by Dawn French
‘Well, I did threaten to kill off his entire family unless he made this happen …’
At this, Nicole laughs, freely and easily. Thomas can’t believe it. He’s made Nicole Kidman laugh! Could he love her any more? No, he couldn’t.
‘But nevertheless,’ he goes on, ‘it’s extremely generous of you, and I just want you to know that I asked for this meeting because, y’see, I’m eighty three and I have decided to cherry-pick little moments of joy to have, in whatever few years I have left. Some are little things, like wearing bright socks, or dancing a waltz, and some are gigantic things like this, meeting you. And you’ve made a long-held dream happen. So thank you.’
‘Delighted I’m on your bucket list, sir, very flattered,’ she says, and she smiles at him. As he sees himself reflected in her eyes, he knows that she regards him as a harmless sweet old man. Not for a moment does she think of him as a charming and smooth lothario, an international playboy and man of mystery. Somewhere in his silly fantasy about her, he thought that might have been a possibility. It isn’t. Of course it isn’t.
It’s better than that. Two strangers are meeting for a fabulous fleeting moment. Just that. Just that.
Then, she says, ‘Y’know Thomas, I admire you for ekeing out every last bit of fun you can have. We’re not here for long. I know that. I wish my dad had got to eighty-three.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know.’
‘No, it’s OK, just … makes you realize how precious the time is. And how important family is, eh?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ he says, and knows it. More than ever.
‘Well, I have to race, I’m afraid, they have a car waiting for me outside …’ she says.
‘Of course, of course …’
‘But truthfully, Thomas, I’d rather stay here with you, and shoot the breeze anyday.’
‘Bless you,’ he says, looking at this beautiful kind woman. She’s not exactly begging him to stay, but it’s near as, dammit. Job done.
‘But just before I go, can I ask to see what socks you’re wearing?’
Thomas laughs, and lifts his trouser legs to reveal snazzy bright-purple socks.
‘Impressive,’ she says, ‘keep it up, Thomas, don’t lose sight of the good stuff. And … in the interest of that bucket list?’ He looks puzzled.
‘Might I be granted a quick waltz before I go?’
Thomas can’t believe his ears so he gets up from his seat, trying to ignore his achy joints, takes Nicole Kidman in his arms and there, in the bar, they dance a few glorious, unforgettable steps. She kisses him on the cheek, and whispers in his ear, ‘Bye,’ and then she rushes off towards an impatient-looking PR lady, who is wildly beckoning her at the door. She turns, waves, and she’s gone.
He is still waving ten seconds after she is out of sight, and he suddenly realizes that other people are watching this, slack-jawed in amazement, and boy, does he enjoy that.
He sits back down, and smugly polishes off the rest of his whisky, and chuckles to himself. He can’t wait to tell Glenn about this.
Ah. Glenn. Yes.
Glenn is his reality. This was the fantasy which he was lucky enough to experience in the flesh, for five crazy minutes. And that’s the point, he realizes, all this frivolity is like candy, he can have some occasionally, and he likes it, but Glenn is his bread. He needs her to live. Alone with his truth in the corner of the bar, Thomas Wilder-Bingham is lonelier than ever.
Meanwhile, on the other side of town, Rosie Kitto is feeding Glenn Wilder-Bingham chicken soup. Literally spooning it into her mouth.
And Glenn is allowing it, and every now and then, she says ‘thank you’ to Rosie.
And Rosie says ‘It is alright.’
‘It is alright.’
‘It is alright.’
And Glenn is beginning to believe her.
Whisky
Later that same night, and gently sozzled, Thomas sits in the messy kitchen back at the apartment, with his grandson Teddy. He is teaching Teddy about the finer points of the best Scotch.
Teddy says, ‘… but I don’t particularly want hairs on my chest, Granpops, seriously …’
‘Come on, Teds, just a wee dram of what they call Wall Street Wine. Won’t do you any harm. And we are celebrating, buddy, celebrating the beauty of women, you shoulda seen her Teds. Exquisite. Nothin’ like a dame. And if a dame were a drink, she’d be whisky. And in my humble opinion, which ain’t all that humble if I’m honest, this, m’boy, is the best of them all. Glenfiddich, single malt, eighteen years old. Same age as you.’
‘Not for long. And I have drunk whisky before …’
‘Not like this, you haven’t. This is crafted by Scots and angels combined, and you can taste the mountains and the lochs in it, this is whisky with no ‘e’ Teds. W. H. I. S. K. Y. Scots say the time taken adding the ‘e’ is time away from drinking the nectar. Here …’
Thomas pours an inch of the orangey yellow liquid into a tumbler, and Teddy goes to drink it.
‘Nah ah ah,’ Thomas quickly intercepts, ‘not so quick, Mr Hastypants, first of all, “the eye”, – we look at it. Hold it up to the light, and ponder the years it took to brew. It’s a sunset. A thousand sunsets. Then, “the nose” – we smell it. Move it around in the glass a bit, we could add a drop of water or an ice cube now to open it up, but, I think, maybe not yet. So put your nose in, and whaddya get?’
They both take a deep sniff, and Teddy can tell from the slight sting in his nose that this is going to bite. He’s not sure exactly what he can smell, but he closes his eyes and goes with his instinct.
‘Um, I think I smell … wood.’
‘Yes! Yes, good man. That’ll be the oak barrels it’s aged in. Can you get a whiff of orchard fruit? Faintly sweet baked apple?’
‘Hey, yeh, maybe.’ Teddy isn’t sure.
‘Now, “the palate.” Taste it. Just a sip.’
Thomas puts it to his lips first, then Teddy follows suit.
‘It’s rich, candy peel, and there’s the apple again, cheeky fella. Roll it over your tongue before you swallow it, Teds,’ says Thomas.
Teddy stifles a wince as the powerful alcohol hits the back of his throat. He coughs a little bit, but he cannot detect a taste he can describe, which is ironic because in years to come, Teddy will always associate whisky with this moment, so the taste is key. For him, it’s entirely sensory though, it’s not about actual taste, it’s about effect and memory. There is his grandfather, clearly transported to somewhere wonderful through the power of this strange amber spirit. He will remember that.
‘And now, Teds, most importantly, “the finish”, which is the aftertaste that lingers. For me, this determines the success, how many flavours will reveal themselves? How long do they stay? Do they change as the first flavour decays? What pushes through?’
Teddy stares at Thomas. What the hell is he yabbering on about? All Teds can feel is a ferocious alcoholic burn. He would prefer to call an ambulance than give a flowery analysis.
Thomas is still pontificating, ‘And … exhale … there she blows … warm, distinguished, ah yes, a layer of … of … what? … salted toffee.’ He breathes out slowly. Thomas is in his own heaven, ‘Welcome to the world of whisky, boy. Long may you enjoy it. Here’s to women in all their glorious, mysterious complexity.’
They chink their glasses. And sip. It burns Teddy again. Ow. He twiddles his glass in the ensuing silence.
‘Pops?’ says Teddy.
‘Yep’ says Thomas
‘There’s this girl …’
‘There nearly always is. Are we talking about the cutie in the band?’
‘Shit, man! How did you know?’ Teddy is astonished, ‘Yes, her name is Izzy. I really like her, but y’know, I don’t want to … rush it. Like with Rosie, y’know … so … what do I do?’
‘Do you think she likes you?’ asks Thomas.
‘Well, she kinda smiles a lot. How do I know? I’ve only ever been with … well … y’know …’
This jolts Teddy. He has never stopped to think of Glenn as anything other than an old lady. She is always affectionate towards him, in her own prickly way, but he can’t imagine her as anyone’s object of lust, absolutely not. But Teddy knows that his grandfather is missing her terribly at the moment, being the wise boy he is, so, he shuts up and lets Thomas indulge in an intoxicated ramble.
‘Your granma isn’t … she never used to be like she is.’
Teddy takes a bigger sip of whisky. OW.
Thomas carries on, ‘She used to be … so shy when I first knew her. The slightest thing would make her blush. Just lke you.’
On cue, Teddy blushes, at his grandfather’s uncanny insight, at it’s accuracy, concerning him. But this stuff about Glenn is a revelation.
‘She finds the world hard, Teds, bit like you. I think that’s why she has a soft spot for you. She can see under your skin.’
‘No way. Yeh. Can she?’ says Teddy, as he blushes again. He loves hearing that he and Glenn have something in common. He loves belonging.
‘Yeh, she can. She’s the person who would give you the lowdown on Izzy, she’s eagle-eyed when it comes to people.’
‘But she’s so … scary.’
‘Not really, Teds, that’s just the face she puts on to deal with our big difficult world. She’s soft on the inside y’know. She used to … laugh and stroke my hair, and sing me to sleep sometimes.’
‘Granma did?!’
‘Yep. She did. I think it might be my fault that she changed so much. I let her down. She became Mrs Thomas Wilder-Bingham. Only. Glenn, the woman I married, a person in her own sweet right, just disappeared slowly, sorta … wilted, as the years passed. And I let that happen. I made way for it. Because it was my fault. And then along came Rosie …’
‘You don’t have to tell me that …’ says Teddy, worried.
‘No, I’m just saying we can all mess up, Teds, and I’m no exception. Seriously. Don’t get me wrong, I loved that you looked up to me when you were a little guy, but now hey, you’re a big tall man. Look across at me instead. We’re the same, Teds, made of the same stuff. BUT. Listen, take my advice, don’t try to be like me. Be you. Honestly, believe me, you are SO worth being. You are really something. It’s so clear. So clear.’
The burbling Thomas has another sip of whisky.
So does Teddy. Ow.
‘Sorry, Pops, but you can’t stop me admiring you. I just do and that’s that. Deal with it.’
Thomas laughs at his grandson’s chutzpah. How he loves this boy. He leans towards Teddy. ‘Listen up chum. Let yourself off the hook with Rosie, OK? She doesn’t want you feeling so responsible, neither do I, neither does anyone. We’re all gonna look after her, you don’t have to be the one, OK? You don’t have to set fire to yourself to keep her warm. Seriously, Teds, go to college, kiss Izzy and be eighteen. Let the ol’ man pick up the slack, yeh? Do me that favour eh? Be part of it, of course, but no heroics necessary. I know you. You’d sacrifice it all. And you mustn’t, I mean it. Promise me.’
Teddy gets up and goes to his beloved grandfather, and they fall into a big boy bear hug with lots of back-slapping to make it more palatable for both of them. When they pull apart, Thomas pours more whisky into their glasses, much to Teddy’s dismay,
He raises his glass. ‘To Glenn Wilder-Bingham, the finest woman in Manhattan, wherever she may be. And may she come home soon …’ They chink again, and Thomas takes a gulp this time, ‘God that’s delicious, Teds, isn’t it? Robust, with a soft underbelly. Just like Glennie …’
Teddy sees the glisten in Thomas’s eye, and decides to rescue the moment,
‘Hey. Get your guitar. Let’s slaughter the Beatles til they beg for mercy …’
Guggenheim
Rosie huffs and puffs to the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 89th St, trying to keep up with the fizzy twins. She moves at half the speed she used to, and the boys have little patience with her. They are excited about the arrival of the new baby, but they just can’t believe how long it is taking to cook. Rosie has to draw pictures for them of exactly how it is developing inside her, and they are fascinated and disgusted in equal measure. As the winter creeps on, Rosie has to lay two A4-sized pieces of paper together on the floor, to be able to draw the outline of the actual size of the growing fetus. It’s now about 17 inches long, and for the first time, it’s too big to fit on one page. On their visits to 90th St, the twins are obsessed with knowing when it’s eyes might open, or when it might be able to hear, and since both of those things are happening around now, they play music, they clap, they sing, they shine bright torches on to her bare belly and they tell the unborn baby,
‘Don’t worry, you won’t be stuck in there for long!’ and ‘Someone’s comin’ to getcha dude, hang on in there!’ They don’t like how her navel sticks out, they refer to it as, ‘Like, totally gross,’ and they tease her about how often she has to stop for a pee. They call her the ‘The Tap’. Her ankles and hands are fairly swollen and she finds herself tired and breathless whilst she transports the extra pounds around, and she can’t believe that she actually waddles. Like a penguin.
Today is another adventure though, and she has brought them here to the Guggenheim Museum for the first time, she knows they will love it. As they enter, they have to undergo a security search, so the boys offer up their brightly coloured backpacks and Rosie willingly opens her big red handbag for the guard to furtle around in.
Unsure of exactly what exhibition is on currently, Rosie ushers the boys into the main hall of the phenomenal building. The outside is already a hit with Red and Three, since they consider it to look like either ‘a giant spacecraft’ or ‘a huge curly white helmet that would fit on a massive zoid’, so she knows she’s on to a winner. These are the moments that make living in New York the dream she hoped it would be, stepping out into the vast, open space of the central atrium of the building. The atmosphere is nothing they have ever experienced before. Lofty and light.
Rosie wonders if Lennon and Yoko ever came to see anything here? Surely they must have …?
The boys whisper, ‘Wow’ and ‘Awesome’, as they tilt their heads up to see the sky through the big skylight, which has struts crossing it, giving it the appearance of a glass cobweb.
Rosie seizes the moment to explore their initial reactions.
‘Guys, tell me the words that are popping up in your heads right now … ?’
Three: ‘Big. White. Wheel.’
Red: ‘Shell. Window. Sunshine.’
‘Fantastic,’ says Rosie, ‘all those words are so … right.’
All three of them become aware of a small repetitive sound, so they seek out the source. Over to the side, there is a table, and two people, a young man and woman sit with a microphone between them, reading out a series of numbers in sequence,’
‘Twelve thousand, four hundred and twenty two …’ she says
‘Twelve thousand, four hundred and twenty three …’ he says, and on they go.
‘What are they doing? asks Red.
‘It must be part of the exhibition. Oh yes, look, it’s written here,’ Rosie looks at the leaflet she was given on her way in. ‘On Kawara, is a Japanese conceptual artist who lived in New York … bla … bla … bla, oh, OK, I see, so his art is all about normal things he did every day, like who he saw, where he went, what he ate, and he made a record of it all, so these people are counting every single day out loud. Wow. It’s weird, but I like the idea, don’t you?’
‘Yeh,’ says Three, ‘but I could do that.’
‘Well then, you should, and maybe one day, you can have an exhibit here with all your stuff? And we can all come to admire a big long line of all your different stinky socks …’
‘Yeh,’ says Red, agreeing that’s no bad idea.
‘Yeh,’ sa
ys Three, knowing it is, and that she’s kidding.
‘So, my hearts, here we are right in the middle of this fantastic building. What do we always try to look for in any interesting space?’
The boys know this, it’s par for the course on outings with Rosie, so they quickfire the words they know.
‘Umm, colour, form, shape …’ says Three.
‘Yeh, umm, that word for clever, yeh, genius, umm … funny … not funny … what is it?’ asks Red, then remembers, ‘yeh humour … and … and …’
‘I know, beauty’ says Three.
‘Beauty’ repeats Rosie. ‘I think that’s my most important one. Although humour comes a pretty close second. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m too babyfat to walk all the way up that curvy ramp, so I am going to sit here like a happy lump, and enjoy the view. You two are going to go up, up, having a look at the Japanese guy’s work all the way, using your eyes and noticing everything so that you can tell me all about it when you get back down. Did you know you could see before you could speak? So, really look, look, look, OK? The ramp up is one long continual spiral, so just keep following it to the top up there. Once you get there, and you’ve done all your looking, and you’re both ready, CAREFULLY – note that word please, CAREFULLY – look over the wall to me sitting here and give me the thumbs up, OK? And when I give you the thumbs up back, you can commence Operation W. B. Shall we have a quick demo of the thumbs up, so there’s no confusion? Here goes, you guys first …’
They both do it to her. She does it back.
‘Right. We’re ready. Off you go, and take your time, because I really want you to remember what you see so you can tell it all to me. Good luck, men, your country’s proud of you.’
She slaps them both heartily on the back, and sends them off to start their exploration.
Rosie sits down on the nearest seat, which is in fact a low concrete wall, and she is grateful to take the weight off her feet. She sees the heads of the boys – one blondie red, one tomato-soup red, both unmistakable – as they gradually make their way up through the winding exhibition space. She allows herself time to drink it all in, and she acknowledges that moments like these, still and calm, are sublime. Even the normal, earthly timescale seems altered in a space so extraordinary, and while the unmarked time ticks by, she lets her heartbeat slow down. This must surely be good for the baby, the unruffled lack of rush. Rosie feels open and bright, the way she sometimes can in a church. Here, she allows all the subdued movement and chatter to pass her by. She likes it, it’s cheerful and it’s all around, but sitting, stopping and shutting up, are her way to an inner hush.