The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

  ‘I feel lucky,’ I say.

  He makes an exasperated face. ‘You wrote the book, darling.’ He flicks his gauzy scarf behind him. ‘What’s with you? You look like a wet afternoon.’

  ‘I just have a bit of a headache.’ I look at the floor. The new fertility drugs have kicked in, and they’re making me sore and bloated.

  I don’t dare let him see my eyes. Dougie’s too sharp and he knows too much. He’s the one person who might decipher my expression, reading my real thoughts, asking me questions I can’t answer. Leo makes his way across the room and takes my arm, leaning to shake Dougie’s hand. I watch Grace with Nancy in the corner, smiling and whispering.

  I catch something at the corner of my eye, and take a sharp breath. I thought I saw Sam. I gaze around. He’s not here. Of course not. But I’m imagining the feel of his body as he takes me in his arms, tilting me off my feet. He gives me that wide crooked smile. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ I hear him say.

  There’s a giant bouquet of white roses on my bedside table, a present from Leo. The smell of them infuses the room with an overpowering heady sweetness. The perfume makes me remember Elizabeth’s funeral. Those heaps of white flowers. The rain. The beginning of all this. My marriage. My life here with Leo and Grace.

  When Leo gives me a goodnight hug, he asks, ‘You all right? You seem … unhappy.’

  ‘Just tired,’ I say, wrapping my arms around his back.

  ‘Well, you could stop writing,’ he says. ‘You’ve achieved your goal – got a book published – which is wonderful. But now it’s time to focus on getting pregnant. You won’t be able to juggle being an author and a mother of a newborn, will you?’

  I don’t say anything. But he doesn’t know me at all if he thinks I’m going to stop writing.

  This morning, I stand in my bra and pants so that he can give me a shot in the stomach. ‘Take a breath,’ he says. ‘Good.’ He slides the needle into me. ‘All done.’ He pats my shoulder.

  The injections go into belly fat. They don’t hurt. I could give them to myself, but Leo insists on doing it. He’s written out charts with all our appointments at the hospital: the ultra-sounds, the transferring of embryos. He takes my temperature and pulse, gives me advice on what I should eat, makes me go to bed early. It’s not for ever, I tell myself. I’ll get pregnant soon and then he’ll back off. He can’t help wanting to control everything when we’re in the medical intervention stage.

  Loud music comes pounding through our bedroom wall. Grace has turned into a full-on teenager. She stays locked in her room, playing her CDs, painting her nails green or blue. She’s perfected the sulky pout, the dismissive eye-roll as if she’s been taking classes. ‘Talk to the hand’ is her new favourite phrase. I miss my chatty, smiley child.

  ‘I have a good feeling about this round,’ Leo is saying. ‘Just think, one of them could be our son.’ He frowns at the blaring music. ‘It’s not on,’ he says.

  ‘It’s fine,’ I say.

  ‘No, it’s not. I’m fed up with her moods. She needs to be more considerate.’

  I start to get up, but Leo motions me to stay. He leaves the room. I hear him knocking and telling Grace to turn the music off. There’s a slammed door and then ringing silence. I hear his feet moving quietly on the stairs. He hates to shout.

  *

  September 1991

  Summer’s over. I’m still not pregnant.

  November 1991

  As I struggle to pull Grace’s duvet from its cover, I catch sight of Fat Mog, curled under her desk. He didn’t come down for his breakfast. I make chirping noises, watching for the flicker of his ears. The duvet slithers onto the carpet. I reach for the clean cover.

  There was no ear-flicker, and I have a sudden clutch of anxiety. ‘Mog,’ I call. ‘Hey, kitty. Greedy-guts. Want some breakfast?’

  My breath quickens as I kneel by him. The softness beneath my fingers radiates cold. Under the rug of his fur, his body is stiff. I peer at his face. His eyes are dull, unseeing. ‘Oh Mog …’

  I find one of Leo’s old shoeboxes and line it with tissue paper. It’s only just big enough. I tuck Fat Mog’s tail inside, and bend his paws to fit. I spend the rest of the day dreading the sound of Grace’s key in the lock.

  Her face crumples when I tell her; she lets out a long wail, her hand over her mouth. I put my arms around her, cradling her head. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ I whisper. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  We bury him near a silver birch at the bottom of the garden. The ground is hard, and it takes both our efforts to dig a hole. She’s silent, red-faced, hiccuping with sobs. All her new-found bravado has gone. ‘Let’s give him a lovely grave,’ I say. ‘In the spring, we could plant something beautiful over the top.’

  Leo is working late. My body is tight with resentment, even though I know it isn’t his fault, that he hasn’t deliberately stayed away. It’s just he’s away so much, for work, and all those hours spent playing golf. I thought I’d got used to it. I tell myself it’s just the hormones. I need to get a grip.

  Grace goes to bed early. She’s begun to shut her door at bedtime, but this evening she lets me sit beside her.

  ‘Do you think the IVF will work?’ she asks.

  ‘I hope so,’ I tell her. ‘People often get pregnant on the third try. We’ll have to wait and see.’

  Her diary lies open on the sheet next to her. ‘You’re so good at keeping up with it,’ I say. ‘Remember the first one I got you, for your birthday?’

  She nods. ‘Makes me feel … better. To write things down.’

  ‘Me too.’

  She puts up her hand to take the elastic band from her ponytail, and the sleeve of her top slips down, showing the nub of her wrist bone and a thin red mark beside it.

  ‘Did Mog scratch you again?’

  Her fingers move to the place, and her mouth trembles. ‘His claws got long. It wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘No. Of course not. He loved you.’ I tilt my head to see the scratch. ‘Shall I get some antiseptic?’

  ‘No, it’s fine. I did it already.’ She lies down. ‘Goodnight, Mum.’

  I catch onto that one word, and something opens inside me; an expanse of hope, of possibility. ‘You … you called me Mum.’

  She rubs her swollen eyes. ‘Do you mind?’

  ‘Mind?’ I lean forward to kiss her cheek. ‘Grace, I’ve wanted to hear you call me that for a long time.’

  I go to the door to switch off the light. ‘Love you, bug.’

  March 1992

  I take the familiar little white stick into the bathroom with me. It’s blank, white as virgin snow. Not even a hint of blue. I don’t cry. I drop it in the trash and wash my hands. The truth is, there’s a part of me that’s relieved. I could never say that aloud. I guess I’ve lost trust in Leo to do the right thing, for me, for Grace.

  August 1992

  Leo and I sit in the new private consultant’s room like children before a headmaster’s desk. The doctor glances up from our notes. ‘I’m sorry, but in my opinion, it’s not advisable to continue with more IVF cycles,’ he tells us. ‘I feel that the negative impact of the procedure now outweighs your chances of success.’

  Relief falls through me like a weight of water, tension washing out of my body. I slump back against my chair.

  ‘But we can find the funds for more,’ Leo is saying. ‘People do continue having cycles beyond this point.’

  The consultant shifts his heavy shoulders. ‘Statistically, the chance of success is going down.’

  ‘So if you’re advising against further IVF,’ Leo says, the slowness of his speech betraying his impatience, ‘perhaps now is the time to talk about the operation.’

  The consultant purses his lips and places his fingertips together. ‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ he says. He glances down at my notes again. ‘At thirty-six and forty-one, your ages are working against you. You must understand, the operation can’t offer any certainty. And there could be further consequences,
as I believe was originally outlined to Catrin. For example, the increased chance of an ectopic pregnancy.’

  I glance at Leo. His face is red, and I can tell he doesn’t like the way the consultant is treating him; despite being a friend of a friend, this man is not behaving as if they’re equals. ‘I don’t think we can dismiss the possibility of surgery,’ he says. ‘Not without further advice.’

  There used to be hope in Leo’s face when he slid the needle into my stomach; now it’s more like determination. This process has changed him, or maybe it’s just shown me what he was really like all along.

  ‘No.’ I press my nails into my palms. ‘I’m not having an operation.’

  ‘Of course, darling. It has to be your decision,’ he says carefully.

  But when he places his hand on my arm, my skin shrinks from his touch.

  Outside the consulting room, he says, ‘The man’s an idiot. We’ll get a second opinion.’

  Anger flares. ‘Listen to me. We’ve got one child already.’ I tug at his sleeve. ‘She’s a teenager. She’s finding life difficult. I worry about her. Our focus should be on her, not trying for something that doesn’t exist.’

  He nods, but he’s not really listening.

  Sometimes I write Sam notes. They say, Please come, I need to see you. Or, I’ve changed my mind. I have to be with you, whatever the cost. They ask him to forgive me, to come and get me, or to meet me at our bench. After I’ve written them, I rip them into tiny, tiny pieces and push them deep into the trash.

  FORTY-TWO

  Sam, January 1993

  Sam stands beside his mother, supporting her elbow. The priest raises his hand: ‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.’ Sam’s mother gives a sob, pressing her hanky to her mouth. A week ago, she phoned Sam in the early hours. A massive stroke, she said. His father had been dead on arrival at hospital. Now Sam watches the coffin swinging slowly into the grave. His mother’s handful of dirt makes a scratching sound as it scatters across the lid.

  He remembers Cat leading him into the funeral parlour, the different kinds of coffin on display, her insouciance amongst these practical necessities, how he admired it, even as his own fear of death thundered through him. Back home in London, it would take him less than half an hour to reach her. His Nokia sits in his pocket, redundant. He doubts she has a mobile, and he doesn’t know her landline number. But he can’t call her even if he did.

  It’s silly to want to tell her the news. She didn’t even meet his father, believed until recently that he was already dead. So it doesn’t make sense to want to share this with her. But he does, more than anything.

  At the wake, Sam accepts condolences with a fixed smile. When George and Mattie appear at his side, he breathes a sigh of relief. ‘Thank God. The polite nodding was giving me neck ache,’ he says. ‘Who knew we had so many distant relatives?’

  Mattie rubs red-rimmed eyes. Sam puts an arm around her shoulder, giving her a squeeze. George’s ruddy cheeks are dimmed. ‘Mum wanted to come,’ he says, ‘but she thought it would be difficult – upsetting for your mother and all of you. I stayed with her last night. She cried for hours.’ He scratches his head. ‘We humans know how to make a mess of our lives, don’t we?’

  Mattie holds onto his elbow. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Mum’s devastated too,’ Sam says. ‘This has really hit her hard. Her loyalty to the old bugger is beyond belief.’

  ‘She loved him,’ Mattie says. ‘And who are we to question that? What do we know about what went on between them? Or between him and Maureen? What goes on between any couple in private?’

  George raises his glass, ‘To James Winterson, our father. Whatever else, he gave us life.’

  Mattie smiles and chinks her glass against his. ‘And each other.’

  Sam touches his own glass to his siblings’, holding it by the stem so that the delicate bowl makes a true ringing sound.

  ‘I read a review of the album the other day,’ George says, ‘in the Guardian. What was the phrase they used …’ He presses his lips together, tilting his head. ‘Uplifting and beguiling. I think that was it.’

  Sam nods. ‘The press have been kind. Mattie’s arranged some UK gigs. Small venues.’ He takes a sip of wine. ‘Everything’s on a different scale now and I feel better for it.’

  ‘And you’ve moved into your new house, I hear?’ George asks Mattie.

  ‘River and I are installed in a sweet house in the next street to Sam. Not quite a cottage, but nearly. You should come over.’

  ‘It’s great to have you guys so close,’ Sam says.

  Mattie laughs. ‘You might just begin to regret it when he gets old enough to pop round to Uncle Sam’s on his own. I can predict he’ll want your place to be his hangout pad. It’ll certainly impress all his mates.’

  ‘Sounds like fun.’ Sam smiles, scanning the room for his mother.

  She’s in the library, curled up in his father’s favourite chair, a burning cigarette between her fingers, the dogs waiting anxiously beside her. Sam sits on the sofa opposite and leans forward. ‘Can I get you anything?’

  Her lipsticked mouth wobbles. ‘I keep thinking he’s in the next room. About to walk through the door.’ She blinks and swallows, regaining control. ‘I have something for you.’ She searches her pockets and presses an object into his palm. Heavy, cool, silver. His father’s watch.

  ‘I’d like you to have it,’ she says. She leans over, crushing her cigarette into an ashtray, and pats his knee. ‘He was a difficult man, I know. But he loved us. It wasn’t obvious, but he did – despite what you think.’

  Sam clasps the watch, circling his thumb over the smooth face. His mother gets up, the dogs struggling to their feet, ears pricked for the sound of her voice. ‘Better get back to it,’ she says, pushing her chest out. As she passes, she touches the top of his head like a priest giving a blessing.

  He fastens the watch around his wrist, the new weight strange against the bone. He listens to the sound of the clock on the mantelpiece and imagines he hears the whisper of the pages of The Times turning, the smell of his father’s aftershave: a man who had two families.

  Is he just as guilty? He’s learnt that living without hurting others is harder than he imagined. He doesn’t have a wife and children to betray, but Cat is married, and there is a child. When they met again, he carefully avoided asking any questions that would make them into real people. All he knows is that the husband is called Leo and the girl is Grace. He has no information about the man’s job, no details of either of their physical appearances, foibles or habits; he doesn’t know what makes them laugh, or the way their voices sound. It’s as if not-knowing is a method of erasure. A way of pretending they don’t exist.

  And now, he thinks with a jolt, there could be a baby.

  Sam avoids Hampstead Heath. But he walks in other places: Battersea Park, St James’s Park, Green Park, Highbury Fields. Today he meanders through Hyde Park, stopping by bench inscriptions that catch his interest. He scribbles them down in his notebook, letting the ideas that come from those brief lines float and flicker inside him, until something catches and he begins to hear a song. He stops and watches a young woman walk past, her new baby slung in a papoose across her chest. Could Cat really be pregnant? Could she have had a baby by now? He’s sure he’d somehow have a feeling about it, and he doesn’t. He takes a seat for a moment, absorbing the ebb and flow of the park: dogs with smiling mouths, some kids playing catch. He notices a couple lost in each other on a nearby bench, and feels that familiar tug inside him. It’s as if he’s tethered to her. Wherever Cat is, whatever she’s doing, he knows the connection between them will not break, will not snap or even fray, but will hold tight, binding him to her.

  On his way out of the park, the last inscription he stops to read startles him. Under a woman’s name is a short, simple sentence: She is not far away. He looks up involuntarily, and glances around. She’s not there, of cour
se, but he can’t help feeling that the inscription was a message.

  So when the next day an envelope arrives addressed in her writing, it’s as if he knew she’d be contacting him. He tears it open: Please come, it reads. I need you. I’ll be at our bench tomorrow at midday.

  FORTY-THREE

  Cat, January 1993

  It’s raining. I get to the bench first, afraid he’s not going to come. Then I hear movement through the wet leaves. We’re in each other’s arms. The push of his tongue against mine. The soft give of his mouth. All the tastes and shapes and textures of him living in me again. Relief stings my eyes.

  Rain falls onto my skin, trembling in tiny mercury beads over our coats. It shines inside our hair. He sits down and I’m in his lap, arms around his neck. I examine tiny details of him: the close-up whorl of his ear, dark hair springing from follicles, a small pimple on his cheek, a pale scar shaped like a torn petal at the edge of his jaw. The skin behind his ear is pinker than the rest of his neck, the surface slightly rough. I run my finger over it, and he shivers. I lick raindrops from my lips, blink them from my lashes.

  ‘You came,’ I say.

  ‘Of course,’ he says. ‘I got your note. Of course I came.’

  ‘I didn’t know if you were in the country.’

  He kisses me with cold lips. ‘Come home with me,’ he whispers.

  ‘I can’t.’

  He pulls back from me, forehead wrinkling. ‘We can’t talk here – we need to get out of this downpour.’

  The slippery, wet feel of his hair is against my mouth.

  ‘We’ll drown if we stay here much longer,’ he adds, his attempt at humour making his voice crack.

  Our hearts are thudding. His lungs are working fast, as fast as my own. I can feel the rise and fall of his chest through his coat.

  ‘Cat?’ His voice is tight. His arms tremble against me.

  In answer, I slip off his lap and stand, holding out my hand to him. I see myself reflected in his dark irises, my own desire and fear mirrored back at me. The uncertainty of our lives stretches out, unmapped and unknown, impossible to grasp, but our desire for each other is real, tangible as rocks. He puts his hand into my outstretched one and we walk away from the bench and down the hill towards the road.