The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

  ‘I know you’re not crazy about surprises.’

  ‘You remembered,’ she murmurs.

  ‘This is a good one,’ he says. ‘A good surprise.’ They lock gazes. ‘Trust me.’

  Silently she slides onto the seat. He gets in next to her, and sits with his hands on his knees, hoping he’s doing the right thing. He has to keep telling himself that she’s married, that everything is different now. He snatches glances at her profile, wishing he knew what she was thinking.

  ‘The Heath?’ she says, as the car stops in the car park. She seems disappointed.

  ‘Maybe you’ve guessed already,’ he says. ‘Or maybe you don’t remember … but I want to show you the bench. The one I told you about?’

  She looks at him with a strange expression he can’t interpret. ‘I know it well, Sam,’ she says in a low voice. She turns to walk in the direction of Parliament Hill. He follows, stumbling over the rough grass, confused, his plan falling in tatters behind him.

  When they reach the lip of the hill, the bench is empty, the hawthorn leaves rustling in the breeze.

  ‘I come to the Heath a lot,’ she says, running her fingers over the worn armrest. ‘I live just around the corner. I found this eventually – took a while, reading all the inscriptions on all the benches. I used to come and sit here. I suppose I thought that one day I’d find you.’

  She sits down, and he follows. ‘I don’t understand,’ he says. ‘You were looking for me?’

  Her expression gives him his answer.

  ‘But … why didn’t you reply to my letters?’

  Her cheeks flush. ‘I never knew you sent them. My mom took them and burnt them. I only found out recently.’ She looks at him, and then glances away. ‘I thought … I thought you’d forgotten me.’

  He thinks he must have misheard. ‘You mother burnt them?’

  She nods again. ‘She thought she was doing the right thing, however wrong it was.’

  He feels sick. Her mother deliberately ruined their relationship. He recalls thinking he could have charmed her, won her around. Maybe he could have. But Cat never gave him the chance.

  ‘You didn’t show up at the airport.’ He’s aware of the tremor in his voice, and swallows hard.

  She touches his arm. ‘I’d planned to come. Like we arranged. But my dad was arrested. I had to go home. Sort things out. It was an emergency. I had no way of contacting you.’ She keeps her hand there, and he feels her fingers burn through the fabric of his shirt. ‘Later, I wondered if I could have phoned the airport, paged you or something …’ She blinks. ‘It was hard to think straight. Then it was a mess – Dad behind bars, arranging lawyers, his trial. He refused bail. Mom lost the plot. All the time, I wanted to hear from you so bad.’ Her voice twists. ‘I was gutted when you didn’t write. When I thought you didn’t write,’ she corrects quickly.

  ‘Shit.’ He takes a long breath and sighs it out. ‘If only I’d known … If I’d had just a bit of hope, I would have got on a plane and come back for you.’

  They both sit, silent, numb.

  ‘Why was he arrested?’

  ‘Embezzlement,’ she says. ‘I told you he was a gambler? He’s done his time. Doesn’t gamble any more. He’s settled in Alaska.’

  ‘And so … you somehow arrived in England. How long have you been here?’

  ‘About seven years.’

  He stares at her. ‘I thought you were still in the US. On our American tour, each city we went to, I wondered if you might be at the concert.’

  She gives him a puzzled look.

  ‘I phoned the funeral home,’ he explains. ‘They said you’d left Atlantic City. I thought you were somewhere else in the States.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘And now you’re married?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She roots about in her bag and finds a tissue. Blows her nose. ‘I got a job over here as an au pair to a little girl. Her dad’s a single parent. And … after a few years, he asked me to marry him.’

  He works to keep his voice steady. ‘You love him?’

  She pushes her hair from her forehead. ‘Of course.’ But she doesn’t meet his eyes.

  He wants to be generous, do the right thing; he should tell her how happy he is for her, but the words won’t come. ‘We had something good, Cat,’ he says instead, shaking his head. ‘And we lost it.’

  She seems to hold her breath, her eyes wide. Then her shoulders collapse. ‘It was my fault. I didn’t get to the airport. My mom destroyed your letters.’

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’ He grabs at her hands, holds them tightly inside his own. ‘I should have believed in you more. I should have known you’d never have ignored my letters.’

  She gives a small sob, and tugs her hands back from his. ‘I have to go soon. I have an appointment this afternoon. And there’s Grace … I have things to sort out for her costume, a performance she’s doing.’ She sits up straighter. ‘I can walk home from here.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nods. ‘Of course.’ She has a life that has nothing to do with him. He glances at his watch. His own life is calling, or the thought of Marcus is – because Marcus will kill him if he’s late for the bus. ‘Look, I’ve got to go too.’

  ‘Right,’ she says, nodding.

  He doesn’t move. He can’t leave her like this. ‘I know you’re married. But …’ He folds his lips together, frowning. ‘But can I see you when the tour’s finished? I’ll be away for a couple of months. I could call when I’m back. I live in London now, so it would be easy … Just a coffee, or a walk in the park?’ He hurries on, not wanting a negative response. ‘We still have stuff to say, don’t we? Gaps to fill in? Just as friends.’ He swallows. ‘What do you think?’

  She stares at the view. She takes a long time to speak, and he can picture the band gathered with their bags in reception, the bus out front, Marcus pacing the pavement. A crowd gathering.

  ‘Okay,’ she says. ‘But don’t phone. Write me. Here’s my address.’ She rips a page from a notebook in her bag and scribbles on it. She looks at his sceptical expression. ‘I know. The last writing plan didn’t turn out so well.’

  He takes the folded page and slips it into his pocket. Of course, he realises he can’t phone her at her home; her husband might answer. He jots his own address down and hands it over as he stands up. ‘I’m going to have to run back to the car.’ He kisses her cheek, inhaling the scent of her skin; not pondy any more, but a suggestion of green sap, and something sweet, like maple syrup. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ He turns away, past the hawthorn bush. He doesn’t look back.

  What the fuck are you doing, you total idiot? Those are the words Mattie will use when he tells her. She’s the only one he will tell. The only one who’ll understand, despite the tongue-lashing she’ll give him.

  He’s on the sun-bright path leading downhill to the car park, and the heels of his boots clip the surface as he breaks into a jog and then a sprint. He pounds along, careening around corners, running faster than he’s run since he was on the beach in Atlantic City, hand in hand with Cat, escaping the shadowy threat behind them. A laugh bursts from his throat, his hat flying from his head, and he hopes to God that there are no photographers lurking behind any bushes.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Cat, October 1990

  It’s not this Sam that I love. Not the Sam Sage of today – the rock star, the man I saw in the green room. It’s who he used to be, who we used to be: the twenty-somethings in Atlantic City, giddy with romance, innocently hopeful, full of plans and dreams. I think I’ve always been in love with the memory of those people. Seeing Sam again like that, so unexpectedly, was a trigger for remembered feelings to come rushing back. And it was confusing for a moment. But I’m not confused any more. I know where I belong, and who I love.

  Leo and I sit in the darkness, gazing at Grace as she pirouettes across the stage, chin up, head snapping round as she turns. Her tutu sticks out above taut legs, her arms curve. She looks like a doll, I think, rememberin
g suddenly the dolls on the floor of her room, hacked to pieces. The hall is loud with clapping and cheering. It’s an enthusiastic crowd, mostly other parents, family and friends of the young dancers. Grace is curtseying, her cheeks pink, eyes bright.

  Leo and I wait outside the stage door with a group of other parents. The fall night has a chill, and I shiver. Leo puts his arm around my shoulders and gives me a brisk rub. ‘Why don’t you sit in the car, darling?’

  Since my body has failed to get pregnant, he’s started to treat me like an invalid. The doctor could find nothing wrong. ‘I’m sure it’s all just a matter of time.’ He gave me a paternal smile. ‘Stop thinking about it, and it’ll happen.’

  But our sex life has altered under the strain. Already it’s become a kind of chore. Something riddled with anxiety instead of filled with pleasure. Leo takes my temperature every day, knows my cycle better than me, marking my fertile days on the calendar. He’s disappointed when, every month, I come out of the bathroom shaking my head.

  Grace appears, still wearing the mask of her stage make-up.

  ‘Good job!’ I congratulate her.

  ‘Well done,’ Leo says. ‘Proud of you, darling.’

  We walk back to the car, arms linked, a family unit. This is enough, I tell myself. The three of us. I wish it could be, because since meeting Sam, my feelings have changed: I still want to get pregnant, but knowing that Sam and I could have had a life together makes me feel odd about having a child with Leo. But that’s ridiculous. Leo is my husband. I can’t back out now. He and Grace are counting on me.

  At supper, Grace looks at us both. She’s nervous, I can tell, because she’s doing that thing with her mouth, chewing her lips, pressing them together.

  ‘Dad … Cat … guess what? Miss Miller says I have what it takes to be a professional dancer.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t surprise me!’ I tell her. ‘You’re so good. Do you want to dance as a career?’

  She nods. ‘More than anything.’

  I know how that feels. Want becomes need. The need entered my bones, lives inside me still. I can see it’s the same for Grace. Her eyes shine with passion. ‘Then we need to talk to Miss Miller,’ I glance at Leo for confirmation, ‘find out what we should do to make that happen.’

  ‘Just hold on a minute.’ Leo places his knife and fork together on his plate. ‘I think perhaps Miss Miller should have talked to me first.’

  ‘Oh, she does want to talk to you,’ Grace rushes on, breathless with excitement. ‘She says to discuss extra classes with her, and I should switch to a dance and drama school. Urdang maybe, or Tring if I want something more classical. I’ll need to audition.’

  ‘Dancing’s not a sensible career choice, darling,’ he says. ‘Even if you were to make a success of it, it’s short-lived. You’re a clever girl. Keep it as a hobby and find something more worthwhile to do.’

  ‘Oh, but please, Daddy,’ she says. ‘I really, really want to be a dancer.’

  I hold my breath, watching her lips tremble. She’s staring at him with eager eyes.

  Leo clears his throat. ‘No, Grace. I’m sorry. I just can’t support it.’

  ‘Dad.’ She leans across the table. ‘Please.’

  ‘Leo,’ I say quickly. ‘Couldn’t we just talk about it? Grace is really talented. And if this is her dream …’

  He gives me a warning look. ‘The dreams of thirteen-year-olds are liable to change.’

  ‘I won’t change my mind,’ she says quickly.

  ‘I won’t either,’ he tells her. ‘You’ll stay at school and take your exams as planned.’

  Grace stands up, pushing back her chair so fast that it falls behind her. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s blinking back tears. ‘I hate you.’ She runs from the room.

  I listen to her feet crashing up the stairs. ‘Maybe you should go to her?’

  He sets the fallen chair upright, and pours himself a rare second glass of wine. ‘She’ll calm down.’

  I begin to rise, but he puts his hand on mine. ‘Give her time.’

  ‘But why don’t you want her to dance?’ I sink back into my seat. ‘I don’t understand. I mean, we know how good she is …’

  ‘I don’t want her to be rejected.’ His voice has an edge. ‘I won’t let her know the humiliation of failure – I’d never forgive myself. She’s worth more than that.’

  A light bulb has switched on in my head. ‘You mean, like Elizabeth?’

  He nods. ‘I don’t want Grace following her mother down that road.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ I say quietly. ‘Grace isn’t like Elizabeth. She’s talented. Disciplined. This isn’t fair on her.’

  ‘Cat, I know you’re trying to help,’ he tells me. ‘But I’d rather you didn’t interfere in this. She’s my daughter. I know best.’

  I sit back quickly. It feels as though he’s slapped me. I expected him to be more supportive of Grace, less old-fashioned in his views. But it’s his need for control that shocks me most. Although maybe his attitude shouldn’t be such a surprise, I realise, not when I think about how he’s used to being respected, obeyed without question when he’s in the operating room.

  When I check on Grace, she’s a dark shape under the covers, her hair spread over the pillow, the cat curled behind her knees.

  ‘Are you still awake?’ I whisper.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ she says, her voice husky with tears. ‘How can he be so mean? I just … I feel like dying. Like throwing myself out of the window.’

  ‘Hey.’ I sit down next to her and hold her hand. ‘Don’t say that. Shall I stay for a bit?’

  ‘Yes, please.’ Our fingers entwine. ‘Cat?’ she asks in a hesitant voice. ‘Do you think he’ll change his mind?’

  ‘You know your dad. He’s pretty stubborn when he believes he’s right about something.’ I lean closer. ‘Grace, just because you can’t switch schools, it doesn’t mean you should give up. There are plenty of contemporary dancers who get into it in their twenties. Never say never.’

  She gives a shuddering sob, and squeezes my hand.

  ‘And your dad’s right about you getting your exams,’ I add. ‘It’ll give you options.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she says, ‘I don’t care about anything any more.’

  ‘Hey.’ I give her hand a little shake. ‘You’ll get past this. It feels like the end of the world. But it’s not.’

  She shrugs. ‘Cat … about you having a baby … is it really going to happen?’

  I run my palm over the sheet. ‘These things can take time, and it’s only been ten months. It’s completely normal. I’m going to the hospital for a few tests – your dad’s pulled some strings to get me an appointment. I’m sure everything’s fine.’

  ‘Having babies can be dangerous, can’t it?’ There’s a catch in her voice.

  ‘Not really, not nowadays,’ I add quickly, leaning down to kiss her forehead. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

  Her diary is on the floor, pages splayed. I pick it up and put it on the bedside table, my fingers lingering for a second on the closed cover. She’s just turned thirteen, and I wonder what secrets she’s scrawled in there, what teenage angst I’d discover. She must have poured out her heart this evening, raging against Leo’s decision. I hope it helped.

  I climb into bed with Leo, and after a quick hug, he turns away from me. It’s not one of our nights, and I’m relieved, because timetabled sex is the last thing on my mind. I’m still angry with him for not even considering the idea of Grace dancing. I remember how disappointed I was when there wasn’t money for me to go to college; the sense of being left behind that haunted me. Leo’s asleep already. It’s a talent he has, his ability to switch off, whatever else is going on.

  I lie beside him, listening to the rush of air through his open mouth, the slight wet clicking noise he makes when he’s sleeping. I twist the plain gold ring around my finger. And very clearly, I hear Mom’s voice, Regret is pointless, Catrin. Best just to m
ake decisions that will save you from the sorrow of it.

  It startles me, that word. Regret. I push it away. Regret has no place here, I tell myself, no place in my mind, in my vocabulary. It’s only stolen through the cracks in my consciousness, like a thief wanting my happiness, because I had a postcard from Sam. Nothing at all for weeks and weeks. And then a card from Rome.

  Home next week. Shall we meet at the bench? Give me the day and time and I’ll be there.

  When I found it lying on the doormat, a prickle of fear shivered across my skin. What if Leo had found it? What kind of reckless stupidity made me give Sam my address? Why did I agree to see him again?

  I send a note as brief as his.

  Sorry, this isn’t going to work. We can’t be friends. It’s best if we don’t see each other again.

  He’ll understand it’s better this way.

  I roll over onto my hip and put my arm around my husband’s chest, my face pressed into his back, the fabric of his pyjamas soft under my cheek. I wait for sleep to come for me. A car changes gear outside. The pipes gurgle behind the wall. Leo’s heart beats in the palm of my hand. This is where I belong.

  The hospital waiting room is busy. The woman across from me sits holding hands with a man I guess must be her husband. A woman on my right is crying, her partner’s arm around her. I’m here alone, because I didn’t want Leo to have to rearrange his patients. And if he’d come too, it would have given the occasion more gravitas than I wanted it to have.

  I pick up a magazine and flick through the pages, skimming the text, glossy images sliding by, adverts shouting their messages. I’m not really concentrating on what I’m looking at; I just want to forget the tests I’ve been through: the prodding and poking into my most intimate spaces, the scan machine swallowing me inside the claustrophobic tunnel of its roaring mouth.

  And then suddenly Sam’s face is there, looking at me. I shut the magazine with a gasp. Opening it again, I’m staring down at a photo of him, beautiful in a dark jacket with the collar turned up. There’s another of all the band members arranged in a group, giving the camera their best poker faces, Sam in the centre, a tiny smile playing about his lips. The article to go with the photographs is titled: Sam Sage and the break-up of the Lambs. I’m tired of making music I’m not proud of, says the rock heart-throb.