I made straight for the bathroom and took a Prozac, two Elavil, and a couple of paracetamol. The headache started to ease off within a few minutes and I stopped sweating. I had a long soak in the Jacuzzi, then – wrapped in my new Ralph Lauren bathrobe – flopped in the recliner and switched the television on.
I wondered if I should ring the hospital. I decided against it. At least for the time being. They’d all be so busy. I didn’t want to pester. I was doing them a favour by not ringing. Gena would guess I wouldn’t have stayed. She didn’t want me at the birth anyway.
The following year, when I was fourteen, I stayed a bit longer at Elm Fork after Mum and Dad had gone home. A whole week, in fact. The following year I stayed a fortnight. And the year after that, the whole of August. Mum didn’t mind the lengthening visits, so long as I stuck to Dad’s advice and filled every phone call home – and every anecdote afterwards – with endless variations of, ‘I missed you so much, Mum.’
But the following year, when I was seventeen, it looked like I might not stay at Elm Fork at all. When we arrived Rene told us she’d been ‘taken bad’ during the night with a flare-up of – what Bert had diagnosed as – ‘arthritis of the spine’. Bert’s dad suffered from it, and the symptoms were ‘exactly the same’. Rene had been having ‘flare-ups’, off and on, for the past year, apparently, but now her over-the-counter painkillers didn’t seem to be ‘doing the trick’.
Mum said, ‘Why haven’t you gone to the hospital, Rene?’
‘Oh, there’s no need to make a fuss,’ Rene said. ‘It’s just arthritis.’
As the day progressed, Rene started to feel a lot better, so when Mum and Dad decided to leave, just after tea time, it was decided – encouraged by plenty of pleading from me and Greg – that I would stay after all.
A week later, though, halfway through the night, Rene’s screams woke everyone. She was in pain like she’d ‘never known before’. Bert drove her to the hospital. Greg and I waited by the phone. When Bert eventually rang he said the hospital was keeping Rene in for tests and that it was probably best if I started packing my bags. He’d drive me to the station when he got back.
Two weeks later Mum got a phone call from Rene. She’d been diagnosed with a particularly virulent form of cancer.
Mum said, ‘Oh, Rene . . . Oh, Rene . . .’
I fell asleep in front of the television. When I woke up it was dark outside. I thought, perhaps, now was a good time to phone the hospital.
A nurse told me the baby had been born. It was a boy.
I said, ‘Oh, okay. Will you tell my wife I’ll be in to see her sometime tomorrow? Probably. Or perhaps the day after, if I can get away from work. What’re your opening times?’
‘We have “visiting hours”, sir. Not “opening times”. We’re a hospital, not a supermarket.’
We went to visit Rene shortly before Christmas – my first winter trip to Elm Fork – to see how she was. She had lost a lot of weight and was wearing a wig. Mum and Rene burst into tears the moment they saw each other. Bert had made us all a pot of tea and – much too thickly cut – sandwiches.
I spent most of the time with Greg in his room.
‘I hate the bloody wig they’ve given her,’ Greg said. ‘It makes her look like Margaret Thatcher.’
‘She won’t be wearing it for long,’ I said. ‘She’ll be better soon.’
‘Of course she won’t get better!’ Greg said. ‘Don’t you see that? She’ll be gone before next August.’
‘No, she won’t,’ I said.
But she was. On Good Friday in fact.
And Easter was early that year.
Gena sat up in bed, holding the baby.
It was wrapped in a blanket.
I stared at its wrinkled face. I stared at its open mouth. I could see bubbly white saliva. I thought of its blood, and imagined the liquid that leaks from a frozen chicken.
‘Isn’t he beautiful?’ Gena said.
‘Mmm,’ I said.
The summer following Rene’s death, Mum decided she didn’t want to visit Elm Fork anymore.
She said, ‘I only ever went there to see Rene. I don’t really know Bert that well at all. I never did. I’m not sure I even like him.’
‘What about Greg?’ I asked.
‘What about him?’
‘Don’t you want to see him?’
‘Why should I? He barely says two words to me.’
‘Well, I still want to see him!’
‘Who’s stopping you? You’re eighteen now. If you want to go . . . go!’
Dad drove me to the station (Mum stayed at home, washing the curtains). As I got on the train, Dad said, ‘Make sure to ring your mum every day and – ’
‘Tell her I miss her. I know, Dad, I know.’
Greg met me at Mulbarton station in the family car.
‘When did you learn to drive!?’ I said.
‘I passed the test in June,’ he said.
‘You should have told me!’
‘I wanted to surprise you.’ He gave me a big grin and a hug. ‘This summer’s going to be brilliant,’ he said. ‘It’s just the two of us.’
‘Well, there’s your dad.’
‘Not really.’
I decide to phone Gena before I leave Mulbarton village.
I use the phone box by the green.
‘Hello?’ Gena says.
‘It’s me,’ I say.
‘There’s an article in this morning’s paper. About the food we eat. The experts are now telling us we shouldn’t eat too much fibre. It gives you a funny spine. A bamboo spine they call it. Your bones fuse together and you end up a hunchback. Some people are so hunched over they have to wear special glasses to see where they’re going.’
‘I didn’t put much money in,’ I say.
‘Eh?’
‘The phone. We’ve only got five units left.’
‘Are you there yet?’
‘Nearly.’
‘Don’t stay too long.’
‘I won’t.’
‘I still don’t understand why you’re going anyway. You haven’t seen this “Greg” for years.’
‘I . . . I just feel . . . I have to . . .’
Four units.
‘I don’t want you getting in a state,’ she said.
‘I won’t get “in a state”.’
‘Have you got your tablets just in case?’
Three units.
‘I can’t take my tablets,’ I said. ‘I’m driving.’
‘You can take the herbal ones.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can.’
Two units.
‘I’m fine, Gen. Honestly. I’ve just taken a stroll along the beach.’
‘That doesn’t sound like you.’
One unit.
‘The sea looked beautiful,’ I said.
‘Not for long.’
‘Eh?’
‘The oceans are rising.’
The line went dead.
When I was twenty-three I started suffering from very bad insomnia. And headaches. And cold sweats.
I went to see a doctor.
‘Any stomach pains?’ he asked.
‘Sometimes.’
‘Hold out your hands.’
I held them out.
‘You’re shaking,’ he said.
‘I always shake.’
‘What’s your job again . . . ?’ He looked at my notes.
‘I work in the City,’ I said.
‘Oh, yes! What we used to call a “stockbroker”.’
‘I think you can still call us that.’
‘When I was young stockbrokers were middle-aged men in top hats with the Financial Times under their arm. Now they’re all young kids in flash suits clutching Razzle. No offence intended.’
I didn’t say anything.
‘How long have you been doing the job?’
‘Since I was nineteen.’
‘So . . . four years.’
‘Yes.�
��
‘Long hours?’
‘They can be, yes.’
‘A lot of stress.’
‘I don’t feel stress.’
‘Oh, you do. But you’re calling it “the thrill of the job”.’ He started writing a prescription. ‘Shall I tell you what your job really is? A blowtorch inside you. You’ll be dead by thirty at this rate.’
‘No I won’t,’ I said. ‘I’ll be a millionaire.’
I can see Elm Fork – the cottage – up ahead now.
I keep thinking of what Pat had said on the phone when I asked how Greg had died.
‘He drowned,’ she said.
‘Wh-where?’ I said.
‘Here. In the sea. Six months ago.’
‘But . . . but he was a great swimmer.’
Crackle, crackle.
‘Greg killed himself,’ she said.
‘ “Killed . . . ?” . . . but why?’
Crackle.
‘When did you last see him?’ she asked.
‘About ten years ago.’
‘So you never met him when he got back?’
‘From what?’
Crackle.
‘The war,’ she said. ‘In the Falklands.’
One evening, when I was twenty-five, I got home and there was a message from Dad on the answer-phone. He hated using the phone, even for a straightforward conversation, let alone talking to a machine.
‘Phone me,’ he said. ‘I’m very annoyed with you, old son.’
Very annoyed? What had I done?
I phoned. Mum answered, grunted something, then handed the receiver to Dad with the words, ‘It’s your son.’
‘What’s wrong, Dad?’ I asked.
‘We don’t know who you are anymore,’ he said. ‘We hardly ever see you. When we do, it’s just to show us your new car. Or your new wristwatch. You tell us the price of everything.’
‘What’s this all about, Dad?’ I could feel a headache coming on. ‘Just tell me what I’ve done.’
‘Your mother never asks you for anything. Not a penny. But she expects a card. That’s all. Just a plain old birthday card.’
‘It’s Mum’s birthday!’
‘It was. Yesterday!’
Greg parked the car – with a swerving flourish – outside Elm Fork.
‘You’re a brilliant driver!’ I said.
‘I know,’ he said, grinning.
He carried my suitcase into the cottage. Bert was slumped in an armchair in front of the television. He hadn’t shaved in days and was drinking a can of lager. There were several empty cans on the floor around him.
‘Dad!’ Greg said. ‘Look who’s here! Visiting us all by himself! Just like a grown-up!’
‘Oh! Hello!’ Bert held out his hand to me. ‘How are you doing?’
‘I’m doing okay.’ I shook his hand. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh . . . I’m fair to grim.’ He chuckled. ‘You boys have a good time together. Ignore me.’
I followed Greg up to his bedroom. My foldaway bed had – as usual – been set up next to Greg’s.
Greg said, ‘You see what I mean?’
‘About what?’
‘Dad “not really” being here?’
‘Oh. Yeah. Is it because of . . . your mum?’
‘Yeah. Grief. Terrible.’
‘You seem okay.’
‘I am. Sort of . . .’ He went silent for a moment. Then, ‘I’m okay now you’re here. I’m always okay when I’m with you.’
I rushed out to buy a birthday card for Mum. And get a wad of money from a cashpoint. Then I went to the Mint Leaf Lounge, a cocktail bar near Bank tube station, which I’d been a member of since it opened. Kyle, who owns the bar (and always seems to be there), knows me well.
I said, ‘Can someone order me a courier, please, Kyle. Picking up from here and going to Kenton Road, near Victoria Park. Charge it to my account.’
‘Of course.’
‘And I’ll have a Flaming Dr Pepper.’
‘I’ll send it over.’
I wrote the card and put it – and the money – in the envelope.
A waiter came over with my cocktail and told me the courier was waiting. I wrote the address on the envelope and handed it over.
‘Thank you, sir.’
I noticed a woman gazing at me from a nearby table. She was alone. She was smartly dressed and sipping a cocktail.
She smiled and raised her glass.
I smiled and raised mine.
She came over and sat at my table.
‘Was that a birthday card I saw you sending?’
‘Yes.’
‘By courier no less.’
‘Yes.’
‘Must have been someone very important.’
‘My mum. It was her birthday yesterday. I forgot.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘I know.’
‘Wouldn’t it have been nicer to take it in person?’
‘I . . . I don’t know. Would it?’
‘I think so, yes.’ She gazed at me a moment. Then, ‘I’ve seen you before.’
‘In here?’
‘Yes. And in Boots.’
‘Boots?’
‘The chemist. That’s where I work. You buy lots of deodorant.’
‘I wouldn’t say I buy “lots”. I simply buy . . . enough.’
‘Touché!’
‘The wages must be pretty good in Boots.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Membership here isn’t cheap.’
‘I saved up for it. I like sitting here. I like watching people like you. You all look so determined. So focused. That’s a lovely suit you’re wearing.’
‘Armani.’
‘I know.’
Kyle came over and nestled next to me.
‘So where have you been?’ he said. ‘Haven’t seen you here in over a week.’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘You’re always busy. You need to relax. I’ve just bought a yacht. You like yachting?’
‘I’ve never done it.’
‘Try it. I’m going to the Riviera next month. A few days there will make you feel like a new man. Think about it. We’ll have fun.’ He got up and went to greet some new arrivals.
‘He fancies you,’ the woman said.
‘Kyle fancies everyone.’
‘Do you fancy him?’
‘No! Of course I don’t. Jesus!’ I looked away. Then back at her. ‘So this is what you do, is it? Sit here all night in the hope of meeting someone, and then ask them fucking stupid questions?’
She smiled. ‘I’m Gena.’
I park outside Elm Fork. It’s much as I remembered, with a bit of revamping: new windows, new door, and there’s less clutter outside.
I get out of the car. The front door to the cottage opens and a woman is standing on the doorstep. ‘I’m Pat,’ she says.
All I can do is stare.
Apart from her hair, which is dark, everything else – from the laugh lines around the eyes to the way she’s standing – is the same as Gena. She could be her twin.
I bought Gena a Tequila Sunrise.
I had a Singapore Sling.
She said, ‘So . . . have you got a girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘How come?’
‘I’m very busy.’
‘But don’t you miss having someone to go to the cinema with? Someone to tell you how handsome you look and pick the fluff from your lapel? Someone to hang off your arm when you go to all those important, promotion-creating work functions?’
‘I haven’t missed them so far,’ I said.
‘But you know you will,’ she said.
I sipped my Singapore Sling.
Gena sipped her Tequila Sunrise.
‘How old are you?’ I asked.
‘Have a guess.’
‘Thirty.’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Not now? Or not ever?’
‘Not ever.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Not now.’
‘How come?’
‘I’m very . . . picky.’
I finished my Singapore Sling.
Gena finished her Tequila Sunrise.
‘Another cocktail?’ I asked.
‘I’ll have a Pink Lady,’ she said.
I sit in the kitchen with Pat.
She’s making a pot of tea and some toast.
‘You sure you don’t want a proper breakfast?’ she asks. ‘I’ve got bacon, sausages, eggs – ’
‘No, no, toast is fine. I’ve been eating Kentucky Fried Chicken in the car all night.’
‘All night? It doesn’t take that long to get here surely.’
‘I know but . . . after you called . . . I wanted to get out of the apartment . . . Gena – my wife – and me . . . well, we haven’t been . . . haven’t been getting on very well . . . and . . .’ I took a breath. Then, as brightly as I could, ‘Besides, I wanted to take the long scenic route here. The coast.’
‘Oh, the coast here is lovely.’
‘It is, yes.’
Everything inside the cottage is new. And it’s all been redecorated. Everything seems a lot brighter, and a lot smaller.
Pat puts the cup of tea and plate of toast in front of me, then she sits opposite.
I ask, ‘How did you meet Greg?’
‘In Ciscoe’s. It’s a restaurant in the village. I worked there. Greg came in with a few of his army friends. They weren’t in full uniform or anything but they all looked . . . oh, very military. Deliberately so. “Dressed to impress.” Isn’t that the phrase? And they did impress. Impressed me at any rate— When did you say you last saw him?’
‘Just after we left school. When we were eighteen.’
‘So you never saw him in uniform?’
‘No.’
‘Wait there.’ She goes to the living room. She returns with a framed photograph. ‘Here!’
It’s of Greg. He’s standing outside the cottage. He’s in uniform and smiling.
‘Isn’t he dashing?’ she says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
I left the Mint Leaf Lounge with Gena at midnight.
‘I want to go back with you,’ she said.
‘I’ve got an early start in the morning.’
‘So have I.’ She touched my hand. ‘I just want to see where you live. I like being with you. I want to know more about you. We’ll talk. And if you want me to go . . . I’ll go. Promise.’
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