So we all toast Nina and Lars and then they go off but the mood has changed. I got the feeling that Mats’ mum would rather he was still with Nina and it was his baby she was expecting. Mats said I was being paranoid and got all moody and drank too much. You could see his parents were worried. But what can I do?
So anyway, write again soon. When’s your first scan?
As soon as I get a job I’ll be saving up to come and visit, just me!
Loads of love Viv xxxxx
P.S Mats says congratulations.
P.P.S. Forget what I said about Mats and sex slaves.
Vxxxx
Four
July 2005
Mats
The seat belt sign pings off and the Captain announces the altitude, the estimated flight time, the weather at their destination. Mats watches his son remain oblivious, gazing out at the shining clouds, head nodding along to music on his new iPod. At least that pleased him, the surprise gift. Nice still to be able to please the boy, to elicit a grin, when usually he’s so slouched and monosyllabic these days.
Soon lunch is delivered on its plastic trays. An icy slice of quiche, a perfunctory salad, a roll of bread with butter, a plastic posy of cutlery, serviette, wet wipe.
‘Drink?’ the stewardess offers.
‘Scotch,’ says Mats.
‘Beer?’ Tom says hopefully, one earphone dangling.
‘And a Coke.’ Mats grimaces at the woman who is smiling at his handsome son.
‘Coke it is,’ she says. ‘Ice?’
Tom plugs himself back in, but Mats nudges him. ‘Speak to me.’
‘What?’ long-sufferingly, Tom removes the earphones.
‘Can we have a conversation? Just while we eat.’
‘What about?’
‘Well . . .’ Mats unscrews the bottle, pours the whisky into his plastic cup and glugs. Good. But gone. ‘How about school? Got your books with you?’
‘Dad, that’s crap.’ Tom pulls a face, snaps open his mini Coke.
Mats cuts the quiche and spears a tomato. The plastic prongs prick his tongue and his teeth ache with the sudden chill of the food.
‘Well, tell me something else then. What were you listening to?’
‘Snow Patrol.’
‘Good? Perhaps I’ll have a listen?’
Tom grunts.
‘What kind of music is it? House? Indie? Hippity-Hop?’
Tom gives him a withering look.
‘Heard from Artie lately?’
‘Not since he went back to Uni. Why?’
‘Just wondered if you’d been . . . talking.’
‘You mean crying on each others’ shoulders?’ Tom rips his bread roll with his teeth and crams it in his mouth.
Mats picks at a limp flap of cucumber. ‘You’ll get used to it,’ he says at last. ‘Lots of your friends’ parents are divorced, aren’t they? I know Sam’s are.’
‘That makes it all right then,’ Tom says.
Mats can’t make up his mind whether Tom’s really as hurt as he’s making out, or if it’s an act. It’s a great way to get things, that’s for sure. The iPod for a start. And this holiday, though he didn’t jump at it. It took a bit of persuasion to get him away from his PlayStation, where he’s deeply involved with something called Final Fantasy. Mats tries to take an interest in this virtual world, but his interest isn’t welcome any more. He used to take the boys to football, cricket, fishing, everything Vivienne liked to call ‘boys’ stuff’; the three of them every weekend on some sort of outing, until first Artie peeled away into his own interests, and now Tom.
It’s just a phase, he knows it is, and Tom’s a great kid, everyone says so. He’ll come through the other side in a year or two, come back to himself. They’ve always had a special bond, secret in Mats’ case, he couldn’t admit to Vivienne or Artie that he loved Tom more than anyone, more than his own life, and liked him too. In his effort not to let there be any favouritism he might sometimes even have erred in Artie’s favour.
He shifts to ease his back that always aches when he’s stuck in one position for too long.
Of course Tom’s disappointed that this holiday isn’t to any of the places he requested, but to Romania. Romania? What the hell? But he can’t be allowed his own way every time. Like a ball thrown regularly against a wall, Mats’ heart thuds when he thinks of the reason for the trip. Methodically he chomps through the rest of the food, a square of sweet mush, some kind of ‘gateau’, and then he screws up his serviette and turns back to his son.
‘Tom,’ he says.
‘Mmm?’ The boy is restlessly jiggling his long legs. He’s as tall as Mats, 6’2” already, though he’s only 14.
Mats puts a hand on his son’s thin knee. ‘Try and sit still,’ he says. ‘I maybe should have told you this before. The town we’re going tonight, we’re going there so I can catch up with someone.’
Tom stops mid-chew and raises an eyebrow. He looks so much like Mats’ father that it takes Mats aback sometimes. He resembles Mats too, of course, so everyone says, but that particular sceptical mannerism is pure Far.
‘I didn’t know you knew anyone in Romania.’ Tom’s interest is caught. ‘Who?’
‘Someone you’ve already met, actually.’ Mats cranes his neck to look down the aisle, calculating how long before the drinks trolley comes back.
‘Someone I know?’
‘You won’t remember her.’
‘A woman?’ Tom snorts. ‘I get it.’
Mats finds he’s pulling his ear, knits his knuckles together in an effort to stop it. ‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Who then?’
‘She stayed with us for a while when you were a baby, a sort of au pair.’
Raising his eyebrows, Tom runs his finger round the plastic space where the dessert was, licks his finger.
‘So you kept in touch?’
‘Well no, actually. But I found her on the internet. I remembered the town she comes from and her surname of course. Turns out she’s working at a college. So I . . . The internet’s wonderful, isn’t it?’
‘Same as Mum,’ Tom said.
Mats sighs. Back to this. The separation was precipitated by Vivienne contacting an old flame on Friend’s Reunited. The plan had been to stick with the marriage till Tom was at university, but Vivienne had fallen in love. ‘Proper love,’ she’d said meaningfully, narrowing her eyes.
‘No, not like that,’ Mats says.
‘Tit for tat?’
‘Nothing like that. This is purely, this is just . . . some loose ends I need to tie up.’
Tom crushes his Coke can between his hands. ‘That’s cool, Dad. Mind if I read now?’
He produces a battered Animal Farm.
Revision. Good.
Mats fishes a copy of the in-flight magazine from the seat pocket in front, flicks though its glossy pages, registering nothing. When they return to London in five days, the house will be empty. Vivienne’s moving in with her new man – Brian – in Chelmsford. Tom will stay with Mats during the week and with her at weekends, though he’s already rebelling against this idea. How’s he supposed to see his mates? What about football? Mats wonders what Vivienne will leave behind and what she’ll take. What the hell does it matter? At last the trolley rattles back past, he orders a couple of Scotches, knocks them back and shuts his eyes.
Tom
Dad’s in the bathroom – the door’s like cardboard – can hear every detail of his piss, fart, shower, shave, teeth brushing, spitting, nose blowing.
‘Rise and shine,’ he says when he’s ready. ‘Shall we go and see what’s for breakfast?’
‘See you down there,’ I say.
‘It’s straight down the stairs, ask at reception if you can’t—’
‘I’ll find it,’ I say.
What am I, ten?
He snorts and nods and faffs about looking for his wallet and cleaning his glasses and finally leaves the room. When he suggested a holiday, just the two of us, I thought he meant somewhere cool like New York maybe or Greece or Italy. Or Oslo, even, where I know my way about. We could have gone there, hooked up with Else, who’s so cool and an actual approachable human – even though she’s a girl. She’s Dad’s ex-wife’s daughter, also his god-daughter – but she’s more like a cousin or something. We even look alike. We are sympatico.
But Romania?!
So I get dressed and go down to survey the ‘brekfast bufet’: yogurt, a bucket of soggy cereal, hard-boiled eggs and gherkins. Gherkins! Also some tiny cold croissanty things wrapped in cellophane.
Dad’s got his cheerful face on, his holiday face, but it doesn’t fool me. His eyes are kind of bleak and yearning. Can’t bear to look at them when they’re like that. ‘What would you like to do today?’ he says.
‘What is there?’ I tear open one of the croissants with my teeth. Nice, chewy and sweet but minuscule. I could eat about thirty.
Dad’s got a leaflet in his hand. ‘Plenty of things,’ he says, ‘Museum, park . . .’ He’s running out pretty fast. ‘There’s a river walk, see here’s a map, the red dots . . .’ He waves the leaflet at me. ‘That takes you all round town. Let’s start with that shall we?’
This town isn’t set up for tourists and though no one likes to think of themselves as a tourist, it’s nice if there are some touristy things to do, isn’t it? But this seems to be a place where people either work or beg, not somewhere you’d buy rock with its name down the middle or send a postcard from – if they even bother to have postcards.
I go over to the buffet to grab more croissants. I think that’s the point of a buffet? But the waiter looks at me as if I’m a thief. He’s got ratty hair and teeth like a criminal. If I had a hotel I’d never hire someone who looks like they’d slit your throat for taking a handful of pastries from a so-called ‘bufet’.
‘Tomorrow Bucharest.’ Dad gestures for more coffee. The waiter comes with a brown pot and a murderous look.
‘So you’re meeting this au pair for lunch?’ I say after he’s gone.
‘You too if you like.’ Dad sips and shudders. ‘Tell you what, I saw a Starbucks type place in the town square. Let’s start there, shall we?’
Apart from American Pie, where I have a Mocha and a giant choc-chip cookie, it’s a lame morning. We walk round battered, run-down streets while Dad reads out the names of pointless churches and other buildings and tries to make them sound interesting. But there are some actual bullet holes in a door – that is actually interesting. Dad reads to me from his pamphlet about the Revolution, which happened only a couple of years before I was born.
Where does history start? How long ago does something have to be before you call it history?
It starts to rain and we duck into the museum to shelter, and there, pinned up on boards and in glass cases, is the story of the Revolution. Mostly in Romanian with only a few bits translated into dodgy English. Once we leave the museum, I start noticing more bullet holes in walls, and pot holes in the road, made by actual bombs, maybe. Weird to be walking on roads where people were shot and blood ran between the cobbles. Weird and sad and I have to admit, pretty fucking cool.
Then it’s time for the lunch date. We sit on a pair of sofas in the bar to wait. Dad’s nervous as hell, breathing on his glasses to clean them, cracking his knuckles and cleaning his glasses again. I have a Coke and a burger and chips, but he wants to wait and eat with her. More polite, he reckons, but manners are the last thing on my mind. Dad sits there while I eat, tugging at his ear till it goes all pink and stretchy.
It starts to look like he’s been stood up, which is actually a painful thought. But then he half stands, hand on his bad back, mouth hanging open. And he’s looking at this small, ordinary woman with long hair tied back in a bun. Surely, it can’t be her? But she clocks us and comes across. Dad introduces us and she smiles at me; surprised and sort of warm and pleased, and says she remembers me as a baby. There’s a gap at one side of her mouth you can only see when she smiles. Close to she isn’t all that old, just stressed out looking. Don’t they have dentists in Romania? She’s quite attractive in a way. Her eyes are twinkly anyway.
We all sit down – but the expression on Dad’s face. I can’t stand it; it’s like he’s seen an angel. But the feeling isn’t reciprocated. She doesn’t even smile at him. It’s excruciating. I have to get out of there.
I find my way back to the museum and look though some old photos stashed in a loose-leaf file with newspaper cuttings too, enough from English and American papers to give me some kind of gist. Also photos of fighters, militia, the Securitate; of weeping women; of ordinary men and boys with terrified faces. Or blank faces. And pictures of shapes on the ground, dead bodies. And there’s a screen that plays a video clip where you can actually watch Ceaușescu and his wife being shot on Christmas day 1989.
I can’t stop watching.
Imagine if there was actually a revolution on your own street, and your own house where you are supposed to feel safe was being shot at, your windows smashed, your dad maybe, or your own brother, dragged out and shot in the street. Or you. It’s awful and it’s fucking brilliant. Not my family being shot, of course, but feeling it, imagining it, as if it’s real. Well it is real. It’s history now but it was real then and in this shit-hole of a town you can nearly still smell it. I’m glad Dad made me come here. If you only go to bright shiny places and visitor centres you don’t get that smell of the past like this, it’s all tidied up and made into visual displays and computerized reconstructions. It has no smell.
I always thought history was pointless. Artie does it at St Andrews and we’ve argued about it loads. The past is the past, get over it, I thought. But now I can see the point. Maybe I’ll do history at uni instead of English. Though Artie’ll crow his head off.
Last time I saw him was Easter, he’d come home to revise and get his Easter eggs. Mum cooked our favourite family dinner, roast chicken and trifle, and afterwards they sat us down to tell us they were getting divorced.
‘It’s nobody’s fault,’ Dad said. He reached out and held Mum’s hand. They were sitting side by side on the sofa, which they never usually do. I never noticed them holding hands before either.
‘That’s cool,’ Artie said, but his face had gone a pukish colour.
‘Why?’ I said.
‘Mum’s met someone else,’ Dad said.
She snatched her hand away. ‘That’s a symptom, not the cause,’ she said, ‘as you well know.’
She’s gone blonde and lost weight, looks younger – so wrong in a mother. Her eyes were skidding about everywhere and Dad just had this awful resigned, hang-dog look.
‘There’s no hard feelings,’ he said with a dreadful smile. ‘These things happen. We both love both of you just the same.’
Artie said nothing but stomped upstairs to pack. He was going back to uni next day.
And now here we are in Romania and Dad’s lunching with an au pair and talking about history – excuse me but there’s obviously some sort of history between them. And back at home Mum’s packing up and moving out.
I watch the Ceaușescus falling to the ground over and over and over on a grainy loop.
Marta
Marta stops outside the Bucaresti. Still the smartest hotel in town, though shabbier surely that it used to be? Or maybe she’s less easily impressed? A place to drink, to meet friends – but she hasn’t been in since . . .
Now, watching a woman go up the steps to the hotel, she remembers herself in a tight, blue, borrowed dress, remembers being swallowed by those revolving doors – and feels giddy, as if she might be revolved back through the years to the naïve and credulous girl she was.
She gets a sudden flash of P
avel’s thighs on the sofa beside her, sausages in tight grey skins. A taste in her throat of plum brandy and vanilla cake. Pavel Antonescu. He got his punishment. After she was taken, he was shot dead. Ant told her this when she returned, told her with a sharp, proud grin on his face. Maybe he didn’t pull the trigger, maybe he did; she doesn’t want to know. But he was responsible, that’s for sure. Maybe it’s terrible, but she feels a little puff of pleasure, to know that her big brother, that Antoni, did this for her. How can she be sorry that that man is dead?
According to her watch she’s ten minutes late. Why do this? Why not walk away? He won’t know if she got his message; he’s probably only half expecting her anyway. He might not be there at all. All this tension is causing her to sweat. There’s less than an hour for lunch, then back to work, teaching a class of trainee call centre workers, her least favourite session of the week. They resent being taught by a woman, particularly a local woman, younger than some of them. English idioms, styles of phone conversation, pronunciation. There’s a script they have to stick to, not her fault, privately she agrees that it’s stupid, but it’s Marta they blame.
She takes a breath. Oh. What is there to lose? Pushing through the doors, she waits for the swirl of years, but there’s nothing. It’s smaller, less overwhelming than she remembers. It’s just a place. The walls are still mirrored, but now the floor is bare boards – she blinks, remembering the sinking of her feet on soft carpet – and there are mismatched sofas and tables. The lighting is too harsh and bright, draining the faces of the staff and customers, and the air smells of frying, smoke, beer. Her eyes skim the tables; he’s not here, relief and disappointment, she will turn and walk straight out.
But then she sees black hair, Mats’ profile – but it is a boy! So like . . . and then she sees the grey haired man beside him. Their eyes meet, he half rises. Thickened, a bit stooped, wearing square silver-framed glasses; but yes, it is Mats. His hair’s still thick, but shorter. It occurs to her that she could still leave. Why put herself through this? Why should she want to see him? Crazy Norwegian guy. Once he brought her a gift – a box of pastels – she remembers how that almost killed her. To be given a gift as if she was a person who might have the time, the talent, the inclination to use them, as if she was a person.
The Squeeze Page 20