What Will Survive

by Joan Smith

  ‘The college is OK about it, I spoke to them last week, so it depends on the insurance company.’

  ‘Insurance?’

  ‘Whether it’ll cover Clara’s costs. I had to get her a scheduled flight from Santiago, which cost a fortune. It was the last thing on my mind at the time, but the insurance company is saying it only pays out if a relative dies. I’m not going to give up without a fight, but I can’t afford another full fare. She’s been very good about it — she’s working at the stables most days, but most of her savings went on the original ticket.’

  Tim said vaguely: ‘Oh well, perhaps the four of us should get together and talk about it. Is she coming on Friday?’

  Iris’s eyes widened. ‘Clara? Yes, of course.’ She waited a few seconds and then got up, this time with a more purposeful air. ‘I don’t want to hurry you, Tim —’

  ‘Oh yeah, sure.’ He sighed and ran a hand over his scalp, his eyes darting about the room as if he was reluctant to leave. ‘What is that?’

  Iris turned in the direction he was staring.

  ‘That thing. Sculpture.’

  ‘It’s by a friend. There wasn’t room for it in her studio so... Haven’t you seen it before?’

  He shook his head and Iris realised she could not remember when he had last visited the cottage.

  ‘Not that I can recall. There’s something spooky about it.’ He stared at the amber bracelets on one of the metal arms. ‘Did they come with it?’

  ‘No, I collect them.’

  Tim remained where he was, staring, then gave a slight start: ‘Right, then. You’ve got all the details for Friday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He stood, making another attempt to straighten the carpet. ‘Ricky’s going to meet the humanist woman at Taunton; her train gets in just before ten. That’s his idea as well. Apparently we’re expected to give her lunch afterwards.’

  Iris made a note to call Ricky, who seemed to be taking on all the responsibilities his father couldn’t or wouldn’t shoulder. She motioned for Tim to precede her into the hall, giving her watch another glance. He turned: ‘Did you—’ The phone rang. ‘I expect you want to answer that.’

  Iris dodged round him, murmuring, ‘Excuse me.’ She lifted the receiver, identified herself and listened for a few seconds, her features tensing. ‘Oh — no, it’s not a problem. We’ll make it one-thirty, then.’

  ‘Patient?’ Tim asked as she returned the phone to its cradle. ‘Client, I should say.’

  ‘You know what the M5 is like,’ Iris said, not answering him directly.

  ‘The M5 Christ, they’re coming from miles around! I suppose everyone’s in therapy these days.’

  Iris said shortly: ‘I’ll see you on Friday, Tim.’

  He took a couple of steps forward, as if he was about to embrace her, then settled on shaking hands. At the front door, he turned. ‘I thought you had a dog?’

  ‘I did — Ginger. He died.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  Iris waited at the door as Tim unlocked his car. He started the engine, gave a half-wave and drove off.

  ‘God,’ Iris breathed, closing the door. She walked mechanically into the kitchen, noticed that the dishwasher had finished its cycle and began emptying the machine, a thoughtful look on her face.

  — Amanda, it’s Stephen Massinger, you left me a message. Something about getting my name from Jack Porter on the Foreign Affairs Committee? Sorry not to get back to you before now. If you still want to speak to me, and I don’t think you said what it was about, call my office and let them know when’s a good time to ring you.

  — Amanda? Damn, you’re not there. I’ve got tickets for the theatre tonight and Alex has just phoned to say he’s got to work late. If you get this message and you’re free this evening, call me. I’m going to try your mobile now. It’s Jane, by the way.

  — Oh, er, Amanda. Sorry to bother you again. Tim here, Tim Lincoln. I know you’re of to Beirut and I just wondered if you had time to meet and have a, urn, chat before you go. There’s no need for you to come all the way down here, I’d actually be grateful to escape this benighted place. We could have lunch or something — on me, of course. You’ve got my number — not the mobile, that’s my son’s... All the best.

  — Hi, Mandy, it’s Mark calling from the gulag. Give me a bell when you —

  — Hello? Sorry, Mark, the phone keeps ringing and I’m in the middle of writing.

  — Not the Diana thing?

  — Afraid so. Diana and Dodi: has she found true love at last?

  — She better have. The pictures are costing more than a royal bloody wedding, and they’re crap. Long lens, no definition; could be anybody walking of a boat.

  — It has all the ingredients of a holiday romance, according to the people I’ve been speaking to.

  — You mean a man, a woman and a yacht? Not exactly Shirley Valentine, is it? Listen, you going to be in later?

  — Until four, I should think. Then I’ve got my yoga class. Have you got Fabio’s films?

  — Yeah, yeah, don’t get excited. Most of it’s bog-standard coffee-table stuff. The editor loves them, especially the one of what’s-her-name and some cute kids. Makes a change from having Ginger Spice in the mag all the time, I suppose. I’ve printed up anything that’s halfway decent for you.

  — What about the rest?

  — What about them?

  — Well, I’ve got to write three thousand words but I don’t know who she met or where she went, not in any detail. I thought the driver might be able to help but apparently he’s disappeared to Syria.

  — Fuck, you have got a problem.

  — I know. That’s why I need the pictures.

  — Yeah, but who’s going to pay for all that printing? Anyway, it looks like Greece to me.

  — I don’t know what I need without seeing them. It won’t cost that much, surely?

  — Come on, Amanda, I don’t have the budget to print hundreds of bloody holiday snaps. I’m supposed to be cutting my budget by another five thousand.

  — What do you want me to do, take them to Boots?’

  — That’s not a bad idea. OK, OK, I suppose I might be able to sneak it on to the magazine budget; Sandra’s not as tight as the newsdesk. But you’ll have to wait till tomorrow.

  — I’ve got a lunch in town, I might as well come in and pick them up. Save you the cost of a bike.

  — Gee thanks. You want hers as well?

  — Hers? You mean Aisha?

  — Yeah, I said holiday snaps. She put her films in Fabio’s camera case, smart girl, otherwise they’d have gone sky-high. Amazing what those metal cases can withstand. There’s a couple of him looking like that bloke, you know — Abu something.

  — Abu Nidal?

  — Nah, he’s the hijacker. Guy I’m thinking of makes bombs. Sort of a freelance — Dermot did a piece about him in the mag a while ago. Don’t you read the paper? Abu Thaer, that’s it. Secretive sort of bloke, doesn’t like publicity, but I found a pic of him in a book — biography of Colonel Gaddafi, if I remember rightly. Tossers who published it credited the wrong agency, I had some guy on the phone doing his nut... You should have a look at Dermot’s piece — it tells you who all these guys are working for, in case you ever need to know. Did you hear about Dermot?

  — No.

  — He’s resigned. By fax. So the whole office got to read it.

  — What did it say?

  — It was addressed to the ‘editor’ — just like that, in inverted commas. It said since you’re no longer running a newspaper in any known meaning of the word, it’s clear you no longer require a Middle East correspondent. I quote. I can tell you, he’s hopping.

  — Oh shit.

  — I didn’t think you were a fan of his.

  — I’ve never met him.

  — Not Dermot. The editor. Looked like he was going to have a stroke in conference this morning.

  — Oh dear. I was hoping Dermot might introduce me to a few peopl
e. Ingrid, this freelance in Beirut, she’s nice but she’s really a TV producer and she hasn’t been there anything like as long. I wondered why he hadn’t answered my fax. Do you think he’ll talk to me anyway?

  — Funny bloke, Dermot. Territorial, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he’s still in Pakistan or somewhere, according to Michael.

  — Shit. How’s the competition coming along?

  — Don’t ask. Fucking nightmare. The editor wants celebrity judges but he doesn’t want to pay for them. I spend my life being humiliated by agents. But we have got a logo. Tony in the art department mocked it up, and it looks like it. Pay peanuts, get monkeys.

  — Listen, Mark, I have to get on. Back to Princess Di.

  — Oh yeah, the things that really matter. Cheers, Amanda.

  — See you tomorrow. Thanks, Mark.

  Stephen appeared at the side door of the pub, stepping into the garden with a glass in each hand. He blinked in the strong sunlight and ducked to avoid a football, which sailed over his head to land in a clump of bushes. A boy of seven or eight rushed past, in single-minded pursuit.

  ‘Richard. Richard.’ A young woman with a foreign accent and straw-coloured hair tied back in a ponytail trailed wearily after him, knelt down and began to remonstrate. The boy gave her a blank look, dived to retrieve the ball and dodged round her, running down the hill to where two more young women — au pairs, Iris guessed — were sitting at a rectangular garden table. Pushchairs were drawn up around them like an encampment, each with a toddler strapped inside. The ball flew wide again, this time into the display of lilies, lupins and irises at the top of the sloping garden, where they flared brilliantly against a tall brick wall. On the side of the pub, next to the door Stephen had just come through, was a sign which read ‘no ball games’. Iris wondered how long it would take one of the two women who had recently taken it over — reputed locally to be lesbians, the kind of prurient gossip which circulated about unattached women — to come out and enforce the ban.

  ‘White wine.’ Stephen placed a glass in front of her and moved round the table to sit on the other side. He was wearing jeans and a T-shirt — the first time Iris had seen him out of a suit. He looked almost boyish in casual clothes and only the dark hollows below his eyes gave away the fact that he was having sleepless nights. Lifting a leg over the wooden bench, he sat down, tasted his own wine and remarked: ‘Not bad. At least it’s cold. Sure you don’t want anything to eat?’

  ‘I’m not very hungry. Thanks, anyway. Are you having something? You’ve had a long drive.’

  ‘I ordered a chicken salad. Seemed a safe option.’

  ‘Oh, the food’s good here.’ Iris glanced towards the pub. ‘It changed hands about six months ago and Aisha and I started — we used to have lunch here sometimes.’

  Stephen gave an almost imperceptible nod. ‘I’m grateful, Iris, you agreeing to meet me like this.’ His eyes widened. ‘As you can imagine, there’s no one else I can talk to.’

  Iris reached out a hand, then withdrew it. ‘I did think about ringing you, but I didn’t have a number... I suppose I could have rung the House of Commons but I didn’t know if anyone would be there during the recess. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable leaving a message.’

  ‘My secretary goes in a couple of afternoons. It would have got to me eventually, but it doesn’t matter now.’ Another nod, as though he was having trouble concentrating.

  ‘How are you —’

  ‘How have you —’

  Iris said, ‘You first.’

  Stephen’s shoulders slumped and he looked down. After a moment he said in a low voice: ‘I don’t know what to say or do. I can’t stop thinking about her. Nothing like this has ever — I can’t seem to take it in. I dream about her all the time, I say, “I thought you were dead,” and she laughs and says, “Oh no, I got better” — you know how she tosses her hair? Some nights I can’t bear to go to bed, I stay up and walk round... God knows, I don’t know what I do really.’ He lifted his head, his face flushed. ‘Yesterday I called her mobile by mistake, I actually heard her voice — I mean, how long before they turn the bloody thing off? I’ve had to stop myself—’

  For the second time that day, tears started in Iris’s eyes.

  ‘Christ.’ Stephen put a hand up to his forehead.

  They sat in silence, Iris gradually becoming aware of the hot sun on the back of her neck. She had changed before leaving the house, putting on a crisp white shirt and dark skirt without giving any thought to the fierce afternoon heat. After a while, Stephen said in something like his normal voice: ‘Sorry. When’s — when’s the funeral?’

  ‘Friday.’ Iris moved slightly, angling her shoulders away from the sun. ‘Didn’t I say?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course you did. I think I even read it somewhere.’

  He swivelled to look behind him, where the au pairs were listening in miserable silence as Chrissie, the younger of the two publicans, described the damage their charges had done to the border. ‘OK, boys,’ Iris heard her say, ‘who wants to come and see the rabbits?’

  ‘Me, me, me,’ was the answer, in three piping voices.

  ‘I get confused with the days,’ Stephen said, turning back. ‘Sometimes it seems as if it only happened yesterday.’

  Iris said, ‘Have you —’

  ‘I didn’t find out straight away. I was in a meeting, I remember some woman going on about the Taliban.’ He frowned. ‘She left me a message, you know. My battery was down, I’d forgotten to charge the damned thing, and by the time I got it, it was too late, although of course I didn’t realise... I kept getting her voicemail.’ He flinched. ‘Probably it was all over by then but I just thought —’ He made a gesture. ‘You know, foreign country, bad reception.’

  A memory came to Iris: ‘It was on the machine at home, her voice, I mean. The message kept playing and Tim — he didn’t seem to know how to turn it off. In the end I unplugged it.’

  Stephen managed a grim smile. ‘Technology and death — I expect someone’s sitting in some new university writing a thesis about it. I had to stop watching the news and as for that programme on Channel Four, Jesus. If the House was sitting, I’d have put down an EDM.’ He picked up his wine, sitting up straighter now.

  Iris said, ‘I hope they’ll lose interest after Friday — the press, I mean. It’s kept it all going, the time it’s taken for the — for her to be brought home. The formalities —’

  ‘You don’t need to tell me. I have a constituent, bit of a wide boy, his wife fell off a balcony in Estepona. He wanted me to talk to the Foreign Office, see if I could hurry things up, and then I discovered, completely off the record, that the Spanish cops thought he might have had a hand in it. Sounded quite likely, according to the British consul in Malaga, though I try not to be prejudiced. Tattoos up and down both arms,’ he explained, seeing the question in Iris’s eyes, ‘and probably in places I couldn’t see, fortunately. Nothing ever came of it, and I expect he voted for me in May. Another satisfied customer, which is what the life of an MP is all about these days. I saw the inquest was adjourned.’

  ‘The — oh. Yes. The coroner is waiting for some report or other, but it’s only a formality. According to Tim, anyway.’

  ‘Number 12, chicken and walnut salad?’ Cheryl, who did the cooking at The Queen of Hearts, as she and Chrissie had renamed The Black Swan, was standing in the garden with a tray.

  ‘Over here,’ Stephen called out. He turned to Iris, eyebrows raised. ‘Another glass of wine?’

  ‘No thanks, I’ve got a client at three-thirty. But I’ll have some mineral water.’ Iris felt inside her straw basket, which Aisha had brought back from Spain, and withdrew a scarf, which she draped over the back of her neck.

  ‘Hot, isn’t it? Seems all wrong for a funeral.’ Stephen looked up at Cheryl. ‘Do you do coffee? I’ll have a double espresso. And some water with ice.’

  ‘Coming up.’ She took Stephen’s five-pound note and tucked it in the pocket of her pin
k jeans — Iris saw that the seams were decorated with sequins. ‘How are you, Iris? I’m really sorry about your friend. We couldn’t believe it when her picture was on the TV.’

  ‘I’m OK, thanks for asking.’

  Cheryl went back inside and Stephen began eating. ‘You’re right,’ he said, holding up a fork. ‘Chicken’s good.’

  Halfway through the meal, he reached into his pocket and took out his mobile, which was vibrating. ‘Sunil, you got my message? Where are you? No, there’s no rush. But if you have time to do a search at Companies House — you know what to look for. Friday’ll do at a pinch but Thursday’s better, then we can offer it round the Sundays.’

  He put the mobile away. ‘Sorry about that. I’m in the doghouse with my constituency association but they’ll get over it if I can embarrass the government again.’

  Iris nodded. ‘I saw something about you in the Guardian. It wasn’t long after Aisha’s... accident, so I don’t remember the details.’

  Stephen pulled a face. ‘Me and my big mouth. It isn’t terminal, at least I don’t think so, but I’m having to call in a lot of favours. It’s that or think of another way of paying the mortgage.’ He glanced towards the pub. ‘What’s happened to that coffee?’

  ‘Here she is.’

  Stephen waited until the drinks were on the table. ‘So what was all that crap about the marriage?’

  Iris stared at him. ‘What? Oh, you mean Tim’s interview.’

  ‘I thought — I had the impression she was going to tell him before she went away.’

  ‘Tell him —’

  ‘That she was leaving. That it was finished.’ He made a chopping motion with his right hand. ‘Finito.’

  Iris said guardedly: ‘She didn’t tell him about you, if that’s what you mean. He may have guessed she had someone, he’s not stupid, but I don’t think you need worry about — recriminations.’

  Stephen stared at her, astonishment flaring in his eyes. ‘I’m not worried, I just found it pretty hard to take. I know the guy’s got problems, but it was a pack of lies from start to finish. That stuff about soulmates.’ His mouth puckered. ‘Can you imagine what Aisha would have said?’