I imagined them, where the warmth of his fingertips had left slight marks on the sheen of the wooden table.
‘And around them a further ring of smaller jets, which represented the minutes.’
I watched his hands roaming deftly around the table, recreating the sequence as far as he could, trying to convey something of his work to me. They were like the hands of pianist: mesmerizing in their movements. Strong, but with a delicate dexterity.
He stopped the virtual illustration and moved the jars aside as the waitress returned with the tea, which sat untouched for a while, as we carried on talking.
‘Do you still have your design?’ I asked, curious.
‘Possibly somewhere. But it never went beyond the planning stage. I’m only bringing it up because I remember thinking of you at the time.’
‘Really?’ I was pleased. ‘Why?’
‘Because the research I did introduced me to the notion of quantum entanglement. Have you ever come across it?’
‘Perhaps somewhere. But I’ve no idea what it is.’
‘As I understand it, and I’m still not sure that I do either, not fully – I’m told by a reliable source that if you think you understand quantum physics then you probably don’t …’
I laughed. ‘Then I’ll try to appear clever and not understand quantum entanglement!’
‘It’s to do with the behaviour of particles, tiny ones, like electrons, that have interacted in the past then moved apart.’
‘And how do they behave?’
‘Well, the curious thing is, they say that even if they end up millions of miles or galaxies apart, they still continue to be affected by each other. Tickle one and the other dances, to use the correct scientific terminology.’
‘It sounds uncanny.’
‘Great minds,’ he said. ‘That’s what Einstein thought. “Spooky action at a distance” was what he called it. Or spukhafte Fernwirkung in German.’
I laughed at his exaggerated pronunciation.
‘Funny how these things stick in your mind,’ Abe said, picking up the teapot and pouring for me. ‘I can barely remember the names of everyday objects, these days, but spukhafte Fernwirkung is still there, stuck in the bit of the brain marked “useless information”. Milk?’ He pushed the jug towards me.
‘And why, apart from the fact that Einstein and I obviously work along similar lines, did it make you think of me?’
‘I know it sounds strange and probably a bit muddled. And it wasn’t as if I thought of you all the time, but occasionally I’d get this very strong sense of you.’
‘In what way?’
‘I can’t really explain. A bit like déjà vu but more that I’d forgotten you were someone from the past, not the present.’
I took a sip of my tea. ‘I’m not sure I understand.’
‘There were occasional incidents when I’d find myself thinking that I had to tell you something – you know, the way you do when someone has died recently and you haven’t forgotten but it’s still a habit.’
‘I still do that with Richard, even though it’s ten years since he died.’
It happened less often now but I still caught myself wondering if Richard would like to see a particular film or might want fish for dinner. And then I remembered, although of course I’d known all along, that he wasn’t with me any more. Except he was, of course, in spirit.
‘Sometimes the sense of you was so strong, it unnerved me. It was almost like seeing a ghost but without having seen one.’
‘Go on.’
‘There was one particular occasion, years ago, but I still remember it because, well, it was significant. Do you remember there was a bomb in Docklands?’
‘Vaguely.’ That’s another thing about getting old: you forget events that unsettled you when they occurred.
‘I was in the area at the time. I wasn’t hurt or anything but close enough to see it happen and be shocked by it.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I was married, but immediately afterwards I remember thinking that I must let you know I was okay.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. I suppose it was the shock. But that was my first thought. I must let Ivy know I’ve not been hurt. Ivy, not Lynn. And I thought that was weird. I hadn’t really thought about you for years and suddenly I had to let you know I was okay.’
‘Well, I’m glad you were.’
The waitress appeared and saw that the scones were still untouched. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I said, picking up the bone-handled knife, cutting my scone in half and dismissing her with furious buttering.
‘It happened again when I was pitching for that fountain in Copenhagen. I went out for a few days and Lynn came with me.’
Abe was still too intent on telling his story to make a start on his tea.
‘I remember that because I called her Ivy over dinner one evening and she was furious. We were going through a difficult time and she thought I was having an affair. It took me a while to convince her that you were a childhood friend I hadn’t seen or spoken to for years.’
‘Did you know any other Ivys?’
‘No. It wasn’t as if I’d just called her Liz instead of Lynn. It was very specific.’
‘Yes.’ I bit into my scone, trying to imagine.
‘But I told myself I sometimes got this strong sense of you, and it was only very occasionally, because a part of you was still with me.’
‘I see.’ I felt slightly unnerved by the conversation. I had thought of Abe from time to time but not in the way he was describing.
‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I realized our early friendship wasn’t just something that happened, it was something that had laid the foundations for all kinds of future relationships. Good foundations.’
‘That’s a lovely thing to say.’ I smiled.
‘In that sense, I suppose, when I skimmed the surface of quantum entanglement, I found myself using our friendship as a metaphor for it.’
There was something about the way he said it, the quiet, focused delivery of the words, that contrasted with his earlier animation, when he’d been talking about his fountain, and made me want to open up to him. There was nothing in particular I wanted to say, not then, but I could feel myself beginning to trust him, beginning to feel that he was a person in whom I could confide, exposing myself without fear of what he might think.
Is that what the beginning of love feels like?
‘I’m not making much sense, I know.’ Abe stretched his hands as if to signal he was winding up that line of thought. ‘I’m just trying to say that a part of you stayed with me and I’m so glad to have met you again. I keep wondering what would have happened if I’d not been to the supermarket that day, if you’d not been taking your grandson to the park.’
He took my hand and squeezed it again, then looked at me, and I knew then, with a certainty that surprised me, in exactly which direction I wanted things to move.
But how can I explain this to my daughter, who has spent the past five years treading carefully as she tried to make up her mind as to whether her lovely, kind, steady, supportive boyfriend is the person she wants to spend the rest of her life with?
She’d finally decided and they’re getting married in September. I worry she thinks I’m stealing her thunder. That’s not my intention, but now that I’ve found Abe again I’m not going to let him go.
‘I know it’s a surprise to you,’ I tell her, ‘and I know it must seem odd, as if I haven’t thought about it. But I don’t need to. It’s the right thing.’
‘Have you always loved him?’ Lottie asks, curious, and I wish we were not in her flat and that Richard was not looking at me from the framed photograph. It’s right in the middle of mantelpiece that surrounds a boarded-up fireplace. Lottie was about six at the time. We’re on a beach and I think it’s probably Greatstone. We went there a lot when she and Max were young, and you can just make out the shape of the dunes
in the background. Lottie’s wearing a swimsuit, sitting on Richard’s shoulders, clutching his hair for support, and smiling. Richard’s smiling, too, but his eyes seem slightly pained, perhaps because they’re screwed up against the sun or because Lottie’s pulling his hair.
‘No. I haven’t seen him for years,’ I say, looking away from Richard’s gaze and the clutch of objects that link Lottie to a past that was centred on our family unit.
There’s a lump of the Berlin Wall, which Richard brought back from a business trip – he’d happened to be there when the Wall came down – and a tiny canvas painting of a bookshop on the banks of the Seine, which Max had bought her on a French exchange trip. Propped up on the floor next to the redundant fireplace is the strip of painted wood from the side of the under-stairs cupboard of our old family home. It’s marked with the heights of the children at various dates. I’d thought perhaps I should paint over the markings before I sold the house but Lottie had wanted to prise it off and keep it.
‘We were only children when we knew each other,’ I say. ‘And we didn’t keep in touch after he moved away. But I do love him now.’
‘But how do you know?’ Lottie is so cautious and always has been.
I glance at the photo of her and Richard again. She couldn’t quite give herself entirely to the thrill of being raised high on her father’s shoulders, or to trust that he wouldn’t let her fall: she’d had to cling to him. Max, always more physical, would have waved his hands around in the air, relished being so far from the ground and reached up higher. ‘I just know.’
‘Did you feel like that about Dad?’
‘It was different.’
‘How?’
‘I loved your dad very much. He was a big man. He took on a lot, when he married me, and when we had you and Max, knowing the risks. It required a very special man to do that.’
I follow Lottie’s gaze back to the photograph. I can imagine some of what she must be thinking. ‘Lottie love,’ I say, wanting her to look at me, ‘I will always love your dad. He was and always will be a huge part of my life. Others would have run a mile from me and everything that went with me, but Richard was always ready to face the world and deal with whatever it threw up. He always supported my decisions, even when they were not the ones he would have taken. I loved him for all of that and so many other things. This is different.’
‘Why?’
‘I can’t really explain. But sometimes you love someone because of the way they are, the things they do, the actions they take, and sometimes you just love someone for who they are.’
‘So you loved Dad because of the things he did?’
‘No,’ I say, too quickly. ‘Yes, I mean, but that doesn’t make what we had any less. It made it more. Marriage is so much bigger than just falling in love with someone. Falling in love is not enough for it to work. There has to be more.’
‘What?’
‘Love, and a willingness to commit. It’s easy to fall in love, easy to find your soul-mate, but maybe a soul-mate is not the person you should marry, not when you have your whole life ahead of you.’
‘You seem so happy together, you and Abe,’ Lottie says. ‘There’s something about the way you potter about that makes it all look so easy.’
‘What?’ I ask, laughing at the image of Abe and myself as elderly potterers. Of course, we’re both in our seventies but I feel younger, so much younger, since I met him again or perhaps just more at ease, with myself and with the world.
The world, I have learned the hard way, can inflict a lot of loss on you but sometimes, when you least expect it, it tries to make amends for that in the most wonderful ways.
‘There’s a lightness to you now,’ Lottie says, looking at me so directly that I squirm. ‘You seem happier now than when Dad was alive, as if you’re finally with the right person.’
‘Perhaps it’s just the right time,’ I say.
I don’t want to tarnish Richard’s memory in any way. He was a wonderful man, but life for us wasn’t always easy. Who knows if it would have been easier with anyone else?
‘Abe and I,’ I say, ‘there’s nothing for us to worry about now, apart from getting older. I loved your dad, but sometimes we got too caught up with the day-to-day to appreciate each other. And our day-to-day was not always easy.’
‘I know, Mum,’ Lottie says. ‘I know that. It’s just …’
I watch her topping up our cups from the teapot, which sits on the living-room floor, in the absence of a coffee-table, pouring it thoughtfully, considering what she will say next.
She looks at the picture of her and Richard again, as if she needs his approval. ‘Do you think I’m marrying the wrong man?’ she asks, finally.
‘No, darling. Of course not. I think you’re marrying a wonderful man who loves you and is willing to commit to you. The two of you are perfect for each other.’
I worry that I’m doing the wrong thing – that my planned marriage will affect my own children in ways I never imagined. ‘It’s different when you’re young,’ I say. ‘Maybe you look too hard for things that aren’t ever going to be there and you don’t always see what is. At my age, you realize that all you were ever really looking for was someone to hold your hand through life, especially at the end. Maybe I knew that when I was young, too, but I don’t think I was conscious of it.’
‘Don’t say that, Mum.’
‘I didn’t mean it to sound gloomy.’
‘But what if Tim isn’t the right man?’
‘He is. You know he is.’
‘I’m not as sure as you seem to be.’
‘Lottie, there are probably lots of right men out there. You can’t marry all of them. You won’t even meet all of them. But you’ve met Tim now and you want to get married. That’s the right thing to do.’
‘It scares me sometimes,’ she says quietly.
‘You’re not having second thoughts, are you?’ I ask.
‘Not really. I love Tim and I want to marry him, and I know it sounds ridiculous but …’
‘What?’
‘I feel a bit jealous of you. Because you’re so sure of Abe.’
‘I am now. Maybe if I’d met him when I was your age I’d have been less so. Time’s not on my side.’
‘There you go again!’
‘Okay. Maybe it is. Maybe it’s on both our sides.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve both got the time we’ve always had. You have to do what’s right for you now.’
‘I don’t have much time, if I want to have children. What if Tim’s not the right man, just the one who’s here now, at the right time?’
‘Then that makes him the right man,’ I tell her, but she still looks unsure. ‘Lottie, love, if my getting married is going to upset you, I won’t do it. It doesn’t really matter if we marry or not, although we’d like to. But I’m still going to be with Abe. Does it make such a difference?’
‘No, Mum.’ Her eyes well. ‘I’m really happy for you. Really I am. It’s just a bit of a surprise and it all seems to have happened so quickly.’
‘I know,’ I say. ‘But I’m not getting any younger. None of us is. I’ve lost so many other people in my life, and now that I’ve met Abe again, I don’t want to throw away a chance to be happy.’
‘Oh, Mum,’ Lottie says, and there’s something in her tone that makes me move closer to her.
‘What is it, love?’ I put my arm around her. ‘What’s the matter? What is it that’s worrying you?’
‘Nothing,’ she says. She turns and hugs me. ‘Really, nothing.’
We hold each other for a moment.
‘I think I’m just happy for you,’ Lottie says, and her voice quivers, as if she’s trying not to cry.
And I feel it too.
Happiness does that to you sometimes. It’s so much closer to sadness than you imagine.
Max is less emotional when I tell him. He may have been as surprised as his sister but his questions are more practical.
‘Where will you live?’ He has poured us both a glass of wine, as if the conversation we’re about to have requires a drink.
‘I’m going to move into Abe’s house with him and I’ll put the flat in your names. That way you shouldn’t have to pay inheritance tax.’
I thought he’d be impressed by my practicality but he’s concerned. ‘It’s a good idea to hang on to it, just in case …’ He stops and sips his drink.
‘In case it doesn’t work out?’
‘You never know, Mum,’ he said. ‘It might not be right for you.’
‘I do know.’ I find myself repeating what I said to Lottie earlier in the day.
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because I’m going to make it work.’
‘And what about his children? Are they happy?’
‘I think so.’
Abe had lunch with Sam and Ruby today. I haven’t seen him since but he called and reported that they were ‘delighted’.
‘Even though his wife died less than a year ago?’ Max asks. ‘They don’t think it’s too soon?’
‘I know it might appear that way. But Lynn had been ill for a long time, not that that makes it any easier but I suppose he’d lost her, in many ways, before she died and he knew it was coming.’
‘I’m not trying to be difficult, Mum,’ Max says. ‘I’m just concerned for you.’
‘I know.’ I touch his hand across the table.
He surprises me by taking mine and holding it.
‘This is what I want, Max.’ I look at him. ‘It’s what we both want.’
‘Then I’ll drink to it,’ he says, and raises his glass. ‘To you and Abe McFadden.’
Who knew? I certainly never expected to rediscover the joys of love and sex in my seventies when I’d thought that side of my life was well and truly over. At my age, I’d thought I’d be more concerned with death than sex. It’s different, of course. The body isn’t as willing, it doesn’t yield as easily, but if the spirit is willing, the flesh can be made to catch up.
The first time I wasn’t as nervous as I might have supposed. Abe and I had had the requisite number of coffees, lunches, dinners, trips to the theatre and visits to art galleries. We’d filled in enough of the gaps since we were children. We knew the bigger picture and a lot of the minutiae too.
Ivy and Abe Page 2