‘Alright, man, alright.’
‘Shhh,’ he says, like I’ve said the worst thing in the world. His eyes tell me he’s alarmed. Something’s wrong and I shouldn’t be here. I open my arms as though I’m remonstrating with a tennis umpire who’s made the wrong call. We look at each other and we don’t have anything to say. He doesn’t even have any paper.
‘What, then? What?’
All he can do is point to his own lips. He pulls a short wave radio from his pocket and taps the speaker three times. Three taps must mean something: I’ve found Miles Platting. Seventeen taps must mean something like get me some screws for the new shelving unit. His eyes are focused on mine; he looks at me as if I’m a dangerous man hiding a concealed weapon. Another man walks towards us: a much younger man in a fluorescent coat, who notices my gown and slippers. He looks alarmed too. He attempts to communicate with me using his hands. He crosses two of his fingers and flattens his palm. We speak a different language. I reply with a shrug. He points towards the hospital block where I came from.
‘Oh, do you want me to go back there?’
He doesn’t say ‘shhh’ – he just looks at me like it’s a stupid question. He turns to the robed official as if to confirm whether I’m stupid. We walk to the hospital and enter via the main reception. They point to the doormat so I can wipe my feet from all the mud. I feel like an unwanted guest, the idiot who ruins a party. I say goodbye to the robed official, which he doesn’t like. We enter the foyer and the guard looks for someone to dump me with. The guard seems to think we should wait, as it would be rude to step into the nurses’ territory. He looks at the out-of-date magazines on the table in the hope I might want to read them. We stand in silence until the nurse arrives. A different nurse. Not even the grey squirrel. She wipes her forehead and feels her back as though it’s strained. She looks at me, the incoming idiot, the waste of a bed, and looks at the guard for a translation. I glance at the magazines. Most of them have pictures of women on the cover: women’s magazines, with women on the front, and men’s magazines, with women too. The header says:
20 ways to get a flawless post-baby body
I think the hospital’s commitment to silence would be better served if they laid out copies of David Copperfield and The Master and Margarita. The guard looks at the nurse and makes a quick gesture with his hands. She nods. The conclusion seems to be that the guard should accompany me to the bay. We walk, which I’m happy to do. I’m relaxed and compliant, which removes anyone’s right to complain. The zombie lights in the corridor still flicker. We walk a little further and the nurse seems agitated as we pass one of the rooms. She puts an ear close to the door. From within there’s a strained, distant voice. I think he’s saying, ‘This is an outrage!’ There’s a commotion, the sound of chairs scraping. The door handle turns and another nurse steps out, looking like she’s been running on a treadmill. ‘I want a lawyer!’ is the next line. The man shouts something about everything being a disgrace. It’s nice to hear language, the real, spoken kind. It feels good to have an accomplice, a comrade, someone else who thinks the place is crazy. I want to shout back, so it can be like two birds tweeting.
‘Hello, hello!’ There’s a pause of a couple of seconds. He shouts something back, indecipherable. I need to conjure more strength in my lungs. I might as well be underground again. ‘Hello, HELLO!’
The nurse claps her hands, an improvised gesture designed to distract me. I keep my eyes on the door. There’s another shout from inside but the words are indistinct. We’re almost talking through a tin can telephone. The guard puts a hand on my shoulder but I manage to shake it off. I think about what Kendal would say in this situation. She would put on a voice: effete Kendal.
‘You cannot silence the heart. Try as you might!’ The guard grabs my shoulder, turning into a nightclub bouncer. He leads me down the corridor. ‘Unhand me, good sir!’ There’s a smile on my face, which they don’t like, even though I’m speaking in smiles. We walk down the corridor; the guard makes a point of showing me the sign that says Silence Please. ‘Yes, I know. Silence.’ I decide to say it in a French accent. ‘Silence!’ It’s a French word: silence. I think of other French words in English. Fiancé. Debacle. ‘Could you tell me how you say debacle?’ The guard sighs; it’s been a long day. He grabs my arm and gives it a squeeze. Nothing too hard, but a squeeze nonetheless. They take me into the bay and I decide it’s time to sing. ‘It’s only words, and words are all I have, to take your heart away!’
‘Shhh,’ the nurse says. She points to the other patients as though it were rude of me to sing. I move with grace. I hold the curtain and clutch it close. ‘Da dadadadadada. Da dadadada, da!’ The guard tugs at my arm. ‘It’s only words, and words are all I have, to take your heart away!’ I wave my hands in the style of a conductor leading a string section. Then I take a bow. I don’t have an audience, though. I have a few words from the Bee Gees (later Boyzone). I have a guard and a nurse, whose arms are crossed, and some tired hospital patients who want to sleep through the whole thing. The nurse almost looks like she’s going to cry. For all I know I might have ruined her birthday. I could take it further if I wanted. I could cause some damage. I could start pulling plugs from the machines; I could start singing ABBA. The doctor enters, the grey squirrel. I open my arms to say, ‘Woe, destruction, ruin and decay! The worst is death, and death will have his day!’ I do a little walking routine, as though I were leading a marching band. I keep going until I feel like I’ve started to depress everyone. The doctor pulls up a chair and sits beside me. She looks at me straight on. She writes a quick note which says:
I believe in you, Miles.
She puts a hand on my shoulder. I don’t get a right of reply.
You’ll get better soon.
She looks at me without averting her gaze. She passes me the hot-water bottle from the side. I watch the guard and the nurse, who no longer seem on edge; they’re relieved they don’t have to hear me sing anymore. I watch the squirrel, who watches me. I don’t really want to feel like an alien. I want to live on the same planet as them.
‘I’m going to bed,’ I announce. ‘I mean…’ I lean onto the bedside sheet of paper.
I’m going to bed.
I climb under the covers. I pull the duvet up to my chest and the doctor smiles. This feels good. I pull the eye mask from the bedside drawer, lift it over my head and blacken out the world. I let my legs stretch. I exhale, close my eyes, and the only thing that stops me sleeping is how bad I feel about disturbing their evening. Da dadadadadada…
*
Eden landed on a salt grit container. It was fortunate that no one was standing nearby. By the time we made it downstairs, someone was already knelt at his side. He still wore his entry pass around his neck. There was no conceivable chance he’d survive. The impact was such that no one could have lived. A cat might have. Ptolemy might have. The engineer positioned Eden flat on the pavement and shouted for help. Eden was pronounced dead at the scene. It all happened as quickly as you could hope for, in the sense there was no hope. We watched it all from the window, and we knew not to hope.
I wake up again. I’m conscious that I’m too hot. I’ve been sweating more than normal. I’m lying in my hospital bed, which is fine, and necessary. I feel conscious, certain of my wits. I look at my fellow patients, who seem just as comatose as before. I’d like to apologise, but they wouldn’t know how to receive it. I start thinking about the nursing staff and whether I should write them a letter. I should think of them as humans, rather than robots that annoy me. I’ll wake up early and write them a letter to explain my behaviour. I’ll write about how I miss Kendal, and most of my mood swings can be linked to that. I’ll ask if we can turn a new page; literally, in fact, so I can finish the story. I owe them that much. I’d like to talk about where we are, and whatever it is we’re committed to. We could talk about the silence.
13. THE FOG ON THE TELIRE
‘Are you excited?’ Kendal sits on the suitc
ase to squash it all in. ‘I haven’t seen you smile like this in years… Are you excited?’
‘I am.’
‘Just say you’re excited!’
‘I’m excited!’
‘Más Tico que el gallo pinto.’
I’m happy that she’s still wearing my T-shirt. It reminds me of what mornings used to be like. Her hair has been flattened in places, owing to the hard mattress and the almost featherless pillow. ‘Did you know more than ten per cent of the world’s butterflies live in Costa Rica?’ She begins to tidy the room like she’s getting ready to leave right this minute. ‘It’s one of the happiest places in the world. And it doesn’t have an army.’
‘The butterflies can protect us.’
Kendal walks around the room, observing the empty bookshelf. She complains about the lack of light and opens the door ajar. I complain about the light. The pod isn’t suitable for more than one person. It doesn’t have the dimensions to make for a pleasant stay. She feels the inside of her coat pocket and pulls out some receipts. ‘Sandals!’ She writes sandals with a chewed-up biro. ‘And sunglasses.’
‘And a pet passport.’
‘Where are we gonna get sunglasses in Barrow-in-Furness?’
‘Birdseye.’
‘Miles. Get with the programme. You’ve done enough damage for a lifetime. We’re not having another fifty years of you fucking up the world.’ She wags her biro in my direction. ‘Suntan!’
‘Sí señorita.’
She holds out her arm and points. ‘Look at us. We’re pale as fuck.’
‘Racist.’
‘I need some sunshine, Miles. Too much time on this island makes you go fucking mad.’ She walks around the room and winces like she’s misplaced something. She lifts the corner of the mattress. ‘Earrings,’ she says to herself. ‘You’d think it’d be hard to lose something in this room. It’s only six feet fucking long.’ She reaches down at an angle – a lucky dip – and pulls out Eden’s letter. ‘Is this your speech?’
‘Yes.’ I grab it back. I want to change the frequency. I mention that Nigel will call for us in a second.
‘I think we should call it the Wordsworth Institute.’ Kendal sprawls on the bed as though we’re going back to sleep. ‘A library of infinite wisdom curated by Miles and Kendal – plus special guests.’ She lies back with her arms in the shape of an angel. ‘Rooms available. No flash photography. Strong language.’
‘Can I make cider?’
‘Yes! Good, Miles. You’re getting the picture. You can stamp on all the apples you want. And we’ll be free. Free as a pair of high-flying birds!’
I recognise the knock at the door because it comes from a feeble fist. ‘Alright there, chaps,’ Nigel says. He doesn’t make eye contact with Kendal. ‘I’m not intruding, am I?’ Nigel doesn’t have the tact to know when he’s intruding, which means he’s intruding the whole time. He doesn’t seem comfortable that Kendal’s only wearing a T-shirt and underwear. ‘They’ll be arriving in five minutes.’ What Nigel means is that we ought to get ready and stop wasting time. He likes to be rude in a polite way. ‘Have you written a speech?’
‘No. I mean…’
‘Well, think of something nice to say. They don’t just give the Golden Submarine to anyone. It’s their equivalent of the Légion d’honneur.’ He makes a face which says are you even listening, Miles? He laughs aloud, and tries to make a joke of it. Kendal just looks at him. Nigel hangs at the door, an uptight shrew, not knowing when to leave. He notices our lack of interest and this time his face says I’ll leave you guys to it. He closes the door as carefully as he can.
Kendal looks at me. ‘He’s an odd man, isn’t he?’
‘He just needs a girlfriend.’
She runs the tap and washes her face in the sink. She doesn’t want to use the communal shower, which involves a long barefoot walk across the stones. She doesn’t want to participate in any conversation while wearing a towel.
‘Well, now’s your chance to repent, Mr Platting. You don’t want to be a wrong’un no more. Just tell them you’re moving on. You need to set up the Wordsworth Institute. Costa Rica’s calling.’ Kendal opens the drawer and removes one of my hoodies. ‘You don’t have to renounce your fucking throne. Just thank everyone and admit that all good things have to end. And bad things.’
Nigel shouts, ‘One minute, everyone!’
She pulls out some jeans. ‘Right. I’m going to drink some Prosecco. Then I want to see you here at two. We’re off. Vamoose. Do we have a deal?’
Her forehead is wrinkled: a contingency frown in the event I say no. But I say, ‘Deal.’
‘Fab!’ She peels off the bed sheets, suspicious of the sweat. ‘You never used to sweat this much.’ She smiles like she’s remembered something. ‘You never told me about your birthmark as well.’ The way she looks at me means I’m meant to take offence. She’s seen me naked, in a new context, and treats this detail like she’s got something on me.
‘I’ve always had it.’
‘I’d never noticed.’
‘It’s always been there.’
‘I suppose we used to turn the lights out.’
Our emergence into the light is a cue for everyone to look at us. Here we are, like a pair of newlyweds on a balcony. We command their attention. We’re the main thing to focus on. The next sight we encounter is Nigel pulling a table; he instructs a caterer on where to put the chicken satays. The builders are reconfiguring the canteen walls so that everything’s more open plan. Behind a line of tape is an improvised beach and a gazebo where the sponsors can drink. Darren’s helping to clear the table so that one of the assistants can place down the salad. The set-up is typical of our wrap parties: we invite local caterers to serve olives and to make peace. We stage a meet-and-greet for town officials, sponsors, community groups and journalists. The purpose is to achieve a resolution – an official handover from which Birdseye can survive without our invigilation. It’s ‘mission accomplished’, a pat on the back. We walk down the stairwell just as the taxis are pulling in. We’re offered a flute of champagne from a waitress whose cheeks will soon hurt from all the smiling. Nigel stands at the perimeter and welcomes each guest with a handshake. By the rock pool, a man rests his guitar case on the pebbles; there’s a drum kit on the edge of the breakwater. Someone serves smoked salmon on rye bread. It doesn’t take long for the likes of Darren to relax and, for the sake of the occasion, pretend he’s having a good time. It seems that most people are able to make conversation without the need for formal introductions. Kendal talks to some of the councillors, who seem charmed, if a little confused. She asks the local MP what he does for a living. She laughs when she finds out. She doesn’t avert her gaze from the men and women with Birdseye logos on their lapels. She wants to get inside their minds. She wants to know why they woke up one morning and wanted to rename Barrow-in-Furness in honour of frozen fish. She makes conversation with our localisation team; they talk about transcreation, and whether or not you can ever faithfully translate a language. Kendal talks about Joseph Conrad: how he read in French, thought in Polish and wrote in English. They all seem to laugh and Kendal officially becomes one of them. Kendal asks about their roles within the company, and she doesn’t seem capable of listening for more than five seconds without asking a big question; usually it’s about the ethical dilemma of working for a company committed to the sale of the English language. They don’t know how to respond. They weren’t trained for this question in their induction packs.
‘I mean, I would expect dear Miles Platting to be fully committed to evil, but you guys seem like thoughtful human creatures.’
She then focuses her attention on the canapés: she loves the whitebait and says as much. ‘How much are you being paid, then?’ she asks the waiter.
Nigel finds it difficult to carry out his duties while Kendal continues to talk. He looks at me in an attempt to ascertain whether I can hear what she’s saying. He doesn’t like the fact that Kendal’s able to speak
. He thinks she should be muted. Every so often, he looks in my direction to indicate that I really ought to intervene; I shouldn’t let Kendal ruin the show. I’m happy to lurk and watch from a distance. A part of me wants to shout as loud as I can about how it’s all a sham. I want people to know that Lingua Franca is worse than anyone imagined, that Eden was the best worker we ever had, and that Costa Rica is where it’s at.
Kendal’s kept a safe distance from the gazebo by the sheer number of us. She makes a beeline for the Mayor of Birdseye, at which point Nigel steps in front of her. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
‘Oh, sorry, Nigel. You’re standing in my way.’
Nigel holds up his arms like a hostage, a strange way of displaying his refusal to hit a woman, or something. She tickles his belly. He recoils and shouts, ‘Miles!’
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