The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

  There’s a discreet beep of a car horn outside. Grace kisses my cheek and heads for the door.

  ‘Bye, sweetheart,’ I call after her.

  Her bedroom has been repainted cream. Gone are all the babyish toys. A big framed photo of Elizabeth sits on her nightstand. Her dressing table is loaded with fashion jewellery. Madonna pouts from posters stuck to the wall, alongside posters of dancers caught by the camera, leaping and twirling.

  I gather up her dirty clothes from the linen basket in the corner, and find the cat curled under her desk in a patch of sunlight. I lean down to tickle his soft belly, and he purrs, arching his back. ‘Hey, you.’ He’s getting old. He looks like a walking doormat; even his whiskers are crinkled and lopsided. But Grace adores him. Her diary is lying next to her bed. She’s kept up writing in it since I gave her that first one. She never bothers to lock it. She trusts me.

  Unsurprisingly, given the temperature, the Ladies’ Pond is nearly empty. Only a few hardy swimmers are cutting their way through the dark water. I get in quickly with a gasp, and keep moving through the freezing, grainy push of the pond. I think about a baby growing inside me, a creature curled in its own watery world: limb buds sprouting, the ripple of a turning spine, the kick of hands and heels against the drum of my belly. I love Grace like my own, but love isn’t finite. There’s so much more I can give – an overflowing of feeling. And Leo and I can provide a baby with a proper home, with all the security I never had.

  Towelled off, and dressed in warm clothes, a hat pulled over my wet hair, I hurry back to the house. A baby! Thinking about Grace’s shining face makes me smile through my chattering teeth. She’ll make a wonderful big sister. I’ll tell Leo that we can start practising in earnest.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Sam, March 1990

  Mattie picks him up from the Priory. He slings his bag into the boot of her car, and slides into the passenger seat, snapping his seat belt. As they drive through the gates onto the road, he spots a couple of paparazzi lurking on the pavement and keeps his face turned away from their long lenses.

  ‘You look better,’ Mattie says, dumping the clutch. ‘Like yourself again.’

  ‘I didn’t realise how bad it had got,’ he tells her. ‘I was in a bleak place. And George was right. I was taking too many drugs.’

  ‘You’re not alone in that, kid. Not in the music business,’ she says, glancing in the mirror at the photographers and pulling away with a crashing of gears and sudden skid of tyres.

  ‘Slow down, James Bond,’ he says, grabbing the door handle.

  She makes a face at him. They pass teenagers in uniform walking home from school. Sam turns his head to watch them, absorbing the ordinariness of the scene – the way life keeps going with its rhythms and routines. It makes him want to start writing again, to begin a new song.

  With nobody on their tail, Mattie sticks to the twenty-mile-an-hour limit in Richmond Park. Sam lets go of the handle. Winding down the passenger window, he sees a herd of deer grazing close to the road. A young stag lifts his head, regarding the car with watchful eyes.

  ‘River’s excited to see you,’ Mattie’s saying.

  ‘Great.’ There’s so much to do, to change. He made decisions while he was recovering from his burnout. He’s had time to think. But now he’ll have to act on those decisions, talk to the suits at Island, to Marcus, to George and the rest of the band. It feels overwhelming. He takes a big lungful of fresh air before he closes the window. They’ve pulled onto a main road, leaving the park behind. London traffic crowds in from every side. An impatient horn sounds behind them, and Mattie swears under her breath as she negotiates a junction.

  ‘George is coming for supper tonight,’ she says, slamming her foot down and accelerating straight ahead.

  ‘Great,’ Sam repeats as the back of his skull hits the headrest. And so it begins, he thinks. He is thirty-four years old. This is his second chance.

  River is in bed at last. Luke is pouring the wine. Sam’s staying in their spare room until he feels up to returning to his place in Islington: a tall Georgian terraced house, fresh from renovation and refurbishment, with a recording studio in the basement and a marble bathroom for every bedroom. Since acquiring it, he’s hardly spent any time there; when he did, the tasteful rooms felt like a deserted hotel, and he wandered through them, restless and lonely, calling up friends and acquaintances to come over and fill the space. He realises now that he much prefers Mattie’s place to his own. He likes River’s toys strewn over the floor, the jumble of shoes spilling from the rack in the hall. He looks around him at wooden kitchen surfaces crowded with jars of pulses and stained cookery books, a vase of fresh tulips on the table, and feels his shoulders relax.

  Luke offers him wine. Sam shakes his head. ‘I’ll stick to a soft drink, thanks.’ Mattie puts an iced soda and lime in his hand. The doorbell goes, and she’s off to answer it, trailing a thin line of smoke from the rollie between her fingers.

  Sam is expecting George to appear, but instead there’s the sound of raised voices. Both female. Luke cocks an eyebrow. ‘Sounds like trouble.’

  Sam frowns, recognising the other voice.

  Daisy, tearful and drunk, sways on the doorstep. ‘Babe,’ she slurs when she sees Sam. ‘I miss you.’

  ‘Daisy,’ Sam says, taking her arm as she lurches sideways. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were seeing someone?’

  She makes an angry sound in the back of her throat. ‘He was just a rebound, a … what do you call it … consolation fuck. Not you, babe. He couldn’t be you.’

  ‘Daisy,’ he sighs. ‘Look, you’d better come in and have a black coffee. Then I’m putting you in a cab home.’ He gives Mattie an apologetic glance. She rolls her eyes.

  Daisy slumps at the table, red hair straggling around flushed cheeks. One of her breasts is in danger of slipping out of her low-cut top.

  ‘Think I might be sick …’ She sags forwards.

  Sam jumps up, but Mattie motions him to sit. She helps Daisy up and guides her out of the room. ‘Hold on. Bathroom’s this way …’

  Then George is there, on the threshold, arms out. ‘Front door was open.’ He beams at Sam. ‘There he is.’

  Sam finds himself crushed to his brother’s chest, his glass tilting and slopping liquid onto his shoes. He glances towards the hall. ‘You just missed Daisy. Mattie’s taken her upstairs.’

  ‘Daisy? Ha! Let me guess. She’s completely shit-faced?’ George winks. ‘She’s been making the papers every week. Been seen out on the town with about five different men while you’ve been in the Priory. Think secretly she’s enjoying the attention,’ he adds.

  They sit at the pine table and Sam takes a sip of his drink. Seeing Daisy out of control makes him even more determined not to slide back into bad habits. They called it a nervous collapse, but substance abuse had made everything worse. Now he’s out in the real world he’s going to go slow, eat healthily, breathe deeply.

  Mattie comes in. ‘Out cold in my room. What a drama queen.’

  She takes a vegetable lasagne out of the oven, and the four of them sit around the kitchen table. Sam raises his soda in a toast. ‘To Mattie, for your food and hospitality – and for dealing with drunk ex-girlfriends. Thank you.’

  She blows him a kiss across the table.

  ‘So … what’s next?’ George asks, his voice deliberately casual.

  Sam sits up straighter. ‘Well, we’ve still got our remaining contractual obligations to Island,’ he says slowly. ‘The UK tour and stuff. But after that …’ He swallows. ‘I … I want to go solo, George. Just me and my guitar. See if I can write and play the kind of music I set out to make another lifetime ago.’ He’s been looking down at his plate. Now he glances up at George. ‘Are you okay with that?’

  George nods. ‘It’s what I expected, to be honest. There were some clear signs coming from you – have been for a while.’

  Sam scratches his head. ‘I don’t want to let anyone down, but I nee
d to get back to doing what feels right.’

  George leans across and touches his shoulder. ‘I’ve got something to tell you, too. I’ve bought a farm. In Wiltshire. An old manor house. Acres of land. I want out of the business.’

  Sam stares at him in amazement. ‘I had no idea. Out of the business altogether?’

  George shrugs. ‘I miss the countryside.’

  ‘But … this hasn’t come out of nowhere. You must have been planning it. You never told me you were thinking of quitting.’ Sam tries to keep his voice neutral.

  George’s cheeks colour. ‘You were in a bad place before you went into the Priory. You needed support.’ He gives Sam a steady look. ‘It didn’t feel like the right time to discuss my plans to leave.’

  Sam shakes his head. ‘Jesus, man. I’m sorry. I wish you could have talked to me when you wanted to.’

  George grins. ‘Yeah, I’ve been dying to tell you that I’m getting my own fucking peacocks at last.’

  Sam stares at him, and then laughs. His stomach hurts with the effort, his muscles contracting and squeezing. When he stops, wiping his eyes, he says, ‘Hope they appreciate you beating the shit out of your drums.’

  Mattie’s eyes widen as she looks from one brother to the other. ‘I need another glass of wine,’ she says. ‘That’s a lot to take in.’

  Luke leans over to grab the bottle of red wine. ‘I don’t have any grand announcements myself, I’m afraid. So I’ll just keep on drinking. Don’t mind me.’

  ‘You are such a complete prick, Luke,’ Mattie says pleasantly.

  Luke raises his glass to her. Mattie is smiling, but her eyes are empty. Sam wishes he was close enough to take her hand. Instead, he says, ‘And another thing, I’m going to need a new manager. Mattie, how would you feel about it?’

  ‘What? Me?’ Her eyes open wide. ‘But what about Marcus? And anyway … I don’t have any experience.’

  ‘Marcus and I have parted company. At least, we will as soon as the UK tour is over.’ He leans towards her. ‘You do have experience – you manage a household and a child, and you used to work as a buyer at Liberty. You’re great at organising. You’re good with people. Brilliant persuasive powers. Good sense of style. And I trust you.’

  George knocks his knuckles on the table. ‘I think it’s a great idea. You’ll be a good team.’

  ‘Well …’ Mattie glances at Luke, who looks bored. ‘I guess River will be at school … and I could do a lot from home, right?’

  Sam nods.

  ‘Luke?’ She looks at her husband again.

  He shrugs. ‘I can’t stop you.’

  ‘Then I’ll do it.’ She turns back to Sam. ‘On one condition. That you go and see Dad.’

  There’s a Hound of the Baskervilles baying before Sam’s mother answers the door. He rang beforehand to let her know he was coming. She reaches up for a hug. Under her clothes, he feels the creak of some old-fashioned construction that gives her a semblance of a waist. The dogs crowd him, long tails whipping back and forth, huge heads butting at him.

  His mother shoos them away. ‘Your father’s in the library, dear. I’m so glad you’ve come. Have a cup of tea first, though, and tell me your news.’

  They go through to the kitchen. He looks at the dark furniture and floral wallpaper, long fraying curtains at the windows, worn antique rugs on the floor, surfaces gritty with dust, and sniffs the clinging smell of stale cigarette smoke. He hasn’t been home since he left for America. Nothing changes in this house. It looks exactly as it did when he was an unhappy boy back from boarding school.

  His mother doesn’t mention his breakdown.

  ‘Such lovely weather,’ she says, handing him a cup of tea, with saucer and teaspoon. ‘I’ve been champing at the bit to get out into the garden. There’s so much to do. Are you going to stay with Matilda for long, darling?’

  ‘No. Not long,’ he says. ‘Just until I feel ready to go back to the new house. It’s far too big for me really.’

  ‘Is it completely over with Daisy?’ she asks. ‘Such a sweet girl. Even if her clothes were a little on the skimpy side.’

  ‘It’s over, Mum. She and I weren’t right for each other. I’m a single man again.’

  ‘Well, you’re at the marrying age, darling. Don’t wait around for too long.’

  Sam changes the subject, telling her a few details about the new tour, trying to make it interesting for her. But he’s nervous. He wants to see his father. This meeting has been a long time coming, and he has things he needs to say. He pushes an envelope into her hand. ‘A little something,’ he says. ‘For new clothes, or plants for the garden, or both …’ He runs out of ideas. He’s not sure what his mother would spend money on. She buys everything on a housekeeping budget – his father has never allowed her access to a joint account. ‘Open it later,’ he tells her quickly, knowing that the money will make her embarrassed. But he wants her to have it. Escape money, perhaps. ‘Come and stay with me in London any time, Mum,’ he says. ‘You don’t need to ring ahead. I’ve put a spare key to my house in there too.’

  ‘That’s so thoughtful, darling,’ she says. ‘But you know I can’t leave the dogs.’ She smiles. ‘Or your father.’

  The library is bright with sunshine coming through the big sash windows. His father is sitting in his old leather chair, a newspaper in his hands. Sam has imagined this moment many times. He’s run scenarios through his mind in which he shouts at him, explaining how he ruined his life. But recently, he’s seen a new version, in which he holds his father’s trembling hand, full of forgiveness, the old man repentant before him.

  His father peers over the top of The Times.

  ‘Hello, Dad,’ Sam says.

  ‘Well, sit down.’ His father nods towards another chair. ‘Don’t stand about dithering. Sun’s in my eyes.’ A cigarette is burning in an ashtray.

  Sam pauses for a second, turning on the ball of one foot. Already the situation is slipping away, and he feels himself returning to the past, as if a chain has appeared on his ankle, dragging him back into his role as the disappointing son. But then he takes a breath and sits.

  ‘Seen your mother, have you?’ his father asks, taking a drag and stubbing the cigarette out.

  ‘Yes,’ Sam says.

  ‘Hmm.’ His father shakes the newspaper out and folds it flat on his knees. ‘Your mother would like to see more of you.’

  ‘You know I take her out to tea in London every month?’

  His father nods. He leans forward. ‘And how have you been?’

  Sam swallows. He can’t remember the last time his father asked such a question. Warmth spills inside, a gladness, a hope. He moistens his lips, preparing to reply. But his father is already speaking again.

  ‘I hear you had to go to a funny farm.’

  Sam’s throat closes in shock. ‘No. It wasn’t … It was a place I went to voluntarily. I was very tired. Exhausted. I needed a … rest.’ He coughs. ‘I had a kind of breakdown.’

  ‘You always were weak. A dreamer. I know about people like you, with your long hair and your caterwauling.’ His father’s mouth turns down. ‘You’ve been taking drugs. You might pull the wool over your mother’s eyes, but you can’t over mine.’

  Heat rushes through Sam, and then icy cold. Horror has his body in a stranglehold, and he sits rigid, unmoving. What was he thinking, coming back here?

  ‘Dad.’ He leans forward, an urgent need to speak rushing through him. ‘You’re right. I took drugs sometimes. I drank too much sometimes. I was weak.’ He wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans. ‘But you’ve never helped me to be strong. Telling someone they’re no good makes them distrust themselves. It takes all their confidence away. If you had given me one word of approval, then—’

  ‘Excuses.’ His father scowls, and snaps the paper in Sam’s direction, as if he’s swatting a fly. ‘All your generation do is blame your parents.’

  Sam takes a deep breath. ‘I didn’t come here to argue. I came here to tell you t
hat I forgive you.’

  ‘Forgive me?’ His father looks startled for the first time.

  ‘For lying to us for all those years, for making Mum complicit in the lie. For telling me to be a gentleman when all the time you were behaving like the worst of men.’

  His father gives a sly smile. ‘Tell me, did you and your sisters ever want for anything? You never complained about living in this house, having your meals and your clothes provided. Going on holidays. You didn’t like the school I sent you to, perhaps. But it’s the best school in the country. The very best. You had every opportunity. And you’ve ended up being … what? A drug addict?’

  ‘No, Dad. I’ve ended up being a very successful musician. I’ve ended up making a great deal of money. And the thing is,’ Sam rakes his hair back from his forehead, ‘even though you don’t understand, I still forgive you. Because I need to, for me.’

  He stands up. His legs are shaking. He looks down at his father and notices the pouches and wrinkles reshaping his face, the edges of his bony knees pressing through his corduroy trousers. He would have liked to re-enact his original script, holding his father’s nicotine-stained hands inside his own. That was a fantasy. He feels weary now that he’s said what he needed to. But under his blanket of exhaustion, something else stirs, a bright, turning spark of wonder, because he knows, really knows, for the first time in his life, that he will never hear words of approval from his father. He doesn’t need to look for them, not ever. For they will never come.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Cat, August 1990

  Grace comes to find me in the kitchen. ‘Nancy’s mum’s on the phone,’ she says in a breathless voice.

  ‘For me?’

  She nods, chewing her lip and fidgeting.

  I put down my cup of coffee, walk into the hall and take up the receiver. I don’t know Nancy’s mom very well. She’s from New York originally, works in an office, and always seems in a hurry, rushing around in her smart clothes, calling to me from the window of her big car.