorities. She sounded sour and crabby, even to herself.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘Natalie. She’d be about your age, has to have a radical mastectomy.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered ungraciously, on fire with humiliation. But also thinking, The bitch – the bitch to make me seem such a bitch.

  ‘Anyway,’ he went on, ‘the prognosis is statistically pretty fair. But Seppi was understandably exercised about it, how everyone was going to cope while she was in hospital, all that sort of thing – a way of not focusing on the worst-case scenario. I couldn’t get away.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Something occurred to her, an unworthy impulse to catch him out. ‘So how did you manage to get over here at this ungodly hour?’

  ‘Sian’s away. Women’s health conference ironically. And yes, I did initially forget about your opening night but when the penny dropped I would have tracked you down hours ago if Seppi hadn’t called so late.’

  ‘Forget it, it doesn’t matter.’ She couldn’t stand much more of this torrent of rational explanation. ‘You can stay if you want to.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘I fear the hoaxers have put paid to that. You must sleep and I must work.’

  ‘Don’t you need to sleep too? What about the patients?’

  ‘I’ll catch twenty winks or so when I get there. My competence will not be compromised and my interpersonal skills bottomed out years ago. As you know.’

  He moved to kiss her but she could not unbend. She kept her arms folded and her lips closed. Refusing to accept her rebuff, he put his arms round her and said gently, into her hair: ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Fine.’ Come on, Stella. ‘No, it went well.’

  ‘That’s tremendous. I’m going to come and see it, very soon.’ His hand slid up and down her back, his voice became ragged. ‘When I said you looked like hell . . . I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘You did and you were right. I was entitled to look hellish, it was four in the morning in the middle of a bomb scare.’

  She felt him pulse with suppressed laughter before he released her. ‘True.’ This time he succeeded in snatching a quick kiss on the lips. ‘Gotcha.’

  He peered at himself in the mirror, mumbled ‘Christ’ and scrubbed his hands furiously over his face and hair. Next to the mirror was the Victorian photograph, and he flicked it with his finger. ‘It’s a mystery to me why you like this thing.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s peaceful.’

  ‘It’s pseudo-religious, meretricious, sentimental crap, my angel,’ he said. ‘Listen, I’ll call before the end of the week. Sleep tight.’

  And on this characteristically acerbic note, Robert Vitelio left.

  But not for the last time that morning, as she discovered when she struggled out of bed. There was a note from the porter among the post on her mat, indicating that a package had been left outside her door. It was a bundle of newspapers in a plastic carrier bag with the name of an off-licence chain. With the papers was a greetings card with a picture of a cuddly hedgehog in a straw hat and dungarees and the legend: ‘You are my sunshine’. Inside, Robert had written: ‘Sorry about the execrable tat, best your 24-hour shop could do. Thought you might like to see these – congratulations. Stella by name, stellar by nature. XRX’

  The reviews ranged from good to ecstatic, with nothing whatever to raise the blood pressure, and rich pickings for the show’s publicist. There were several morning messages on the machine, and she listened to them as she brunched on black coffee and a bacon sandwich.

  The first was from Miles saying that the booking line had been red hot and there was every chance they should consider extending the run. The second was from George, overhung but jubilant: ‘. . . reckon I could flog those autographs for a tidy sum on the strength of your reviews, you old son of a gun. I am so, so sorry by the way if I put foot in mouth last night. By the time we got to the restaurant I was honestly too motherless to know what I was doing. Your affairs are none of my affair! Brian sends his best and a big sloppy kiss – you can imagine how sloppy after what he put away . . . Give us a buzz when you’ve got a moment. ‘Byee.’

  The third was Derek, characteristically chipper. ‘Looks like we did it, doll, but it’s no surprise to me. I’m off to Porchester Baths for a Turkish and a cold plunge before tonight, and who knows – I might get lucky. See you later.’

  Last of all was her mother. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen the Telegraph, so I’m going to read you what it calls you . . . here we are . . . “Stella Carlyle”, blah blah, “looks like a street urchin, sings like a siren”, blah, this is the bit, “exudes an extraordinary sex appeal full of power and pathos. Carlyle—” I wish they wouldn’t do that, but anyway “—is one of the few performers around today who can make you laugh and cry at almost the same moment”. And so it goes on, isn’t it wonderful? I expect you’re having a lie-in but do call if you feel like it. Your father’s not top-hole today, it’s probably anti-climax, I’m sure he’d love to hear your voice.’

  Not wanting to think about it for too long, she rang there and then.

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Stella, darling, we are such proud parents. Look, your father’s right here, I’ll put him on . . .’ She heard her mother say quietly but clearly, ‘Drew, it’s Stella – Stella for you. Remember we went to the show last night?’ And then, to her again, ‘Here he is.’

  ‘Stella?’

  ‘Hallo, Dad, how are you today?’

  ‘Pretty good. How was the show?’

  Her heart sank. ‘It went very well.’

  ‘And the girls?’

  ‘They’re fine.’

  ‘We’re frightfully dull and quiet down here, when are you coming to see us?’

  ‘I might manage next Sunday, but I’ll ring and let you know.’

  He said, ‘She’s coming next Sunday,’ and then: ‘My brain’s going more than somewhat, old thing, I mislay my marbles from time to time, you’ll have to excuse me.’

  ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ she lied.

  ‘Come, come,’ he said, ‘I’d be astonished if you hadn’t.’

  ‘Everyone has lapses of memory.’

  There was a short silence, and then he said: ‘They do, don’t they?’ And then, ‘Cheerio, keep the aspidistra flying.’

  Mary came back on. ‘So we’ll see you on Sunday?’

  ‘I might manage it, I don’t know yet. Can I give you a ring?’

  ‘Of course! Darling—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t ever feel you have to, will you? We know you love us, you and George, you don’t have to keep visiting us to prove it.’

  When she’d put the phone down she sat head in hands, shamed by her mother’s love, her generosity, her shining and impregnable loyalty.

  Stella didn’t make it on Sunday. For one thing she was exhausted, this show seemed to be taking more out of her than others; and for another – the real reason – she couldn’t face her parents, when the gulf between their situation and hers seemed more than ever unbridgeable. On the other hand, Robert had not yet rung, and she wanted to be out if he did.

  She called Jamie and asked if he’d like to go out to lunch. Since his eighteenth birthday and consequent striking from what she thought of as the godparental payroll, there had been a subtle recalibration of their relationship.

  ‘Nice one!’

  ‘My treat,’ she said, from habit.

  ‘We’ll see about that.’

  �
�If there’s anyone you’d like to bring . . .’

  ‘No, thanks, I’m resting between engagements.’

  ‘Prince of Jaipur at one o’clock then.’

  Having obtained a 2:1 in English and media studies at Manchester, Jamie had found employment as a junior producer on an early-morning breakfast show of breathtaking loudness and vulgarity, a job he hugely enjoyed. It had cachet, cred, a high totty factor and no dress code. From time to time he rang Stella to inform her of some item of his that was going to be on. These usually involved waking up unsuspecting minor celebrities and demanding to come in and inspect their bedrooms, or doing much the same thing to members of the public. Stella had warned him that if he ever pulled such a stunt with her their relationship would be terminated on the spot, but he had set her mind at rest by pointing out that from an OB point of view Victoria Mansions was about as user-friendly as Sing-Sing, so she was perfectly safe.

  He was waiting for her in the Prince of Jaipur, at a table near the buffet, wearing jeans, a frayed striped rugby top and distressed trainers.

  ‘Shall we get some in before we talk? I was largeing it last night.’

  This came as no surprise. He was built on a titanic scale, but these days there was a distinct roll above the waistband of the jeans.

  As they carried their starters back to the table, he asked, ‘Is that all you’re having?’

  ‘I can go back, that’s the idea.’

  They ordered drinks – a pint of orange juice and Evian for him, a glass of white wine for her – and Jamie fell on his food with gusto.

  ‘This was such a good idea, thanks for thinking of it – I’m so bloody idle, I never call you.’

  ‘Don’t worry, it was selfish, I needed cheering up.’

  ‘But the show’s a blast, I read a review. As a matter of fact I couldn’t even get tickets for me and Jonno.’

  ‘Before we leave tell me when you’d like to come and I’ll make sure there are some on the door.’

  ‘It wasn’t a hint.’

  ‘I don’t care if it was. You don’t have to hint, darling, just ask, it’s what ageing godmothers are for.’