by Jonathan Coe
‘Is there nothing we can do, nothing at all, which proves we have control over our own lives?’
There was a short silence.
‘Which way did you walk to the hotel?’
‘By the river,’ said Harry, not even registering any surprise at the question.
‘And what were you thinking, while you were walking by the river?’
‘I looked at it,’ said Harry, ‘and wondered how deep it was in the middle…’
‘So there’s your answer,’ said his friend. ‘It’s the only way. If you really want to prove that you have control over what becomes of you, if you really want to break the vicious circle, that’s how you do it.’ He laughed, and patted Harry on the back. ‘But that’s not what you want – really – is it?’
Harry smiled back gratefully and shook his head.
‘What you really want is a good cup of tea, and for someone to tell those guys to play something more cheerful. So why don’t I go and do that?’
‘All right, Larry. Thanks.’
Harry went to the lavatory, washed his hands and face in warm water, and stood for a while with his back to the wall, breathing deeply. He had thought that he would cry, he had even wanted to cry, but the tears had failed him. Instead he felt a subtle elation which, had he been capable of analysing it, he might have recognised as a return of his own deadly self-reassurance. What he found peculiarly comforting at that moment was the thought of Larry buying him another cup of tea, waiting for him, thinking up further words of consolation and encouragement. He was pleased to feel that he was again occupying centre-stage in the consciousness of another human being.
It was just as well, then, that he was not there to see Angela arrive at their table, murmur ‘Lawrence, darling’, run her hand through his hair and kiss him on the mouth. By the time Harry emerged from the lavatory, they had both disappeared.
Emma sank into the sofa and looked around the sitting room of her little house. It was not that she was tired, or that she especially wanted to take stock of her sitting room at that moment, but she had got herself ready too early, as usual, and now she had time to kill. She liked this room. You entered it straight from the street and dinner guests always began by saying, ‘Oh, what a lovely room.’ Then they noticed the photographs arranged in groups of four on the walls: sepia prints of Emma’s great-grandparents and their family, taken near the turn of the century – she had brought them back down from Edinburgh that summer. She looked at them now and felt supported by their benign melancholy, the fixed, unforced confidence of their gaze. In the face of a sad, upright great-great-aunt she could discern a curious resemblance to herself. Up in the attic at home, while they had been hunting these photographs out one afternoon from damp cardboard boxes, her father had told her the history of this woman, as well as he could remember it: she had married young and was widowed young and had never had children. Quite late in life she had taken to medicine and had even published a now forgotten textbook.
Emma felt comfortable sitting on the sofa looking at her family portraits, and suddenly it occurred to her that she did not want to go out this evening at all. This invariably happened. She worried herself with fears that she would never be able to build up a proper social life and then, when the opportunity finally arose to get out and see somebody, she had qualms. She hadn’t been out all day and first there would be the problem of wiping all the snow off the car and getting it started. Then she would have to stop off at an off-licence and get some wine, and then she would have the worry of leaving her car parked out in the street near Hugh’s flat, which was not in a particularly safe area. And once she was there she wouldn’t be able to drink much herself, because she would have to drive back. All but the main roads were bound to be slippery and dangerous. On top of all this, did she really want to spend a whole evening with Hugh, whose company, she now realized, she had mainly used to enjoy as an antidote to her husband’s?
Probably she would have had no hesitation in cancelling the evening if it were not for her anxiety to gain further information about Robin. Even if the story which Hugh had in his possession turned out to be unimportant, there was a peculiar pleasure in the prospect simply of spending a few hours talking about him. She had not yet asked herself why it was that she wanted to find out more about the circumstances of his death, or when it was that her initial, frozen shock had developed into a more enquiring kind of involvement. It had taken nearly a month, since the idea had first suggested itself, to compose her letter to Ted. He had written back promptly and courteously. He had been appalled, he said, by the news of the suicide, and he could sympathize with her feelings of implication and grief. Nevertheless, he thought it absurd that any blame should attach to Emma herself. If he could set her mind at rest by offering any sort of explanation, he would do so, but he felt as baffled by the whole affair as she did. Nothing that had passed between him and Robin on the day of their last meeting had prepared him for such a development. They had ended by swapping reminiscences of their undergraduate days, in the most affectionate terms. Ted was deeply sorry that he could be of no further assistance; but he took this opportunity of returning to her a notebook, belonging to Robin, which he had found in the pocket of his overcoat some weeks before. It contained the first of his short stories. Ted must have taken it home with him by mistake.
He had also sent her a Christmas card, and a photocopied newsletter giving her a great deal of irrelevant information about his family. The card stood on the mantelpiece with six others: there would be fewer than usual this year. Two of her friends had invited her to come and stay with them for Christmas Day, and while Emma duly recognized the kindness behind these offers, she resented the underlying assumption that to be separated from one’s husband was to be reduced to a state of chronic isolation and possibly homelessness. The idea of spending Christmas alone did not worry her, although she had decided, mainly in response to pressure from her parents, to go back to Edinburgh for a few days. Meanwhile she had succeeded in making her house, downstairs at least, look tolerably festive. She noticed that the tree in the stairwell had been shedding its needles again, and was glad of the excuse to get the vacuum cleaner out and busy herself for a few minutes. When that was finished she decided that she might as well go.
There were very few people in the streets, for a Saturday night. Humanity made its presence felt in Coventry that evening not by walking drunkenly along pavements, or making its way, in groups of four or five, to wine bars and nightclubs; rather, it implied itself by means of lit windows, drawn curtains, distant music. Behind every front door Emma could imagine parties in progress, televisions being watched, drinks being poured and children staying up late. She wondered what Mark and Elizabeth would be doing; at least, she assumed that Mark and Elizabeth would be together that night, somewhere or other. When Mark and Emma had separated, they had made the usual promises of continuing to see each other as friends, but because they had ceased to be friends long ago, long before they split up, these promises had never been kept. She had very little idea of how he spent his time these days, and was unable completely to subdue her curiosity on the subject. Naturally they had sent each other Christmas cards.
Emma parked beneath an amber streetlamp a few doors away from Hugh’s flat. By now the roads were layered with more than an inch of snow, and he seemed a long time answering the doorbell, long enough for her to get thoroughly cold. When he appeared, he was apologetic.
‘I’ve been having a bit of trouble with the entrée,’ he explained. ‘I seem to have gone a bit berserk with the pepper.’
‘Hello,’ said Emma. ‘I brought you this.’
She handed him a bottle, wrapped in purple paper.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’ He gave her a hairy kiss on the cheek.
She followed him up the stairs, wondering why he was wearing a tie.
‘I’m afraid the main course is going to be a bit late,’ he said, ushering her into his room. ‘The people across the landing hav
e been doing jacket potatoes and I’ve only just been able to get at the oven.’
‘That’s all right. I didn’t realize you had to share your kitchen.’
‘Well, it’s not usually a problem. Are you going to sit down?’
Emma found that she had the option either of taking her place at the table straight away, or sitting on the bed, which was neatly made and covered with a dull green bedspread. Postponing the decision, she strolled over to the bookcase and started looking at the titles. It had always fascinated her that Hugh, who lived permanently either on or just below the poverty line, should spend so much money on books, and also on books which seemed so militantly abstruse and specialized. Works of literary theory stood side by side with modernist novels in the original French, and there were smatterings of music criticism and medieval English poetry.
‘Do you ever read these books?’ she asked.
‘Well, only some of them, obviously,’ said Hugh, who was in the middle of opening a bottle, a process which he now interrupted in order to show her a particularly bulky paperback which had been lying on his dressing table. ‘It’s just nice to know they’re around. Here – have a look at this: I got it earlier this week. I’ll just go and fetch the glasses.’
Emma couldn’t make head or tail of the book, but she sat on the bed and left it politely open on her lap while waiting for Hugh to return.
‘It’s good, this, is it?’ she said.
‘Actually, I was a little disappointed,’ said Hugh, handing her a full glass. ‘Cheers. Your very good health. Normally you can expect Fournier to be fairly progressive, as far as narratology’s concerned, but I think he’s developing revisionist tendencies.’
‘I see,’ said Emma. ‘That’s a pity.’
‘These things happen,’ said Hugh.
‘Life goes on, I suppose. Society won’t crumble at its foundations.’
‘Exactly.’ He took the book from her hands, slightly irritated that her irony had crept up on him like that, without his noticing. ‘Nice wine,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
‘So.’ Hugh looked round the room, looked at the two empty chairs, looked at the space on the bed. ‘Do you mind if I sit beside you?’
‘Not at all.’
He sat beside her. The bed was against the wall, which permitted him to lean back, although Emma continued to sit forward.
‘Don’t you think the table looks nice?’ he asked, brightly.
From somewhere or other he had produced matching silver cutlery, two Stuart crystal wine glasses, cotton napkins and table mats depicting hunting scenes. There was also a candle, as yet unlit, and a small vase of flowers.
‘It looks lovely,’ said Emma. ‘I’d no idea I was going to be made such a fuss of.’
‘Well, everybody needs cheering up, now and again, don’t they?’ said Hugh.
‘You think I need cheering up?’
‘No, I mean it cheered me up, getting it all ready. It’s nice to make a bit of an effort.’
‘Don’t you enjoy cooking for yourself? I do.’
‘You haven’t had time to get used to it,’ said Hugh. ‘I found that the novelty started to wear off after the first four and a half years or so.’
‘You mean you still haven’t found yourself a girlfriend?’ said Emma. She had decided that she was in a teasing mood.
‘I think it’s time for the soup,’ said Hugh.
He went into the kitchen. Emma lit the candle and took her place at the table.
‘I was sorry to hear about you and Nick,’ said Hugh, as he ladled chilled watercress soup into her bowl.
‘Mark,’ said Emma. ‘My husband’s name is Mark.’
‘Sorry. Of course. Anyway – I was sorry to hear about it. You must feel… well, it must all have been a bit of a shock.’
‘Not really. I’m surprised by how quickly I’ve adjusted to it.’
‘Where are you living now?’
‘I’ve bought myself a house. Just a little terrace. I’ve been doing it up for the last couple of months, and that’s kept me busy. This is very nice.’
‘Not too peppery?’
‘No.’ She stopped eating, and considered. ‘Perhaps it’ll really hit me, in a little while.’
Hugh, who did not know whether she was referring to the pepper or her separation, waited for her to elaborate.
‘I mean, I was cutting it fine as it was. Having children, I mean.’ She sighed. ‘I really did want them, too.’
‘Did?’
‘Well, I’m trying not to think about it just now. There’s no point, at the moment.’
‘Bread rolls,’ said Hugh. ‘I forgot the bread rolls.’ He went to the kitchen again and was back very quickly, saying as he returned: ‘Of course, I’ve always wanted children. I’m very good with them, you see. It’s something that comes quite naturally to me. I’ve already got a nephew and a niece. Yes, they love to see their Uncle Hugh. It’s no substitute for having your own, though. I don’t suppose I’ll leave it long before I settle down, now. I don’t want to go on like this all my life.’
‘You sound very confident,’ said Emma, smiling. ‘Do you feel you have the means to settle down?’
‘Not at the moment, no, obviously. I’ve got prospects, though.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, I was talking to one of the senior lecturers the other day, and it seems pretty clear that Professor Davis – he’s the head of the department – it seems pretty clear that he’ll be retiring quite soon.’
‘You’re suggesting that you’re going to be appointed head of the English department?’
‘No, obviously that would be unrealistic. But there’s going to have to be a bit of a shuffle. There’s bound to be a vacancy, somewhere along the line. And my face is pretty well known around that department.’
‘You consider that an advantage.’
Hugh held her gaze for a moment and then tapped the side of the bowl with his soup spoon.
‘I’ll just go and check on the potatoes,’ he said.
He had been forced to abandon the Mexican meal, not having allowed enough time to round up the ingredients. The next course consisted of strips of pork, served in a sauce of cream and cider. By the time it was on the table, Emma had steered the conversation around to Robin.
‘I really never imagined he’d do anything like that,’ she was saying. ‘I had no idea. I didn’t even think it would cross his mind.’
‘Well, you hardly knew him, did you? I thought you only met him once or twice.’
‘But that’s exactly what’s so upsetting: for me, as a lawyer. You spend an hour or more talking to a client – and you can find out a lot about a person in an hour, if it’s to the point – and you come away thinking that you know them: thinking that you’ve got the basis of an understanding. This is a caring profession, as far as I’m concerned. Otherwise I don’t want to be in it. But then you realize – it’s nothing. Nothing. You’ve barely scratched the surface. You’ve found out just enough to get involved, just enough to be upset when the thing goes wrong, but not enough to understand the kind of help that was needed.’
‘Robin didn’t need help.’
‘How can you say that?’
‘I mean, there was nothing anyone could do. And as soon as we start thinking that there was, then we’re just going to go around spending the rest of our lives feeling guilty about it.’
‘And shouldn’t we feel guilty?’
‘How’s your pork?’
Emma hesitated, wondering whether she should let the subject drop so easily.
‘It’s delicious, quite delicious,’ she said. ‘But it’s getting a bit hot in here.’
‘Take your jumper off.’
Emma took her jumper off, and folded it carefully on the bed beside her coat. Hugh turned the gas fire down.
‘All these questions you’re asking,’ he said, ‘writing to Ted, visiting me – if you’re just doing it to stop yourself feeling guilty, forget it. I do
n’t think it had anything to do with why he killed himself. The charge, I mean.’
‘What makes you think that?’
‘Because after it had happened, after he’d been charged, he seemed perfectly happy. He even seemed to cheer up a bit. If he was really depressed, it was before then. That’s what I think, anyway.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Emma sadly. ‘I don’t know why I’m doing it. It just upset me so much. I didn’t even know him. You must have been devastated.’
‘It was a bit of a turn-up, I must say,’ said Hugh, pouring more wine for both of them. ‘You know, the person you should really talk to is Aparna; but she’s left, apparently. Fled the country.’ He stopped, the bottle in mid-air, pensive, and then resumed pouring, shaking his head. ‘No, that’s a stupid idea.’
‘What is?’
‘You never met her, did you?’
‘No. What were you thinking?’
‘I just wondered… I mean, two people, alone together in a flat on the fourteenth floor of a tower block: nobody knows what was going on, do they? She was a volatile woman. Perhaps there was an argument, he did something to offend her, there was a struggle… who knows?’
Emma seemed unconvinced.
‘You promised to show me the last story,’ she said.
‘In a minute,’ said Hugh. ‘Are you ready for some fruit?’
They had fresh pineapple, satsumas and cheese and biscuits. Hugh made some coffee, and resumed his position on the bed. Emma remained at the table.
‘Are you comfortable over there?’
‘Fine, thank you.’
‘Is it still too warm for you?’
‘No, I’m fine.’
He began to wonder if there was any chance of getting her talking about a subject other than Robin. In desperation, he said:
‘So what do you think of this flat, then?’
‘It’s very nice. Don’t you like it?’
‘No, I’m bored with living here. I’m thinking of moving.’ There was a longish silence. ‘Is it big, your new house?’