While she rabbited on about Archie, who was doing well in his new school it seemed, I nerved myself to say the words.
‘I’ve been talking to Em,’ she said, before I could. ‘We had a good chat.’
My plans had not allowed for that. I’d imagined Em hurling abuse at Daisy.
‘You’re making a big mistake,’ she said. ‘Em’s lovely. And you’re so good together. You’ll be lost without her. Go back and apologise. Beg. Plead. Tell her you can’t manage on your own.’
‘I don’t intend to be on my own,’ I said.
‘Em and I talked about that, too.’
‘Em’s angry with me. But it can’t be helped. I …’
I heard the click of a cigarette lighter and an intake of breath. Daisy never used to smoke. Obviously I was making her nervous. I took it as a good sign. The same with her hair, which (she’d already told me) had been cut short again: disappointing in one respect but a sign that she was ready for change.
‘I know what you’re going to say, Ian, and I don’t want to hear it. Em was furious with me at first. But when I explained about the past — what happened at university and so on — she calmed down.’
‘You told her about that?’ I said.
‘We should never have hidden it from her. Now it’s in the open, she’s willing to forgive me. She knows I was totally drunk that night.’
‘Come on, you wanted it.’
‘I kept saying no but you wouldn’t listen. At the time I was too shocked. I couldn’t believe it of you. But since talking to a counsellor, I realise what you did.’
‘You feel guilty because it’s tied up with Ollie’s death.’
‘I don’t feel guilty. I feel unclean. You raped me, Ian. Think what Em would feel if I told her. Or if I went to the police.’
‘I wanted you so much. I love you.’
‘Well, I don’t love you. I don’t even want to see you unless it’s with Em. How much clearer can I be?’
No clearer. I would have liked to defend myself: for her to use the word rape was ridiculous. But I knew she’d hang up on me if I protested. As her silence smouldered in my ear, I realised the chance was gone, that it hadn’t been there in the first place, that the likes of me never stand an earthly with the likes of her, that the Daisies will always choose the Ollies of this world and banish the Ians to the outer darkness. I was sitting by her hall of residence again, on the outside looking in.
‘You want children,’ I said, after a long pause, ‘is that it?’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ she said, in bewilderment. Em had not let on about my immotile sperm, then.
‘Or perhaps you’re seeing someone.’
‘How can you say that? Ollie’s only been dead three months.’
‘Is it Milo?’
‘Milo’s in New York.’
‘One of your other artists, then.’
‘I’ve just been widowed.’
‘All the more reason.’
‘For what?’
‘For you to be fucking someone.’
‘You disgust me, Ian. You’re off your head. I don’t want to speak to you ever again.’
I’ve been watching a lot of horror films lately. Most films seem to be horror films these days — you see an ad for some innocuous-seeming western or detective story, only to find, once you’re at the cinema, that you can’t watch for fear of throwing up. It’s lucky I keep my eyes closed, or the violence might have rubbed off by now and I’d be telling this story from prison. As it was, rather than travelling down to London, smashing Daisy’s skull in with a marble ashtray and having sex with her blood-smeared corpse, I accepted that I’d handled things badly. Best wait a while before I pressed my suit again. She was still in shock.
It didn’t occur to me, at that point, to ask her for the ten thousand pounds I’m owed by Ollie’s estate. But I’ve since sent a couple of letters suggesting she pay up. In the most recent, I gently pointed out that she was dishonouring the memory of Ollie, who would want to do right by his old friend. He and I had put nothing on paper, of course. But the agreement was a gentlemen’s agreement, and she knows I’m honest. It’s not as if she can’t afford it. Ten grand is a drop in the ocean to a woman like Daisy. Whereas to me it’s a small fortune and would allow me to pay off half my debts. Many men in my position would charge interest as well. Perhaps when Daisy stops grieving — if she is grieving, not putting it on — she will see sense.
When the divorce comes through, and Em sells the house or pays me my share of it, I’ll be in the clear. But for the present my debts are mounting. After rent, electricity, food, drink, etc., there’s not much left and the little there is I spend on websites. The wheels have been spinning against me lately, the wrong cards falling from the deck. But once I’ve mastered the new system I’m using, my luck is sure to turn.
Meanwhile I have my salary, which the local authority continues to pay. I had every hope the disciplinary hearing would exonerate me over Campbell Foster. But in the event the hearing didn’t take place. Ollie’s death was widely reported the day before: ‘top barrister in swimming tragedy', ‘leading lawyer dies on holiday', ‘fatal drowning in north sea', etc. (Excuse my pedantry, but — as to the last — when is a drowning not fatal?) On the day of the tribunal itself, the local rag also ran a story: ‘ilkeston man’s holiday drama: A local teacher was recovering yesterday after a desperate struggle to save his best friend in ten-foot-high waves.’ Journalists have a bad name, but the young chap who came to see me (and with whom I’ve since shared the odd pint) made a decent fist of telling the tale. I would not myself have used the word ‘heroic’ of my actions but it can’t have gone amiss with the governors. They decided that the disciplinary hearing would be ‘inappropriate’ at such a time and would have to wait till their next meeting after Christmas. In the interim I am excused all teaching duties and ‘suspended on full pay'. As I’ve been telling people, what they’ve effectively done is to grant me compassionate leave. If they won’t have me back, no worries. To be frank, I’m sick of the place — of Mrs Baynes, my colleagues, the kids, the parents, everything. So I’m hopeful the local authority will find me a post in a more congenial environment. A place where my talents can flourish, until I make the move to London. As the young journalist was saying the other night, it would be scandalous if the governors found against me. He is ready with his story
-–'outrage as school sacks swimming hero’ — if they fail to do right.
I do sometimes blame myself. That’s natural — a displacement of my grief and loss. I miss Ollie and wish I could rewrite history. But an overdeveloped sense of responsibility is debilitating. You have to move on.
To have no home, no wife, no job or possessions is strange but also bracing. It has made me a new animal, determined and full of hope. I sometimes think that’s what went wrong for Ollie. That what made him go under was the prospect of futility: the waves breaking pointlessly over and over, nothing ever changing, the same wasteful charade for all eternity. He had wanted to make a difference in life and the waves told him he hadn’t and wouldn’t: You’re nothing. Accept your fate. Be at peace with us. The light in his eyes was the joy of surrender. Water was his medium. He entered it joyfully. He’d had enough.
He was my friend and I loved him but he wouldn’t have thanked me for rescuing him. He asked me there to help him on his way down.
The news on the television tonight was lacking in drama
– no terrorist outrages, no murdered schoolgirls, no celebrities entering rehab. All I noticed, belatedly, was the date. 27 November, exactly five months since Ollie called that Sunday night and exactly three months since the Friday we turned up at Badingley. That’s three 27s, the sort of coincidence I appreciate, and in this case an unusually significant one, since 2 plus 7 makes 9, and three 9s make 999, which I dialled that day from the telephone box in hope of saving Ollie. A painful memory, needless to say, so I was relieved just now, when midnight struck, to know the thi
rd 27 has gone and the sequence is over. From tomorrow I will make a new start. Surprise is the best strategy, I’ve decided. I can see it already — my finger on Daisy’s doorbell, her puzzled face as she opens up, then the smile, the hug, her apology, my proposal, and our lingering kiss in the stained-glass hall. It might turn out differently, of course. But, if it does, I’ll think of something. Defeat’s not in the script. I’m a survivor.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Dark Glasses
The Ballad of the Yorkshire Ripper
The Yellow House
And When Did You Last See Your Father?
As If
The Cracked Pot
Too True
Selected Poems
The Justification of Johann Gutenberg
Things My Mother Never Told Me
Oedipus/Antigone
South of the River
I never found a man that knew how to love himself.
Othello, Act 1, Scene 3
In all matrimonial associations there is, I believe, one constant factor — a desire to deceive the person with whom one lives as to some weak spot in one’s character or in one’s career. For it is intolerable to live constantly with one human being who perceives one’s small meannesses. It is really death to do so.
Ford Madox Ford, The Good Soldier
Copyright
The Last Weekend
Copyright © 2010 by Blake Morrison.
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First published in Great Britain in 2010 by
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The last weekend / Blake Morrison.
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