Canvey Island

by James Runcie

  ‘Good. Then I’ll have a bath myself.’

  Hot water. Space. My own towels. I was amazed by the affluence of our home: the size of the bath, the waste of water, taps left running. There was so much food and so much stuff in the cupboards. I could see that Lucy was happy to be back in her bedroom, talking with her My Little Ponies, brushing their hair and arranging their dream castle. I remembered her saying when she was feeling tired and upset that she just wanted normal parents. Well, I thought, here is our chance to be normal again.

  Later that night, when we were in bed, I said I was sorry for the things I’d said, and how I’d let Martin down, and how I would try to be better at everything and that I did love him.

  ‘Even if I am a fucking pompous prig?’

  ‘Yes, even if you are a pompous prig.’

  I couldn’t get used to the idea of being in my own bed. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry if my going away has made it hard for you.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘No. It’s nothing.’

  ‘Then look at me,’ I said. ‘It’s too dark.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I missed you, that’s all. It’s so long since we’ve been together.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel right?’

  ‘I’m not used to it.’

  ‘We need time, Martin.’

  ‘I’d forgotten how, I don’t know, ordinary it felt, to lie here beside you.’

  ‘Ordinary? That doesn’t sound very exciting.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ve had enough excitement.’

  ‘We’ve been through so much, Martin. Let’s not try to force it. Think of all that’s happened and how much we mean to each other. I couldn’t have done any of this without you.’

  ‘You could.’

  ‘No. I’m not sure if I could,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure if I could do anything without you.’

  Linda

  Of course I couldn’t phone him when I wanted. In fact, I couldn’t phone him at all, and so I was always waiting. Even when we did get to talk, it was impossible to speak about what really mattered. I couldn’t see his face, I couldn’t tell what he was thinking and I didn’t ever know if I was saying too much or too little.

  I lived a suspended life: reading without remembering what I had read, looking without seeing, hearing without listening. Ade came round because he hadn’t seen me for a while. He said I wasn’t looking so good (thanks, Ade) and that I should put a stop to it all before I got hurt. I told him it was too late for that.

  Then he announced that the first affair in a marriage is the one that doesn’t last: people sometimes have two or three affairs before the eventual break-up, didn’t I know that?

  ‘You want to be the last-affair girl, not the first.’

  ‘How do you know I’m the first?’

  ‘I don’t. But Martin isn’t the type to play away.’

  ‘Then what’s he doing with me?’

  ‘You’re the exception. But you want to watch it, Linda. I can’t see him leaving his wife. Can you?’

  ‘He’s got to.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean he’s going to, though, does it? He’s not going to come back and live here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘In Canvey? The place he ran away from?’

  ‘He didn’t run away. Anyway, we’ll find somewhere else.’

  ‘We were never good enough for him, Linda. We couldn’t give him what he wanted …’

  Everything Ade said came out harder than he meant it. ‘I think you should take a deep breath, dump him and start getting over it. It’s not doing you any good, all this.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘That means you don’t want to.’

  ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I think I’d rather have this and be unhappy than nothing at all. I don’t ever want to feel nothing again.’

  ‘You’re mad, you are.’

  ‘I know. But I don’t want to be normal. I can’t stand being normal. If I could just talk to him. If I could just see him then he’d know. I could talk to him and persuade him. I know I could.’

  ‘This isn’t good.’

  ‘I know it isn’t good. You don’t have to tell me it isn’t good.’

  ‘I don’t like seeing you like this.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like being like this.’

  ‘Come on,’ said Ade, ‘let’s go to the pub.’

  Of course that was the one time Martin phoned. Masood left me a note.

  Your boyfriend called. No message.

  It was Friday night; at least forty-eight hours before I could speak to him again unless he escaped the family and got to the phone box down the road.

  I started to write to him, I could always send the letter to his work, but I couldn’t find the words. I didn’t know whether to be grateful to him for coming back in the first place or to be angry that he’d gone again. I kept drinking and smoking and scrunching up bits of paper through the night.

  ‘Dear Martin …’ (Was that enough? Perhaps it should be ‘Darling Martin’ or just ‘Darling’ or ‘My Love’? But was that being too keen too soon?)

  ‘Dear Martin, Thank you for coming back to me …’ (Too dependent.)

  ‘Dear Martin, I love you …’ (Too raw.)

  ‘Dear Martin, I don’t think you know how much it means to me …’ (Too accusatory.)

  ‘Dear Martin, I miss you already …’ (Too desperate.)

  ‘Dear Martin, I don’t understand why you had to go …’ (Too demanding.)

  ‘Dear Martin, I understand why you had to go …’ (Too placatory.)

  ‘Dear Martin, Stay with me …’ (Too honest.)

  I gave up, found an old postcard and wrote: ‘However quick the stream may be, it does not carry away the reflection of the moon.’

  I wrote the phrase ‘Linda Turner’ in my sketchbook. I wrote it a second and a third time. Then I found I couldn’t stop writing it.

  Violet

  It was Martin’s birthday and Claire insisted that we came down to celebrate it with her family. She said he’d been under a lot of stress and everyone getting together would cheer them all up. Stress. Well, that’s one way of putting it. I don’t know how much her parents knew but Len and I had decided that as far as we were concerned we were happy to pretend that Martin hadn’t had an affair, Claire hadn’t been arrested, their daughter was perfectly well adjusted and everything was hunky-dory. We only hoped that the Reverend Matthew and Lady Celia took the same line.

  As soon as we arrived, Lucy started to play up; well, you could expect as much after the attention she must have received at the camp. We had to obey each whim: looking at the souvenirs she’d brought back, the paintings she’d done, and watching the show she wanted to put on. It was sweet at first, even if it did involve a lot of her falling about and pretending to be dead, but after a while it appeared that she wanted some kind of audience participation. I whispered to Len that I wasn’t going to start lying down and pretending I was dead in front of a cruise missile. Not before dinner, anyway.

  The meal was all right, I suppose, because at least we were getting used to Martin and Claire’s ways. Personally, I don’t understand how anyone in the world can enjoy comfrey-leaf fritters but there’s no accounting for taste. I think they prepared it just to see the looks on our faces.

  I noticed Claire had lost some weight and I thought it might be polite if I told her so. She replied it was the Greenham diet and I should try it.

  After that most of the meal was conducted in silence, apart from Lucy singing songs and pretending the adults were policemen. She made us listen to her like she was still at that awful place.

  ‘And so, Claire,’ said her father, ‘tell us your news, your stories from the front. The battles you have fought and won, your tales of derring-do.’

  �
�Don’t, Daddy.’

  ‘No, I’m interested. We’ve seen it on the news, of course, the mud and the singing and the dungarees. Some of my parishioners even went on a coach trip. Funny kind of holiday.’

  ‘It wasn’t a holiday.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘You should have come, Mummy.’

  Celia looked startled. ‘Oh, I think I’m a bit old for that kind of thing.’

  ‘If every woman in Britain came then no one could stop us. Imagine …’

  ‘But that’s hardly likely, is it …’

  ‘What’s happened to you both?’ Claire asked.

  ‘When I was growing up you were full of such ideals. We travelled to Africa, we went all over the place installing water pumps and converting the heathen, and now you spend all your time stuck drinking sherry by the Thames.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say we were stuck, my darling.’

  ‘Where’s your courage? Where’s your vitality?’

  She was beginning to rant and Martin asked her to calm down.

  ‘I’ve told you before. Don’t tell me to calm down. It’s so patronising.’

  ‘You’re all right, Claire,’ said Len.

  ‘Do you know what it’s like to see your friends kicked in the stomach and being pulled away by their hair? Do you know what it means to be frightened every day that something terrible is going to happen? It’s not a joke, lots of women getting beaten up. It’s not just a nice story to tell at a coffee morning. You can’t imagine it.’

  ‘I can imagine it,’ said Matthew.

  ‘I don’t see how. You only became a clergyman so you wouldn’t have to fight.’

  Her father coloured up. ‘That’s below the belt, young lady.’

  ‘I wonder, Celia, if you would like some of this delicious salad?’ I interrupted.

  I could see she was starting to get in a state. ‘Your father always wanted to be a cleric. Don’t you dare put it any other way.’

  ‘We KNOW,’ Claire was almost shouting. ‘It’s hardly a secret. You should be proud of it. Conscientious objection. It has a noble history, even if people did get shot for it.’

  ‘Don’t bring that up now. That’s family.’

  ‘We ARE family,’ said Claire. ‘This is my family. Martin and Lucy. And Len and Vi. We’re one family. Don’t you think they should know rather than we all keep pretending?’

  ‘Your father has nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘Except in front of people who actually fought.’

  Matthew was dignified. ‘You don’t know what it was like. You can’t even imagine the horror, sitting there with your friends on a campsite. It’s easy enough to protest in a time of peace. It’s a lot harder in war.’

  There was silence.

  ‘I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  Her father looked at Len and me and said, ‘I got as far as the bayonet training. We were told it was important to hate your enemy. We had to run at sandbags in this field outside Aldershot. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t imagine hating anyone.’

  ‘It’s the one word Matthew won’t allow,’ said Celia. ‘The children have always been able to swear if they want to but we won’t have the word “hate” in our house.’

  ‘And yet so many of my friends were killed. And my brother, of course. You would think I would be able to hate but I just couldn’t do it.’

  It all came back to me. Not that it had ever gone away. Claire’s father saying ‘of course’, like the death of a brother in war was the most natural thing in the world.

  He turned to his daughter and spoke quietly. ‘It was a lot harder to say no then. You were stigmatised. Some people never recovered.’

  Len put down his knife and fork. His fingers were resting on the edge of the table like they always did when he was waiting to speak. ‘I think you should put a stop to this conversation,’ he said. ‘You’re all right, Matthew. Let’s not go into this. Long time ago. Things are different today.’

  ‘I’m sorry this has come out,’ said Celia. ‘I do think it’s best if we change the subject.’

  ‘And anyway,’ Len went on, ‘plenty of padres were killed. They were there with the troops. That was brave enough. They saw enough death. Lots of burials to get through.’

  ‘That’s what Matthew did,’ said Celia. ‘He was always by people’s side when it mattered. He has high moral principles.’

  ‘Not high enough for some, alas.’

  ‘But I’m sure that’s where your daughter gets her ideals from,’ said Len.

  ‘I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean it. I’m very tired.’

  She stood up and kissed her father on the top of his head. Then she put her arms round his shoulders and he took her hand.

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said. ‘I forgive you.’

  ‘I’ll get the pudding. It’s lemon meringue pie.’

  Her father rubbed his hands together. ‘My favourite.’

  When his daughter was in the kitchen Matthew said, ‘Claire always did have such high expectations of people. Perhaps that’s what happens to the children of clergymen. They want so much goodness and then they find that there just isn’t enough of it in the world to go round. They get so disappointed.’

  I could hear Claire singing as she took the pie out of the oven.

  You can forbid nearly everything

  But you can’t forbid me to think

  And you can’t forbid my tears to flow

  And you can’t shut my mouth when I sing.

  Linda

  I made Martin promise to ring me twice a day: as soon as he had left the house in the morning and then again at six o’clock when he was on his way home. He didn’t like to call from work, and he wasn’t at his best on the phone, but I was determined not to lose him. We would have a life together no matter how much pain we had to go through.

  The phone calls weren’t ideal. Sometimes Martin was distracted in the mornings by all that he had to do in the day and then, in the evening, he was tired and he wanted a drink and a bit of a relax, preferably with me. A phone call was never going to be enough, he said.

  ‘Well, you know what to do about that. Just get in the car.’

  He told me it was a bit more complicated than that and he was going to come and see me and talk about it all. He hadn’t told his wife about us yet because it was difficult. I suppose he thought I’d understand.

  ‘What’s so difficult about it?’ I said.

  ‘It just is.’

  I knew that the longer I left it the more likely he was to stay with her. He would get used to everything being normal again and she would make it impossible for him to leave.

  ‘You don’t still love her, do you?’

  ‘There’s a lot between us. It’s hard to throw it all away.’

  ‘There’s a lot between us too. I was first; remember? You haven’t got over me; neither of us has got over each other. That’s what this is about.’

  ‘I know, but it’s hard, Linda. I do love you but …’

  ‘Don’t start giving me any buts,’ I said. ‘Don’t even think about speaking to me if you’re going to use the word “but”.’

  Martin

  Sometimes when you wake you know that there is something wrong or something you have forgotten. But then it comes, back again, the trouble you hoped sleep would take from you, reasserting itself in the daylight. Claire was sitting on the edge of the bed. As I began to focus I saw that her towelling gown was belted rather than left loose.

  ‘What?’ I asked. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Waiting for you to wake up.’

  ‘Do you want me to make the coffee?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What is it then?’

  ‘I’m looking at this pebble. I haven’t seen it before.’

  ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘In your jacket pocket. I was sorting out the dry cleaning. And I found this. Quite special, I imagine.’

  ‘I’ve had it f
or ages.’

  ‘But there’s a date on it. Didn’t you notice?’

  ‘You’d need a magnifying glass to see anything on that.’

  ‘Well, it’s just as well I’ve got one.’

  I turned away from her. ‘It’s a pebble. There’s nothing to see.’

  ‘I think there is. And I think there’s something to tell.’

  ‘There’s nothing. It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t give it to you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So that makes me wonder who did.’

  ‘It’s nothing. It’s not important.’

  ‘Turn round and look me in the eye. What kind of marriage do you want to have, Martin?’

  ‘I thought we knew.’

  ‘What if I think you’ve changed your mind?’

  Had my father, or even Vi, said something? Claire couldn’t know anything for sure.

  ‘Stop being aggressive,’ I said. ‘You were the one who went away.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘I was trying to do some good in the world. One little bit. I was trying to make a difference.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Are you sure you haven’t got something to tell me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. There’s nothing to tell. I missed you.’

  ‘I know, Martin.’

  She couldn’t.

  ‘And do you know how? I could tell from the way Vi looked at me. She’s a nice enough woman but she can’t keep a secret. I could see it in her eyes. She knew something. And your father. They were different with me.’

  ‘No, they weren’t.’

  ‘Yes, Martin, they were. They were kind to me. They’ve never been that kind to me in the past but on your birthday they were kind to the point of pity. Anyone could have seen that. Even my father noticed, for God’s sake. Everyone knew except me. You’ve embarrassed me. Embarrassed and humiliated me in front of my own family.’

  ‘Don’t get upset. It’s all right. I haven’t done anything wrong.’

  ‘Don’t get upset? What am I supposed to do?’

  ‘Nothing happened.’