‘John, this young lady is one of Ben’s students, come to see us. Rita, this is my husband John.’
‘He never taught me,’ she said, as if this detail were more important than all the others she would not tell them. ‘I was one of his personal tutees.’
They both looked on at her.
‘I came to return this.’ She plunged her hand into her bag and brought out the slim novel again, then held it out to them with both hands.
Neither made a move to retrieve it.
‘He lent it to me . . .’
‘I remember.’ His father spoke. ‘He mentioned giving someone a lift, lending them the book.’ Then he shook his head. ‘There’s no need to return it,’ he said. ‘Keep it.’
They were still for some moments, then his mother spoke, ‘Sit down please, Rita. Have some tea.’
His father sat back in his chair at the desk, and she sat on a small armchair, his mother opposite. A writer’s shed: books in piles, a surprisingly modern laptop, a beautiful old schoolteacher’s desk. His mother poured tea, added milk, passed a cup to Rita. Then paused, her hands folded, the bandaged one below, and said, ‘I do appreciate you making an effort to come all this way . . .’
‘I don’t live far. My parents live in Tooting.’
‘Even so . . .’
They were quiet, each sipping their tea: so quiet she almost started giggling with nervousness at an image that arrived of the three bears.
‘And what are you studying, Rita?’ This from his father.
She set her teacup down.
‘Anthropology.’
‘Interesting.’
She could have nodded, said nothing in return: that was her habit. But she had placed herself in this little shed, and she owed his parents something, didn’t she?
‘My parents have a different opinion,’ she smiled.
They fell on her words with eagerness; she understood that they needed her to talk, spend time, so that they could soak up this reminder of their son.
‘I should have been a doctor or a lawyer or an accountant,’ she continued, ‘like my brother.’
‘Good careers,’ his father said. ‘But we can’t have everyone being a doctor . . .’
‘I read somewhere,’ his mother interrupted, ‘that a degree in anthropology sets one up for a host of career paths . . .’
‘Well, what we learn from studying others,’ his father continued, ‘is that there is by no means only one way of building society or indeed sustaining society. But also that we have so much in common with each other . . .’
The conversation flowed. From her studies, they moved on to living up north, and then on again. Louise’s father had been born in Lahore. Was Rita . . . ? Yes, she complied. She was four when she came to England. Yes, she visited quite frequently as a child, and she had last gone back in the summer. No, she didn’t really speak the language, but she could understand it well enough.
‘Do you remember, John,’ his mother was saying, ‘how my father would talk about India, even though he was only eight years old when he left? It never left him, his memories of the climate and the food. He talked so fondly of the house and his ayah,’ she looked at Rita apologetically. ‘They all had one in those days. I’m afraid it was all very colonial . . .’
‘Did he ever go back?’ she asked.
His mother shook her head. ‘No, he didn’t. And I’ve never been myself. But I can honestly say that my father never felt at home here in England. When he was older, he went to Rhodesia; he was in the police, and I grew up there. There’s no one left in India. I mean,’ she coloured slightly, ‘none of my family.’
They fell silent, and then she turned to his father. ‘I enjoyed your book very much.’
He raised his eyebrows, gave a little shrug, but she could see he was pleased.
‘You must be one of the few people to have read it in the last thirty years,’ he smiled.
‘Are you working on something now?’
He shook his head. ‘Just essays and articles mostly. I get too distracted by the cricket these days.’
His father folded his arms, and his mother laid her bandaged hand on the armrest of her chair. An attractive older couple. How had he described them? A couple of old hippies. They were attentive but not curious or prying. They were both warm, cultured and interesting people: fitting parents to have produced their son. They did not know how she had loved him, and she was unsure whether that knowledge would have consoled or appalled them. She got up to leave, started collecting the tea things on the tray.
‘Well, thank you for having me . . .’
‘It’s been a pleasure,’ his mother said. Then, ‘John we must order a taxi for Rita. It’s so dark now.’
‘There’s no need . . .’
‘Nonsense. We have an account with a local chap. Just give me your address . . .’
They ignored her protests, accompanied her back into the house, then to the door. When the taxi pulled up, she turned to say her goodbyes, and to her surprise his mother clasped her in an embrace. ‘It’s so kind of you to pay us a visit,’ she said. ‘We didn’t talk about Ben, but I feel that he’s been with us.’
She could not reply, but turned to his father, who leaned down and kissed her cheek. ‘Thank you, Rita.’
From inside the cab, she waved goodbye. His parents stood together, silhouetted against the light from the hall.
She slept fitfully, the voice of Seline mixing with the voice of Ben Martin: don’t be too serious, Rita. Instead collect adultery, deception; preserve them and nurture them, put them in that box under the bed you are sleeping on, a box of mementos. She had simply wanted to return the novel, hadn’t she? Or was she aware then that she was making her presence known? That a few days later, more confirmation of what had happened would arrive: a brother would appear and remind her that yes, she was that girl.
14
THE old tube ticket, his name and phone number scrawled across it, stayed with her for some days. He had left her on the corner of her street, as she had asked him to do, but with a heavy reluctance: she could see he did not believe that she would call. Why did he want to see her? He did not appear the type to jeer at salacious details, and she knew she did not appear the sort to offer any. He was, simply, grieving his brother. She remembered his paintings: he was the creator. He had said, later in that interview she had read: How often do you see African subjects in a painting in the Louvre? I want to turn things on their head a bit. Show African themes through a Western prism. The story of my life, really. She could not be as eloquent as he. After going to see his parents and enjoying their erudite but unassuming company, she had been doubly unable to speak to hers. They remained unaware of her circumstances, oblivious of her whereabouts the last few months.
When she called him, the gratitude in his voice was palpable. She had a few commitments with her parents, she explained, but would he like to meet just after the New Year? Yes, he agreed, perfect. He named a café, and before ringing off he thanked her. She had used her phone: he would have her number now. Slowly, slowly, she was revealing herself, as if she were a photograph being developed in a dark room. Her mother, after commenting on him when she had returned home that afternoon – such a nice man, I’m pleased to have met one of your professors – had not mentioned him again. Hopefully his visit would be forgotten in the bustle of the upcoming events: a gathering of the community, New Year’s Eve at Latha’s sister’s pile in Croydon.
And then, on a bright, cold day, she arrived at the café he had suggested. He was not there; she ordered a drink and sat down. It was nearly a quarter of an hour later when she saw him, striding towards the building, his eyes searching for and then alighting on her in the window. She thought: it could be him. The same dark hair, the same build.
‘Rita, I’m so sorry, please forgive me.’ It was his accent which distinguished him from his brother: the skewed vowels that he shared with his parents, the heavier intonation. ‘I got off at the wrong bus stop. Wha
t can I get you?’ His eyes settled on her half-finished cup with disappointment.
‘I’m all right, thanks.’
‘Are you sure? A croissant or something?’
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, and so he pounced. ‘I’ll get a couple. And is that tea? I’ll get you another. Won’t be long.’
As he queued up at the counter, he did not turn around once. It was as if he were afraid that if he did he would invoke an unlucky charm and she would disappear. The barista took a disproportionate amount of time to organise the simple order on a tray, long enough for her to become nervous of how their conversation would develop. By the time he arrived at their table, she had contemplated several times slipping out quietly.
‘Sorry for the wait,’ he said, unpacking the cups, saucers, knives, little pots of jam and butter as if the agreement to meet with him merited nourishment. He didn’t speak, waited for her to pour milk into her tea, split open the croissant, but the silence was not uncomfortable. At one point, he reached over when she was struggling with the small pot of jam, opened it and handed it back to her.
Then he smiled.
‘I’m so glad you called,’ he said.
She decided to share what had swilled around her mind over the last few days.
‘I thought about what you said. How you found that photo of me. It must have been . . .’ she hesitated, ‘weird for you.’
He half-shrugged, then, after a few moments, he said quietly, ‘I didn’t find anything else related to you.’
No notes, no diary entries, no poems which needed finessing. She had left no trace, and the only evidence that she had been there, that the whole affair had actually happened, was a photograph.
‘Where did you find it?’
He shifted in his seat. ‘On his camera.’ Then, ‘When we were clearing out the flat.’
He did not elaborate, and so she asked, ‘We?’
‘Clare’s sister,’ he said. ‘Clare’s sister and I were clearing out the flat.’
‘And,’ she spoke slowly, ‘did you show her the photo?’
He shook his head. ‘No. I took the camera away with me.’
‘And you didn’t tell your parents?’
He shook his head again, cleared his throat.
‘They were very touched that you went to see them.’
‘I’m not sure why I did . . .’
‘But I’m glad you did,’ he interrupted. ‘Otherwise I may never have found you.’
‘But why did you want to find me?’
He was quiet for a long time. She took a sip from her cup, noticed that her hand was trembling.
Finally, he spoke: ‘You meant something to Ben. He wasn’t the sort to do things lightly.’
She felt her eyes fill with tears, and his face fell.
‘This must be very hard for you,’ he said.
She blew her nose. ‘It must be hard for you as well,’ she said eventually.
She looked out the window, could feel his eyes on her. What was he thinking as he looked at her? So this is the girl! He would have found that photograph months ago. That was a long time to be aware of the existence of a person but have no knowledge of where they were or who they were.
‘You said,’ he spoke, ‘that you haven’t been back to university. Would you tell me about that?’
She hesitated, found her throat constricting. ‘I can’t go back.’
A gentle probe: ‘Why not?’
‘Well,’ she felt as if her tongue was loosening, ‘I’m worried people will find out about me and Ben,’ she took a breath, ‘and what they’ll think of me. And whether I’ll get in trouble. And there are just too many places where I know I’ll be thinking, that’s where he was standing or that’s where we . . .’ Her voice petered out.
‘But your degree,’ he said. ‘What I mean is, if you don’t want to go back, which is understandable,’ he added quickly, ‘maybe you should try to transfer to another university.’
It was not something she had considered. She sipped her tea without saying anything.
‘What was . . .’ He stopped and started again. ‘Did Ben teach you? Is that how you met?’
She shook her head. ‘I never took his classes. He only taught second years and above. He was my personal tutor. I had these meetings with him about general stuff.’
She could feel the colour rising to her cheeks. From that description it was hard, even for her, to imagine how a liaison could have emerged. He nodded, did not press her, and she looked out of the window again and then back at him.
‘Ben’s wife,’ she said. ‘Clare. How are her family?’
He laid his spoon down. ‘Well, it was a shock.’ Then, ‘You have a brother, don’t you? And a niece? She’s adorable.’
She smiled. ‘Yes, she is.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Three.’
He folded his hands together. He had the same nice long fingers, neat nails. Had she not read somewhere that twins separated at birth often pursued the same hobbies, wore the same hairstyle? Perhaps it was the same for two brothers, separated in late adolescence: they adopted the same grooming habits. A wave of lethargy washed over her. There was no reason for this conversation, was there? Perhaps it was his artist’s mind: the need to shade in the backdrop, add light and dark, shorten or lengthen shadows and shapes.
‘I never found out,’ she needed to ask, ‘about the funeral.’
He waited for some time before he said, ‘There was a joint funeral. Near Brighton.’
In death they had rediscovered each other. An image flashed before her, coruscating, of the two of them, lying under metres of soil, their skin brilliantly white, bloodless, mud in their mouths. Turned to each other, their fingers entwined – and she felt the nausea rise in her throat. We’ve known each other a long time. Friends, lovers, spouses, now death-mates.
She pushed her plate away and slipped her arms into her jacket. ‘Well, thank you.’
‘Please don’t go yet . . .’
He looked crestfallen, as if he had imagined that they would spend hours, the whole afternoon together, in facile, unfettered conversation. Could he not see?
‘What can I tell you?’ she asked. ‘I have nothing to offer you except for details of our affair. Is that what you want?’
The words sounded grandiose, incongruous in the setting.
‘Of course not—’
‘Well, then what else can we talk about? It lasted a few weeks, no more. I can count on my hands the times we spent together.’
Her voice had risen, and the couple at the table next to them with their toddler were noticeably quiet. She left the café, and only when she reached the lights to cross over the road did she notice that he was standing next to her and, further, that she was unsurprised that he was.
‘You don’t have to tell me what happened,’ he said. ‘It’s not about that.’
The light turned green, but she didn’t cross the road.
‘I just hope to . . . I don’t know . . .’ He had pushed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and was standing humbly before her, his hair falling onto his forehead, looking much younger than he would be, as if he was stumbling over asking her for a date. ‘Spend a bit of time with you, before I go back.’
She remained silent.
‘I live in Portugal, you see.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I looked you up.’
He was quiet for some time, as if processing what this said about her.
Then he said, ‘I mean, is there anything I can do? Do you want me to go back with you? We could find out about re-registering . . .’
She shook her head. ‘I can’t go back.’
She should have turned to leave then, but she stared at her feet. He seemed content to stand with her, for many minutes, not speaking.
‘I still haven’t told my parents that I didn’t go back,’ she said finally.
When she did not continue, he asked, ‘So where did you go, I mean, after the acc
ident?’
He seemed concerned about her welfare, but then, hadn’t Ben? Before he left her with the immense, unseeable, unwieldy, indescribable black stone that had lodged itself in her chest.
‘I stayed with a friend, but I can’t do that again.’ She turned to face him fully. ‘I’ll have to tell my parents. And I’ll be all right.’
She held out her hand. ‘It was nice meeting you.’
He took her hand, but he didn’t let it go. He was half-smiling, shaking his head. ‘I can’t end it like this,’ he said, his voice apologetic. ‘I’m afraid I just can’t say goodbye when I don’t know what you’re going to do.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ she repeated. ‘Thanks for your concern.’
His eyes were fixed on hers for a long time, as if willing her to say something, but she remained silent. Then he let her hand drop, without taking his eyes away from hers. ‘If you think of anything, and I mean anything,’ he said, ‘that I can help you with, will you,’ now his voice was almost pleading, ‘will you please call me?’
She nodded, smiled briefly and then skipped across the road. She did not turn back; she had no idea how long he stood on the pavement. It was later that night, in her bed, her mind a tumult, that she realised that there was something that she wanted. It was late, but she called him and he was not miffed, rather unambiguously relieved. He was so pleased she had asked. Of course he would; he completely understood. And it might be a good idea. It would let her have some kind of resolution to a very difficult few months. They could take the train down to Brighton later the next morning and visit the cemetery. She would be able to say her goodbyes.
She had only visited the graves of her grandparents, in verdant, mossy graveyards in Kerala. Each grandparent had a large headstone, a fat slab of concrete, an epitaph in flowery language. This cemetery felt bleak. Two small stones, each with the same brief message: In loving memory. The same year of birth, the same death day. They were so low, so close to the ground, that she bent down so she would not be towering above them, mocking them with her erect, alive body. She felt a sadness engulf her, not just for Ben but for this couple interred in front of her, for she could see there was a forgiveness, both now lying side by side. She tried to pray but could only snatch at generic, well-memorised venerations. She tried to speak to him but only got as far as, Ben, I just want to say . . . For what did she want to tell him? That she understood now that he had never been hers alone? She found herself projecting his image – looking down at her smiling – onto the small stone bearing his name; Clare’s stone remained blank. And then she closed her eyes, shook the memories away. It was inappropriate to remember their intimacies when his wife lay beside him. She emptied her mind so that all she did, for an endless, silent tranche of time, was stay still before them, welcoming the chill on her skin, the freshness of the air. When she rose to her feet and turned away, some words finally arrived: I’m sorry.
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