Looking for Alex

by Marian Dillon

  At ten to eleven the place was steadily filling up. When I’d been served I spotted two people leaving and took their seats, soft leather chairs by the window. Mine squished and sighed as I sat down; I put my bags on the opposite chair to reserve a place for Alex. To my left a French couple had spread brochures and guide books across their table and were busy mapping out their day, while behind me I could hear a group of theatre-goers discussing what they had time to do before the Saturday matinee. I sat and waited.

  I’d been up at six o’clock to make sure I got here on time, leaving Sheffield on the seven twenty-seven train. The early morning, on top of a sleepless night — dogged by anxiety that made my skin crawl and itch — was giving me a slightly out-of-body experience. Coffee would either jolt me out of this mood or intensify it. I wasn’t sure which would be best.

  Leaning back and briefly closing my eyes, I tried to imagine the shape of the conversation I was about to have. The words I’d been rehearsing were all tangled in my head and it was hard to extract one single sentence that might persuade Alex to end a lifetime’s silence; it was hard to imagine her thinking she owed me anything. I pictured our discussion like the graph on a heart monitor: a steady line of beats that would leap into jagged points of alarm. Or maybe it would flat-line, when we reached a cold and final difference of opinion.

  My arguments came down to this: that morally telling Fitz and Jamie was the right thing to do, and that if Fitz and I continued to see each other I couldn’t guarantee my silence.

  I’d been wrestling with that last one ever since I heard Fitz’s message. I wanted Alex to understand that it wasn’t simply about my moral take on it, or out of some vengeful desire to interfere. It was more that I couldn’t promise, absolutely, that at some point it wouldn’t leak out.

  ‘Listen, Alex,’ I’ll say, ‘imagine this. Fitz and me, two years, ten years, whatever, down the line. He says to me he regrets never having children, how it would have made his life complete, blah-blah. What will I do with that?’

  ‘You’ll live with it.’ I could hear her voice, imagine her stubborn mouth. ‘Like I have.’

  I sighed, long and loud, and then opened my eyes, remembering where I was. The Frenchwoman was staring at me and we exchanged smiles. I glanced down at my watch, saw that it was five past eleven, turned to gaze out of the window, then towards the door, looking for Alex. It was only at that point that I realised she wasn’t coming.

  As soon as I thought it I was certain. She wouldn’t come.

  Even so, when the waitress cleared my table I asked for a mineral water and stayed put, but after half an hour had passed I couldn’t even pretend that I was just playing around with the idea of her not coming. It wasn’t to do with what was inside my head — the fear or the relief — it was a fact.

  I rang her, but it went straight to voicemail. I sent a text: please ring. Waited, staring at the screen. No reply. I looked up at the door, willing her even now to waltz in with an implausible excuse, but saw only a group of women, loaded with shopping bags and raucous laughs. Shit. Tears sprang to my eyes and I blinked them away, wiping my cheeks with the back of my hand. It’s too unfair, it’s too unfair. But she didn’t know that. Wouldn’t know that, now. She’d gone to ground. No doubt her phone number would change. Maybe she’d get married and take Adrian’s name. She’d stay hidden and rely on me keeping quiet, not giving her away again.

  Looking round, I saw the French couple were both giving me sympathetic looks but I didn’t want to be the object of pity, all that Gallic sympathy oozing across the space between us. Fuck you, Alex.

  I phoned Fitz. ‘Hi. I’m here.’

  ‘Where’s here?’ he asked. I told him, and asked if he could meet me in town or if I should come to his flat.

  ‘I’m at the allotment,’ he said.

  ‘Oh. Later, then?’

  He went quiet, thinking. ‘Why don’t you come down here? I’ve got loads of weeding to do and a ton of stuff to pick. You could help.’

  I looked down at my white trousers and winced. ‘Now there’s a romantic invitation,’ I said, and immediately started to worry about the word ‘romantic’, about appearing to assume something. I put on my practical voice. ‘Okay, how do I find it?’

  *

  Shoesmith Street Allotments, a faded wooden sign said, fastened with wire to the top of a gate, which groaned as I pushed against it. Tall hedges lined the main path, with long, scratchy shoots that snagged in my hair as I passed, and it was only when I turned right, as instructed, that I spotted Fitz at the far end, bent over a row of something or other. Hearing my approach, he straightened, waved, then went over to a tap by a tumbledown greenhouse to rinse his hands. He was wearing black shorts and a faded, striped T-shirt; for a brief second I got a vivid image of him picking apples from Jenny’s tree.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, smiling, wiping wet hands on his shorts. ‘Welcome to my little plot of land.’

  I followed his lead, kept my voice light. ‘It looks great.’

  I inspected the rows of plants, most of which I recognised: potatoes, with strong, healthy tops; onions, their pearly crowns just breaking through the soil; French beans, dangling from the stem, still young; courgettes nestling under thick, prickly leaves; lettuce — upright and crisp or soft and splayed; a patch of rocket and spring onions. I could clearly see how far Fitz had reached with his weeding, the line where turned soil met a mat of thistle and mares’ tails.

  ‘A lot of work.’

  ‘I share it with a mate,’ he said. ‘He pointed towards the back of the plot. ‘Those are raspberry canes, see? And there are redcurrants too, and gooseberries.’

  ‘What do you do with it all? There’s so much.’

  He shrugged. ‘Eat, freeze, store. Make jam, pickle things, give it away.’

  ‘You’re very domesticated, aren’t you, Fitz?’

  He looked at me, not sure how to take my words. ‘Some of the time.’ And then, as if deciding to live up to them, ‘Do you want a cup of tea?’

  I came back towards him, treading carefully in the gap between beds. ‘Okay.’

  He turned and walked down to the greenhouse, a half-brick, half-glass affair that leaned and sagged so much it looked as though one gentle push would bring it down. He reached inside and brought out an old fold-up chair, then brushed crumbs of dirt off it.

  ‘Here, come and sit down.’ He perched beside me on an upturned bucket and reached for a flask from a small rucksack on the ground. ‘I’ve only the one cup, sorry.’

  ‘No worries.’ Watching Fitz concentrate on pouring tea, I saw that his jaw was dark with stubble, more so than usual, and he looked tired. I seemed to properly notice signs of ageing for the first time: the slight double chin, pouches of skin under his eyes, red veins on his cheeks. He looked up and found me staring.

  ‘So, here we are,’ he said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m glad you came.’

  ‘I’m glad you stayed.’

  He handed me the cup of tea. ‘I thought you’d gone for good.’

  I stared down into it and steam dampened my face. ‘I had some thinking to do.’

  ‘Sure. Me too.’

  I glanced at him, remembering the photos of Kirsty, and her boys, that I’d left out. Had that not given me away? So now there was something I needed to make sure of, before we went anywhere near what happened next.

  ‘I met with Alex, you know, that weekend?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was steady, and there was nothing more than curiosity in his eyes as he waited for me to expand. That was when the last shred of doubt — about his not knowing about Jamie — dissolved into the air like the steam from his tea. ‘Well, I assumed you had,’ he was saying, ‘although as you went into retreat I wasn’t certain.’

  I sipped some tea, handed him the cup.

  ‘How did it go? Was it okay?’

  I gave him the bare bones of what Alex had told me, condensing our two meetings into one. He asked a few questions, w
anted me to flesh things out a little, but I kept it brief, thinking not yet, not now.

  ‘That’s it? You didn’t ask how her mother found her?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ He looked at me oddly, like, didn’t you think I’d want to know? ‘It was me,’ I told him. ‘I did it. Sending you that stupid parcel of books. She saw me and tracked down the address from a friend in the post office.’

  ‘You’re joking.’ He frowned, remembering. ‘That day you bumped into her?’

  ‘All these years, Fitz, all these years I’ve thought how unfair to be blamed. Turns out Alex was right.’

  ‘Oh, come on. You weren’t to know. I mean, it was just a mistake.’ When I didn’t answer he said, ‘She can’t still be angry with you, after all this time. What difference does it make now?’

  ‘No. She’s not. And it doesn’t.’

  He was watching me. ‘Are you going to keep in touch?’

  ‘I doubt it, no. I don’t think so.’

  ‘So, what is it? You look…I don’t know — like there’s something else.’

  I got up and walked to the end of the plot, where I stood with arms folded, head bent to the ground. Fitz stayed put, said nothing, and together we descended into a deep, awkward silence, which began to feel like something tangible, a sticky web of misunderstanding. I wanted to reach out and break through it but the only way to do that was to tell him about Jamie, and I couldn’t do that until I knew about us. I was afraid to say anything in case I got it wrong, and afraid to stay quiet in case he got angry and told me to go, to stop messing him about.

  ‘Why are you so distressed by all this?’ His words made me jump; I watched him scramble to his feet so that the upturned bucket tipped and rolled on the ground. ‘Why does this thing with Alex mean so much? What about us?’ He strode towards me then, and came to a halt two feet away, hands shoved into pockets. ‘I fucked up, didn’t I? I should have woken you that morning. I should have talked to you then. But I lost my nerve, Beth. I didn’t want to hear you say you were drunk, didn’t want to see regret on your face.’

  I took a step towards him and when he reached out we moved together as tight as a clam. I buried my head in his chest, breathing in hard, breathing in soil and sweat. It was a good smell; everything else dissolved against the reality of the scent of him.

  ‘I want you, Beth.’ Three simple words, but there was doubt on his face, and the words seemed loaded with complexity, as though already they carried the reasons why they weren’t enough. ‘I tried not to, at first,’ he was saying, ‘when I saw you at Dan’s, I mean. It’s going to cause some grief. But if I know it’s what you want too—’

  ‘I love you,’ I said. ‘That’s all I know. We’ll just have to make it work. It won’t be what it was, it will be something different.’ I watched his face break into a smile, and that was when I decided. ‘But, Fitz, there are some things I need to tell you.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Not here though. Can we go to yours?’

  He folded his arms, the milky skin of which was starting to redden in the sun. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I knew there was something else. You can’t tell me now?’

  I shook my head. There were footsteps on the gravelly path and a man appeared, with a little terrier trotting along in front. The man waved and Fitz called hello.

  ‘All right,’ he said to me. ‘I can come back tomorrow.’

  He packed away his tools, while I folded the chair and stowed it in the greenhouse. He locked up and put one arm round me, but as we walked away his phone rang, a loud, unavoidable blast of electric Dylan. He tugged it out of his pocket, looked down at the screen.

  ‘It’s Dan,’ he said, and I smiled.

  ‘His timing was always bad. Go on, take it.’ I let him walk ahead of me on the narrow, overgrown path.

  ‘Hey, Dan, what’s up? Yeah, yeah, I haven’t forgotten. No, not yet. I’ll email it, okay?’

  Listening to his voice I reflected how easy it was between them. Family. That’s why what I was about to do was right.

  ‘No, not now, I’m at the allotment.’

  And if you hate me for this, Alex, so be it.

  ‘I’ll speak to you later. I’ll give you a ring.’

  The irony of my decision was not lost on me: that by going against Alex’s wishes I was binding her further to me, enmeshing our lives totally.

  ‘Beth’s here. Yeah, Beth.’ I heard Dan say something. ‘Sure.’ Fitz grinned round at me. ‘Okay, be in touch. Cheers, mate.’ He stowed his phone away.

  ‘What did he say, when you said I was here?’

  Fitz came back towards me, brushed hair off my face. ‘He said, about bloody time.’ And when I laughed he said, ‘Come on, let’s go,’ and tucked his arm in mine.

  *

  6th July 2013

  Fitz throws open the French windows and drags a table into the sun while he gets us cold beer, and bread and cheese.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he says. ‘Let’s eat and you can tell me what’s on your mind.’

  While he’s in the kitchen I wander round the garden. The fuchsia has been propped up, I notice, and bright red geranium have sprung to life in one pot, sweet peas cling to canes in another. I’m thinking, Where do I start? And then: I could pretend, make something up, bottle out, even now.

  From a few doors down I can hear laughing and lazy voices, neighbours enjoying the fine weather. I sit back down, watching an ant run round the table top, and wonder if it knows it’s going round in circles. When Fitz comes through he sets a tray of food down, then puts his arms around my neck.

  ‘Are you going to stay here tonight?’

  ‘I could,’ I say, and then, ‘What have you told Kirsty?’

  He takes his arms away and slides into the other seat.

  ‘That I’m going down on Monday. Nothing else.’ He picks up his beer, takes a swig, then sets it down so hard that froth foams from the neck of the bottle. ‘If I was doing this right I’d get that out the way first, wouldn’t I? I’m going to feel like a complete shit.’ I take his hand, weaving our fingers together.

  ‘I could go home. Come back next week. If that would be better for you.’

  ‘No. That would definitely not be better for me.’ With his free hand he takes a piece of bread and lifts it to his mouth, then stops, hand in mid-air. ‘Is that what you want?’ I shake my head. ‘So,’ he says, unlacing his fingers and beginning to slice cheese onto bread. ‘Are you going to tell me, this…thing, whatever it is?’

  My phone rings, a shrill call from inside the house, where I left my bag. Fitz waves his hand towards it. ‘Saved by the bell,’ he says.

  I nearly leave it but some small vestige of hope gets me off my feet and fumbling for the phone. Number unknown it says, only now I do know it.

  ‘Sorry, won’t be long,’ I call, and then, to Alex, ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Beth, I’m sorry. I lost my nerve.’ When I don’t reply she says, ‘You were going to try and persuade me to talk to Fitz, weren’t you?’ I say yes, just that, aware that I must sound strange and distant, inhibited by the thought of Fitz listening. ‘And the thing is,’ she’s saying, ‘I know you’re right. I know you’re right. You’ve opened up a can of worms, Beth, and I can’t put the lid back on.’ I wait, say nothing, not knowing what to say. ‘Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at Fitz’s.’

  There’s a long pause. ‘Well, I don’t know why I’m surprised. Are you two…?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Right…right. So what does that mean?’

  ‘It means I can’t promise anything. It’s not just about you now.’

  ‘Yes. I can see that.’ I hear Fitz abruptly scrape the garden chair back then go into the kitchen, and yank the fridge door open. I hear metal against glass and then the clink of a bottle cap as it falls, spinning, onto granite. He thinks it’s Phil. ‘Could I come round?’ Alex says. ‘While you’re there? I don’t think I can do this on my own.’

  *

  It’s another hour before she gets h
ere, during which time the tension rises as Fitz questions me, asking for clues to what this is about, but I doggedly resist saying anything, only that Alex will tell him what I was going to.

  ‘Why Alex?’ he keeps asking. ‘What’s Alex got to do with anything?’

  When she arrives I say straight away that I’m going for a walk, that she must do this on her own but that I’ll be back. I say I’ll be one hour and leave, with an image of both their faces in my head: Alex, scared and determined, and Fitz — wondering, puzzled.

  I walk towards the shops, carefully noting the route I’m taking so I can find my way back. On impulse, two blocks down, I go into a newsagent and buy an ice cream, suddenly craving the creamy taste of chocolate and vanilla. A little further on I discover some gardens, and sit on a bench for a while to eat the ice cream. A woman opposite talks intently into her phone in a language that I can’t place, and three benches down from me a man lies stretched out, dead to the world, his possessions wrapped in a Tesco bag, clutched to his chest. The bag rises and falls as he breathes in and out.

  I feel strangely peaceful.

  A look at my watch shows that half the time has gone, and that I should head back. Soon I get up and begin to retrace my footsteps exactly. I wonder if Alex will have already left, and whether the stillness in my thoughts is just the calm before the storm.

  *

  She lets me in. ‘Fitz is out there.’ She nods towards the garden. ‘I’m on my way out.’

  Her face is pale. I ask is he all right and she says of course he was shocked, who wouldn’t be? She says, ‘He doesn’t seem to hate me. But maybe that’ll come later.’

  ‘Have you told Jamie?’ I ask.

  ‘No, no. I figured this was the right order. That comes next.’ She winces. ‘I am very scared, Beth.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, and she puts one hand up.

  ‘No. Don’t for Christ’s sake take this on as your fault too.’

  Suddenly she moves forward and hugs me fiercely, taking me by surprise, so that it’s a moment or two before I can respond enough to tentatively put my arms around her. She is so thin, her shoulder blades protrude under my hands. I think of the last time we hugged, in Jenny’s garden in Wales, and of how far we’ve travelled since then.