by James Runcie
‘You don’t know that.’
‘No, I don’t. But I didn’t want you taking over or thinking that I had got pregnant deliberately to blackmail you into leaving your wife. I wanted some dignity.’
‘Tell me,’ I said. ‘Please, tell me what happened.’
‘God, I didn’t want to get into all this. You’ve upset me now. You’ve upset me all over again. I can’t believe how you keep doing this to me.’
Linda
‘I knew I couldn’t go through with it. I spent hours staring out of the window and playing the same record over and over. It was Billie Holiday singing “You’re My Thrill”. Then one day I’d had enough and I smashed it. I threw it on the floor and it broke into two. But that didn’t do it for me, it just felt a bit pathetic, so I got a hammer and bashed it about until it was all in tiny pieces all over the floor. I almost sent it to you in a big brown envelope but then I thought no, you wouldn’t understand, and besides, what would your wife say?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘It was too difficult,’ I said, ‘and in the end I didn’t want the child to be yours, reminding me of the mess I’d made of my life. Once you’d left, it wasn’t to do with you any more. It was about me. And I decided that in some way I deserved it for being so stupid. A mistake. And I was too tired and too upset and too scared to do it on my own. I ran out of confidence. And hope. And love.’
‘You could have said. At any time you could have said something.’
‘And you would have come running? I don’t think so.’
‘It would have been different if you’d told me, completely different.’
‘Did you tell her about us?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘That means you did. So there’s nothing special between us anyway.’
‘There is, Linda.’
‘No, Martin, Claire has everything. She has all the knowledge. I don’t have anything.’
‘I don’t think it’s like that.’
‘Married men don’t talk about their wives, of course. Not if they want something. And we, the other women, don’t ask. But Claire’s been fortunate. And lucky with me. You both have. I almost wondered if you worked that out – that I’d be safer for you than having an affair with someone else, someone you didn’t know so well who might have cut up rough. Was that part of your thinking?’
‘No.’
‘Liar.’
‘I’m sorry …’
‘And now every time I pass a ten-year-old boy, I think: “That could have been mine if I’d kept him.” ’
‘It was a boy?’
‘Yes. Funny that, isn’t it? I asked especially. You could have had a son.’
‘I can’t think about it.’
‘You don’t have to. But I do. Every day I think about it. I learn to look so that I can tell the difference between nine and eleven. I’ve done it for years, but I never say anything. I never told your father he could have had a grandson. Perhaps he would have liked that. But he’s a decent bloke and I didn’t want to upset him. He gave me some money. Helped Dave. Saw we were OK. I don’t know, perhaps he guessed. But he did right by me. I like your dad.’
‘Does Dave know?’
‘Of course he does. I tell him everything. Isn’t that the point?’
‘He’s a good man.’
‘We survive. Unless you want to make us picturesque and romantic; salt-of-the-earth types who live by the sea and it’s Great Expectations and Pip comes to visit and he’s a bit too grand for them but somehow their lives are a bit richer and they’ve got something he hasn’t. Why are you here again? Remind me.’
‘My dad.’
‘No, I mean here on this boat.’
‘It doesn’t seem right now.’
‘I bet it doesn’t.’
‘Don’t be hard on me.’
‘Oh God, I’m not your mother.’
‘I never asked you to be.’
‘It’s as well you found one in the end then.’
‘Don’t.’
‘I’m sorry, Martin, I don’t know what to say. I was never good at all this talking.’
‘No, I’m sorry. I should go …’
‘Have you got a cigarette?’ I asked. ‘That vodka’s taken a hit.’
I couldn’t quite understand how I had ever loved him, this strange middle-aged man on my boat dressed like something out of the Rohan catalogue. I wanted Dave to come home.
‘It is irritating, you know, Martin: men wanting to be forgiven, men wanting to be told it’s OK.’
‘And so what should I do?’
‘Not everyone can like you, Martin. That’s what you have to learn in life.’
‘But are you all right?’
‘Yes, I’m all right. Of course I am. I get by. I’ve learnt not to expect too much. Nothing surprises me any more.’
‘I should go,’ he said. ‘I suppose I just wanted to see if you were happy.’
‘Happy?’ I said. ‘Do you know, Martin? I don’t know what happy is.’
Claire
Lucy kept asking about her father and when he was coming back. What was he doing and why was he at home so little? She had that adolescent trick of always being one meal behind, eating her breakfast at lunchtime, wanting proper food at eleven at night. She always wanted to ask questions before I was about to go to bed. She stood in the centre of the room expecting me to entertain her; too old to be a child and too young to be a friend.
The questions were a mixture of homework, social history and personal interest. ‘When did Kennedy die? What did the Mamas and the Papas look like? Did you ever go to a Who concert?’
I could see where it was going and tried to stop the follow-up: ‘Did you ever do free love? Did you ever have an abortion? How many people did you sleep with before Dad?’
‘How much do you really want to know?’ I wanted to ask.
I took out my earrings and put them on the bedside table. I realised I could tell the story of my life through my jewellery: the hand-painted cameo left by my grandmother; the brooch given by my sister; amber earrings from Lucy; the emerald engagement ring and the gold wedding ring. I still had the silver bangle Sandro, my first boyfriend, had given me in Florence. Everything was perfectly agreeable; I could have no complaints, I thought, but no one will ever undress me in passion again.
I still wasn’t sure Martin had got the longing out of his system. It certainly didn’t help when he phoned and told me he’d seen Linda again. He kept saying I shouldn’t worry and that his feelings were under control and that he loved only me and always had. He apologised so much that I thought it was going to be far worse than it was: not that it was good, but when he got to the end I had to stop myself from saying: ‘Is that all?’
‘Are you still there?’ he asked.
‘I am.’
‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’
I certainly wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
‘So,’ I said at last. ‘You saw her. Without telling me.’
‘I’m telling you now. If I’d asked, you would have said no.’
‘Too right I would. And how was she?’
‘I didn’t feel anything. I felt that nothing had ever happened between us. It was like we were strangers to each other.’
‘And were you disappointed in that?’
‘A little. I don’t know.’
‘What were you hoping for?’
‘I’m not sure. Some kind of end.’
‘And did you get it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I’m glad for you.’
‘Don’t sound so frosty,’ he said.
Here we go, I thought, when in doubt go on the attack.
‘You expect me to be calm about it?’ I asked.
‘Nothing happened, for God’s sake. I didn’t have to tell you.’
‘I think you’ll find that it’s always easier if you do.’
‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I love you.’
<
br /> ‘And is she married?’ I asked.
‘There was a man there. Dave. He was at our wedding.’
‘And did you try to imagine what it would have been like if that man had been you?’
‘God, you ask all the right questions, don’t you?’
‘Well, I’ve had plenty of practice. You haven’t answered the last one.’
‘I did,’ Martin said.
‘And what did you think?’
‘I didn’t like it. It made me think of you and how lucky we’ve been.’
‘That’s the right answer, Martin,’ I said.
‘I’m just glad it’s over,’ he said.
I didn’t know whether he was talking about his confession or the relationship with Linda.
‘So are you coming home then?’ I asked.
‘If I’m allowed.’
‘Is that why you phoned?’
‘Well, I thought I’d better check. And also I rang to see how you were.’
‘Oh, I’m very feisty,’ I said. ‘On fighting form.’
I remembered the Bible my father had given us when we were married, his large confident handwriting on the inside: Love never faileth.
Ten
Violet
The whole family spent Christmas at my house in Canvey. That made Len happy but no one in their right mind would have said it went swimmingly. Most of the time it was easiest just to keep our mouths shut and watch the telly. ’Allo, ’Allo was Len’s favourite. He never stopped thinking the word ‘sausage’ was funny. Claire had that patient look on her face, which meant she wanted to leave but knew she couldn’t, and Lucy kept reading the whole time; she was such a serious child. At least Martin had brought plenty of alcohol, catering for both sides as it were: wine for his family and beer for the rest of us.
Sometimes I thought Len and I were getting on a bit for Christmas. We had most of the things we wanted and never liked to be reminded of another year passing. We tried to avoid the kind of presents old people give each other: jar openers and padded trays for TV dinners, folding canes, extra-long shoe-horns and magnifying nail clippers. Len presented me with a black leather handbag and gloves to match and I gave him a couple of shirts and a pair of braces. I couldn’t abide his worn-out old Tattersalls and never liked to look when his trousers started to sag. Age was no excuse for letting go, I told him, and I kept nagging him to hold his stomach in even when it was full of turkey.
I laid on some quiche, a cheese selection and a couple of salads for Martin’s family; vegetarians never get any easier, I must say, and that lot didn’t even like Christmas pudding. Luckily Claire brought over extra supplies and busied herself making cucumber dip and toasting sesame seeds before we had even opened our presents. Sometimes I wondered why I bothered.
Still, it was good of them to come, especially since Martin didn’t visit as much as he should have done. I knew that Claire kept him on a tight leash after all the Linda business but I don’t think any of them realised how few of these special times there were left or how much Len was beginning to fail. He was forever running out of puff, and sometimes he had this dreadful colour to him. It amazed me when people came up and said: ‘You’re looking well, Len.’
Looking well? I thought. He’s half-dead. Can’t you see that?
Perhaps it was all part of the great pretence of ageing. If nobody said too much out loud then everything was hunky-dory. But in his heart Len knew, I could tell that much, and when we were alone or he’d had a few drinks he came over all depressed and it was a devil to shake him out of it. One day we were driving past an old bungalow, and Len gave a little nod in recognition. He didn’t have to say anything to me because I knew. He was remembering how the last resident had asked for his ashes to be mixed into the pebbledash when it was renovated.
‘Me next, I suppose …’
‘Don’t be silly …’
‘We both know it’s true.’
‘Well, don’t go on about it, love. I don’t like to see you upset.’
‘Go on about it? I’ve hardly started …’
It was a Saturday night when he had the setback. We were in his room enjoying a nightcap before I went home. We’d had our tea but it wasn’t late. The other boys were in the lounge, either playing cards or watching Wheel of Fortune with Nicky Campbell and that annoying Carol Smillie woman.
Len was telling me the latest about one of the nurses in the home, Georgia, who’d been giving one of the boys what they called ‘a special’ and it had all got a bit too exciting. He was so involved in thinking about the end of the story that he couldn’t stop laughing, chortling and then coughing so that he could hardly breathe, and then there was this choking sound from his throat. I’d seen him laugh that way before, but it turned into a shaking thing like George used to get and he couldn’t stop.
‘Come on, Len, that’s enough; just tell me what happened …’
He put out his arm, telling me not to interrupt. Then he looked round for a glass of water but there wasn’t one to hand. I told him to lean forward so that I could give him a good bang on his back to get rid of the obstruction but he kept pointing at the sink for the water. He couldn’t control his breathing, his face started to purple up, and I began to panic.
I went over to the sink as quickly as I could and he started to bend forward properly, taking it seriously at last, and I didn’t know which to do first: call a nurse, bring back the water or give him a good sharp thwack.
‘Len, stop that,’ I said but he slid out of the chair and on to the floor. I think he was trying to crawl to the window to get air because he couldn’t breathe. I knelt down beside him and tried to make him drink the water but he was gasping. I gave him a bang on the back because I still thought he might be choking, perhaps it was a bit of cake or something, but then there was this strange rasping sound, it was like he was drowning, and I knew I had to get the nurse. I prayed it wasn’t going to be Georgia because even then I could tell that would set him off even more.
I got up, pressed the panic button by the bed, opened the door and shouted out down the hall. I’d heard people in the home calling out before, frightened voices saying, ‘Somebody help me,’ and they were ignored because everyone knew it was something they said out of loneliness. But this was an emergency. I pressed the panic button again and then returned to Len on the floor. I thought that if I could just get him sitting upright then I might have a chance of helping him breathe more easily, but he was like a dead weight and I couldn’t hold him.
The nurse came in and told me to call an ambulance. I thought that was her job and I wanted to stay with Len but she was checking his breathing and then his mouth for any obstruction. Then she took out his false teeth.
‘Go on, Vi,’ she shouted and began to give Len mouth-to-mouth respiration. I should be doing that, I thought.
I went outside but then, in my confusion, I couldn’t remember the way to reception. One of the boys playing cards asked me what the hurry was and I remembered Len telling me that sometimes they took bets on who was likely to go next. He said that recently his odds had shortened to 9–2.
I couldn’t concentrate on anything, my head was a spin-drier, and all those men kept playing cards, but luckily I saw Mrs Harrison and she said she’d phone the ambulance for me. I was best staying with Len, she said.
‘That’s what I wanted to do all along,’ I said.
When I returned to the room I saw that the nurse had put Len on to his side. It was such a shock to see him on the floor. I think part of me had hoped that when I came back everything would be like before, and Len would be sitting there with a rug over his legs wondering what all the fuss was about.
‘He’s still breathing,’ the nurse said, ‘but it’s very faint.’
‘What is it?’ I asked.
She looked up at me. ‘Cardiac arrest, I think.’
‘But he was laughing,’ I said, and even as the words came out I knew it was the wrong thing to say.
The ambulance came q
uick enough and I only hoped the traffic was going to be all right because the island had always been too small to have its own hospital. We had to go to Southend.
One of the ambulance men was a big black man, very strong; the other was a wiry little Scot, quite old he was, and a drinker, I could smell it. I couldn’t imagine what they talked to each other about. They gave Len oxygen, lifted him on to a trolley and wheeled him out. I held his hand the whole time. I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight.
He couldn’t speak, of course, and I just sat with him in the back as we bumped our way out of Canvey, up through Benfleet to Southend. I think I wondered even then if Len would ever return, if he was perhaps leaving the island for ever and that this wasn’t the way either of us had imagined it. Everything was coming at us and we couldn’t make any decisions for ourselves.
‘Don’t die on me, Len,’ I said. ‘That’s all I ask.’
Martin
For the first time in my life I ignored the turn for Canvey and drove on towards the hospital in Southend, passing the Avenue of Remembrance, with its tributes to road-accident victims, the dead flowers and wisps of cellophane tied tight round the trees. I remembered walking in the cemetery after my mother had died, the grass waves tilting back against the gravestones, and thinking of the way sailors sometimes saw the sea as fields in the height of their fever: calenture, it was called. I had even been there with Linda, imagining the grass was the sea, the reverse of the sailors’ fever, kissing under the yew tree as night fell, reading the inscriptions, imagining lives that once had been: Charlie Pym, Stephen Pugh, Frankie Bailey.
I remembered my father showing me the graves of those who had drowned. Jimmy Fingleton, Malcolm ‘devil by’ Knight and Marty Pritchard. That’s why I had been called Martin.
I remembered counting the ages, making lists of lives once led, so the numbers totalled hundreds and then thousands.
Sixty-seven years, sixty-two years, forty-six years, thirty-seven years, seventeen years, two years, one year and nine months, five days.
