by Unknown
She had asked Lucy, many years later, but Lucy had heard nothing of Ralph after he had left her parents’ home, leaving her a letter that said goodbye. Marnie still felt an after-tremor of pain when she remembered how Lucy had been then. She had turned up on Marnie’s doorstep at dawn, wearing an old green waterproof belonging to her father that came down below her knees, and her face, which seemed to have shrunk into a tight circle, was white, her eyes like buttons. She looked thin and childlike but when Marnie stepped forward and tried to hug her, she pushed her away and stood back, her face puckered with hostility.
‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘But, then, you probably know that.’
‘Yes,’ said Marnie. She didn’t want to defend herself: she felt that Lucy was right to blame her.
‘Is he here?’
‘No.’
‘But he was?’
‘Yes.’
‘I knew. He left me and came to you.’
‘Yes. But –’
‘Did you fuck him?’
‘No!’
‘He doesn’t love me, he loves you.’
‘I don’t think it’s –’
‘Shut up, Marnie. Shut up and don’t try and tell me it’s not simple like that, or that he loves me as a friend, or that you didn’t encourage him or anything. I saw him. He was all right and then he took one look at you feeling sad and lonely and that was it. One look. I rescue him, take him into my bed and my home, devote myself to his happiness, try to build up his self-belief, make him feel better about himself, make sure my friends are his friends – and it takes one fucking look and I’ve lost him. How do you think that makes me feel? No! Don’t say anything, I’m going to tell you – it makes me hate you. And don’t tell me you understand that because you don’t – you’ve never in all your life been in the position that I’ve been in for practically half of mine. And don’t you dare tell me it’s not your fault because I’m not stupid and I know it’s not your fault, not really, and that makes it worse, makes me all the more pathetic and pitiable and humiliated and stupid, and now I’m going and I don’t want to see you and I don’t want to hear from you.’
‘Lucy.’
‘No. Don’t you see?’ Her voice wobbled; her face screwed up tighter. ‘I was happy. I thought – I thought – don’t touch me! – I thought it might be OK. Oh, shit, of course I knew it wouldn’t be OK. It was just a foolish dream. What am I going to do now, Marnie? What am I going to do without him?’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Marnie said numbly. ‘Really, Lucy, I’m so, so sorry. If there’s anything I can do…’
‘I think you’ve done enough for now, don’t you?’
‘Nothing happened.’
‘Everything happened. I’ve lost him.’
‘Don’t just stand on the doorstep, Lucy. Please come inside.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘You’re my closest friend. Whatever’s happened, it mustn’t get in the way of that.’
‘It already has.’ Lucy gave a sharp sniff, then added, ‘I’m going now.’
‘Will we see each other soon?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘But, Lucy –’
‘I said I don’t know. I don’t know, Marnie. I don’t know. All right? Leave it for a while.’
When Marnie returned to Italy, several weeks later, she felt as though she had pulled up her last, deepest roots: Emma, Ralph and Lucy had all vanished from her life and only memories remained. She had cleared the house, sorting Emma’s few possessions into those to be thrown away, those to be sold, those to be stored for her future use (Emma and Paolo’s double bed, the heavy-bottomed pots and pans, the wooden chair that had always stood in front of the fire, her charcoal and pastel artworks, the plates and bowls that Emma had made) and those she wanted to keep with her now (the two striped mugs, the moonstone ring, the grey jumper that she always pictured her mother in, the old belted mac, the few photos and letters). She worked her way through the shed, folding pottery in bubble-wrap and putting it into boxes, contacting customers who might want spares, packing tools up. She collected her mother’s ashes and, alone, scattered them on the graves of her father and brother, then sat for a long time, watching how petals of ash lifted in the breeze. She pressed her hand flat on the grass and imagined she could feel three hearts still beating there. She listened as Emma said, quite clearly and matter-of-factly, ‘Come on, Marnie, time to get back to your own life now.’
And timing was crucial. Marnie always knew why she had fallen in love with Fabio. When she had found herself back in Italy, she was alone and unanchored. She had friends and, not often, she had lovers, but was always aware that both were temporary and contingent. Becoming involved with Fabio – wry, dry, mocking, charming, clever Fabio – was a different matter entirely, because he was a decade older than her and, above all, because he had two motherless girls. He came as a package. When people told Marnie how brave she was to take them all on, and in a country not her own, she winced and protested: didn’t they understand that they were the ones taking her on, making room for her in their ready-made family, giving her the home she craved? Never mind that Eva resisted her and that Fabio, much later, serially betrayed her. She was needed; she was valued. When she was there, she was maybe taken for granted, but when she was gone, she was missed. To be missed is not nothing. Never mind that Fabio’s first wife was the ghost in the house, mythologized by her daughters and by her husband, whose infidelities it appeared she had known about and overlooked: Marnie was for ever grateful for the years she had spent with them all. When she thought of Eva and Luisa, a tender affection and pride would flood over her: she was not their mother, yet her love for them was unconditional.
She thought of them now. Had Luisa arrived yet, inserting herself into the undoubted squalor of her once-immaculate flat? Was Eva managing at the museum? And would she, Marnie, be back in time for Christmas? She turned towards Ralph: it seemed barely possible that he would survive another hour, let alone several days. There was nothing left of him – skin over bones and organs, a distended stomach and a caved-in head, huge, sunken eyes. Yet still his gallant heart went on beating and his ardent breath rattled in and out.
‘Coffee,’ said Oliver, handing her a mug. ‘And a stale oat biscuit to keep you going.’
‘I don’t –’
‘Eat it up.’
She raised her eyebrows at him but took an obedient bite.
‘Colette will be here soon and I think the doctor’s coming as well. Do you want to go for a walk down to the loch then?’
‘That’d be good.’
So it was that, at beautiful dusk, a mysterious light falling across the snow, they stood by the water’s edge hand in hand. Snow had settled on the ice, so that it was a sparkling disc of white. The moon rose in the sky. A few stars came out one by one. Silence hung over everything, broken only by the occasional soft thump and flurry of snow falling from a branch above them. Neither Marnie nor Oliver said anything.
She didn’t know what made her turn round, but when she did she saw a figure coming over the hill towards them. It was Colette and she lifted her hand and beckoned.
‘Oliver, look!’
They started running up the slope, their booted feet creaking in the snow, their breath clouding. Marnie felt her heart jolt in her chest. Flakes of snow caught in her lashes so that it was hard to see.
‘Dr Gray thinks you should come,’ said Colette, as they reached her.
‘Is he –’ There was no point in finishing the question.
They hastened towards the house. Dr Gray was bending over Ralph and his face, when he lifted it, was gravely sympathetic.
‘Is he still alive?’ Marnie whispered.
‘Yes. But I think it won’t be long at all. His breathing has changed.’
Dr Gray and Colette withdrew to the small side room while Marnie and Oliver sat on either side of Ralph. They held his hands and each other’s. Marnie felt the warmth of Oliver’s strong fingers and the co
ldness of Ralph’s thin, limp ones. She pressed them between her own, trying to pass some of her own heat into him. The three formed a circuit: the electricity of life was pulsing through their linked hands, and as long as they didn’t break apart, as long as she and Oliver held on, Ralph couldn’t die.
‘Ralph, my old friend,’ said Oliver. ‘We’re both here.’
‘We’re not going to leave you,’ added Marnie, listening to the slow, irregular breathing. Sometimes the gap between breaths was so long that she thought he might have gone, but then a scraping rustle of air escaped him again.
‘Never,’ said Oliver, with an infinite tenderness. His eyes brimmed with tears and he leant towards Ralph.
It’s all right. It’s all right. In the end, we have to go alone.
‘Do you remember…’ Oliver’s voice cracked and Marnie thought he might cry, but he pulled himself together ‘… the midnight swim we had when we were at Emma’s? Do you? The four of us skinny-dipping in the sea.’
I remember. We lay on our backs and laughed at the stars. I’ve always remembered. Everything was so simple then.
Marnie picked up Oliver’s cue. ‘Do you remember climbing trees with me, just after we first met? You went right up to the branches at the top and hung there like a monkey, swaying and giggling.’
I can see the ground and I can see the blue sky and I can feel the wind in my face. If I close my eyes the whole earth tips and soon I’ll fall.
‘Bike rides,’ said Oliver. ‘Going downhill with no hands. Remember?’
Faster and faster. When will I stop?
‘Picnics,’ said Marnie. ‘Outside the house or down on the beach. You used to throw seaweed at me, and do headstands, jump waves, fall over in the surf.’
‘You were mad,’ said Oliver.
I was always a bit mad. Mad with fear and mad with hope.
‘I remember how I taught you to bake a chocolate cake,’ said Marnie. ‘Me and Lucy. You always used to love licking out the bowl. I can see you now with chocolate all round your mouth – like a little kid.’
Memories. Do they just disappear with me? Melt away? Nothing left of me. Is this it? Is this all? When I’m gone, will there be nothing left?
‘Playing chess,’ said Oliver. ‘You always beat me. You were the champion.’
Endgames now, checkmate.
‘Reading to me by the fire. Poems, whole novels. Helping me with my homework. You were so lovely to me, Ralph. Do you hear me? You were a good friend, never a better friend. I’ve never had a better friend. I’m so glad I’ve found you again.’
Waves inside my head. Surging against my skull. Hard to find pictures any more in the darkness. Faces I once knew.
‘Here we are.’
Ralph’s eyes opened and he looked at Marnie. She saw her reflected face. She smiled at him and pressed his fingers tighter. If they didn’t let go of him, she knew he couldn’t die.
Waves beat against the shore. Darkness gathers and heaves, and the lights on the far-off horizon glimmer like stars in the swelling ocean of the night. I am tossed in a place of water and air, in a vast swirling world of darkness and light, and there is nothing to hold me, nothing to keep me, no ground beneath me or trees above me, no song of bird or breath of wind or word of human comfort, just the slow, invincible pull of my extinction.
‘Ralph?’
‘He’s endured enough. Let him go.’
Marnie took a deep breath and spoke: ‘Yes. You can let go now. You can go.’
Chapter Twenty-five
In the dark corners of the museum, the droll wooden faces smiled; the gusts of wind from the open door made their limbs stir slightly, as if at any moment they might come alive for her. A life-sized marionette near the stairwell spun, very slow and stately, on its wires. She could hear small creaks and groans coming from the old rooms; the house was breathing.
Marnie moved from figure to figure, standing in front of each one for a moment. Her feet tapped quietly over the wooden boards. Her long skirt rustled. She ran her fingers along the shelves, collecting soft grey dust. She inspected small tears in the costumes, rearranged puppets that stood crookedly, rubbed a cloth over the tin armour of the warriors. It was New Year’s Eve and the streets outside the museum were icy and almost empty. Every so often she could see, through the windows facing the front, figures pass by in the thickening light, holding bulging bags of last-minute shopping or huddled deep in their coats, shoulders hunched and head down as if they had withdrawn into themselves. Everything was suspended; outside it felt as hushed and unreal as it did within this cramped and dimly lit house of puppets.
Snow had fallen during the night, and although it had already turned to a muddy slush on the roads and pavement, at the back of the museum it still lay thick and white, the tracks of birds stitched across its surface. Marnie took the key that hung from a hook above the back door and let herself out into the enclosed yard. Her feet in their boots sank into the snow. She bent down and pushed her fingers into its granular cold, then cupped some in her palm and held it there, watching how it glittered in the dusk. A few flakes blew off the treetops and floated slowly down towards her; a wedge of snow slid very slowly off the roof and landed at her feet. She tipped her head and looked up at the darkening sky, the scattering of stars shining above the orange street-lamps. London lay all around her, dirty and vibrant and vast, but here she was in a still and mysterious place that felt remote, like a dream of winter and of loneliness.
She had only been back a few days, but it might have been weeks, months even. The time with Oliver and Ralph, the vigil she had kept through the darkest nights of the year and the shortest days, felt far away and long ago. Sometimes she wondered if it had really happened or if she had imagined it, summoning her lost past and redeeming it, letting herself remember and be forgiven at last.
But of course it had happened. If nothing else could convince her, the terrible chaos of her flat when she returned from Stansted was witness to her absence. She had opened the door and walked in a daze into the kitchen, over dried pasta and shards of crisps that crunched underfoot, waded across drifts of dirty clothes, stepped over ashtrays brimming with stubs, knocked into empty and half-empty bottles. Someone had brought in a Christmas tree and hung any manner of objects on it – ribbons, mistletoe, socks, Marnie’s favourite silk scarf and several of her long bead necklaces; a pewter mug dangled precariously from one branch. Her cupboards had been raided too – the jars of marinated artichokes, the bags of pine nuts, the tins of olives and packets of cheese crackers, all had vanished. Even the limoncello from Naples had gone, with the undrinkable Chinese brandy. Dishes were piled on every surface, pans with the dried-on remains of tomato sauce or congealed egg. There were scummy tidemarks in the bath, no lavatory paper. No shampoo. Her wardrobe held suspicious spaces where clothes had once hung. Her drawers were open and clothes trailed over their edges. There was a nasty stain on her carpet and fingerprints dotting the walls. A young man was fast asleep in her bed. He had milky skin and green-grey eyes and looked young, dirty, hungry and pitiful. There were flea bites on his legs and his hair needed washing.
His name was Josef, he was Polish, and he played his flute in the Covent Garden Underground station, collecting the coins tossed to him to buy food that reminded him of home. With a jolt, Marnie thought of Ralph so she let him stay on, although she banished him to the sofa, ripped off all the bedclothes and washed them twice.
Even now, after days of work, the flat still held surprises: someone had put several tiny plastic soldiers into the honey; they were suspended in it, heads down and guns pointing; apparently a ‘friend’ had done it for a joke one night. There were others, said Eva, but she didn’t know where – certainly Marnie had already found several in her shoes and on the shelves of the fridge, which, when she had arrived, had been empty but sticky with dirt. How was it possible for so much mess to be created in such a short time? How could people be so careless with others’ possessions?
In t
ruth, Marnie didn’t mind so much. It gave her something to do in those strange and dislocated days after her return. She scrubbed, vacuumed, polished, bleached, mended. She replaced broken glasses and stuck one of her mugs back together with superglue so you could barely see the join. She filled the fridge with yoghurt, smoked salmon, Parma ham and goat’s cheese, made a rich fruit cake and ginger biscuits for Christmas, and baked savoury pies, which Josef decorated with pastry leaves. The large bowl that Emma had made shortly before she died, with its green-blue glaze and slightly asymmetrical rim, overflowed with loose-skinned satsumas. She ordered a turkey and made chestnut stuffing.
In memory of her mother, she pierced an orange with cloves and hung it from the kitchen ceiling; she and Luisa cut out paper snowflakes and stuck them with honey to the windows. The five of them – Josef seemed to have moved in – decorated the tree with carefully hoarded baubles from Marnie’s childhood. She lit candles on the window-sills, remembering how Emma always used to do the same – how, coming home in the darkness, she would see the small flame and feel welcomed and safe. She got out her watercolours again. She showed Gregor how to play the accordion. She listened to the teenagers laugh raucously when she lay in bed at night, the moon shining through her open curtains, the soft stars close. She held Luisa’s hand when she cried because Marnie had left them, because Fabio was with someone else, because she was a teenager and filled with the surge of hormones and exquisite melancholy. She sat at the head of her table, ladling food, and smiled upon this ramshackle, makeshift family of hers.
During the day, she restored the museum to its previous state, rubbing smears off the tin armour of the dangling Italian knights and sweeping dustballs and crumbs off the floor, ordering the receipts, writing down purchases in the old-fashioned ledger Elaine insisted on in her careful, clumsy hand. She would climb the stairs and stand in front of sad princesses with painted cheeks, bellicose warriors and harmless dragons, stare into their unblinking eyes and sometimes feel them staring back at her.
