That’s what I thought, but I didn’t know that he also had a quarter-bottle of vodka and a can of coke in his rucksack and, pretty soon, I was in a quite a state. Not so bad that I fell asleep – although I wish now that I had – but my inhibitions were seriously impaired alongside my judgement. I found myself telling him about the man, how he had somehow tracked me down and called me at work.
At first, Paul seemed to think this was funny.
“My little sister, the siren of Sevenoaks,” he said. “I suppose you told him to get lost?”
I should have said, “Yes, that’s what I did. I told him where to go and that was the end of it,” but I didn’t. I told him about Linda and her plan, then I told him about the notebook and how it could be the only evidence about why she went missing. I told him I didn’t think I could keep the secret much longer. The police should know. It wasn’t fair and it wasn’t right and I would just have to take the consequences.
I don’t know whether I’d been looking at Paul whilst I was talking, or whether the alcohol was affecting my vision, but I certainly wasn’t expecting his response. His face was white and he looked furious.
“Don’t be so fucking stupid!” he hissed. “You said it yourself, it’s all blown over! You can’t go stirring it all up now! Imagine what it would do to Mum and Dad. First they have me to deal with, and then you get arrested for blackmail! I’ll never forgive you if you mess everything up now, just when we’ve all got back to normal. Promise you won’t, promise me now.”
So I promised in the end, after more urgent persuasion from him, but with a heavy heart and another feeling I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Paul obviously felt very bad about the impact his illness had on the family but I hadn’t realised quite how bad. He seemed better, but was there still something wrong? Would he get ill again if he became stressed? Somehow, the thought of the turmoil within my own family was enough to stop me trying to resolve the turmoil in another. It’s not something I’m proud of now and I wasn’t then, but that’s what happened.
Christmas came and went and we celebrated as if nothing had changed. As if that poor woman wasn’t sitting in her lonely front room crying and remembering Christmases past; wondering if her only daughter was alive or dead. As if Paul had never been so ill that we couldn’t even talk to him. We kept to all our usual customs and routines – one present each by the tree before breakfast, poached eggs and bacon, more presents – until the day had passed just like any other Christmas Day. At once magical and banal, the balance of effort and enjoyment always in question but never likely to change. We were just a normal family doing our normal Christmas thing.
Writing that makes me wonder about this Christmas, when it comes. Are they all coming here as usual and will they want to stay? I can’t remember if anyone stayed last year, or did I go to Robin’s or Laura’s instead? I hate this thing so much and I’m damned if I’m going to give in to it! I’m going to remember everything, everything from then and everything from now, even if I have to spend half my life writing down what I’ve done in the other half. This morning I have eaten breakfast – toast and honey and a cup of tea (there, I remembered that!) and washed up and fed Jip and written quite a lot. A good morning and I can remember it all. So, back to my story. Maybe I’m worrying unnecessarily.
I went back to work and I was beginning to think less about Linda and her mother. I had met Vic by that time, but I was still going out with Andy and that was occupying a lot of my thoughts. Nothing had happened, only a couple more of those long, deep conversations – one in the pub and one outside a village hall whilst Andy was setting up – but it was clear that something was going on. I can remember being out there; the last streaks of a pink and violet sunset still lingering on the horizon and the air relatively mild. I was sitting on the top step of the village hall for a few minutes of quiet. It was chaos inside, with everyone in that pre-gig state of excitement and nerves; things not working, things going wrong.
That was when Vic sauntered up the path, his greatcoat flapping around his legs and his long hair flowing over his shoulders. He took the steps in one bound, peeped inside, then sat down beside me.
“Looks like I’m a bit early. Mind if I join you?”
I said no, it was fine, refused a cigarette and sat there. I didn’t always have a lot to say for myself in those days and anyway my heart was skipping around.
Vic flicked his half-smoked cigarette into the bushes and stretched out his long legs with a sigh. “Do you know what’s been troubling me today?”
“No,” I said, wondering what on earth he would say.
“Well, there’s this forest. It’s miles from anywhere and nobody lives there. There’s a clearing right in the middle of the forest and a tree on the edge of it crashes to the ground. Nobody there to see it, nobody there to hear it. Did the sound of the tree falling really exist if nobody heard it? Yes or no?”
I thought for a moment. “Yes, because the animals would have heard it.”
“Ah, sorry, no animals. It’s on an island. Completely deserted.”
“Birds?”
“Nope.”
“Well the insects then, and the tiny organisms that live in the ground. They would have felt the vibrations if nothing else. That’s all sound is anyway, vibrations in the air.”
I was proud of my scientific knowledge and looked across at Vic, who was smiling. “No insects, no organisms. It’s a hypothetical forest. Does the sound exist if nothing at all is there to experience it?”
Looking back, that was my introduction to metaphysics Vic-style, but I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about then.
“Well, if it’s a hypothetical forest it would have to have hypothetical insects and organisms or it wouldn’t work. The trees would all die,” I said.
He laughed and raised his hat to me in a theatrical gesture, his blue eyes twinkling. “OK, you got me there,” he said, giving my shoulders a fleeting little squeeze. “I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”
A few people were beginning to arrive by then, so we stood up. I went inside to see how the band were getting on and he saw someone he knew, so that was the end of it. But I couldn’t get that conversation out of my head for days afterwards. I wanted it to continue. I wanted him to get back to me, as he’d put it. I wanted him to laugh, to squeeze my shoulders again, to ask me questions I had to think hard about. I wanted him to like me.
From that point I had a huge rush of excitement whenever I saw him – much more than I’d ever had with Andy even though he was my first real boyfriend. I started to dream about how our first kiss might happen, although I felt terrible about it at the same time. Andy and I were an item. Andy and Judy – all our friends said our names as if they didn’t exist on their own. “Have you told Andy and Judy?” “Are Andy and Judy coming?” It was inconceivable that we would split up; that our little group, comprised almost entirely of couples, could be fractured. To say nothing of how either of us could continue within it without the other one. And yet there was Vic. Vic seemed to like me, I seemed to like him back and he represented something different and exciting. Something I knew little about but which was even more enticing than being with the band.
Just before Paul was due to go back, the band had a gig at someone’s 21st birthday party. It wasn’t anyone we knew – some rich kid from one of the big houses on the Sevenoaks Road. They had a barn of all things, with a yard, in their back garden. Well it wasn’t a garden really, more like grounds. The barn had been kitted out like a youth club, but they had pushed the table tennis and bar billiards tables to one side and even hired a bit of staging for the band. We’d been to check it out on the Friday before we went to the pub. I was so full of it, this lifestyle that I’d had no contact with until now, that I had to tell Paul all about it when I got home.
“I think I might come along,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll know anyone but I haven’t seen the famous band yet and I promise not to show you up! That OK with you?”
&nb
sp; I wasn’t sure what I felt about it. I hoped Paul wouldn’t come over all big brotherly if Andy kissed me and I hoped even more that he wouldn’t pick up on the thing between me and Vic, whatever that was. But of course I said it was fine. It wouldn’t matter that he hadn’t been invited, he could say he was with the band. It was nice saying that. “I’m with the band.” You could see other girls looking at you and gnashing their teeth. Anyway, I’m going to stop now as I have just remembered something else. I have to get ready. I’m not sure what time they are coming and I need to make a cake.
That was really odd. They didn’t come and when I called Robin he didn’t know anything about it. When he asked me who was coming, I couldn’t for the life of me remember their names, but I absolutely know somebody was coming to tea. It’s so annoying and such bad manners not to turn up without even calling to let me know. I’ll be eating cake and sandwiches for days, even if Jip does help me out. It’s quite thrown me and I can’t remember what happened at the gig now, although it was all in my head and ready to write yesterday.
I do remember the band were getting quite good and there was something of a buzz amongst the audience. They were trying out some different material – less of the chart stuff. I can remember it was freezing at the back where I was standing but it was so smoky down at the front I’d had to move. Was it then that Vic came? No, that was later, but anyway, I was standing there, waiting for my eyes to stop smarting, when I realised Paul was just in front of me and slightly to one side. A lad I didn’t know was talking to him, his head right up close to Paul’s ear to make himself heard, but I thought I’d go and say hello, let him introduce me. “This is Judy, my sister. She’s going out with the lead guitarist. Good, isn’t he?”
I was right behind him as they finished the number. I think it was The Stones, they used to do several of theirs. Andy had gone off on a great long solo, and there were a few whoops of appreciation as they finished and quite a lot of applause. I was about to touch Paul on the shoulder when I heard what they were talking about and I stopped. Froze.
“I thought you went out with her for a while. Wasn’t it last summer, just before she disappeared?”
“No, mate, you’ve got that wrong,” said Paul, “I knew her at school and we were in the same crowd for a bit. I may have even snogged her, at a party or something, but nothing serious.”
What was that? Paul knew Linda well enough to have hung around with her, even snogged her? When I’d told him about the man, and all that had happened afterwards, he’d given me the impression that he only knew her by sight. In fact he’d even asked me to describe her and made a big thing about realising who she was. “Oh, I know who you mean! Yes, my mate Phil went out with her for a few times, but I always thought she was a bit tarty.”
That was only a few days before he went back to university and I probably would have said something to him if it wasn’t for what happened with Vic. Why was Paul always so cagey about his social life? Or maybe what happened with Vic was partly because of it. I turned round and went to the back where the drinks were – you wouldn’t believe how much drink there was, all free – and poured myself a huge measure of vodka with a small measure of coke, which I drank very quickly before going to stand outside.
I don’t know whether it was the drink, the cold air, my brain trying to understand what I had just heard or a combination of all three, but I felt quite unsteady as I walked into the yard. I must have staggered a bit, as suddenly somebody was holding me closely against the rough texture of his heavy army greatcoat; the chill of a metal button against my cheek and the slightly musty smell of damp wool. And then that somebody was leading me gently over to the side of the barn where some bales of hay had been placed and sitting me down, his arm still around my shoulders.
“You OK?”
I looked up. Of course I knew exactly who it was, but I pretended to look surprised; opened my eyes as wide as the alcohol would allow and mumbled a quiet “Yes, thanks.”
He had this lock of curly hair that was falling over his eyes so I just had to lift my hand and brush it to one side and that was like opening the floodgates. He gave a little groan and said “Oh, God,” as if he had really tried but failed to prevent this happening. Then our mouths came together like two magnets that had been separated for as long as possible, before the force attracting them overpowered all attempts to keep them apart. We fell into each other and we kissed the longest kiss ever, a kiss I never wanted to end. I wasn’t even thinking about Andy, or anyone else who might have been watching. This was out of my control and my insides were dissolving in a warm and most delightful way that counteracted all reasonable thought.
Now, looking back, I’m sure the alcohol had more than a small part to play in that little scene and in what followed. I never found out who told Andy, but somebody did and he charged outside to find me. I wasn’t still with Vic by that time, but how could I deny it?
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It just happened,” but Andy was furious and went flying off to try to find Vic and hit him. I didn’t want him to do that so I chased after him. I held onto his arm and told him to stop or I would never speak to him again.
“That’s fine with me,” he spat, shaking me off his arm. Then he stalked off and left me in tears. I didn’t know it then, but he went back into the barn and got falling-down drunk, and then he couldn’t play the final set even though there was only a half-hour break between the two. It was all a disaster.
I cried for two days when we finished. It wasn’t just Andy, it was everything that went with him. Our friends were all outraged at me, he was devastated and people were all rallying round him and ignoring me. I wouldn’t be ‘with the band’ any more and it was the end of my first proper relationship. Added to that, I wasn’t even sure that Vic was really interested, as he had disappeared when the feathers began to fly and I hadn’t heard from him since. I was in a self-induced vortex of misery and regret. I said goodbye to Paul with red-ringed eyes when the day came for my parents to drive him back to London, my tears much more for myself than for what his leaving would mean to me.
And then there was Vic, lovely Vic, after all. He came and claimed me. I have tears in my eyes even now, however many years it is since he died. I probably shouldn’t write this as I suppose the kids will get to read it, but he was the great love of my life despite everything, and there’s no point in pretending otherwise. Not now, not when I’ve decided everything has to come out, to leave the shadows and lie there exposed to the harsh light of the truth. Barry was a wonderful man, a loving husband and a fantastic dad, but I never felt quite the same passion, the same feeling of absolute connection that I did with Vic. When we were together it was as if some missing part of me had been returned. OK, I hadn’t been aware of its absence, but now I had it, I knew I had to hang onto it.
But that’s something I couldn’t do. Why do these things happen? When I went upstairs after breakfast today, I found myself expecting people to be there and I was surprised at the emptiness of the house. I had a sudden feeling of loss, as if everyone had disappeared like Linda. All these bedrooms, all these beds. I looked in every one of them but there was nobody there.
When Vic died, I went into a kind of black hole. But when I came out of it again months later, I knew what Linda’s mother must be feeling. The difference was, she hadn’t been able to go right to the bottom, to the very depths of despair where you can only get better as there is nothing worse, no next circle of hell to explore. She hadn’t been able to start to climb out of her black hole as she wasn’t absolutely sure she was in it. There must always have been the hope that each day would be the day, that seminal day when she would know, one way or the other, what had happened to her daughter. There must always have been the little glimmer of hope that she was still alive.
Anyway, I had him for a while. The following Saturday I was moping around the house in old, comfortable clothes. I was still feeling very sorry for myself when the phone rang and my mum called me. I could
n’t work out who it could be, as hardly anyone was speaking to me and it wasn’t likely to be Andy.
“Who is it?”
“Somebody called Nick, I think he said,” replied my mum. I didn’t know anyone called Nick and I almost told her to put him off, whoever he was. Probably some friend of a friend of Andy’s, wanting to tell me what a bitch I was. But I was halfway down the stairs and she was holding out the receiver so I took it.
“Hello?”
“Is that Judy?”
Pause whilst heart leaps then pounds, making speech difficult.
“Yes, who’s that?”
“It’s me, Vic. Can I see you, or are you, are you and Andy ...?”
Vic was a bit older than me and had been away at university, so we hadn’t moved in the same circles until Andy’s band started to get known around the town. Maybe he didn’t know we had split up. Or maybe he was testing out the water. Whatever it was, I didn’t care one bit. I told him Andy and I were finished, for good. I told him I would like to see him and we arranged to meet in town, that night. Two years of bliss I had, starting on that day and ending on a wet Friday night when a lorry demolished his little car and killed him outright. The time was ticking down from the moment I replaced the receiver and smiled for the first time in days, but I didn’t know that then. We rarely do.
As I expected it didn’t go down well, Vic and me being together, and I drifted away from the local bands scene. Vic was into what was known as progressive rock, a haughty and self-important title when I think about it. It gave us licence to look down on other kinds of music, as if they were simplistic and stuck in the past. He introduced me to bands I had never heard – sometimes never even heard of – and we used to sit in his bedroom listening to albums for hours on end, although of course that wasn’t all we did. His parents were quite old – older than most parents, anyway – and his sisters were all married with children so he was left to his own devices, more or less. We would wait until they went out then make love on his single bed, the music providing a soundtrack to our movements. There are some tracks that I know would transport me back to his room if only I could hear them. If I closed my eyes I would see his face above mine, his eyes glossy and sparkling and his hair falling like a curtain around our heads. The Strawbs, Jethro Tull, King Crimson. Nobody has even heard of them these days, but they were the soundtrack to my Vic years and I wish I could listen to them now.
The Art of Forgetting Page 18