In it, I’m there, sitting at my turnstile. I feel exactly as I felt, back then. Young and a bit horny, I suppose. And nervous, too. And insecure about… well, about everything, really. It’s hell being young. We forget that as we get older, but the dream has reminded me just how scary everything seems when you’re eighteen. The dream felt so real.
Anyway, I’m there in Dreamland, and I’m thinking about Phil and what a waste of space he is, and wondering if I should dump him, and I’m wondering if Mum has any food in the freezer other than chips, and I’m hoping that Stinky Dennis won’t be there drinking beer in his underpants when I get home. My life feels small and dull and predictable. There doesn’t seem to be much to look forward to, really. And then suddenly, there you are, walking past with your friends, that restrained smile on your lips, that glint in your eye.
Only because this is a dream, I can see things in the glint. In fact, I can see my whole life ahead of me reflected in your eyes. I can see our college years and April being born, and punting along the Cam. I can see our holiday in Greece and April’s first day at school and almost losing you, and getting you back again. And I can see things that can’t really be seen in real life, too. I can see your fears, and I can see the love, Sean. This won’t make any sense to you, because it’s all just a dream, of course. But I can see all the love that was in you, waiting for me. It has a pinkish sort of glow about it and it’s soft and welcoming, like marshmallow. Perhaps I could see it that day. Perhaps that’s how I knew.
It’s been such a wonderful life, Sean. It’s been so much better than I ever imagined things could be, especially for a girl like me.
This is the recording for my twenty-ninth photo, baby, and I think that it’s enough. I need to do the initial one as a sort of covering letter – a covering tape, I suppose – to sort of… introduce the whole thing, but after that, I think I’m going to stop.
You know, I was twenty-nine weeks pregnant when we got married. Imagine that! Our beautiful baby daughter was a twenty-nine-week old prawn living in my tummy – actually a pretty huge prawn, by then – and it was enough time for us to know we wanted to spend our entire lives together, wasn’t it? So twenty-nine weeks is enough. It’s enough for a beginning and it’s enough, I reckon, for an end.
I have one more thing to tell you. Actually, maybe I have two things to tell you, but I haven’t decided about the second one yet. Maybe that’s something I’ll take with me to the grave.
The first and most important one is about love. It’s such an amazing thing to go through life with someone who loves you, Sean. And if anyone knows that, it’s me.
As I’ve been doing all these tapes, I’ve been thinking more and more – sometimes for days on end – about you and Maggie. I’ve been trying to decide once and for all whether you had an affair or not.
Some days I’ve convinced myself that you did. And not only has that made me feel a bit better about my own meandering off the straight and narrow, but I’ve found myself feeling glad for you. We all need a bit of fun in our lives, after all. We all need some excitement, some adrenalin. This idea that we should get everything we need from a single person seems a bit silly really, when it’s put into perspective. And being in my situation really does put things into perspective.
On other days, like today, I’m pretty sure that you didn’t. And on these days, I think that not only did nothing happen, but that you never even realised that she’s in love with you. I actually think that you may even be a bit in love with Maggie, too, but I’m pretty certain you’ve never let yourself even think about that, either.
If I’m right – if I’m right today, that is, because I do keep changing my mind – and you do have a thing for each other only you’ve never spoken about it, then know that I’m not jealous, Sean. I’m really, really not.
Whether she slept with you or not, Maggie is an amazing person. Of course, she’s an even better person if she managed to keep her knickers on for all these years, but even if she didn’t, she’s generous and funny and adventurous, and good-hearted. She really does have more qualities than just about anyone I know, and looking back on things, she’s certainly been the best friend I’ve ever had. Well, apart from you, obviously.
So yes, I think that perhaps you two have always been secretly in love with each other. And I don’t think that detracts from what we had in any way. We can love multiple people, and there’s no shame in it either.
If it’s true, then please don’t waste it, Sean. That’s the thing I’ve been wanting to say.
Nothing could make me happier than to know that you’re happy with someone as good and as loving as Maggie. And nothing could make me happier than to know that Maggie, finally, got to date someone as wonderful as you. God knows, she’s waited long enough, poor girl.
So that’s it. I’m done here, my darling. I feel like I’ve lived my entire life twice. And that’s enough for anyone.
Move on now, if you can. I’ve been fading for almost two years now, and by the time you listen to this, I’ll have been gone for almost seven months more.
It’s all coming to an end for me, Sean, and know that I’ve no regrets. It’s been a wonderful life, baby. Thanks to you, it’s been amazing.
But you still have time left on this planet, and that’s precious and magical, and miraculous. So, don’t waste it, eh? Move on with your life, whether it’s alone, or with Maggie, or with someone else. Live every minute of it as if minutes were in limited supply. Because one day, like me, you’ll find out that they really were.
If the “other side” does turn out to exist after all, then I’ll be there when you arrive; I’ll be there to meet you, I promise. And you’ll be able to tell me what happened next. And you had better not say “nothing”. Because if you’ve wasted it, I’ll make your time in heaven, hell. And you can trust me on that. I just wish I could hang around to do it all with you.
Cassette #29-B
Hello there. Me again!
I’ve been um-ing and ah-ing about this one. I must have changed my mind twenty times about whether to include it or not. But as you know, I’ve never been very good at goodbyes. I’ve always had one final thing to say before I close the front door. And without this one, the truth, our truth, would never have been quite complete.
It’s about that photo of “us” as kids. Picture number twenty-three or twenty-four, I think it is.
I have a horrible admission to make about that one, Sean.
That photo – the photo you found at Mum’s after she died – well, it was your photo.
I’d found it in the boxes when we moved to Thoday Street and because Mum had told me about some kid I’d been in love with on holiday and because, like you, I wanted to believe that person was you, I’d taken the photo to show Mum. And I’d forgotten to bring it back.
When Mum died, you found it there – she hadn’t tidied properly in years – and you assumed that she had the same photo. You were so bowled over by the whole thing that I didn’t dare tell you the truth. We’d been through that difficult patch and I was desperately trying to find my way back to you. And the photo provided exactly the excuse we needed.
But the truth was that Mum was useless. I showed her your photo and asked if the girl in the picture was me, and she said that she doubted it. I’d never had dungarees, she said. I’d always been dressed in dresses. And that’s true. I remember that. I was forever scraping my knees.
I really wanted to believe, so I begged her to look more closely, to study the surroundings, to look at the swings in the background or the toilet block on the right hand side. I asked her if she remembered that campsite, and she said that, no, she didn’t think so. But she really couldn’t remember. She didn’t even know which boyfriend she’d been with at the time.
So, I’m sorry, again. I’ve always preferred to believe, like you, that it’s possible. I’ve always chosen to think that maybe that was us in the photo, that perhaps we did meet when I was five, that we really might have been in love our whole lives,
ever since that picture. But the odds, as Mum said, are against it. Still, eighteen onwards is still pretty good going, isn’t it?
Oh, there’s one more little story I want to tell you – yes, I know, I know, they keep on coming – but I’ve just thought of this one, and it seems a good way to end these tapes, if such a thing exists.
Do you remember when Mum died? Do you remember how, after the cremation, I went off for a walk around the graveyard and you found me in tears?
Well, I had come upon a handwritten gravestone – actually, it wasn’t stone at all, it was made out of tin, roughly cut to the shape of a heart and painted with black enamel paint. On it, painted by hand, was a poem.
Now, I don’t know if it’s a well known poem or if it was written by the person who made the love heart, but I thought it was very touching, and I’ve never ever forgotten it.
It said: To lose someone you really love / is hard beyond belief / Your heart comes close to breaking point / and no one knows the grief / Many times I’ve thought of you / and many times I’ve cried / If my love could have saved you / you never would have died.
I wanted you to hear that little ditty, Sean, because it’s exactly how I feel.
Just as I was reading the poem, a butterfly came and perched on the edge of the tin heart, and it made me think about the fact that everyone loves butterflies, but even they have to die.
If loving someone was reason enough to be able to stick around, then I’d still be there beside you. And if love was ever enough to save someone’s life, then yours would have saved me, too. Because no one ever gave it more easily, or more generously, than you did.
I love you so much, Sean. I’ve been loved so much, Sean. But it’s not enough to change destiny. And it’s not enough to fight cancer. So goodbye, baby. And look after April for me. She takes up the half of my heart that isn’t taken by you.
Epilogue
It is the fifth of January and Sean has been on holiday for three weeks. All that unused annual leave turned out to be useful in the end.
It’s below zero degrees outside, but the snow, repeatedly forecast over the Christmas period, has never arrived. And that’s just as well, really. With the exception of Christmas Day, which Sean spent with April in London, he’s been doing his best to ignore the whole festive period. And by losing himself in his packing, he has pretty much succeeded.
But now, while cleaning out the loft, he has found that second box of photos, the one Catherine mentioned, and he can’t decide whether to tape the lid down and simply move it, unopened, to the new flat, or whether to open it and investigate the contents.
He makes himself a mug of tea, and sips it while he decides. And then, thinking that it’s likely to become an obsession if he doesn’t look, he removes the lid and tips the contents onto the kitchen table.
The first thing he spots is a letter. It contains the typed results of the DNA test Catherine had mentioned having done. It proves, it says, his paternity of their daughter.
He gently folds this, caresses it and then puts it to one side. He starts to sift through the photos, and here is newborn April looking surprised, and then forward in time to Catherine in the pool in Valencia, and now fast forward again to April proudly leaning on the roof of her first car – a little green Vauxhall Corsa.
Amidst the loose photos is a much older, yellowed album containing photos of Catherine as a baby, then Catherine as a toddler, then Catherine at school.
Sean’s eyes are misting now, so he puts these photos to one side. April, who is due to give birth any day, will love them, he thinks. He then re-stacks the remaining photos in the box and tapes down the lid.
Even though she never has anything much to say, Sean phones April regularly. “What have you been up to?” he asks every time.
“Sitting here feeling huge, mainly,” she always replies. “I’m so over this whole being pregnant lark.”
• • •
The weekend before the move, Sean drives down to Wiltshire to visit his mother.
She’s on a new drug regimen but though Perry claims she has more good days than before, Sean has seen little proof of it so far.
When he arrives at The Cedars, she’s sitting staring into the middle distance and working her mouth, as usual.
Sean kisses her on the cheek and hugs her frail, rigid body. He asks her if she knows who he is, and she says, shortly, “Of course I know who you are,” but then fails to give any further information which might prove this to be so.
Sean sighs deeply and then moves a chair so that he can sit right beside her. “I brought some pictures to show you,” he says, sliding a manila envelope from his bag. “I found them in the loft.”
He starts with photos of his own childhood. Perry and himself in school uniform. A picture of his father fishing, a photo of the house they grew up in… It’s finally a photo of Cynthia, looking youthful and pretty in an evening gown, which provokes the first reaction. She reaches out tremblingly as if to caress the fabric. “Such a pretty dress,” she says.
Sean continues to go through the photos but Cynthia only seems interested in the ball gown, at least until he comes to a photo of himself, aged about five on his mother’s knee. “He fell in the pond,” Cynthia says, causing Sean to pause.
He looks up at her and smiles and says, “Who did? Who fell in the pond?”
“Um?” Cynthia says.
“Who fell in the pond?” Sean asks again.
“Why, Perry did, silly,” his mother replies.
“When did Perry fall in a pond, Mum?”
“The day Edward took that,” Cynthia says, nodding at the photo. “Don’t you remember?”
Sean stares at the photo and struggles to recall the incident. But though he can locate a vague feeling of panic, a sense of urgency that seems to linger in the borders of the image, he’s unable to remember the details. “Not really,” he finally admits.
“After this one,” his mother says quietly, tapping her finger on the photo. “Your father wanted one with both of you. That’s when we realised he was missing.”
“Right,” Sean says, squinting. Perhaps he does remember something. Perhaps he remembers being cast aside urgently; perhaps he remembers watching his mother run away from him through the French windows, heading off to save his brother from the duck pond. Or has he just, this instant, manufactured those images to fit the story? It’s difficult to say. Memory is such a strange thing.
“So, what about this one?” he asks, nervously sliding a square black and white photo from the pack. “Do you remember this one, Mum?”
He holds the photo out and studies his mother’s face and prays for a sign of recognition. “The inseparables,” she says. “It’s what the French call lovebirds, you know. Les Inséparables.”
Sean wide-eyes his mother. “Wow,” he says. “You are with it, today. And this little girl. Do you remember her name?” He points at the little girl in the photo, hiding behind her hair. He wills his mother’s lips to move. He wills them to say “Catherine.”
Cynthia works her mouth as she thinks about this for a moment. Then a shadow crosses her features and her eyes start to water. “No,” she says, feebly, “no I don’t. It’s all gone again.”
Sean reaches out and rubs her back. “That’s OK, Mum. You’re doing really well today. And this was ages ago. Years and years ago.”
“Was it?” Cynthia says, sounding confused, sounding frustrated. “It’s so misty, that’s all. Everything’s misty and mixed up. It’s all just… wrong.”
Sean crosses the room and returns with a tissue which he hands to his mother. “That’s normal, Mum,” he says. “Don’t worry.”
“… so cold,” Cynthia says, as she dabs at her eyes with the tissue.
“You’re cold?” Sean asks, glancing over at the radiator which is on full blast. He can feel the heat from here.
“No, in Cornwall,” Cynthia says, irritatedly. “It was summer, I think, but it was freezing the whole time.”
&
nbsp; “Gosh, you remember that, do you?” Sean says. “That’s amazing.”
“Silly little dresses,” Cynthia says. “Silly, summer dresses. She was cold all the time, the poor thing.”
“The little girl? My friend?”
Cynthia nods. “They were camping, too. With blankets. Not even sleeping bags. We had a villa, of course, but they were camping. She stayed with us the whole time, really. We dressed her and fed her. It was hardly surprising that she didn’t want to go home.”
Sean covers his mouth with one hand as he moves the photo closer with the other.
“Show me another one,” Cynthia says. “We’ve done that one.”
“OK,” Sean replies. “But just… these dungarees she’s wearing. In the photo. Were they mine?”
“Of course they were yours,” Cynthia replies. “Whose do you think they were? They were too big for her. We had to roll up the bottoms but she still kept tripping over.”
Sean chews his bottom lip as he tremblingly pulls another photo from the envelope. “Is this her, Mum?” he asks, putting a different photo of five-year-old Catherine before her eyes. “Is this the little girl?”
Cynthia frowns at the photo. “Well, how should I know?” she says.
“Please look, Mum,” Sean pleads. “Just for a moment. Just for me. It’s important.”
Cynthia frowns at her son as if he’s perhaps a little crazy, then returns her gaze briefly to the photo. “I don’t know,” she says, in a petulant tone of voice. “It might be her, it might not be her. Why are you asking me all these questions, anyway?”
Sean sighs and lowers the photo. He runs his hand across his face. “Right,” he says, despondently. “Right, it doesn’t matter.”
“A terrible slattern, though. An awful woman. She was drunk most of the time.”
Sean’s eyebrows twitch skywards. “Who was?” he asks urgently, suddenly hopeful again. “The little girl’s mother?”
Cynthia nods. “A very vulgar woman, she was. Always drinking beer and burping. And giving you money for chips all the time. We didn’t want you eating chips. We wanted you to eat proper food.”
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