by Lowe, L. Lee
There were two folding chairs and a small but handsome wooden table. Jesse took one of the seats and began to eat. Matthew filled a bowl with milk for his dog while the tea steeped.
‘Aren’t you having any?’ asked Jesse when he’d finished most of his slice.
Matthew didn’t answer, just passed him a mug of strong milky tea and another piece of cake. Then he sipped his own tea, taking it black, and regarded Jesse over the rim of his mug.
‘I’m dying, you know. That’s why I’m so thin.’
Jesse choked on his tea.
‘No point in pretending,’ Matthew added.
‘AIDS?’ Jesse finally asked when he realised that his was the next move.
Matthew shook his head. ‘Cancer.’
A short silence.
‘Is this your own boatyard? Finn didn’t say.’
‘My uncle’s.’
Jesse looked round. The workshop was scrupulously clean and tidy, with smaller hand tools hanging from pegs along one wall; ropes, cable, and chains from hooks; and the worktables bare except for one or two current projects. The smell of wood and sawdust and varnish were as familiar to him as his own sweat. A few large power tools stood on stands, and different planks of wood were sorted in specially constructed vertical storage racks. There were shelves for paints and varnishes, bins and cabinets for everything else. At the far end a dinghy shell was under construction. Sink and wood-burning stove. A narrow cleated gangplank led to a storage loft, and a trolley loaded with crates waited to be wheeled up. Jesse could easily imagine working in such a snug place.
‘And the narrowboat?’ Jesse asked. ‘It’s very beautiful.’
‘Yes, she is, isn’t she? I’ve had her since I was nineteen. It’s now or never.’
‘To restore her?’
‘And if I’m really lucky, to take her out and live on her for as long as I’m able. And if I can get away with it, to die on her.’ Matthew spoke in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
‘You seem so—’ Jesse searched for the right word to express his twist of feelings—dismay, pity, bewilderment, awe, fear. He tasted a cold clear mouthful of lakewater, a draught so icy that it burnt like knowledge.
‘I savour my life,’ Matthew said.
‘You’re not afraid or angry?’
‘Sometimes. I wouldn’t be human if I weren’t.’ He indicated his missing arm. ‘This helped prepare me.’
‘Your cancer?’
‘No, an accident when I was a kid. You learn a lot about yourself then.’
Jesse rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.
‘Have you ever worked with wood?’ Matthew asked. Then he grimaced, and a film of sweat sprang up on his forehead, his scalp. ‘Sorry. Wait a moment, will you?’ He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, breathing deeply, his ribs ridging like rocky shoals above the rise and fall of his thin chest. His face had paled. Jesse could hear the air being drawn through his nostrils, the harsh struggle with pain.
After a while some colour returned to Matthew‘s face. He waited still longer before opening his eyes, then rose and fetched a bottle of tablets from a shelf above the sink, which he handed to Jesse.
‘Since you’re here, you might as well open it for me,’ Matthew said.
‘Painkillers?’
‘Yes.’
‘They work?’
‘More or less. I’m not quite ready to capitulate just yet.’ A grin. ‘To morphine.’
Jesse stared at Matthew for a moment, not stirring. What harm could it do, he asked himself. He was good with pain. Then he shivered. No. Don’t get involved. It’s too risky. Stick to animals. He felt the first flicker of panic in his gut. No. I can’t. If it goes wrong . . . Matthew raised his eyebrows. ‘If you have a problem with opening the bottle . . .’
‘It’s not that.’ Jesse licked his lips. ‘I wonder—I mean, there’s something I could try. Only if you’re willing. It’s been a long time, and I’m not really sure . . . OK, it might help.’
‘I’m going to need an interpreter here.’
Jesse laughed mirthlessly. ‘Never mind. It wasn’t a good idea anyway.’
Matthew pulled out his chair and sat down again.
‘What?’ he asked.
Jesse’s eyes fell upon the line tattooed across Matthew’s left breast. He winced, thinking of Finn. There were only a few words, an extract, but enough for him to have identified the source.
Matthew saw the direction of Jesse’s gaze. ‘And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing . . .’
‘You’re religious?’ Jesse asked.
Matthew shrugged. ‘In my own way.’
‘Then why the quotation? First Corinthians, isn’t it?’
‘You know the passage?’
‘I read,’ Jesse said. ‘All sorts of stuff, including the Bible.’
‘What else have we got in this life?’
‘The Bible, you mean? Religion?’
‘No,’ Matthew spoke so quietly that Jesse had to strain to hear him. ‘Love.’
Jesse’s fist tightened on the bottle in his hand. He could hear his grandmother chuckling softly. Her hands are busy with her knitting, the fine creamy mohair falling from her fingers like knotted dreams. Jesse set the bottle on the table in front of him.
‘I might be able to help you with the pain,’ Jesse said.
Matthew studied Jesse’s face.
‘How?’ he asked. ‘Acupressure, reflexology, something like that? It won’t do any good. I’ve tried them all.’
Jesse shook his head. ‘I can’t explain it. You’ll have to trust me.’
The refrigerator hummed a quickening bass note. As Jesse laid his hands on Matthew’s shoulders, he could smell the sharp resinous odour of new-sawn wood.
Chapter 13
One token knock, then Sarah marched into Jesse’s room carrying a mug of tea, a book, and an air of mischief.
‘Wake up, lazybones.’ She settled on the edge of the bed and held out the mug. ‘Come on, drink up.’
Jesse groaned artfully and burrowed further under the covers. Sarah was having none of that. She set the mug down on the bedside table, and with a giggle that hinted at practice, pounced on precisely the right spot to induce a muffled roar. Jesse thrust his head out from under his duvet, pulled her down onto the bed, and began to tickle her till she begged for a truce. They lay next to each other companionably while Sarah caught her breath.
‘Pass me the tea,’ Jesse said as he winched himself into a sitting position, resigned to foregoing his lie-in. It was still a lot better than waking up stiff and hungry on a piece of cardboard. A whole lot better. Had it really been less than a week since he’d slept under a bridge?
‘I’ve brought up Finn’s copy of Rilke.’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It’s in German, so I thought you could find that poem for me. Autumn Day, you said.’
Rather than take the book, Jesse quoted softly, ‘He who is alone now, will remain alone . . . will wander the streets restlessly . . .’ His voice trailed off, and for a moment he was still, gazing into his mug. Then he looked up to find her eyes on him. ‘I’ll write out a translation for you, if you’re interested.’
While he drank, Sarah tilted her head and regarded him critically.
‘Don’t you want me to trim your hair?’ she asked. He raised an eyebrow so she added, ‘I’m good at it, honestly. Katy and I do each other’s all the time.’
Jesse squinted at her hair in return. Wild tendrils were already escaping from an elastic.
‘Is that supposed to be an argument for or against?’ he asked.
Sarah snorted.
‘Why are you so anxious to hack at my head with a scissors anyway? A Delilah complex?’
‘You’re having lunch in the city with Finn. Have you forgotten?’
‘So?’ he asked, an expression of studied innocence on his face.
‘Well, your hair is just a little—’ She broke off with a glare when she realised that he was teasing her. ‘Right, go around looking like a savage for all I care.’
‘Shall I show you savage?’
At the ensuing sounds Nubi, who’d been ignoring the banter up till now, rose and shook himself, padded over to them. His kindly face looked so puzzled that both Jesse and Sarah began to laugh again.
‘Do you want to me to take him for a walk this afternoon?’ Sarah asked. ‘While you’re in the city buying out all the shops? I’ve got nothing to do till my evening dance class.’
‘What time is it now?’ Jesse asked.
‘Just gone ten.
‘I haven’t slept this long in ages.’ He thought back to his weekends at Mal’s house. On Saturdays he’d been expected to wash the car and sweep the path by noon. They had dozed while he fixed Sunday breakfast before church. Though to be fair, Angie had always cooked a bang-up Sunday dinner—a roast, and pudding too. She worked long hours, he remembered with a flicker of guilt. He was beginning to wonder why he’d resented her quite so much. And she’d taken his side against Mal sometimes—not often, but it mustn’t have been easy to do.
Go and feed Nubi,’ he said, ‘while I brush my teeth. Then fetch your infamous scissors. But I’m warning you, any blood drawn will be taken out in kind.’
‘Just wait and see. You won’t recognise yourself.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.’
Grinning, Sarah took the mug from his hand. Their fingers brushed, and both of them suddenly fell silent.
Sarah could hear his breathing. She could feel the heat rising from his pores and smell his brackish night musk. They stared at each other. Jesse made a small sound at the back of his throat, a sound very much like soft rain.
Like Peter, Jesse had wonderful eyes.
Her family had spent most holidays in Norway, often at her grandmother’s country house. Sarah loved to walk along the beach above the rocky headland—once the sea took hold, it refused to let go. Its colours were subtle, and hoarded pirate treasure, and shifted endlessly, never once the same.
Jesse had the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen.
‘I want to tell you about my brother,’ she said, trying not to think of the letter. ‘Peter.’
Jesse sat up straighter, and the blue top rolled out from the bedclothes onto the floor. Sarah bent and picked it up, then examined it with a look of disbelief on her face.
‘This is Peter’s,’ she said. ‘He never went anywhere without it.’
‘Your mother gave it to me.’
‘She gave you Peter’s top?’
‘What’s the matter? Why has nobody mentioned your brother?’
‘He’s dead.’
~~~
‘You’ve had a haircut,’ Tondi said.
She was wearing a thin floral skirt, cut asymmetrically, and a chaste white T-shirt. Jesse could tell that she’d put on a bra. Her streaked hair was caught up in a clip, and if she wore any makeup it was skilfully applied. She looked clean and wholesome, like a film stereotype.
‘Sarah’s not here,’ Jesse said.
‘I didn’t come to see Sarah,’ she said with a smile. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’
Without waiting for an answer, she propped her umbrella against the wall and brushed past him into the house. Jesse followed her into the sitting room, where she stood looking at the framed black-and-white photographs: sensual and somewhat disturbing abstracts grouped along an entire wall. They were extraordinarily beautiful—museum quality, Jesse thought.
‘I’ve always wondered what these are supposed to be,’ Tondi said.
Jesse shrugged, unwilling to engage in conversation with her. She made him uncomfortable. He moved over to the coffee table and began straightening the magazines and newspapers that were scattered higgledy-piggledy across its surface. Finn’s presence hadn’t improved the state of the house—it was rather worse, in fact. He’d brought not just the latest photo journals, but a whole stack of political and economic reviews with him from the airport—in several languages, Jesse noted—along with boxes of Swiss chocolates that were still pyramided on the seat of an armchair.
‘Got a diet coke?’ Tondi asked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Jesse. ‘It’s not my house.’
‘But you’re staying here, aren’t you?’
Jesse was tempted to tell her to clear off, but he didn’t know just what her relationship to Sarah was. He didn’t like Tondi or the company she kept, nor did he trust her, but if these were Sarah’s friends . . . He supposed it would do no harm to fetch her a drink.
‘Yeah, I’m staying for a while.’
‘Are you a relative? You know, a cousin or something?’
‘No.’
‘A friend of the family then?’
‘No.’
‘Something to do with her work? Sarah’s mum, I mean.’
‘No.’
‘A ghost?’ She crinkled her eyes and smiled.
Jesse laughed. OK, he was being a bit of a dickhead. She did have a nice smile, actually.
‘I’ll go and see if there’s any coke in the fridge.’
She followed him into the kitchen, which he’d just finished tidying. The room looked cheerful despite the persistent drizzle. There was a large bunch of early sunflowers in a jug on the table, to which a few drops of moisture still clung. Meg must have cut them before leaving for work. Jesse smiled to himself. The house might be messy and disorganised, but never tawdry. Only the weekly cleaner seemed to touch the hoover. ‘I prefer my spade,’ Meg had said unabashedly. It occurred to him that he would enjoy helping her in the garden. Though he’d resented any of the garden work assigned by his foster families, he remembered helping his grandmother weed the vegetables. He liked the feel of the crumbly black earth between his fingers, the hot sun on his neck.
‘Where’s your dog?’ Tondi asked as she sipped her lemonade. There had been no coke.
‘Sarah’s taken him for a run. And I’m going out soon,’ he said.
‘Any place special?’
‘Not really. Why?’
‘I thought we might go round while Sarah’s with Mick.’ She looked at him coyly over the rim of her glass as she took another sip, then licked her lips. ‘Show you where everybody hangs out.’ She kept her eyes on his face as she finished the lemonade.
Jesse’s heart fisted against his breastbone. Sarah and Mick? Sarah hadn’t said anything. But then she wouldn’t, would she? No wonder she was so keen to get him, Jesse, out of the way. To his chagrin he could feel a wave of heat suffusing his skin.
‘Didn’t Sarah tell you?’ Tondi asked him, her blue eyes wide and innocent.
Tondi was cleverer than she looked. She was enjoying his discomfiture. Suddenly he wanted to be rid of her, rid of them all. He felt as though he’d tread in something disgusting. Early on, there’d been mornings when the reek had awakened him, as if the drunks had deliberately chosen to spew up at his feet, to take special delight in debasing anyone at their mercy. A kid, a nothing.
Jesse reached for his cigarettes lying on the worktop. He shook one out and lit it without offering the packet to Tondi. After inhaling a few times to dispel the memory of that sour smell, he stared at her coldly. Then he remembered the no-smoking rule, took one last drag, and pinched the tip out with spit-moistened fingers. He smiled his practised quarter-smile, the one with flared nostrils.
‘Sorry, Tondi, not interested.’
She raised her chin. ‘No problem. It was Kevin’s idea anyway. He’ll be waiting for me.’
‘You’re a bad liar.’
Her eyes snapped with fury. She wasn’t accustomed to out-and-out scorn—or honesty. Jesse smiled an openly mocking smile now, knowing how it would inflame her. She was spoilt and transparent, easy to manipulate. He had a lot more practice at dealing with humiliation.
‘If you’re hoping to make it with Sarah, be careful. Mick doesn’t like poaching
,’ she said with an attempt at bravado.
‘Mick doesn’t own Sarah. Nor does he scare me. Go back to your toys.’
‘Fuck off. We were just doing Sarah a favour by inviting you.’
‘I’m nobody’s favour, especially not yours. Now get out and don’t come panting round me again. I’ve got better things to do with my time.’
She went white with rage. Jesse walked out of the kitchen, not bothering to shut the door behind him.
~~~
‘Are you absolutely certain you don’t want another steak?’ Finn asked.
Jesse blushed and dropped the piece of roll with which he’d been mopping up the juices on his plate. He was still not used to having enough to eat. It wasn’t as if he’d ever starved, not like the kids you saw on TV with swollen bellies and stick limbs and eyes that had given up. In his foster homes they’d always fed him, though it had sometimes felt like hunger. The last few months had been hard—the scrounging, the hunger pangs and stomach cramps, the unremitting dreams of food, the dread—but he’d always managed to find something to eat. A few times somebody had shared a tin of soup or a loaf of stale bread with him, but he’d been unwilling to stick around long enough to form the kind of partnership, friendship even, that sometimes developed on the street. He knew favours had to be paid for. He wasn’t sure he could return to that life.
Finn signalled to the waiter. Over Jesse’s protests he ordered a second steak and the cheese board, from which he helped himself to generous wedges of some very ripe-looking specimens. The red wine was nearly finished, but he shook his head reluctantly when asked about another bottle. It was a working day.
‘Don’t tell Meg about the cheese,’ he said with a grin. ‘She’s a real tyrant sometimes when it come to my diet.’
‘Is anything wrong?’ Jesse asked.
‘With my health, you mean? Not a thing. These doctors are all mad about cholesterol.’
‘But Meg’s a psychiatrist.’
‘A doctor’s a doctor. I keep telling her that it’s a load of rubbish. My ancestors have eaten cheese and butter and cream and plenty of animal fat for generations, and not one of them died before ninety.’
‘None?’
