Mary did as she was asked and then watched the pair on the sofa shift and peer into life. This was when she always wanted to kiss them, or pat them—whatever would be more appropriate. Instead, she simply stood while they eased through small degrees of hurt, looked at her softly, became more like themselves, the two creatures on the island that she loved most. “You seem, ah, seem a bit better.”
I still can’t see those sodding bandages without feeling sick. And I’m feeling sick enough already.
Today’s the day. When I show him.
God, I’m going to throw up.
Nathan squinted at her, enquiring, “Better? Well, I’ll look a lot better than this once I’ve stopped having to shave myself with my left hand. Another week of this and I’ll have cut my throat.”
“Don’t say that.” She couldn’t help the sharpness in her voice.
“I mean inadvertently.” He scratched between Eckless’s ears and muttered, “There’s no way I could actually cut my throat with a safety razor, anyway.”
“Well, you would know.”
Now why say that to him—you know there’ll just be an awkward silence. He wants to keep his secrets and you just have to let him. Bugger it, I don’t want a fight today. Not today.
Mary headed back to the kitchen and changed the subject. “I brought some fresh bread and Ruth sends her regards and I’ll, ah, put the kettle on.” She could hear him behind her, making the careful effort to move Eckless, to get up and follow her through.
I should just let him be.
I can’t, though, can I? Not when h—
“Mary.” He rested his good arm on her shoulder. She noticed that he smelt powerfully of dog. “Mary, I fenced off the wood and I built all those things.”
“The man traps.”
“All right, yes, man traps—that’s what they were. I built them because . . . I’m going to write about them—I’m going to put them in my new book.”
“Mm hm. Did you want tea?”
“If you’d like to give me some.” He sighed, tiredly exasperated, and she thought he might raise his voice. Instead, he only went on quietly. “I didn’t mean to go in there and for, for Eckless to follow. It was all . . . I’m too old to do this stuff any more—research, risks . . . I’m going to finish this book and then that’ll be that.”
“None of my business.”
He took away his arm, slipped round to try and catch her eye while she kept busy with the tea caddy, the water, warming the pot.
“I would think it would be your business, will be your business, when you read—if you would like to—the book.”
A blade of panic turned in her while she thought of her own book, nakedly and inappropriately there on the table top behind her where she’d left it. This hadn’t been the day to bring it over.
Nathan murmured on. “I’ll finish it soon. Quite soon. I should think. Once my arm gets usable again.”
Mary put down her teaspoon and, because she could think of nothing to say, hugged him carefully while his patchy stubble grated slightly at her ear. “Nathan.”
“Mm?”
She could feel his body, thinner than usual, give a little nervous flinch against her.
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Well, no. Neither do I. But here we are.”
They leaned gently against each other, Nathan relaxing a little, setting down part of his guard. “I had an odd dream.” His voice in her hair, warm, comfortable. “I don’t remember it all, but it ended with a woman looking up at me as if she was sorry—a woman I loved.”
Mary could only hold him a fraction tighter and feel the usual twist of unease for him, the customary bafflement. “Sssh.” Sometimes she wondered if bullying Nathan might work better than sympathy, might be more practically helpful. But she realised she’d never find out—there was no way on earth she could look in his face and even begin to be stern. “I had an odd dream, too. Joe was in the middle of it—saying that somebody ought to take care of you.”
Nathan breathed a laugh. “Just like him—interfering, even when we’re both asleep.” He moved to kiss her forehead and then her crown. “I am taken care of. It’s OK.”
They rubbed each other’s backs and then stood away. Nathan frowned at something behind her. “What’s that pile of waste paper doing on my nice, clean kitchen table?”
Every nerve in her stomach kicked. “Oh, shit, I forgot again—it’s the . . . it’s my . . . you said . . .”
Nathan nodded while she stammered. He was grinning and wincing and pressing his knuckles to his lips in some kind of effort at restraint. She met his gaze and let him catch her with a raw, bright look. “Mmhm?”
“It’s my novel.”
“Yes.”
“It’s as finished as I can make it.”
“Yes, I know that.” He sounded hoarse. “I do know. I really do know.” He stopped and held out his hand to her. “It wouldn’t be anything else— not from you.”
She completed the grip. “If you wouldn’t mind—”
“Reading it. No, I wouldn’t mind. In fact, I can’t do much else in my current state.” He crunched in a burst of pressure round her fingers. “Of course, if it’s just so dreadful that it makes me feel even iller than I am, I shall have to sue you.”
“I don’t think iller is a proper word.”
“There’s no such thing as an improper word.” He tugged her towards him, almost giggling. “Haven’t taught you anything, have I?”
He gets happy so easily—it ought to be easy for him to be happy for most of the time.
She consented to be tugged. “No, you haven’t really taught me anything.”
They halted, toe to toe, Nathan composing himself, becoming more serious. “Congratulations.”
“On being poorly taught?”
He squeezed at her fingers again, “Don’t push your luck, all right?” and kissed her cheek. “Well done. I will read it as fast as I can, given my packed schedule, and then we’ll see how things go. My agent wouldn’t be any use to you—she’s only good for flogging the dreadful toss I usually produce— doesn’t do literary fiction.”
“Oh, but it’s not literary fiction—it’s all about cowboys and large-breasted women from outer space. They hunt the world together looking for children’s kidneys they can use to power their rocket ship. I wrote it in rhyming couplets.” She was close to giggling herself, but in a way she didn’t think would be controllable once she’d started.
He left her, paced over to the table and scooped up the manuscript, flashing her his best psychopathic smile. “I will read this and tell you what I think.” Eckless limped into the doorway and gave a little yelp of concern. Nathan spun at once to see what was wrong, “OK, OK. No need to fret. Here I am. Yes, good lad. Here I am.” He made half an apologetic shrug to Mary. “Must have dozed off and then woken up without me. Something which nobody else in the world would find disturbing.” One hand still strapped to his chest and the other full of novel, he could only very lightly dunt his shin against Eckless’s side. “Come on, then—all the cripples go back to the living room and then the nice lady might bring me a cup of tea.”
“If you’re lucky.”
Mary had sugared Nathan’s mug when he called to her, “That dream I had.”
“Yes?”
“It’s because . . . the woman, she sent me a letter. Joe came over with it yesterday.”
Mary walked in with the tea tray to find dog and master, sitting up together. She waited, but Nathan only took his mug from her, said nothing more. She settled in an armchair, drank, waited some more. Then, “If you trusted me, you might tell me what it said.”
He turned to her, genuinely puzzled. “Trust . . . ? Of course I do. Christ, I trust you more than anyone else on earth.” He paused, as if he’d then had to consider the sound of that. “I do trust you. There’s just nothing else I can tell you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know what the letter said. I saw who it was
from and I burned it. That was the safest thing to do.”
“But maybe—”
“It was the safest thing to do.”
Mary watched him: the angles of his body; the cautious, gentle way he drank, gentle-mouthed; the patterns of wear and creasing in these particular overalls.
Whenever he’s after comfort he always gets out the overalls—bloody things— frayed seams and patches and Christ knows what. They make him look worn out himself, sagging, and he’s not. He’s not even that old.
She’d supposed that she knew him as well as anybody could. His patterns and rhythms and shapes were all quite familiar to her but now, she saw, they had always been coloured by something more, an involuntary signal, bleeding its constant light.
He’s in love. He’s always been in love.
Mary wasn’t going to shave him.
“I am not going to shave you.”
“Ach, why not? Come on. Please. I look like a rat’s arse.”
“No, you don’t—a rat’s arse is covered in hair. You look like a mangy rat’s arse.” Normally, when Nathan pleaded, she gave in to him. But he’d been getting his way too much lately and—even when he was trying his best to seem plaintive—he couldn’t avoid looking better than he had been, like someone on the mend.
In fact, he was actually rather dapper this afternoon: good jeans, a freshly, if rather clumsily, pressed shirt and his dark tweed jacket—the one he liked. He’d taken his final dressing off and his stitches had finally melted away into whatever place old stitches melted away to. He had a scar, naturally—a crooked, pinkish Y set in a down of regrowing hair, above and behind his right ear. Mary didn’t look at it, unless she had to. “Anyway, you can shave yourself. You can use your right arm again—you’re using it now.”
“To keep my right hand in my right trouser pocket. It hurts when I use it for anything strenuous.” Nathan raised his eyebrows as appealingly as he could, then gave up and strolled about, pondering his shelves. Mary wondered if punching him would set his convalescence back.
Eckless watched them both, sitting at peace, his tail thumping softly— both of his favourite people in the one room.
Mary closed her eyes and pinched at the bridge of her nose, thinking loudly.
I knew he’d do this. He’ll string this out until the last possible minute. Bastard. I don’t know why I gave it to him, I really don’t.
Nathan had called by that morning at the Nissen hut, partly to show her how Eckless was doing, how well he was getting about. Then, as far as she’d known, the intention had been for them all to make their way, at a suitably easy pace, up to the Lighthouse. There, they were meant to join everyone for the Dia de los Muertos and the unsealing of Louis’s precious jar. But Nathan had led the way back to his house instead and Mary knew why.
He’s finished reading it, I know he has. He’s no good at lying so he isn’t even making the attempt—he just can’t look at me. He’s finished and he can’t deny it, but he doesn’t want to say.
Nathan reached down a book, frowned into it, then glanced at her. He pursed his lips. When he kept his expression this still, it was impossible to guess what he might be thinking.
Jesus wept, I’ve had to come round by here every day and clean up after him and bring him his fresh sodding loaves and his bloody cups of tea while he’s sat with his bloody feet up and turned pages at me—my pages—and sighed now and then and laughed now and then and shaken his head now and then and never fucking said a word. I get more and more amazed that I haven’t killed him. I really haven’t killed him yet, not even threatened to. Miraculous.
But I know he’s finished—yesterday he only had a handful of pages left. He must be done by now.
Nathan had given her his back and was staring out of the window. “I really do need someone to shave my head. I’ve got to even everything up. I may not have much hair, but I would like it all the same length.”
“I can’t shave your head.”
“Well, don’t sound so horrified. All right, you can’t.”
“I mean, it won’t suit you. And I might hurt you. Quite easily. Look, shouldn’t we be going?”
He’ll have to say something before we leave. He’ll have to. Why else would he have got me over here?
“Yes, I suppose we should get under way. I’d forgotten we might have to carry Eckless for a bit, so I came back for a coat—don’t want to get my decent jacket muddy.”
He doesn’t like it. It didn’t work and it’s no good and he doesn’t like it. That’s why he can’t even mention it. Fuck.
I tried. I tried to make it good. I tried to make it something that he’d like.
Waste of bloody time.
“You wouldn’t mind taking one end, if we have to lift him? If it comes to that?” Nathan had turned and was considering her, intent.
“Comes to . . . ?”
“Lifting the dog. If it’s necessary. We have to take him with us. I don’t want to leave him alone—he wouldn’t like it.”
“Sure, fine.” Bugger it. “Let’s go.”
“Because I realise that novelists can get really fucking picky about that kind of thing—refusing to do manual labour, denying their elders and betters a decent haircut. They get stroppy. And the better the novel, the strop-pier the writer.” He clicked his tongue, sighed theatrically. “So I’d expect you to be quite considerably awkward.”
Mary knew this was when she should say something, when she should show that she’d understood and was happy right into the lining of her veins.
Nathan began a smile. “It’s beginner’s luck, obviously. And there are some things you really should think about again.” He checked her eyes. “But not many.”
“You,” her breath was surprisingly unpredictable, “bastard,” and she sounded too loud.
“Now, now.” Nathan beamed, irritatingly. “That’s no way to encourage me to help you out with an agent and advice—”
“You utter bastard. You could have told me this an hour ago. Two hours ago. Bastard.” She stood, inconveniently unsure of what to do with her arms.
“Well, yes, I could have, but it’s not that easy. I’m a naturally humble person and I find it difficult to admit how well I’ve done with you.”
“What? How well you—”
Nathan held up his hands, placating, studiously looking anything but smug, and came to stand beside her. He elbowed her delicately in the ribs. “This isn’t the time to say too much, but I am extremely, really extremely proud of you. Your Uncles would have been proud, too. If you don’t mind my saying.”
She nodded, a hot swing of sadness taking her for a moment. Mary wondered if they should hug now, or keep standing, or get ready to go. There didn’t seem to be an obvious option available. Still beside her, Nathan was pensive.
Eckless ambled quietly over and offered himself as a distraction. They both knelt, relieved, and made a fuss of him.
Walking over the island with his daughter and his dog, Nathan could feel an echo, an aftershock breaking against him from every side. Colours persisted, sounds dragged and bounced, each step he took would then take him, would murmur and linger in his joints. He seemed to himself more tender than he should be, more breakable. Mary beside him simply shone.
She’s pleased, then. She knows that I like her book and that I’m not lying.
An old, insoluble ache parted in him again.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, look at her—I know women who’d kill to move that well—I know women who ought to kill to move that well—and she does it without a thought and she always will, it’s in her bones, in her self, in her DN fucking A.
Her hair’s better like that, a bit longer, a bit more full, it means she gets highlights without trying. And somebody should tell her, fucking Jonathan should tell her, or any other even halfway sane man should tell her to be out of doors in sunsets, should pray on their fucking knees to see her like this: the pale skin in the glory light and the gold in the hair and the eyes, the eyes to take your soul.<
br />
Runs in the family, that look. I’ll still forgive it anything.
His memory showed him a stairwell and a woman’s upturned face.
Sorry.
We were always sorry when we made each other hurt—we always did it all the same.
For perhaps the twentieth time that day, he blinked and kicked the image shut.
Far to his right and barely visible was the hill with the wood at its top, the slashes in the grass where his fence posts had been plucked, the cut and broken branches where his plans had been dismantled and, further on, the dark mound where all that could be was carefully burned. Joe was nothing if not thorough when he set about putting things straight.
Nathan checked on Eckless, the falter in his gait—the dog was managing, had forgiven, was still faithful.
“What are you thinking?” Mary shook his good arm lightly to get his attention.
“Oh, nothing especially printable, I’m afraid.”
The sunset was at its best when they arrived, Eckless hammocked regally between them in Nathan’s coat. He acted the wounded soldier with perfect aplomb as Ruth lowered over him like a ripe cloud of cellulite. “Poor baby. You’re such a poor, brave baby. But you’re looking much better.” She squinted up at Nathan, who was trying his best not to smile— she’d only take it as an encouragement when he knew, deep in his antisocial heart, that he really couldn’t help his amusement having just a little to do with contempt.
“Yes, he is looking much better. But I don’t know about the baby part. Factually, we’re both in quite advanced middle age.”
I’m a bad man. I am a very bad man. She can’t help it that she reeks of desperation.
It’s not as if I don’t, myself.
We’re neither of us any different, even after all these years. Christ.
“And is your head . . . ?” She simpered sympathetically and he dutifully angled his neck to let her get a good view of his scar.
“Oh, Nathan. You poor . . . thing.”
So my dog’s a baby and I’m a thing. Well, that’s about right, I suppose.
“I’m fine.” Under the circumstances, there was no way to say this without sounding brave, so he added a brief, stiff manly grin to please her and then dodged aside, feeling nothing like a hero, more like every inch a shit.
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