Shades of Nothingness

by Gary Fry

  We used trains and buses to get between picturesque locations, exploring idyllic villages in which time seemed to have wound backwards (and in idle moments, that was truer than I felt comfortable with, because I’d imagined Kate in my company, speaking in that fine US accent). The countryside in this area was peerless, rolling hills and farm fields stitched together by crooked walls and hedges bustling with wildlife. Escarpments like slippages in memory had left limestone layers exposed, filled with fossils not yet excavated. At one point, I remembered my late wife saying—

  “Arnold, are there many shops in Gloucester?”

  That was Pam, standing at the bus stop in the street from which I’d just strayed to take in the glorious views. I turned and replied, “Yeah, I believe so. To be honest, I’ve never really taken much notice of that. There’s a quite magnificent cathedral, though. ”

  “A cathedral. Ah, right, ” she said, and that was when the bus arrived, we got on, and were headed for the great city.

  It must have been about four years since I last visited Gloucester, and I was immediately struck by how different it looked. I wondered whether this was because standards in the district had slipped or because I’d committed to memory only its good aspects. This time I noticed rough places rubbing up alongside the splendid spots, noisy pubs full of yobs squeezed between fine old buildings with original features. Eventually, after steering Pam from a bank of high street stores, we reached the cathedral and entered, she motivated by my promise of a restaurant meal later this evening.

  For a building full of rich history, Pam seemed to take little interest in any of it. Not for her the tombs of ancient monarchs and bishops, nor the many century-spanning examples of sculpture. Her interests perked up a little when we entered the famous cloisters, with their arched elaborate carvings and intricate stained glass windows (she’d seen this place in films, apparently). On the final stretch, a bride was being photographed, her dress almost as elegant as her surroundings. When this woman saw us approach, she turned from the male photographer, caught Pam’s tender look in particular, and said, “Hey, I’m not getting married, you know. I’m not that foolish. ”

  By this stage, with my memories stirred by strolling around the cathedral, I was struggling to work out what was real or otherwise, but then I realised that this young woman was a model, posing for an upmarket catalogue. Nevertheless, her comment had upset me, and Pam didn’t appear too happy, either…though I wasn’t sure our responses to the woman’s catty remark had an identical source.

  Back outside, we paced along the river Severn, admiring disused dock storehouses converted into kitschy malls and eateries. We ate pâté and lobster while seated outside, watching youths more interested in each other than the rich heritage of their native environment. Pam smiled at these embracing couples, looking occasionally at me as if remembering her own first adventures in love. I glanced away, tired and troubled.

  I was very fond of Pam, but there was…something in the way of our relationship. After the meal, we strayed back into the city centre, catching a street performance by a juggling clown and evading a number of tramps hoping to acquire some of my money. The architect game had certainly furnished me with plenty of that, but not a penny had helped combat the cancer that had taken Kate so quickly, so brutally…

  Shoving aside in my mind the hurtful past, I tried to interest Pam in a local attraction I recalled from my previous visits. This place of archaeological interest was the base of a Roman tower located at the foot of one of the city’s main shopping streets. Little more than the bottom few stones had survived the inevitable ravages of history, and a glass casement had been built over it, presumably to prevent vandals from finishing off what more nobly motivated enemies had attempted in the past.

  “Isn’t that sad, ” I said to Pam who, to her credit, had also stooped to peer into the space beneath a thick sheet of protective glass situated above the monument. Declining sunshine animated the gloom down there with twitching shadows, impossible movement.

  “Isn’t what sad?” Pam replied, as if her husband hadn’t died only years ago and she was unfamiliar with this devastating emotion.

  I tried to imagine what Kate might have said in response to my comment. You’d better believe it, honey, was one option. She’d always been so intimately in touch with the way I thought, and it grieved me to reflect on what I’d lost.

  Nevertheless, knowing little could be achieved thinking this way, I went rapidly on. “Well, this tower was presumably erected to help protect the city from intruders, and now it clearly needs protecting from its own people. ”

  At that moment, a group of hooded youths came strutting along the street, shouting and laughing scornfully. This was an element of English life my late wife hadn’t cared for, and as I thought I saw something stir near the shadowy monument beneath us, I reached out an arm to reassure Pam, foolishly believing that, in the event of any trouble, I could do anything to protect us.

  The youths passed on, however, and I slackened my hold on my new partner and looked back inside that glass-topped chamber.

  It was as empty as it had been earlier: as empty as my heart often felt these days.

  We walked back to our hotel, a place I’d booked online from my plush Islington office. This was an old building, three storeys high, and we’d been assigned a room right at the top. For some reason, I thought this was both a good and a bad thing, as if what would keep us safe would also prevent access to something offering redemption…Once I’d unlocked the door, Pam rushed inside, marvelling audibly over the grand four-poster, heavy curtains at a big bay window, and—perhaps most effusively of all—a flat-screen television mounted on one wall. She activated the TV and watched some light entertainment show while unpacking the few items of clothing she’d brought along in her backpack.

  We’d both been wearing walking gear, and after a long shower, during which I pinched the ache from my eyes with taut fingertips, I returned to find Pam dressed in her nightgown, a breeze from the dark outside blowing up the curtains with spectral restlessness.

  “Feel better now?” she asked, blinking in the way she had whenever she was apprehensive. In truth, I found this an endearing characteristic, which drew out my protective nature.

  At the time, however, I was still a little fraught, all the events of the day—the things the Cotswolds had done to my vulnerable mind— undiminished by the hot assault of water. “Better?” I asked, and knew I was being deliberately evasive. “Better than what, exactly?”

  “Well, ” she replied, and lowered the volume of the TV, which was now broadcasting some inane situation comedy, “better than you’ve been all day. ”

  “And how’s that, then?”

  “Grumpy is how I’d describe it. ”

  “Nonsense, Pam, ” I said, lying in my dressing gown beside her on the bed. “I’ve just been…tired lately, that’s all. Pressure of work, you know. That big job for the council. ”

  She turned and looked at me, blinking again in that cute way. But I knew I was in trouble now. “That job you finished last week, you mean?” she asked, though I realised she wasn’t expecting an answer.

  I was busted—wasn’t that the phrase used in the loathsome modern age to describe my present situation? My late wife and I had often lampooned these moronic linguistic tendencies, deriving humour and an even closer attachment from the act. Then I’d often lapsed into some faux olde worlde English, and that had always seduced her. For Kate, the historical heritage of this country had been a constant source of pleasure, and one I’d used to my advantage, never having to pretend that my interests were anything other than they were. But that was true of her, too—her bold American charm had delighted me unfailingly. We’d fitted each other perfectly.

  And how could anyone else ever match up to that?

  I felt sorry for Pam as she turned away and cranked the volume of the television back up. The sit-com she was watching was, ironically, an American show, and I couldn’t help feeling tha
t she was deliberately antagonising me by repeating some of the lines. She knew of course the nationality of my late wife. I often had the impression, whenever I was in one of my regular moods, that she was jealous of my past with Kate. Pam had never come out and said this, but there were other methods to resort to—subtler methods; more insidious ones.

  “Like, oh my God, ” she said, and then, “Hey, really radical, dude, ” and then—after the line was spoken word-for-word by one of the stupid characters in the comedy whose level of sophistication did little for Kate’s home nation—Pam said…

  No, no, don’t say it, I thought, desperately wishing to prevent this latest development.

  But then my new partner did say it.

  “You’d better believe it, honey. ”

  I just lay there, observing her. Then she turned her head to glance back. She wasn’t blinking on this occasion, and looked simultaneously surprised and bemused by my fierce expression. I realised that I’d rarely talked about my late wife, and could just about believe that Pam’s use of this American phrase had been coincidental…But that was a rational conclusion. And now my emotions were engaged, though none but the more negative ones.

  “What’s…what’s wrong with you?” asked Pam, her tone credulous and fragile.

  I had to remember that she was also recently bereaved; her husband had been a solid sort who’d left her comfortably off. I had the impression that there’d been few fireworks in their marriage, but that Pam had been happy enough. Her grief was genuine, but hadn’t lingered like mine had. It had been about four years since both our partners had suffered premature deaths. For Pam, the memories were fond; for me, they were unbearable. And I couldn’t blame her for that.

  “I’m okay, ” I replied, turning to conceal my face, hoping she wouldn’t pursue the matter. If she’d just switch off the TV and snuggle down beside me, that would be good enough. With the light out and wind gusting against the open window, I could focus on the relative merits of still being alive with at least a few good things going for me, of which Pam was surely one.

  But she didn’t back off.

  “That Roman tower we saw today, ” she began, a tad obliquely in my experience. She rarely talked in riddles or metaphor, though perhaps such involuntary insight dredged this sort of material from even the least sophisticated people.

  “What about it?” I asked, recalling the lack of movement I’d perceived inside that shadowy chamber.

  “It reminds me of you, ” Pam continued, with more of that intuitive certainty.

  “In…in what way?”

  She blinked again. “Part of you is sealed off, inscrutable. You’ve built a protective casing around some vital section and nobody can get close. ”

  You’d better believe it, honey, I thought, and just then that empty chamber in my mind began stirring with half-hidden shapes, or perhaps just one prowling figure, coming slowly into view under a glass-topped casement…

  I dismissed this notion at once. “Leave it, Pam. It’s unwise to go there. ”

  “But…but we’re supposed to be having a relationship, aren’t we? You’re supposed to be with me. ”

  At that moment, understanding her concerns and feeling sympathetic, I reached out an arm and tried to take hold of her. But she pulled away.

  “No, I’m sorry, Arnold. ” She used the remote-control unit to deactivate the burbling television and then flicked out the bedside lamp casting the only illumination in the room. The curtains were again stirred by an impudent breeze from that open window, where moonlight crept in, weak and weary. Pam’s walking gear was splayed across a chair at the foot of the bed, like something sitting and watching us, patiently biding its time. Then my companion slumped down beneath the sheets, turned over with embodied emphasis, and said, “You may think I’m shallow, and maybe that’s true. But I’m here, Arnold. I want to be with you. You just have to…well, you just have to let her go. ”

  She was right, of course, but had failed to factor in one crucial detail: I wasn’t keeping hold of Kate; it was she who kept hold of me. I had no choice in the matter. Her presence was as rooted in my mind as that Roman tower base was embedded in the Gloucester ground. And if I’d built a protective casement around this experience, just as Pam had suggested, it was surely intended to keep it from being damaged by those too insensitive to know better.

  I settled down beside Pam, offering no response. She seemed to be waiting apprehensively, her back to me. I imagined her eyes wide open, blinking with expectation, but a perverse aspect of my character prevented me from reassuring her. The truth was that I enjoyed spending time with her. Even the infrequent sexual acts we’d lately enjoyed had been an unfeigned pleasure on my part. But…something was missing for me. Maybe time would heal this wound. Perhaps once my late wife had become history, I’d be able to move on, escaping the web she’d woven like some stealthy insect on the make.

  Realising she wasn’t about to hear what she wanted to hear, Pam exhaled sharply, her body stiffening in my enfeebled embrace. And about thirty minutes later—during which the sounds of the district filled the air around us, rich and strange—we were both asleep.

  My dream when it came was predictably troubling. I was back in Gloucester city centre, but on this occasion alone. It was night-time, pitch dark, and directly up ahead was that Roman tower covered by its protective glass-topped housing. But what, on this occasion, was being protected? Against my frightened will, I stepped up close to the place, my limbs compelled by perverse hope. Then I looked inside the chamber…and saw its solitary occupant.

  Moonlight made a parody of the face pressed against the underside of that thick sheet of glass. Somehow Kate had propelled herself up off the ground beside that Roman tower’s base to stare with silent fixity into the goldfish-bowl world outside, presently occupied only by me. Startled, disturbed and pitiably aroused, I glanced quickly behind me and saw nobody else standing in this dream-street.

  Then I glanced back at the figure below.

  It was indeed my late wife, dressed in a dirty white smock, looking up at me, her mouth a slack ruin as her teeth ground against the transparent surface between us. Her muddied hands had also lifted, pressed flat against the unyielding surface. I placed my own against them, separated from what they desperately longed to touch by an impenetrable inch. In response to this restriction, Kate looked furious, as if she could move worlds. Her bloodshot eyes bulged in that glass-flattened face.

  And then, with the same compulsion with which I’d arrived, I was swept away, at first striding backwards in the direction of the hotel occupied by my sleeping self, and then turning round to flee. I heard a sound in my wake, but couldn’t identify its source, and when I finally reached my unwanted destination I didn’t dare look back, despite every fibre in my frame telling me that this was what I should do…

  When I awoke the following morning, Pam was gone.

  The first thing I noticed was her walking garments strewn over that chair at the foot of the bed. In broad daylight, these no longer resembled a person looking at me, rather a vacant shell, evidence of a stolen life. I got up and examined more of the room.

  “Pam?” I called, wondering whether she was in the bathroom. But after entering, unmindful of whether she was in a state of undress, I found the room empty, just our combined toiletries populating the back of the sink unit. Would she have left all her personal stuff behind if, after waking before me, she’d decided she’d had enough and then fled? I recalled that she had an open rail ticket, which could take her back to London whenever she pleased…but was Pam the kind of woman to do that?

  I returned to the main room, checked the wardrobes in which she’d placed her clothing yesterday. Her overnight bag was slumped like a dying animal on a shelf near the bottom and a few garments were folded a little higher. I hadn’t paid much attention to what outfits she’d brought along for the trip, not like I might have done with Kate, who’d always looked elegant and refined and…But damn it, I was supposed t
o be thinking about Pam. I really liked Pam. She was sweet and sensitive, and although she couldn’t quite engage with me in that deeper way I’d enjoyed with my late wife, wasn’t that a failing of me and my reluctance to adapt to different circumstances? I remembered how I’d treated my new partner the night before and felt ashamed. I’d been cruel and undignified. Kate would have been appalled by this lack of honour, let alone Pam.

  Just then, I noticed the curtains blowing up at the window. I stepped across there and parted the heavy material. From this high up in the hotel, the city of Gloucester and the Cotswolds beyond it lurked implacably beyond the pane, like a face and a body pressed against restrictive glass…I turned back, examining the carpet. There was no trace of Pam’s nightdress anywhere. Perhaps she’d clambered into a few new items of clothing, pushed the nightdress into one pocket, and then departed with only her essentials: money, rail tickets, keys to her house. She might have deliberately left behind her walking gear as a symbolic affront to the lifestyle I’d tried to press upon her…My reasoning was growing increasingly desperate, I realised.

  I looked back at the open window letting in slithers of cool morning air. Grubby fingerprints were visible on the pane’s edge, just where the parted section stood on its metal runner. The gap was large enough for someone to have thrown herself out, I noticed, and then jerked forwards to look down. The pavement way below was deserted except for a tramp huddled in a sleeping bag. I’d lapsed into melodrama, anyway. After all, was I really worth someone killing herself over? Of course not.

  It wasn’t until I’d packed away what few items she’d left and then hurried downstairs to settle the bill that I entertained the ludicrous suspicion that something had come into the room and taken Pam from her bed. But the lengthy elevator ride reminded me how foolish this was. The top floor was the third storey, maybe fifty feet high…What on earth could have clambered up an external wall to enter through a window?