by Jane Riley
‘She wants to snoop.’
‘Ha! Then again, knowledge is power, as they say.’
‘True, but ignorance is also bliss,’ I said.
‘But don’t you want to know more about the new funeral home and what Henry’s gripe is all about?’
‘Well, yes . . .’
‘So maybe some snooping is good idea. And why don’t you text Henry? You’ve got his number, haven’t you?’ Andy’s eyes lit up.
I shrugged, finished the beer and thought about ordering a burger for dinner.
‘Let’s do it now.’ Andy picked up my phone, which I’d left on the table in hopeful expectation of a call-out, and passed it to me. ‘Tell him you’re sorry he’s upset and that you want to rectify his grievances. You’ll feel better when it’s resolved.’
I wondered if this could be my way of checking in on Henry on Marie’s behalf. It was the sort of thing she would have done for me, I’m sure, if the situation had been reversed. ‘OK,’ I said, and started typing. But then I got cold feet and couldn’t finish it. Henry’s flaring nostrils in my offices had indicated an angry man, and alarmed me. The thought of them made me anxious. ‘Perhaps it’s better to pretend it didn’t happen,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to upset him even more.’ I held my thumb on the delete button.
‘Stop being Mr Nice Guy. I think you should find out. Come on, I’ll do it.’ Andy took the phone from me and rewrote the text. Then it was gone. Sent into the ether before I had a chance to read it.
What I didn’t expect was a swift reply, let alone the reply I got: I’ve read her diary. I know what was going on.
I let the phone fall on the table. Was I mentioned in Marie’s diary? Surely it was only in a professional sense.
‘What? Has he replied?’ Andy picked up the phone. ‘Mate . . .’ he said, his chin hingeing open and eyes widening.
‘I thought he was dissatisfied with our services.’
‘What was going on between you and Marie?’
‘Nothing was going on between us.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ But I felt myself blushing and Andy’s raised eyebrows made me realise that sometimes you can’t keep things secret for ever.
‘Do you have time for another beer?’ I asked.
Even if he didn’t, Andy stayed, and I told him how I was in love with Marie. The relief I felt after I had done so was immense. It was as if I’d passed the baton of a burdensome secret on to Andy so he could share the load and ease the strain. It’s how I imagine a criminal might feel when they finally admit to a crime. It might mean jail time but at least they don’t have to lie or hide any more. I guess that’s what’s called being honest. Opening up and taking ownership of your wounds. What’s more, in a weird way, revealing my secret actually made it seem less bad. But then, as I said to Andy, ‘Nothing happened between us; I never told her how I felt.’
‘Well, aren’t you a dark horse? Now you have to find out what’s in the diary. I think you should pay Henry a visit.’
The thought of turning up on Henry’s doorstep filled me with panic, much like how I felt the first time I stood at the precipice of a diving board during a group swimming lesson when I was nine. First, I saw my toes, ten small white digits gripping the board. Then I saw the blue water undulate around me, the same colour as the single layer of tiles that cut the white wall in our bathroom in half. For a second I thought the board was on top of the water like a surfboard and I was standing, hovering on top, a surfer yet to make his moves. Until I realised, in a panic, the incalculable distance between me and the pool. One minute it was so close I could touch it with my hand, the next it was a six-storey department store below, an oceanic abyss ready to engulf me and not bring me back to the surface. Agreeing to visit Henry was like thinking about diving into an abyss, where I had no idea how to do it and what would happen if I did.
The Visit
That night I didn’t sleep. All I could think about was the diary. What had Marie written? Why had it upset Henry? Had she felt something for me? Had she thought about me as I had her? It was an outrageous idea, one I couldn’t get out of my head, and was the only reason I agreed to Andy picking me up mid-morning the next day and taking me to Henry’s.
I went through my wardrobe and took out three shirts, three pairs of cufflinks, four ties and two suits and laid them on the bed. Which to wear? Which would best demonstrate that I meant business, that I would not be rattled by Henry’s threats? I got out my portable garment steamer and ran it over each item, even the ties. While it was still on I did the pillowcases. I would have gone around the flat if I’d had more time but Andy was arriving in ten minutes. I refocused and chose the blue suit, white shirt, red tie and the silver O and C cufflinks Mum gave me for my thirtieth birthday.
Andy turned up in jeans and a T-shirt.
‘Wow, look at you,’ he said. ‘Smart, as always.’
I got the steamer and fired it up.
‘Get that thing away from me.’ Andy flapped a hand.
‘You could at least be wrinkle-free,’ I said.
‘Very funny. Let’s go.’
He didn’t realise I would have steamed him all over if he had let me.
In the car, my confidence rapidly dwindled. In the state Henry seemed to be in, he probably wouldn’t care if I turned up in Speedos. Thank goodness for Andy. He would know what to say. I could let him do the talking, knowing how dreadfully I suffered from ‘after wit’ when put on the spot – or, as Mum liked to say in her poorly pronounced French, ‘l’esprit d’escalier’.
When we arrived, I let Andy go ahead, unlatch the picket-fence gate and walk up to the house, while I lagged behind, trying to hide. The box hedge lining the path, usually clipped, was frayed and patchy and the pockets of lawn either side sprouted weeds. What dishevelment! Marie would not have been happy. Henry couldn’t even keep the garden tidy. I let the gate swing closed and bang shut.
‘What if he’s not in?’ I whispered.
‘We come back tomorrow.’
I wasn’t sure about that idea. I wasn’t sure about any of it now. I ran to the side of the house and flattened myself to the wall, like they do in the movies.
‘What are you doing?’ Andy followed me with a look of bemusement.
‘Shh.’
‘You’re being ridiculous.’
‘You don’t know what Henry’s like.’
‘It’ll be fine.’
We heard the front door open. ‘Hello?’
‘I’m not talking to him.’ I shook my head to reiterate my point.
‘Yes you are. Come on.’ Andy pulled me away from the wall and pushed me towards the front of the house. Henry held on to the front door, scowling. The door swayed as he swayed.
‘What the . . .?’ Henry said. He wore an out-of-shape polo shirt and ill-fitting jeans. He looked as if he’d just got out of bed. Looked as if he’d turned himself against the world. Poor bugger.
Still, my toes curled. I was standing at the edge of the diving board. Andy put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry,’ he whispered in my ear, and walked towards Henry.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m Andy, a friend of Oliver’s.’
‘Are you now?’ Henry slurred. The gap in the door narrowed. Henry’s head began to disappear.
‘Don’t close the door,’ Andy interrupted. ‘We’re not here to cause trouble. We just want to chat.’
‘What about?’
Andy looked at me. ‘The diary,’ he said.
‘Go away.’
‘No.’
‘You can’t threaten Oliver without an explanation.’
‘Are you his lawyer?’ Henry laughed.
‘No.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Oliver has the right to know.’
‘Has he lost his voice?’
Andy elbowed me and gestured for me to speak.
I raised a hand and kept it raised, as if I were a robot whose elbow
mechanism had jammed. ‘Hi,’ I said.
Henry stared at me, his eyes bloodshot and swollen.
‘If you explain the diary, we’ll go and forget any of this happened,’ Andy said.
‘It’s your fault I read it in the first place.’ Henry threw a drunken finger at me. ‘I was going to stick it in the coffin until you suggested keeping it as a nice reminder of her. Fat load of use that was. I wouldn’t have unlocked the bloody thing then.’
Henry’s accusations of my guilt hurt. I felt like a shrivelled-up nothing, a dried-up truffle mushroom good only for chopping and cooking.
‘Just go away,’ Henry said, closing the door. Andy put a foot in it.
‘Come on, Henry, just tell us what this is all about.’ Andy plastered a grin on his face and pushed his leg into the door.
‘You’re persistent little buggers, aren’t you?’
I didn’t want to be a persistent little bugger. I touched Andy’s arm to get his attention but Andy wasn’t budging.
‘We’re not leaving,’ Andy said. ‘We’ll stay here all night until you tell us.’ Andy clearly was a persistent little bugger. He put a hand out to keep the door open, which made Henry stumble.
‘Hey!’ Henry said.
‘Well . . .?’
‘What’s in it for me?’
‘A discount on your next funeral.’ Andy smiled at me. I couldn’t return the gesture, was unable to fabricate a smile. I admired Andy’s chutzpah but was unable to emulate it, having spent my life shamefully chutzpah-less.
‘You’ve got to be kidding?’ Henry said.
‘No, Oliver’s a very accommodating man. Anyway, why should he give you anything when you’re the one who barged into his funeral home and threatened him?’
Henry rolled his eyes and sighed a raspy, rattly sigh. ‘Alright, alright.’ He let go of the door and let us inside.
‘You can sit in there.’ He pointed to a reading room to the right of the front door. I followed Andy in and we perched on the edge of a velvet-covered chaise longue. I wanted to lounge on the chaise longue instead of teetering on the edge as if I were about to jump out of a plane. Henry disappeared down the hallway. Heavy drapes hung on the window opposite and books framed an original fireplace. A large ceramic vase sat noticeably empty in front of the hearth.
My right leg jiggled uncontrollably. Andy put a hand on it. ‘Relax,’ he said.
‘You haven’t seen him in action,’ I said.
‘You haven’t seen me in action.’
‘I don’t want to.’
‘He’s had a few, so he won’t be hard to topple.’ Andy chuckled.
‘Here,’ Henry said, returning. He had a whisky in one hand and a leather-bound journal in the other, its lock damaged and dangling. He handed it to me. A delicate whiff of roses and a hint of leather floated up from the diary. I wanted to put my nose against the cover and breathe her in.
‘Don’t stare at it. Open it.’
Stupidly, I didn’t think I could open it now that I was holding it. I felt torn between an urge to read the pages as if ravenously scoffing food and reluctant ethical duty. I didn’t believe it was mine to read and I wasn’t one to pry. Yet it felt as if everything about my past was sealed inside the journal. That opening it would somehow change the present and impact my future. Andy nodded at me. Go on, he was saying. Go on, just do it. My fingers readied at the bottom corner. Come on, turn the cover. Turn it. Oh, the curiosity of wanting to know what lay inside. The urge . . .
But no. I couldn’t.
‘Stop looking at the damn thing and read,’ Henry ordered. He drank what was left in his glass and steadied himself against a standing lamp.
I was frozen. As much as I wanted to know what Marie had written, I wanted to leave her and Henry in peace without causing any more aggravation. Henry may have acted inappropriately at Clock & Son the other day, but he had been drinking. He was probably ashamed at his behaviour and had overreacted to whatever he had read. The man needed more time to grieve, more time to accept.
‘For goodness’ sake, give me that.’ Henry snatched the diary off me. His sudden aggression made me twitch. I may have felt sorry for him but he still made me nervous. The diary pages cracked as Henry flicked through them. ‘Here, this is the bit.’ He waggled the diary in front of me.
‘I can’t,’ I said.
Andy nudged me.
‘You can’t, can’t you?’ Henry shouted each word, the ‘c’s catching in his throat like phlegm. ‘You stupid prick.’
‘Look, mate,’ Andy said, ‘why don’t you just tell us?’
Henry’s gaze moved from his glass to somewhere else entirely. His mouth drooped. His shoulders sagged.
‘I had no idea.’ Henry spoke again, this time more subdued, more measured. He shook his head slowly. ‘No. Bloody. Idea.’ He paused and gestured with the glass. ‘No bloody idea,’ he shouted drunkenly, and flung the journal at the fireplace.
‘Because I thought she loved me. I thought all this time . . . Maybe I wasn’t the best husband. Maybe . . . I don’t know. But I did love her, I did.’ He paused. ‘Except, you see, she didn’t love me.’ His face crumpled like paper; his bottom lip pouted like a petulant child’s. ‘No, she didn’t love me. She loved you.’
A strange noise came from the back of my throat. I think it was from me. It could have been Henry. White noise jammed my ears.
‘Close your mouth, you silly little man,’ Henry sneered. He pointed his glass at me, closed one eye and pretended to pull the trigger on a gun, sound effects and all.
I jumped. Even Andy jerked.
‘Alright, you can go now. Show’s over,’ Henry said. Sweat pooled in his armpits.
But wait! What did he mean, she loved me? Was it really a heartfelt non-platonic love and not merely the love of a meaningful friendship? How did Henry know this for sure? What had Marie written exactly? I eyed the diary lying by the hearth, battered and bruised. Andy was doing the same. I should lunge for it. Or, at least, Andy should. Andy had fast-twitch muscle fibres. Or so Andy said. Go on, Andy, get it. Get it!
He didn’t. He stared at it, then said, ‘I’m sure Oliver would like to read the diary now.’
‘Too late. Get up and get out.’ Henry grabbed Andy’s shirt, pulled him off the chaise longue and shoved him towards the door.
I was next. Henry yanked me to my feet before I could do anything, say anything. ‘Go, and don’t bother me again.’
‘Well, that goes for you, too, you know,’ Andy called back. But it was a feeble response which held no sway with Henry. The door clattered shut behind us, l’esprit d’escalier following closely on our heels.
Andy fumbled with the ignition, swearing as he did so. ‘That was crazy,’ he said.
I took off my jacket. Wiped my brow. I was speechless. Was it true that Marie had loved me? One minute I was loveless, the next I was full to the brim. I looked out at Marie’s house. It now seemed changed. Its white shutters were whiter, the sandstone frontage more textured, the potted colours brighter, the grass and weeds greener.
‘She loved me, Andy, she loved me.’ I must have sounded like a fool, but I didn’t care.
Andy lifted a hand off the steering wheel and placed it on my shoulder. ‘Are you alright?’
‘It’s like I’ve been flipped and landed on my head.’
We turned down a side street. I strained my neck to keep the house in view, until it disappeared completely. I felt like I’d left a piece of me behind and wondered if I’d ever get it back again or whether it was best left there for weeds to grow over.
‘I wish I’d got the diary,’ Andy continued. ‘I wanted to grab it, but I’ll be honest, Henry spooked me.’
Was I stupid not to have read the page Henry offered me? I could easily have indulged my inquisitiveness and satisfied my desire to find out what Marie had penned about me. Did it actually contain words of love, phrases of romance dipped in regret? Did she really say she loved me? My gut ached at the thought of our recipro
cal love for each other. How had I not known? I rested an elbow on the door and my head in a hand. I closed my eyes and thought of Marie. How she liked to surprise me by dropping a Lindt ball into my jacket pocket without me noticing. How her sweet tooth rivalled mine. How thoughtful she was, how quietly confident and overflowing with kindness. How tactile she could be and the wondrous feeling I got when she’d touch my arm unthinkingly. How much her words of professional advice and guidance meant to me. I wiped a tear from my cheek. Darling Marie, oh, darling Marie.
‘Hey, mate, don’t be sad,’ Andy said. ‘This is good, right? She loved you, too!’
‘Yes, Andy, she loved me.’ I nodded, and then, unable to help myself. I shouted, ‘She loved me! She loved me! She loved me!’ I put emphasis on different words, each meaning as equally important as the other, and ended with a whoop to try and scare off my melancholy.
‘That’s the way,’ Andy said. ‘Be happy at this news. Now you know that Henry’s anger had nothing to do with your business.’
‘Well, yes, that’s good news, too.’ I felt a burst of joy rise up.
Then it went and popped when it reached my throat and I started sobbing. My chance at true, mutual love was gone. Gone! And here I had been, thinking my love had been one-sided. That I had been loveless, or worse, unlovable. But no, it wasn’t true. I had been loved. I was lovable!
One minute I was up, the next down, swinging like old-fashioned balancing scales. I didn’t feel I could take any more news – good or bad. So many things had happened recently to upset my status quo that I didn’t think my nerves could take it any more.
‘Oh, mate,’ Andy said. ‘Hang on, I’ll pull over.’
‘I’m OK,’ I said.
Andy stopped the car and patted my leg. ‘It’s a lot to take in and you’re allowed to feel sad.’ He pulled a serviette from the compartment in his door and gave it to me. It smelled like a stale muffin.
I blew into it and dried my eyes but they only started welling up again and tears dribbled in a constant trickle down my face. I needed another serviette, but Andy didn’t have one.
‘Sorry, Andy,’ I blubbered.
He patted my leg again. ‘It’s OK. It’ll be OK. I know, why don’t we make a toast to Marie? That’ll help cheer you up.’