What She Left: Enhanced Edition

by T. R. Richmond

  ‘You did, I see,’ I said.

  ‘Yes,’ you said. ‘We’ve got a boy, as well.’

  ‘Bully for you,’ I snapped, remembering the slow, sinking dread, the tests, the theories, the statistics. They loved a probability, those doctors.

  I hovered on the pavement, examined the man in your life. Hefty. Not un-handsome. Your age. Remembered those few months we’d spent together almost ten years before. He gave us a nonchalant wave, as if I was asking directions, began unloading provisions from the boot and I felt a swift urge to walk up to him and say: I know things about your wife that you don’t.

  So Alice turned down Oxford? Well, I never. I imagine that sparked some discussion in your household. I got the grades, but flunked the interview. They obviously detected in me even at that tender age what I was destined to become: good on paper. As a PhD, I was informed that to be truly brilliant, academics needed soul.

  Could I not persuade you to change your mind about that drink, Liz? I could show you the mementoes of Alice I’m gathering. Heaven only knows what the university’s ‘technology support’ department must suspect I’m up to; my email hasn’t been so busy for years. My favourite photograph thus far is of her climbing on the statue outside the biology labs. It’s a constant battle, keeping the students off that ghastly piece of ‘art’, but you can’t herd them. She’s got her arms round his bronze neck and is sticking her tongue out at him. Hurrah for Alice, I say, poking fun at the blighter – derivative plagiarist that he was.

  Liz, can I ask you a question? How was she at the time of her passing? In her final days, was she in good spirits? Only – and forgive me for raising this – much of what I’ve read alludes to her state of mind.

  What is it they say about journalism being the first draft of history? I wonder if that’s what our correspondence is. The first draft of something. These words, the sentences they make, the sentiments they convey. The truths – or otherwise – we trade. Because nothing is entirely objective and facts are slippery little buggers. We’re better equipped to communicate than any organism that’s ever existed, but arguably we’re not a whole lot better at it than we were 40,000 years ago when the Neanderthals reached out and stencilled their hands in the El Castillo caves. Every day we fail to communicate. We speak in riddles or half-truths or worse. Every day we pass up on that wonderful, beautiful chance to reach out into the darkness and connect. Still, the only way we’ve got of making sense of the madness is through these crazy, silly, magical maddening little things we choose to call ‘words’. They’re all we’ve got.

  I would have asked about how you were after we went our separate ways, I so nearly did on so many occasions, but I had no idea how you’d react or whether those around you were aware of your situation. I was sick with worry.

  Naturally I’ll treat your email in confidence. I, too, may have omitted to mention our correspondence to Fliss. Secrets, eh – aren’t we’re a right pair?

  I would very much like to see you, even if it is our coda.

  Yours,

  Jem

  Editorial column by Southampton Messenger chief reporter, Alice Salmon,

  14 September 2008

  Southampton residents can sleep safer tonight.

  Liam Bardsley, the man who attacked an 82-year-old great-grandmother, was sentenced to four years in prison this week.

  This monster targeted as many as forty homes in our area during a burglary spree lasting over a year.

  He left a trail of victims in his wake – including courageous octogenarian Dot Walker who confronted the 36-year-old when she was woken by ‘movement’ in her kitchen. He knocked her to the ground and hit her, according to the prosecution, ‘at least five times in the face’ before fleeing the scene. He was described in court as ‘an inhuman creature who showed no mercy’.

  He belongs behind bars. Why then, we all want to know, has he only been imprisoned for four years? Taking into account so-called ‘good behaviour’, he could be back out on our streets in less than two.

  Readers who responded to our ‘Catch the Night Stalker’ campaign should feel proud of the part they played in sending this animal to jail. Without you bravely coming forward, we would never have been able to compile so much evidence against Bardsley – evidence that the police described as ‘vital’ in assembling their case.

  The photo we published with the family’s approval of Dot after the horrific attack sparked a flood of calls to the police helpline (many of you also contacted the Messenger direct).

  The four-year jail term he received for burglary and grievous bodily harm should have been much longer. Even twice that would seem too short for a man prepared to tell an old lady that he ‘would gut her if she as much as whimpered’.

  We are today calling on the government to instigate tougher sentences for violent crimes against the elderly and are working with local MPs who have vowed to take the matter up in Parliament.

  The last word must go to Dot, one of the bravest women we’ve ever had the privilege to meet – in many respects a typical pensioner, in others utterly unique.

  Hearing about what happened in Court D of Southampton Crown Court this week, she said: ‘I only hope no one else will have to go through what I have.’

  When asked for her reaction to her attacker’s sentence, she replied with wisdom, dignity and compassion: ‘He’ll get his reckoning when he comes before his maker.’

  Do you have information about a crime? Ring Alice Salmon in confidence on the number at the top of page 7.

  Notes made by Luke Addison on his laptop,

  14 February 2012

  Your mum and dad’s house was the last place in the world I wanted to be, but I couldn’t not go. That would have merely aroused suspicion.

  ‘You look like you’ve been in the wars,’ your mum said when I arrived. I spun her some line about a mountain-bike accident, but fessed up later to having been in a fight.

  ‘Expect we’ll all do a few things we’re not proud of before we’re through,’ she’d said. ‘Sorry about all these wretched questions the police are asking, but it’s their job. We all need the same thing, sweetheart – the truth.’ And the word ‘sweetheart’ clawed at me because I could imagine her calling you it and I was never close to my mum.

  ‘You meant so much to her,’ she said. Her hair against my face was the nearest I’d ever get to you.

  Secrets, Al. So many secrets.

  ‘You do realize Alice and I weren’t together,’ I admitted. ‘We were having some issues.’ My admission pinged around the kitchen, snapping off the bright white surfaces and bouncing back at me. It would have appeared odd not to have mentioned it. They’d have wondered why.

  ‘Of course I do. We’re a close family. Our daughter talks to us. Talked.’

  ‘I’d understand if you’d rather me not come to the funeral,’ I said, half hoping she’d seize on that.

  ‘No, we want you there, or I certainly do. I’m working on the principle that the pair of you would have made up sooner or later. David’s got a rather different view, of course.’

  It was odd being in that house, the house we’d been in so many times, the house that I’d been initially nervous of visiting – I needn’t have been, your parents were fantastic, plying me full of booze even if it was some awful pale ale and stressing they wouldn’t consider me the slightest bit rude if I took myself off to the conservatory and buried myself in the Sunday papers. The house where we’d dog-sat, had a bath together, where you’d showed me your old school blazer and I’d joked about you wearing it for me and you’d called me a perv and we’d manoeuvred into your single bed at two in the afternoon, you diligently turned your toy rabbit away, that was such a you thing to do, and afterwards lay staring up through the skylight at the clouds scudding across the blue.

  The house was full of people who loved you, your name on every breath, in every sentence, in every room. They all did a double take when they saw my face. Your mum had put her arm round me and took me i
nto the garden at one point; all those people and she found time for me, and I explained how much I hated myself. ‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘Don’t.’ I might have been different – better – if I’d had parents like yours. I’d felt a surge of warmth towards her, that she might not despise me for what I’d done. Later, I went to your dad in the garage chipping away at a piece of wood on his workbench and said: ‘Thanks for having me here.’

  ‘You’ve got my wife to thank for that. If it was down to me I’d have put you through that window.’ He gazed at a small discoloured square of glass. ‘Why couldn’t you have kept your damn stupid prick in your trousers?’

  He’ll never forgive me; you can’t blame him – I’ll never forgive myself. Not that he knows the half of it. No one does.

  He planed at the wood; shavings fell to the floor and layered up around his shoes. ‘Twenty-five,’ he said. ‘What sort of age is that? Answer me, you stupid little bastard.’ He raised his fist and I’d thought, Hit me. Hit me as that man in the pub had. It might do us both some good. But his arm slumped down and he made a noise like a wounded animal. ‘How could you do this to my baby?’

  Can’t believe they’d even want me at your funeral, wasn’t as if we were related, not as if I’m next of kin, not as if we were married. That’s another thing you don’t know, Al. I was going to propose a second time. The morning you went to Southampton. We’d been apart for almost the two months you’d insisted on by then. No contact, they were the rules, your rules, but I was going to surprise you. Apologize, explain, make you see sense. You’d have been stunned – but in a good way, I reckon. I’d realized over those two months how there was one special person for everyone and you were mine, Alice Louise Salmon. Forget the trip to Rome. I was going to do it there and then on your doorstep. But Soph answered the door and claimed you weren’t in.

  ‘Where’s she gone?’

  ‘Southampton.’

  It filled me with despair, the possibility of a whole life of us not knowing where the other one was. I must find you, I’d thought. I must find my Alice and propose. Soph eyed me suspiciously. I wasn’t sure how much you’d have told her; I certainly hadn’t broadcast what was going on. ‘Can I go up to her room?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She’s in there, isn’t she?’ I said, the possibility of you being with another man stretching out in me. ‘Who’s she got in there?’ You’d been adamant that there wasn’t anyone else involved when you’d given me the heave-ho, when we’d last been in your room and you were crying and the mini Christmas tree was flickering and I was shaking you – I’m sorry, I couldn’t help it. I lost it, that’s how much I loved you. You promised there wasn’t, but how was I to know what to believe? ‘I’m not pissing around here, Soph – who she’s with?’

  ‘Ask her yourself if you’re that desperate. Oh no, she’s not talking to you, is she!?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, trying another tack. ‘I miss her. You’ve got to help me. Please.’

  ‘You’ve only just missed her,’ Soph said, returning indoors.

  The idea flashed into my head: Go to Southampton. I’d taken out my phone. Alice S you’d been initially, because Alice Kemp was already in there, but once we were officially boyfriend and girlfriend I changed you to Alice and her to Alice K, and then once we’d been dating a while you became Al. I texted you. Our two months is nearly up. It’s killing me not seeing you. Have something important to say.

  I’d stayed for an hour at your mum and dad’s, which was the minimum I thought I could get away with, but I had to get back to this, this table, this beer. Images of you keep bursting up in front of me – you on the London Eye; you drinking champagne at ten in the morning the day Kate and Wills got hitched; you instructing a man on the Tube to shift his fat arse to let a pregnant woman sit down; you dancing in the kitchen at that party in Peckham; you looking like a startled deer when you spotted me by the river on that Saturday, your voice, your smell – you, washed away now, washed away in that cold water with all our secrets.

  Now I’m not feeling anything other than pissed and stoned and when I’ve finished these cans and this joint I certainly won’t be seeing your face looking up at me, hurt and terrified from the edge of your bed or from the table we never got to sit at in the Campo de’ Fiori or that black water; I’ll be sitting in my kitchen and even the anger will have gone: there’ll just be the drone of the TV, the dull throb from the wounds on my face and the intermittent echo of a man sobbing in the room.

  I’d stood for ages outside your flat. Soph kept peeking out of the window to check if I’d gone. You didn’t reply to my text. I turned towards the train station. You like surprises, I’d thought. I’ll give you a fucking surprise.

  Blog post by Megan Parker,

  20 March 2012, 18.35 p.m.

  I’ve been talking to one of the lecturers at Southampton about you, Alice.

  I didn’t remember him from when we were students, his name’s Professor Cooke, but apparently he’s been there since about 1820 and reckons the two of you crossed paths briefly. He’s had this incredibly cool idea to make a kind of collage about you. Often it’s just me and him chatting but other times it’s actual real research, contacting people and verifying dates and precising stuff you wrote or said or did. Mum reckons it’s good that I’m channelling my grief positively, even though you’d say that was more of her yin and yang nonsense.

  I felt a bit like a traitor at first because it’s so personal, but we have to speak up and drown out all the ill-informed, spiteful and stupid stuff that’s been said about you. ‘We’re the guardians of Alice’s memory now she can’t stick up for herself,’ he says and he’s not wrong. You always maintained you fancied being in a book, didn’t you, and that’s what this could be – the book of you.

  He said I shouldn’t write too much about me or him on the blog, because it’s you this is about, not us, and for it to truly work we have to be observers, objective rather than subjective, but I always – I’ve visited him about ten times already – ask how can I be objective when you were my best friend?

  I can’t believe I’m telling him half the stuff I am, TBH, but you can open up to a stranger in ways you can’t to someone you’re close to.

  He reminds me of some character from a TV sitcom – the socially inept ‘uncle’ figure. His students probably hate him but he’s made for Radio 4. You’d love his office, Alice, every inch of every wall is covered with books, there are thousands. In fact, you’d absolutely adore Jeremy because he’s one of those ultra-clever people who’s been to some totally incredible places. Gawd, I sound like a schoolgirl with a crush, don’t I!

  Jeremy – if you’re reading this, which you might well be because you congratulated me on my blog, welcome to a very exclusive club BTW … you’re one of only about six people who do. You can’t hold any of this against me because your ‘hypothesis’ is that the truth has to trump everything else. ☺

  Listen to me, Alice Palace. Joking when you’re dead and it’s only been seven weeks. I asked Jeremy if that made me a bad person and he said if the worst thing I’d ever done was laugh at happy memories then I hadn’t done too terribly.

  You’d like the way he always puts stuff in a historical context, Lissa. ‘How’s history going to change the fact that my best friend’s dead?’ I asked one time and had a real wobble, so he gave me a hug – he’s not a big man but he seems it, maybe that’s what presence is? – and said that I should be proud to have you as my bestie. I’d taught him that word, even made him say ‘chillax’. You’d have found it hilarious. He said he’d try it on his students or his consultant – and that’s right, isn’t it? I was, I am, your bestie and always will be.

  He’s certainly interested in the threats you were receiving and says they’re one thing I definitely did do right putting on my blog; it’s inevitable there would have been those who were aggrieved and had grudges against you given the nature of your work. He says I ought to be careful talking to the media, though, bec
ause they’ve got their own agenda but I’m streetwise to their tricks and how I come across is irrelevant – all that’s important is that the facts are heard.

  Mostly why I’m enjoying seeing him is because it’s another excuse to think about you. I do all the time, hon, but it’s like we have periods set aside – quality time Jeremy jokingly refers to it as – when we can concentrate exclusively on you. I do have a confession. Some of our get-togethers have basically turned into career counselling for me. You used to tell me I should jack in PR and go back into higher education, didn’t you, and these sessions – I stayed again last night until nearly midnight – are reminding me how fantastic learning is, even if a lot of what we’re doing isn’t so much learning, it’s remembering.