by Rick Gekoski
I could see her – Suzy – in the bed in those final days, her final body. As I sat beside her, dying, her first youth too was in my eyes and heart. Limbs breasts brow lips legs. The easy perfection and the ruins lay side by side in my mind, my wasted angel lying beside me, my fallen one. Young Suzy, wife Suzy, dying Suzy, mum Suzy – mingling, sometimes distinct, sometimes intertwined.
She was more present than Lucy and I were, for a time she dominated the space, then slid away to let us in: Lucy with her polka dots and sour sweets, me and me and me. Time present and time past, passing together. And our human swarm gathered in the still air and smiled and remembered and communed as the afternoon sun warmed the room, and I wept.
Hearing this, Lucy came out of the wardrobe, looked me over, hunched amongst the cushions, still angry, unable or unwilling to come over. I dried my tears and tried to look interested.
‘You know what drives me crazy? What I find so hard to forgive? You liked it when you were locked up, with us locked out. It made you feel in control, didn’t it? It made you feel alive.’
‘I don’t know what you mean. I felt lifeless, inert, incapable of – ’
‘No, you didn’t. You do now. You are just going through the motions, without much interest or enjoyment or engagement.’
‘I’m sorry to be listless and tearful, I know I am. I’m coming round. It takes time. But there is a film between me and the world, a kind of mist, and I have to peer through it, and it still doesn’t come into focus.’
‘Well,’ she said. ‘Well, you have to make an effort, don’t you? No sense wallowing. Time has passed, there’s no reason – ’
‘I do. I have. It helps me when I write.’
‘Write what?’
‘I’ve kept a sort of journal.’
I didn’t expect her to understand, and she wouldn’t have been sympathetic to the paradox. Grief doesn’t merely dull the senses, it enhances them, because if, like me (and unlike Lucy), the words matter, then grief demands utterance, accuracy, aptness. Misery requires a voice to express, to refine, even to heighten: that’s why neurotics talk so much and so articulately and so compulsively. Why the grief-stricken remember obsessively.
But happiness? You can say whatever, anything you like: who gives a damn? Glow away, stupid. No need for reflection, utterance, formulation. No need to compose oneself when so comprehensively composed. Happiness makes language unnecessary, has no need of it.
Not that I’m happy. Thank God.
Lucy was waiting impatiently, but there was nothing I could say that wouldn’t make things worse, and yet I had to try.
‘I’m not sure how to put it . . . The words were keeping me afloat. Like buoys.’
‘Boys! What are you talking about?’
‘No – buoys, as in the sea.’
‘You mean swimming?’
I grimaced, and she paused a moment to think. ‘Oh, I get it: words. Buoyed you up, right. But I don’t really get it.’
‘They mattered. More.’
I couldn’t put it better than that, though it hardly made sense even to me. She was right. Eating a not-lobster sandwich at Sotheby’s or walking in Kew made me feel less alive than when I was cursing and damning, sunk in grief and commensurately articulate. When what I could compose was all that I had, all that was me. When I had to think before I wrote. That’s what I missed. For that you need – I need – suffering, and guilt.
Now I am out of that claustrophobic space, no longer entombed in self, letting a little light and air in, things had become less intense, and less real. It hardly mattered how I noted or denoted, any old words would do. When I was suffering, it demanded careful articulation, as if, in the absence of consolation, only words could console, whereas now I just did this or that, one thing or another, who cares, what’s the difference?
She finished in the wardrobe after a few minutes, unready for the job, too many of the clothes freighted with recollection: a midnight blue silk dress that Suzy wore once or twice to fancy literary dinners, the russet cashmere cardy that kept her warm when she first took to her bed. Lucy had intended to make a pile of things for herself, but all that she’d managed to find was a few pairs of simple flat shoes.
She looked defeated, as she sat down on the bed. She’d rummaged amidst the objective correlatives of the differences between her mother and herself, and could find no points of contact.
‘I think I’ve had enough,’ she said wearily. ‘I can’t go on. It’s too sad. Let’s get Oxfam in.’
I don’t remember much about the next few months, not without an effort, as if trying to recall what I ate for breakfast last Thursday. Seeds and a flat white. Bad example. But the point remains: re-entering the quotidian was only to revisit the way in which one damn meaningless thing superseded another. I suppose I was recovering, and while it would be damnable to yearn wistfully for my acute grief – God forbid – I nevertheless felt less alive, less attuned to the movement of my own heart. It was less necessary now for me to write, an obligation rather than a necessity. It would soon be over.
I didn’t go to the Sotheby’s sales. There is something pathetic about sitting there abjectly with crossed fingers, hoping for one bid to follow another, and another. What will be, will be, and what will be, was. The Rimington (S.) sold for £68,000, a confirmation of how idiotic the art world had become. My copy of Great Expectations doubled the high estimate, and the rest of the books did as one might have expected. I intended to put the money – just over £275,000 – into a trust fund for Rudy, and say nothing. When the time comes, Lucy and Sam can cluck away, I won’t be there to hear it, but Rudy will be thrilled.
Over those months I saw more and more of Lucy, often in London, which I preferred. We’d go out to lunch, catch a matinée at the theatre, and she could still be home in time to put Rudy to bed. Sometimes I would stay overnight with them, take Rudy to the Parks after school, give him his tea at the Covered Market. We loved that.
The Blades were not in London until late November, for they had fallen so far that few London teams were still in their league, the First Division, which Sam informs me is actually the Third Division. The only London side in this group was apparently Brentford. I looked this up, being vaguely aware of it only as some West London suburb. Hardly London at all.
The details of our outing took some negotiating. I was to pick Rudy up in Abingdon on the morning of the game, drive to Brentford, and then to London afterwards. Rudy was determined to stay with me overnight, after which I could pop him back to Oxfordshire.
‘I’m not sure he’s ready for this, Dad. He’s only once tried a sleep-over with a friend, and after dinner I had a call saying to come pick him up. He hasn’t tried since, and also – ’
‘You’re not sure that either of us is up to it?’
‘I guess not, really.’
I was as uneasy about the prospect as Lucy. I enjoyed Rudy’s company in small doses, but was always relieved to give him back.
‘Let’s try. He has his heart set on it, and the worst that can happen is that he will be anxious. Nothing so terrible about that. It might be good for him to see that he can do things that he thought he couldn’t.’
‘It might be good for you too.’
Rudy was looking through the window when I drew up. He’d been there for an hour, hoping that I might have hired a Mercedes for our grand occasion. He hated the 3.8. It had no air conditioning, no satnav, no CD-player, no computers telling you what mileage you were getting and what the temperature was. It didn’t even have electric windows. And it made a funny noise when it started, and sounded like a gruff animal on the road. He was ashamed to be seen in it.
By the time he was strapped into the back seat, we were all desperate to get the departure over with. Rudy was sucking his thumb, slumped in the rear, a little tearful, his backpack at his side. In the front, I was armed with a full set of instructions, a bag of sweets (for emergencies only!), my fully charged mobile at my side.
I wasn’t
feeling very confident either. I have learned by experience how much Valium I can take and still drive safely. I’d taken it. Consulting the printed instructions that would get me to the M4, we drew away from the kerb. In the rear, Rudy was silent, playing some small computer game, which seemed not so much to calm him down as to put him into a trance.
By the time we reached Brentford, parked the car (which was much admired by various passers-by, though Rudy didn’t notice) and made our way to the ground – you just follow the people dressed for the occasion – both of us had perked up. Rudy was snugly bundled into his parka, his red Sheffield United scarf wound twice around his neck to keep him warm. I was clutching our bag of provisions: thermos of coffee, packets of sarnies and sweets and Valium, extra socks and sweaters in case it got too cold, and small folding umbrellas.
‘We’ll win, Gampy! You’ll see! We’re a real good team!’
We didn’t. Brentford scored in the first few minutes, and again half an hour later. With twenty minutes still to go, Rudy announced glumly that he’d had enough. ‘Can we go now, Gampy? We’re going to lose.’
‘Maybe just ten more minutes? We might get a goal – and you haven’t touched your sandwiches.’
‘We won’t win! I want to go now.’
At least we would miss the post-game traffic. We trudged back to the car, which to my surprise hadn’t been scratched by some envious yob, and made our silent way home.
He was tired, overwrought, fidgety. And hungry, no doubt. But he refused my offer of fish fingers and oven chips – pre-ordered from Waitrose by Lucy.
‘I want pizza!’
‘I’m sorry, love,’ I said, ‘we don’t have pizza.’ When I was six, I ate whatever I was given. I’d learned better than to refuse. Leaving a clean plate was a sign of gratitude and good manners, a military virtue. Children did not have many choices then, and it was good for them.
‘We always order it in! From Domino’s. Look them up. You can do it online! I like it with mushrooms and sausage.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve never done that. Is it good?’
‘It’s my best! I love it! And can we have Coke too?’
‘Mummy says no Coke.’
‘OK, I’ll just have some juice.’ Lucy had ensured adequate stocks of apple and cranberry juice.
Rudy took his iPad out of his rucksack and started it up. ‘What’s the password for your wifi, Gampy?’
‘I think the man who put it in entered a code, so I’ve never needed to do it.’
‘Never mind. I’ve got five bars. I can get it on the phone line!’
I had no idea what this meant.
He was studying his screen, pushing the little letter buttons.‘What sort of pizza do you want, Gampy?’
‘I’m not very hungry, love. I might just have some toast and marmalade.’
‘But Gampy, you have to! You’ll love it!’
‘OK. I’m sure you’re right. I’ll just have a plain one, then.’
The pizza arrived twenty-five minutes later. We’d set out plates and knives and forks on the kitchen table, with a glass of juice for Rudy and of Chianti Classico Riserva for me.
It wasn’t as bad as I’d feared – it was worse. Even the smell was intolerable. I struggled to eat a bit, cutting small pieces off the crusty end. I cut a tomato into small pieces, drizzled some olive oil over them, and ate them with the crusts.
Rudy picked off his pieces of sausage and ate them separately, then folded his slices in half and wolfed them down. I’d remembered to tuck a large piece of kitchen towel around his neck, which intercepted much of the overflow.
When he’d finished – God knows how he could eat a whole one – he looked up expectantly. ‘Have we got any pudding?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I might just rustle up some Cherry Garcia ice cream . . .’
‘Cherry Garcia! It’s my best!’
‘Is it? That’s lucky!’
We stacked the dishwasher together, rinsed our hands and went upstairs. It was almost eight, and he’d had a long day. I’d made up a bed on the divan in my study, remembering the rubber under-sheet that Lucy had given me, in case Rudy had an accident.
‘Make sure he doesn’t see it, though,’ she reminded me, ‘or he’ll be embarrassed. Just tuck it in firmly and cover it with the light under-blanket, then the regular sheet and the duvet.’
Once he had washed and brushed his teeth – he was too tired for a bath – and got his jim-jams on, I tucked him in and got a book off the shelves, and joined him on the bed.
‘Darling Rudy, you’ll like this. It’s Winnie the Pooh. Shall we read the story about Eeyore and the balloon? It’s funny!’
He turned away. ‘I don’t like it. I don’t like talking animals.’
I was profoundly shocked. ‘But darling, all children’s books have talking animals! Pooh and Piglet! The Wind in the Willows, Peter Rabbit, Alice in Wonderland!’
‘I don’t like them.’ He was starting to pout.
‘The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings . . .’
He put his hands over his ears. ‘Stop, Gampy! We don’t like them. Daddy says they’re stupid, and bad for you.’
I didn’t think it was possible to lower my estimation of Sam’s judgement, but it positively plummeted. I must beard him about this. What an ass! A talking ass! Talking out of his ass. To deprive Rudy of the classics of children’s literature because of his bumble-headed father’s righteous views . . .
‘I brought my own book, Gampy, it’s in my backpack. If you get it, I can read it to you!’
It was a tattered paperback by Roald Dahl. The BFG, with illustrations by Quentin Blake.
‘What does BFG mean?’ I asked.
He took the book from my hand happily, and began to find his place. ‘Big Friendly Giant, silly! Haven’t you read it?’
‘No, but I like the pictures.’
‘They’re ever so funny. I tried to copy one, but it was too hard. Let me read it to you. You have to settle down and close your eyes.’
I moved over on our mattress, straightened the pillow and tucked him into the crook of my left arm.
‘It has a lot of hard words. You might have to help me, but I know most of it by heart. I read it all the time.’
‘Just you carry on, darling, we’ll be fine.’
He read it slowly but well, until he got to his favourite bit, when he had no need to look at the book at all:
‘A whizzpopper!’ cried the BFG, beaming at her. ‘Us giants is making whizzpoppers all the time! Whizzpopping is a sign of happiness. It is music in our ears! You surely is not telling me that a little whizzpopping is forbidden among human beans?’
He laughed. ‘Whizzpoppers, Gampy! They’re what he calls farts. That’s funny, isn’t it? Whizzpoppers!’
‘Very funny, my angel. I like that. Whizzpoppers!’
He read on for a page or two before he began to nod off, the book soon lying against his chest. I unhooked my arm from him gently, stood up and turned off the lamp. The nightlight glowed its golden reassurance warmly in the corner as I tiptoed out of the room.
I retired at much the same hour as Rudy, unable to use my study. I lay reading on my bed happily enough, turned on Radio 3 at low volume, anxious in case I heard sounds of distress from the room next door. I got up to check him several times, and he was sleeping soundly.
It had been a hard day, unused as I was to the neediness of a small child. I’d been lucky that he’d spent much of the time strapped in the back of the car with his machine, then in a seat at the arena where he struggled to be heard above the noise of the crowd. But I was as unused to children as to crowds, even small ones, and the effect was surprisingly exhausting. I would remark that I’m too old for all this, if I wasn’t worried that Lucy would telepathically hear me saying so.
I popped 5 mg of Valium, thought again and had 5 more, and soon enough fell into as deep a sleep as that narcotic can facilitate. I’d remembered to keep a lamp on in the corner, in case Rudy needed me
in the night.
He did.
I was awakened by the sound of whimpering, and a hand on my shoulder, shaking me. Hardly aware of where I was, and forgetting entirely that Rudy was staying the night, I was frightened and sat bolt upright, remembering too many scenes in the night-time with dear Suzy. Too many broken dreams, too many memories, too fresh. The images began to swarm, and I had to bat them away, shaking my head violently. Which frightened him, and he began to cry.
‘I called you,’ he said in a quavery voice. ‘But you didn’t come.’
‘I’m so sorry, darling. I was sleeping.’
He cried harder. ‘I want Mummy! I need her!’
‘Of course you do. Why don’t you get in bed with me first, and try to get back to sleep?’
‘I can’t.’
‘Of course you can, I’ll budge over and you can pop in – ’
‘I’m all wet.’
I got out of bed, and fetched his spare jammies from his backpack.
‘Let’s get you changed. Do you want a bath, to get all clean?’
He’d stopped crying by now. ‘No!’
‘That’s OK then. Let’s just get you changed.’
I dried him as best I could with his favourite fluffy towel, put him into his fresh pyjamas, and coaxed him into the bed. Lay down beside him, as he snuffled and tried to get comfortable.
‘I have an idea!’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Let’s play Rudy and Grumpy! You can be Rudy – you know – rude. Maybe make some whizzpopper sounds?’
He giggled. ‘Can I really?’
‘Do your best!’
He pursed his lips and made a modest farting sound, and laughed.
‘Not rude enough! You’re supposed to be really Rudy!’
‘And you’re supposed to be really Grumpy!’ He made a much louder series of mock-farts.
‘What a disgusting sound! You are a very rude boy!’
‘I am,’ he said, settling down. ‘Very rude! And you’re a very grumpy Gampy!’
‘I am.’
He was quiet now, and soon half-asleep in my arms.
‘Goodnight, my love,’ I said softly, kissing his cheek.