“Mary Lamb is a writer.”
He smiled into the night, “Couldn’t be anything else,” and then gingerly stretched out both his legs. “Come on, we’d better get back, so I can face the music. And thanks for coming to get me.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
They both stood, but then waited together, facing the black of the sea, the beat of its lights, the island like a great ship beneath them, drifting them safe away from shore.
And whom does the word serve, Nathan? You won’t tell her that. You won’t tell her that the card was your answer, that you were writing for your wife, that even when you didn’t think it, you were writing for your wife: your wife, the one who thinks you’re boring, the one who couldn’t give a fuck. You won’t tell her there’s no point to it any more, that one more book and you’re finished, no more bottle, no more heart. The word serves fucking no one. No one at all.
1997
It was a kind of remission, he supposed. Now that it didn’t matter and he didn’t care, or was, at least, determined not to, Nathan’s work progressed quite easily, almost without him. He’d been a good boy through the worst of the winter and kept his head down, hand-writing and then typing, then correcting, then typing again—a chapter forward, a chapter back, the familiar swing between loathing and the coming of little lights. He’d even sneaked away from the Lighthouse New Year party and welcomed the first hours of January with an especially gratuitous, but relatively literary description.
And he did forget her sometimes—that was a possibility. A good run of phrases, a day where he really set the pace, and he could lose himself and Maura, too. Although there were, of course, the bleak days, the raw ones when he let himself edge near the joy of her taking him in, drawing his voice up tight inside her own, reading him, having him. Then he would spend taut hours at the edge of a sweat, beginning to need her, almost feel her, and finally have to part himself from the page and go to an aching bed. He’d watched the dawn a good deal, these past months.
But he’d promised Jack that he’d produce it, the proper novel, and he would: he would honour his dead, himself amongst them, the writer who no longer wished to write.
Nearly there, now. It’ll be strange to stop. Not like losing a limb, more like losing my name.
But, just at this minute, he wasn’t attending to the novel, or even thinking of it. He was brushing Eckless and being rewarded for his efforts with a wad of compacted hairs, some mud and a series of appreciative grunts.
“Yes, I’d probably like it, too, if somebody did it to me. Ah, look at you there—handsome devil, you are. All smart for Mary. Yes, indeed. What a dog, what a fine, fine dog. There you go.”
Eckless, released, stood up and shook himself back into order, before trotting off to the kitchen. He was unsettled, picking up on Nathan’s nervousness.
She should be home by now. Joe went to pick her up, ages ago. Then she’ll find my note and she’ll come over and that’ll be that—all to plan.
Not that I put any faith in my plans.
He went to his wardrobe, picked out another shirt and changed for the second time this afternoon. It was difficult to know what he should wear to welcome his only daughter back from her very first publishing lunch.
Maybe I should have gone with her. Let the fucker know he couldn’t take advantage—they always try. Skimming the advances, clipping off rights.
No. Best she does it herself.
Well, maybe not best, but necessary.
His manuscript was waiting for her on the shelf—a rather more substantial stack than he’d expected.
I wouldn’t have thought I had that much to say.
And all but the last few pages were done. He’d get them polished off and give her the lot today—the whole of his proper novel. Fear elbowed him in the stomach again and he went and sat down in the living room, slapped at his forehead, rubbed his eyes. He wasn’t sure what rattled him most: the old, old terror of submitting work, the flat horizon that was all he could picture beyond the end of his career, the panic when he thought of his daughter, reading and thinking of him.
“What’s up?” She’d crept in and caught him unawares.
He could only hope he hadn’t looked too anguished. “Jesus fuck, don’t do that. I’m an old man.”
“Nonsense. Ask me how it went.” She, on the other hand, looked wonderful, still in her business ensemble, hair undeniably wild after the crossing, but still impressive.
He could tell by her face that it had gone just fine. “How did what go?”
“The lunch.”
“Oh, the lunch. Well, that surely went like most lunches—you’ll have eaten stuff and talked a bit and then buggered off.”
“Nathan . . .” She growled at him, delighted.
“OK, tell me.”
So she did: the price of the meal and the cut of the suit and the whiteness of the tablecloth, the highs and small hitches in the conversation and, of course, naturally, unavoidably after all that, the considered, in person, professional opinion, given with convincing care, that a significant proportion of her paragraphs were not too bad.
“Don’t let it go to your head, though.”
“Even if I do, you won’t.”
Am I a killjoy? Does she mean I’m a killjoy?
“Do you mean I’m a killjoy?”
“No. Daft bugger. Of course not. Give us a hug. Nobody’s hugged me for days.”
“Jonno’s back from Cardiff tomorrow, I’m sure he could manage something.”
“But I’ll have one of your hugs now. Thank you.”
He obliged, “Not at all, thank you,” aware that he was vaguely shaky, but hoping she wouldn’t notice if he was quick.
“Your note said you had a surprise for me. It’s not your book, is it? Is it? Is it your book?” She held him by the shoulders and searched about the room for signs of a manuscript. “Ah, you’ve moved it to the shelf. What does that mean?”
All in good time, all in good time.
“It means it’s away from prying eyes.” He gulped in a swift breath, “I sent you the note, because tonight I will cook you a celebration dinner.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Shut up—it will be good. Then, when it’s fully dark, we can go out and watch the comet—I’ve been able to see it really clearly, the last two nights. It’s weird, makes the sky look bigger, I’m not quite sure why.”
“Shit, I’d forgotten about that. What’s it like?”
“A little fire, far away—you seem to see the smoke—one smudge above it and one to the side. But before all that, before I . . . there’s . . . well, you know.”
“No, I don’t—you’ll have to tell me.” She was grinning.
He sighed, blinked, couldn’t meet her eye. “Before we do all of that— all the cooking and watching and so on—I am going to sit down and finish my novel.” He heard her let out a tiny breath, but carried on as if he hadn’t. “I am already very near the end. Really very near. Then, when you go off to Jonno tomorrow morning, you can take it with you. If you want.” He examined his shadow, almost smiling, horribly close to feeling proud, glad, at least satisfied. “If you happened to want.”
“Yes, I probably wouldn’t mind.” She hugged him again, kissed his ear. “Good work, Nathan Staples.”
“Certainly work, anyway.”
“Then, in that case—look—I’ll go over by the hut and get changed, because I haven’t yet—obviously—and I’ll come back feeling more comfortable and we’ll help ourselves celebrate in—what—two hours?”
“Less, if you like.”
It won’t take me that long to finish. Don’t leave me alone when I’ve finished. Please. I won’t know what to do.
“No, two hours would be best, because by then you’ll have the dinner ready—that’s what I’m aiming for.”
“Then two hours it is.”
If I was foolish, I would ask her for another hug to bring me luck.
But he let her leave hi
m.
Maybe later. Perhaps. I can wait. I do know how to wait.
And then Nathan went to the shelf and he fetched his papers down and he set them on the table beside his typewriter and his pad.
I would quite like it if this last little bit was in longhand. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.
I’d like my hand to be on it. Old-fashioned of me.
But she’ll get it typed, she’ll get it proper. Not just the first draft.
God.
So close now, so close.
He sat and waited for his head to clear.
Oh, God. Please let her understand. Please let her understand me.
Gradually, a couple of pages came clear and he worked his way through them slowly, keeping calm.
Oh, God. Dear God. Please, God.
He fed his paper softly between the rollers of his machine. He typed out a title, underlined it, the way he always did.
And then he began.
Thinking the World
I’m writing.
Really, I’m too tired to do it, but I’m writing, all the same.The whole place is falling still, getting ready for evening and that last big burst of bird song we both like. And outside, a comet is rising.
But then, I’ve already told you that. I’ve already written the way that you came to me an hour ago, I’ve already written out everything I know.
Almost.
Here’s one last Rule foryou: Rule Seven. I think that I have tried to follow it and not done well, but I do still believe this to be the most useful and beautiful Rule of all, the one that is most true: do it for love.
And.
If you can, forgive me.
And.
I didn’t intend to mention it, but I love you.
Of course.
I do love you.
And.
You know now as well as I do how this works. You understand what happens here.
This is where I’m in your hands completely.
Please, my darling, have need of me.
A. L. KENNEDY
Everything You Need
A. L. Kennedy has received many prizes for her work, including the Somerset Maugham Award, the Encore Award, and the Saltire Scottish Book of the Year Award. She lives in Glasgow.
BY A. L. KENNEDY
FICTION
Night Geometry and the Garscadden Trains
Looking for the Possible Dance
Now That You’re Back
Original Bliss
So I Am Glad
NONFICTION
The Life and Death of Colonel Blimp
On Bullfighting
FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, JULY 2002
Copyright © 1999 by A. L. Kennedy
Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Contemporaries and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
A portion of this novel was originally published in the Times Literary Supplement.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Warner Bros. Publications U.S. Inc. and ABKCO Music, Inc., for permission to reprint excerpts from “Where Have All the Good Times Gone” by Raymond Douglas Davies, copyright © 1965 (copyright renewed) by Davray Music Ltd. (PRS) and ABKCO Music, Inc. (BMI). All rights on behalf of Davray Music Ltd. administered by Unichappell Music Inc. (BMI). All rights reserved. . Publications U.S. Inc., Miami, FL 33014, and ABKCO Music, Inc.
The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress.
www.vintagebooks.com
www.randomhouse.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-42579-9
v3.0
Everything You Need Page 59