The Last Night

by Cesca Major

  ‘That wasn’t quite the entrance I’d planned.’ He laughed, putting his hands in his pockets and bouncing on the balls of his feet.

  She was aware of the warmth of his jumper now her hand was empty, his flushed cheeks, his breath rising and falling with the sudden effort of running to catch up with her. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’m following you,’ he said, his face a solemn mask.

  She took a step back, her neck craned back too, and that prompted Richard to look horrified, both hands flying up.

  ‘I’m kidding, Abi,’ he said, frowning at her and lifting his eyebrows.

  Abi. Her mum had called her Abi. She was distracted by the sound of it.

  ‘I’m actually meant to be getting Dad some castor oil and picking up mince for dinner, but I thought I’d head up here quickly and stop in at…’

  His words faded away and it was Abigail’s turn to wonder whether he was acting strangely. ‘Yes, oh mysterious one,’ she teased, feeling like herself once again, feeling comfortable with Richard, who seemed to be able to laugh and cajole her out of any dark mood.

  Richard tapped his lips with a finger before a slow smile crept across his face. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But it’s a secret, you have to promise.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘How can I be sure?’

  ‘Because I give you my word.’

  ‘Is your word like rock?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Is it unbreakable?’

  ‘You can break rocks. Look…’ She puffed in mock-exasperation. ‘I won’t tell anyone – will that do?’

  ‘Hmm… That will do for now.’

  ‘Good.’ She hovered, making her eyes into slits. ‘You’re not a Russian spy, are you?’

  His face erupted into a laugh; quick, sincere. It made her want to hear it all over again.

  ‘Come on then, I need to show you something,’ he said, reaching to take her hand and then pulling back at the last moment. ‘It’s up here.’

  She followed behind him, noticed the mud clinging to the heels of his shoes, his corduroy trouser legs wearing thin at the bottom.

  ‘Nearly there,’ he said, throwing the comment over his shoulder.

  Abigail moved on, chest tightening, legs burning, unused to climbing this quickly. Perhaps sensing she was falling behind, he slowed up, hands on his hips, looking out beyond the branches towards the sea.

  She was grateful for it, joining him to catch her breath, looking at the small squares and shapes of blue in the gaps between the leaves, feeling her chest rise and fall.

  They reached another corner in the path and he offered her his hand. ‘It’s just here, but be careful.’

  He edged between two sagging fence posts, a useless thin bit of barbed wire holding nothing in or out, and perched on a flat rock that jutted out of the side of the hill. She joined him on the rock, looking down at a ledge just beneath them, hidden from the path. He dropped down, turned to help her, held her hips with both hands and lowered her down carefully, one hand reaching up to her face to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. Then he coughed and let go, avoiding her eyes and moving to sit on a moss-covered trunk lying on the ground.

  Flushing, she joined him on the trunk, balancing herself on the edge, tucking her skirt underneath her. The scent of moss, damp and warm, seemed to swirl about her; the gentle chitter of insects hidden from view. She could still feel where he had put his hands on her. Ahead of them was a perfect, uninterrupted scene, the bluish bruise of the sea laid out before them, the tops of the trees beneath them so that when she peered down it made her feel dizzy with the height.

  ‘Is it dangerous?’ she asked, worried for a moment that they might both tumble down the cliff face.

  ‘No. I’ve come up here all my life.’

  She licked her lips, feeling a patter of nervousness cross her chest, knowing it had nothing to do with the height and everything to do with his thigh being inches from hers. He twisted round to face her, she felt like someone had turned a gas lamp on her right side, a warmth that started in her left arm and seemed to course through her body steadily and surely. She felt the urge to lean in towards him, rest her head on his shoulder and then laughed at herself for being ridiculous. He was looking out over the water now.

  She smiled then, following his gaze. ‘It’s amazing.’

  ‘It’s a good spot,’ he agreed, his eyes crinkling as he turned back to her. ‘My brother and I used to lean right over the edge and see who would quit first.’

  Abigail thought back to the photograph on the mantelpiece, the boy in braces. ‘Your brother, is he…?’

  He was shaking his head before she could finish. ‘El Alamein, ’42.’

  She nodded once, knowing what that meant. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I.’

  He scuffed a hand along the trunk. ‘He was bloody brilliant, my brother. He was one of those people that everyone liked and wanted to be around, you know?’

  She nodded slowly, thinking of her mum, of people crowding into their house during wartime ready for a cup of tea and a laugh, feeling at ease. She wanted to reach across and take his hand.

  ‘He was good at just about everything: it was my life’s mission to beat him at something. He used to make me try and catch golf balls in a fishing net we used for crabbing. Dad shouted at him when one got me in the stomach.’ He started laughing at the memory, a brash, confident laugh, as if he was used to remembering the best times.

  She imagined the two boys playing in a garden somewhere in the village below and grinned with him. ‘I’ve never had a brother, although I’m not sure I’d be keen on one that fired golf balls near my head.’

  ‘It’s still odd being just me, I forget a lot of the time, go in to tell him something, tease him about a girl, talk to him about Dad, but the room is empty and it still pulls me up short. Strange.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Abigail said, knowing this was so inadequate but not wanting him to clam up. She thought of the days after her mum died, how she’d assumed she was just upstairs or in the next-door room. All the times in the past few weeks she had wanted her there, her counsel, a gentle admonishment. Anything. She thought of her sister back in the drawing room, felt a surge of feeling that she should be there with her. She was lucky she had her left, hadn’t lost everything.

  ‘I seem to tell you more and more miserable things every time I see you.’

  ‘You are a joy to be around,’ she teased, nudging his side.

  ‘It’s what all the girls love about me.’

  ‘I’m sure.’ She laughed. ‘Irresistible.’

  He leant back on his hands, looking out over the sea.

  They settled into their own thoughts, watching a seagull hover in the wind, wings motionless, feathers ruffled in the breeze, before dipping out of sight.

  ‘Tell me more about Bristol,’ he said, craning his neck up to catch the sun on his face.

  ‘I miss it,’ she said after a moment, admitting it quietly. ‘Well, I miss certain things, I suppose. The size of the place, you get lost there, on a bicycle, anonymous; you can be anyone. I miss the people…’

  ‘People?’

  ‘Mary mostly.’ Abigail felt the guilt sitting in her stomach as she thought of Mary now, all alone. She would write again tonight; they had talked every day for years. ‘We were friends, more than friends really. She spent so much time in our house, Mum joked she might as well move in.’

  ‘Does she have family?’

  Abigail shook her head, picturing Mary in the single room at the top of the stairs, underwear drying on a line over the fireplace. ‘She had me.’

  They sat like that for a while, not talking, just looking out through the tops of the trees. She felt her heartbeat slow, a calm spread over her as they sta
yed there. Larry’s face didn’t seem as significant when she was with Richard; the hole left by her mum felt less painful. She felt a flicker of guilty confusion, thought of her plans to work, to leave the village. They were fading up here, her resolve melting into the leaves at her feet.

  They’d been so quiet, Abigail squeaked when Richard clapped his hands together and announced, ‘I know where we should go.’

  IRINA

  ‘You look tired,’ Andrew said as he pulled out her chair for her and smiled, his eyes crinkling kindly. It was a smile you couldn’t help but return, it was so open and honest. He pushed his hair off his forehead, looking like an overgrown schoolboy, the burgundy jumper and brown cords too adult for his youthful face. He didn’t seem to have developed any new lines and Irina wondered if he would always look cherubic.

  She thanked him and sat down, nodding in acknowledgement. ‘Busy week.’

  He paused momentarily, wavering, and then sat, hands clasped together, elbows resting on the table.

  The restaurant was dim, the dark red walls and oak panelling rich, giving everyone a warm glow. Andrew looked good, she thought; he always had. When she recalled him in her mind he always seemed too heroic, too perfect almost, but the hole in his jumper, shirt peeking through, was a much-needed flaw. She smiled at him as he picked up the wine menu, feeling her body unfurl against the distant clatter of pans and the smell of spices wafting from the kitchen every time the door opened. A waiter appeared and they ordered a Rioja, grinning stupidly at each other as the bottle was produced and the waiter showed it to them on a napkin-covered arm and walked them through its particulars.

  ‘Very good,’ Andrew muttered after swilling it around and raising one eyebrow at Irina. His cheeks were reddening, the scrutiny perhaps too much; he had always hated being put in the spotlight.

  She felt a flutter in her stomach and the urge to laugh. They both felt relieved as the waiter walked away. Andrew poured the wine into her glass, a thick red wave that soon settled.

  ‘I’m glad you called,’ Irina said quietly, fiddling with the stem of her glass. ‘I know I’ve not… well… I don’t deserve it.’

  Andrew swatted the comments away with a hand. ‘I’m not here to go over old ground: I’ve missed you, simple as that, and I wanted to see you.’

  She was grateful for the easy way in which he’d moved things on. She’d always known where she stood with him as he’d always made things abundantly clear.

  ‘How are this year’s students?’

  ‘Hard work,’ he said, his mouth twitching. ‘We’ve just had the half-term break and they still know next to nothing. They’ve got exams, so they keep coming and seeing me for last-minute revision sessions.’

  ‘What does that involve?’

  ‘Mostly panic – me, not them.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Irina laughed, feeling as if she’d been whisked back a year, their easy conversations over a bottle of wine, waving forkfuls of food around as they chatted. ‘Well I don’t have sympathy for you really, you do have about five months off a year.’

  Andrew nodded, raising his wine glass in a toast. ‘This is true.’

  ‘Plans?’

  ‘I’ll spend a few weeks pretending to work on my PhD of course.’

  ‘Have you still not finished that?’ she said, her mouth agape in mock horror. ‘You won’t be made a doctor without it.’

  ‘Reena, it’s eighty thousand words, that is… so many words.’

  ‘That is a lot of words,’ she agreed, taking another sip of her wine, trying to block out the heat coursing through her stomach as he used his nickname for her. Stop it.

  Andrew had an MA in French history and was now exploring the French Wars of Religion of the sixteenth century. At first she had wondered how anyone could be so absorbed in such a small part of one country’s history, but he had brought the period to life for her, fired up by the stories of the gruesome St Bartholomew’s Day Massacre, the controlling Catherine de Medici.

  ‘How about you? How’s the shop? Doing well?’

  Irina paused momentarily before answering, the bureau flashing across her consciousness. ‘Yes, well, we’ve had a lot of people through the door and it’s busy.’

  ‘What are you working on at the moment?’

  ‘Bits and bobs,’ she replied, picking up her wine glass and drinking, her eyes off across the room. Another couple were sitting picking at their food in an alcove. She had a sudden flash of memory, Andrew perched on a stool in her workshop as she glued and sanded, the radio playing, him doodling pictures in wood shavings on the bench as they chatted. She had put away the second stool when they’d broken up, but she pictured it now, dusty and unused in the cupboard under the stairs. She had hated looking at it.

  ‘Interesting bits and bobs?’

  She was drawn back to the restaurant a moment before she really heard him. She held her breath as his question opened up a desire in her to share everything with him, wondered what he’d think if she did. She looked at his face, expectant, unhurried. He had never been one to laugh at her over such things.

  The waiter was standing by their table again and Andrew had sat back and asked for a couple more minutes. ‘We’re being hopeless,’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘Not at all, sir.’

  They ordered and talked about politics then and Petworth, and the food came and they ate and commented on it being delicious, the meat tender, the seasoning just right. He didn’t ask again and Irina didn’t offer anything more. She told him about Pepper and Patricia and her mother. He made her laugh into her napkin with stories about a couple of his more eccentric colleagues. She wanted to relax completely, found herself immersed in this old, familiar set-up, wondering at how easily it came to her. Then she thought about returning to the workshop, her apartment. Andrew stopped in the middle of a sentence, probed again.

  ‘Is anything wrong? You seem distracted.’

  She twisted the napkin in her lap, feeling silly, and cross with herself for ruining what had really been a perfect evening.

  ‘I’m being idiotic,’ she said, feeling the wine washing around her head. ‘I just need some fresh air.’

  ‘Well let me pay up and I’ll walk you home,’ Andrew said, signalling immediately for the bill, his eyes crinkling again, the irises indigo.

  Irina went for her handbag, knowing it would be a futile effort.

  ‘My treat, please,’ Andrew said, touching her lightly on the forearm.

  She looked down at his hand, the scar on his forefinger, the nails squared off. His touch was gentle and when he removed his hand she placed her own where it had been, brushing lightly at the skin, remembering.

  Something had shifted and they walked out of the restaurant in silence. Irina had brought an umbrella and she opened it in the high street when tiny drops pattered around them. She was relieved that she couldn’t see his face, hidden as she was, and when he asked her again what was wrong, she couldn’t help it, she started to explain. The bureau, the drawer, the feeling that something wasn’t right. It spilled out of her in little bursts, like the drops of rain. Andrew was quiet for a while and she watched their feet moving in tandem down the street, her black brogues, his dark brown loafers. When she could bear it no longer, she pushed the umbrella backwards and looked at him.

  His face had a puzzled look, as if he’d read something he was still trying to compute or was reflecting on what answer to give her. She felt a strange tug of déjà vu, back to the day they broke up, didn’t stay in that moment, worried she would feel the pain, fresh perhaps, now she had seen him again. She tipped the umbrella back down, listening to their footsteps echoing on the pavement, out of sync with another couple’s, further ahead and moving at a different pace.

  ‘Can I see it?’ he asked eventually.

  Irina felt relief, instant and gratifying.


  They arrived at the back door of the workshop and Irina propped the umbrella against the doorframe as she searched her bag for her keys. Andrew stood a little way behind her and there was a second where she wondered whether he was remembering another night when they had stood like this, when he had encircled her waist, dropped his head down onto her shoulder and whispered in her ear. She had leant back towards him, happiness coursing through her as they’d giggled and pushed their way into the room, up the stairs to her apartment. The space now seemed bigger and she gave him a self-conscious look over her shoulder.

  ‘It’s in here,’ she said pointlessly as they stepped into the workshop. She flicked the switch and the room came flooding into view. Everything seemed so stark and dirty in the light: smeared glass, her coffee-ringed workbench, the shavings on the floor in small heaps, the dust suspended in the air, dead flies collected in the strip light.

  She watched him make his way across the workshop, his movements careful, his hair curling over the top of his jumper, hints of reds and browns highlighted by the light above him. He stopped before the bureau, both hands on his hips, observing it like a policeman might take in a suspect, or a teacher berate a pupil; a challenge. The air hummed with his energy, this other person in her space. Patricia nipped in and out on occasion, but Irina wasn’t used to this scrutiny. He had tilted his head to one side and was staring at it still.

  She stood next to him, silently, her hands brushing her side. She watched him move around the bureau, sucked in her breath, half-expecting something dramatic to happen. She felt her palms dampen at the prospect, her chest tighten. She could hear his steady breathing, which grounded her once more. The atmosphere was changed, with him there it seemed the bureau was simply that, a bureau. She felt ridiculous then. Had she been imagining things? Winding herself up in this space? The wooden top looked smooth, a lighter square patch in the centre where she had removed the leatherette. The pigeonhole drawers were still out on newspaper, only the jammed one sitting stubbornly in its place.