The Bottle of Tears

by Nick Alexander

  Martin nods. ‘Sounds OK to me,’ he says. ‘But like I say . . .’

  ‘Just let me know what she says,’ Penny tells him. ‘Either way, it’s fine.’

  ‘You’re not coming back now, then?’ Martin asks, checking his watch. ‘I would think she’ll be home soon.’

  ‘No, I’ll just head back, I think. I have to take the keys back to the warden and pay for the cleaning and stuff. And I have to drop these clothes off at Oxfam or somewhere . . .’ She glances nervously at the bin bags in the car. ‘And then home, I reckon. It’s not like Vicky seems keen to see me at the moment or anything, so . . .’

  Martin nods. ‘Try not to take that too personally,’ he says. ‘Like I said before, she’s in a strange place right now.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Penny says, brushing a visualisation of the angst her relationship with her sister generates to one side with her hand. ‘Actually, it’s not fine at all,’ she continues. ‘I’m furious with her about not helping with the funeral, and I’m even more furious about her not turning up today. But you being here has atoned for her sins, so I’m going to try to get over myself. But it really is best if I don’t come back now. I think I’d kill her.’

  ‘Right,’ Martin says. ‘Um, I was thinking . . . why don’t you dump those bags in my car and I’ll take them to Oxfam. I can just see you driving around with those in the back for years.’

  Penny laughs. ‘You are so right about that,’ she says. ‘How did you know?’

  Martin shrugs. ‘Intuition?’ he says. ‘Go and take the keys back and do what you have to do. I’ll shift these bags to mine.’

  As Penny drives home with the sun in her eyes, she starts to feel lighter, actually physically lighter, as if a non-metaphorical weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She hadn’t realised how much she had been dreading dealing with this. She hadn’t understood how much the frozen stasis of her mother’s apartment had been weighing on her.

  An old Bill Withers song comes on the radio, a song she likes, and as she drives back towards their seaside haven, she first taps her fingers, and then, after a moment, even joins in a little. ‘Lovely day, lovely day, lovely day . . .’ she sings. It’s the first time she has felt sane in weeks.

  She starts, too, to allow happy memories of her mother to surface. She remembers the time Marge tried to teach her to knit. It was supposed to be a money-saving gesture. It was meant to calm her pregnant nerves, too. But she had given up after less than ten rows. She had handed the mess back to her mother to sort out. She remembers Marge helping her paint Chloe’s room, too. She thinks back to a day on the pier when her mother’s hat had blown into the sea. She’d had too much to drink that lunchtime and had danced a little as they walked home. Yes, despite Victoria’s current downer on her, there had been good times, too. There had been happiness. There had been love.

  As she leaves the M2, the music is interrupted by a phone call from Sander. She has never quite got used to the hands-free-phone thingy and is always a little surprised when she manages to make it work. ‘Hello?’ she says, tentatively pressing buttons on the steering wheel.

  Sander’s voice springs from the speakers. He tells her that he’s in Canterbury at an art supplies shop. He asks her, then begs her, to join him there.

  ‘Can’t it wait till the money comes through?’ Penny asks him, restraining herself from pointing out that, seeing as he hasn’t painted anything of note for fifteen years, another few days won’t hurt.

  ‘But it has arrived,’ Sander tells her excitedly. ‘I checked this morning, and there’s over forty grand in the account. Please, babe? I’m on a roll, but I need these big canvases.’

  By the time Penny reaches Cowling and Wilcox, Sander has finished shopping. He’s standing on the pavement with three vast canvases leaning against his side and a huge bag of materials at his feet.

  ‘Thanks so much for this,’ he says as they load them into the rear of the car. ‘I was going to struggle home with these on the train, but this is so much easier.’

  He asks Penny about her day, but she doesn’t tell him much. She doesn’t want to think about it any more, plus, the hours she spent with Martin feel strangely like some kind of infidelity. She’s not sure why that is, but she asks Sander about his big idea instead.

  ‘You know the old masters, like, um, Millet and Eastman Johnson, people like that?’ he says, almost breathless with excitement. ‘You know the way they used to paint the tradesmens? The families harvesting the corn, and the threshers, and the washerwomen and what have you?’

  ‘“Tradesmen” is plural,’ Penny reminds him. ‘It contains the word “men”, which is the plural of “man”. So it doesn’t need an “s”. It’s just that you asked me to point out when you do that “s” thing . . .’

  ‘Sure, right . . .’ Sander says, sounding annoyed that she has interrupted his flow. ‘But do you know what I mean?’

  ‘Those harvest paintings?’ Penny says vaguely. ‘I think so.’

  ‘Well, I’m going to do something like that,’ Sander tells her. ‘Only with the jobs people do today. Traditional, masterly oil paintings, but of checkout girls and UPS guys and pole dancers. It’s gonna be awesome.’

  ‘I can see where you’re heading from here,’ Penny says. ‘I can see the pole-dancing research being quite time-consuming. And expensive.’

  ‘Ha,’ Sander laughs. ‘I’ll probably just work from photos for that one. But do you see the idea? Do you see how gorgeous it’s going to be? The colours of all those packages behind the checkout girl? The neon lights in the strip club. But really thick, chunky paint – probably do it all with a palette knife. And big – big enough so you can stand back and ignore the texture.’

  The images that manifest in Penny’s mind aren’t really gorgeous at all. In fact, the idea strikes her as quite horrific. But she hasn’t seen Sander this excited for years. He seems younger and sharper and, yes, sexier even. And so she keeps her doubts to herself. ‘That sounds fabulous, dear,’ she says.

  Her main fear recently as far as Sander is concerned has been that the second the money arrived he would rush out and buy a lorryload of weed. Because, since he cut down, he’s been so much more present in their lives, so much funnier, and more useful around the house. So a sudden urge to spend money on materials is quite a relief. ‘You’re not going to start smoking again, are you?’ Penny asks, her fears slipping out. ‘Not like before?’

  ‘I never stopped,’ Sander says, frowning now, suddenly knocked off his optimistic top of the hill. ‘Where did that come from?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Penny says. ‘I guess I’m just thinking that it would be a shame if, instead of creating these wonderful paintings you’re telling me about, you just started smoking joints and staring into the middle distance again.’

  ‘Oh,’ Sander says, then, ‘Just tell it like it is, honey. Don’t beat around the bushes or anything.’

  ‘I think it’s good. That we can talk honestly. Don’t you?’

  ‘I suppose,’ Sander says.

  ‘I just like you more when you smoke less,’ Penny explains. ‘And I think it’s done you good to cut down. I think that might even be why you’re so excited today.’

  Sander sighs deeply, so Penny glances briefly across at him before returning her gaze to the road ahead. ‘What?’ she asks. ‘What did I say?’

  Sander shrugs. ‘I just hate it when you’re right about stuff,’ he says.

  The following morning, Will arrives just before ten. Bertie, having got home late from his party, is still sleeping, while Martin is already out playing squash.

  ‘Hi, Will,’ Victoria says. ‘He’s still in bed, I’m afraid. But I’ll wake him up right now.’

  ‘Ah, sorry,’ Will says. ‘We’re early. It’s kind of our speciality these days. Ben gets so excited whenever we go anywhere. He’s like a little dog. He even does that whimpering thing.’

  Victoria laughs. ‘Bertieeee!’ she shouts. ‘Will’s here. He’s left the dog in th
e car.’

  ‘Actually, I had better go and tell him to park,’ Will says. ‘He’s just kerbed it outside for the moment.’

  By the time Will returns, Bertie is in the shower and Victoria has made a French press of coffee. ‘We couldn’t find a space anywhere,’ Will tells her. ‘But Ben’s fine in the car. He’s reading something on his Kindle. Some novel about aliens or something.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Victoria says. ‘That’s not fair. There’s a car park around the corner. Do you want me to . . .’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Will interrupts. ‘Really. He’s totally fine.’

  ‘Well, Bertie won’t be long, anyway. He’s pretty fast in the mornings. Even faster when it’s to escape the horror of home.’

  As Victoria presses the plunger on the coffee pot, Will crosses to the window and looks out over the roofs. ‘This is a great apartment,’ he says. ‘Nice balcony-terrace-thingy, too.’

  ‘Yes, it’s OK,’ Victoria agrees. ‘It was expensive when we bought it, but it’s worth silly amounts of money nowadays. But we like it. For London . . .’

  ‘You’d rather live somewhere else? I mean, if you could. If Martin’s job wasn’t here?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Victoria says. ‘I have a whole love-hate thing going on with London. I’d be tempted by the seaside, maybe. Or the countryside. Or somewhere hot – a Greek island, maybe. But I kind of like the bustle and grime as well.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Will says. ‘I think it’s the anonymity I like. That you can dress however you want, that you can be whoever you want. I grew up in a village near Shrewsbury, and everyone knew everyone’s business there. But here, no one gives a damn. D’you know what I mean?’

  ‘I do,’ Victoria says, handing Will a mug of coffee. ‘Sugar?’

  Will shakes his head.

  ‘Yes, no matter how mad you are in London, at least you’re never the maddest, right?’

  Will smiles lopsidedly. ‘I suppose,’ he says.

  ‘Here, come outside. I want to smoke.’

  They move to the small roof terrace and Victoria slides the door closed behind her. She lights a cigarette, offers Will one (he refuses) and sits down. Will leans against the wall and continues to look out at the view. ‘It’s going to be hot, I think,’ he says. ‘We might even get a swim. A hot bank-holiday weekend – it’s a whole new concept!’

  ‘Yes,’ Victoria says, her mind clearly elsewhere. ‘So, what happened to you the other day? I can’t say I blame you, but you did a very efficient disappearing act after the funeral.’

  ‘Oh,’ Will says. ‘Yes. I was a bit embarrassed about that. Penny wasn’t too upset, was she?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Victoria says. ‘But I don’t think so. She had other things on her mind, really. We all did.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘So, what happened?’

  Will shrugs. ‘I can’t really go into it. But suffice to say Ben overheard a bit of your argument with your uncle. And it brought up . . . I don’t know . . . a few issues for him, I suppose you could say.’

  ‘Oh,’ Victoria says, frowning. ‘You don’t mean . . . I mean, Ben wasn’t . . . Nothing like that happened to Ben, did it?’

  Will shakes his head. ‘Sorry. I really can’t go into it. It’s all very private stuff. But we would have come if we could. Ben was just too upset.’

  ‘Oh, poor Ben,’ Victoria says.

  ‘Yes,’ Will agrees. ‘Poor Ben. What with his schooling and his family, it’s amazing he’s still sane, really.’

  ‘Resilience,’ Victoria says.

  ‘Indeed.’

  Victoria drags heavily on her cigarette then taps the ash over the edge of the balcony. ‘Look, Will, I need to ask you a favour, actually,’ she says.

  ‘OK . . .’ Will says, sounding doubtful.

  ‘It’s . . . well . . . it’s delicate.’

  Will nods. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I feel like it’s a bit of a nerve, really, me asking you. I mean, you’re Penny’s friend, aren’t you? Not mine.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ Will says. ‘Anyway, I like to think I’m friends with both of you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Victoria says, even though they both know that it’s not really true. ‘The thing is, it’s . . . well, it’s Bertie.’

  ‘He’s been having a hard time, right?’ Will offers, trying to make whatever Victoria has to say a little easier. ‘Penny told me a bit about it all.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there something I can do to help?’

  Victoria sighs. ‘I’m not sure, but there’s this mystery, right? And it’s making everything incredibly difficult.’

  ‘A mystery?’ Will repeats.

  ‘Yes, about what’s actually wrong with him. He told the shrink, apparently, but he still won’t tell us anything. It’s incredibly frustrating.’

  ‘Can’t you ask the shrink?’ Will says. ‘I mean, Bertie’s still a minor, right?’

  ‘Yes, you’d think so, wouldn’t you?’ Victoria says. ‘But no. It’s been going on for months and she won’t tell us anything either. It’s like living in a big dark cave without a torch.’

  ‘So you want me to try and find out?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Victoria says. ‘I mean, he probably won’t talk to you either. Why would he? But if you could try . . . maybe during the drive down, or while you’re at Penny’s . . . if the opportunity should present itself. I mean, don’t force it or anything, but . . .’

  ‘Have you any kind of inkling?’ Will asks. ‘Any leads?’

  ‘Not really, no. But I’m scared it’s something here, I suppose.’

  ‘Something here?’

  ‘Something at school, perhaps. I mean, he wants to go to boarding school, and we’ve been trying to organise that but there aren’t any places available. Or something at home, maybe? Something we’re doing that we aren’t aware of. Or something one of us is doing that the other one isn’t aware of, even. I don’t know.’

  ‘Wow, things are really difficult, huh?’ Will says.

  ‘He never wants to spend time with us these days. He won’t even eat at the table unless we force him to. He doesn’t want to live here, he says. And he won’t go anywhere with Martin. I’m . . . I don’t know. I’m scared something’s going on and I’m somehow . . . failing him, I suppose,’ Victoria says, raising her cigarette to her mouth and trying to stay the trembling of her hand.

  Will scratches his head and crosses the terrace to take a seat next to Victoria. ‘What kind of thing do you think might be going on?’ he asks seriously.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Victoria says. And it’s true. It’s suddenly true that she doesn’t know. Her mind is mercifully blank. Because she simply can’t let herself think that thought.

  But if it was something serious, if it was something like that, then she’d believe him. That’s for certain. She’d do everything in her power to protect him, to save him, to avenge him, even. Because not being believed, not being saved, well, she’s been there. And that’s horrific. That’s beyond words.

  ‘What kind of thing, Victoria?’ Will asks again, sounding deeply concerned.

  ‘I don’t know, Will. I honestly don’t. But—’

  The door to the kitchen slides open and Bertie pops his head out, interrupting them. ‘I’m ready, Will,’ he says, his happy voice jarring against the angst of the moment and contrasting peculiarly with Victoria’s depiction of him. ‘Super-quick, huh?’

  ‘Um, ultra-quick!’ Will says, forcing a smile even as he glances worriedly at Victoria. ‘You . . . um . . . you should give Ben lessons, he takes hours. And he uses all the hot water.’

  Will gulps down his coffee and, as he stands, rests one hand on Victoria’s shoulder. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll see what I can do,’ he says, giving it a squeeze.

  Victoria sends Will off with a travel cup of coffee for ‘poor Ben’.

  ‘I won that in a stupid school raffle,’ Bertie tells Will as they step out on to the street.

  ‘Th
e cup?’ Will asks.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bertie says. ‘Best prize ever, huh?’

  ‘Well, Ben will thank you for it, at least.’

  Will waits until the stressful navigation of inner London is over before attempting to talk to Bertie. ‘So how’s life?’ he asks, as they join the A2.

  ‘Fine, you know . . . OK,’ Bertie says.

  ‘You seem full of beans today, at any rate.’

  ‘D’you think we’ll be able to swim? D’you think it’ll be warm enough?’ Bertie asks. ‘I haven’t been swimming for ages. Well, except with school.’

  ‘Hopefully,’ Will says.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ Ben laughs, glancing in the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Ben won’t swim unless the sea is actually boiling,’ Will jokes. ‘He needs to see those bubbles rising to the surface, otherwise he won’t even dip a toe in.’

  ‘Hey, I swam in Greece,’ Ben protests.

  ‘I rest my case,’ Will laughs. ‘So how is school? I heard you want to change or something.’

  ‘It’s OK,’ Bertie says. ‘Does Max still have that helicopter thing?’

  ‘The drone?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Not sure,’ Will says.

  ‘He crashed it, I think,’ Ben offers. ‘But it still works. It just steers funny.’

  ‘Cool,’ Bertie says.

  ‘So, why do you want to change school, Bertie?’ Will asks, wincing at his own attempts at sounding casual. ‘I thought you were a grade A student or something.’

  ‘Has Mum asked you to interrogate me?’ Bertie asks.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Will says. ‘Um, no. Of course not. Why would she do that?’

  Bertie shrugs. ‘It’s just there’s lots of questions suddenly.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Will says, feigning umbrage. ‘But around here we call that conversation.’

  They drive for ten minutes in silence before Bertie says, ‘It’s just that I wanted to go to boarding school, that’s all.’

  ‘Boarding school?!’ Ben asks, genuinely shocked. ‘Why in God’s name would anyone want to go to boarding school?’

  ‘Um, Ben went to boarding school,’ Will explains. ‘Didn’t have the best time.’