The Confusion of Karen Carpenter

by Jonathan Harvey

  I’m even more light-headed, though a lot less giddy, when two hours later we are cycling – yes, cycling – down country lanes in the New Forest, of all places. This is the second stage of our magical mystery tour, apparently, though I am so unfit and unused to exercise that I am finding little magical about riding around on a bike in the pouring rain. Thank heavens for the sensibly packed cagoule. I am not a happy bunny, it has to be said, and the more I pedal – seemingly getting myself nowhere – the more convinced I become that this is not a perfect ‘date’ activity. Even if I do have to put the word ‘date’ in inverted commas because I can’t say hand on heart this is one. My face must have been a picture as we landed in a sleepy place called Brockenhurst and Kevin marched me over to the cycle-hire place that was actually in an old train carriage in the station car park. He had booked in advance, so our bikes were there waiting for us, gleamingly clean in the (then) bright sunlight. Kevin laughed and assured me we’d only be riding for half an hour or so. I hate the phrase ‘or so’: it usually means double/treble/quadruple that. Once again I am proved right, as we have been cycling for the best part of fifty minutes – I’ve checked my watch. Also, as soon as we left the cycle-hire place, the heavens opened. Rest assured I am not convinced that outdoor activities are a good look for a date if there is the possibility of it pissing down.

  It turns out Kevin’s a really proficient cyclist who works out or goes to the gym. I know he was playing football yesterday, so either way he is in decent shape and therefore much fitter than me. He keeps cycling on ahead and then having to stop and wait to let me catch up, so the majority of our time is being spent apart and not communicating. He’s pushing on at some speed, in his own little world, leaving me to observe and admire the scenery alone. Yes, OK, it’s very pretty – there are lots and lots and lots of trees, and we have seen ponies strutting their stuff along every lane we’ve been down – but surely it would look nicer from the inside of a hire car, with windscreen wipers and a tax disc adding to the view. At least then we’d be able to chat, make each other laugh, just like we were doing on the train. It’s hard to make someone chuckle when all you can see is their backside bouncing up and down on a bicycle seat. OK, so I’m making that sound like an attractive prospect, but because of the inclemency of the weather, believe me it’s not. There may as well be people lining the route with buckets of cold water and chucking them over us, it’s that wet.

  I toy with the idea that maybe a tandem would have been a better option, but even then we wouldn’t have been able to communicate, because the idea of speaking at the moment is beyond ridiculous. I am panting like Pavlov’s dog and sweating like the Child Catcher in a crèche. I amuse myself briefly with the idea that maybe I could invent a communication system for hardy cyclists. Right now Kevin could have fibre-optic lights sewn into the back of his coat and he could flick a switch on his handlebars that would light up various spelled-out messages in the fibre optics, saying stuff like:

  WE’RE TAKING THE NEXT RIGHT.

  Or:

  GET A MOVE ON, YOU LAZY ARTICLE.

  Or:

  STOP OGLING MY ARSE, LADY!

  I say I amuse myself with this, but the amusement is only fleeting, because unless I think about anything other than the effort I am putting in to actually get these pedals to go round and get the wheels spinning, I immediately slow down and Kevin becomes a speck on the horizon.

  After nearly giving myself a heart attack pushing my way up a hill on a bend, I find Kevin at the top of the slope, waiting at a track that turns off into the trees. When eventually, eighty-five years later, I catch up with him, he nods down the track and says, ‘Mind if we have a look down here?’

  I look at the sign at the side of the track. It says, ‘Three Hills Campsite.’ I nod, still unable to speak, my chest rising up and down, and doing an awful interpretation of a heaving bosom on speed. I manage to get some of my lost breath back as we head down the track, as it’s flat and Kevin goes really slowly. We’ve entered a tunnel of tall trees, so it’s quite dark, but it’s OK, as it’s nice to be dry and sheltered from the rain.

  I wonder what’s so interesting about seeing a campsite. And then I realize. Oh my God, this is so embarrassing. Has he hired a caravan for us to . . . I don’t know . . . do stuff in? I’m not looking forward to this. I guess it knocks spots off renting a sleazy motel in the middle of the day for an afternoon of friskiness, but a caravan? Really? Right now I need luxury. I need somewhere to bathe, to change into something slinkier or warmer, and preferably some champagne on ice. I can see none of these things on offer here. Also, nothing about Kevins behaviour or demeanour has intimated that this is what he’s after. Yes, there was a bit of light eye-flirting on the train, but we’ve not really spoken since then, and getting sweaty on a bike isn’t the sort of foreplay I’m familiar with.

  Suddenly the trees part and we are looking at a very ordinary campsite. Thanks to the rain, everyone must be indoors. There are, however, a smattering of caravans dotted about. Some of them appear to be permanent, as they have decking around them; some seem to be visiting. I wonder which one ours might be, and desperately look for one that might have a luxury bathroom and possibly an escalator to a penthouse suite. I see none.

  I look to Kevin, wondering what he is going to say. Is he going to point to one in particular and say, ‘To be sure, there is our mobile love palace’?

  In his defence, I have never heard him use the phrase ‘to be sure’, to be sure.

  When I crook my neck, I see that he seems different. The sparkle has gone from his eyes. He looks crushed.

  ‘Are . . . are you OK?’ I venture.

  He takes a deep breath, staring straight ahead at the caravans, exhales loudly, then shrugs.

  ‘What is it? Kevin?’

  ‘Sorry, Karen. This is a bit unfair.’

  ‘Why? What?’

  He’s working up to say something. What can it be? It’s just a smattering of caravans.

  ‘This is where I used to come with Toni, when Connor was little. I’ve not been back since . . .’ His voice peters out and he doesn’t have to explain what he means.

  I nod, to show I understand, but I’m not sure exactly how I feel. Should I feel touched that he’s brought me to his and Toni’s old haunt? Jealous? Angry? I don’t know. I suppose her loss is part of him, so maybe it’s OK. Still feels weird, though. I reach out and rub his arm, the way many have done to me these past few months. His coat is soaked through.

  ‘God, this was so stupid,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking.’

  ‘No, it’s not – it’s fine,’ I argue. ‘Just as long as you’re OK.’

  ‘I honestly didn’t choose coming here ’cos of . . . all this. I just . . . I wanted us to have a gas and . . . and I know the area and . . .’

  Of course he knows the area. He came here with his wife.

  ‘. . . and I know it’s dead nice and . . . the scenery and . . . I felt I could show it off to you. I didn’t really think.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I insist, though I can’t help doubting his thought processes at the planning stage.

  ‘We always came in the summer, so it was never pissing it down.’

  I giggle, to show it’s fine.

  ‘It’s all gravy,’ I venture. Now he laughs.

  ‘I hear Connor saying that. I have absolutely no idea what it means. Do you?’

  I nod. ‘Never use a phrase you don’t understand.’

  ‘What, like the FTSE 100 Index? I think I’ll go to my grave not knowing what that is.’

  The way he speaks his ‘think’ sounds like ‘tink’ and I find it impossibly cute. If you can call a man in his mid-thirties ‘cute’. ‘Cute’ implies Disneyesque cartoon baby elephants with big ears and adorable smiles that blow rainbow-coloured bubbles in the air every time they giggle. Kevin is far from that.

  ‘It means it’s all good,’ I say proudly. God, it feels cool to be down with the kids.

  He suddenly
puts his arm round me and drags me into him. It’s a bit awkward, as there’s his bike between us, but I don’t resist.

  ‘Jesus, Karen, what am I even doing? I think I’m going mental.’

  There it was again. Tink.

  ‘Toni’s not even cold in the ground and here I am carrying on like . . . like she wasn’t even here.’

  Oh God. He’s talking like we’re dating. Like properly dating. I’m not sure how I feel about that.

  ‘I think you’re a great girl, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t fancy the bollocks of you, but I’m a bit of a basket case, truth be told.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I butt in gently. ‘So am I.’

  ‘I know we’re not planning on getting married or anything, but . . .’

  ‘I know. We’ve not even kissed or anything.’

  ‘No, I know. Oh, don’t listen to me. I talk shite. I do like you. I just don’t know if . . .’ and he sighs and gives a little groan. Because he’s still got his arm round me, I feel it reverberate through my body. ‘Jeez, I’m jumping the gun a bit here. Sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s . . . good to know where we stand. Or where you see it developing. All I’d say is, we shouldn’t run before we can walk.’

  ‘Well, at the moment we’re standing in a muddy fecking campsite getting pissed on by God. Come on, let’s get to the pub and have something to eat.’

  Fortunately the ride to the pub only takes about ten minutes. It’s not a pleasant journey because now we’ve been stood still for a while, so the sweat on my body has gone cold, accentuating the chill of the rain on my clothes and hat and hair. The pub is warm, luckily, and there’s even a roaring fire in the next room as we sit down to eat. Kevin is the most relaxed I’ve seen him as he sups from a pint of local bitter (I plump for half a Guinness) and starts to tell me his life story. It’s weird. It’s like because he let his guard down at the caravan site, because he gave me a glimpse into how he was feeling, because he has shown me a weakness, we’ve moved somewhere else.

  He tells me all about his upbringing on a farm in rural West Ireland and how he loves the outdoors and hates living in London, especially Fountain Woods, where every house is the same. How his childhood dream was to be a movie star, but that never quite worked out. How he has always had a good singing voice and sang at all his family weddings and funerals – if there was a party, basically, he was wheeled out – but how he never really followed it up, as his dad was a builder and from an early age he forced him to bunk off school and go and work for the family business. Then he fell in love with Toni when she came over to work as a receptionist in a nearby hotel, and when she said she was going back to England, he didn’t tell his parents and ran away to be with her. His parents didn’t speak to him for ages, even boycotting his wedding. Ironically they got back in touch when they heard that Connor had been born, not realizing of course that he wasn’t really their grandson.

  He tells me how he worked on building sites when he first came over, and Toni worked at various posh hotels on Park Lane, and they hardly ever saw each other because of their long hours and differing shifts, which is why it was easy for her to have the affair. Then Kevin decided to set up his own building firm and work for himself. He tells me the business has done OK, but he’s had to lay a few fellas off in the last year or so and now tends to do smaller jobs or just hire his mates on the odd job, whereas they used to be permanent staff. He says he and Toni lived in a nice big house up until three years ago, when they had to downsize to Fountain Woods because of the credit crunch. He has two sisters, Coleen and Bernadette – at this point I ask hilariously if they’ve ever released a record called ‘I’m in the Mood for Dancing’. He practically spits out his pint, he laughs so much. Then he talks about how he feels about Connor being with Jamie, and how it’s killing him, and how alone and scared he feels.

  ‘What are you scared of?’ I ask.

  He looks at me. ‘Losing him.’

  I shake my head. ‘You’re not gonna lose him.’

  He doesn’t look convinced.

  ‘You’re amazing and funny and caring and . . . everything he needs.’

  ‘Ah, a vote of confidence.’

  Though I’m not sure where ‘amazing’ came from.

  ‘And if he does decide to live with Jamie, I’ll give him detention every night for the rest of his life until he realizes he’s making a complete and utter prick of himself.’

  Kevin nods. He sees this could work. We chuckle.

  ‘But I really don’t think it’s going to come to that.’

  We both have scampi and chips. It’s a million times nicer than when I ate out with Mungo the other week, and a zillion times nicer than Fionnula’s spinach pie, but maybe it’s the company. And the Guinness. And the roaring log fire.

  Actually, it’s not roaring; it’s crackling. It sounds nothing like a lion.

  ‘Anyway, listen to me, banging on,’ he says, reaching out and rubbing my hand. ‘I’m not the only one who’s lost someone special, eh?’

  I nod, but I don’t want to spoil this. This is . . . gravy . . . just the way it is.

  ‘D’you mind if we don’t talk about that?’ I ask.

  ‘Sure. Your wish is my command.’

  We eat in silence for a bit. I’ve asked for some tartare sauce and the barmaid brings it over suspiciously, like I’ve asked for a gram of cocaine.

  ‘Karen?’

  ‘Aha?’

  ‘You know when we get back to London later?’

  ‘Aha?’

  ‘What would you say to, like . . . coming and staying at mine the night?’

  Wow

  I wasn’t expecting that.

  He sees my amazement and reads it as horror. It’s not horror. I just don’t know what to say. Part of me wants to scream, ‘Yes, yes! Take me on your dining-room table, you gorgeous hunk of a brute!’ but another part of me whispers, ‘I don’t think I’m ready. I know it’s daft, but I don’t think I’m over Michael yet.’

  Then the other part of me overrules the whole shebang, reminding myself that I have been exercising for the afternoon and will be all sweaty and smelly.

  ‘I don’t mean shagging,’ he says.

  And now that the chance has been grabbed from me, it’s what I want more than anything in the world. Who cares if I smell? He’ll have running water. He’s a builder. He’ll have a bath, won’t he?

  ‘I just . . . don’t wanna be on my own tonight. I’m fed up of being on my own.’

  I nod.

  ‘No funny business,’ he adds. ‘Just . . . what do you call it? Thingy.’

  ‘Frottage?’ I ask, then immediately regret it.

  ‘Spooning,’ he says.

  I nod. Of course. Spooning. Why didn’t I think of that? Do I have a one-track mind?

  ‘Would you actually say the word “yes”, Karen? Or else I won’t believe my luck.’

  ‘Spooning?’ I’m confused.

  ‘No. “Yes.”’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Will you just say “yes”? Please?’

  Oh. I get it now.

  ‘Yes, Kevin. I’ll come and stay.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ he says, and I see the twinkle return to his eyes. And then he says it again for good measure. ‘Brilliant.’

  It’s only on the train home that I remember that of course this could all be a line. This could be Kevin’s shtick. It’s only now I remember what I was told at the wake about him having a different woman round every night while Toni was dying in hospital.

  I could quite easily get out of this. There’s a whole hour and a half on the train for me to say, ‘D’you know what, Kevin? I’ve thought about this and I don’t think it’s a good idea. I don’t think either of us is in the right place just now for this kind of intimacy.’

  But I don’t. And I’m not going to. Because right now that Kevin doesn’t seem real. The one before me, slightly broken and battered, seems genuine. And even if it is his shtick, I’ve bought it. Even if it is a line,
I’ve gobbled it up.

  Besides, I don’t want to be on my own tonight either.

  I’ve had no signal on my phone in the New Forest, and once our train leaves the greenery and hits the greyness of Southampton, a few texts come through from Mum. She wants me to call her. Needs to talk about something Dad said. I decide it can wait till tomorrow.

  I’m still not willing to so much as spoon him when I’ve spent the afternoon working up a sweat and cycling for so long that my jeans and knickers have wedged up my backside to more of an alarming degree than when I went to the Smiling Lion, courtesy of Shirelle, so I come up with a plan and he buys into it. From Waterloo we are going to head back to my place, where I am going to jump in the shower, change my clothes and pack an overnight bag and all the stuff I need for school in the morning. I ignore the possibly feminist thing of insisting we don’t stay at his, but at mine instead, but only because I can’t be doing with Meredith knowing what is going on. Besides, it means I can have more of a lie-in in the morning. OK, so I’ll have to wait till the coast is clear before leaving his house in case any of the kids from school see. A thought hits me . . .

  ‘Oh God, Connor’s not coming home tonight, is he?’

  Kevin shakes his head. ‘Jamie gets to drop him off at school.’ Then he rolls his eyes.

  OK. And relax.

  And panic again. Because when we get back to East Ham, Meredith is home. I really did think she was going to be at her Sunday-afternoon netball practice. She is lying on the couch watching reruns of The L Word on cable when we tiptoe in. She jolts upright, recognizing Kevin immediately.

  ‘Mr O’Keefe!’

  ‘Ah, Miss Penrose.’

  ‘You . . . know each other,’ I say, because I’m quick like that, and always say the right thing, natch.

  ‘Connor’s in the year seven football team,’ Kevin explains to me.

  ‘Have you . . . had a nice day?’ she asks, her voice so full of alarm and anxiety that she sounds like Minnie Mouse.

  ‘Great, thanks, yeah,’ says Kevin.

  ‘I thought you were going out with an old school friend,’ Meredith says. She really has turned irredeemably into my mother.