I had such a bad start in Cambridge, Sean. I’m sure I must have been hell to live with, so I apologise for that if it’s the case.
I was scared of the place, really. I was scared I wouldn’t fit in and scared I’d show you up. Everyone seemed polite and over-educated and a little too healthy and posh and happy, and I think all of this acted like a mirror to how I saw myself back then, to how I saw my own humble origins.
You, on the other hand, loved the place from the first day. I had never seen you so happy, so energetic, so positive about everything. So I did my best to put on an act. I think I was fairly convincing.
You’d get home from work of an evening and I’d describe the luscious day I had spent with April when the truth was that I’d spent the entire day moping around that mouldy flat.
There were high points, like that Christmas when we went out together and bought our first tree. April was so obsessed by the twinkly lights that we moved her cot so that she could stare at it while falling asleep. But generally speaking, I was miserable.
That first winter, I took April down to see Mum a few times in Margate, I remember. I told you that it was because Mum was single again, that it was Mum who needed me, but in truth it was the other way around.
“Tell ‘im,” Mum kept saying. “Tell ‘im you ain’t ‘appy. Tell ‘im you wanna move.” But I couldn’t burst your bubble. At least, I couldn’t burst it right away.
You were loving your job, you were loving the people you met through it, you were enjoying the projects they had you working on… So I just sort of battened down the hatches and hoped that either things would get better for me, or you’d change your mind and decide to go somewhere else.
It wasn’t until the following summer that things changed because it wasn’t until then that you felt secure enough in your new job to start socialising with the people there.
I was so scared I’d show you up that I kept making excuses to start with. I had a couple of headaches, I recall. I pretended April had a fever once or twice, too. But eventually I had to cave in.
Maggie, whom you worked with and whom I hadn’t yet met, had organised a picnic on the Cam. It was June, I think, or maybe even July.
I had run out of fresh excuses and I think you sort of trapped me by asking if I’d come along or whether I’d be having another headache. I said, “No, of course I’ll come, why would you even say that?” I pretended to be a little outraged, I think.
I packed our picnic and threw in the book I was reading as well, reckoning that I’d be able to hide my nose in it and appear all aloof and clever. That was the plan, anyway.
We met at Scudamore’s and rented three punts. Maggie came in ours, and she was lovely to me from the minute we met. She spotted the book I was reading – it was Armistead Maupin, I think – and she was reading the same series, so we compared notes. We were both in love with Michael “Mouse”.
Everyone was drinking and you and an older guy from work, whose name I’ve forgotten, punted us along the river. I was surprised how good you were at it. With nothing to do but drink and chat, Maggie and I got quite drunk.
April, who was wearing a little life-jacket they had lent us, trailed her hands in the water while I held on to her feet. We glided past the backs of the colleges and past lots of other punts filled with laughing students and tourists, and eventually ended up in Grantchester where we folded out our blankets and spread out the food. Once we had eaten everything we dozed in the sun.
I can remember the exact moment I changed my mind about Cambridge, and it was there, that day, in Grantchester.
I had my head on your chest – you had fallen asleep with a blade of grass between your teeth – and Maggie was playing with April in the shade of a tree.
Some students who were picnicking nearby had an old gramophone player, one of those wind up ones, and they were playing a really scratched old record of Mood Indigo over and over. I think they only had one record with them.
One of the students, one of those posh ones you see everywhere in Cambridge, in a waistcoat and shiny, proper shoes, came over. He asked us if we wanted some cake. It was someone’s birthday and they had this huge birthday cake with them, but they’d eaten too much and were stuffed, he said.
Out of habit, I said “no”. But April had heard the magic word “cake” and came running over begging for a piece, so the guy in the waistcoat cut her a bit and then one by one we all caved in. It was lovely cake.
We gave them some of our wine, and you shared your cigarettes and they played the b-side of the record and within half an hour we had moved our blankets together to form one big group.
The students were all quite posh, but they were also shockingly friendly and chatty and open. It was the first glimpse I ever had of what makes Cambridge so special.
When you live in a town like Margate, where so many people are unemployed and no one has any money, you’re always, I suppose, a bit suspicious of other people’s motives.
But the opposite is true as well, and in a town like Cambridge where, at least back then, everyone had a job and everyone could afford cake and wine, and cigarettes, well, no one worried about sharing stuff, did they? People’s first reflex wasn’t what does he want from me? or how is this person trying to rip me off? It was more, sort of, oh, how nice. Another person in the world.
I didn’t grasp all of this that day, I don’t think. But slightly drunk, on a blanket, on the grass, I did feel unexpectedly relaxed and unthreatened by anyone or anything.
It still felt a bit wrong to be living in that little pocket of wealth when other places were struggling so hard. But I think that I realised that if I could just let myself go a bit it could be a very comfortable place to live and, above all, a very charmed existence for our daughter. Because when you have a child the world turns into the theme park of possible dangers. And Cambridge suddenly felt like a very reassuring place for her to be.
Eventually the sun went down and it got a bit chilly, so we all divvied up into the boats again and headed back. I had decided that I really liked Mags and I had decided I would make her my friend, so I made sure I was in the same boat heading back.
I asked her if she had a boyfriend, and because she looked embarrassed and said no, I thought for a minute that I’d made a boo-boo, so I asked her if she had a girlfriend. She laughed so much she made the boat rock. She then said something that has stuck with me the whole time I’ve known her. She said, “I’m not very good at relationship stuff.” It seemed a strange remark to me, because I had never considered relationship stuff as a thing you could be good at or bad at. Up until then I thought it was just something that happened to you. But when I asked her about it, she was adamant that it was like a subject you might learn at college. There were many aspects to it, she explained. There was choosing the right person and wooing them correctly. There was the ability to resolve conflicts and choose gifts and remember important dates. “They should run courses on it,” she said. “They really should, if only for people like me.”
Over the years, I think we’ve both come to see that she was right. She always has chosen the wrong guys and when she has chosen someone nice it’s always gone wrong, even when, like with gorgeous Ian, that wasn’t her fault. But I feel sad for Mags. I feel a little guilty even, that she never had what we had. But more of that later. I’m tired now. I need to sleep.
• • •
On Sunday, Sean accepts an invitation to a pub lunch with Maggie and Dave.
Maggie pulls up outside his house just before twelve and hoots her horn.
“Hello!” she says, beaming from the side window of her little Fiat. “Jump in. You’ll have to fight it out with Dave over who gets the back seat.”
“Sean does,” Dave says, leaning down over Mag’s lap and waving up at Sean. “There’s no way I’m getting in there.”
“We can take my car, if you want,” Sean offers hopefully. “It’s parked down the end. You can take my space, Mags.”
“Oh,
stop being such a wimp,” Maggie laughs. “It’s only five minutes to Grantchester.”
“Fifteen,” Sean corrects. “But, whatever.”
Dave stands to let Sean access the rear seat. “Sorry, dude,” he says. “But my legs are even longer than yours are.”
“You can swap on the way back, maybe?” Maggie offers, as Dave fastens his belt and then shifts his seat forwards providing Sean with an entire extra inch of leg room.
“It’s fine,” Sean says, twisting so that he’s sitting sideways. “Go, Mags. Go!”
Though it’s still early when they reach the Green Man, there is only a single free table left outside, so Dave and Sean leave Maggie to defend it while they head into the dark interior to order.
“Jesus,” Dave says, when he sees the menu. “Thirteen quid for fish and chips?”
“It’s a bit of a gastro pub,” Sean says. “So, hopefully it’s worth it.”
“Damn,” Dave jokes. “Mags didn’t warn me. If I’d known I would have brought the Imodium.”
Sean looks up from his own menu to find the owner leaning on the bar in front of them. “It stands for gastronomic,” he says, drily.
Sean senses himself blush.
“That’s what I was just saying,” Dave quips. “Astronomic.”
Sean clenches his teeth and beams a message of sympathy and apology to the owner. “Right,” he says. “Well, I’ll have the celeriac, mushroom and chestnut pasty, I think. That sounds great.”
“Ooh,” Dave says. “Fancy, fancy. Astronomical cod and chips for me, I think. Sorry, gastronomical, I mean. And the mackerel for the missus. She likes a bit of mackerel.”
“Do you not want to show her the menu?” Sean asks. “I mean, that’s what we said. That we’d take out a menu.”
“Nah,” Dave says. “The mackerel will be fine.”
“There’s a bit of a wait,” the owner tells them. “We’re a bit short staffed at the moment.”
“That’s fine,” Sean says. “We’re in no hurry, are we?”
“It depends,” Dave says. “How long is ‘a bit of a wait’?”
“Thirty, forty minutes max,” the man says. “It’s this Brexit business, I’m afraid. They all keep buggering off home.”
When they get outside, Maggie smiles up at them. “Isn’t it a lovely day?” she says.
“It is,” Sean agrees, placing his pint on the table and climbing onto the built-in bench.
Dave hands Maggie her white wine spritzer. The bubbles glisten in the sunshine.
“Menu?” Maggie asks.
“I ordered you some mackerel,” Dave says, handing her back her bank card. “That OK?”
“Um, yeah…” Maggie says, doubtfully, slipping the card into her purse and then sipping at her drink. “Yes, mackerel’s fine,” she says, with forced positivity. “What’s it come with?”
“I forget,” Dave says. “Anyway, I hope you’re not hungry. Apparently all the staff have buggered off back to Romania.”
“They were Italian, I think,” Maggie says. “The last time I came here they were, anyway.”
“A lot of people are leaving, apparently,” Sean says. “I read about it in the Graun. The NHS is really struggling.”
“They can all fuck off as far as I’m concerned,” Dave says.
“Oh,” Sean says quietly, almost imperceptibly wide-eyeing Maggie.
Maggie sighs and runs her tongue across her lips, visibly trying to decide whether to say something.
“So, Mags,” Sean says, deciding to save her from the dilemma. “How do you feel about taking up rowing again?”
“Rowing?” Maggie says. “Gosh! Where did that come from?”
“Again?” Dave queries. “Why, again?”
“Oh, we used to row together years ago,” Maggie explains. “Well, Sean did. I just dabbled, really. You did it for years, didn’t you?”
Sean nods. “Five or six years, yes.”
“Whereas I only went a dozen or so times, I think.”
Sean laughs. “At a push.”
“Yes,” Maggie says. “Yes, you’re probably right. Half a dozen, then.”
“I don’t think rowing’s my kind of sport,” Dave says. “More of a rugby man, me.”
“Right,” Sean says. “So, what do you think, Mags?”
Maggie smiles and wobbles her head from side to side. “Sure,” she says, finally. “Why not? It would do me good.”
Dave frowns deeply at this and sips his pint, then clambers back out of the bench seat. “I’m gonna get some crisps,” he says. “I’m starving. Anyone else?”
Sean and Maggie shake their heads.
Once Dave has gone, Maggie leans in, grasps Sean’s wrist and asks, gently, “So, are you all right, pumpkin?”
Sean nods vaguely.
“Have there been any more pseudo-revelations? In your tapes, I mean?”
Sean shakes his head. “No, but why the pseudo?” he asks.
“Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to be… It’s like I said, the more I think about it, the more obvious it seems to me that the whole business, you know… about April… well, that’s rubbish, isn’t it? We’ve got a photo of you three at home and I looked at it when I got back. And no one could ever doubt that you’re April’s dad. I mean, things like that… You just have to think of Harry and William to know what I mean. One of them looks like his dad and the other one, well, he’s gorgeous, isn’t he?” She pulls a face.
“Yes, I see what you mean,” Sean says.
“It’s like I said before. It’s all those drugs she was on, sweetie. That’s all it is.”
Almost as soon as Dave returns with his packets of crisps, the food arrives. “Fastest bloody forty minutes I’ve ever seen,” he says, glancing at the screen of his massive Samsung telephone which he has placed in full view on the table before him.
“Don’t complain about the food being too early…” Maggie berates him, glancing apologetically at the waitress.
“I just wanted to eat my crisps,” Dave says. “Still. Never mind. Let’s see what fifteen quid fish and chips tastes like.”
“Thirteen,” Sean corrects him. Dave is starting to get on his nerves. “Actually, it’s not even thirteen. They were twelve-fifty.”
“Seven-fifty down from ours,” Dave says, cutting into his cod.
“Just…” Maggie says, closing her eyes for a little too long. “Just try to enjoy it, hum? You’re not paying for it anyway, so just… Can you do that for me?”
Dave shoots her a glare and then raises a chunk of cod to his lips. “It’s nice,” he says, through a full mouth. “It’s tasty.”
After lunch, they walk down to the river where they watch a group of youngsters struggling to control the direction of their punt.
“Do you remember the picnics we used to have?” Sean asks.
“You two?” Dave asks. “Rowing and picnics together… Aye, aye.”
“It was just a work thing,” Maggie says. “Nothing to be jealous of. A whole bunch of us used to rent punts and come out here with our picnic.”
“All the way from Cambridge? On a punt?”
Sean laughs and nods towards the river. “They’re all from Cambridge,” he says. “It’s not as far as you think.”
“How long did it used to take?” Maggie asks. “An hour? An hour and a half?”
“Something like that,” Sean says. “We should do it again sometime.”
“Ooh, yes,” Maggie says. “That’d be a right laugh.”
“You wouldn’t get me on one of those,” Dave says.
Maggie wrinkles her nose. “Dave can’t swim,” she explains in a confidential tone, reaching out to caress Dave’s arm.
“Loads of people can’t swim,” Dave says. “There’s not a lot of call for swimming when you grow up in deepest Derbyshire.”
By the time they drop Sean off at the end of his road, he’s feeling exhausted.
Being sociable, he thinks, as he walks along the road, is like a muscle – a muscle
he has allowed to atrophy. And the sheer effort of making polite conversation for three hours with Dave and Maggie has completely worn him out.
Still, the good side of that, he realises as he closes the front door, is that he’s glad for once to find himself alone in the house. He hurls himself onto the settee and lets out a long deep “Ahhh” of satisfaction.
And then he remembers it’s Sunday. Maggie’s description – her pseudo revelations – is still ringing in his ears. She’d annoyed him by saying that. He pulls a face. He should, perhaps, have said something.
He levers himself from the sofa and heads through to the kitchen where he switches on the kettle and pulls the box from the kitchen cabinet.
Snapshot #16
35mm format, colour. A man looks out through lace curtains at the street beyond. The light from outside is cold and harsh, making the man’s features look sharp and angular. He looks pensive, or perhaps sad.
Sean studies the photo and remembers instantly what had been wrong. He had made a terrible, terrible mistake at work. He had chosen to clad a small office block on the Cambridge Science Park with marble. But even before all of the marble had been clipped onto the walls, it had started cracking and falling away. One lump had punched a hole right through the roof of a contractor’s car. Had he been in the car, he might have died. Estimates to remove the marble, change the clips and replace it all with granite (which unlike marble would not crack and shatter in the summer heat) had been estimated at almost two-hundred thousand pounds. So he had been going to work each morning wondering if today was the day he’d be sacked. Or even worse, sued. He hadn’t been sleeping at night either, and on multiple occasions, Catherine had come downstairs at three a.m. to find him staring into the middle distance.
He had told her what was wrong but, as often where his job was concerned, she had failed to grasp the seriousness of the situation. She had said, “Oh, you’re only human. Everyone makes mistakes.” It had been as if she didn’t really believe that anyone could get that upset about work.
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