The Only Story

by Julian Barnes

  “And yourself?”

  “Whatski?”

  “Yourself—dying.”

  “Oh.” She goes silent for a bit. “No, I’m not afraid of dying. My only regret would be missing out on what happens afterwards.”

  I misunderstand her. “You mean, the afterlife?”

  “Oh, I don’t believe in that,” she says firmly. “It would all cause far too much trouble. All those people who spent their lives getting away from one another, and suddenly there they all are again, like some dreadful bridge party.”

  “I didn’t know you played bridge.”

  “I don’t. That’s not the point, Paul. And then, all those people who did bad things to you. Seeing them again.”

  I leave a pause; she fills it. “I had an uncle. Uncle Humph. For Humphrey. I used to go and stay with him and Aunt Florence. After my mother died, so I would have been eleven, twelve. My aunt would put me to bed and tuck me in and kiss me and put out the light. And just as I would be getting off to sleep, there was a sudden weight on the side of the bed and it would be Uncle Humph, stinking of brandy and cigars and saying he wanted a goodnight kiss too. And then one time he said, ‘Do you know what a “party kiss” is?’ and before I could reply he rammed his tongue into my mouth and thrashed it around like a live fish. I wish I’d bitten it off. Every summer he did it, till I was about sixteen. Oh, it wasn’t as bad as for some, I know, but maybe that’s what made me frigid.”

  “You’re not,” I insist. “And with a bit of luck the old bastard will be in a very hot place. If there’s any justice.”

  “There isn’t,” she replies. “There isn’t any justice, here or anywhere else. And the afterlife would just be an enormous bridge party with Uncle Humph bidding six no trumps and winning every hand and claiming a party kiss as his reward.”

  “I’m sure you’re the expert,” I say teasingly.

  “But the thing is, Casey Paul, it would be dreadful, entirely dreadful, if in some way that man was still alive. And what you don’t wish for your enemies, you can hardly expect for yourself.”

  * * *

  —

  I don’t know when the habit developed—early on, I’m sure—but I used to hold her wrists. Maybe it began in a game of seeing if I could encompass them with my middle fingers and thumbs. But it rapidly became something I did. She extends her forearms towards me, fingers making gentle fists, and says, “Hold my wrists, Paul.” I encompass them both, and press as hard as I can. What the exchange was about didn’t need words. It was a gesture to calm her, to pass something from me to her. An infusion, a transfusion of strength. And of love.

  My attitude to our love was peculiarly straightforward—though I suspect a peculiar straightforwardness is characteristic of all first love. I simply thought: Well, that’s the certainty of love between us settled, now the rest of life has to fall into place around it. And I was entirely confident that it would. I remembered from some of my school reading that Passion was meant to Thrive on Obstacles; but now that I was experiencing what I had only previously read about, the notion of an Obstacle to it seemed neither necessary nor desirable. But I was very young, emotionally, and perhaps simply blind to the obstacles others would find in plain sight.

  Or perhaps I didn’t go by way of previous reading at all. Perhaps my actual thought was more like this: Here we are now, the two of us, and there is where we have to get to; nothing else matters. And though we did in the end get somewhere near to where I dreamed, I had no idea of the cost.

  * * *

  —

  I said I couldn’t remember the weather. And there’s other stuff as well, like what clothes I wore and what food I ate. Clothes were unimportant necessities back then, and food was just fuel. Nor do I remember things I’d expect to, like the colour of the Macleods’ shooting brake. I think it was two-tone. But was it grey and green, or perhaps blue and cream? And though I spent many key hours on its leather seats, I couldn’t tell you their colour. Was the fascia panel made of walnut? Who cares? My memory certainly doesn’t, and it’s memory which is my guide here.

  On top of this, there are things I can’t be bothered to tell you. Like what I studied at university, what my room there was like, and how Eric differed from Barney, and Ian from Sam, and which one of them had red hair. Except that Eric was my closest friend, and continued so for many years. He was the gentlest of us, the most thoughtful, the one who put most trust in others. And—perhaps because of these very qualities—he was the one who had most trouble with girls and, later, women. Was there something about his softness, and his inclination to forgive, which almost provoked bad behaviour in others? I wish I knew the answer to that, not least because of the time I let him down badly. I abandoned him when he needed my help; I betrayed him, if you will. But I’ll tell you about this later.

  And another thing. When I gave you my estate agent’s sketch of the Village, some of it might not have been strictly accurate. For instance, the Belisha beacons at the zebra crossing. I might have invented them, because nowadays you rarely see a zebra crossing without a dutiful pair of flashing beacons. But back then, in Surrey, on a road with little traffic…I rather doubt it. I suppose I could do some real-life research—look for old postcards in the central library, or hunt out the very few photos I have from that time, and retrofit my story accordingly. But I’m remembering the past, not reconstructing it. So there won’t be much set-dressing. You might prefer more. You might be used to more. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I’m not trying to spin you a story; I’m trying to tell you the truth.

  * * *

  —

  Susan’s tennis game comes back to me. Mine—as I may have said—was largely a self-taught business, relying on wristiness, ill-prepared body position and a deliberate, last-minute change of shot which sometimes bamboozled me as much as my opponent. When playing with her, this structural laziness often compromised my intense desire for victory. Her game had schooling behind it: she got into the correct position, hit fully through her groundstrokes, came to the net only when circumstances were propitious, ran her socks off and yet laughed equally at winning and losing. This had been my first impression of her, and from her tennis I naturally extrapolated her character. I assumed that in life too she would be calm, well ordered and reliable, hitting fully through the ball—the best possible backcourt support for her anxious and impulsive partner at the net.

  We entered the mixed doubles in the club’s summer tournament. There were about three people watching our first-round match against a couple of old hackers in their mid-fifties; to my surprise, one of the spectators was Joan. Even when we changed ends and she was out of my eyeline, I could hear her smoker’s cough.

  The old hackers hacked us to death, playing like a married couple who could instinctively read one another’s next move, and never needed to speak, let alone shout. Susan played solidly, as ever, whereas my game was stupidly erratic. I went for overambitious interceptions, took balls I should have left, and then fell into a lethargic sulk as the hackers closed out set and match 6–4.

  Afterwards, we sat with Joan, two teas and a gin between the three of us.

  “Sorry I let you down,” I said.

  “That’s all right, Paul, I really don’t mind.”

  Her even temper made me more irritated with myself. “No, but I do. I was trying all sorts of stupid stuff. I wasn’t any help. And I couldn’t get my first serve in.”

  “You let your left shoulder drop,” said Joan out of the blue.

  “But I serve right-handed,” I replied rather petulantly.

  “That’s why the left shoulder has to be kept high. Holds you in balance.”

  “I didn’t know you played.”

  “Played? Ha! I used to win the fucking thing. Until my knees went. You need a few lessons, young Master Paul, that’s all. But you’ve got good hands.”

 
“Look—he’s blushing!” Susan observed unnecessarily. “I’ve never seen him do that before.”

  Later, in the car, I say, “So what’s Joan’s story? Was she really a good player?”

  “Oh yes. She and Gerald won pretty much everything, up to county level. She was a strong singles player, as you can probably imagine, until her knees let her down. But she was even better at doubles. Having someone to support and be supported by.”

  “I like Joan,” I say. “I like the way she swears.”

  “Yes, that’s what people see and hear, and like or don’t like. Her gin, her cigarettes, her bridge game, her dogs. Her swearing. Don’t underestimate Joan.”

  “I wasn’t,” I protest. “Anyway, she said I had good hands.”

  “Don’t always be joking, Paul.”

  “Well, I am only nineteen, as my parents keep reminding me.”

  Susan goes quiet for a bit, then, seeing a lay-by, turns into it and stops the car. She looks ahead through the windscreen.

  “When Gerald died, I wasn’t the only one who was hard hit. Joan was devastated. They’d lost their mother when they were little, and their father had to work every day in that insurance company, so they were thrown into depending on one another. And when Gerald died…she went off the rails a bit. Started sleeping with people.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “There is and there isn’t, Casey Paul. Depends on who you are and who they are. And who’s robust enough to survive. Usually, that’s the man.”

  “Joan seems pretty robust to me.”

  “That’s an act. We all have an act. You’ll have an act one day, oh yes you will. So Joan was a bad picker. And at first it didn’t seem to matter, as long as she didn’t get pregnant or anything like that. And she didn’t. Then she fell like a ton of bricks for…his name doesn’t matter. Married of course, rich of course, other girlfriends of course. Set her up at a flat in Kensington.”

  “Good Lord. Joan was…a kept woman? A…mistress?” These were words, and sexual functions, I’d only come across in books.

  “Whatever you want to call it. The words don’t fit. They rarely do. What do you call you? What do you call me?” I don’t reply. “And Joan was completely gone on the old bastard. Waiting for his visits, believing his promises, going off on the occasional weekend abroad. He strung her along like that for three years. Then at last, as he’d always promised, he divorced his wife. And Joan thought her ship had come home. She’d proved us all wrong, what’s more. ‘My ship’s coming home,’ she kept repeating.”

  “But it hadn’t?”

  “He married another woman instead. Joan read the announcement in the papers. Piled up all the clothes he’d bought her in the sitting room of the flat, poured lighter fuel over them, lit a match, walked out, slammed the door, put the keys through the letterbox, went back to her father. Turned up on his doorstep. Smelt a bit singed, I expect. Her father didn’t say anything or ask any questions, just hugged her. It took her months even to tell him. The only luck—if there was luck—was that she didn’t set the whole block of flats on fire. Just burnt a hole in an expensive carpet. She could have ended up in prison for manslaughter.

  “After that she took care of her father devotedly. Became interested in dogs. Had a go at breeding them. Learned how to pass the time. That’s one of the things about life. We’re all just looking for a place of safety. And if you don’t find one, then you have to learn how to pass the time.”

  I don’t think this will ever be my problem. Life is just too full and always will be.

  “Poor old Joan,” I say. “I’d never have guessed.”

  “She cheats at crosswords.”

  This seems a non sequitur to me.

  “What?”

  “She cheats at crosswords. She does them out of books. She once told me that if she gets stuck, she fills in any old word, as long as it’s the right number of letters.”

  “But that defeats the whole purpose…and anyway, all the answers are in the back of those books.” I am at a loss, so just repeat, “Poor old Joan.”

  “Yes and no. Yes and no. But don’t ever forget, young Master Paul. Everyone has their love story. Everyone. It may have been a fiasco, it may have fizzled out, it may never even have got going, it may have been all in the mind, that doesn’t make it any less real. Sometimes, it makes it more real. Sometimes, you see a couple, and they seem bored witless with one another, and you can’t imagine them having anything in common, or why they’re still living together. But it’s not just habit or complacency or convention or anything like that. It’s because once, they had their love story. Everyone does. It’s the only story.”

  I don’t answer. I feel rebuked. Not rebuked by Susan. Rebuked by life.

  * * *

  —

  That evening, I looked at my parents and paid attention to everything they said to one another. I tried to imagine that they too had had their love story. Once upon a time. But I couldn’t get anywhere with that. Then I tried imagining that each had had their love story, but separately, either before marriage or perhaps—even more thrillingly—during it. But I couldn’t make that work either, so I gave up. I found myself wondering instead if, like Joan, I would one day have an act of my own, an act designed to deflect curiosity. Who could tell?

  Then I went back and tried to imagine how it might have been for my parents in those years before I had existed. I picture them starting off together, side by side, hand in hand, happy, confident, strolling down some gentle, soft, grassy furrow. All is verdant and the view extensive; there seems to be no hurry. Then, as life proceeds, in its normal, daily, unthreatening way, the furrow very slowly deepens, and the green becomes flecked with brown. A little further on—a decade or two—and the earth is heaped higher on either side, and they are unable to see over the top. And now there is no escape, no turning back. There is only the sky above, and ever-higher walls of brown earth, threatening to entomb them.

  Whatever happened, I wasn’t going to be a furrow-dweller. Or a breeder of dogs.

  * * *

  —

  “What you have to understand is this,” she says. “There were three of us. The boys got the education—that’s how it was. Philip’s took him all the way, but the money for Alec ran out when he was fifteen. Alec was the one I was closest to. Everyone adored Alec, he was just the best. Naturally, he joined up as soon as he could, that’s what the best ones did. The Air Force. He ended up flying Sunderlands. They’re flying boats. They used to go out on long patrols over the Atlantic, looking for U-boats. Thirteen hours at a time. They gave them pills to help them keep going. No, that’s nothing to do with it.

  “So, you see, on his last leave he took me to supper. Nowhere posh, just Corner House. And he took my hands in his and said, ‘Sue darling, they’re complicated beasts, those Sunderlands, and I often don’t think I’m up to it. They’re too bloody complicated, and sometimes, when you’re out there over the water, and it all looks the same, hour after hour, you’ve no idea where you are, and sometimes even the navigator doesn’t either. I always say a prayer at takeoff and landing. I don’t believe, but I say a prayer nevertheless. And every time I’m just as bloody scared as the time before. Right, I’ve got that off my chest. Corners up from now on. Corners up in the Corner House.’

  “That was the last time I saw him. He was posted missing three weeks later. They never found a trace of his plane. And I always think of him out there, over the water, being scared.”

  I put my arm around her. She shakes it loose, frowningly.

  “No, that’s not all. There always seemed to be these men around. It was wartime and you’d think they’d all be off fighting, but there was a jolly lot of them around at home, I can tell you. The lesser men. So there was Gerald, who couldn’t pass the medical, even though he tried twice, and then Gordon, who was in a reserved
occupation, as he liked to say. Gerald was sweet-tempered and nice-looking, and Gordon was a bit of a crosspatch, but anyway I just preferred dancing with Gerald. Then we got engaged, because, well, it was wartime and people did things like that then. I don’t think I was in love with Gerald, but he was a kind man, that’s for sure. And then he went and died of leukaemia. I told you that. It was beastly luck. So I thought I might as well marry Gordon. I thought it might make him less of a crosspatch. And that part of things didn’t work out, as you may have observed.”

  “But—”

  “So, you see, we’re a played-out generation. All the best ones went. We were left with the lesser ones. It’s always like that in war. That’s why it’s up to your generation now.”

  But I don’t feel part of a generation, for a start; and, moved as I am by her story, her history, her prehistory, I still don’t want to go into politics.

  * * *

  —

  We were driving somewhere in my car, a Morris Minor convertible in a shade of mud-green. Susan said it looked like a very low-level German staff car from the war. We were at the foot of a long hill, with no traffic in sight. I was never a reckless driver, but I pushed hard down on the accelerator pedal to get a good run at the gradient. And after about fifty yards I realised something was seriously wrong. The car was accelerating at full throttle, even though I’d now taken my foot off the pedal. Instinctively, I rammed it on the brake. That didn’t help much. I was doing two things at the same time: panicking, and thinking clearly. Don’t ever believe those two states are incompatible. The engine was roaring, the brakes were screaming, the car was beginning to slew across the road, we were going between forty and fifty. It never occurred to me to ask Susan what to do. I thought, this is my problem, I’ve got to fix it. And then it came to me: take the car out of gear. So I put in the clutch, and moved the gear stick to neutral. The car’s hysteria decreased and we coasted to a halt on the verge.