‘How do you make sure you get enough protein?’ asked Leonard.
‘Ah, protein. I know how you meat eaters stay awake at night worrying about how much protein vegetarians get. Margaret, who works with me, lives on a diet of cigarettes, popcorn and Diet Coke, and the other week she starts giving me the whole protein speech. I just told her not to worry, that silverback gorillas are vegetarian and they get by okay. She had to do an image search to see what a silverback looked like and then she seemed to be satisfied. So, anyway, if I collapse during the date, feel free to run over to McDonald’s and get me some protein.’
She had a lovely way of laughing and speaking at the same time, just keeping it together enough until the end of the sentence when she exploded.
‘Okay, okay, fair enough. I’d love to cook you a nice vegetarian meal sometime. I often eat veggie at home,’ replied Leonard, thinking about the oven chips and ice cream in his freezer.
They ordered their food: she was having a sun-dried tomato salad and the mushroom risotto; he was having gazpacho followed by a ragout of some sort, his appetite undented by his pre-starter in McDonald’s. Shelley ordered a glass of Prosecco and drank it a little faster than she meant to, though he was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one who was a little nervous. He ordered a beer and was relieved to be spared the drama that comes with wine: the little taste to see if it’s corked and then the Man-from-Del-Monte nod when it’s not.
Shelley ordered another Prosecco and they chatted through the preliminaries about her family—two brothers and a non-identical twin sister—how he got into encyclopaedias, and about the weirdo she met on the bus on the way into town, who thought she was someone off the TV, which Leonard told her was probably meant as a compliment, though she wasn’t so sure.
After the starters arrived, Shelley decided on a little quiz.
‘So, Leonard my man. It’s about time I found out a little bit more about you. I know where you work, that your desk is pretty tidy, and that you like meat and encyclopaedias. So maybe let’s fill in a few gaps. And just so you know, this won’t be painful and it won’t be one-way. So, first things first…’
Leonard tensed up a little.
‘You’re obviously a book person, so what’s your favourite book ever?’
‘Let me think… The Chronicle of the Twentieth Century,’ he said confidently.
‘The what now?’
‘The Chronicle. Oh, basically it includes all the newspaper highlights from the twentieth century. Each month gets a page, so that’s, what, about twelve hundred pages. It’s fascinating—all contemporaneous accounts of what was going on. I used to love it as a kid and I often read it these days, whenever I’m doing a… em, whenever I am sitting down comfortably. How about you? What’s your favourite?’
‘Wait a minute, I was looking for a favourite novel or something. You know, something that tells me who you are. So pick something like that, not the phone book or whatever it was your first answer was.’
Leonard laughed. He took her businesslike approach as a good sign that she wanted to go places with this.
‘If those are the rules, I’d say probably something like Moby Dick. Yes, Moby Dick. A classic. A monster of a book, but yes, that’s the one.’
‘Isn’t that basically an encyclopaedia of whaling with a story stuck on to it?’
‘In a manner of speaking I suppose you have a point. But really, I’m not being evasive. I just like factual books. You can hardly be surprised. How about you, what’s yours?’
‘I don’t really have that much time or energy to read these days, I’m afraid. But I suppose the book that has stayed with me most over the years is The Mill on the Floss—or maybe it’s just that I’ve always felt there was a bit of Maggie Tulliver in me,’ she answered.
‘I know what you mean—I mean, not that I have Moby Dick, as a creature, within me particularly; I think he and I are very different people. I haven’t read The Mill on the Floss, I’m afraid, although I think I have a copy of it at home somewhere. I wasn’t expecting you to pick a classic actually.’
‘Why not—do I not look brainy?’
‘It’s not that, of course not. You’re just so, I don’t know, energetic. I was expecting something else, I don’t know what. Salinger or something buzzy and current, not that that’s a bad thing or anything, it’s just…’
‘I have a deep side too, you know—and I’m not scared of footnotes.’
‘I never doubted you.’
‘Okay, so what next, favourite piece of music?’ she asked.
‘Easy peasy.’
‘Go on.’
Leonard tried to think of a cool band, but went blank.
‘Am I allowed to include Greatest Hits compilations?’
She turned her eyes upwards to appeal to the god of Italian restaurant ceilings.
‘Just kidding, just kidding. For me it’s the Pie Jesu from Fauré’s Requiem. A divine piece of choral music. You’d love it if you haven’t already heard it.’
‘Oooh, choral music is so pure. I’m not religious, but I love sacred music,’ she said.
‘I’m the same with art. I don’t like Mass, but I like going into churches to look at the art in them. Much nicer than galleries. So what’s your favourite piece of music?’
‘Something less posh I’m afraid. It’s PJ Harvey’s first album. I always liked her. She’s so smart and lyrical, but still a bit raucous. Not a bad way to be,’ said Shelley, adding emphasis with her eyebrows, as she took a sip from her glass.
And so they continued like this, going back and forth with their preferences—a light-hearted bit of fun that nevertheless helped them to scout each other out. His five next answers were: All About Eve, Peru, steak, Leonard Bernstein, snakes and twelve; hers were The Goodbye Girl, Bhutan, marzipan, Shelley Duvall, moths and seven.
Over dessert, and with the alcohol starting to sink in, they waded into deeper water.
‘So how come you left art college?’ he asked.
‘The short answer is that I became pregnant with Patrick. The long answer is that I loved art college. It was really hard to get in and my teacher at secondary school was lazy and uninterested, and told me my portfolio wasn’t good enough and that they wanted to see more originality. I nearly gave up there and then, but my dad dug up a load of my work and put it together and more or less nagged me into having a go at it. Most importantly, he stayed off my case with my other homework, and in the end I managed to submit a pretty strong portfolio but wasn’t really sure what the standard was, as nobody else I knew was going for it. When I got in it was the proudest day of my life. I remember running up to the postman in the street and practically diving into his bag to look for the letter. He said it broke the rules to hand out letters on the street, but he knew there was no point trying to stop me. My folks were so excited. My dad rang the school to tell my art teacher and I think he used some pretty, you know, triumphant language.
‘My first year was great, surrounded by all these people I could relate to for the first time ever. Sparky, exciting, barking mad creative people. Full of ideas and energy. The social life was good too—lots of parties and gate-crashing and just general madness. Anyway, I started having a bit of a thing with a tutor in my fine art class. He was only a couple of years older than me—Stanley Prince was his name. He’s actually quite an established artist now. I used to call him Prince Stanley. Whenever it got to the end of a night at a party we’d seek each other out and we got together a few times and, well, I don’t know whether you did biology at school, but sometimes when a man and a woman love each other very much, blahblahblah. He sort of overreacted to the pregnancy and decided to leave his job and me and told me—from a distance mind you—that he’d help out in any way he could. You can imagine how I responded. Unsurprisingly, we have had very little contact since then. Some of my friends had a go at me because Stanley l
eft, so the whole thing became very difficult. In the end I dropped out. My dad wanted me to keep at it, but my heart was just kind of broken and I didn’t feel up to being superwoman, doing it all by myself. I ended up taking some time out when Patrick was born and only really got back to work a few years ago. Mostly admin and office stuff. At least having a son got me back into drawing. He loves drawing so we draw together—it’s our thing. He likes drawing pictures from your books actually, we both do. Some are better than others. There are a lot of angry-looking people in your books aren’t there?’
‘Ha, ha! Yes. Some of them,’ he answered. ‘I’m actually working on something a bit different at the moment. A little personal side project, although I shouldn’t jinx it by talking about it until I’ve made more progress.’
‘Ah, go on, give us the skinny.’
‘There’s nothing to tell exactly. It’s just I was stuck on this boilerplate encyclopaedia about the Romans, you know, chariots, straight roads—’
‘—noses, aqueducts, I know the type, go on,’ interjected Shelley.
‘Exactly. So I decided to try and write something more human. A real children’s encyclopaedia in that it’s all about children. So, I’m trying to write about a Roman child and what his life is like. All factually correct, but with more of a storytelling approach. Maybe give him a name, a family, toys, friends. Talk about his worries and other aspects of his life that kids nowadays might relate to. I’m not sure if it’ll work but…’
‘That’s a really special idea. You could do a whole series of them. Kids would really get into that. Oh, that’s so great. Is it going to be published?’
‘I’m not sure. You’re the only one I’ve really told about it, to be honest. I’ve been trying to do the illustrations as well, although I feel embarrassed saying that in front of you as I’ve no real training.’
‘Oh, don’t be silly. You should definitely try and do something with it. It sounds like a really original idea and I can’t think of anyone better to do a great job. Pursue your talent. Don’t end up like me, with everything sitting in a drawer.’
‘It would be great if you could get back into it. I’d love to see some of your pictures, if you felt like showing them to me,’ said Leonard, only too happy to shift to focus of the conversation away from himself—he wasn’t used to compliments.
‘Well, we’ll see,’ she said.
As he listened to her he became gradually swept into the current of her openness and enthusiasm. Their lives had been so different. He really, really liked her. Without meaning to, he blurted out a question, asking her what she saw in him?
‘I mean, I don’t want to sound like a loser, but you know what I mean. I suppose I’m asking whether you see yourself as getting involved, or whatever the word is. And if so, what about getting involved with me? Or am I just a friend or something disappointingly platonic like that?’
‘Seeing as you are straight out putting it up to me,’ she began, ‘I suppose it is kind of weird that we were working on the same floor together for months without anything happening. I pretty much overlooked you for the first good while. I sort of recognised you but just, you know, for whatever reason, looked past you, I’m not sure why. But the thing is, I have spent a lot of time on my own with Patrick, and so I read what he reads and we read together, and your books, well, they’re just not like anyone else’s. They are magical really. He really gets excited about them. Your books seem like they’re from a different era, like they’re written with the kid in mind. They’ve just got real heart. So, when I pieced together that you were writing them, and given that you’re a minor celebrity in our house—or at least Mark Baxter, BEd, is, but it’s really you—how could I not take an interest in you? And then when I got to meet you, you just seemed, I dunno, really gentle, and after all the different things I’ve done in my life, and all the people I’ve met, including some really confident guys—no offence by the way, but you know what I mean, you’re not about projecting something, you really are for real—and I suppose I realised how hard it is to find that, to find gentleness in the world. And you really are. I know it sounds like a platonic compliment, but I mean it in the most honest way I can. Does any of this make any sense to you, or am I just talking fluent Prosecco at this stage?’
He knew exactly what she was talking about.
‘I’m really glad you see it that way,’ he said.
‘So, what made you interested in me?’
He paused for a moment to put his finger on it.
‘I just think you’re breathtaking,’ he said, plainly and truly.
For whatever reason, it had been a long time since anyone had looked Shelley in the eye and called her special without any calculation or contrivance. Leonard’s sincerity, so free from art, had a perfection about it. ‘Don’t make me get teary,’ she said.
They talked and talked over the knickerbocker glories they ordered for dessert and the coffee that followed. When the time came, she made the cheque-signing motion with her hands.
‘I don’t mind paying, by the way, unless it offends you that is?’ he offered.
‘You’re okay. You’ve already had to fork out for a Happy Meal, so I couldn’t let you get this too. But I tell you what, you can cook me that veggie meal sometime if you like.’
‘Anytime. Anytime at all.’
They split the bill down the middle and overtipped, for good luck as well as out of generosity.
They walked and talked with linked arms as far as the taxi stand and then talked some more while they waited in the fresh sobering air. As Shelley got ready to get into her cab, all apologies about having to get home to her sister who was babysitting, she stood straight in front of him.
‘This is the bit where you kiss me like a gentleman, by the way,’ she said, looking up at him.
Leonard kept his promise about taking his chances.
‘Bye then,’ she said. ‘Take it easy on the protein won’t you?’
‘Good night Shelley. And thanks for a really lovely time,’ said Leonard.
She gave smiling waves out of the taxi, holding up the plastic Disney fish she had forgotten she had. Leonard waved back and watched the cab disappear down the street and round the roundabout by the Natural History Museum. Happy to prolong his mood, he decided to walk home on that cloudless night, with a light heart and nothing above him but the universe.
Chapter 15: Travel plans
It is hard to appreciate now, but there was once a time before mobile phones and text messages when people communicated with each other by sticking notes to refrigerators using magnets. It got to be so commonplace that it became the secondary purpose of fridges themselves. Families would leave dinner instructions, teenagers would explain their whereabouts, and unhappy wives would initiate divorces, all using short Hemingway-esque messages affixed at eye level using coloured magnetic letters. In fact there was widespread panic in the refrigeration industry when text messages became popular. And then, when free texts became available, the National Association of Subzero Appliances (the other NASA, as they called themselves) brought a case to the Supreme Court, citing an infringement of their right to earn a livelihood.
It was by this vestigial medium that Helen had learned that Hungry Paul had got up early that Saturday morning to make his own way to the hospital to visit Mrs Hawthorn. It is the nature of the medium that there is little space for explaining motives, but Helen surmised that Hungry Paul had woken up early with anxiety about the Chamber of Commerce prize-giving that day, and wanted to find something to do to take his mind off things. As Helen had often observed, there is no better cure for one’s own worries than to help someone else with theirs.
Helen picked the note off the fridge and folded it into quarters, turning it over in her mind at the same time. It had often been the case that whenever Hungry Paul showed initiative in this way she reined in her natural inclination towards enco
uragement, experience having told her that such sorties were usually undertaken with maladroit enthusiasm and mixed results. To his credit, Hungry Paul had overcome his wavering commitment and social awkwardness to stick with volunteering at the hospital. He and Mrs Hawthorn seemed to share a kindred peace, sitting together quietly holding hands like Larkin’s Arundel tomb. Surprisingly, he had even found a groove with Barbara and all her garrulous energy, which verged on brassiness, and which would ordinarily make Hungry Paul ill at ease. Helen put it down to the fact that he was about the same age as her own grown-up absent children, and sometimes that can be enough to create a familiar set-up on which to base a pleasant half hour. Barbara, to her credit, had quickly figured out that Hungry Paul was happier when conversation was incidental to an absorbing activity like draughts or Travel Scrabble, free from eye contact and leading questions.
Helen had expected that she would need to harry Hungry Paul to keep him involved at the hospital, though she had no greater plan in mind than to get him out of the house to make himself useful. The fact that he had gone visiting of his own volition should have been a signal that the vessel had been launched and was now capable of continuing under its own power. But Helen had developed a habitual resignation to the fact that Hungry Paul would forever fall short of full independence. He might get tantalisingly close at times, which would give her cause for hope—a new hobby, murmurings about a full-time job, passing references to apartments available to let—but, like so many people, the ability to discuss his ambitions seemed to satisfy his need to pursue them. Ideas led to well-meaning effort, led to messy disappointment, led to retreat and an affirmation that maybe a change was not needed after all. It was a cycle that seemed to be renewed and repeated under its own momentum. Meanwhile, Helen and Peter were getting older. The house was no longer mortgaged and was too big for them as a couple. Nothing looks as much like old age as dead space that has been dusted and vacuumed meticulously. Helen and Peter had friends who had deferred their plans only to find themselves in ill-health or widowhood; others kept on working because they needed the money or couldn’t face the anonymity and loss of status that comes with retirement. She and Peter, on the other hand, had always wanted to recreate the relationship they had had before they became parents. After years of struggling with money and worry, they had fantasised about getting their lives back when they retired, a carefree window of however many years before the inevitable worst happened.
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