The Last Words of Madeleine Anderson

by Helen Kitson

  In the early days of our affair, we’d lent each other books that meant something to us. He gave me Primo Levi, Milan Kundera, George Orwell. In a misguided attempt to explain something about myself, I lent him books by Colette and Jean Rhys. The effort was wasted. The books annoyed him, confused him. He dismissed Jean Rhys’s female characters – those lonely, vulnerable women who don’t quite fit in anywhere – as flaky drunks.

  ‘We’re not responsible for each other,’ I said. ‘I don’t owe you a thing.’

  ‘It’s because of you that my marriage is in trouble.’

  ‘Don’t you dare hang that on me! You were the married one – you chose to get involved with me. And I wasn’t the first, was I?’ If I weren’t careful, the conversation would degrade into a futile exchange of accusations and recriminations. I’d allowed him to rile me in spite of my good intentions. ‘This is absurd,’ I said before he could cut in. ‘Can’t you see what a mistake it was for you to contact me? Can’t you see how impossible it is for us to talk without being hurtful?’

  ‘I didn’t want it that way. I’m trying to offer the olive branch here.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’re pissed off with your wife and you want someone to moan to about her.’

  ‘Is that what you think? I don’t want to lose my marriage. I thought we could be friends, you and I.’

  ‘Then you were mistaken. I’m sorry, and I hope you and your wife manage to patch things up, but I’m not involved in this any more. Don’t call me again.’

  I hung up. I remained annoyed that he’d called me at all, wished I’d done more to make him see how inappropriate it was, but more than anything I felt bone tired.

  Simon was still typing, the sound oddly soothing despite its disjointed rhythm. If he asked me who’d phoned, I would tell him. I hoped he would. I’d be able to say all the things I wanted to say to Russell but couldn’t, for there’s no point in speaking to someone who isn’t listening.

  When I returned home from work, I called up to Simon and asked if he wanted a drink. He was still hammering away on the typewriter. Could he really have been typing all that time? I envied his dedication, if that’s what it was.

  I prepared the coffee and took a mug upstairs. His door was open. He sat in front of the typewriter, at an angle from the window, peering at the paper in the machine. Dressed in jeans, feet bare, naked to the waist.

  I wanted him, oh how I wanted him! I wanted to kneel at his feet, beg him to touch me, to let me touch him. Let me love you! His fingers in my hair, my teeth grazing his skin, my mouth—

  ‘Simon?’ Too shrill. ‘I’ve brought your coffee.’

  He squinted at me, then grinned. ‘Guess I should put some clothes on, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘I’m surprised you’re warm enough.’ Something a mother would say. And of course he was warm enough; the central heating was on and the low winter sun hit the south-facing window in an explosion of light.

  ‘I must be cold-blooded. My typing isn’t annoying you, is it?’

  ‘Not at all. I like it.’ I walked across and placed the mug on the table next to him. His golden, sun-kissed shoulder. What did his skin smell like? How did it taste? To accept that I might never know almost made me cry out. It’s not fair!

  ‘How’s the writing going?’

  He pushed his fingers through his hair. I caught a glimpse of the coarse, darker hair in his armpits. Every bit of him beautiful, desirable, fixed in my mind.

  ‘I tell myself just to keep writing, that it doesn’t matter if it’s drivel as long as I’ve got something down on paper. But I don’t know. I think it’s good to write off-the-cuff sometimes, blocking out the inner editor, but I know I’ll read it back tomorrow and it’ll be so bad it’ll depress me.’

  ‘We should talk.’

  He rested his arm over the back of the chair. He hadn’t done much to personalise the room, but he’d marked it with his presence, his smell. It could never be the same ever again.

  ‘Did I hear the phone ring earlier? Not that it was likely to be for me.’

  ‘It was Russell, my former lover. Too boring to talk about.’

  ‘I doubt I’d find it boring. You must tell me all about him.’

  ‘Later. After dinner, maybe.’

  I tried to settle down with a book, but the sound of typing now proved a distraction. Simon. Simon typing. A glisten of sweat down the middle of his back. His hair, warmed from the sun. I didn’t give much thought to what he was typing; I couldn’t think past that picture of him: his frown of concentration, his toes digging in to the carpet as he filled the paper with words, words, words…

  Simon uncorked another bottle of Pinot Noir. I’d never drunk so much wine as I had since he moved in.

  ‘I want to hear all about Russell. That’s his name, isn’t it?’

  ‘Always Russell, never Russ. Yes, that’s his name.’

  I kicked off my house shoes and tucked my legs under me on the chair. Simon slouched on the sofa, his feet still bare, but now he wore a t-shirt with a faded picture of Kurt Cobain on the front.

  ‘He’s the married one who moved away?’

  I nodded. ‘He phoned because his wife got suspicious about some of the items on a credit card statement from when he took me to Paris. He’d told her it was a school trip. Someone must have said something to her. I’m sure he could have bluffed it out, but I don’t think he has the imagination for that.’

  ‘Stupid of him, then, if all she found was that – no love letters or anything.’

  ‘God, no. I’ve never written a love letter in my life.’ Did the two letters count that I’d written to a boy after he admitted – without much shame or embarrassment, it must be said – that he’d cheated on me while on holiday? I could still muster a cringe of mortification as I recalled begging him not to split up with me; that it was okay, just a holiday fling, I could live with that. More bizarre than that, perhaps, was the fact that I’d copied out the letters, folded them and slipped them inside my diary. In those days I believed everything I did, everything I wrote, was material for stories.

  ‘Sounds to me like he wanted an excuse to get out of a boring marriage.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what his marriage is like, but he seems to think I should be willing to listen to him moan about it.’

  ‘Does he want you back?’

  ‘I shouldn’t think so. Anyway, he doesn’t care what I want. I don’t think he ever did.’

  ‘So what did you tell him?’

  ‘That I wasn’t interested. That I didn’t want to hear from him again. He doesn’t think I mean it.’

  ‘But you do?’

  ‘Enough time has passed for me to see him clearly for what he is.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Quite sure. Simon, I need to talk to you. I don’t want to make you feel unwelcome, but surely your parents will want you to go home to them for Christmas?’

  ‘I told you, we argued.’

  ‘Was it such a dreadful argument? Families should be together at Christmas.’

  He gazed at me with an incredulous smile on his face. ‘Seriously? You still believe all that Tiny Tim, festive cheer bollocks?’

  ‘Not entirely. I’m not a sentimentalist as a rule. But wouldn’t it hurt your parents terribly if you weren’t there?’

  ‘They don’t care about me, they never did. I wasn’t wanted. Don’t ask me how I know, I just do. I’ve got two younger brothers, they’re the ones who matter.’

  ‘But it’s only one day – two at most.’

  ‘Just shut up about it, will you? I don’t want to discuss it.’

  ‘I can see that. But you are staying in my house as my guest. I do have some say over who stays and who goes.’

  ‘So you’re going to kick me out too, are you?’ he sneered.

  ‘If that’s how you’re going to talk to me, then yes, I bloody well will!’

  He held up his hands. ‘All right, I’m sorry, okay? It’s a sore subject, that’s all. You wouldn’t
know what it’s like to watch your brothers being showered with love and attention and just getting the scrag-end for yourself.’

  There was real pain in his voice and his eyes, but could it really have been that bad? Wasn’t it more likely he was exaggerating for my benefit, to make me pity him, to make me feel guilty for suggesting he leave? As if I wanted him to. As if I could bear the prospect of watching him walk out of my life.

  ‘They think I never realised,’ he continued. ‘They’re both educated, they’ve read all the childcare books, all the heavy theory about how to bring up well-adjusted children. But it’s only the theory they’re good at. When it came to me – to me,’ he repeated, thumping his chest with his fist, ‘they hadn’t the first clue. All the music lessons and educational toys in the world can’t make up for knowing you’re the cuckoo.’

  I wondered if he meant he was adopted, but it seemed too direct to come out and ask. Not that an adopted child would necessarily be less loved than any other, of course.

  ‘Why did you argue?’

  ‘This time, or the thousands of times before that?’

  ‘This one.’

  He shrugged. ‘They found some weed in my bedroom. It was the smallest amount, barely enough for a couple of joints, but they carried on as if they’d found needles and tourniquets. It’s all right for them to booze till they’re cross-eyed, but not for me to smoke the odd joint.’

  ‘It’s the sort of thing that would worry many parents, I imagine.’

  He shook his head vigorously. ‘You don’t understand. It wasn’t my welfare that concerned them. They blasted me for keeping the stuff in the house, where my brothers might have got hold of it. I told them no one had any business going into my bedroom and it’s not as if they’re little kids. They’re fifteen and seventeen for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘I’m sure they’ll forgive you. Parents do.’

  ‘I don’t want them to forgive me. I want them to accept me. It’s not the same thing.’

  No, it wasn’t, but I felt some sympathy with the parents. I was glad I’d never had a child. Whatever parents do, they’re always wrong in someone’s eyes. Not enough love, or too much, or not the right sort.

  ‘So what will you do? You can’t stay away for ever, and isn’t Christmas a good time to bury the hatchet?’

  ‘Goodwill to all men, even useless sons? Maybe. I’m just not ready to face them yet. If you want me to go, that’s fine, I can doss at a friend’s house. I’d just rather stay here, that’s all.’

  ‘But you need to make plans for the future.’

  ‘I’ll get by.’

  He was young enough to believe that, and young enough not to care about things like long-term financial security. His world was still small and revolved around himself. What he wanted, rather than what he needed, came first.

  ‘At least send them a card,’ I said.

  He grinned. ‘I knew you’d say that. Well, maybe I will. Can I talk to you about my writing?’

  ‘Not now. I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘I want to know if you think Roland Barthes was right about the death of the author.’

  ‘That’s a bit random.’

  ‘Just something I was thinking about while I was working. Was he right?’

  ‘I think it’s probably asking too much. People are free to interpret any book as they please, and any work should always stand first and foremost on its artistic merits, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t someone behind it with a personal agenda, a set of ideas, a backstory.’

  ‘A backstory – exactly – because we all have one.’ His gaze too sharp, as if he was testing me, trying to catch me out.

  ‘And what’s yours, Simon?’

  He finished the wine in his glass and poured out another generous measure. His eyes on the bottle as he spoke: ‘Just an everyday tale of a would-be writer with too much education and not enough ideas.’

  ‘Bullshit. If you really thought that, you wouldn’t be writing a novel.’

  ‘Trying to write a novel. I’m not going to have a breakdown if no one wants to publish it.’

  ‘Then why bother? Why not do something more likely to give you what you want, whatever that is?’

  He shrugged, flexing his toes. ‘Because I like the idea of being a writer. The image appeals.’

  ‘I don’t understand you. You seem so cynical, but is that just a pretence?’

  ‘No one actually needs novels, do they? So I hate it when I start getting too precious about it. Especially as I might not have enough talent to do it anyway. Whereas if you have a true vocation and it doesn’t work out, how painful must that be?’

  I hoped my expression didn’t give me away. ‘Few writers would say they had a true vocation. They just write.’

  ‘If I make it, I’ll dedicate the book to you,’ he said with a sudden, surprising grin.

  ‘No, don’t,’ I said quickly. My own book was dedicated to someone dead: to Madeleine. The most important person in my life, reduced to a few words in italics. I didn’t want his thanks.

  ‘Oh, well, I needn’t, then.’ His face sulky, his gaze fixing again on the wine bottle. Sometimes he looked so young and I felt light years away from him; such a vastness between us, of things unspoken and undone, and probably better for being unspoken and undone.

  Chapter Eight

  The speed at which Simon typed surprised me, although I suppose in these computer-dominated days kids learn keyboard skills from toddlerhood. I wondered if traditional secretarial courses like the one I’d taken even existed any more. They’d likely been subsumed into generic “business studies” courses.

  I sent Madeleine a letter to tell her when I’d landed my first job as a copy typist with a law firm. I was a quick learner and I got the job barely three months into the secretarial course, having sailed through the typing test during the interview.

  She scribbled back a postcard: Fantastic news! Hope it goes well! Come and stay with me sometime!

  Just that; no more. She was at Warwick University studying English. A train would have got me there in a little over two hours, but I never did go to see her.

  We kept in touch by letter (no mobile phones in those days), but I rarely had much to say and her letters were always filled with anecdotes about people I didn’t know. For the first year she seemed happy. She enjoyed studying and the social life. Occasionally she’d mention someone she was seeing, but she never seemed to get serious about anyone.

  We saw a lot of each other when she came home for the summer holidays, although I didn’t have the luxury of two months with nothing to do except laze around and enjoy the warm weather. Of course I was jealous; madly jealous. She complained about the number of books she was expected to read over the summer and I’m afraid I snapped at her, telling her she didn’t know how lucky she was.

  We were seated outside a country pub on a sweet summer’s evening, all gently dying sun and chirping birds. She adjusted the cardigan draped across her shoulders and grinned.

  ‘Up the workers, eh?’

  I gazed into the distance: rolling fields, that quintessential Englishness, an “Is there still honey for tea?” moment. I’d made a mistake. I could have been like Madeleine, immersing myself in books, obscure music and student politics for three years.

  ‘I hate my job. I know it’s my own fault for choosing to do something I don’t want to do. I thought I’d feel happy when I got my first payslip. But it just reminded me how many more years of this I have to get through.’

  ‘Pack it in, then. Do something different. It’s not too late.’

  ‘I could never be as good as you, that’s the trouble.’

  ‘I’m not that good. If I were, I’d be at Oxford or Cambridge.’

  Even so, she let slip that her tutor was confidently predicting she’d get a first. Not a boast; a simple statement of fact.

  She reached across the table and touched my hand. ‘You can’t put up with being bored for the rest of your life!’

&nb
sp; I snatched my hand away. ‘I don’t know what I want instead, that’s the trouble.’

  ‘Are you still writing?’

  I shrugged. ‘A bit. When it’s quiet at work, sometimes I start writing something.’ I didn’t tell her that I liked the feeling of emulating Stevie Smith, who typed out her stories on the famous yellow notepaper while at work.

  ‘What about when you’re not at work? What do you do with yourself?’

  An odd question. Had we really drifted so far apart that she must ask about my life? Too caught up in her own social and academic whirl to pay me much heed when we were apart. In the letters we’d exchanged I always asked what she was up to; she never asked what I’d been doing.

  She tucked a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. Everything she did, even the most casual gesture, had a careless elegance I couldn’t hope to emulate.

  ‘Do you care?’ I asked. An argument was not what I wanted, but everything about her was golden. I felt there was nothing she couldn’t do, couldn’t have, if she wanted it enough. It might have been better if I’d told her straight, ‘I’m jealous of you and I’m sorry for that.’ But I couldn’t.

  ‘Of course I care. You’re my oldest friend. It’s just that I never know what to say to you. I hate feeling that you resent me. Shall we have another drink?’

  I sat alone while she went inside the pub, my hands tucked between my knees, my gaze on the birds lined up on telegraph wires in the distance, my vision blurred with tears.

  ‘Here we go.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re crying!’

  ‘It’s nothing.’ I fumbled in my bag for a tissue.

  She leaned forward, frowning at me, the sun glinting off the gold heart-shaped locket around her neck, a present from her parents for passing her A-levels.

  ‘Look, I don’t want to pry, but if you’re depressed—’

  ‘I’m not; I’m unhappy. It’s not the same thing.’

  ‘Is it only the job? Or something else?’