The Bench

by Saskia Sarginson

  Dad will hate me if he finds out. I hate myself. I am a bad person. I should be punished.

  Cat and Dad are getting married – I wish I could call her mum. Sometimes I feel happy. And then I remember.

  Dad and Cat are going to have a baby!!!! I want a sister so badly.

  When Cat has the baby then it will make everything better. We’ll call her Sally and I’ll tell her stories like Cat told me.

  Dad won’t let me go to dance school. I want it more than anything. More than a little sister even. I hate him.

  Nothing matters any more. I don’t care about living. What’s the point?

  Dad and Cat are arguing. It’s my fault. I should never have asked for a sister. What if Cat dies from having a baby? I will be a double murderer. I made her do this.

  Nobody smiles any more. Everything is going wrong and it’s my fault. My fault. MY FAULT.

  I SHOULD KILL MYSELF. EVERYTHING I TOUCH TURNS TO POISON.

  Sometimes the letters are scratched so hard into the paper that it’s ruched and torn, stabbing through onto the page underneath. Ink spots blot and obscure words. There are bits of text, whole chunks, that read like any normal teenager’s diary: talk about pimples and boys and friendships, long tracts relating details of parties and an argument with Nancy, lists of clothes she wants to buy with little illustrations next to them. Then it starts again, the terrible self-blame, the hatred, the idea of suicide discussed, the need for it getting stronger and stronger. A photo of Elizabeth has been glued onto the inside of the front cover, greasy with lip prints.

  I snap the book shut. She left it unlocked for a reason. I didn’t understand. I failed her.

  FORTY-SIX

  Sam, September 1994

  He has an urge to run after her, lurching down Parliament Hill, skidding across footpaths, so that he can trail behind, following her home like a stray dog. Back to a house he’s never seen. He wants to stand outside, under the shadow of a tree, to be unobtrusive but poised to act if need be, in case – in case what? In case Leo turns violent? The mild bespectacled surgeon that Sam remembers looked as though he didn’t have an aggressive bone in his body. But people can surprise you.

  It might take hours before Cat calls him. It might not be until tomorrow. He doesn’t know what to do with himself while he’s waiting.

  Sam presses his finger on the buzzer, and the familiar ringtone of Mattie’s doorbell peals. After a few moments and some muffled swearing, she opens the door part way, peering through the crack. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Are you ill?’ he asks, observing his sister’s flushed cheeks and dishevelled hair.

  She shakes her head, glancing behind her, and then back. ‘Not a good time.’

  There’s a noise on the stairs, a male voice. ‘Come back to bed, baby.’

  Sam widens his eyes at her. She narrows hers at him.

  ‘Where’s River?’

  ‘With Luke.’

  She hovers, her fingers remaining on the edge of the door. Then she seems to see him for the first time, focuses and frowns. ‘You all right?’

  He digs into the deepest part of himself to drag the fragmented, spinning bits of himself back together. He holds them there for the time it takes him to say, ‘It’s not the postman in there with you, is it?’ He raises one eyebrow. ‘Milkman? I did warn them about you.’

  She laughs, ‘Goodbye, Sam,’ and shuts the door.

  It’s the longest night of his life. He walks clutching his mobile in his hand; trudging south, he passes pubs and restaurants noisy with the clatter of cutlery and conversation. He skirts around the opera crowd at Covent Garden, their privilege covering them like gilded capes. He crosses Waterloo Bridge, stopping to stare down at the dark river, surface streaked with oily reflections, littered with the ghosts of city lights. He makes his way along the South Bank, remembering the day she found him sleeping in the green room at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. He re-crosses the river at Blackfriars. He checks and rechecks his phone in case he’s missed her call. A train rumbles across the bridge, lights flashing on and off as windows pass the struts.

  He limps northwards, a blister on his heel, heading for Rosebery Avenue. A fox slinks from behind a bin. As the hours pass, there are fewer people, and they’re changed by booze or drugs or desperation. They stare with sullen, empty eyes, or stagger and shout. Groups gather outside kebab shops and chippies, eating with feral, mindless hunger. Homeless people are bedded down under a bridge, cardboard carefully arranged as windbreaks and pillows. Sam puts his hands in his pockets and realises that he doesn’t have his wallet on him; he has nothing to give.

  It’s not until the next morning that she phones. She wants to meet at their bench. ‘Soon as you can get there,’ she says. Her voice low, expressionless. ‘I can’t speak now,’ she says. ‘I’ll explain when I see you.’

  It’s all wrong. What is there to explain? Sam feels sick.

  She’s there, hunched, staring into the distance.

  He sits beside her. ‘What is it … what’s happened?’

  He’s shocked by her raw, swollen eyes. She pushes a strand of limp hair from her forehead. ‘Grace tried to kill herself last night.’

  Sam is cold. ‘What?’ he gasps.

  She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t tell Leo that I was leaving. I couldn’t, because after I left here, I found …’ She takes a gulp of air. ‘I found her with her wrists cut, in the bath.’

  ‘Jesus.’ He rubs his forehead. ‘Cat, I’m so sorry. Is she going to be okay?’

  ‘The wounds weren’t deep enough … to be fatal.’ She balls her hands, keeps them on her knees. ‘She’s in hospital, being assessed to see if she needs to be moved to the psychiatric ward. It’s complicated. She’s been blaming herself for her mom’s death. Suffering in silence all these years.’

  ‘And us?’ His voice is just a thread of sound.

  She shakes her head. ‘I can’t. We can’t.’ She moves her head slowly on her neck.

  He puts his hand on one of hers, folding his warmth over her cold skin. ‘I can see … that things are difficult and you need to wait a bit longer, but—’

  She tugs her hand away. ‘No more waiting, Sam. It’s not fair … on anyone. I’m not going to leave her. Not now. Not ever. I can’t.’

  ‘But you said that you and Leo shouldn’t be married.’ He tries to make her look at him. ‘Never mind about me. If you stay with him, you’ll be unhappy. For the rest of your life.’

  Tears leak along the line of her nose, collecting above her top lip. He wipes them with his fingers. ‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I’m not going to accept this. I can’t.’

  Her blurred eyes meet his. He pulls her towards him, holding her tight. She’s stiff and unyielding. Her hair smells of hospitals. ‘Cat,’ he whispers. She gulps and wraps her arms tightly around him, burying her damp face in his neck. ‘Give it a bit more time, let the shock settle, and then we can talk,’ he murmurs into her hair.

  ‘No.’ She struggles, disentangling herself from his embrace. ‘Grace needs me. I’m not leaving her. I promised.’

  ‘Then … Okay …’ He flails around for something to hang onto. ‘We’ll give it longer – two years? Five years? We’ll meet in five years.’

  ‘No.’ She puts her palm to his cheek, holding it there. ‘I don’t want you to be alone. I don’t want you to spend years waiting – it’s crazy.’

  ‘It’s my life,’ he says quietly. ‘My choice.’

  She shakes her head, mutely.

  ‘All right.’ He takes a deep breath. ‘I’ll meet you here, on our bench, in ten years’ time.’

  ‘What?’ She closes her eyes, then opens them again. ‘Sam. No. We’ll be in our forties. We’ll be … nearly fifty.’

  He nods. ‘Exactly. And Grace will be grown up. We’ll meet, and if I’ve met someone else, or if you’re happy with Leo, then that will be the very last time.’ His voice is flat and tired. ‘But if not … then we’ll be free for each other. Ten years, Cat.’ He leans closer. ‘I ha
ve faith in us – the way we feel about each other won’t change.’

  ‘You really want that? To wait for years and years?’

  ‘If I have to.’

  ‘But what will you do?’ She gazes around her, as if the answer is floating in the air, caught in the branches of distant trees. ‘What will you do in all that time?’

  He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Does it matter?’ He rubs a finger over a stain on his sleeve. ‘Maybe I’ll sell the house. Maybe I’ll travel. There are plenty of places I want to visit – Greece, Albania, Mali – places I’d like to work with local musicians.’ He touches her hair. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She fishes in her pocket for a tissue. Blows her nose. ‘All I’ve done since we met is ruin your life.’

  ‘Best thing that ever happened to me was meeting you.’ He smiles. ‘You are the music, Cat.’

  She touches his face.

  He lets her go first. Watches as she stands up unsteadily, as she blinks and turns her head away from him, setting her gaze towards her other life. He keeps watching until she disappears behind the hawthorn leaves. Then he stares at the shape she’s left behind, the absence, the gaping hole.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Cat, July 2001

  ‘Grace Dunn.’ Her name sounds clearly through the hall. Over the heads of other parents, I watch my daughter as she mounts the steps to the podium to collect her philosophy degree. She makes her way back to her seat with composure, gliding across the floor, clutching that precious roll of paper to her chest. Her eyes scan the crowd, seeking us out. Leo and I put up our hands simultaneously and wave. She grins.

  I’m proud of her, of the choices she’s made. She kept dancing, but now she’s set on working in the charity sector; she’s off to be a paid volunteer teaching in a school near Bangalore next month. She’s had a tattoo inked onto her shoulder of a large brown and yellow eagle, wings spread in flight. Leo was horrified. I thought of Sam’s musical notes, and asked her what the eagle stood for. ‘Freedom,’ she replied. She put her fingers on her shoulder, touching the place like a friend. ‘And it reminds me that I’m stronger than I think.’ Just under her sleeve, I caught a glimpse of her wrist, her scars still visible.

  The three of us have dinner, and after we’ve toasted her with champagne, she goes off to celebrate with her friends. She’s staying on in Bristol for a few more days: more parties, time with her boyfriend, packing up her room and shared house. I’m going to drive down again at the weekend to bring her and her stuff back to London.

  It’s late when we leave the restaurant. It’ll take us nearly three hours to drive back to Hampstead. Leo has consultations in the morning, needs to get home. He takes the wheel, and I sit in the passenger seat staring into the darkness, the rush and roar of the motorway making me sleepy. Headlights flash as they pass, red tail-lights moving in an ever-changing pattern. I force myself to stay awake to keep Leo company, although he’s listening to a political programme on the radio, eyes fixed on the road. Despite the warmth of the car, I shiver, aware of a sudden prickling across my skin, the realisation that something changed today, irrevocably. Grace’s ceremony, our dinner, even this journey: they all mark the end of a phase in our lives. Sadness and nostalgia have settled inside me, but now there’s a sense of urgency too. My stomach lurches. I squint into the darkness, and it’s as if a locked door swings open before me.

  Leo and I don’t speak as we go through our separate bedtime routines. As I pull back the covers, I glance down at the cupboard below my bedside table where I keep my diaries, two volumes charting my life, tracing the story of me and Sam. I think of our last meeting at the bench, and our plan to wait for ten years. The truth sits inside me like a stone, worn by time and knowledge to a fine, smooth shine. I can’t keep it secret any more. There’s no mistaking the care I feel for my husband, for the life we’ve made together. But there’s someone else who will always be first in my thoughts, first in my heart.

  Leo gets into bed, his pyjamas buttoned to the neck, his breath minty with mouthwash.

  ‘Leo,’ I say, ‘can we talk?’

  ‘Not now, Cat.’ His hand hovers over the light switch. ‘You know I’ve got an early start tomorrow.’

  ‘I just … I need to tell you something.’ My pulse is racing. I didn’t plan for this to happen, but there will never be a right time to tell my husband that I want to live separately from him.

  I fumble around the words to explain that we’re more like room-mates than husband and wife; that we both deserve better. As he listens, his expression changes from irritable to disbelieving. He shakes his head, dismissing everything I’ve said. ‘Don’t you think, at our age, that being friends is more important than passion?’ His voice is calm and steady, a little patronising.

  ‘It could be,’ I tell him. ‘But no. Not for me.’

  He sighs, making a point. ‘Get some sleep, darling. You’re tired. It’s been an emotional day. We can talk about this another time.’

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘No, I’m sorry. It can’t wait.’

  Every nerve jumps, my body alive with a drumming fear. I’ve just done the unthinkable, leapt into the void, told him that we should separate, but Leo thinks he can make it go away with a pat on the hand and some practical advice. I remember Sam telling me I was brave when I first resolved to leave Leo, all those years ago. I didn’t feel brave then, and I don’t now. My hands shake, and I’m shivering.

  I have to find a way to explain properly, to tell him everything. I try again, starting at the beginning, in Atlantic City. At the mention of Sam, Leo sits up straighter, puts his glasses back on. I don’t leave anything out. He waits for me to finish. As the story unfolds, I feel him shrinking from me, the air between us becoming thin and tight.

  ‘So … even when we were trying for a baby – even then – you were thinking of this other man. Jesus Christ.’ He thumps his fist onto the bed.

  I flinch. But after that one outburst, he doesn’t rage and shout; instead he covers his face with his fingers, head bowed, sitting silent beside me.

  I want to touch him, but I know I mustn’t. I curl my fingers back into my palms. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say.

  ‘Did you ever love me?’ he asks, raising his head. He looks at me with searching eyes.

  I nod. ‘Yes. I did. I do.’

  ‘But not like you love him.’

  ‘No. Not like that.’ My words are brutal. I’m horrified by them – but I can’t stop them.

  ‘Where is this man?’ His mouth turns down. ‘Is he in London?’

  ‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since Grace … since she cut her wrists. Last time I saw him was when we arranged to meet in ten years’ time,’ I say.

  ‘So there’s been no communication between you for, what, seven years?’ Leo’s voice is hard.

  I move my head.

  ‘The whole thing sounds like a fantasy.’ He folds his arms. ‘How do you know he’s going to turn up?’

  ‘I don’t.’ I stare at my hands. ‘But whether he does or not, it doesn’t change this – us; it doesn’t change the fact that it’s … it’s time we accepted that we’re not good for each other any more.’

  ‘You seem very sure of that.’ He rubs his hand over his forehead.

  ‘I think …’ I lower my voice. ‘I think you know it too.’

  He frowns. ‘You lied to me, Cat. You’ve been dishonest. But … I still want to at least try and save our marriage.’ He looks at me as if I’m a stranger. ‘Don’t you?’

  I should agree with him. I should tell him that yes, we can talk more, see a therapist. But now that I’ve spoken the words, relief fills me. An extraordinary, head-spinning relief. There’s no going back, there’s nothing that will change this.

  He waits for me to speak, but it’s the look on my face that gives him his answer. His mouth turns down, and he nods as if something has been decided. ‘Your mind’s made up, isn’t it?’ He clears his throat, sets his shoulders. ‘If this is really
what you want …’ He looks at me with a hurt gaze. ‘But you should be the one to tell Grace.’ He turns away from me. ‘I hope for your sake she forgives you.’

  He takes off his glasses, and rubs his eyes. His face is naked and vulnerable without them. He looks exhausted and old. I wish there was something I could say to make things easier, better. But I’ve ripped up the worn fabric of our marriage, and a gale is blowing through, bleak and cold. There’s no access to our familiar comforts, our consoling platitudes.

  He’s staring blindly towards the door. ‘I want … I want to be alone.’ His voice breaks.

  I expected more anger, more of a fight. He’s let me go.

  He continues to look towards the door, his features rigid. I slip out of bed. Coldness has always been his weapon; it’s what I deserve. I make up the single bed in my old room and crawl into it, feeling ancient, tired. The hurt I’ve inflicted on Leo has drained all my energy. I curl up, shivering, hugging my knees. I am dry-eyed, miserable, but I know that whatever happens in three years’ time, Leo and I don’t belong together any more.

  It hurts. I knew it would, when we finally parted, but it’s worse than I could have imagined; every part of me is alive with a kind of wrung-out aching pain, as if my internal organs are being squeezed and squeezed.

  In Bristol, at the weekend, after we’ve packed up the car with her boxes and cases, Grace and I go for a coffee and sandwich before the drive home.

  ‘There’s something I need to tell you, bug,’ I say, my stomach knotting. ‘Your dad and I. We’re … separating.’

  She holds her mug between her hands, frowning into its contents like a fortune-teller. Then she nods. ‘You waited for me to finish my degree?’

  It wasn’t what I was expecting her to say. I swallow. ‘Kind of.’ I lean across the table. ‘Actually, there wasn’t a plan. It just happened. I don’t think we’ve been truly happy for a while.’

  ‘No.’ She looks at me, her face suddenly older and wiser. ‘I can see that.’