But he was gone.
I clung to our tree, and hated myself. And wept a rising tide of tears.
When I got home, I tried to call him. His mobile was off. Tried to text him. Nothing. Tried to email him. No reply.
In the middle of the night, lying awake – Cordelia hath murdered sleep – I heard a car draw up outside and knew it was Will’s. Rushed to the window. He was getting out and coming to our door. I dashed downstairs but by the time I got to the door and opened it, he was getting back into his car and drove away as I reached the gate, where I watched him go, calling out, ‘Will! Will! Please come back. Please, Will, please!’
His rear lights disappeared round the corner. I went back inside, closed the door, and saw the envelope with my name on it, lying on the mat.
Cordelia,
I thought we were special.
I thought you thought that.
How could I be so stupid?
I thought we’d be together all our lives.
Now I know we’ll never live together, never eat together, never read and work and play music together. Never just be together.
And we’ll never have our children. I’ve often thought about what they’d be like, you and me in them.
How could you do it? And with a man like him, so old. But not just him. Anybody. How could you?
I should have told you before. That was a big mistake. And I know I didn’t call you enough or write to you enough, or come to see you enough. I was a fool, an idiot. Stupid stupid me.
But you should have told me before you did it.
I was your first and you were mine. Special and different. And now we aren’t. We can’t be ever again.
The end.
I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.
You were everything to me.
I hope you’ll be happy.
Will.
1 I’ve forgotten Mr Client’s name. I only remember him now because he’s a bit-part player in this episode of my life, otherwise I’d prefer to forget him completely. Just to give you an idea why: he was a man old enough to be my grandfather, built like a bloated sausage, who, when he joined us for lunch after our walk in the sewer, was garbed in a black pin-stripe suit of the kind worn like armour by men of low taste who are trying to appear powerful. His blow-dried en bouffant hair was thinning and grey and irritatingly crinkled, his face rotund and rubicund, tufts of hair flourished from his ears and nostrils and his bulbous nose was decorated with broken veins, his voice boomed, and his speech was peppered with offensive doodles, while addressing Edward as ‘my old son’ and me as ‘little darling’, along with a smattering of sexual innuendo on the lines of how good a time he could guarantee me were I to ‘team up with me for a jolly jaunt’ one day.
2 While jogging one crisp and frosty morning, our breath steaming in the air, Will said, ‘Run behind me,’ which I did till he waved me alongside again and said, ‘Did you see anything?’ ‘Like what?’ I said. ‘Like our breath in the air but coming out of my backside.’ ‘No, why?’ ‘Because I farted.’ (Internal laughter, external straight face): ‘O? And?’ ‘Why is it you see people’s breath on a cold day, but nothing when they fart? You’d think there’d be a plume coming out of their backsides, but there isn’t, or you’d see lots of people on cold days with fart streaming out behind them.’ ‘Maybe it’s something to do with having clothes on?’ ‘Maybe. Let’s try. Cover your mouth with your track top and breathe through it. ‘Which I did. No sign of breath. ‘There,’ I said, ‘you see.’ ‘There must be droplets in the breath that the clothes absorb, and only the gases get out.’ ‘Ah but,’ I said, ‘in that case, why don’t you see plumes of fart coming out of cows on a cold day? Cows are always farting, because they eat so much grass.’ ‘So do dogs,’ Will said, ‘if my dad’s dog is anything to go by.’ ‘And horses and sheep and, well, all animals. They all fart a lot, I imagine.’ ‘Yes, they do.’ ‘So it can’t be clothing that stops fart from showing on a cold day or there’d be clouds of the stuff everywhere.’ ‘They’d have to issue fart fog warnings on the weather forecast.’ ‘Maybe fart is only gas and no liquid, so it doesn’t freeze.’ ‘Or not till a much lower temperature than we get with our weather.’ ‘Sounds right to me.’ ‘More research needed,’ Will said, and notched up the pace, which had slowed while we considered this vital issue.
3 People often talk of having a good imagination when all they mean is they are good at fantasising. Fantasy is merely the ability to daydream, to make up stories and see them in our heads. Fantasy may be used by the imagination, but the imagination is something much bigger and more complicated than fantasy. [>> See here re Imagination. >>]
4 It didn’t occur to me then, but it does now, that I knew of these things from films and tv, and from bits of porno videos I’d watched in thrilling secret with friends when I was about thirteen and how to do sex was something we were curious about, giggling from embarrassment, but fascinated at the same time. Viewing these conditioned our minds and moulded our fantasies. But they didn’t make us feel what such experiences were like. We were quite well informed but none the wiser.
BOOK FOUR
The Black Pillow Box
Alone
‘STRIP,’ JULIE SAYS.
Three weeks after the end with Will, and worse to come, though I don’t know it yet. We’ve just meditated. I’m still a mess. Losing Will is like a death. I feel very alone.
I say, alarmed, ‘I’m sorry?’
Julie laughs. ‘I meditated about you. The word that came was “strip”.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Strip down. To the essentials. To the ABCs. The things that matter to you the most. You made a mistake with Edward, which caused you to lose Will. And having lost Will you feel you’ve lost yourself. You feel alone, don’t know where you are or what to do. Is that right?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Thought so.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!’
‘Coleridge. The Ancient Mariner.’
‘At least you’re keeping up with your set books.’
‘Trying to.’
‘All, all alone. So now you have to find yourself again. To do that, you need to concentrate only on the essentials, and build yourself up from scratch.’
One day when we were all feeling low our psyched-out psycho teacher told us we must have the courage to look life square in the face. But it seems to me it’s more important and much much harder to look yourself square in the face. When you’re down, there’s nothing worse than the sight of yourself in the mirror of your mind.
I say, ‘Essentials?’
‘You have to decide which ones.’
‘Apart from breathing and eating and pooing and peeing and sleeping and—’
‘Apart from biological necessities, yes.’
‘At the moment one thing I’m no good at is deciding.’
‘All right. What about school for a start?’
‘I’d rather leave and get a job.’
‘Which job? Doesn’t that require a decision? And why? At least you know where you are with school. Go on working for your exams. That’s a good aim. Hang on till the summer holidays. Then decide whether to stay or leave.’
I say yes because it’s easier than saying no and then having to do something about it. As well as deciding, I’m no good at doing at the moment.
Julie says, ‘What else?’
I know she won’t let me rest till I’ve acceded.
‘My poetry, I suppose.’
‘Good. And?’
‘Piano.’
‘Yes.’
‘Meditation helps. With you.’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Reading.’
‘That would be on my list too.’
‘I need your help with that as well. Or I’ll give up.’
‘I’m here. Another reason for staying at school.’
Nothing more comes to mind.
‘That’s
about it. Except. No boys. And for certain sure, no men.’
‘Plenty to be going on with. But remember. When you strip to the essentials you turn up a lot of rubbish. You can’t ignore it. You have to deal with it. Even if it upsets you. Some of it can be recycled but some of it has to be dumped.’
‘O lordy!’
‘I know!’
‘Can’t I have a breather?’
‘Sure. Let’s have a shower and paint our toenails and hire a really trashy video and slump in front of it with a pizza.’
Ariel
I answer the door. It takes me a few seconds to remember him. The lanky boy, young man, who came swinging down from the tree and who I saw with Will once or twice after that. To call him willowy would be appropriate.
He says, ‘Ariel McLaren. Remember?’
I haven’t seen him for ages.
‘Yes, hi.’
‘Sorry to turn up out of the blue. But I wanted to ask you about Will. How is he? Is he okay? I haven’t heard from him lately.’
‘I don’t really know,’ I say. ‘We split up.’
‘O dear lord, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’
I say it’s all right, but it isn’t.
He asks if Will is still at tree college. I say I think so. He asks if I can give him the address, he’s lost it, but I don’t believe him, because for someone who works at the arboretum, it would be easy enough to find.
He says, looking straight at me, no embarrassment, ‘I miss him.’
I know those words. I’ve said them to myself hundreds of times in the last few weeks and in the same tone of voice. The words, the tone of voice of a grieving lover.
That’s why I ask him in. He says he’s a bit mucky from work, which he is. I say why not go round into the garden, I’ll bring the address to him there.
I do that, along with a beer, because it’s a warm May day and he’s sweating and looks parched and I want him to stay for a while. Companions in grief.
We sit opposite each other at the garden table under its big umbrella.
I say, ‘You taught Will tree climbing.’
‘I did so.’
I say, ‘I miss him too.’
He smiles. ‘Hell, isn’t it.’
I return the smile but am tense. ‘He mentioned you a few times. But I didn’t know there was anything between you.’
‘Neither did Will.’
Relief. I feel sorry for him.
He adds, ‘Don’t fret. There was only ever you for him.’
‘Not any more.’
‘I’m amazed. Really. He’s the sort, once set, doesn’t wander.’
‘And you? Only him for you?’
Smiling still, he says, ‘Life can be bloody sometimes, it can indeed.’
Doris comes out, having just arrived home. I introduce Ariel to her. I can see she’s trying to weigh up the situation. Have I acquired a new boyfriend?
I go back inside with her.
‘Where did you find him?’ she asks.
‘In a tree,’ I say.
She gives me her old-fashioned look.
‘Works at the arboretum,’ I say. ‘Friend of Will’s.’
‘And of yours?’
‘He wants to know how Will is.’
‘A friend, and he doesn’t know?’
‘Lost touch.’
‘You’re not alone then.’
I collect another beer from the fridge.
‘Staying for dinner?’ Doris asks.
‘Haven’t asked him.’
‘Why don’t you? Looks like he could do with a square meal.’
She’s desperate for something or somebody to lift me out of my gloom.
‘He’s gay,’ I say.
‘So? Does that disqualify him from friendship?’
‘Course not.’
I go back to Ariel and say, ‘Why d’you want to get in touch, when you know Will isn’t on for you?’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t think I could stand it.’
‘Different for you. You had all of him. I never did. And I still want what I had. Enough’s as good as a feast.’
‘No. Enough’s as good as a meal. More than enough’s a feast.’
He laughs. ‘Wicked!’
‘Oscar Wilde.’
‘Ah, the great Oscar! Another Irishman of the same persuasion. But I’ll settle for the meal, thanks. And thanks for the beer. I ought to be going.’
But he doesn’t move.
I say, ‘Talking of meals, you’ve made an impression. Invited to supper.’
‘Well now, there’s a generous thought. But I’m not got up for politeness.’
‘We often eat out here when it’s warm. And you are got up for the garden.’
He doesn’t reply but stares at his boots.
I say on a hunch, ‘You’re all right, are you?’
‘I always look like this.’ He means to be funny but seeing it isn’t says, ‘To be straight with you, no, I’m not entirely all right.’
‘Want to tell?’
‘Nothing but losing my job. Redundant from the end of this month. Cost cutting. And as I live in, I have to get out. I thought I might ask Will if there were any jobs going at the college. But thought I’d better test the water beforehand.’
‘A job and where Will is.’
‘Two birds.’
‘If not?’
He shrugs.
‘Family?’
‘Back in Ireland. Land of no return.’
I can’t help liking him.
‘Stay,’ I say. ‘Poached trout, salad and new potatoes.’
‘I’d not want to be a bother.’
‘We’d be the bother. Doris, my aunt-mother, will quiz the balls off you, so keep your hand on your secrets.’
‘I’ve none that would tire her sleep.’
‘Dad will be cock-a-hoop there’s a fresh audience for his jokes, so prepare to be charmed.’
‘I’ve an endless supply of untapped laughter.’
‘At least it’ll distract you from the delights of life and love.’
‘And you?’
‘Nothing like the company of a fellow sufferer to cheer a girl up.’
‘Especially one worse off than yourself.’
‘No competition.’
‘You’re an angel.’
‘Don’t count on it.’
‘I claim only the slightest acquaintance with heaven myself.’
‘Birds of a feather, then.’
He raises his beer in salute. ‘Takes one to know one.’
>> Boarder >>
Bed
Bed is a word that works hard. My dictionary lists twenty-seven uses, beginning with a noun: ‘a piece of furniture on which to sleep’, and continuing with such verbs as ‘to bed out’ (plants) and ‘to bed’ (to have sex with someone).
My bed works hard. It’s one of my two favourite pieces of furniture, the other being my mother’s old armchair, in which I sit and read by my window and stare into the distance. My bed belonged to my mother’s parents, she was conceived and born in it, and my parents used it till my mother died. Dad didn’t want to sleep in it after that so it was put in the spare room. But I did want to sleep in it because it had been my mother’s. I claimed it when I was six and was allowed a grown-up bed instead of my child’s cot. King size, it has an oak headboard of a plain oblong design but no footboard (which I removed because I like to get on and off from the bottom as well as from the sides). I’m on my third mattress, because Doris believes they should be changed every five years as a matter of hygiene. I like lots of pillows of various colours, and a feather-light summer-weight duvet in a crisp white linen cover all year round.
Besides sleeping, I like bed for reading, writing, lolling, daydreaming, brooding, meditating, and of course for sex. But I never write in bed, and I never eat in bed because I don’t like the smell of bed when eating or the smell food leaves behind on the bedclothes.
There are two times when I don’t like being
in bed. One is when I’m so anxious and tense that I can’t sleep. Bed is a prison then because I’m trapped in my own thoughts, and the only thing to do is get up and do something boring until the fit has passed or I’m so tired I can’t stay up any longer. The other is when there is something I want to do so much I won’t be happy till I’ve done it. Bed is a bore then.
Bed is where lovers love to love, where secrets are exchanged in pillow talk, where inhibitions are relaxed, and where we view the world and ourselves horizontally. Horizontal viewing is grounded, level, patient, settled. Vertical viewing is status-seeking (how do I get tall enough to see further than anyone else?), hierarchic, ambitious (how do I get from here to there?), strident (striding out, loud), unsettled.
Sitting cross-legged for meditation on my bed combines the best aspects of both the horizontal and the vertical. It is calm and settled, and is also alert and spiritually ambitious. My bum is grounded on the bed, my head is in the air. I am relaxed and uninhibited because I am ‘in bed’, and I am concentrated and focused because I am upright.
Best of all about bed is sleep. But I’ve written about me and sleep before. (See here.)
Belief
We have just meditated.
‘Is belief essential?’ I ask Julie. ‘I mean, in God or something?’
‘I think so. Perhaps I should say I believe so.’
‘You’re teaching me to meditate, but you never say anything about belief or what you believe. I know you used to be a practising Christian, but you never say anything about what you believe now.’
‘You remember Nik, the boy I told you about, who was with me when I had my accident?’
‘The boy you tested yourself with.’
‘He asked me what I thought belief is. What it means. Is that what you’re asking?’
‘I suppose.’
‘I told him, Belief means willing yourself to give all your attention to living with loving gladness in the world you think really exists.’
‘Doesn’t it have anything to do with God and the life after death?’
‘Not necessarily, no.’
‘Not for you?’
‘No. I don’t believe in a supernatural being. Do you?’
‘I don’t know what I believe.’
‘Does that worry you?’
‘Sometimes.’
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