The noise of the pub flitted back in and the policeman’s hands became Peggy’s, and it was like he was coming up from underwater, breaking the surface, and Peggy was telling him it was okay, squeezing him tightly, muffling his sobs. And even though he couldn’t stop crying—it felt like maybe he’d never actually stop—he slowly became aware of a tingling in his fingers, warmth finally returning.
— CHAPTER 30 —
He barely had the energy to get back to his flat. Peggy walked him there, half supporting his weight, and insisted that she come in with him. He protested halfheartedly, but now that Peggy knew the truth there wasn’t much point.
“It’s either that or the hospital,” Peggy said, which settled the matter.
The model train set still lay wrecked, untouched since he’d smashed it up. “Hence the limp,” he mumbled.
He lay down on the sofa and Peggy covered him in a blanket and then her coat. She made him tea and sat cross-legged on the floor, occasionally squeezing his hand, calming him down each time he jolted into consciousness.
When he woke, she was sitting in an armchair reading the Ella Loves Cole sleeve notes and drinking coffee from a mug he’d not used in a decade. There was a crick in his neck—he must have slept in a funny position—and his foot was still throbbing, but he felt more like himself.
He could vaguely remember a dream he’d had about Meredith’s dinner party, and a question suddenly struck him. “What happened to Keith?” he asked.
Peggy looked up at him. “Morning to you too,” she said. “Keith, you’ll be glad to hear, is fine.”
“But I heard you calling an ambulance,” Andrew said.
“Aye. By the time it had arrived he was awake and trying to persuade the paramedics not to take him. To be honest, they seemed more worried about Cameron—silly sod sat there passed out with pen all over his face. I think they thought we’d kidnapped him into a mad cult, or something.”
“Is Keith back at work?”
“Yep.”
“Is he, you know, angry at me?”
“Well, he’s not exactly delighted. But Meredith is treating him like a war hero, constantly fussing over him, so I think he’s secretly quite enjoying it. She’s the one you want to—” Peggy stopped herself.
“What?” Andrew said.
“She kept talking about getting Keith to press charges.”
“Oh god,” Andrew groaned.
“Don’t worry, it’s fine,” Peggy said. “There is a chance I may have had a little word with her about it, and that she’s not mentioned it since.”
Andrew couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like Peggy was trying to suppress a smile.
“You sound like a Mafia boss,” he said. “But I’m very grateful, whatever you said.” He looked across at the oven clock and scrabbled to sit upright. “Jesus,” he said. “Have I really been asleep for twelve hours? What are you still doing here? You should be at home.”
“It’s all right,” Peggy said. “I’ve FaceTimed the girls. They’re staying in Croydon with one of Imogen’s friends. They got to stay up and watch something horrifically inappropriate on the telly last night so they couldn’t care less that I’m not there.”
She turned the sleeve over. “I’ve got a confession to make. I haven’t listened to the mix tape you made me.”
“I’ll let you off,” Andrew said. “Like I said”—he winced as he rubbed at his swollen foot—“it barely took any time to put together.”
Peggy placed the record carefully back on top of the pile.
“Your mam was a big fan, you said?”
“I don’t really know. I’ve just got really vivid memories of her putting these records on and singing along as she did stuff in the kitchen, or playing them out of the window as she gardened. She always seemed, I don’t know, like a completely different person when she let herself go like that.”
Peggy drew her knees up to her chest. “I’d like to say I have similar memories of my mam when I was younger, but if she was dancing around the kitchen it was usually because she was trying to wallop one of us, or there was something on fire. Or both. Right, you look like you need some toast.”
“It’s fine, I’ll do it,” Andrew said, starting to get to his feet, but Peggy told him to sit still. Andrew just hoped to god she didn’t judge him too much about the three cans of baked beans and possibly stale loaf of bread that made up the contents of the cupboard. Before he could make preemptive apologies his phone vibrated. He read the message and felt faint again. He waited until Peggy brought over a plate of generously buttered toast and a mug of tea.
“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he said.
Peggy took a big bite of toast. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll be honest with you, Andrew, after last night I’m not sure there’s much you can say that’ll shock me. But go for it . . .”
By the time he’d finished telling her about Carl and the blackmail Peggy had lost interest in her toast, which she’d thrown onto her plate in disgust. She was pacing back and forth, hands on hips.
“He can’t do that to you. There was a reason Sally gave you that money, and the fact he’s threatening you is outrageous. You’re going to call him right now and tell him to get fucked.”
“No,” Andrew said. “I can’t.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because . . .”
“What?”
“It’s not that easy. I can’t . . . I just can’t.”
“But it’s just an empty threat now, because it’s not as if . . .” Peggy stopped pacing and looked at him. “Because you are going to tell the others at work the truth about everything, right?”
Andrew didn’t say anything.
“Well,” Peggy said, matter-of-factly, “you’re going to have to. In two weeks’ time you’re supposed to be hosting the next dinner party so you haven’t really got a choice.”
“What?!” Andrew said. “But what about what happened at Meredith’s—that was a disaster. Surely Cameron doesn’t want that happening again.”
“Oh, on the contrary, he’s got it in his head that it’s the perfect way for you and Keith to make up. He was so hammered that night he didn’t really understand what had happened, other than that you and Keith had ‘fallen out.’ I managed to wipe his face clean and pour him into a taxi. He kept mumbling something to me about ‘redundancies,’ but god knows what’s happening there.”
Andrew folded his arms.
“I’m not telling them,” he said, in a voice barely louder than a whisper. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“What do you mean, why not? Because I’ll get fired! I can’t afford for that to happen, Peggy. I’ve got no transferable skills, for one thing.”
They were silent for a moment. Andrew really wished there were music playing. Peggy moved over to the window and stood with her back to him.
“I actually think you do have transferable skills,” she said, “that you could do something else. And I think you know you do, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Andrew said.
Peggy turned around and went to speak, but then stopped, seemingly changing her mind.
“Can I ask you something?” she said eventually.
Andrew nodded.
“How much has this place changed since you moved in?”
“How do you mean?”
Peggy looked around. “When did you last buy new things? Have you, in fact, changed anything since the day Diane . . .”
Andrew suddenly felt horribly self-conscious.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Not a lot. A bit, though. The computer’s new.”
“Right. And how long have you been doing your current job?”
“What is this, an interview?” Andrew said. “Do you want another cup of tea by the way?”
&nb
sp; Peggy came to sit next to him and took his hand in hers. “Andrew,” she said softly. “I’m not even going to pretend to know how much shit you’ve had to go through, but I do know from experience what it’s like to live in denial, to not confront things. Look at me and Steve. I knew in my heart of hearts that he wasn’t going to change but it took me sinking to absolute rock bottom to do something about it. Didn’t you have that same realization last night? Don’t you feel now that it’s time to try and move on?”
Andrew felt a tightness in his throat. His eyes began to sting. Part of him wanted Peggy to keep on at him like this, part of him just wanted to be alone.
“People won’t be as kind as you,” he said quietly. “And you couldn’t exactly blame them. I just need more time—to think about how I’m going to do it, you know?”
Peggy lifted Andrew’s hand and used hers to press it against his chest. He could feel his heart pounding against his rib cage.
“You’ve got to make a choice,” Peggy said. “Either you can try and keep up with the whole pretense—pay that money to Carl even though it’s yours, keep on lying to everyone—or you can tell the truth and start accepting the consequences. I know it’s hard, I really do, but . . . okay, that day in Northumberland. When we had our ‘moment,’ shall we say.”
Andrew really, really wished he didn’t blush so easily.
“Yeah,” he mumbled, rubbing his eyes.
“Look at me. Please.”
“I can’t.”
“Okay, then just close your eyes. Think back and picture that moment. You don’t have to tell me, but just think about how that made you feel. How lovely and different and . . . intense it was. I don’t know. I’m only going on how it felt for me.”
Andrew opened his eyes.
“Later,” Peggy said, “when you were falling asleep on the sofa. You kept saying, ‘You’ve saved me.’ You thought I was your way out of all this. But, and you’ve got to trust me on this, only you can change things. It has to come from you.”
Andrew’s eye was drawn to the railway debris. It was as if the crash had just happened.
Peggy looked at her watch. “Look, I should probably think about going now. I need to make sure the girls have been given something else to eat other than Curly Wurlys.” She stood up—letting Andrew’s hand go—and retrieved her coat and bag. “Just think about what I’ve said, okay? And if you start feeling . . . you know . . . then call me straightaway. Promise?”
Andrew nodded. He really didn’t want her to leave. He wasn’t going to be able to do this without her, whatever she might think. “I’m going to do it,” he blurted out. “I’ll tell the truth, to everyone—but it just can’t be now, when Cameron’s talking redundancies. I just need to find a way of getting through the stupid bloody dinner party with my reputation intact, and then when things have settled down I’ll fix everything, I promise. So all I’m asking for is a bit of help, short term, for how I’m going to . . .” His words petered out as he saw the disappointment in Peggy’s eyes. She moved toward the door and he limped after her.
“What are you . . . please don’t—”
“I’ve said my piece, Andrew. I’m not going to change my mind. Besides, I’ve got my own mess I need to sort out.”
Andrew just about managed to stop himself from begging her to stay.
“Sure,” he said. “Of course. I understand. And sorry, I didn’t mean to drag you away. And I’m sorry for lying to you. I wanted to tell you the truth, I really did.”
“I believe you,” Peggy said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “And I believe in you, too.”
Andrew stood there for a long time after Peggy had gone. He looked down at the wine stain on the carpet. It was in the same spot where he’d stood, rigid in his own despair, the phone ringing and ringing as Sally tried to get him to speak to her, the day after Diane’s death. He felt impossibly guilty for how he’d behaved then—how cowardly and weak he’d been to hide himself away, too broken to face the funeral, refusing to let Sally comfort him—and even more so now thinking about how he’d indulged in the fantasy of how his life might have gone if Diane had never walked out of the house that morning. He couldn’t believe how kind and understanding Peggy had been after she’d learned the truth. He’d expected her to run a mile. Unless of course she was just lulling him into a false sense of security before she dashed to the nearest mental hospital to report him as a deluded, dangerous fantasist . . . Surely, surely, nobody else would be as understanding as her, if he were to simply come out and tell them? He pictured Cameron’s beady eyes widening, Keith and Meredith turning from stunned to scathing in the blink of an eye.
He heard his mobile vibrate again. Another message from Carl, no doubt. The autopilot in him wanted to put on some Ella, but he stopped by the record player, his hand above the needle. Without music or the gentle whooshing of a train he was more aware of what he could hear. He opened the window. Sparrows were singing; a bee—a queen surely, judging from its size—buzzed past.
Despite the fact he was feeling jittery from caffeine, he made himself another cup of tea, enjoying the comforting warmth of it as he drank, his thoughts percolating. He understood why Peggy was frustrated that he wasn’t simply going to come clean with everyone now that he’d revealed the truth to her, but what she perhaps hadn’t fully grasped was how potent the fantasy was, how tied to it he felt. It wasn’t something he could just walk away from.
He stood and surveyed the train wreck. It was hard to tell what damage was repairable and what was ruined for good. The locomotive he’d had set up at the time—an O4 Robinson class—was probably a write-off, as were the carriages. Thank Christ it hadn’t been any of his really prized locomotives. Most of the scenery—the lighter stuff—was definitely irreparable. Trees and animals were flattened and bent. Figures lay prone on the ground. All of them, he realized, except three farmhands who were still upright in what used to be an orchard, a look of defiance about them.
Peggy had told him he alone had to choose what to do, and maybe she was right. But what if that meant he chose only to tell people the truth when he actually felt ready? That was still him taking control, wasn’t it? He ignored the dissenting voice at the back of his head by focusing on what he told himself was the more immediate concern: namely, the approaching dinner party. It was absolutely vital that he keep Cameron happy. What he really needed was some help. Peggy was out of the question. So that left . . . well, “Nobody,” he said out loud. But as he looked again at the stoic farmhands, he remembered that, actually, that wasn’t strictly true.
— CHAPTER 31 —
Saturday afternoons weren’t the busiest times on the subforum, but Andrew could still picture BamBam67, TinkerAl and BroadGaugeJim checking in before the evening was out—a quick glance as they waited for dinner to simmer, just in case someone had posted to confirm that the new Wainwright H Class 0-4-4T really did justify the insane hype.
It worked in his favor that recent events had meant his activity on the forum had been limited in the previous week, as the last two messages mentioning him, from TinkerAl and BroadGaugeJim, were written with genuine concern:
Tracker, you’ve gone a bit quiet. All good?
Was just thinking that! Don’t say old T-bone’s gone cold turkey??
The fact that they were obviously concerned for his welfare made him feel a little more comfortable about asking for help like this. He composed a message in a blank document, tweaking and rewording from start to finish several times.
He was still finding it hard to get completely warm, so he’d rooted around in a cupboard and found some blankets, which he’d washed and tumble-dried before wrapping around his shoulders, so that it looked like his head was poking out through the top of a wigwam. He had also—in a moment of madness, suddenly consumed by derring-do—made some soup from scratch.
He copied and pasted his message into a new post on th
e forum, gave it one final check, and then, before he could back out, he hit “send.”
* * *
—
Andrew took a sip of lager and made a note to remind himself that his instincts—much like burgers bought from rest-stop vans and people who started sentences with “I’ll be honest with you”—were not to be trusted. He’d chosen the pub near King’s Cross because it was called the Railway Tavern, and that felt like a good omen. He had visions of Barter Books—the same ambience, but substituting tea, scones and books for thick pints of bitter and interesting crisps. Instead, the pub felt like the sort of place you only ever heard mentioned in the same breath as “fled the scene” and “unprovoked attack.” Andrew had long since lost track of which clubs were battling it out at the top of Division One, or whatever it was called now, but the twenty or so other men in the pub were, to put it mildly, invested. Insults were leveled at the screen with furious relish. More confusingly, a man with ginger sideburns kept clapping whenever a decision went his team’s way or there was a substitution, as if his applause could actually travel through the screen and reach the player coming on. Another man in a leather jacket worn over his team’s colors periodically threw his arms up in the air and turned to try to make conversation with a group of fans who steadfastly ignored him. A young woman was standing further up along the bar, pulling nervously at her hair, which was purple and looked like it had the consistency of cotton candy. Never had Andrew seen so many people in the same place, supporting the same team, wearing the same shirt, looking so alone.
Under other circumstances, he would have left and found somewhere else, but that wasn’t an option. He’d concluded his message on the forum by naming the pub and the time. For all he knew there might’ve been three instant replies, apologetic or otherwise, rejecting the plan, but he hadn’t been able to face looking to see if anyone had responded. The closest he’d gotten was scrolling down with one hand over his face, peeping through a gap between his fingers, as if he were looking at an eclipse.
How Not to Die Alone Page 25