by Andrew Cowan
What do you think? she would ask me, dumping the forms in my lap. Could I do that job? Would you want to live there? But it hardly mattered what answer I gave her for she had no intention of applying, not yet. She was merely wondering, supposing, thinking ahead, and often we speculated on where we might be in another twelve months, another five years, or twenty. Ruth said she wanted to live by the sea. She imagined weatherboard houses on stilts, cliff-top apartments, grey pebbled cottages – even a beach hut, a caravan, somewhere we could drive to at weekends. I said the car would be an old one, with white-walled wheels, red leather seats, and I would have my own studio, earn my living from pots. Ruth saw me in thick woollen jumpers, a child on my shoulders, waves rolling in from the sea – advertising images, pictures from the magazines she bought – but there was always a child, a Euan or a Jessica to start with. She said she didn’t mind which. I was sure I wanted a boy.
Ruth’s breath came in gasps, her face pressed to the pillows, one arm crooked round her head, a tangle of hair. I pulled from her and thrust along the cleft of her buttocks, her legs between mine, and came in long trembling rills on her back. The air was cold on my forehead. She sighed and collapsed. She giggled. What a waste, she said. I kissed her arm and rolled on to my side. She shifted to the edge of the bed and reached down for her cardigan. Here, she said, and slung it over her shoulder; you can mop it with this. You’re not serious? I said. Ruth? No, she conceded; I suppose not, and offered instead a pair of my underpants. I propped myself on my elbow and carefully wiped her. So what have you got me? she asked then. What do you want? I replied, and clambered across her. I turned off the fire, the oven and lights, and hurried back to the bed. Ruth waited. What would you most like to have? I said. She dragged the quilt over us, looped her arms round me, her legs. Oh, you know, she replied in the darkness; we’ve discussed it. We never imagined a future without one.
TWENTY
My final design project at college was a tea-service, the clay the colour of chocolate, pitted and rough to the touch, and though I’d left it behind I still remembered the dimensions, and the firing specifications, all the problems I’d had, and the ways I’d found round them. The thing in itself did not matter, the twenty-one separate pieces, for I’d learned enough in their making – I supposed I could always repeat them – and when my grandmother had looked through the photos and told me these were her favourite, and what a fool I’d been to discard them, I had promised I would make her some more, a replica set, just as soon as I had my own studio, my own wheel and kiln. Three years later it seemed she’d forgotten.
Her house by then had become too large for her, the stairs too much of an effort, and she’d moved to her own tiny flat in a place called the Larches. A social worker had arranged it. There was a cord in each of her rooms to summon the warden. A cleaner saw to the communal lounge and the corridors, a council workman looked after the gardens, but there were no other staff. It wasn’t a Home, she’d said when I phoned her, and apart from the woman next door, who dropped by most mornings to talk, there was no one to bother her. On Saturday evenings she bought a raffle ticket and sat for an hour in the lounge with her neighbours. Someone would play the piano and the warden would open the drinks bar. My grandmother returned to her rooms when the singing began. It gave her a headache, she said. On Wednesday afternoons she played two rounds of bingo. Mimi continued to visit on Tuesdays; a volunteer from a neighbouring church did most of her shopping; and she still had her old phone number, her radio and television. She said she was comfortable. She never would say she was happy.
It was the start of the summer when we went up to see her, and our train was crowded with families, tourists and students, their suitcases and backpacks. I carried the tea-set on my lap, the cardboard box too large for the racks, too heavy for comfort. It rattled for most of the way. That night we would sleep at my father’s, in my old attic bedroom, and the following morning we would visit the Larches, then catch another train north. We had booked a week in a cottage in Scotland, in a town by the sea. It was to be our first holiday together, the only one we ever would have as a couple. Ruth was thirteen weeks pregnant by then, and her bump was beginning to show, but if my father noticed the change in her shape he said nothing, as we said nothing to him. We hadn’t yet told anyone; and I didn’t want him to hear our news first.
Ruth and my father had met once before, the previous autumn, though then we had stayed with my grandmother, Ruth taking my bedroom upstairs whilst I slept on the floor of the dining room, as my grandmother thought proper. We had come for the weekend, and visited the graveyard, and passed a long afternoon in his company. There had been no offer of food but he’d opened two bottles of wine and invited Ruth down to his studio and explained the work he was doing, its antecedents and influences and where he thought it was going. Reluctant to join them, I’d sat on the back doorstep and waited, hearing his voice and her questions, the wind rustling the leaves on the trellis, and when finally he’d shown us out to the door I’d watched as he kissed her, his hand briefly cupping the back of her head, a cigarette clamped in his fingers. Afterwards, walking back through the old town, Ruth had called him a charmer. He was flirting, I’d said. I know, she’d replied. He isn’t really like that, I’d said; he’s nothing like that at all. And, touching my arm, she’d said she was teasing – she thought his charm was transparent; she’d found him suffocating, relentless, a bore. Is that better? she’d asked, and I’d nodded. I mean it, she’d added, watching my face; I didn’t like him, Paul.
As we stepped now from our train he was waiting at the end of the platform, and he kissed Ruth again, though this time she turned her mouth from him, meeting his lips with her cheek. He grinned and led us out through the gates to the car-park, his hand guiding her arm, and as we drove in his van from the station it was Ruth alone that he talked to. The house was just as untidy, dim-lit and musty, but there were plates on the table, a salad, some pieces of fish on the grill-pan. He smoked as he cooked, and lit up again the moment we’d eaten. The ash lengthened until it dropped to his lap. He swept it away, and carried on talking. He talked for most of that evening, about his work, other artists, the flaws in their thinking. He offered his views on the state of art education, critical theory, public stupidity, and the waste in arts funding. Ruth had a job with a regional arts council; he presumed she’d be interested. And though he coughed repeatedly into his fist as he talked, still he smoked each cigarette back to the filter, then started another. His cough, he said when Ruth mentioned it, was due to the work that he did, the gases and heat, the dust in the atmosphere. Ruth nodded; I didn’t bother to argue; and when Ruth too began coughing, I mentioned our journey and said we were tired; I suggested we should go to bed early.
My father yawned and stretched out his arms. He leant back in his chair and gazed at my box on the floor. He linked his fingers over his head and cracked them. So when are we going to see this crockery? he said then. It’s for Grandma, I told him. He looked at me steadily. It was unusual for him to show any interest, either in me or in pottery, anything quite so domestic, but of course there was Ruth – he was different then – and sighing, I lifted the box on to the table; I found a knife and sliced through the Sellotape. My father switched on the lights. He unpacked my work carefully. He placed the bunches of newspaper on the table, as if they too were important, and examined each item in turn, absently stroking his chin, a pair of half-spectacles on the bridge of his nose. And he smiled, smiled at each piece. They were so like real pottery; it seemed to amuse him. I was hoping for a commission to supply Woolworth’s, I said. No, no, he muttered, still looking. No, they’re better than that, Paul; they have something. They’ll do for Grandma, I said. Oh no, he insisted, folding his arms on his chest, the tea-service laid out on the table. It’s really not bad, Paul; not bad at all. What do you think, Ruth? he said; is he finally on to something here? And yawning, standing up from the table, she replied, I think Paul’s always been on to something. He’s better t
han you think he is. Then she smiled and made her way to the door. Night night, she said.
But whatever my father now thought of my work, the following morning my grandmother shook her head, frowning, and said, You shouldn’t have bought it, Paul. No, I can’t take it. Her voice was unsteady, and she looked towards Ruth, as if for assistance. I’ve nowhere to put it, she said. Outside in the gardens an old man was emptying a bag of breadcrumbs on to the lawn. A breeze reversed the leaves on the trees, showed their silvery undersides, and I crouched down on the carpet, began wrapping the plates in their paper. I pressed my mouth to a smile. I don’t suppose you have as much room as you used to, I said, and my grandmother agreed, for she’d saved as much of her old furniture and ornaments as she could do, far more than she needed or had space for. The heavy pots in her cabinet were arranged as before. The cups and saucers I’d made on my foundation year, wheel-thrown and clumsy, were again stacked in her kitchen, as if one day she might use them, whilst my earliest pieces, an ashtray, a slab-pot in the shape of a house, still sat by her bed with her pills. Moments after we’d arrived – the door from the dark carpeted corridor unlocked – she’d told us to have a look round. It hadn’t taken more than a couple of minutes, and I’d noticed, too, what was missing – the tawny photograph of her wedding day; my grandfather’s angling trophies.
Always before my grandmother had accepted whatever I brought her, and she’d never found fault, as my father would do. It was the faults, I supposed, that she’d valued – and this gift was too perfect, too much like real pottery. Of course it must have come from a shop. But still I wanted her to know that I’d made it, and as I packed the last piece in the box I said, Grandma, do you remember the pictures I brought home from college; the ones of my pots? She didn’t appear to be listening, but gazed softly at Ruth, as she’d once gazed at her photograph, and again I said, Grandma? Do you remember those photos? Her eyes were filmy, her scalp showing pink through her hair, and she looked at me vaguely. Paul, Ruth said from her chair by the window, her voice a small warning; wasn’t there something else you wanted to say? And I nodded. I folded the flaps on the box and pushed it aside. I sat down on the sofa, and smiled to my grandma, and finally I told her our news. Oh, she said as if startled. She clasped one hand in the other, her fingers swollen and waxy, and I noticed then that she no longer wore any rings, the ones my grandfather had given her. It’s due in December, I said. Is it? she asked. You’re the first person we’ve told, I added. Am I? she said, and turned again to face Ruth. But you won’t want a bastard, dear, will you? No, I suppose not, Ruth replied, and looked over her shoulder, stared out at the gardens. That wouldn’t be right, my grandmother said. No. You’ll have to get married now, Paul; won’t you?
TWENTY-ONE
The steps down from the esplanade are smoothly layered with snow. I descend the boards slowly, holding tight to the handrail. The wind now is ferocious, the beach wide and empty, and soon there’ll be darkness. The cold tears at my face, burns in my ears. I hunch into my coat and head out for the strand, my gaze fixed to the ground, searching the pebbles for hagstones, one more to take back to our caravan. The sand is packed hard, solid with ice, and I leave no trace as I walk. The tide is returning. At the rubbish-strewn ridge by the shore-line I hear the waves break and spume on the shingle, the gulls shrieking above me, and for a moment then I glance out, lift my face to the sea, but the cold here is too much, I have to look down. I turn and follow the line of the ridge, scanning the debris, the driftwood and Coke cans, frosted cartons and seaweed, until I find what I’ve come for. The stone is shaped like a bird-skull, just small enough for your fist, and the bore-hole is perfect. It’s flint, Euan, I say; can you see? I drop it into my pocket and hear the chink of my bottle. I crouch with my back to the sea, the wind searing past me, and pull off my gloves. With numbed fingers I roll up a cigarette. I unbutton my coat and shelter beneath it, catch a flame from my lighter and draw deeply. The coloured bulbs on the esplanade are shining. A concrete ramp slopes down from the last of the beach huts – nearer now than the steps – and I hurry towards it.
The long promenade is empty, as far as the pier behind me, the dark cliffs in the distance. The huts are shuttered and bolted and the paintwork is peeling. At the top of the ramp there’s a lifebuoy, and a telephone mounted in a small yellow box. The poster between them says WARNING – THIS COULD BE YOUR CHILD. But the child is a girl. She flops wetly in the arms of a man, her eyes closed, her mouth gaping open. She’s no weight at all, and he can’t be her father. He regards her face calmly, fixedly, a drip of water on the end of his nose, a quiff of wet hair. His jeans are soaking, his shirt. TEACH WATER SAFETY, it says. Which we did – you had your first badge for swimming, a natural fear of the sea – and as I stare at the girl’s limp trailing arm, her damp tendrils of hair, I think only that I ought to phone Ruth, remind her that I’ve come here. Today at least we should talk. But this phone connects straight to the coastguard – EMERGENCY ONLY – and though I know there’s a kiosk fifty yards further back, and another across the wide road, the impulse is already fading. I have nothing to say, and it isn’t the sight of this lifeless child that brings me almost to tears but frustration, the dull familiar ache of futility.
Ruth moved out in October, nine weeks ago, and lives now with a friend, a woman called Julie. They used to work in the same building. I don’t know how long she’ll stay there. Their house is a small one, no different from ours: another long terraced street, cars parked up on both pavements, estate-agent boards in the gardens. Sometimes I drive past it, and once I dialled her number. I listened to Julie, her crackling voice on the answerphone. I heard the beep and said nothing; I replaced the receiver. Our lives were now separate, and though Ruth called me soon after, I let her message run on. She said she would visit – she mentioned your birthday, if that was okay – and I remembered again the moment she’d left me, the pause before she’d opened the door and the silence that remained long after she’d closed it. Her last glance had made no appeal. I made no motion to stop her. There was the creak of the gate and her heels on the pavement, the clunk of her car door. I heard the engine, its slow acceleration, then silence. In the house nothing moved. I stood with arms folded, my head and one shoulder pressed into the wall, my legs crossed at the ankle. I’d always believed she would leave me, she would eventually go. There would be no choices, no need to act. Ruth would move on and I would not prevent her. Minutes passed. I rolled myself from the wall and went through to the living room, sat down in my armchair. The curtains were open and I looked to the window; I met my reflection. An hour or so later I switched off the light and lay down on the sofa.
My cigarette has burnt out. I taste the staleness of ash. A fibre of tobacco has caught in my throat. I bend over and cough, hack hard at the pavement, but nothing will come, I can’t shift it, and I think I will vomit. My spittle is sour and thin. My eyes are watering and there are pains in my chest, my temples. I steady myself against the sea-wall and take out my whisky. I swill the taste from my mouth, finish the bottle, and let it drop to the sands. In my pouch there’s enough dust for one cigarette, and I ought now to look for an off-licence, take a bus the rest of the way. I’m not sure I can walk any further.
TWENTY-TWO
Two days before Christmas, six years ago. It was dark as evening in mid-afternoon and the house you came home to was freezing. I’d forgotten the heating; I was forgetting a lot of things then. A spray of cards lay on the doormat; a red number five winked from the answerphone. The living room curtains were open. I lit a fire and dragged a chair near it; I fetched some pillows for Ruth to sit down on. She wouldn’t take off her coat. You were swaddled inside it, sleeping – your blotched gummy face – and as I stood over you, smiling, one hand on Ruth’s shoulder, I looked across to the window to find our reflection and glimpsed a movement outside, someone arriving with flowers, a huge wedge of Cellophane. I hurried out to the porch before the bell could disturb you. Our next-door neighbour – w
e didn’t know her name; for almost a year she’d ignored us – brusquely passed them into my arms, and my thanks were effusive. I was floating that day and presumed she had bought them; of course she’d want to share our good fortune. I invited her in; I said she must meet you. But she was already leaving, ducking under the tree by the gate, and seemed not to hear me.
The card said Many Congratulations, Polly xxx (Mum). Which is how your grandmother would always sign herself – the Mum, the Grandma, forever closed off; an afterthought, perhaps an apology. She published an announcement in the Telegraph too, then another on each of your birthdays; one more after that. She sent us the clippings. She was good at such things, and could wrap the most awkward of presents. On Father’s Day, Mother’s Day, New Year and Easter, we knew there’d be gifts – little somethings, she called them – and a letter at the end of each month, her handwriting flawless. She posted a note of condolence when my grandmother died, and a cheque for new clothes when Ruth was promoted, but often too there’d be leaflets – about cot deaths, meningitis, immunisations – and sometimes also an article, neatly clipped from a magazine, offering advice to young parents. One described the resuscitation of small children, another the commonest causes of accidents. We should be wary, it seemed, take nothing for granted; and though Ruth was annoyed, as I was – we’d picked up the same leaflets, read similar articles – still I joined a course in first aid, and eventually passed my exams, for which I also received a card from your grandma. But she very rarely came over to see us, not once you were born. Her life, she complained, was no longer her own – meaning, Ruth said, that hers wasn’t. Remarried into money, to a former lord mayor, it seemed she spent her days now on charitable works. She sat on several boards of trustees. She was chairwoman of her local hospital’s League of Friends. A Sunday magazine profile had called her redoubtable, tact and discretion her watchwords. She raised funds for equipment, and organised the activities of two dozen assistants – all dressed in blue pinafores, white blouses – and oversaw the arrangement of the bedside bouquets. She was, said the article, very particular about flowers.