‘She died in a car crash,’ he pauses. ‘She was six months pregnant. It was six years ago now.’
Georgia’s jaw drops, aghast. ‘Oh my God, I’m so sorry Adam, how awful.’
‘I stopped the car and got out to help a woman who was on the hard shoulder, struggling to change a wheel. And then, I saw this car on the other carriageway swerving erratically. There was a long screeching noise that seemed to go on forever and suddenly it was heading towards us. It swerved again and hit my car head-on. She died instantly. He had been drinking.’ He rubs his forehead and his fortitude begins to waver. Georgia feels an urge to reach out to him.
‘She was the most perfect, beautiful person I’d ever met. She was my life, my love, and my best friend. I know she would have wanted me to live my life to the full and have no regrets. We’ve all lost loved ones; we deal with that in our own ways at the time.’
‘I can’t imagine how that must have felt.’
A smile forces its way across his face. ‘Time helps, not that it gets any easier; medication can numb the pain, but that’s not the answer. Life continues, it doesn’t stop.’
‘And is that how you coped, by getting on with life?’
‘Eventually... It took a long time. At times, the grief is unbearable, but on a day like today, talking about it is my weapon.’ He looks at her steadily. ‘Why don’t you write a letter?’
She looks at him quizzically. ‘A letter?’
‘Yes, to your mother. Write everything down, as if you were talking to her again. Tell her how you felt then and how you feel now.’
‘Do you think it will make a difference, I mean, will it help?’
‘It may help to put things into perspective. You need to be truthful. Make peace with her, with yourself.’
She considers what Adam has just said and embraces the idea. ‘Yes, you may be right,’ she says with joy and relief.
She raises an eyebrow. ‘And you… have you written a letter, to your wife… to Katherine?’
‘I did, and yes it helped.’
‘Good. I’m glad.’
Adam is surprised by her concern. ‘I’ve still got it. If you do write a letter, make sure you keep it safe. At the beginning, I read it a lot. Not so much now, though.’
‘I will, definitely. I think it’s something I need to do.’
It takes Georgia three days to organise her thoughts and summon the courage to write the letter.
Dear Mum,
By writing this letter, I hope to start a healing process that will allow me the grace to understand and come to terms with the insurmountable loss your departing has left.
Where to begin?
If only you had confided in me, I would have been prepared; I would have been there for you, in the beginning. I could have helped more. I may not have eased your pain or its advancement, but at least I could have comforted you. You would have had the opportunity to share your thoughts, your pain, and your anger. Why did you only disclose your cancer when you knew your time with us was ebbing away and your body had been defeated by this disease? Why mum? Were you trying to spare me? Shelter me from the inevitable until the time came when it was impossible to do so? Were you sheltering from our pity?
I am being selfish. I am only thinking of myself, my feelings.
I could never imagine what you must have gone through. To daily live your life with the dignity you portrayed. Each living minute, hour after hour, day after day, conveys the person I could never be, but only look towards in admiration. In my heart, I know you wanted to spare us the immense turmoil this disease brings but, in doing so, you made the end so much harder to accept.
I was not ready to lose you… to let you go. If only I knew that those days were to be our last together, I would have absorbed every detail of every second, every minute and hour. I could have recorded our times together so that, in some way, you would be with us, amongst us, and then I would be able to revisit those precious times together.
I say this because, as time passes, sometimes the clarity of your image softens and gets harder to define, and it does not matter how hard I try, I cannot focus on your face, your eyes, your mouth, the subtle colours of your hair, the tone of your voice fade, like a balloon rising into the sky, as it slips from a child’s hand. I feel like that child.
Regret haunts me with its bitter taste. I am endlessly revisiting the times when I should have told you I loved you, but didn’t. Not just with words, but with actions as well, the giving of affection, the smallest gesture can say so much. Did you look for this from me?
I still have cherished memories. I loved the way we spoke about the little things in life- what are the best flowers to plant in spring, where to shop for that dress, discovering an authentic Italian restaurant, the shows and plays that inspired you to go out nearly every evening during the Edinburgh festival.
When I was a teenager and had broken up with a boyfriend, you were always there to place a bandage on my broken heart, or to help me with a decision I had to make that seemed, for me at the time, to be the most important thing in my world. At that moment, you made it yours too, just by being there and listening, understanding and never judging, but always offering sensible advice that was comforting and always right. Each and every day, you were always there for me, and I will spend each day living by your example, by always being there for Dylan, to support, encourage and love. This will be your legacy.
I will never get over your death, but I will try to live by your example, and if I can emulate just some of your courage, your grace and your wisdom, I will be a better person for that.
Until we meet again,
Always, you’re loving daughter,
Georgia.
She lays down the pen and exhales deeply. She has hoped for a feeling that will lift the weight from her, but none is forthcoming. It’s a beginning, she tells herself, small steps first.
Chapter 30
Nothing to Declare but my Genius
1972
Tuesday 6th June 1972
Earlier tonight, we ate in a local restaurant hidden amongst a small network of lanes in the village. Everything looks different at night; there is a glow of light that radiates from the streets, shops, restaurants and tavernas, as the locals call them. In my ignorance, I don’t know what the difference between the two is. On this visit to Corfu, I’m determined to immerse myself in local history and customs. I’d picked up several phrases of the Greek language on my earlier visits and it’s my goal to eventually be able to converse with the villagers and hold a conversation. Since I hear the language every day, I’m hoping that it won’t take too long. Theresa has been teaching me almost daily, which has been a tremendous help.
At dinner tonight, we ate in a local restaurant hidden amongst a small network of lanes. Paul’s mood was elated...
‘I received a phone call from my publishers this morning when you were out shopping. It looks like I might have to go away, for a week or two at the most. They want me to go to New York, capitalise on the book’s success and make the most of the moment, that kind of thing.’
‘That sounds marvellous, Paul.’ Emily smiles.
‘The New York Times want an interview. No doubt they’ll want a picture as well. I’d better take a good suit. You don’t mind Emily, do you? I’ll be back before you know it.’
‘When do you have to go?’
‘I’m waiting on confirmation, but it looks like they want me over next week. I need to go to London first, and then travel on to New York. I know it won’t be good for you dear, the timing stinks; after all, we just arrived.’
She waves away his concern with the flick of a hand.
‘Oh, don’t worry. I’ve enough to keep me occupied here, freshening up the house for one thing. You won’t recognise the place when you get back and, besides, I’ve got Gabriella’s exhibition to go to as well.’
‘It’ll be good for you to socialise. I’m sure Theresa will look after you. If anything it’ll get you away from th
e house without me tagging along.’
He drains the wine from his glass. ‘I’m glad you’re ok about it. Shall we order another bottle?’
‘Not for me. I’ll just have a coffee.’
He lights a cigarette. ‘Well, you won’t mind if I do then.’
Paul calls the waiter and orders another bottle of wine and a coffee.
Light drains from the sky and leaves a crimson ribbon of cloud that scorches the horizon.
‘An article in The Telegraph claimed, rather opaquely, that Scott Walter was lured from Scope Publishing to Randolph House by an outrageous advance. I always knew he was motivated by money; it resonates with mercenary overtures.’
‘You never liked the man,’ Emily suggests.
‘That’s not true,’ Paul replies without hesitation.
‘You once said, he could only sell books because of his good looks and media friendly personality. There was a hint of resentment there. Am I not right?’
‘He’s acting like a rock star, not an author, and the media treat him like one. I could almost accept his celebrity if he’d written anything of quality. He’s not exceptional, not even average. He’s abandoned the novel and married money instead.’
‘Oh come on Paul, you can’t complain about that. You’ve done quite well when it comes to making a good living out of words. But is that important? Should it not be enough that people enjoy his books and there’s a lot who do, let’s be fare. Are you questioning their literary judgement?’
‘Well yes.’ Paul fills his glass.
‘That’s pompous Paul. You’ve become a literary snob. I don’t read a book because it meets with the approval of the author’s peers, or because of its intellectual stamina, or its beautifully crafted prose and cinematic scenery. I read it because it entertains me.’
Paul sighs. ‘If it doesn’t meet, as you so eloquently put it, with the skill of our craft, then it shouldn’t be printed on paper. The novel should have a potent effect on the reader, emotionally, psychologically and spiritually. It ought to be layered with all the elements that tease out what it means to be human, absorbing the reader into the pages with beautifully crafted scenes, iridescent language and characterization. It’s an art form, not a piece of disposable junk.’
‘When you hear a song you like, do you enjoy listening to it?’
‘Obviously.’ Paul shrugs.
‘So, when you’re listening to that very song, are you analysing the chord sequences, the chord changes from major to minor, are you critiquing the quality of the musicianship or debating if the lyrics are thought provoking? No- and that doesn’t make the song any worse. The song connects with you on a simple level, it has a hook, a catchy chorus, you may even identify with the lyrics but essentially you listen to it because it entertains you.
‘It seems to me that fame has replaced religion in the public consciousness. It’s because of the Scott Walters of this world that people are addicted to celebrity. Wouldn’t you like a slice of the fame cake?’ Emily asks, raising her eyebrows.
‘Certainly not,’ Paul says, suddenly aggrieved. ‘I’m respected for my work not for worshipping at the altar of celebrity.’
Emily looks at him seriously. ‘But going to America could change all that. I’m not suggesting for one minute that’s your reason for going, but success will expose you to the inevitable roller coaster that is the media machine.’
‘In that case, I’ll have nothing to declare but my genius.’ He throws his head back and laughs.
***
The water flow cascades over Emily and dispels the soap lather, leaving her skin glistening in the pallid glare. The shower sings like a water fall. Persistent images slide across the surface of her thoughts: Paul sleeping silently, contented rasps of breath escaping his nose like a soft breeze, anticipating the imminent rise and fall of his chest, the involuntary flicker of his eyelashes. Is he dreaming in his wine-induced slumber?
Soon she will fall exhausted into bed. She has become irritated with his complacent disregard for his “hobby” as he refers to it. Some men like gambling, some even take a mistress, some drink, and some do all three. Paul just drinks.
She banishes the image from her, replacing it with brilliant sunlight and market stalls emanating a banquet of colour. She browses each display, deliberating over each item, like pictures in a gallery. Red, yellow, and green peppers, purple aubergines, blood red tomatoes freshly plucked from the vine, onions the size of cricket balls, melons with green mottled and yellow skin, red watermelons, oranges, lemons and apples. Redolent bread shaped and baked that morning evokes a snapshot of her mother’s kitchen. Bulging bags pull at her joints. She negotiates her way through the stream of locals and tourists, a lingering contentment soothes and dances within her.
Once dry, she wraps the towel around herself. The darkness presses against her. In the bedroom, she studies Pauls face; his bottom lip is loose. She sighs into an angled pool of gilded light offered by the distant moon.
There exists an absence between them, a disconnection; it has become a customary feeling they both accept. She is captured within the rituals of their suffering. There is no pause or rescue from the distance between them.
Chapter 31
Reconciled
Swallows are constructing nests in the wooden eaves of the veranda, darting in theatrical arches, swift twists and aerobatic turns. In the trees, birds flutter and sing. If Adam knew their names he’d recognise jays and golden orioles.
Theresa has placed on the table a dish of Sofrito (beef casserole) and courgette cut into stripes, glistening with oil and lemon juice.
Adam made a coffee in the kitchen and now stands to look over the garden. He looks down at the table still to be set, and it dawns on him how he has become used to the domestic routines of the day. He does not feel alarmed at how effortlessly he has eased into this new life, like a hand fits a glove. Some euphoric pleasure rushes through him. The sensation reminds him of the satisfaction he felt when a lecture was delivered well. It is a sentimental memory, but it does not bring a longing to return to that life, quite the opposite. An understanding has grown in him; he belongs here, there is a familiarity about the house, the village and the people that stir a feeling inside him and grows with each passing day. Such thoughts are often superseded by a small anguish and the anticipation of a visit by Stephen, but recently his visits have become less frequent and brief.
Stephen has kept himself to himself, often reading alone, playing with Dylan in the pool or taking messages on his phone. It is obvious to Adam that Georgia and Stephen are just going through the motions. When Stephen is home, Adam does not dine with them. It is a decision he has made and one that Stephen has not confronted. He can detect a strain on Georgia’s face that gradually ebbs once Stephen has left.
Theresa is still setting the table, fetching a jug of water and instructing Dylan on where each individual piece of cutlery is placed.
Adam decides to take a walk through the garden and, as he does, it occurs to him that his recent conversations with Georgia have become emotive, to the extent that at times, tears prick at Georgia’s eyes. He often feels an impulse to reach out to her and glide his hands through her hair. He has dreamt about her only the once since he arrived.
In his dream, they are on the beach, watching the surf, as Dylan swims with Stephen. It is a warm day. Sally, Dr Williams from Adam’s university, is walking with Elena, whose goats weave in and out of the trees, foraging for food. Georgia smiles at Adam and delicately draws her fingertips across his lips and kisses him. Stephen says something, but it is inaudible. He his smiling broadly and then throws Dylan into the air who laughs, arms and legs flaying, like a doll, before splashing into the water. He does not understand what the dream signifies, and he has never been a believer that in deconstructing one's dreams; hidden meaning can be got. None the less, he often lingers on the kiss, playing it over in his mind and holding on to the illusion.
He has accumulated happiness beyond an
ything he has felt for years, not since his marriage to Katherine. There is a sense of continuity to their days, a permanence that merges each hour with formality. Each morning, he is eager to indulge himself in her glorious face, hear her mellifluous voice. His feelings are instinctive, primaeval.
In Georgia’s company, he is whole and balanced, so much so, that he wants to announce his feelings, but he is fearful of her response. Would such a situation confirm a mutual attraction? This is his daily dilemma, and he is not a gambler. Curiosity is a powerful thing, but he will not jeopardise their emotional intimacy. There can be no compromise, for the moment at least, he has to be logical in his reasoning, just like Dylan, Adam smiles to himself. He is reconciled to being passive to the complications that reside within him.
Adam continues to wander through the garden and stops at the vegetable patch, where he tests the fence with his hand and is glad to feel it is still sturdy. He turns and looks back at the house. Georgia is now helping with setting the table. Dylan is wearing his earphones and Adam knows that Georgia will soon tell him, ‘No Mozart at the table.’
Georgia looks towards him. ‘Dinner will be ready in five minutes, I hope you’re hungry.’
Adam smiles back at her. He is glad he has told Georgia about Katherine. He never thought he could ever love unconditionally again as he did with Katherine. The thought of meeting another woman that could fill the void she left scared him. What was between them was immeasurable; their connection was so that they could often tell what the other was thinking. Such pairing was a once in a lifetime happening, a phenomenon that could never be recaptured. Adam thought he would never again touch the rapturous sensation that confirms that kind of love until now, on this day, in this garden.
He watches the way Georgia tilts her head, as she listens to Theresa. He gazes upon the involuntary motion of her hand as it weaves through her hair and lets it fall, like sheets, back into place. Adam is attuned to the curve of her neck and the sway of her hand when she walks. All of these intricacies are visible to him, they are pronounced in every detail.
The Boy Who Hugs Trees Page 17