by Beth Miller
‘It’s shitty, Kay. Oh, it’s fine at the start. Lovely freedom, exciting independence. Then it gets progressively less fine as life happens, crap happens, and then there comes a time when it’s not fucking fine at all.’
‘Bear…’ I reached for her hand but she moved it out of the way and wrapped it round her glass.
‘I’m fine,’ she said. Her ironic repeat of ‘fine’ here didn’t seem deliberate.
‘You’re not. Talk to me.’
The waiter set down two exquisite-looking plates of food, as far as I could see, anyway, in the now almost-complete darkness.
‘Yum!’ Bear said, and started eating immediately.
‘Darling, please talk to me.’
‘No, thank you,’ Bear said. ‘I want to eat my food, I want to drink my champagne, I want to gaze at the view, and I’ll tell you what I don’t want, very much, way more than I want all of those things put together, I don’t want your fucking pity, OK?’
Silent tears began streaming down my face. Thank God it was dark. I shovelled in some of my food. I couldn’t have told you what it tasted like. It tasted like fucking pity, I suppose.
‘So,’ Bear said brightly, after a long pause, ‘all I’m trying to say is, that with my long experience of divorce and separation, and my current perspective on life, I’m suggesting that you think very carefully before you throw into the mud what is fundamentally a positive and solid relationship.’
I swallowed the food, whatever it was, that was clogging up my mouth, and spoke steadily and carefully, in an attempt to cover up my quavering, tearful voice.
‘This is very different from your response when I first told you I’d left Richard. Your initial reaction was amazing.’
‘Yeah, I know. There are some good things about ending a long-term relationship, don’t get me wrong. And you’d come all that way to see me; I wanted to be supportive.’
‘And now?’
‘And now I want to be honest.’
‘I have always greatly admired your honesty, Bear.’
She laughed. ‘How ironic, when I’ve been so dishonest with you lately. But OK, here’s some honesty now. You might not admire this, though. Do you remember when you wrote to me, all those years ago, about being pregnant with Edward?’
‘The defining moment of my life – of course I remember! God, I was in such a terrible state. Do you still have my letters from back then?’
‘I do – would you like them?’
‘Oh, no. Only when you’ve finished with them.’ I bit my lip after I said this. You bloody idiot, Kay. But she didn’t react.
‘Well, even at the time, I wondered why you handled things the way you did. Why you didn’t get an abortion. I know that’s a weird impossible hindsight thing to think of now, you’d obviously never be without Edward. But at the time, why didn’t you?’
I hadn’t thought about this part for so long, I couldn’t quite think how to answer. ‘I’m not sure. Worried about my mum’s reaction, I guess… abortion was a massive thing, we didn’t talk about it…’
‘Except we did. Rose and I both had abortions, before you got pregnant.’
‘Gosh, I didn’t realise all the cool girls were doing it.’
‘There’s some weird subconscious shit going on here if you don’t remember that. I’d been in Oz for three years when I had mine. I wrote to you about it.’
‘I do remember.’ I dredged into the rusty filing cabinet in my brain. ‘Weren’t you on the pill, and it didn’t work?’
‘Yes, I had a stomach bug.’
‘You were unlucky.’
‘So was Rose. Hers was around the same time, first year at university.’
‘That’s right.’ I was the one who’d held Rose’s hand afterwards, not that she needed comforting. She knew she’d done the right thing. A one-night stand, a split condom. I hadn’t thought about that for years.
‘We didn’t have the morning-after pill then,’ I said. ‘What a godsend that would have been.’
‘Or if not an abortion, why you didn’t have the baby on your own?’ Bear said.
‘Gosh, it would have been so difficult…’
‘Difficult, but not impossible. Lots of girls did it, even in the dark days of the late 1980s.’ Bear rested her chin on her hands, and looked at me. ‘Do you want to know what I think?’
I didn’t, really, but I nodded.
‘I’m calling you out on David being your one great love.’
‘He was, Bear.’
‘You let him go pretty easily. Ran back to Richard. Gave yourself a nice origin story about how you and Richard had to get married, and how David was the one who got away. I think you actually believe your own tale, now.’
‘Abortion was a big deal, Bear, whatever you remember. So was being a single parent. My family were Catholics.’
‘So were mine. So were Rose’s. Look, Kay, you’re a big girl now. I’m only asking whether you might be using the whole David-and-I-were-parted-by-fate story to explain why things have gone wrong with you and Richard.’
‘No, I…’
‘Because actually they took a long time to go wrong, didn’t they? Twenty-nine years, as you keep reminding me. And who knows what things would have been like with David? He wasn’t always that nice to you, remember? He might have turned out to be a bore, or an abuser. You weren’t with him long enough to see anything more than his golden light. By leaving him before you really got to know him, you could always think of Richard as second-best.’
‘Wow, that’s pretty harsh, Bear.’ I forced a smile, trying not to show how much her words hurt.
‘Honest, Kay. I’m being honest. Yes, life is short. So is it a good idea to throw away a good relationship? One built on more solid foundations than a pretty boy who let you down a third of a century ago? My honest opinion is, make sure – really sure – that it’s the right thing before you close the door behind you and Richard for good.’
She sounded like Alice. I swallowed down what I wanted to say, and managed, ‘Thank you, I will consider what you say very carefully.’
‘Bullshit answer,’ Bear said immediately, ‘but all right. Let’s leave that there. Tell me more about Rose’s new man.’
When Bear and I had first met in Sydney I’d told her about Graham. I wasn’t sure how interested Bear was, as she and Rose weren’t all that close anymore, communicating mainly by Christmas cards. But now Bear seemed to be implying that Rose was worthy of attention because she had at last appreciated the value of being coupled-up. Which was unfair to Rose in every way; she hadn’t wanted to get divorced in the first place, but she had worked bloody hard to make a single life for herself, and had taken her time finding someone who she cared about.
How well did I know Bear, really? Not the Bear I knew as a teenager, or the one of the letters, but real Bear, Ursula, the grown woman in front of me. No wonder she had stopped writing; when finally there was something big to talk about, she’d stoppered up her mouth.
I managed to make a few comments about Rose and Graham, and Bear seemed interested. Then she said, ‘Do you remember when you and Rose came to Oz, before university, and you took a photo of the three of us? All together, with your timer?’
I used to love taking pictures that way. Young people and their selfies would never know the hit-and-miss joy of the camera timer. ‘I don’t know what happened to that photo. I’ve a vague feeling that Rose might have it.’
‘If she finds it,’ Bear said, and she swept a finger under her eyes, ‘I wouldn’t mind a copy. For Charlie.’
‘Sure,’ I said, dabbing a finger under my own eyes.
The waiter collected our plates, giving me a chance to get a grip. I discreetly wiped my face with my napkin and watched Bear knocking back her second or third glass of champagne. I wondered how it might affect her, this woman who had barely eaten or drunk anything for days.
‘Are you OK?’ I whispered, when the waiter had gone. ‘Is the alcohol OK for you?’
; It was now too dark to see her expression properly. It struck me that perhaps the shrouding night was one of the reasons she’d wanted to come here.
‘I distinctly remember that when I put in my order,’ Bear said, ‘fucking pity was not on it.’
‘I’m not—’
‘Ah great!’ Bear turned her attention to the approaching waiter, a different one I think, though in the gloom they all looked the same. He served us our main courses, and we began to eat.
‘This chicken is gorgeous,’ Bear said. ‘Do you want to try it?’
‘No, thanks. Mine’s lovely too.’ I was pretty sure I’d ordered fish, and it tasted like fish, so that was OK. I felt hollowed out, the sort of hollow that no amount of food or drink or beautiful views could fill.
‘What are you going to do about Stella and Edward?’ Bear said.
‘I don’t know. We’ve always been close. It feels awful to not be speaking. I suppose I just have to wait till they come round.’
‘It’s all change, isn’t it, for all of you?’ Bear said. ‘I’m surprised about Steady Eddie going silent on you, though. I always picture him plodding along his respectable pathway. Born with a briefcase under his arm, that one.’
I wasn’t sure I liked my family being held up to Bear’s scrutiny. The waiter topped up our glasses again, and turned the bottle upside down in the bucket, waiter-speak for, ‘You need to order another one.’
I decided to tackle the Snowdon-sized mountain between us one more time. ‘This is not a pity question,’ I said.
Bear laughed humourlessly. ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
‘You must have had to put up with a lot of people saying the wrong thing,’ I said, ‘if you’re finding so much fault in everything I say.’
‘Is that your question?’
‘No, my question is, is there anything I can do?’
Bear put her cutlery down. ‘That is a sweet thing to ask.’
‘I mean it.’
‘I know. Thank you. There is something. Can I tell you tomorrow?’ Her voice was different, less guarded.
Whether or not she hated it, there seemed to be no point pretending how I felt. ‘Of course,’ I said, and pushed my plate away. ‘It’s lovely here, the most beautiful restaurant I’ve ever seen, in the most beautiful place I’ve ever visited, but I feel just sad sitting here with you.’
‘I’m sorry, darling,’ Bear said. ‘I think I’m currently Sadness personified. Turns out it’s contagious.’
We sat separately for a moment, then as if it had been arranged, we reached for each other’s hands. We both stared straight ahead, gazing into the blackness of the water.
‘It’s shitty, isn’t it?’ Bear said. I could hear her crying, and she could probably hear me crying.
‘Yes, it really is,’ I managed to say.
A waiter flitted near, then discreetly disappeared. It was ten minutes, maybe more, before we were together enough to tell him just coffee and the bill. We talked of inconsequential things over coffee – her house, my grandchildren, Charlie’s exam results.
When we stood up to go, Bear said, ‘Oh dear.’
‘What is it, darling?’
She kept moving, through the door into the brightly lit restaurant, and when she turned back to look at me I could see, blinking in the unfamiliar light, the immense strain on her face.
‘I think I’m too tired to walk back. How silly!’ She sank down on a chair at an empty table. A couple of waiters hovered nearby, looking anxious.
With my pitiful Italian, I managed to ask where the nearest vaporetto stop was. It was less than five minutes away, but Bear didn’t look able even for that.
A young waitress with big concerned eyes told us there was a gondola station right next to the restaurant.
‘Sure,’ Bear said when I told her, ‘I can manage that.’
I tried to take her arm but she shook me off. ‘I have low energy, is all. I’m not an invalid.’
We got out of the restaurant and, thank God, the gondolas were right outside, some so close they were tied to the restaurant’s fence.
I’d decided not to bother with a gondola ride when we arrived, after I learned it cost more than one hundred euros. Now it seemed cheap at twice the price to get Bear safely back to our apartment. The gondolier took her hand and helped her in, and she sank down onto the cushions, looking utterly wrung out. I allowed myself to be helped in too, and the gondolier pushed the boat away from the edge with the efficient movement of someone who has done it a thousand times. We made our way along the main canal, which was completely silent, other than the gentle swoosh of the black water next to us.
‘You can see the stars,’ Bear whispered. She was lying right back on the cushions. I sidled down and joined her in gazing at the night sky from a horizontal position. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’
‘It really is,’ I said. A peaceful feeling descended on me, as if I were in the grey chair under the skylight at Bryn Glas, watching clouds and birds.
‘The whole world is so beautiful,’ Bear said. ‘I wish I had realised that before.’
We turned deftly into a narrow side canal, where it was even darker, and so silent I could hear Bear’s gentle breathing next to me.
‘We’re having a proper Venice experience, aren’t we?’ I said. ‘Staying in a palazzo, eating at a restaurant on the Grand Canal, going in a gondola…’
‘This always seemed such a cliché,’ she said, ‘but actually, at night, it’s wonderful. It’s so peaceful, almost meditative.’
She was right. I’d seen plenty of tourists sitting in gondolas during the day, holding up their phones to video scenes they were passing, the canal a crowded highway, their gondoliers weaving them round other boats like dodgems. At night, it was very different.
We turned into another side canal and we could hear, in the far distance, a woman’s voice, singing opera. It was very faint, but got louder as we glided along. I turned to ask our gondolier, standing behind us, if he knew where it was coming from. But he was looking at his phone, one hand idly guiding the pole in the water, immune to the charms of the Venetian night.
‘I know this music,’ Bear whispered. ‘It’s Verdi.’
Neither of us said anymore, not wanting to break the spell. If I died now, I thought, this would be a perfect moment to go. Out of the corner of my eye I looked at Bear and wondered if she was thinking the same.
As we seemed to be getting nearer to the singing’s source, perhaps an opera house, or maybe someone rehearsing, we turned into a different side canal and it began to fade away. I let out my breath, and Bear rested her head on my shoulder.
‘That was one of the most perfect minutes of my life,’ she said.
Soon – much too soon – we arrived alongside our palazzo. The gondolier helped us up the steps onto dry land, and Bear paid, dismissing my attempts to contribute with the emergency fifty-euro note tucked in my phone case. She looked more energetic than in the restaurant, and climbed the steps to our apartment in, if not a sprightly manner, at least not like an elderly person.
‘Do you feel less knackered?’ I asked her as we made our way into our gorgeous kitchen.
‘A bit. I ate too much, or maybe had too much champagne. I have to take it easier. Can’t overdo it.’
We stood in the centre of the room, looking at each other.
‘Ursula…’ I said.
‘Darling, I’m feeling better but I’m still super-tired. I’m going to bed. Thank you for a wonderful evening, and for a brilliant trip to Venice.’
‘We’ve still got two more days!’ I said.
She put her arms round me and pulled me into a tight hug. It was the first time she had held me so close since we met in Sydney, and I could feel how thin she was, how many layers she must be wearing to keep looking well.
‘Night, darling,’ she said, and went out.
I sat in the kitchen for a while, thinking, then I put out the lights and went to bed. Bear had the bedroom on the main flo
or, and mine was on the floor above, up an exquisite but impractical winding staircase. By the time I got up there, I felt utterly low-energy myself. My last thought, as I got into bed, was that I must make sure that Bear didn’t overdo it the next day. We would go to St Mark’s Square, as planned, but then I’d encourage her to come back and rest. My eyes were so heavy, I couldn’t let myself think about anything difficult now. I put it all out of my head and focused on the dark, sliding, starry sky that had been our canopy in the gondola. In moments, I was asleep.
Letter written on 23 May 1996
Dearest Bear,
* * *
I’m writing to you, a prisoner on day release, from a gorgeous little cottage in the North Welsh mountains. I am blissfully, ecstatically alone. No one is following me to the toilet, no one’s singing ‘Old Mac-Bloody-Donald’ at five in the morning, there are no nappies to change, and no meals to make, other than my own.
You know how Alice’s always hated me? So I can’t account for this, but she came round the other day when I was up to my elbows in screaming children, and she helped out. She was surprisingly effective at getting Stella to eat her lunch. When Richard got home she had a right old go at him, telling him I was exhausted and how had he not noticed? Of course, he hadn’t, being pretty exhausted himself with the shops (he has two now, did I tell you?), and also he’s not the world’s most observant husband. She said she had never seen such massive eye-bags and that I looked about 102 years old. Cheers, Alice. She told me she’d look after the children for five days while I went off to this cottage which belongs to her friend. She wrote down the address, gave me a code for the key box and pretty much pushed me out of the door.
When I got here, I made the bed, fell into it, and slept for twelve hours straight. I’ve been a parent for seven years, and I am knackered, Bear.
I love it here. I’d miss my kids eventually, but I wouldn’t mind staying here a while longer. Maybe a year or two. I have to go back tomorrow, alas and alack, but I do feel properly rested for the first time since Edward was born.
I loved hearing about your marathon success. You are an Olympian in my eyes. Especially when getting up the stairs is sometimes as much exercise as I can manage without a sit-down.
