We don’t lurk. It’s all very open. Hi-viz jackets, and a couple of flashy sponsorship boards, and a kind of weary expression as if you’d much rather be doing something else, and no one ever looks twice.
He glances sideways at Dan, then back at the road, straight-faced. You might need to work on your expression.
And when it’s all done?
We leave a discreet sponsorship board up nearby; especially with roundabouts, everyone sponsors roundabouts. This Nature Initiative is Brought to You By…
And who sponsors you?
Theo snorts. No one. We make up acronyms, fancy logos. Occasionally for fun use a big name, Macdonalds, John Lewis, the Lottery. Or say it’s something like a Council Partnership Initiative. In six, seven years of this no one has ever thought to think it might be otherwise.
They pull up at a bus stop to pick up a woman called Petra. She shoves a big plastic carry-all into the footwell and squeezes in beside Dan.
In fact, continues Theo, I’ve seen some of them quite pleased to take the credit; a couple of supportive letters to the local paper and they’re convinced it was their idea all along. It’s good all round.
Nice to meet you, says Petra.
My first non-commisioned, says Dan. I’m Dan.
Petra is a genius at designing fake logos, says Theo. She could be out there making millions in the real world, but no…
Wasting my talents on a bunch of guerrilla environmentalists, says Petra. How about you?
Me? says Dan. Oh, I’m here for the digging.
42.
Even before she wakes she can sense the change. The scent of them hangs in the air around her bed. There is no hurry to wake, the ebbing dream is not a difficult one, and coming out of it does not involve a struggle. When at last her eyes open the scent translates into an intensity of blue, a deep, impossible blue, hanging over her, and then very gradually into stems and bells, curved and nodding from the side-table, she thinks of seahorses, lying there looking up at them as if from the bottom of the ocean floor; she knows perfectly well by now not to try and come up too fast.
When at last she gets herself sat up in bed, and the seahorses have resolved themselves into bluebells in a glass vase, she finds another gift: three bright lemons in a white bowl. The sun pouring into her white room makes the colours hyper-real, and they keep her entranced for several minutes. At last she reaches over and takes one of the lemons, holds it close to her face, smelling it, scoring it with her nails to get at the tang of the zest.
Theo walks in, makes an inarticulate noise and puts his hands over his face for protection. He peers through the cracks in his big fingers at a blur of red hair, bluebells and lemons in the sunlight and says she might have to put the fruit down, it’s too much for him. She throws him the lemon; he catches it one-handed and sits on the end of the bed.
They’re beautiful, she says, nodding at the flowers. Thank you. Are they from your place? From the pond?
Near enough, he says, just up and along a bit, and he describes the sloping hill across the marshy field, and the plantation with its rows and rows of whitebeam, service and rowan. We’ve got a kind of genetic spectrum going, he says, it’s a museum project, they connect up, the trees, one species into the other. I’m the nursery for the different types; and I collect too. I helped find the Avon Gorge specimen, you know, the missing link…
She has no idea what he’s talking about. How’s the jelly stuff, the star-shot? she asks. Have you had any results?
He shakes his head. The bloke who was supposed to be doing the tests has been off work with depression for weeks. It’s just sitting in the freezer, I imagine. Poor guy. I liked him; he was fun.
The thing, she says, the wall of silence – it’s still there, isn’t it? I mean, the Parade didn’t make any difference did it?
It’s still there, he says. He throws the lemon gently from palm to palm. Who brought you these? he asks. I know I didn’t. Not that rather daunting colleague?
Myra pulls a face. Not her, no. There was a woman here, one of the cleaners. I was upset. It must have been her. I must have been asleep.
You were very asleep when I came earlier, he says. But you looked happy enough, for once. Do you think you’re getting better?
The question is thrown out unthinkingly, almost off-hand, but as she glances up at him to answer they both realise that the answer matters, and not knowing what to say, she says nothing, just looks at him for a moment, and he at her.
Your mother? she asks, finally.
He can do that one. She’s better and she’s worse, he says; I knew it would be like this. There was a consultation this morning, that’s why I came by quite early, and she’s nearly fit enough to go home, as long as there’s plenty of supervision – which will be me, mostly – and they reckon the leg is doing fine. She can get around with a frame thing, you know.
I know, says Myra sourly, they tried to give me one. I still managed to fall over.
You and gravity, he says, admiringly. That’s a real thing you’ve got going between you.
Your mother, she says firmly, reaching out for the lemon. He places it gently in her hand, and keeps his hand cupped over hers for a second or two.
My mother. Well, the leg is OK but the head … the mind … is not. The consultation was supposed to begin the process of shifting, I mean transferring, the responsibility from the leg people to the mind people, only inevitably it’s not that simple.
I can imagine. But does it mean she’s going home?
I think so. Yes. I think so. Quite soon, I think.
Good.
Yes.
This time they avoid looking at each other. Theo holds out his hand again.
I take it you’re planning to do more than just scratch and sniff at that poor lemon. Give it here. I’ll get them to slice it up for you. Tea? Or in the water jug?
She narrows her eyes, contemplative. Both, she says. Both.
43.
The professor has timed a meeting in London so he can meet her at St Pancras, on her way back from Poland, or Italy, or Romania, from a conference or a performance, he forgets which. Stood against a wall he holds himself back, and watches the people flow past, their travelling faces looking ahead, fixed, absorbed. There are so many of them, all strangers, that the shock of her face feels like something more than just recognition. She spots him heading her way and gives him a brief, strong hug. He takes one of her bags and they find a cafe. It is full of people speaking different languages. They add theirs, silently, to the mix, their quick fingers sometimes tapping their keyboards, sometimes moving in the air. He finds more and more of her phrases coming back to him. He makes a few tentative moves of his own. This is her stubbornly idiosyncratic version of signing; a private language, a family language; the language in which she thinks best.
Their conversation is more subdued; they are both physically very tired. She from travelling, rehearsals and the intensity of the last performance; he from the job and its viciously multiplying demands. He tells her about the Parade, and some of its more peculiar effects – how if you stood in the right place the noise of a school choir, an opera singer, a brass band seemed abruptly swallowed up by the silence, as if they were all stepping into a giant invisible snake. But if you were in there, in with the rest, making a racket, you felt no real difference, you could hear everything; it was a bit chilly, that was all.
And nobody got hurt, he said. Amazing, really. And it kept the media happy, and the university came out of it very well.
But you still have the problem.
We do.
Do you, though, really? Is it getting worse? Or do you think it’s found its level, this stuff?
I think it has slowed down a bit. But I’d say on balance it’s getting worse. Slowly.
Plan?
No plan.
She shivers, and shrugs, and they look at each other, thinking of the castle.
Been on your shooting weekend yet? she asks.
Not
the season, darling. Shoot damn all in May; I had a look. Roebuck and rabbits. It’ll be August, I imagine, the glorious twelfth or thereafter, Jesus Christ.
You’ll look fantastic in tweeds. Don’t fret.
He pulls a face at her.
August is pretty late, she says, ticking off the weeks on her fingers. Another week of May, June, July. If it is getting worse, as you say, you need to try something before then. That is, if you think the silence really is a problem – you all seem to be managing fine at the university, don’t you? And I don’t see much fuss about it in the media by now, everyone just seems to have got used to it. Who’s actually getting hurt?
Homeless people, he says; mad people, the people who sit on benches. No one with any influence. Some small businesses, whose customers have just given up. Wifi and mobile signals not exactly screwed up, but jittery, right across the city. That might stir someone, eventually, but you’re right, no one’s complaining much now, after the initial flurry. Um, who else. Employees at the museum, depressed. Visitor numbers down – though I imagine they might have done quite well out of the publicity for the Parade. But I think it will get bad again soon; this feel-good thing is probably a bit of a mirage, a blip…
She raises her eyebrows and laughs at him. Now there’s a surprise, she says; and you the marketing experts and all.
Don’t start, he says. Don’t start all that. You have no idea how quaint you sound. You lost that battle years ago. Give up.
There is a small stirring of flame in her eyes, and her hands start to quicken. He grabs one in mid-air and holds it tight. Now he looks straight at her, speaking aloud.
Not now, Meg, he says. And not me. Listen, come on, I’m asking for your help, not another critique of a bloody system you abandoned and I didn’t. It is slow, like I said, this stuff, but it is ultimately corrosive, and you’ve felt for yourself that it’s not going to do any of us any good. So tell me, cariad: what happens next? What are we going to do?
44.
Rowndarowndarownd, says Teddy.
Mmm, says Dan, reading small ads in a local paper left tactically on a plastic chair. Rowndarownd.
It’s drizzling, and the wash has fifteen minutes to go, and it’s not worth the hassle, he thinks, going out again and coming back. And besides, he has his eye on the best dryer, full of someone else’s clothes but due to stop in twelve minutes. Eleven.
Rowndarownd, Rowndarownd, sings Teddy, crouched in admiration in front of the machine and making circles with his hands.
All day long, says Dan. And most of them yours, he thinks, I hardly have any clothes to my name, and look at you, three bags full. The mothers pass stuff on, he hardly ever has to buy things: the little vests and the all-in-one pyjamas and the smart coats. The fiddly dungarees and the stripy tops. Jumpers with embroidered tractors. He deselects the ones with unsuitable slogans: Mummy’s Little Helper; If You Think I’m Cute You Should See My Dad. And all the Disney ones, unless they’re seriously retro and make him feel nostalgic. And all the sub-military ones, the khaki, helmets, guns. And this morning already, feeling unusually purposeful, he has sorted out all the clothes that are suddenly much too small, and stuffed them into bags with the pile of deselected items, and taken them, balanced dangerously on the hood of the buggy, to a charity shop en route for the launderette. The week’s wash is in a rucksack on his back. He feels superbly organised.
Three minutes. It’s Saturday, but early, and the launderette is fairly quiet. No one else is staying, they all have shopping to do. Not having money, Dan tries increasingly to avoid shops. But because it is Saturday, he thinks after a while, Luke might not have meetings. He texts him: What are you up to today?
Buying socks.
When?
Now.
Nice. He almost adds, buy some for me, but doesn’t trust Luke not to take him seriously and start asking for shoe sizes. Mind you, he badly needs socks.
You?
Launderette near the station. Washing socks.
By night, he thinks, but doesn’t write that either, all seated on the ground.
Cool, I’ll come by, texts Luke.
Cool, returns Dan, with a grin, and then says it aloud to Teddy: Cool.
Rowndarowndarownd, says Teddy, concentrating hard.
Not any more, says Dan. It’s finished.
They have just stuffed all the wet clothes into the top dryer when Luke appears, clutching a small M&S bag and looking pleased to find them.
All done, he says, waving the bag vaguely in the air.
Last of the big spenders, says Dan gravely. And it’s not even ten yet.
Have you, ah, had breakfast? asks Luke.
Not as such. Good idea.
Luke treats them to croissants and frothy coffee and warm milk, and tells them the latest university news, though he is tactful enough not to mention his suddenly shining prospects. He is just explaining one of the new schemes for tackling the silence when Dan’s phone rings, making them both jump.
It can’t be you, says Dan, fumbling in a pocket, so who the hell…
It’s Theo, sounding far away and unusually riled.
I need that Californian man, he says, the one with the iPad. Have you got his number? I need to speak to him right now.
Dan passes the phone to Luke.
It’s for you, he says.
45.
He crosses the main road, through a channel of silence which cuts out the beeps of the green man at the crossing, and enters the Gorsedd gardens, bright with flower beds. He has about an hour and a half before the meeting with the consultants, and he wants to get a coffee and check something quickly in the herbarium at the museum. He feels in his pocket for the notebook with the rowan leaves pressed neatly inside. He doesn’t notice the man until he is almost upon him. The man is holding a paintbrush and standing thoughtfully in front of Myra’s bench looking at three large cans of paint. A camera on a tripod is filming him looking thoughtful.
Theo takes in the scene, and stops.
What are you doing? he asks.
The man, who is young and Asian, with spiky blond hair, pale jeans and a black t-shirt, beams at him.
I’m glad you asked me that, he says, glancing at the camera.
Theo waits. The young man continues to stare intensely at his cans of paint.
So? says Theo. What are you doing?
I’m an artist, says the man.
OK.
And I’m Responding to the Interference.
OK. How? You’re not using this bench, are you?
The artist looks delighted. I am! he says. I’m going to paint it three different colours. One after the other, not all at once. It’s quick-drying paint.
No, says Theo. But the young man is away. I’m going to paint it white first; then red; then grey. Or possibly black; I have another pot over there, look. Do you know why?
No … says Theo, meaning something else entirely. No, you…
Because, says the man happily, white will represent the cold, enigmatic world of the silence. Then red will represent the profound human struggle against it, and then grey, or possibly black, will be the overwhelming sense of despair that it induces … a sort of total alienation. I think, you know, I think probably the grey.
No, says Theo, more decisively, moving round to face him properly … you can’t…
And, says the young man, I should actually have started half an hour ago, but the stupid thing is, you know, I can’t decide which order to do the colours in, whether to start with the white, the problem itself, or whether to end up there. Basically, I can’t decide on the narrative. He points the paintbrush at Theo. What do you think?
I think, says Theo firmly, that you shouldn’t touch that particular bench. I think you should leave it alone.
The artist gives him a lovely smile and shakes his head. No, he says, it’s got to be this one, see, with the museum behind it. Look, stand here, you’ll see what I mean. See? I’m going to splice in clips of the Parade – it’s a
film, the artwork is a film, of me painting the bench – and then some of the cctv shots of people turning back in despair. And bits from the interviews after. See?
Are you from the University?
Mm. Well, I’m an Independent Artist, obviously, but yes, they commissioned me for the Artistic Responses Project.
OK, says Theo. I do understand. But not this bench, I’m sorry. He deliberately moves the cans of paint onto the ground, and sits down on the bench with his arms folded.
The young man looks baffled. But it was this one in my project proposal, he says. I don’t see how it could be anywhere else.
Try the castle, says Theo. The castle’s the problem, not here.
But the footage… He is very disconcerted by now.
No, says Theo, and spreads out his long arms like wings along the top of the bench. No.
The artist pulls himself up to his full height, suddenly very dignified and stiff.
I don’t think you have the right to stop me in any case. It’s all cleared with the council, so you can’t be from them. Who are you, anyway?
Theo just shakes his head and sits firm.
The man fumbles for his phone and starts jabbing for names and numbers. The office is shut on Saturdays, but Phoebe said anytime he needed her. He gets a wrong number, and tries again. Theo listens to him tripping over his own tongue, outraged and not terribly coherent, and wonders if he will miss the hospital appointment, and whether he should phone to tell them; and how long he might be prepared to sit on the bench, and under what kind of duress. It has started to drizzle a bit, which might put a halt to the painting for today anyway. Then he remembers Luke, and he too reaches for his phone.
46.
Elin from work has been and gone, with a pretty tin of homemade biscuits and disquieting news. At least, it should be disquieting, she thinks, carefully extracting two of the biscuits and rearranging the rest, pressing the lid back on tight. But it feels like news from a long way away, news from nowhere that matters, though of course it should matter, rumours of redundancies, and you-know-who making sorrowful comments in meetings about expensive sick-pay arrangements when healthy hard-working staff are in danger of losing their jobs.
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