If Only

by Kate Eberlen

  Letty was first in the reading room at the Bodleian. She had come to think of the desk – on the end of the first row in the second room – as hers, and didn’t like the idea of one day finding someone else sitting there, so she always arrived at nine when the library opened. Gradually, the other regulars filtered in. The guy opposite always smelled slightly of malted breakfast cereal; the girl next to her of the first latte of the day. Letty wondered if they knew that she invariably ate a scrambled egg on a slice of buttered brown toast. Protein, fat and complex carbohydrate to fuel her for the day.

  On weekdays, she worked until eleven precisely, then took a break for five minutes in the fresh air. There was never a day that Letty did not enjoy walking down the stone stairs worn shallow by hundreds of years of scholars’ footsteps, and standing in the quad looking at the same sandstone carvings that students had gazed upon since medieval times. Each day at Oxford felt like a privilege, yet she could not envisage herself spending her whole life in a book-lined study listening to students’ essays, or eating her evening meals at high table with other dons, which it would be if she were to become an academic. And apart from her brief and totally unsuccessful flirtation with the idea of journalism, she hadn’t had any other ideas for a career.

  ‘Something will probably come up. A lot can change in two years,’ the careers advisory service told her when she went along for the appointment they offered all students.

  But nothing had changed much in the first year of being at Oxford. And in the Bodleian quad, nothing had changed for centuries.

  Letty felt her phone vibrate in her jacket pocket.

  As soon as she saw her mother’s name on the screen, she knew something was wrong. Frances did not call during the day.

  ‘Nothing to worry about,’ said Frances, ‘but Marina’s in hospital.’

  She could hardly have said anything to make Letty worry more.

  ‘Just for observation,’ Frances went on. ‘The doctor said that he thought it might be a tiny stroke. Ivo’s coming to take over. I’ve already missed a board meeting . . .’

  ‘Shall I come down?’

  ‘I honestly don’t think that there’s anything to panic about, and if there is, she’s where she should be,’ says Frances. ‘But I’m sure she’d love to see you if you’re not doing anything special this weekend.’

  ‘I’ll get a train after my lecture,’ Letty told her, panicking anyway. Her grandmother was nearly ninety. If she was ill enough to be kept in hospital, there must be a risk of her dying.

  Letty couldn’t imagine a world without Marina. She was part of the fabric of the house in Belsize Park, as permanent as the stucco columns that held up the porch over the front door. Letty couldn’t even remember her being ill before. She was tall, opinionated, a force of nature. On her seventy-fifth birthday, when the family had gathered to celebrate, Marina had looked at the cake Frances had ordered with seventy-five candles and remarked, ‘Well, Frances, you really know how to make me feel old.’

  Letty, who was five at the time, had famously commented, ‘But you’re not literally old, are you?’

  The station platform was crowded, and when her train finally arrived, Letty realized she was going to have to stand. It was a question of finding the best place. She ran down to the front where there were fewer people waiting, then saw that was because the carriage was first class. At least the corridor was less crushed. She managed to find enough room to sit on the floor, with her knees bent right up to her chest, and pulled out her tablet to review her lecture notes.

  ‘Hello, down there!’

  Letty didn’t realize that the man was talking to her at first.

  ‘It’s Elle, isn’t it?’

  A pointed pair of tan brogues, red socks just showing beneath sharp blue trouser hems. She looked up. What was his name?

  ‘There’s a seat opposite me,’ he told her, jerking his thumb in the direction of the first-class carriage.

  ‘Actually, I’m fine,’ said Letty.

  ‘I have a table.’

  ‘I haven’t got a first-class ticket.’

  ‘Can you see the guard bothering to push through this lot?’ he said. ‘And if he does, I’ll stand you the fare.’

  ‘That’s really kind, but . . .’ Letty couldn’t actually think of a reason. ‘Well, OK then. If you’re sure?’

  ‘Facing the direction of travel, or back to it?’ he asked.

  ‘You choose,’ she said.

  He opted for the former, and she wished she had chosen that, because now she would feel like she was backing away from him for the entire journey.

  Very deliberately, Letty went back to the lecture notes.

  ‘What’s that then?’ he said, peering at the words on her screen.

  ‘Latin poetry,’ she said.

  ‘It’s all Greek to me,’ he said.

  She smiled at the terrible joke and put her tablet down. Conversation was clearly going to be the price of her seat.

  ‘So what are you up to in London?’ he asked.

  ‘My grandmother has had a stroke and I’m going to see her in hospital,’ Letty told him.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Are you close?’

  ‘Extremely.’

  ‘It’s nice for grandparents, isn’t it? They get all the affection, none of the worry, or the expense, for that matter. Apart from birthday presents, of course!’

  ‘With us, it’s a bit more than that,’ Letty felt compelled to say. It seemed like almost a betrayal of Marina to let him assume that she was the same as anyone else’s grandparent. ‘She’s the person I spent most of my childhood with. She introduced me to all the things I love . . .’

  ‘Opera, culture,’ he said.

  It was a bit weird that he remembered, and she detected a sneer, as if he thought she was a terrible snob.

  ‘She is Italian originally,’ Letty said, as if to explain.

  ‘I’ve never been to Italy,’ he said.

  ‘Really? You so should. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘Where would you recommend?’

  ‘Depends if you like countryside or cities, I suppose. I mean, there’s so much variety. Tuscany, Puglia, Rome . . .’

  ‘I saw a programme about Rome. Looked like a building site. Have you been to Venice?’

  ‘No. I long to, though.’

  ‘I’ve been to the one in Las Vegas,’ he said.

  ‘That must be fun.’

  ‘I’ve never been to an opera either,’ he said.

  ‘You really should. It’s not as elitist as everyone thinks. I mean, in Mozart’s day, operas were for everyone, more like musicals . . .’ She hoped she didn’t sound impossibly condescending.

  ‘What’s your favourite opera, then?’ he asked.

  ‘I suppose it would have to be La Traviata,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that mean?’

  ‘Literally, it means the woman led astray.’

  ‘Tell me more . . .’

  ‘It’s about a courtesan who has to deny herself the man she loves because society doesn’t approve.’

  ‘Courtesan, eh?’

  ‘Call girl . . . escort, if you like . . .’

  Looking up at his sly smile, she saw that he knew exactly what courtesan meant – of course he did. She felt like a fool.

  ‘Let me guess,’ he said. ‘He pursues her and they live happily ever after?’

  ‘You really don’t know much about opera, do you?’

  ‘So what happens?’

  ‘She dies. Most operas are about love and untimely death.’

  ‘So why do you like it so much?’

  Letty thought for a moment.

  ‘Because the beauty of the singing allows you to experience such intense emotions, and . . .’ She stopped mid-sentence when she saw he was grinning at her.

  The train was slowing down on its approach to Paddington.

  ‘OK, you’ve sold me,’ he said. ‘Let’s go to the ope
ra!’ Had she inadvertently given the wrong impression in her enthusiasm?

  ‘Umm. I’m pretty busy . . . I have exams next term . . .’

  Why couldn’t she just say no? He must know that she wasn’t interested in that type of arrangement.

  ‘I’d get so much more out of it if I went with you.’

  Was he teasing her?

  ‘I just don’t know how things are going to be with my grandmother,’ she said.

  ‘Of course not. Sorry. Not the right time to ask.’

  He held up his hands in apology.

  ‘But it was a lovely idea,’ Letty heard herself saying, since he’d been so decent about her refusal.

  ‘Why don’t you give me your number anyway?’ he offered. ‘I’ll get tickets. You can say yes or no depending on how you’re feeling?’

  The train was pulling alongside the platform. Letty knew it would be easier to get rid of him if she just gave him what he wanted. If he called, she needn’t answer, or she could block him.

  She saw he had his contacts screen open and had already written ‘Elle’ in the name box.

  She should have given him the wrong number, she thought, just after she’d told him the correct one.

  When the nurse pointed to a bed with curtains drawn around it, Letty’s heart stopped.

  ‘Wait until they’ve finished doing her obs,’ the nurse said.

  When the curtain was swished back, Marina was sitting up in bed, looking rather cross. Seeing Letty, her face softened.

  ‘Tesoro!’ she said. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve come to see you.’

  ‘But all this way!’

  ‘It’s only an hour. The train was packed but someone offered me a seat in first class.’

  ‘A gentleman?’

  Letty hesitated. Gentleman wasn’t the word that came to mind, but she supposed that was how he had acted in the circumstances.

  A young doctor in a white coat was standing at the bedside.

  ‘This is my granddaughter,’ Marina told him. ‘She’s come all the way from Oxford.’

  The doctor shook Letty’s hand.

  ‘We’re fairly happy with you,’ he told Marina. ‘But we’d like to do a CT scan. We’ll arrange that for tomorrow, and then we should be able to let you go.’

  ‘I have to stay overnight?’ Marina asked, aghast.

  For the first time in her life, Letty saw fear fly across her grandmother’s face, as if she’d had a sudden recognition of her mortality.

  ‘I’ll ask one of the nurses to get you a menu,’ he added. ‘It might be too late to order for tonight, but I’m sure we’ll find you something to eat.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll go to the deli and get us something,’ Letty intervened. The idea of staying in hospital was bad enough for Marina. Hospital food would be unthinkable.

  ‘We’ll have a lovely picnic!’ she said, echoing the words Marina used to say to encourage her to eat. It was strange, feeling their roles reversed.

  There was a part of Letty that wanted her grandmother to throw back the sheet, get out of bed and say, ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’m going home.’

  But Marina said nothing; the defeat on her face, the acceptance of powerlessness, the pale blue hospital nightie making her look suddenly old.

  21

  December

  ALF

  Apparently, Sadie was telling her friends that she had feelings for him, even though you wouldn’t have known from her behaviour. They were great together performing, always had been, but when they kissed as Danny and Sandy, it wasn’t proper kissing. For Alf, it was like another step in the choreography: put your mouth on hers, count four beats and break. He didn’t lose himself in it.

  ‘She does, mate,’ Cal assured him. He was now going out with Kelly, Sadie’s best friend, who was playing Frenchy.

  How come everyone else knew and he didn’t? Alf wondered. Even Miss Jones – Bridget, as everyone called her behind her back, because she was blonde, southern and a bit posh.

  ‘You and Sadie were fantastic tonight,’ she said in the car, after the final performance. ‘And a little birdie tells me real-life romance is blossoming?’

  ‘First I’ve heard of it,’ Alf said.

  ‘Sadie is very pretty . . .’

  ‘You’re not wrong.’

  He decided he wouldn’t give her anything more. He’d noticed Bridget and the girls all getting a bit giggly together. He thought maybe she was one of those teachers who wanted the students to like her too much. The way she drove her brand-new, bubblegum-pink Cinquecento, sitting forward very close to the steering wheel and stalling on the approach to roundabouts, was more like one of the girls in his year who’d just passed her test.

  The rest of the cast had already gone to Mr Marriot’s house where he was hosting the after-party, but, as usual, Alf and Miss Jones were the ones who had stayed behind to clear up and check all the lights were switched off.

  ‘Used to doing it at my mum’s,’ Alf had told her, when she’d thanked him for helping.

  ‘You’ve got a background in theatre, have you?’

  ‘Ballroom dancing.’

  Miss Jones wasn’t from Blackpool, so didn’t know things that everyone else knew.

  ‘Oh, wow! I’m such a Strictly super fan!’

  Since then, they’d had plenty to talk about: this season’s celebs and new professionals, who their favourites were, who had been unfairly eliminated.

  Cal handed Alf a bottle of San Miguel when they arrived at the party.

  It was cool of Mr Marriot to allow them alcohol, and probably quite risky for him as a teacher, but Alf didn’t want to drink before the speeches. Sadie had organized presents. As the lead couple it was down to them to thank the staff on behalf of the students.

  ‘You took your time,’ she said, when Alf eventually found her and her mates in the conservatory at the back of the house, pouring tequila shots from a bottle they’d brought in themselves. They were all still wearing their pink satin jackets with ‘Pink Ladies’ embroidered across the back, full stage make-up and their hair in fifties ponytails.

  ‘I got a lift with Bridget,’ he explained.

  ‘Bridget thinks you’re hot,’ said Sadie.

  ‘Let’s just get the speeches done, eh?’ he said.

  There were bottles of wine in shiny gift bags for Mr Noakes and for the art teacher who’d painted the sets, and whisky for the caretaker who was going to have to dismantle them. There was a bottle of champagne in a box for Mr Marriot. Alf said a few words thanking each of them while Sadie handed out the gifts. Then they swapped roles, with Sadie saying the thank yous and Alf handing out bouquets of flowers, first to Mrs Marriot for hosting the after-party, and finally to Miss Jones for all her help with rehearsals. Alf kissed Mrs Marriot on the cheek, but when Bridget came up to accept her bouquet, he went for the left cheek, just as she was offering the right. There was a moment of hesitation; like people walking towards each other on the promenade who both sidestep the same way when they see they’re about to collide, then sidestep the other, doing a little dance before one of them decides to stop and allow the other to pass. It was only a tiny moment, but Alf wasn’t happy with himself for mucking it up.

  Standing on a stepladder the following day, Alf wished he’d stuck to his original idea of not drinking at the party. Gary had woken him at seven, because the two of them were responsible for decorating the dance hall for the Christmas party that evening. Gary’s Christmas jumper with reindeers on was too bright for that time in the morning.

  His grandparents had put up the same decorations for as long as Alf could remember – hundreds of baubles dangling from a canopy of frosted white branches attached to the ceiling. When he was a kid, it had felt like walking into an enchanted forest that had appeared overnight. It was only in recent years, since he’d become the tallest in the family, that he’d realized how much work was involved in creating the magic.

  Alf felt rough. Little snatches of
the party kept coming back to him. He’d danced with Sadie, people clearing the floor for them to demonstrate their rumba, the muscle memory still there although they hadn’t danced that routine together for more than five years. The last move was a slow drop to the floor, their faces close together. Somehow the floor came up quicker than he’d judged, and she’d hit the back of her head. Not badly. And at least there was carpet.

  ‘You always were a fucking crap dancer,’ she whispered into his ear before rolling him off her.

  Had she bitten his ear? A little nip. Alf held his hand up to his left lobe, rocking the stepladder slightly. What was that all about?

  He remembered being in the kitchen, hunting for more beer in the fridge, and Cal spotting the champagne they’d bought Mr Marriot and knowing they shouldn’t . . .

  Alf winced. As soon as the decorations were finished, he’d go and get Mr Marriot another bottle, which would mean another forty quid out of his savings, before he’d even started buying Christmas presents for his family.

  ‘Coffee?’ Gary suggested, when they’d done about half of the work.

  ‘Thought you’d never ask,’ Alf grinned. He stepped gingerly down from the ladder while Gary boiled a kettle in the tiny kitchen.

  ‘Spare a thought for me this time next year,’ Gary said. ‘All tangled up in tinsel here, while you’re sunning yourself on a beach.’

  Alf and Cal had plans to travel round the world, spending winter in the southern hemisphere, but it seemed so far away, with A levels to get through, that it was no more real than a distant dream.

  Was Gary looking forward to him leaving home? Couldn’t blame him if he was. They’d always got along pretty well, but he’d arrived too late to be a proper stepdad and a bit too early for them to be mates. Since Alf’s growth spurt aged fourteen, he’d felt he was taking up too much room in Gary’s two-up-two-down terraced house. His feet hung over the end of his single bed and if he forgot to duck, he hit his head on the kitchen doorframe. There wasn’t the space on the glass shelf under the mirror in the bathroom for two razors, nor on the rack in the hall for his trainers. It was a house for a couple, maybe with a baby, but not for three adults.