Going Home

by Harriet Evans

  Later, as Mum and I were clearing up after the ham and Vegetable Roger I decided to wake Tom, so that he could enjoy a bit more of his Christmas Day, rather than coming to at three a.m. with a raging thirst. ‘I’m going to go and get Tom in a minute,’ I said to Mum, as we stood by the sink, washing the Things that are Too Big to Go in the Dishwasher.

  Mum was in a philosophical mood. ‘Ah, Tom,’ she said, staring out of the window into the dark, windy garden. ‘Lizzy, did you really never ask him?’

  ‘No,’ I said firmly.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, placing an earthenware pot on the draining-board. ‘Didn’t it ever come up?’

  I felt a bit impatient, as if I was being accused of being a bad cousin/friend. ‘No, it didn’t.’

  ‘But why not?’ said Mum, lowering another dish into the soapy water.

  ‘Because you don’t ask big questions over a glass of wine or on the way into the cinema,’ I explained. ‘How do you say, “Hi, Tom, the tickets for Party in the Park have arrived and, by the way, do you prefer the manlove?” It was up to him to tell me if he wanted to. I’d do anything for him, he knows that.’

  ‘I know, darling,’ said Mum. ‘I do understand. I’m just glad he felt he could tell us now. It was all so different in My Day.’

  ‘Right,’ I said, hiding a smile in a tea-towel and not particularly wanting to hear about the famous ‘My Day’, although I’d very much like a specific calendar date for it at some point. In My Day blokes were called chaps, rad fem med students like my mother wore Pucci tunics, had big hair with black bows on top, applied their eyeliner wearing oven gloves while sitting on a bumpy bus, and marched during the day against the Midland Bank or Cape fruits while in the evening they grooved and bed-hopped at someone’s shabby stucco South Ken flat. In My Day you knew one chap who was ‘a queer’, usually a photographer or a film director, and you told people about it in a subtle way that implied you were a free-thinking liberal.

  ‘Well, it’s been quite a Christmas so far, hasn’t it?’ said Mum, wiping her hands. She advanced towards me. ‘And I’ve hardly talked to you since you got back, darling. How are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said, alarmed by the sudden maternal probing.

  ‘Was it very awful seeing David today?’ she said in a casual way, filling the kettle.

  From the other side of the house I could hear Mike and Gibbo doing something to Chin that was making her scream. I put my elbows on the counter. ‘No, it was fine, thanks.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’ my mother persisted.

  My elbows were soggy. I straightened hastily. ‘Erm…in what way?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Lizzy,’ my mother said, crossly, I thought. ‘Either you miss someone or you don’t.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said, patting my damp arms. ‘What if there’s more than one factor involved? What if, say, you were madly in love with that person and would still be with them if it was up to you? Then you miss them. But what if that person slept with your friend in New York a month after he moved there and after he’d told you he wanted to spend the rest of his life with you? Well, yes, you still miss them, but you kind of don’t any more so much.’

  My mother stared at me, involuntarily wrapping her arms round herself. ‘What?’ she said, with a catch in her throat. ‘I knew it was serious, but…oh, my darling…’

  ‘Yes, blah blah,’ I said. ‘But it turns out he’s a lying so-and-so and I was wrong about him, so let’s forget about it, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, let’s,’ said Mum, and gave me a hug. ‘I don’t know, you children. I know I’m always saying this, but in My Day…’

  Thankfully, Kate came into the kitchen. ‘I was going to go and wake Tom. He’s been asleep for nearly six hours, you know. He told me he hadn’t slept at all the previous three nights because…he wanted to tell us.’ She smiled wanly.

  ‘I’ll go and get him,’ I said.

  ‘Be nice to him,’ said Kate. I stared at her. Kate, the scariest woman south of the M4? Kate, who made the postman cry? I expected her to support her son but in a bluff, Kate-ish way, but there were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Oh, Kate,’ I snapped. ‘Is it that much of a surprise to any of us? It’s hardly like finding out about John Major and Edwina Currie, is it? I mean…’ I tailed off. She was looking at me in a really scary way. ‘I’ll be off then,’ I said hurriedly, and ran out of the door. I bounded upstairs, shoes clacking on the wooden staircase, and knocked on Tom’s door. No answer. I banged again.

  ‘Hello…?’

  ‘Tom, it’s Lizzy. Can I come in?’

  ‘Lizzy…’ The voice was muffled and distant. ‘Hello…ouch.’

  I pushed open the door. ‘Hello again,’ I said, and sat on the bed.

  ‘Hi,’ said Tom, from beneath his duvet. ‘Oh, God…’

  ‘Your mum sent me to get you.’

  ‘I can’t go down there and face them.’

  ‘Why not?’ I enquired.

  ‘I just can’t. I made such a fool of myself earlier.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter, silly,’ I said, stroking his feet. ‘They don’t care – none of us cares.’

  Tom sat bolt upright and stared at me. His hair was incredibly amusing. It was springing out stiffly from his head at a 45-degree angle. I giggled.

  ‘That’s just it,’ Tom said angrily. ‘None of you cares. You knew all along. Here I am, carrying this awful secret around, living this double life where everyone at work and most of my other friends all know, and I haven’t told you, the people who mean most to me in the whole world. And when I pluck up courage to tell you this terrifying thing, all you do is laugh. Well, I wish I’d never bothered.’ He ran his fingers through his hair.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I whispered, horrified. ‘Honestly, none of us is laughing at you. We’re proud of you for having the guts to do it. Even if we did know. And I wasn’t laughing about that just now – your hair looks mad.’

  ‘I made a fool of myself,’ Tom moaned.

  ‘No, you didn’t,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, I did. Don’t lie to me, Lizzy.’ He stared up at me briefly, then buried his head under the duvet again. ‘Just go away,’ he mumbled.

  I decided honesty was the best option. ‘Well, yes you did,’ I said quickly, ‘make a bit of a fool of yourself. But – oh, Tom, can’t you see why? You had red wine round your mouth, you were swaying and you fell over! That was why it was funny at first, and that’s what you’re probably remembering – if you can remember it,’ I added. ‘And the only way to show it doesn’t matter is if you come downstairs with me now, have a coffee, and make the others laugh so that they think you’re OK and they don’t have to be embarrassed about it.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right. But…I just don’t want to go back down there.’

  ‘Oh, come off it, Tom,’ I said. ‘Get a grip. Look at the sorry collection of humans downstairs. Jess? What does she care if you’re gay, straight or a homicidal maniac? Gibbo? He’s only known you a day – I hardly think this is a body blow to him. Chin? Her friends are always coming out of the closet – look at Marcus.’

  ‘Marcus is gay?’ said Tom, pursing his lips and making snake eyes at me. ‘Fanbloodytastic.’

  ‘And, Tom,’ I continued, hoping I was on the home straight, ‘what do you think our family’s going to remember this Christmas for? You telling us what we already knew? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Mike…’

  ‘Exactly,’ I said, slapping his thigh. ‘When you look at it objectively, your news hardly compares with the ageing lawyer uncle bursting in on Christmas Eve with his busty bride of two days and acquaintance of four weeks. Think about it.’

  ‘Holy guacamole,’ said Tom, ‘you’re right.’

  ‘Of course I’m right. Come on, get up, you idiot.’

  ‘Lizzy,’ said Tom, hugging me, ‘you’re great.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I answered, and I allowed myself a moment of internal glow for my good deed.

  ‘I’
m not playing Shoot Shag Marry with you again, though,’ said Tom, swinging his legs off the bed. He picked up a glass of water from beside his bed and glugged it down. ‘You’re terrible at choosing – you always pick completely the wrong people. And I don’t just mean David. Remember when you said you’d rather marry Duncan from Blue over Ryan Philippe?’

  ‘I stand by that,’ I said, as Tom pushed me through the door. ‘Duncan’s gorgeous and he’ll cut the mustard when he’s fifty, but Ryan’s pretty-boy looks will be gone in a flash.’

  ‘You’re hopeless,’ said Tom, as we trotted downstairs together. ‘Really you are. You’re the one who needs the sympathy, not me. You couldn’t spot a good thing coming if he was completely gorgeous and wearing a T-shirt that said “Good Thing Coming” on it.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, linking my arm through his.

  ‘I hope so,’ Tom said. ‘What about Miles? You could always shag him – he’d be up for it.’

  ‘You make me sound like a complete slapper,’ I said, not without a note of pride in my voice.

  ‘Oh, Lizzy,’ said Tom. ‘You wish. But listen to me. Anyone but David or that madman Jaden, and you’ll be fine.’

  I couldn’t say, ‘But I don’t really want anyone but David,’ so I said nothing except ‘Come on, we’re here.’

  As we stood in the hall, I looked through to the sitting room. There, framed in the doorway, my father was enthusiastically poking the fire with the end of the bellows and Mike was leaning against the mantelpiece, holding Dad’s whisky glass. ‘Bollocks, John,’ he said, as Dad jabbed ineffectually at another log. ‘No, that one there! Get that one over it, fella’ll burn for hours. No, no! Give it to me!’

  ‘Get off!’ said Dad, brandishing a poker, as if he and Mike were little boys again. Mike scowled and flopped into the armchair next to him, then picked up an old Eagle annual and popped a chocolate into his mouth.

  Rosalie sat in one of the battered old chintz armchairs to their left, with Chin perched on the arm. They were both laughing – I could hear Gibbo reaching the end of a convoluted story.

  Suddenly Mike caught sight of us. ‘Hello, you two,’ he said, leaping up and striding towards us. He slapped Tom on the back. Come and get a drink – get one for Lizzy too. Here, have one of my chocolates!’

  I sat down on the one empty sofa and felt the old springs sag. Mike handed me a glass of whisky, and Rosalie winked at him.

  ‘All right, darling?’ hissed Kate across the room, under cover of Gibbo’s story.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ Tom grinned.

  ‘And then,’ Gibbo continued, ‘they said, “Get out of Bangkok, and if you show your face in here again, we’re going to put you in prison.” And I said, “Well, that’s not fair,” and the bloke cuffed me and I woke up on a boat with all my stuff gone.’

  ‘Right,’ Jess said. ‘Have you ever been to the street where they film Neighbours, Gibbo?’

  Several more stories from Gibbo, a lot more alcohol and three Frank Sinatra albums later, our Christmas Day party broke up and, one by one, we trickled off to bed. Mum went first, followed by Kate, then Chin and Gibbo, till only the hardcore were left. Tendrils of ivy clattered against the panes as we talked. Each of us was eager to reassure Tom. Mike, with the grace of the seasoned conversationalist, picked up the baton and referred affectionately to Tom’s ‘break-out’. Tom, the lawyer, laughed in bashful but genuine amusement and threw it back, with a comment on Mike’s new comb-over. My father, the erstwhile captain of his university debating team, rolled the thinning-hair and outed-nephew gags into one with an anecdote about Oscar Wilde that gracefully touched on each but undermined neither. Jess, whose grey matter I sometimes worry might be composed of dead skin cells, sat up suddenly and said she didn’t get it, so we took the piss out of her until she dozed off on the sofa.

  By the time I got into bed the wind was howling. I pulled the duvet tightly round me as rain lashed against the windows. A gate was slamming and creaking in the gale, and as I wondered when it would stop I heard Mike pad downstairs and venture out into the storm.

  I peered outside and saw him, in a battered old woollen dressing-gown and stripy pyjamas, twisting a piece of wire round the catch. As Confucius so rightly said, ‘There is nothing more pleasurable than to watch an old friend fall from a rooftop.’ The wind wailed louder. Wait! It was a human wail. I got up, unfastened the window and looked out. Rosalie was hanging out of hers. ‘…eee…areful…ike…’ she yelled. ‘Ohmigod…don’t sli…Wet path!’

  ‘Aaargh!’ Mike shouted, and slipped. He got up, looking furious, knees and hands covered with mud. ‘…ucking…couldn’t…simple thing…a gate?’ he growled, his normally unruffled nature clearly very ruffled.

  ‘Are you OK, honey?’ I heard Rosalie say as the wind dipped momentarily.

  Mike brushed himself off, spread his arms wide and beamed up at her, rain streaming down his face. ‘I am coming back up to you, my sweet,’ he bellowed. ‘Wet, dirty, covered with mud and rust, I shall bring you this token from my garden.’

  He picked up a handful of streaming wet gravel. ‘I’m putting this down your nightie. Now lie still, I’ll be up in a minute, to give you a—’

  I shut the window hurriedly.

  And that was Christmas. As I lay down, the events of the day rushed through my mind in reverse order, a bizarre kaleidoscope of images: Mike yelling up to his wife in the pouring rain; Mum washing up in the kitchen; Tom’s redwine smile; the clinking of glasses as we sat down to lunch; Rosalie flicking through the papers in the study; the hollows beneath Kate’s cheekbones as she laid the wreath on Tony’s grave; David at the church, looking at me with those dark eyes…and all the way back to this morning, when I ran downstairs, excited as a little girl by the prospect of what the day would bring. And then I must have fallen asleep. Perhaps it was inevitable that I’d dream about David. I hadn’t for a while, those dreams where he still loved me and I could see him, hear him, so clearly that I was sure I wasn’t dreaming and that we were back together again until I woke up. Six months ago I had them every night. And it was still the same feeling then, as now – it was still the most bittersweet torture of all.

  EIGHT

  In the year and a bit that David and I were together, I was sure of three things: one, that I loved him; two, that he loved me; three, that this was the way it was always going to be. I didn’t worry about whether we’d get married or look at cots and sigh longingly. I never thought about the future because all that mattered was that I’d found him and he loved me.

  I’ll never make that mistake again. I learned a lot from David, but the most important thing is that loving someone so much your heart turns over with happiness every time you draw breath isn’t enough. It can’t save you; the only thing you can do is to try and get over it.

  When we’d been going out for nearly a year, he was offered a job in New York. It was a good one – with a highly respected newspaper – and it meant more money as well as a step up the career ladder. In every way, it was the most simple decision to make – except one. I didn’t want him to go, and he didn’t want to leave me.

  Of course, we were terribly adult about it. I never said, ‘Oh, God, please don’t go. I’ll miss you so much. I’m glad you’ve got this job and I’m so proud of you but don’t go.’ Sometimes now I wish I had, just so he knew how much I loved him. How much I really loved him.

  It was strange helping him pack up his flat, having endless farewell parties and dinners, where the same conversations were rehashed over and over again. ‘You’ll miss him, won’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are you going out to see him?’

  ‘In a fortnight’s time.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got email and the flight’s really not that long, is it?’

  ‘No.’

  Sometimes, when I was having these conversations, I’d look up and see David watching me, as if he wasn’t sure about something. As if he couldn’t decide whether he wanted me to be weeping an
d devastated, or calm and businesslike about his going.

  I loved him so much it hurt. When I closed my eyes and thought about him, my heart would clench – even if he was standing next to me. And I was almost as happy when he wasn’t there, because having him in my life, loving him, knowing he lived in the same place as me, that I had held him and made love to him, made me feel gorgeously lucky, young, happy and in love. Until I knew I had to say goodbye to him.

  On one of the first days of late spring, a beautiful English day when the trees, the grass and hedges are at their most green, we went together to the airport. We checked in his bags, then sat at a café in near silence. I couldn’t cry: I didn’t want him to leave a weeping, drooping fool (and I didn’t want his last memory of me to be as a honking, pink-nosed pig with rivulets of mascara around my eyes and on my cheeks). As the time drew near for him to go through, the silence between us pooled, lengthened. I felt dizzy, hot, muffled with cotton wool. Suddenly I wanted to say, ‘I love you. Don’t go. I don’t want to spend another night apart from you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. I love you.’ I opened my mouth: my throat felt dry.

  The flight was called. David drained his coffee and said easily, ‘Right, I’d better go.’

  I should have made my speech then but he was swinging his backpack over his shoulder. Instead I said croackily, ‘Did you pack the Rough Guide in your suitcase or have you got it with you for the flight?’

  ‘In here, thanks,’ he said, indicating his rucksack.

  ‘Good.’

  As I stood at the gate and kissed him, he drew back. I smiled brightly and swallowed.

  ‘This is for you,’ David said. He handed me a crumpled brown-paper bag. ‘I should have given it to you earlier. Listen, I – oh, God, they’re calling the flight again. I’m late. Open it when you get home. I love you, Lizzy. Tell me you love me.’ His eyes were on me, almost pleading, alert, looking for something.