The Last Day

by Claire Dyer

  For Boyd it was the last straw. I never really blamed him. After all, he’d been the one keeping going; he’d carried on earning the money to pay the bills while I hadn’t been to my studio since the day William died.

  ‘I,’ Boyd said, coming over to me and placing one giant hand on my back as I was bending over to pick up a dropped sock. The sock was the size of a business card. It was pale blue with white spots. ‘I don’t think I can do this any longer,’ he said.

  ‘OK,’ I said.

  OK? Is that how you finish a marriage? Can it be that two tiny letters could actually dismantle the years we’d been together: the meeting, the moving in, the sex, the laughter, the arguments, the eating and sleeping and dealing with his mother? Is it a fitting way to bookmark the absolute and total grief we found that, in the end, we couldn’t share?

  ‘I’ll be gone by the end of the week. It’ll be good for us both to have some space, won’t it?’

  ‘I guess so,’ I replied, putting the sock into the bag and tying its handles.

  The rain was still falling when Boyd lifted his hand from my back and left the room.

  I put the bag into the cot and held on to the wooden bars of it, my knuckles showing white in the gloom.

  He moved out a week later and his absence was a solid thing.

  At first I was relieved that he’d gone, relieved that I no longer had to be responsible for his sadness or feel guilty about mine. If he’d asked to come back at any point during those first weeks and months, I would have turned him away. But then I started to take the first small steps through the grief: began to paint again, launched my website, ventured outside, talked to my neighbours and shopkeepers and yearned for Boyd to come back so that I could forgive him and be forgiven by him. But he didn’t, and no way was I going to ask him to.

  We talked often though, about everyday things: his work, my work, his mother, the house, the garden but, as time passed, I didn’t tell him about Colin and he obviously didn’t tell me about his early days with Honey. I’ve often wondered why Trixie didn’t do so and feel her betrayal over this keenly. And so, over the years, my heart became the barren, hard muscle I showed to him when he at last did ask if he could come back; it became the sad, weary and confused thing it is now he’s here and has brought Honey to live in the room that had once been our son’s.

  * * *

  The studio always takes ages to warm up so, pulling on a pair of jeans, my Ugg boots and an old sweater I make my way down the garden, unlock the door and switch on the heaters.

  On my way back up to the house I look over at Colin’s windows; they stare inscrutably back at me. I pull the cuffs of the jumper down over my hands to stop the cold air from getting to them and let out a kind of strangled snort. I remember this jumper; Boyd had bought it for me one Valentine’s Day and had presented it to me in a Harrods’ bag.

  ‘What the fuck?’ I’d said. ‘You surely haven’t gone and spent a fortune on me?’

  He’d grinned and his left eyebrow had raised just a fraction in that part-sardonic, part-little-boy-lost way and said, ‘No! I got the sweater from a charity shop, just put it in the bag to amuse you.’

  I’d lifted myself onto my tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the mouth. ‘How well you know me,’ I’d said and I meant it.

  Now, I notice that a thread’s coming loose on the hem. I’ll have to refasten it at some stage, or maybe I won’t. It’ll be some kind of poetic justice should the whole bloody thing unravel.

  I’m still feeling crap after last night’s excesses and so, when I get back to the kitchen, I take a couple of painkillers, make myself a cup of tea and a slice of toast and settle down on the sofa. I pick up the crossword but don’t even take the cap off my pen.

  At just before eleven, I’ve finished the tea and toast but have mostly been sitting with my eyes shut. I open them when I hear Honey bumping her way down the stairs.

  ‘Let’s get going then shall we?’ I say, more officiously than I’d intended. My head’s still thumping and I wish I hadn’t agreed to paint her bloody portrait in the first place.

  ‘OK,’ Honey replies, smiling widely.

  Honey’s also wearing a pair of jeans but has rolled one of the legs up to make room for her plaster. She’s also wearing one of Boyd’s jumpers. I want to laugh at this, but find myself unable to. As always, Honey looks infinitely more glamorous than I feel.

  We make our through the kitchen with its smattering of used crockery that no one’s been bothered to stack in the dishwasher yet, an almost-empty bottle of wine that Boyd and Honey must have shared last night, yesterday’s newspaper on the counter where Boyd must have left it. I both celebrate and mourn this mess, these signs of occupancy, signs of life.

  ‘I can hobble back and get a coffee, or something for you later, if you like,’ Honey says, taking my arm and adding, ‘You don’t mind, do you? But I’m feeling a bit unsteady right now.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind,’ I say, again more sharply than I mean to.

  Once in the studio, I put on the radio and turn the volume down low and we settle into our seats. Then I put the canvas on the easel and pick up my palette and brushes.

  It’s warm in here now and the windows are huffing up so that it feels a bit like we’re in a cocoon. There’s some comfort in us being here again, like it’s become a habit because it’s the second time we’ve done this.

  ‘How was Belle last time you saw her?’ Honey asks as I start mixing the paints.

  ‘Oh, as you’d expect: scared, bad-tempered, worried. How long ago did you see her?’

  ‘We went on Wednesday after work. She slept through most of the visit though. The nurses said it would be because of the medication.’

  ‘Ah,’ I say.

  ‘When did you go?’

  ‘I was there on Monday; said I’d go again tomorrow.’

  ‘Did you get on with her? I mean, before, well you know before …’ Honey’s voice trails off.

  ‘She’s never been the easiest of people. At the beginning she was downright hostile, which surprised me because Boyd said they’d never really been close and so it wasn’t as though I was taking her precious son away from her. You know how some mothers can be with their sons …’

  I’m appalled by what I’ve said so add hastily, ‘But then, later on, she seemed to soften a bit.’

  ‘Was that when you had William?’

  I hate it when Honey says William’s name and put down my brush so I can do something else with my hands for a moment. I tuck a stray lock of hair behind an ear and say, ‘Yes. I guess so.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Honey says. ‘It must be hard to talk about it. I shouldn’t have brought it up.’

  I’m painting again, putting some shade under Honey’s chin. ‘It’s OK,’ I say. ‘It was all such a long time ago.’

  And I’m back, back when I painted Boyd’s portrait, back when things were simple and good between us. When love was the only option, life was straightforward and it showed in his portrait; his honest face, his goodness shining through. It would, I reckon, be a very different kettle of fish if I decided to paint him now.

  ‘Boyd seldom mentions his dad,’ Honey says next. I know she’s trying to change the subject and I should be grateful, but here’s yet another subject that it’s hard to talk about.

  ‘He never spoke about him much to me either.’

  ‘Hasn’t Belle ever said anything to you?’

  ‘No. Not really.’ I change brushes, put a touch of white in Honey’s hair, where the light from the window is falling onto it. ‘Although she did say once that she found it hard to forgive Boyd for breaking his promise.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Honey shifts in the chair.

  ‘You OK?’ I ask. ‘Do you need to prop your leg up a bit?’

  ‘That would be good actually, thank you.’

  I move a stool from underneath one of the benches and plop a cushion on top of it. ‘There you go,’ I say. ‘That better?’

  ‘
Much, thank you.’

  We fall silent again for a moment and then Honey tips her head on one side and says, ‘What did you mean, you know when you said about Belle not forgiving Boyd?’

  ‘I’m not sure I should say.’

  I remember our first conversation, here in the studio when I’d said there was a lot Boyd didn’t talk about. How things have changed, I think now.

  ‘I won’t tell him. It’s just I’d love to know more. He’s like a closed book as far as his dad’s concerned.’

  I switch one of the bars off on the heater, then I clean my brush again and this time pick up some Permanent Mauve to do Honey’s eyes. I tap the brush against my glasses and say, ‘Apparently she’d made him promise not to try and find his father. It was part of a deal she’d struck when Boyd was born that neither of them would. I think, from what Belle said at the time, the man was married and didn’t want his family to find out. But then …’

  ‘Yes?’ Honey asks, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hands for a second. ‘God, it’s hard to sit still, isn’t it?’ she says, laughing a little.

  ‘Yes, it is but please try to do so,’ I say, a little crossly. I hadn’t wanted to be interrupted, not just at that point. I continue, ‘Well, then apparently Boyd did go. Just before he went off to university, he tracked his father down, went to see him, got turned away.’

  ‘That must have been awful.’

  ‘It was and then Belle got all silly about her will and power of attorney and said she’d never forgive Boyd.’

  ‘Do you think she has, or if she hasn’t, do you think she will, you know, before she …’

  ‘Before she dies, you mean? I’m not sure in either case. I bloody well hope so. He doesn’t deserve it, he really doesn’t. I mean, I admire Belle for what she did, bringing him up on her own and all that, but I’ve never liked the fact that she’s always held him hostage over this thing. After all, anyone would like to know who their parents are, if they didn’t know, wouldn’t they?’

  Honey makes a strange, small sound, halfway between a ‘Mmmm’ and a sob and then her phone starts ringing.

  ‘It’s Trixie,’ she says, ‘I’d better get it.’

  I nod and take off my glasses; again, everything is nicely blurry without them on. I take a tissue from the box on my work table and start to clean them.

  I’m only half listening to what Honey’s saying and am aware of the tinny sound of Trixie’s voice on the other end of the line but I can hear her saying something about vendors and Boyd and a house in Montague Gardens. I’m just putting the tissue into the pocket of my trousers when I sneeze.

  ‘Bless you,’ Honey says, holding the phone away from her face for a second and then, when she starts talking again, she says, ‘Oh, it’s only Vita.’

  What Trixie says next must be a question because Honey says, ‘Oh, we’re just hanging out. Nothing special.’ There’s a brief moment when no one moves or speaks: not me, or Honey, or Trixie on the other end of the phone, until Honey asks, ‘Has Boyd said what time he might be home? I promised to cook for him tonight. Can you ask him to let me know?’ She giggles and smiles at me.

  I give her some sort of smile in return, or I hope I do.

  When Honey’s finished the call, she says, ‘How are we doing? Do you want to stop? I’m happy to fit in with you.’

  It’s already one o’clock; the last two hours have raced by. My headache’s eased, but I have that empty feeling that comes with a hangover; something only a bowl of soup will fill.

  ‘Let’s give it a few moments longer, shall we?’ I say.

  ‘I’m in your hands.’

  Again, we are silent. I would like to say it is an easy, companionable silence but Honey has changed. Gone is the relaxed and happy Honey from earlier, now there’s a different Honey sitting before me, her shoulders tense, her hands twisting on her lap again. It’s like someone’s flicked a switch.

  ‘Actually,’ Honey says, ‘there’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.’

  ‘Is there?’ my heart quickens inexplicably.

  ‘I’ve been getting mysterious texts,’ Honey blurts it out almost too quickly for me to understand what she’s saying. ‘You know,’ Honey continues, ‘I told you about what the medium said about the fact I would be found, well I think the texts are from the person who’s looking for me.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’ As she talks the world shrinks to just this: Honey, the man who is out to get her and my powerlessness to do anything to stop it.

  ‘They started after I saw him, or thought I did. You remember? Outside the office? And then again, under the trees the day we went to visit Belle? You said you hadn’t seen him, but I’m sure he was there. Anyway, whoever it is uses different numbers. When I first got a message, I deleted it and blocked the sender’s number but then another one arrived from another phone and so I deleted it and blocked that, but I’m afraid that another message will come and that they’ll keep on coming.’

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘He signs the texts, “The Boatman”.’

  ‘So you think it’s got something to do with what that medium told you?’ I’ve given up all pretence of trying to continue with the painting now and am watching Honey carefully.

  ‘Well she did say I’d fall as you know …’ Honey points to her leg and tries to smile, but it’s unconvincing.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’s all a load of tosh,’ I say with more confidence than I feel. ‘But I think you’re right. Just ignore them. It’s probably just a hoax. Don’t give whoever it is the oxygen.’

  ‘You won’t tell Boyd, will you?’ Honey asks.

  ‘Of course not. I’ve already promised I won’t. What sort of person do you take me for?’

  ‘Thank you, and thank you for listening. I don’t know what I’d do without you.’ Honey slips off the chair and shuffles over to me and places a hand on my shoulder. I want to be able shrug it off, but I can’t, Honey’s too fragile; if I did brush her away, I’m worried she might break. Then I wonder whether this is what it’s like to be a parent, absorbing what you’re told and by so doing taking away its sting? The young can be intolerably selfish, they never stop to question what effect they are having, what legacy they leave behind.

  Honey takes a deep breath and then asks me whether she can see the picture and whether it’ll be ready for Christmas.

  ‘No, you can’t see it,’ I say, ‘not until it’s finished and no, it won’t be ready in time for Christmas. We need at least one more sitting, now scoot and let me clear up. I’m in dire need of hot soup and a nap.’

  ‘And I’d better start reading that bloody book and get my thinking cap on as to what I’m going to cook Boyd for dinner.’

  And with that, Honey’s gone. There’s a blast of cold air as she opens the door to the studio. The chill hangs around me for a moment until the warmth surges back again. Again, the studio seems unreasonably empty.

  ‘Fuck,’ I mutter, more out of habit than anything else, as I carefully turn the portrait around so it’s leaning against the back of the easel and start to tidy up. I wish more than anything that I’d never made that stupid promise not to say anything in the first place. I should tell Boyd everything Honey’s told me, I know I should.

  Honey

  She’s looking in the fridge when the thought strikes her. Perhaps she should have asked Vita if she’d like to eat with them tonight. She decides to mention it when Vita comes in to make the soup she said she’s going to have.

  Honey’s phone bleeps with a text and she presumes it’s Boyd letting her know what time he’ll be home. She’s found some chicken and an avocado and, rootling around in the cupboards, has also discovered some spice mix and tortilla wraps and so has decided to make fajitas for dinner. They’ll have a nice bottle of red to go with it and put their feet up. Ah, she laughs silently, put our feet up. As if she can do anything else with hers!

  She looks at her phone before checking the wine rack and clicks o
n the text. It’s from a number she doesn’t recognise.

  ‘Not long now,’ it says. ‘You’ll be out of plaster soon.’ And, of course, it’s signed ‘The Boatman’.

  And suddenly she’s furious. How dare he? How fucking dare he? All she has achieved here is under threat because of him and this time she’s not going to stand for it. And so she does what both Trixie and now Vita have told her not to, she replies. But she doesn’t reply as who she is now, oh no. She replies as the person she used to be, before she became Honey, before she started living this life with her best side facing the world and the other, the darker side, turned away from the light.

  ‘Just fuck off,’ she types. ‘Fuck off and die.’

  * * *

  Honey remembers the moment she decided to change the trajectory of her old life, the life when she’d been called the name her mother gave her, when she’d been the girl who’d negotiated her way through foster home after foster home: the first one with the man with the hands, the others where she’d tried to be a daughter and failed, where each time she felt she’d come up short, been a disappointment, to them and to herself in some intangible way.

  She’d woken that particular morning to find the bruises from the last time with ‘The Boatman’ hadn’t quite faded. She’d gone with him because of the money. She’d had to; she was literally living hand-to-mouth. Everything was precarious and insubstantial. Her life was crap and, waking that morning to that particular sun at the window, that particular configuration of dust motes in the air of her room, that particular person who called out something in the street below, that riff of birdsong, she’d decided that the life she was living was no answer and it was much, much less than she deserved. The only person she’d ever been able to rely on had been herself and so that was the moment she’d decided to do what she did.

  * * *

  Honey’s often wondered which the strongest emotion is. Is it love, or hate, or remorse? What is it that compels us do extraordinary things? And by extraordinary, she means not just things that are out of the ordinary, but things that are extreme.