It Had to Be You

by David Nobbs

  ‘Everything’s changed. I want to marry you and live the rest of my life with you and soon I’ll be able to. We just have to be patient.’

  ‘I know. I know you’re right. I know how dreadfully difficult this is for you. I really do, darling. It’s just that I’ve been patient for so long. And now …’

  ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow, over tea.’

  ‘Yes. We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’

  From her repetition of his words he sensed how vulnerable she felt.

  ‘Bye, James.’

  From the abrupt way she rang off he knew that she had been about to cry.

  He couldn’t cry. He just felt … flat. Flat, in his situation? He shook his head in disbelief at himself.

  His first phone call, and already he was exhausted.

  He opened the window of the spare bedroom, for fear that Philip would detect a faint odour of semen. In came the smell of heat, grass and petrol.

  He took another shower, then went back into the master bedroom, tried not to look at the smiling photo of Deborah on the dressing table, kissed the photo of a fourteen-year-old Charlotte, and dressed.

  He made himself his usual breakfast: two slices of toast which he cut into halves and covered with spreadable butter on its own, or marmalade, or honey, in a different order every day, lest he should feel that he was becoming a creature of habit. The order this morning was marmalade (Seville orange), butter, honey, and marmalade again (three-fruit).

  At ten past nine – give her time in case she was a few minutes late and punctuality wasn’t one of her virtues, but come to think of it, what were her virtues? – he phoned Marcia.

  ‘It’s me. Marcia, I’m not coming in today.’

  ‘Crikey. Are you ill?’

  ‘No. Marcia, you remember that police message.’

  ‘I remember. The one I almost forgot and then remembered.’

  A feeling of dread shuddered through his body, dread of all the sympathy he was going to get, from Marcia, from everyone at Globpack UK, from his friends, from his fitness trainer, from his acupuncturist. Sympathy and pity.

  ‘It was to tell me … Deborah’s been killed.’

  ‘What??? Oh no!! James! Oh, James!! Oh, that’s … awful!! That’s … terrible!!!’

  There were a lot of exclamation marks in Marcia’s young life.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Car crash. Head on.’

  ‘Oh, well, I suppose … Oh, God, though.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Through it all he went. How many times was he going to have to go through all this today?

  ‘Oh, James, I am so very, very sorry. Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘Well, tell everybody who needs to know.’

  ‘I sort of meant … is there anything personal? I mean … this evening, for instance. I don’t like to think of you all alone.’

  ‘That’s very sweet of you, Marcia.’ Oh, give me strength. ‘But my brother’s going to be here.’ Philip would have long gone, no doubt, but there was no need to add that.

  ‘The concert pianist?’

  ‘The other one.’

  ‘Well, that’s all right, then. I … p’r’aps I shouldn’t say this but I … you’re more than a boss to me, Mr Hollinghurst, and I …’

  Oh, no. Oh, suffering serpents and suppurating sores, this was terrible. Interrupt, quickly. No time to lose.

  ‘Thank you, Marcia. That’s very sweet of you.’

  Thank God, the doorbell. His sweet sweet friend the doorbell.

  ‘Philip’s here. I’ve got to go.’

  A gust of brotherly love disturbed the still, windless morning. ‘The other one.’ Poor Philip, clever scientist, esteemed statistician, conducting vital research into climate change, a nobody in celebrity Britain.

  They hugged. James always hugged Charles, you had to, Charles was a hugger, but he didn’t remember Philip ever hugging him before.

  James and Charles had broad, almost round faces from their mother. Philip had his father’s long, narrow, slightly beaky face. It was a face that suggested that he might also have his father’s caustic tongue. It was not a relaxing face. But Philip was kind and much more easy-going than he looked. James felt so very pleased that he was there. Philip met his eyes, shook his head as if to rid himself of the bad news, and looked away.

  ‘The accident’s made the nationals,’ he said, and he handed James a paper. ‘Page seven.’

  ‘Tragic death of joy-ride war hero,’ read James. What?

  ‘Craig Wilson came back to England from Afghanistan just three days ago, delighted to be alive after seeing two of his friends killed in Helmand Province.’ Oh, no. ‘Now he too is dead, killed in a head-on car crash in a borrowed Porsche on the A143 near Diss.

  ‘The driver of the other car, a 46-year-old woman, also died.

  ‘“I feel so guilty,” said Craig’s best friend, local skip magnate Ben Postgate (30) yesterday. “There hasn’t been much joy in his life recently, and I lent him my Porsche for a joy ride. He was all properly insured and stuff, and he was a very good driver, but I think the fun of it, after what he’d been through, must have gone to his head. I keep saying to myself, “Oh, if only I hadn’t.”

  ‘“Craig was a brave committed soldier and a thoroughly nice lad who had a great life in front of him,” commented his commanding officer, Colonel Brian McIntyre. “We’re all devastated.”’

  James shared a grimace with Philip.

  ‘I know,’ said Philip. ‘All Deborah’s vitality, her beauty, her kindness, her energy, all described as “the driver of the other car”.’ He wasn’t aware that he was sometimes called ‘the other brother’. ‘Upstaged in death. Mind you, she had no shred of pomposity or self-importance. She wouldn’t have minded.’

  ‘No. A fitting obituary, then, perhaps.’

  James didn’t tell Philip why he had been grimacing. He had lost his villain. He no longer had anybody to blame.

  He gave Philip a list of tasks. Look on the web for information about funeral directors in Islington and how much they cost. Look for any comment pages, if there were such things. First-rate service. Will definitely use them next time. Snotty-nosed, supercilious and extortionate. Wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole. Find a vicar. How did you do that? Look up ‘Vicars’ in Yellow Pages? Use the web again. Vicars, Islington, search. Try to begin to fix the date of the funeral. Try to avoid Tuesday and Wednesday, Charles wouldn’t be able to make it. Make morning coffee. Make lunch. Answer phone and door as required.

  ‘I so appreciate this, Philip.’

  ‘No probs.’

  He left Philip indoors with the land line, got his mobile, went out into the garden, sat on the white William Morris chair Deborah had picked up in a little shop in Winchcombe, placed his address book and a glass of chilled water on the cast-iron table she had spotted in Much Wenlock, wondered briefly if there was one single thing in the whole house and garden, except stains, for which he was responsible.

  He looked round the garden, delaying the moment when he would have to begin. It was broken up into little gravelled areas and small, irregular flower beds, which cleverly hid its narrowness and its uninspiring rectangular shape. There were cyclamens and lilies and attractive green ferns whose names he couldn’t remember. The smell from the pots of lavender brought back memories of lunches taken outdoors in weather such as this. The passiflora growing up the back wall was in full flower. Giant grasses were used as windbreaks. And all this, the ingenuity, the elegance, the restraint, had all been created by Deborah.

  He sat in the middle of this living memorial to her artistry, and he felt awkward and ashamed. He sensed that he was about to miss her deeply, and so, in the end, he picked up the telephone almost eagerly.

  And began.

  ‘All right, all right, I’m coming as fast as I can.’

  Stanley Hollinghurst, James’s uncle, his father’s brother, talked to himself quite a lot now. He didn’t care. Charles had once pointed it out, and that
evening he had caught himself saying, ‘So, you’re talking to yourself, are you? Well, Charles, you’re wrong. It isn’t the first sign of madness. It’s the first sign that there are sod all other people to talk to. It’s all right for you, you’re surrounded by people, you complacent young fool, but I talk to myself because it’s someone to listen to, all right?’ And then the humour of his talking to himself about his habit of talking to himself had struck him, and he’d laughed till his teeth came out.

  ‘Don’t ring off. I’m on my way.’

  He didn’t have an answer machine. He was a Luddite. Well, he was an anthropologist. The past was his business. Or had been. All that was in the past now. Ha ha! Ironic!

  He got to the phone while it was still ringing. Must be somebody he knew, making allowances.

  ‘Stanley Hollinghurst, OBE.’

  ‘Stanley! You haven’t got an OBE.’

  ‘No, but very few people round here know that. How are you, James?’

  ‘Fine. Stanley, I—’

  ‘How are Charles and Philip?’

  ‘Fine. Charles is on a concert tour and Philip’s here.’

  ‘Is he? Well, tell him not to worry about all that global warming stuff. I think it’s great.’

  ‘Stanley, I’ve got—’

  ‘Human race deserves it. Can’t hurt me. I’ll be gone.’

  ‘Stanley, I’ve got some—’

  ‘Spaniards sizzling. French frying. What’s the problem?’

  ‘Stanley, I’ve got some bad—’

  ‘Brighton under six feet of water. All those homos and lesbians shitting themselves.’

  ‘Stanley! That’s terrible.’

  ‘I know. I do so enjoy saying things like that, though. People are so bloody self-righteous, James.’

  ‘Stanley, has it occurred to you that I might have rung you because I have something to tell you?’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Sorry. Like the sound of my voice. You will when you live alone.’

  ‘Stanley, I do live alone.’

  ‘What? What are you on about?’

  ‘Stanley, Deborah’s dead.’

  Stanley remained silent throughout the whole sad story, and when James had finished, he said, in the soft, sincere, real voice he hadn’t used since Mollie died thirty-three years ago, ‘James, I’m so sorry. I really am. Deborah, of all people. She was the best of the whole bunch, James.’

  Mike next. No, difficult. Gordon Tollington first. Easier. Gordon and he went right back to the Dorking days. He was the only man who liked food even more than James did. Fifty-three years old, sold out for millions. Rich, idle and fat. Good company, though. Haven’t seen them for far too long.

  Gordon Tollington listened in almost total silence, only interrupting, as it seemed most people did, to say, ‘Diss?’, as if Diss was just outside Timbuktu. When he rang off, Gordon’s face was grim.

  He went out into the spacious garden, with its long sloping lawns.

  Stephanie was sliding broad beans out of their pods in the shade.

  He slumped down beside her and told her the bad news. They sat in silent shock.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘I know. It’s just sunk in, hasn’t it? It’s so awful.’

  ‘Not that. Well, that too, of course. But … I bet the funeral will be next Wednesday. It’ll take that long to organise.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘That’s the day we’re going to the Fat Duck.’

  ‘For shame, Gordon. Is a meal more important than Deborah’s death?’

  ‘It isn’t a meal. It’s the meal. We booked months ago.’

  ‘Gordon, I don’t believe what I’m hearing.’

  ‘I know, but … I loved Deborah, Steph … loved her, wonderful woman, I’m very sad. But we can’t bring her back, and you have to book months in advance.’

  ‘I think we have to go.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know that it’s that cut and dried. I think they’ll be used to people cancelling. They’ll have a cancellation list.’

  ‘I meant, “We have to go to the funeral…”’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course we do. No, I really want to. Of course I do. What do you think I am?’

  ‘It may not be next Wednesday.’

  ‘It will be. Death is never convenient. Do you know, I think I’m fated to die without ever having tasted snail porridge.’

  Edward and Jane Winterburn. He’d been quite close to them once. Well, very close to Jane, for a while. Well, she’d been his very first proper girlfriend. She had legs that went on for ever. He’d thought he loved her. He’d thought she loved him. Definitely wrong on the second count, she went off with Ed the day after James had taken her to his college’s May Ball. Probably wrong on the first count too, because he got over it pretty quickly. They had stayed friends at first. Then Ed did something he really didn’t approve of. Twice, to his knowledge. Went bankrupt, opened up under a new name, owing vast sums that nobody would ever receive. Mocked James for his disapproval, called him naive and stuffy and unrealistically idealistic. After that it had been Christmas cards only. But they had both liked Deborah. Yes, he decided that he’d let them know.

  Jane answered. He was pleased about that.

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid, Jane.’

  ‘Yes. How did you know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Has it been on the news?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Ed.’

  ‘Ed?’

  ‘His disappearance. Isn’t that what you’re ringing about?’

  ‘Ed’s disappeared?’

  ‘Yes. Into thin air. I haven’t seen him since Tuesday.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’

  ‘He went off to a party in some pub somewhere, round Chelsea, well, it was Roger Dodds’s actually, you remember him? I didn’t go. He never came back, hasn’t been seen since.’

  ‘Good God.’

  ‘I thought that’s what you were ringing about.’

  ‘No. I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Thanks. So what are you ringing up about, James?’

  ‘Um … I’ve got some news too.’

  ‘Well, I hope yours is a bit more cheerful. I need cheering up.’

  ‘A light went out of the world yesterday morning, James.’

  Yes, yes, Tom, but don’t overdo it.

  He had been surprised to find Tom at home, but Tom had explained that he worked from home two days a week now. All right for some.

  ‘James, I think I’m probably your oldest friend.’

  ‘Undoubtedly. I don’t have any other friends from that dreadful prep school.’

  ‘So please, please, feel you can rely on Jen and me for support twenty-four seven.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Um … about the funeral. About the date. Is it decided?’

  ‘Not yet. These things are complicated.’

  ‘The fact is …’

  ‘I can only just hear you, Tom.’

  ‘I don’t want Jen to hear. She’d be livid if she knew I was asking this. Livid.’

  ‘What are you asking, Tom?’

  ‘The fact is … I have two tickets for the Centre Court at Wimbledon for next Thursday. I mean, don’t get me wrong, James, that isn’t important, isn’t remotely important, compared to … your tragedy. However … James, I’ve never told another human being this, except the doctors, but I have … um … a bit of a problem. I … not to put too fine a point on it … I suffer from premature … um …’

  James knew he shouldn’t interrupt but really there had been no scope for fun all morning.

  ‘Ejaculation?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Baldness?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, but … um … that’s not the … and that annoys Jen, actually. The way baldness is said to be a sign of … um … virility in male mythology. Nonsense, of course.’

  James ran his fingers through his thick, riotous hair.

  ‘Absolute nonsense, Tom.
’

  ‘Everybody comments on my baldness. “Jen’s a lucky woman.” “Jen’s obviously getting plenty.” People can be surprisingly coarse in Godalming.’

  ‘So what you suffer from is …’

  ‘Yes. Impotence at an unusually young age. I mean, I was never a several-times-a-night man, if you know what I mean.’

  Too much information, Tom.

  ‘Not by a long chalk. I mean, Jen’s very sympathetic. She’s behind me all the way. As it were. Anyway, the point is …’

  Ah! At last.

  ‘… The point is, I’ve tried for Centre Court tickets for eighteen years at the tennis club draw. Never got them. Every year Margaret Insole gets two, and she prefers golf. Goes, though, and don’t we hear about it? Every sodding serve. Over these last few years as my … my problem … has got worse, the tickets have become a kind of symbol of my impotence, my general uselessness, James. And this year, bingo, two tickets, ladies’ semi-final day. I’d rather a men’s day, I find women’s tennis boring, but Jen doesn’t, of course, and that’s what it’s all about. So, all I’m saying is, if there is any scope for choice, I’d be enormously grateful if you could avoid today week.’

  ‘I’ll do my best, Tom.’

  Oh, give me strength, he thought. And he couldn’t continue delaying the call to Mike.

  Mike was feeling quite depressed and wondered whether to answer the phone. Just before it went onto the answer machine, he found himself picking it up.

  ‘Mike, it’s James.’

  The contradictory feelings surged. Well, they would have done if he’d had enough energy for surging.

  Affection. Only James of the old mob kept in touch. Only James ever took him out and bought him food and drink. The others had smelt his failure, called him less and less often, eventually dropped out of his orbit altogether. His orbit! He didn’t have a house any more. He didn’t have a wife any more. He didn’t have an orbit any more.

  Irritation. James never invited him to his home any more, never invited him to meet any of his friends, never wanted to spend more than two minutes in his horrid little pad, always took him to a pub or restaurant. So kind. So demeaning.