A Touch of Love

by Jonathan Coe

  The thought had occurred to Kathleen before, of course, but she found it interesting to hear it from someone like Robert, and it increased her initial, tentative liking for him. Their train soon arrived and their conversation meandered over onto other, less demanding topics. But when the time came to part at Birmingham New Street station, they had already established enough intimacy for him to feel able to make a suggestion.

  ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I have a friend who lives in Leicester. I was going to go and stay with him, the weekend after next. How would it be if I dropped in on you while I was there, for a cup of tea or something?’

  And this was indeed what he did, except that he ended up spending most of the weekend with Kathleen, rather than with his friend. On the Sunday evening, she said to him:

  ‘I’ve got an aunt who lives in Birmingham, who I really ought to go and see, one of these days. The only thing is, I don’t think she has the room to put me up. I couldn’t stay a couple of nights at your place, could I?’

  And so Kathleen came and stayed a whole weekend with Robert, in the house which he shared with two other students, during which time she only went and saw her aunt once (and that was just a few hours before she had to go back to Leicester).

  Autumn is a hopeful season for young people and for those of an academic frame of mind: it is the start of a new year, and a much more visible, less arbitrary start than that which is deemed to take place in midwinter. Birmingham, which is a gentle and leafy city (I write this for the benefit of those who have never been there) can look beautiful at this time of year, if you catch it off its guard: copper and silver branches stand out against sharp bright sad blue skies, and pockets of dry leaves are rustled and flapped around the corners of tower blocks and neat red terraces. As a time and a place for starting up a serious friendship with a member of the opposite sex, it cannot be recommended too highly.

  Robert and Kathleen had this in their favour, then, and, to give them credit, they made the most of it. An immense fondness grew between them. It was founded on an intelligent liking for one another, an intellectual and spiritual compatibility, combined with a sense of ease and quiet pleasure which each took in the other’s physical presence: they enjoyed watching each other do things, prepare cups of tea, chop vegetables, turn the pages of a book, stretch out languidly on a sofa and fall into rest. They enjoyed watching each other sleep. And above all, their friendship had one great strength, which was that no guilt attached to it. Because neither of them felt entirely dependent on the other, Robert would not be racked with anxiety if Kathleen was in a bad mood, Kathleen would not torture herself with selfish remorse if Robert was unhappy, and so on. They faced each other’s anxieties and depressions robustly and with thinking sympathy. And sex, of course, that great cause of guilt between miserable couples, that tiny vessel from which we expect to be able to pour so many and such varied medicines – affection, reconciliation, celebration, atonement, gratitude, valediction – was not around, in this case, to cloud the issue; was never there, to fall back on, or to use as the beckoningly simple solution to problems with which it had no real connection.

  ‘So is that your new girlfriend, then?’ Robert was asked, by one of his house-mates, on a Sunday evening shortly after seeing Kathleen off at the station.

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘not really.’

  He puzzled over the question in his bed that night. He did not want to use the word ‘girlfriend’ because it implied claims over Kathleen which he felt he did not have. At the same time the word ‘friend’ seemed somehow insufficient. As he thumbed through a private, mental thesaurus he came to see that there is no word which can he used to denote a person for whom one feels a strong and particular affection which is not also loaded with romantic connotations. This struck him as being unsatisfactory. In addition, he began to realize that there were certain actions and gestures which, though spontaneous and delightful in themselves, were, similarly, loaded with associations of a sort which he was not sure that Kathleen would have thanked him for. For instance, one morning, on a day when Kathleen was meant to be visiting him in Birmingham, she telephoned to say that she was ill with flu and wouldn’t be able to come. Every impulse and instinct within him cried out to send, by immediate dispatch, a large bunch of flowers together with a sympathetic message. But supposing she were to take it the wrong way? Supposing the other women in her house were to see the flowers and to start teasing her about it? The thought of embarrassing her, or of overstepping the unspoken (and hence vague) boundaries which marked out what was and what was not permissible between them, was enough to prevent him from doing anything about it at all. As it was, Kathleen had spent most of that day lying in bed half expecting the delivery of a large bunch of flowers together with a sympathetic message, and had been quietly but significantly hurt by Robert’s ostensible lack of concern. (She had never, however, been able to admit this to him, for fear of overstepping those selfsame unspoken boundaries.)

  They rarely kissed or embraced: usually only at meeting or parting, or to mark an exchange of gifts. The embraces were always short, but it was never clear who gave the signal to discontinue them; the kisses were always on the cheek, not on the mouth, but it was never clear who made this decision. Robert would think to himself, ‘I would not go for her cheek, if she were only to offer her mouth’, and Kathleen would think to herself, ‘I would offer my mouth, but he is always so quick to make for my cheek.’ They treasured these moments, none the less, for all their confusion and hesitancy.

  In all the weekends which they spent at each other’s houses, they never shared a bed. At Robert’s house, Robert would sleep on the sofa, in the sitting room, while Kathleen slept in his bed, and at Kathleen’s house, Kathleen would sleep on a camp bed, in the dining room, while Robert slept in her bed. Under this arrangement a good night’s sleep was guaranteed for all, and there was no danger of one or the other of them trying any funny business. And yet sometimes Robert, lying awake on his sofa, at three o’clock in the morning, would find himself thinking that it might, after all, be nice to feel Kathleen’s body lying warm beside him, to listen to the soft ebb and flow of her breathing, to brush lightly against her arms as she slept. And sometimes Kathleen, lying awake on her camp bed, watching the dawn break, would find herself thinking that there was a sense, perhaps, in which it would be pleasant to have Robert lying next to her, a body to cling gently to in the first silent minutes of sleep, a face to awake to in the grave restful light of a late Sunday morning. They both had these thoughts, undoubtedly; but it did not stop them from feeling, in their hearts, that they were right to behave as they did.

  One weekend, after this friendship had been continuing for two or three months, two very close friends of Robert’s from Surrey came to stay in Birmingham. They were a young married couple and were visiting relatives in the area. It was arranged that they should meet Robert for a drink on the Saturday night, and naturally he was anxious that Kathleen should come along too. It was a very busy period for her – a whole batch of her thesis had to be written up, word-processed and submitted in time for a departmental deadline on Wednesday morning – but she realized that it meant a great deal to Robert (as well as to herself) that she should meet his friends, so she made a special journey over from Leicester on Saturday evening.

  An evening such as this will often resolve into two dialogues: Robert found himself talking mainly to Barbara, while Kathleen became engaged in a long and earnest conversation with his old school friend, Nicholas. This conversation, in fact, proceeded almost uninterrupted, conducted in low and earnest tones, heads together, while Robert and Barbara talked more fitfully, the pauses becoming increasingly prolonged as they slowly exhausted their range of topics for discussion. It was to bring an end to one of these pauses that Barbara remarked:

  ‘You and Kathleen are obviously very close.’

  This was an odd thing to say, given that they had barely spoken to each other all evening, but Robert was pleased nevertheless.
r />   ‘Yes, we are.’

  ‘How long have you been going out with her, now?’

  ‘Oh, we’re not “going out”,’ he explained, smiling at her naivety. ‘We don’t sleep together, or do any of those things that couples do.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, rather surprised. ‘So you’re just good friends.’

  Robert pondered this phrase.

  ‘What a peculiar expression that is,’ he said. ‘How dismissive, how reductive. That little word, “just”, is so devastating. As if the absence of sex from a relationship leaves it at an altogether more trivial level, floundering. Kathleen and I always think of it as being the other way around. If we see two people doing something together we always ask, “Do you think they’re good friends?”, and if they don’t really seem to be enjoying each other’s company the answer is usually, “No, just lovers”,’

  Barbara laughed. ‘I see your point. That’s what I meant, you see, when I said you seemed very close. You understand one another. You think the same way.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we do.’

  The conversation then returned to its previous halting, unambitious level, and they discussed Barbara’s career prospects, the difficulties of getting about Surrey by public transport, and the possibility of their building an extension to their back bedroom. Most of the time, however, they were silent. Meanwhile Kathleen and Nicholas continued unabated.

  It was getting on for midnight as Robert and Kathleen entered upon the last few narrow backstreets leading to his house. A strange silence had established itself between them. Kathleen had made occasional friendly openings which had been met only with monosyllables and sarcasm, and now she was growing fearful of having to go to bed before the thing was explained; also, she needed to talk to Robert about his friend; there were questions which she wanted to ask him. So she said:

  ‘Are you angry with me, for any reason?’

  ‘No. I never get angry with you. You know that.’

  This had indeed been true, until now.

  ‘You’re very quiet this evening, that’s all. I mean, normally, an evening like this, an evening out with friends, we’d be talking about it now, we’d be discussing it.’

  ‘Would we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They walked on a few more paces.

  ‘There doesn’t seem to be much to say, if you ask me.’

  ‘Oh, doesn’t there?’ She stopped and turned to him. ‘You never told me about your friend, you never told me about all this stuff he’s going through. I mean, that guy really needed to talk to someone. What’s the matter with you two, don’t you ever talk to each other?’

  ‘I don’t see him that often,’ said Robert, feebly. ‘Anyway, what do you mean? What’s he been saying to you?’

  ‘He’s been telling me about his depression. Has he not talked to you about that? He’s been having to take treatment for it. He’s been taking days off work without telling people and – well, it started with his sister dying last year, you must have known about that, and then some sort of loss of faith. He’d been going to Quaker meetings… He was on the point of killing himself a couple of months ago.’

  ‘What – Nick? Don’t be silly. He’d never do a thing like that.’

  ‘He told me, for God’s sake. He told me that he went to the very top of this bloody great tower block in southeast London and nearly threw himself off. You mean he never told you?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Men. Jesus! You can’t talk to each other, can you? You’re so screwed up.’

  Robert began to walk on. Kathleen sighed heavily, ran to catch up with him, and took him by the arm.

  ‘I’m sorry, Robert, I didn’t mean that to sound hurtful. You know I don’t think of you that way. You know I don’t lump you in with everyone else.’ He slowed down, but almost imperceptibly. ‘I’m sorry we didn’t talk much to each other tonight, because I like talking to you, I like talking to you more than to anyone. It’s just that… I think it was important, for him to have someone listening at last. Perhaps I even managed to cheer him up a bit. Do you think?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you did.’

  ‘You are?’ She was struck by the uncommon note of certainty in his voice.

  ‘Well, it would cheer any man up, wouldn’t it?’ Robert said. ‘Having a pretty woman flirt with him all evening.’

  Kathleen stopped in her tracks, Robert walked on. But after only a few seconds he stopped too, and turned to watch her. She had sat down, on the low wall of a front garden; beneath the amber glow of the street lamp she looked very pale and beautiful. When she clasped her arms together, and her body began to shake, Robert went back to her quickly, in a sudden panic, and sat down beside her and put a hand on her leg.

  ‘Darling, I’m sorry. Look, love, I’m sorry, I was… I don’t know why I said that. It’s just a mood I’m in tonight. I didn’t mean it. I was…’

  ‘… just being difficult,’ they said, in unison, slowly.

  Robert looked away, remembering.

  In point of fact Kathleen had been laughing: sad, spasmodic laughter. She had realized all at once, and was trying to see the funny side.

  ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘We’re lovers. Aren’t we? We’re lovers, and this is a lovers’ quarrel, and what really annoys me is we haven’t even done any of the good things lovers are supposed to do before they start quarrelling.’

  ‘Is that what’s going on?’ said Robert.

  ‘Of course it is.’ Her laughter grew louder, and more felt. ‘God, how stupid! We must be the first couple in the world to be splitting up before we’ve even started going out.’

  ‘Splitting up? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean this is the end, Robert,’ said Kathleen, standing, and putting her hands deep into her coat pockets. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, this is the end.’

  ‘What, you mean – you’re chucking me?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Kathleen, walking on. ‘Yes, I think so.’

  His mind was fizzing with confusion. It took him some time to form and phrase his objection, and when it was finally ready, it came out sounding prim and indignant:

  ‘But… you can’t chuck me. I mean, I’m not your boyfriend!’

  Kathleen had disappeared from view – presumably not finding this a very persuasive line of argument – and the silence of the midnight streets was now absolute; even her distant footsteps had quite faded away. Robert assumed that she was heading for his house, so he started to follow: but then, before he had had time to catch up, he broke into a run and took a short cut. He felt it was important to have the sofa ready for when she arrived.

  Tuesday 15th July, 1986

  Robin did not talk to Aparna about his story for another three months. They saw each other during this time, once a week, perhaps more, and for a while it seemed as though his situation had brought about a great change in her. She had been generous with her sympathy, loyal and giving in her support. Robin was reminded, in fact they were both reminded, of the days when he had first come to the university, the days when he and Aparna were new to one another, and they had struck up what he had felt, at the time, was sure to be a lasting friendship: they had talked and argued and read together, and they had laughed, as Robin had never laughed before. Although it was years since he had heard it, he could still remember Aparna’s laughter: a tremendous, rippling peal, gathering strength and momentum, and then ringing on, long after the joke was played out, bubbling to rest at last amid a panting and gasping for breath. Her eyes and her teeth had shone like the moon. She was dazzling. And it had been wonderful, in these last three months, to hear her joke again, to feel the irresistible tug of her humour, even when he knew that she was only doing it to distract him from his worries. It had been wonderful, too, when he could no longer suffer the chill of his own despair, to seek out her warmth, the warmth of her trust: for Aparna, alone among all his friends, had never flagged in her conviction that Robin was innocent.

  But it was not only her sympathy for Robin which w
as making her kind; there was also a more personal hopefulness which he had not expected to see in her again. She was more forthcoming about her work. It transpired that, for the first time in more than a year, she had started writing again. A new idea had begun to take shape, and she believed that she had finally struck upon a line of argument which could not fail to meet with her supervisor’s approval. It seemed possible that she might finish her thesis after all, that all her effort would be rewarded, that she would finally prove herself in the eyes of the academic authorities who had persisted in doubting her. Robin was staggered by the amount of energy she continued to devote to this project. She was invariably working when he visited her, and she rarely stopped, by her own account, until three or four in the morning.

  One afternoon she allowed him to read everything that she had written so far; and they talked about it, at first in her flat, and then over dinner at a restaurant near the city centre. It began as a more or less serious discussion, with Robin expressing real enthusiasm, tempered with criticism on some points of detail; but gradually the tone of the argument became more playful. Aparna teased him about his intellectual prejudices and soon got him reminiscing about Cambridge: she always liked to hear stories about some of the absurd people he had known there. By the end of the evening they were both moderately drunk and helpless with inexplicable laughter. Robin ended up sleeping on her sitting-room floor and realized, just before falling asleep, that he had actually managed to spend an evening without once thinking of the impending trial.

  So it was hardly surprising that he should be drawn to Aparna again, on the day when he received Emma’s note. It had simply asked him to call in at the office as soon as possible. He had gone at once, and found a different Emma: nervous, brusque, inarticulate. She set out the advantages of a plea of guilty; she explained how serious it would be if he stood trial and the verdict went against him. She said nothing, this time, about her own faith in his case.