‘That’s right. You get going and Daniel here can make me and his dad a cup of tea. I’ve been on my feet since six. You got everything, love?’
‘Sarah and I were just… I got in and she was here. You can stay for a cup of tea, can’t you, Sarah?’
‘Now, Danny, don’t bother the girl. She’s had her visit and now she’s on her way. Now get into that kitchen. I’ll make sure she gets off all right.’
I saw her smile at Maggie and give one look back at Dad, but I didn’t see her leave.
Maggie refused to tell me anything about the visits – I had gathered by now that they had been going on for some time along with their accompanying flowers. She refused to talk to me about Sarah at all. She does this thing when I ask a question she doesn’t like, where she turns to either Dad or the dog and begins a conversation.
‘You enjoying that tea there, Michael?’
‘Have a good walk today, did you, girl?’
‘You two have any idea what nonsense this lad is talking?’
Simple, but impenetrable.
I divided the flowers and placed half of them in a clean tooth mug by my bed. With your mask hanging above them, it looks rather like an altar. I wonder what it is I’m worshipping.
Daniel
1st December
The Studio
Dear Aubrey –
I apologise for the call last night. I just found myself walking – there was no chance of sleep – and then I was inside the phone box by the village shop and scrabbling for change. I had to talk to someone and you were the only one I could call. I’m sorry the hour was far from convenient, but there was no need to be quite so dismissive.
I need your help, Aubrey. I dealt with the whole Sarah situation so badly – I was so raw and obvious. After all the work we have done, I just fell apart at the sight of her. I need to make a plan – or should I say we need to make a plan – for the next encounter. I wrote a hasty note to Mab last night and found I was unable to recall all that was said. Can you believe that? After all my hours scripting for you. And yet in that meeting with Sarah there are blanks – utter blanks – just the memory of a quivering childish panic, a weakness in the knees and the distinct need to urinate. I was still shaking for an hour after she left.
I know you have a pill for this – I know I’ve refused them a thousand times – but what I’m saying now is, send me some!
I am a failure, Aubrey.
Perhaps it would be worth investing in some kind of recording device, seeing as my brain has deserted me. I could fix something up with Dad’s old stereo in the sitting room, if I could just get my hands on a microphone. But then there would still be the physical signals to record. Maybe a video camera – they make those pretty small these days? You must know about this stuff; you have to have been using something like it since I left.
I’m relying on you, Aubrey. Just tell me what to do. I expect her every moment; at every turn of the door. It’s terrible. I daren’t leave the house in case she comes again.
Awaiting your reply,
Daniel
3rd December
The Studio
Dear Mab –
A calmer day. Instead of leaving the house, I have finally finished clearing the attic. The portraits, I have put in the studio. I’ve arranged them as best I can, trying to get some idea of sequence. Occasionally I’ve caught myself going up to look at them. And not just the ones of Sarah; there’s some fascination in staring into your own face, viewed through the eyes of another. If fascination is the right word. Maybe better to say it’s mesmerising. I’m not sure what to make of the expressions depicted. I can’t quite read them. It’s like staring at a text in a language very close to your own, but still impenetrably foreign. Does that make sense?
Your old bed has been set up downstairs for Dad. Clean white sheets and banked up with pillows by Maggie, it’s a little slice of hospital living. Dad hates being moved out of his chair and into bed in the evening – especially after a few glasses of whisky – but I’ve been making him do it. Saying that, Maggie complained about finding him in his day clothes when she got him up this morning. I’ve been putting him in jogging bottoms and sweatshirts from the supermarket – they can be washed easily and even thrown away if they get too stained or acquire too many cigarette burns – and couldn’t see the point in going through the fuss of changing him before bed. I have enough trouble with the morning wash and change. Anyway, once he’s tucked under the white blankets, you can’t tell. He looks like the perfect patient. Maggie’s just in a bad mood about me passing her the dog-walking duties.
I’ve been finding it tough to sleep, but my files have proved a great consolation. I am able to see now where I went wrong in the meeting with Sarah. I simply let the emotion of the occasion overwhelm me. I typed out the scene as best I could on Dad’s old typewriter. It was like being back at work. I even drew out a small floor plan. Such a small room, it manages to look cluttered as I place people into it. Of course at the time Maggie’s little occasional tables were still in place with their mouldering houseplants. They’ve all, thankfully, found their way into the skip now. But I find I’m rather sad to see them go, the fringe of dried leaves which stood between Sarah and me. We were so close. I must have brushed past her on my way through to the kitchen, but I have no memory of it.
There is a point to all this, the element I completely neglected to take into account: Dad.
After so many weeks here, I think I’ve started to regard him, not as a threat, but as a list of tasks to be completed. It’s only recently that he’s even begun to talk – and most of that doesn’t make sense – but imagine the effect he must have had on Sarah. Seeing me come through the door with Dad sitting by her side, she must have been terrified for me. Don’t you see, Mab, this explains everything: Sarah’s reticence and the tension in the room, which affected me so disastrously. Now I just have to figure out a way of getting Dad out of the house before her next visit. After what she witnessed on my last day here, after what she saw him do to me, no wonder she was scared. If only Dad were as easy to remove as dying houseplants.
Awaiting your reply,
Daniel
3rd December
The Studio
Dear Freya –
I’m sorry it has taken me so long to reply to your last letter. The truth is, I don’t have much news to share. Life is very slow here. Especially slow when compared to yours: you seem to have so many friends and things to do. It’s quite dizzying. I had to read and reread your letter to get the names straight in my mind. Could I ask you to describe your friends a little, or even send us some pictures? I do like to have an image of the people you are writing about, and it would be lovely to see what you look like now. I know Grandad would like it too.
I did have a very old friend pay a visit. It’s remarkable really, that, just by standing still for a time, someone so important can fall back into your life. Particularly when that someone has been lost for so long. You should be grateful: you are still young enough not to have experienced a loss like that. Although maybe I could count as a lost person in your life? Do you even remember my visit? I suppose you must. At least you had news of me from your mother? She was always good about keeping in touch.
Do you recall my reading you stories from that fairytale book you carried around with you? The one you kept in a pink backpack full of special treasures. You were never much interested in the words, but traced the illustrations with your small fingertips and insisted that I tell you a version of the story written there in the pictures on the page. The princesses, of course, had to play the central role, but you were never happy with them lying around and waiting for Prince Charming. The women must perform the rescues and save the day. Poor Prince Charming was rather left out of things. You accepted him as a mere part of the bounty, being much more interested in the animals and the dwarves and, of course, the mother Queen.
Maybe I will be saved by my own princess coming to rescue me? I do hope so
. I’ve always fancied myself a Prince Charming. Though it would make rather a complicated fairytale.
With much love and looking forward to your next letter,
Uncle Dan
3rd December
The Studio
Dear Alice –
I’m sorry it has been so long since I last wrote. Things continue much the same here.
Dad has developed a habit of crying at the least thing. It really is quite disturbing. As I sit here writing at the desk, he’s weeping. I just brought him a cup of tea and rolled him three cigarettes, which are sitting on the arm of the chair untouched. I’ve emptied his catheter bag and he’s had his morning wash and change.
I’ve even tried just squatting down by the side of his chair and holding his hand. He has beautiful hands, my father. Nothing like my stub-fingered plates. They look as though they’ve been carved out of close-grained wood, each tangled vein polished to a dull sheen. He’s always been proud of his long, fluted nails, keeping them obsessively clean, and I noticed the lines of filth that had built up over his confinement. I busied myself digging out the dirt with the end of a wooden toothpick, until he gently tugged his hand away to press his palms against his face. The tears glittered in the light from the TV and the sobs came in long, shuddering gasps. He’s been refusing to wear his glasses.
I don’t know what I’m meant to do.
Daniel x
5th December
My sickbed
Dear Mab –
I am sitting on my bed, banked up by pillows, nursing a cold. There is no one to nurse me. I am full of self-pity.
Maggie has arrived to look after Dad for the afternoon. I heard her voice through the floorboards and for a moment I thought it was Sarah come again to visit. It was enough to start me out of my bed and towards the door. I must be delusional. Then Maggie gave her shout up the stairs and I scurried back to my sheets.
All for the best really: I couldn’t have Sarah seeing me like this. My head is full and heavy and I ooze. A ghoul met me in the shaving mirror this morning. Not that this is enough for Maggie. She’s convinced I’m faking. She even went so far as to accuse me of a night on the tiles. Some fucking chance.
The tulips by my bed have blown and their petals crystallised into contortions. Their dry stalks rattle and whisper as I shift on my bed. I won’t throw them away; there is still a kind of beauty in them. More than can be said for me.
Why doesn’t she come, Mab? I’ve been ready and waiting for days. I’ve even taken special care of Dad, had him up, clean and waiting with me. I’ve started watering down his whisky. In fact, I must warn Maggie to use the open bottle and leave the undoctored one. It’s been making things easier in the morning, but more difficult at night. It takes so much longer to get him to sleep. I wondered about asking the doctor for some pills to help him sleep through? I’m up at least once or twice every night herding him back into his cot. Thank God for Tatty, who starts yapping as soon as he starts to wander.
I’m terrified I’ll pass on this cold.
Is this letter anything but nonsense? I can’t tell. Maggie keeps heaving up the stairs with questions and interrupting me. She said if I’m well enough to be scribbling I should be well enough to do without her. She must have had some other plan for today. How strange it is that we know so little about what goes on in her life away from here. Is that father of hers still alive behind the boards covering the front of the butcher’s shop? Why did she never marry?
(Later)
All is forgiven. I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to Maggie bringing me a tray with a bowl of tinned soup and a plate of buttered toast cut into triangles. She even pushed back my hair to feel my temperature with the back of her hand. Then she sighed and headed back downstairs. No words. Still, it is definite progress.
Daniel x
12th December
The Studio
Dear Alice –
I’m sorry this letter is late. I’ve been ill. What I thought was a cold turned out to be flu and had me laid up in bed for days. I had a fever. How I longed for your cool hands. Maggie told me I spoke in my sleep; the first thing she said that I could make sense of was, ‘Who’s this Alice, then?’
I’ve been so distracted recently. Even before my illness this place infected me. I was seeing things not as the man I am, but as the boy I was when I escaped. You came to me in my fever and rescued me. I can still taste you on my lips. Milk and honey. I dread to think what I whispered to Maggie in the night.
I feel so weak and light, despite Maggie constantly calling me a ‘great lump’ as she helped me heave about the bed. She’s had to give me sponge baths, I’m ashamed to say. Though at least now I’m strong enough to take care of the delicate areas myself.
My mind is so clear, it’s as though I’m sitting with you. Like that day when we were first alone together. Darling, I’m so weak. I keep having to stop and put down the pen. But your face is so clear to me, so much better than the poor doppelgänger that’s been haunting me lately. I have the transcript of that special day. Did you know I rushed home and made one? Oh, how my fingers trembled over the keys. But I had to have a record. Here, let me see what I can do with it:
I’m standing outside the door to the staircase that leads up to Aubrey’s office. I’m smoking the fifth in a pack of cigarettes I brought especially to smoke here. I don’t really want them, but it’s nice to have an occupation. I’m early. I know you’re still in session. But I want to be prepared. I have ironed this shirt and inspected the rest of my clothes for coffee stains. I am still not sure about this jacket. There is nothing I can do about my hair, except try to avoid my reflection in shop windows as I walked here from the bus stop.
I’m not prepared. I have no idea what I’m doing. There is no plan.
Not for the first time, I wonder at Aubrey’s choice of setting for his office, but he has always had a soft spot for the Northern Quarter. I can hear his voice in my head; see him mouth the words ‘soft spot’. We must have had this conversation more than once.
I smoke my cigarettes, lighting the next off the end of the last. For some reason it is important for you to meet me smoking. The street is busy, a mill of people and traffic. Something is kicking out or changing over. I am unused to it. The container that is myself is not properly sealed. I seep into the crowd, without moving from my place by the door. I allow myself to catch eyes, examine faces, and listen in to snatches of conversation. I allow myself to feel. I should know better. I have been too long confined. I have grown soft at my edges.
Maybe I am more prepared than I think I am. A girl. A shock of blonde hair. The door at my back. I had forgotten why I was here. ‘I’m sorry.’ Oh, why must my first words to you always be an apology?
‘No, it’s my – ’
‘No really, it was me.’
‘I don’t suppose you could spare one of those?’
You are standing next to me, smoking one of my cigarettes. You cough. You don’t really smoke. I already know this about you.
‘Are you going up?’ you ask, and you look towards the window of Aubrey’s office. I follow your gaze.
‘No. I mean, I don’t…’
‘Oh, I don’t mean to pry. He’s very good, you know. It’s difficult, isn’t it? I mean, it’s hard work. It is work. But, it’s worth it. He really is very good.
‘I’m Alice, by the way.’
‘Daniel.’
Weren’t we sweet in those first tentative days? Did you have any clue that I was already in love with you? I had no plan, but already I had decided my future was with you.
My love to you, my darling, as always,
Daniel xx
13th December
The fireside
Dear Mab –
Much stronger today. Thank you for your letter; I read some sections of it to Dad tonight in front of the fire. We both sat bundled up in blankets like old folks in their home and chuckled over your words. Well, only I chuckled, but Dad seemed to fo
llow along all right. What are these secret plans you’ve got hidden up your sleeve? Are they anything to do with the portraits? It’s all horribly intriguing.
Thank you for the cheque, too. I’ve given a little something extra to Maggie. She’s been working day and night here with the pair of us on our backs. I don’t know if she’s found time to sleep, except for catching a few winks in Dad’s chair.
I convinced her to take me out with her yesterday, when she took Tatty for a walk. We put my coat on over my pyjamas and stuffed my feet into trainers. Maggie tied my laces for me, as if I were a child being dressed for an outing. Then my feet start to work, one foot in front of the other, out of the front door, stepping over the tree roots that vein the pavement running down our street. The cracks and swells in the tarmac on display under the gloss of fresh rain.
There was rain in the air too; it washed against our faces and left us gasping. My feet were still working. I couldn’t help but marvel at their dogged progress. Maggie talked to Tatty and to me, huddled deep in her raincoat; I could only catch snatches of what she said. I felt like a lunatic, stumbling alongside them with my empty head, borne onwards by my marching feet. The rain got into my eyes so I had to squint and cold leached past cuffs, waistband and neckline, penetrating my flesh in a deep shiver. My mouth formed a word and dropped it into the sharp wind that rattled our raincoats.
‘What did you say?’ Maggie pulled her hood to one side and stepped closer.
‘Cold. I’m cold.’
‘We’ll get you back.’
I was glad to be able to send her home for a good night’s sleep with a few notes tucked down the front of her dress.
(Later)
Dad’s sleeping now, head flung back and mouth open. Giving his molars an airing. Even loading the fire doesn’t disturb him, though it’s an awkward business trying not to dislodge Tatty from her place on my feet. Everything’s cosy tonight. Without the wretched TV blaring, we’re like a sentimental painting. The kind of thing Dad always hated.
How You See Me Page 6