Fierce Fragile Hearts

by Sara Barnard

  19

  ‘All My Days’

  Alexi Murdoch

  I need to leave Warwick by eleven the next morning so I can get home in time for a session with my counsellor in the evening. All my hopes of having a proper conversation with Caddy have been dashed, so I don’t bring up the weirdness from the night before or ask why she’d taken so long to come back to her room. Instead I write her a note telling her that I love her and pin it on her cork board for her to find some time after I’ve gone, and leave it at that.

  I message Matt when I’m on the train and he replies with a phone emoji and a question mark. I curl myself up on my seat, my feet on my bag, and call him.

  ‘Hey,’ he says when he answers.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. I pull up my coat hood and snuggle into it, phone to my ear, giving myself a small cocoon of privacy. ‘How are you?’

  ‘All right,’ he says. ‘I’ve got a day off today so I’m trying to write a song.’

  ‘Cool!’ I say. ‘What kind of song? Can you sing it to me?’

  He laughs. ‘Right now?’

  ‘Yeah, go on.’

  ‘I’ve barely got a chorus so far,’ he says. ‘Try me in a few days and maybe I will.’

  ‘Is it about me?’

  He laughs again. ‘Do you want it to be?’

  ‘Every girl wants a song written about them,’ I say. ‘Every guy does, come to that. Who wouldn’t want a song about them?’

  ‘All the girls in my songs are fictional,’ he says. ‘Safer that way.’

  ‘Safer?’ I repeat, grinning into my hood. He’s definitely got in trouble in the past. ‘How—’ Out of nowhere, there’s a hand at my shoulder and I jump, pushing back my hood to see a scowling ticket inspector raising his eyebrows at me. ‘You’re not allowed to touch me,’ I say. This is the kind of thing I’ve learned after several years of fare-dodging. If you’re asleep – or pretending to be asleep to avoid a ticket inspector, say – then they can’t physically do anything to wake you up. It’s literally the law.

  ‘What?’ Matt asks, alarmed.

  ‘Feet off the seat,’ the ticket inspector says. ‘Ticket?’

  ‘My feet aren’t on the seat,’ I say. ‘They’re on my bag. And you’re not allowed to touch passengers like that.’

  ‘Ticket?’ he says again. He looks like he actively despises me. It would probably make his day if I didn’t have a ticket.

  I just look at him, drawing it out. The other passengers around us are all watching without watching, and it’s very British. I can tell that this guy is the kind who enjoys a power trip, and it’s wound me up. That and the fact that the no-touching rule is there for a reason, and that reason is to do with things like boundaries and protection, and it’s actually not OK for him to just ignore it.

  ‘You’ve got twenty seconds to produce a ticket,’ the man says, his voice louder now, ‘or I can fine you and you can get off this train.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. I squint at his badge. ‘One question, Pete. Do you make a habit of touching teenage girls on trains?’

  I hear a distant, ‘What the hell?’ from my phone, which has fallen down to my lap.

  ‘Ticket,’ Pete says. ‘Now.’

  I pull out my ticket, and the disappointment on his face is obvious. He snatches it from me, reads it far too carefully, then scribbles on it and hands it back, scowling.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘For asking so politely.’

  He glares at me and I stare back until he turns away and starts taking tickets from the other passengers.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say into the phone, lifting it back to my ear and tucking myself under my hood again. ‘Ticket inspector.’

  ‘Do you have a ticket?’

  ‘Yeah, but he was just being a dick. Anyway. What were we talking about?’

  ‘Songs, but I want to know about Warwick. You said last night you had a thing with Caddy? What happened?’

  I tell him a little about the night and the weirdness, but there’s no way to explain the history between Caddy and me in a way he’ll understand, at least not over the phone while I’m sitting in a train carriage. I also leave out the bit about Owen, because I don’t want it getting back to Kel.

  ‘That sounds shit,’ Matt says. ‘But, look, uni’s a weird time, you know? Don’t get too upset about it. Me and Kel had a bit of an off patch when we both went to uni for the first time, and then when I dropped out it got worse. But we’re fine now. All this stuff, it’s temporary. Being friends is about seeing this stuff through, however hard it is.’

  ‘You think we will?’

  ‘Yeah, of course. Just give it some time.’ There’s a pause. ‘Have I helped? Do you feel better?’

  I smile. ‘I do, actually. Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Hey, what station are you coming into?’

  ‘Euston,’ I say. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m heading into central later,’ he says. ‘I was just thinking I could head in a little bit earlier and say hi.’

  I smile into my hood. Inside my Vans, my toes curl involuntarily with pleased surprise. ‘Say hi?’

  ‘If you want to,’ he says. ‘If you’re not in a rush or anything. When does your train get in?’

  ‘In about an hour. I reckon I could spare a few minutes to say hi,’ I say. My voice is as casual as his. I’m thinking of the last time I saw him; the two of us falling on to a bed in a hotel in Hastings. ‘You could play me the song.’

  He laughs. ‘Are you going to be disappointed if I don’t, now?’

  ‘I’ll never get over it.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. OK, I better go. I’ll see you in a bit?’

  When my train pulls into Euston, Matt messages to say he’s outside Fat Face. I take my time wandering over there, as if I’m making some kind of a point to myself. When he sees me, he smiles, reaching up to tug the headphones out of his ears. ‘Hey,’ he mouths, before I’m close enough to hear him.

  ‘Hey,’ I say. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’

  He grins. ‘Right?’

  ‘Where’s your guitar?’ I ask, leaning back and looking around him. ‘How can you serenade me without your guitar?’

  ‘You’re funny,’ he says. ‘So funny.’

  ‘So I’m told.’

  ‘Do you have time for a coffee?’ he asks.

  ‘Just one,’ I say. ‘A quick one.’

  ‘A quick one like … an espresso?’

  ‘Not quite that quick.’

  We find a Costa and I get us a table, pulling out my phone to check I haven’t missed any messages from anyone. Specifically, Caddy, telling me she misses me already, and she’s sorry we didn’t get a chance to properly talk. The screen is blank.

  ‘One caramel mocha,’ Matt says grandly, putting a cup on the table in front of me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘What did you get?’

  ‘A latte. I’m a man of simple tastes. So tell me. What’s Warwick actually like? And did it make you want to go to uni?’

  I think about it. ‘The whole trip felt like having a guest pass to a world I didn’t belong in. And everyone knew the code except me.’

  ‘Well, that doesn’t sound great. Was it because of the weirdness between you and Caddy?’

  ‘Maybe. I don’t know. Anyway, I want to know about you. How’s the song actually coming along? I promise I won’t make a stupid joke this time.’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ve got half a verse, a chorus and a bridge.’

  ‘I’m really restraining myself from making a stupid joke right now.’

  He laughs, shaking his head a little. His eyes slide to mine and it’s like being pulled in. ‘I know we’re in a coffee shop in the middle of a train station,’ he says. ‘But is it OK if I kiss you?’

  No one’s ever asked me before. They just go for it, or they do that long, slow lean to give you time to say no. But actually asked me? Never.

  I can’t stop the smile that breaks across my face. ‘Go on, then.’

  When we kiss, it
’s gentle and slow, nothing like the urgent face-eating that was going on in the club in Hastings. It’s like we have all the time in the world instead of being in one of London’s busiest train stations where the tannoy is a constant reminder of time closing in. God, I like kissing him. I really, really like kissing him. Way more than I should.

  We stay in the Costa for a while, alternating between talking and kissing, until I glance at the clock and stand up. ‘OK, I really have to go now. Thanks for the coffee.’

  ‘No worries,’ he says. ‘It was great to see you.’

  ‘You too,’ I say. ‘And the kissing was good too.’

  A smile blooms. ‘Just good?’

  I smile back. ‘Very good.’ I hoist my bag up over my shoulder and raise my hand in a wave. ‘See you.’

  The next time I see Dilys, I’m more prepared. As well as my guitar and some flowers, I bring a couple of photos of Clarence, a copy of The Little Prince – she once told me it was her favourite book – and a few small bags of dried lavender. Dilys’s flat had always smelled like lavender, so I figure she must like it.

  She’s still in bed but sitting more upright this time, and her movements – though it might just be my wishful thinking – seem more animated.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if you wanted something to read,’ I say, waving The Little Prince. ‘Or I could read it to you, if you—’

  ‘Yes,’ she says.

  ‘You want me to read to you and play the guitar?’

  She nods.

  ‘OK, well, I’m not a performing monkey, you know. You can’t just bleed me dry.’ A smile spreads across her face and she shakes her head a little. ‘You have to choose,’ I say. ‘Guitar or book?’

  ‘Book,’ she says.

  ‘Was my singing really that bad?’

  She laughs, deep and throaty, and then coughs. I reach for her water and hand it to her, watching as drinks, taking it back carefully when I’m sure she’s done.

  ‘OK?’ I ask softly. When she nods, I open the book to the first page, then frown. ‘There’s an introduction. Do you want me to read that bit? No? OK.’ I skip ahead until I find the first chapter. ‘Once, when I was six years old …’

  The chapter is pretty short, so I barely have time to get into it before I’m done. I glance up to see that Dilys has her eyes closed, and she’s smiling. I take a receipt from the bedside table and slide it between the pages.

  ‘More next time,’ I say.

  I stay for about an hour, telling her about seeing Mum for my birthday, visiting Caddy at Warwick. I try and explain how I’d felt so disconnected from her and she nods like she understands. I wish she could talk to me like she used to in Ventrella Road. I try and imagine what she’d say to me, but it’s not the same.

  On my way out, Marcus stops me in the hall, a friendly smile on his face. ‘Have you had a proper tour?’ he asks.

  ‘No,’ I say. ‘Just Dilys’s room.’

  ‘There’s not really much to see,’ Marcus says cheerfully. ‘But as you seem like you’re going to be a regular visitor, I thought you might like a look around.’

  ‘OK,’ I say. All that’s waiting for me at home is a pile of washing-up. ‘How long have you worked here?’

  ‘Three years,’ he says. ‘So, we’ve got thirty residents. Dilys is among the youngest; our oldest is a hundred and one.’

  ‘Wow!’

  ‘Harold has been here for a long time. He still likes to say that he’ll outlive us all.’

  ‘Do you like working here?’

  ‘I do. Here’s the kitchen.’ He waves me in and pours himself a coffee from the pot waiting in the machine. ‘Want one?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I was working in palliative care before I came here,’ Marcus says. ‘That’s end-of-life care. It’s what I thought I wanted to do, but it didn’t work out. It affected me too much. I couldn’t get the balance between life and work, you know? So now I’m here, where it’s a bit more like …’ He hesitates, considering. ‘The step before the last step. If that makes any sense at all. What do you do?’

  ‘Oh, I just work in a coffee shop,’ I say. When he looks surprised, I add, ‘Not what you thought I’d say?’

  ‘I thought you must work in a similar field. Or be studying towards it, perhaps. We don’t get many visitors your age that aren’t relatives. You’re very good with Dilys.’

  ‘I like her,’ I say. ‘It’s not a work thing.’

  ‘I know, sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I was just curious.’ He opens the door again. ‘If you ever wanted to volunteer here generally, rather than just visit her, you’d be very welcome. We’re always on the lookout for good volunteers.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, mostly because I’m not sure how to reply.

  He looks at me for a moment. ‘What kind of area do you want to work in? Long-term, I mean.’

  I don’t know why he’s carrying on with this, but he’s giving me free coffee and he’s nice to Dilys, so I answer. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he says. ‘If you change your mind, though, think about the care industry? Or even nursing. We need people like you.’

  I’m so flattered, and so surprised, that for a second I can’t actually speak. ‘People like you’ is usually such a loaded phrase, and I’ve had variants of it thrown at me over the years, none of them complimentary. But this … he means this in a good way. He sees me as someone good, someone who could do good.

  My impulse is to thank him, but all I say is, ‘OK, I’ll think about it. Maybe.’

  ‘Great,’ he says. ‘Sorry to bang on at you. I’ll just show you the common area before you go. When Dilys is a bit more mobile, she’ll probably spend a lot of her time there.’

  ‘When she’s more mobile, will she be able to have Clarence with her?’ I ask, following him along the corridor.

  ‘Clarence …’ His brow wrinkles, then clears. ‘Her dog?’ When I nod, he says, ‘Yes, some residents do have a cat or a dog, if pre-arrangements have been made, depending on the circumstances. That may be some time away for Dilys, though. Now, here we are.’

  We’ve stepped into a wide room full of sofa chairs and tables. There are bookshelves lining one wall and a TV on each side of the room. Old people – residents – are scattered around the room, most either in pairs or with a visitor of their own. I’m looking around, making polite noises, when I spot the piano.

  ‘A piano!’ I say, like a child. I head over to it and Marcus follows. ‘This is great. When Dilys is better, you should bring her in here so she can play.’

  Marcus nods. ‘That may take some time,’ he cautions. ‘If at all. You do know what to expect in terms of her recovery?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I say. I don’t really, but I don’t want to talk about it, either. ‘She was a piano teacher, you know.’ I lift the fallboard and look down at the keys. ‘Is it in tune?’

  ‘It should be,’ he says. ‘We have a woman come in every couple of weeks to play for the residents. I’ll make sure Dilys is here for it, if she’s up to it.’

  ‘Great,’ I say. ‘She’ll like that.’ I glance over at him. ‘Do you play?’

  ‘No, I’m not very musical,’ he says. ‘Do you?’

  I shake my head, touching my fingertips to the white keys. ‘I used to, when I was really young.’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  I shrug, pushing gently down on one of the keys, the note sounding clear in the room. ‘I don’t know. Just one of those things, I guess—’ The words die in my throat, because suddenly, out of nowhere, I do remember. The memory surfaces, complete, in my head, like it had never gone away. Me, sitting on the piano stool, playing ‘Chopsticks’. Shouting behind me. A hand grabbing a hold of my hair, pulling me off the stool, throwing me against the piano. The explosion in my head. Darkness.

  Oh God. Oh my God. I snatch my hand back from the keys, trying to remember how to breathe. How could I have forgotten that? How? I’ve been in a psychiatric unit. I had therapy. I had music therapy. I
even talked to the therapist about how I’d played the piano once, but stopped. Nothing had brought the memory back then, in the place where it was safest to bring back horrible memories. But now, standing in the common area of a care home in Brighton, unprompted, there it is. Horrifying and ugly.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  I nod. The impact had knocked me out. I must have been seven or eight, because it was in the Manchester house. I remember sitting on a stool in the kitchen, Mum kneeling in front of me, her hands on my face. She’d been crying. God. How could I have forgotten this? Maybe ‘forgotten’ isn’t the right word, not when it’s trauma. Buried, maybe. Carefully hidden under layers of self-protection. I thought I’d uncovered everything by now. It’s frightening to realize that I haven’t.

  Marcus has disappeared, leaving me alone, staring down at the keys. I can still hear my own breathing but it’s levelled out now, steady.

  I’d refused to go back to the piano. Just flat-out not gone anywhere near it. Maybe in some families, we’d have dealt with it. Overcome it, even. Mum would have coaxed me back beside her on the piano stool. But this was my family, and so I never played again. Never sat with Mum like that, either. We left the piano behind when we moved to Reading.

  Mum. Mum, singing the scales and arpeggios song from that Disney film The Aristocats in a soft whisper. Her cool hands over mine, guiding my fingers. A noise escapes from my throat, like a whimper. Why didn’t you fight? Why didn’t you fight for me?

  ‘Here,’ a soft voice says from beside me. I look up, blinking past the blur in my eyes. Marcus is holding out a paper cup of water.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, taking it. My voice comes out hoarse.

  ‘Funny the things that get you,’ he says. I appreciate how conversational he is, how offhandedly gentle, like this is ordinary behaviour. ‘Do you want to sit down?’

  ‘No, I’m fine. I’m just going to go home. Sorry to just … randomly freak out on you.’

  Marcus smiles. ‘You’re really not the first person to get emotional here, trust me on that.’