by Natalie Cox
“What happened to Bonnie?”
“She was devastated when I broke things off. So was I, though I couldn’t let on. Almost straight away she enlisted in the army. She was very musical, you see; we both were, but Bonnie even more so. She played the French horn and it was her dream to play in the music corps. She ended up in the Band of the Household Cavalry. They’re based in Windsor, and play at all the state occasions,” he adds proudly.
“Did she marry?”
He nods. “Eventually. Some years later. A sergeant. Plays the tuba, according to his Facebook profile,” he says grudgingly.
“You stalked him on Facebook?”
He shrugs. “After so many years, we no longer had friends in common,” he admits sheepishly. “So I resorted to subterfuge.”
“So you’re not in touch with her?”
He shakes his head. “The year after we broke up, I wrote to her several times,” he says. “But she never replied. I broke her heart, you see. And she never forgave me.” He looks at me with a pained smile. Then suddenly he slaps his hands onto his knees.
“Good Lord,” he says, jumping up. “Look at the time! Constance will be vexed!”
* * *
Malcolm stares out of the kitchen window as Hugo drives away, and once the car has disappeared round the bend, he resumes his sphinx position in the center of the room. But something has shifted; he seems slightly more acclimatized to Peggy and me, and lays his head on the floor, watching me quietly as I prepare supper. As I scramble eggs, I can’t stop thinking about Hugo and Bonnie. Who says that the love you experience at seventeen is any less genuine than what you experience at thirty-seven? As if the heart of an adolescent is somehow not fully formed. The more I think about it, the more I feel that something extraordinary has been snatched from them, and when I climb into bed that night, I am quietly overcome with sadness for Hugo and Bonnie, and their lost love.
chapter
13
My mother insists my hair is auburn, but I would call it brown. On a clean day, in direct sunlight, it might be called rust. That pretty much sums up the difference between us; my mother bends the world to suit her idea of it, while she would say that I’m stubbornly rooted in reality. She likes to remind me at every opportunity that she’s a glass-half-full person—which, of course, makes me the half-empty one.
Marriage is the closest thing she has to a vocation. She cycles through husbands faster than most people do secondhand cars. Richie is her fifth—and, admittedly, he has lasted longer than the others. Certainly he’s lasted longer than my father, who only managed six years before my mother moved him on, like an ill-suited lodger. One day, when I was five, he failed to materialize at dinner. I looked across the table and realized that there were only two places set: hers and mine. “Where’s Dad?” I asked as my mother ladled stew into a bowl.
“Gone,” she replied matter-of-factly. And, with that one word, she neatly peeled him from our life.
Of course she didn’t banish him completely. The next morning she explained that my father would not be living with us any longer, but that he would continue to visit, and I could telephone him if I wished. Over the next decade or so, I rang him every Sunday evening and saw him at regular intervals—birthdays, holidays, Father’s Day. He was an academic who moved jobs every few years at first and, unlike my mother, never remarried. I have the impression that marriage for my father was like one of those bad package holidays that go wrong from the start—with me as the slightly awkward souvenir he picked up along the way.
I once said this to him, only partly in jest, and he blinked rapidly with distress. “You’re not some sort of adjunct to my life, Charlie. You’re . . .” He paused then, searching for the correct word, because my father is nothing if not precise. “Elemental,” he said finally.
“Like radon?” I asked. He gave me a look.
“More like oxygen. Without you, I’d be . . .”
“Breathless?”
He swatted me with the journal he was reading.
I do love my father, even if his analogies are obscure.
For her part, my mother treated my father like a benign medical condition we had to tolerate, and pretty soon I couldn’t imagine them ever having been together. When I was twelve, my father landed an associate professorship in the Philosophy Department at Sheffield University, a place that seemed to suit him. He was given a small one-bedroom flat near the university. That summer I spent a weekend with him for the first time. Oddly, it was my mother’s idea; she was in the first flush of romance with husband number three, and I think she wanted to off-load me for a few days. I remember waiting anxiously on the station platform, clutching my purple plastic overnight case, scanning the crowd. Eventually my father came rushing up, red-faced and apologetic. He beamed at me, but I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was terrified at the prospect of a weekend alone with me.
That night he made me spaghetti and meatballs and I slept on a narrow cot he’d borrowed from a colleague. The canvas sagged down the middle, its edges closing over me like a coffin. In the morning I woke early and wandered around his tiny flat gazing at his possessions: my father had an electric blender! And a toilet brush! As if his home was some sort of bachelorhood museum. He took me to a long ribbon of park beside a winding river and we ate soggy ham-and-cucumber sandwiches, which he had made himself and wrapped in cling film. I remember being touched by this, as if ham sandwiches were somehow beyond his remit.
His academic specialty was Kant, and when I asked him what exactly he taught, he frowned and launched into an earnest explanation of the categorical imperative, which he said was a universal set of rules to live by, based on reason, rather than on personal gain or individual motive. It was many years before I understood this, much less realized the irony of it, because my mother’s moral code is entirely subjective. For my mother, context is everything, and pretty much anything is justifiable. She is forever telling me to trust my instincts: it would never occur to her to question her own.
My father, on the other hand, is paralyzed by the minutiae of everyday living. For him, even small domestic dilemmas can mushroom into immense quandaries. I once arrived to find him painting his fourteenth swatch on the bathroom wall. The room was tiny, so he’d used up nearly all of the available space, and the colors ranged from pale yellow to burnt umber through to leaf green and sky blue. It looked like a sad patchwork quilt.
“Dad,” I said. “It’s a loo.”
“But think of how much time I spend here,” he protested.
“Not something I care to dwell on.”
“Important time.”
“Important for . . . smooth bodily functions?” I asked.
He rolled his eyes. “For thinking, Charlie. It’s where I come to think.”
In the end he decided that pale green was most conducive to deep thought, and eventually confessed to me that it was the first swatch he’d tried. Ironically, he should have trusted his instincts. But maybe Kant would have appreciated that he’d worked his way through the spectrum in a rational manner.
On the plus side, my father is also the most empathetic person I know. When faced with a problem he sees every possible angle, which to my mind is like being permanently trapped inside a watchtower. But it makes him my go-to person for outright sympathy. So, when Lionel walked out on me, it was my father I rang first, even before Sian. And it was to him that I confessed that, while I was furious with Lionel for being unfaithful, I wasn’t nearly as sad as I should have been—I felt a sense of loss, but it was as if I’d been stripped of something that I hadn’t really needed in the first place—my appendix, say, rather than my heart or lungs. As much as anything, Lionel’s departure left me feeling destabilized.
“I’m not sure I ever really loved him, Dad. And I’m not sure what that says about me as a person,” I confessed. Who was I all those years we were together? And who
does that make me now?
His response was predictably evenhanded. “No one has ever successfully defined love, Charlie. Ask a scientist and they’ll tell you it’s chemical, that it’s all down to testosterone and pheromones in the first instance, dopamine and serotonin later on. Ask a theologian and they’ll tell you that love is a perfect union of mind, body, and spirit. Ask a psychiatrist and they’ll harken back to Aristotle and the notion of love being ultimately rooted in self-love. Maybe love is all these things. And maybe you’re just being too hard on yourself, maybe the real truth is that Lionel wasn’t worthy of your love.”
That was the closest thing to outright criticism that I’d ever heard from my father. I wondered how long he’d felt that way about Lionel, and whether he would have told me if we’d stayed together. “Were you in love with Mum?” I asked instead. He paused for a moment, and I could almost hear the gears of his mind turning.
“Your mother was . . . compelling. She burned very brightly. I admired her intensity, and her strength of will. She swept me up in her constellation, and for a long time I was content to be there. I learned a great deal from her. And she gave me you, of course. For which I’m eternally grateful.”
As I listened to him speak, I heard only the space between the words: there was so much he didn’t say, either because he didn’t want to or because he didn’t know how. But I really needed to know, so I pressed him.
“Was it painful when you separated?” I asked.
“Yes, it was,” he said truthfully. His words pinched me somewhere deep inside.
“So you did love her.”
“I suppose I did,” he admitted.
* * *
I haven’t spoken to him since the accident, so I decide to ring him now. My father is on sabbatical this year in Kaliningrad, a remote Russian city on the Baltic Sea, which also happens to be the birthplace of Kant, who spent virtually his entire lifetime within a ten-mile radius of the place. Last month, when I rang to let him know that Lionel had left me, he’d tried to persuade me to join him there for the holidays, promising meatballs, marzipan, and oxblood cocktails, for which the city is apparently famed. I’d graciously passed.
I dial him on Skype and he picks up after only a few rings. When I relay the events of the past few days, he is gratifyingly horrified.
“Good grief, Charlie, why didn’t you let me know earlier?”
“I did try to ring you, Dad. But let’s face it, there wasn’t much you could have done from the Baltic Sea.”
“Still. Your mother should have called,” he says in a rare moment of irritability aimed in her direction. It’s true. She should have. Why am I not surprised she didn’t?
“Honestly, I’m fine.”
“How’s your cousin?”
“Couldn’t be better.” Which is true. I presume.
“Give her my best. Of all your mother’s relations, she was always my favorite. When she was a child, she used to hold her hand out and ask me to read her fortune. I think she thought philosophy meant palmistry.”
“It’s palmistry of the mind, Dad.”
My father hesitates for a moment. “I think you’ll find that’s neuroscience, Charlie.”
Whatever.
“How are the dogs?” he asks.
“Oh, you know, they’re dogs. Four legs and a tail. Lots of crotch-sniffing.”
“Dogs aren’t really your thing, are they.”
“Not top of my list, no.”
“Remember what Kant said.”
“I don’t, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“He said that you can judge the heart of a man by his treatment of animals.”
Yeesh. “I’ll be sure to remember that, Dad.”
I tell him I will ring him again on Christmas Day, and after I hang up I wonder what sort of life he is leading, all alone in the Baltic, with only his books, Kant, and oxblood cocktails for amusement. But my father is nothing if not self-contained. Indeed, he’s the very antithesis of my mother. For her, relationships are like mirrors. Without them she would not exist.
How they ended up together is the eighth wonder of the world.
* * *
The next morning I receive a phone call from Gerry at the post office. It seems that my package has been delivered after all, and I practically yip with delight when I hear the news. I rush through the morning chores, hurry the canines through their various ablutions, then jump in the Škoda and drive into the village. But when I arrive, Gerry hands me a parcel not much bigger than a shoebox. I stare down at it with dismay.
“Something wrong?” she asks.
“It’s not twenty-two inches,” I say forlornly. She frowns at the parcel.
“True,” she agrees. “But good things come in small packages,” she says optimistically. I tear open the box to discover that my mother, with her almost uncanny instinct for what will annoy me most, has sent a Christmas-themed parcel. Inside I find a pair of fluffy pink reindeer socks, a green woolly hat with an enormous red bobble on top, and a ridiculous pair of bright red flannel pajamas adorned with cartoon penguins; apart from the size, the latter are the sort you would give to an eight-year-old—one completely devoid of taste. My mother has never displayed one iota of fashion sense, I think with resignation. Why should she break the habit of a lifetime now? I hold each item up for Gerry to appraise, and when I get to the pajama bottoms she tilts her head sideways. “Could be cozy?” she offers diplomatically.
I sigh. From the far side of the world, my mother has managed to both irritate and infantilize me. There is also a cheery card with a laughing Santa on the cover and a message on the inside: A little something for under the tree! Enjoy your Christmas with Jez! I have not yet disclosed to her that Jez has abandoned me to spend Christmas with an Arctic scientist, and I do not intend to.
Before I go, Gerry nods at the hat. “Best put that on. It’s freezing outside.” I pull the hat on and turn to her for approval.
“How do I look?”
“Very festive.”
“That’s what I was afraid of,” I say. “Let me know if any large parcels turn up.”
“I’ll be sure to use a tape measure on the next one,” she says.
Just then I hear the tinkle of the door chime and turn to see Cal step into the shop, wearing jeans and a cobalt-blue puffer jacket that suspiciously matches his eyes. Is he trying to color coordinate?
He stops short when he sees me. “Oh, hello,” he says, clearly a little surprised. I smile cautiously, not sure who I’ll be dealing with today. Nice New Cal or Cranky Cal?
“Is that what they’re wearing in London?” He nods at my hat, and I see the corners of his mouth twitch upward slightly. Hello, Mocking Cal.
My face flames. It is too late to whip off the hat now without looking self-conscious, so I lift my chin a little defiantly. “As a matter of fact, bobble hats are all the rage this winter,” I say. This is true, although my mother’s choice is ludicrously wide of the mark. He regards the hat, tilting his head in almost exactly the same way Gerry did a moment ago.
“Really?” He shakes his head with regret. “We’re always two steps behind here in the country,” he remarks to Gerry.
“But isn’t it nice to be brought forward,” she replies pointedly. He indicates the hat with a nod.
“Best put one of those on your Christmas list,” he tells her.
“I’d like a green bobble,” she replies.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I look from one to the other and they are smirking conspiratorially. They burst out laughing and I am forced to chortle along.
Ho ho ho! Feel free to engage in mirth at my expense!
“Is that my parcel?” says Cal, indicating a large box on the floor.
“It just arrived.” Gerry bends down to retrieve it and places it on the counter.
“Actually, it’s
for you,” he says to her a little coyly. Gerry’s eyes light up with delight.
“Really?” For an instant I see a look pass between them. She tears open the box and reaches inside. “Oh, Cal, you shouldn’t have,” she says, lifting out an enormous white poinsettia in a glazed terra-cotta pot. The plant itself must span at least four feet and is covered in a profusion of white blooms. Poinsettias are one of my mother’s favorites, though the red ones have always struck me as rather garish and aggressive, with their spindly stems and spiky, blood-colored leaves. I’ve always thought they were really just a potted shrub masquerading as a flower, but this one is undeniably gorgeous.
“Where did you find it?” Gerry exclaims.
“A specialist nursery outside Taunton.” Cal looks a little embarrassed but is obviously pleased at her reaction. I’m not sure, but I think he might actually be blushing.
“It’s lovely, Cal. Thank you.” Gerry beams at him, then leans over and kisses him on the cheek. Now he flushes beet red, his eyes darting nervously over her shoulder in my direction. Hang on. What is going on here? There’s an awkward moment, during which I suddenly feel like a colossal third wheel. Now I’m the one who is embarrassed as I bid them a hasty good-bye and stumble out of the shop, whipping the hat off as soon as I get in the car. As I barrel down the road in the Škoda, I am wondering what exactly I’ve just witnessed. Could this possibly be a Harold and Maude situation?
Oh my God.
After Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Harold and Maude is one of my top fave films ever. For two years at university, I had a boyfriend called Felix who was doing Media Studies and ran the Film Society; he was the person who first introduced me to Hal Ashby’s early seventies black comedy about intergenerational love. When I saw that it was playing last summer at a pop-up cinema in Brixton, I had to drag Sian kicking and screaming with me to see it. She spent the first half hour loudly stage-whispering: “But it’s pedophilia!”