Last Kiss Goodnight

by Teresa Driscoll

  But I’m Czechoslovakian.

  Yes, of course, Josef. But we don’t want people thinking you’re a smart-arse.

  And I don’t want people thinking I’m Russian.

  Look, you can slip it in later – casually – that you’re from Czechoslovakia originally. Just don’t pick them up on it straight away. Sound too irritated.

  Thankfully – given the circus of talk shows which has become a part of the Josef Karpati roadshow – he has, these days, earned the trust of his ‘people’ to behave himself without a chaperone. Just pep talks.

  ‘Just remember to laugh when they crack the joke about the embassy,’ his publicist reminded him on the phone earlier.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And for God’s sake give the new album a plug.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Josef Karpati sits up now, takes a deep breath and stretches the fingers reportedly insured for a sum close to the value of the Strad cello already on stage and being watched by a security guard off-camera, if the terms of his contract are being honoured.

  If only they would just let me play. The talk part always so predictable. The joke about his defection to the west. The anecdote about the film score which made his name internationally. How he coped with the tabloid press label. The symphony sex symbol. Oh – and how much the bloody Strad was worth these days.

  Always that.

  ‘OK. We’re on. Walk with me…’

  And now he is following his guide along the narrow corridor to the large double doors and out into the black and white set. The black hole of the audience – unseen faces expectant behind the white haze of the blinding lighting rig. The host standing up through the applause, with an outstretched hand and overstretched smile.

  Remember to unbutton your jacket before you sit. Button. Sit. Right?

  His stylist made him rehearse it before his very first television interview years back. How ridiculous had that felt? A grown man practising his buttons.

  Beaming, Josef skilfully addresses the button with his left hand as he sits – the applause fading.

  ‘So – I finally get to meet the famous Russian who defected on a bank holiday. The day all the embassies were shut!’ The host – Josef has temporarily forgotten his name – is roaring with the audience and obligingly Josef shakes his head with mock shame, grinning as if he had never heard that one before.

  And now he will tell the story for the millionth time. How – yes, he’d nearly poohed his pants when he handed himself in at New York’s JFK airport, to be considered for defection to the west, to learn that it was actually a public holiday. That there were no senior embassy officials who could be reached immediately. How in the end the airport people had listened to his pleadings and finally agreed to arrest him, feigning an investigation into his passport and luggage so that he could be held in a secure cell away from his enraged Russian minders until someone with the correct (and adequately senior) embassy credentials could be summoned via the out-of-hours protocol.

  He had lain on his back stretched out in that cell too. His mind in turmoil. Had he done the right thing? Would America even want him? He had calculated, following the shockwaves of Nureyev’s defection, that this would be his last chance. No more Big Apple. No more Albert Hall. This would be his final trip outside Russia… unless…

  Of course, he wouldn’t have done it if his mother were still alive. No. He couldn’t have done that to her.

  ‘So – that Stradivarius of yours.’ A spotlight moves across the stage now to the cello waiting patiently on its stand.

  ‘Is it true that it’s worth more than a million pounds these days?’

  Oooohs and aaaahs from the audience.

  Josef leans forward, looking for the red light to check which camera is taking the close-up. For a moment he allows himself the fantasy that she could be out there. Sitting out there in the audience at home somewhere, smiling to herself. No. Not smiling. What would she be thinking? Disappointed in all this? The showbiz gloss. This new version of himself that he does not even recognise some days.

  His therapist (oh, yes – he has managed to acquire one of that most American of habits too) would be shaking his head in despair now. We’ve been over this, Josef. Time and time again. You’ve got to stop this. Stalking the past, he called it once. Stepping outside the reality of the present… and stalking the past.

  Textbook, apparently. Obsessive first love. All very understandable, but not necessarily true love, Josef. I mean – it was never tested, was it? With this Martha. You didn’t have a real relationship with her. You didn’t have time, Josef.

  The therapist quoted research. University professors who had proved that obsessing about first love was absurdly common, and yet, in most cases, entirely delusionary. That first relationships became so idealised in some people’s minds that they led to a lifetime of dreaming… and disappointment.

  ‘So the cello, Josef?’

  His agent was blunter: She is probably out there with a huge arse and a horde of kids. It is unlikely she even remembers you. That’s the truth. Not this picture you hold in your head. Are you listening to me, Josef? This ridiculous fantasy you run away to every time life disappoints you…

  ‘The Stradivarius?’

  To be frank you should be relieved she hasn’t turned up in one of the Sunday papers. I certainly am…

  ‘Sorry. Sorry. Yes. More than a million pounds, they tell me. But I don’t know how you put a price on something like that. And it’s not for sale.’

  Laughter.

  When he had failed to find her…when he defected and still she made no attempt to get in touch, Josef had tried to move on. He had even thought that getting married would lay the ghost. And Alena was, on paper (and certainly according to Time magazine), absolutely perfect for him. A soprano. Beautiful. Russian.

  The engagement lasted less than a year, their PR people issuing a bland statement about their careers making it difficult to spend enough time together. Truth was something quite different. Josef’s heart was never really in it. Haunted, was how Alena had described him. You’re haunted, Josef. And I’ve had enough of it…

  That had hurt because he had genuinely tried to move on, but the problem with unfinished business was, well – it was so bloody unfinished. I mean, why couldn’t she have just written? All those years ago. Explained. Yes. A Dear John letter, like everyone else. You know. Sorry but I got swept along. Sorry I said all that stuff, Josef. Made those promises. But we were young. I’ve met someone else. Have a good life.

  The thing was – one night she had said – No, listen, please, this is important. I know we were young. Too young – but she had said that she had never felt able to completely fill her lungs until she met him. As if she had only been breathing half of the air around her. Waiting for something.

  I mean, how can you say something like that? Like you mean it. And then not even write a bloody Dear John letter.

  After the engagement fell apart, he had tried a few affairs. The illicit thrill his therapist believed was the source of his ‘fantasy’. Completely ridiculous. He had actually been thumped by one of the husbands.

  Had to cancel three concerts on account of the black eye.

  ‘So, Josef. That film score – the one that really started it all for you?’

  Josef searches once more for the little red light as they again play, rather too loudly he feels, the oh-so-familiar movie soundtrack.

  12

  Over the coming days, it is the gardening which begins to win Toby over with Martha.

  A completely unexpected diversion for them all.

  For herself, Kate has never been keen. And now, so overloaded by the OCD nonsense indoors, she has no spare energy for the outside. Just too big a space to control. Though she likes the finished effect, especially terracotta pots of brightly coloured flowers, it is the mess she cannot cope with. All the scratches and the dirt under fingernails. The endless watering. And the blessed weeds.

  Toby, mean
time, has big ideas but little time.

  ‘Great space,’ Martha had observed on her second morning – wide-eyed, taking in the large but barren plot with its spectacular views over fields to the sea in the distance.

  The silence and the sideway glances confirmed the sore point.

  ‘I’m wondering if we should get someone in, actually. To make something of it,’ Toby said finally. ‘Sadly I’m just too busy with work at the moment. You’re right. It’s a great space. Could be terrific.’

  ‘I’m afraid it was a source of conflict when we bought the place,’ Kate winked at Martha as she poured them all coffee. Three matching bright blue mugs. ‘Just don’t get it, I’m afraid. The whole digging vibe. I would have preferred a smaller garden. But Toby’s father had an allotment. He fancies the whole grow-your-own idyll.’

  ‘Well. I don’t want to be pushy, or to kick off a domestic. But if you’d like some help, I’d be delighted to make a start.’

  Toby raised an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s just it’s very much my thing. As you know, I work on farms, abroad mostly, but I also do some more formal gardening – here and there.’ Martha had sipped her drink. ‘You pick up a lot. In fact, there’s a place in France that I help with most years in the spring. Dordogne. Sometimes I spend a month there to get things straight for the season. They have a complex for tourists, with a pool. Wonderful place.’

  ‘Ever the one for surprises, Martha. Is there nothing you can’t do?’ Kate took in a long breath, pleased to see the expression on Toby’s face change completely.

  ‘Of course, it’s the wrong time of year for much planting – especially after the scorching summer we’ve had. But it’s an ideal time for sorting and planning. Yes. I could definitely draw up some plans for you. See what you think.’

  ‘No, no. We couldn’t expect that – Martha.’ Toby searched Kate’s face for guidance – still evidently nonplussed.

  ‘Nonsense. I’d absolutely love to help. Be my way of saying thank you for the room. I’d be delighted.’

  And so over the next few days there is an entirely unexpected shift in the house. An air of excitement and activity – Martha drawing up surprisingly impressive and extensive plans to divide their new garden into a series of ‘rooms’, each making best use of the space and the direction of the sun. There is to be a zone for sitting and eating, a ‘room’ for the workaday vegetable plot and greenhouse, another for a tumble of meadow and cottage plants, and a final section which Martha calls the ‘tranquil zone’. A scented garden… Maybe a water feature, if that’s your bag? Somewhere to sit and read, Kate?

  The project also provides the perfect momentum for Kate and Martha while Toby is at work. Between her knitting commissions and visits to other friends on the quay, Martha accompanies Kate to garden centres, buying equipment and materials to get things started. This shared purpose gives a welcome structure to their new time together. And though Kate cares not a jot for the detail – the planks and the potting compost and the sheets of A4 plans – she takes instantly to Martha’s easy company – in awe of her knowledge, her energy and enthusiasm.

  Raised beds are very quickly installed in the ‘vegetable zone’ and Kate marvels at Martha’s practicality, entirely at ease with Toby’s power tools. It is not difficult now to see how she manages on her travels. Fitting in so easily. Ever keen.

  And yet there is this one big taboo. The one area which sees Toby whispering in bed at night. Worrying still.

  Kate doesn’t like to press; asking only gently. As an aside. ‘I don’t mean to pry. It’s just I can’t help wondering, Martha. Why this kind of life? All the travelling. All the odd-jobbing. When you could clearly do pretty much anything as far as I can see.’

  ‘But I like all the travelling, Kate.’

  ‘Yes, I get that. And I can see the appeal. The freedom. But don’t you think sometimes that it would be nice to stay? Don’t you miss having a home, Martha? Your own garden? Don’t you have family who— ’

  ‘I was wondering about the greenhouse?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘It’s just we still haven’t agreed on where to site the greenhouse. Toby will need to pick one and arrange to have it assembled. It will need a good, solid cement base built. Foundations are beyond me, I’m afraid. But Wendy knows a couple of builders… I’ll have a word.’

  13

  And then it comes.

  November 23rd. The day the wind is to change. A clear, bright sky and yet: look. Listen. This cooler, stronger breeze suddenly. Ready now to swirl them all – around and around and around. Into this tighter space.

  Kate and Martha and Toby and Matthew. The quayside shops.

  Even Josef Karpati, travelling to yet another country. For yet another chat show. Today in his first-class seat at thirty five thousand feet…

  An unkind wind – this. A warning.

  A wind which will wake them all much too early. Matthew and Geoffrey first, tossing and turning in their single beds; in their separate homes. Just conscious, as they stir momentarily, of this sudden cold, pulling the blankets up a little higher.

  Wendy and Maria next, each rising for a moment to close their bedroom windows, then settling back to sleep. Maria watched by her husband Carlo.

  What is it, darling?

  Nothing. Just the wind.

  Kate alone sleeps right through it – Toby rolling on his side to watch her for a time, lifting the covers up over her bare shoulder. Ever so gently.

  He knows that she still loves him. Feels it. And he loves her too. Very much. Though he cannot make her believe this – Kate instead believing the statistics. That say they cannot stay together now.

  She says she wants to let him go. Will not let him touch her.

  Eight months and two days…

  He cannot go back to sleep – Toby aware Kate’s respite is chemical induced, sighing as he thinks of the sleeping tablets she tucks behind the cotton wool in the medicine cabinet so they can each pretend he does not know of them.

  Quietly he slides from the bed. Manners remembered – self-conscious and in deference to their guest, he slips on a bathrobe to creep downstairs, wondering if tea might help. To his surprise, on the landing he finds Martha’s door open and inside the covers pushed back from an empty bed. For a second he turns towards the bathroom but that door too is ajar. No light. Toby frowns. Barely five a.m.

  Downstairs he can feel the cool of the outdoors even before he turns towards the kitchen to find the back door ajar. And now he feels terribly awkward, hovering for a moment in the hallway – wondering whether to just creep back to bed?

  Nearly a month since Martha moved in, and though Toby is grateful for the effort out-of-doors, he misses privacy. Space to talk. To think. To hope. And he is troubled also by this strange puzzle of Martha’s background. All this travelling. The fruit-picking. Half nomad, half hippy. Martha still so quick to change the subject when one of his questions strays into the wrong territory. Kate forever warning – just leave it. Let it be.

  She is an attractive woman – Martha. Striking cheekbones and a perfect nose in profile. And yet she sets out quite deliberately to negate this. Why? The charity clothes. The rucksack and the trail of bags.

  No. Toby cannot put his finger on what is truly going on with Martha.

  And so he takes a deep breath now, draws his robe tighter around his waist and turns into the kitchen to see her some way down the garden. She is sitting in pyjamas and a thick grey cardigan on the top step which leads down to the area with the new raised beds – the only part of the garden which will enjoy full sun all day in the warmer months.

  Now though, despite the cardigan, Toby imagines that Martha must be absolutely freezing – the stone step an ice slab. And yet she is completely still, her head tilted up to the sky. No shivers; no outward sign at all of discomfort until she turns, hearing the door, and Toby to his surprise and immediate embarrassment can see that she has been crying.

  He has no clue what to do. Clea
rs his throat. Martha, in turn, wipes her face and stands, pulling the cardigan around her to apologise that sorry, I couldn’t sleep, and I’m sorry, very sorry to disturb you.

  They stand for more terrible seconds. Toby runs his hand through his hair.

  ‘Look. Are you sure you’re OK, Martha? Would you like me to fetch Kate? I’ll fetch Kate for you…’

  ‘No. Really. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘I was planning to make tea. Couldn’t sleep either. This wind.’

  She finds a weak smile.

  But now Toby is panicking. ‘Kate hasn’t said anything, has she?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ He is trying to read her face. To regroup.

  ‘Is there something I should know, Toby?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ Wishing he had said nothing now. ‘Only that she isn’t strong right now.’

  ‘She mentioned that she was on a break from work. But no details. I haven’t asked. Pressed her. I mean…’

  ‘Right. Yes. Well. She’ll be fine. Just needs time.’ Toby is relieved. He doesn’t want Martha knowing their most private business. When Kate is ready to talk more, he wants her to talk to him.

  ‘Look. I’m very grateful, Toby. For the room and everything. I mean – if it’s not working for you, you must say. I don’t want to cause any problems. I could find somewhere else.’

  ‘No. No. That’s not what Kate wants.’ It’s true. He can see how much Kate likes having Martha around. But he feels worried. If Martha has real problems of her own, he doesn’t want Kate taking that on. It’s always been Kate’s nature. Both a strength and a weakness – to put other people’s needs ahead of her own.

  ‘It won’t be for very long. I never stay for very long.’

  ‘It’s fine, Martha.’

  ‘Kate’s very kind.’

  ‘But not strong.’

  ‘Understood.’

  The wind howls, rocking the fence at the end of the garden as their eyes meet.