Ten Things I've Learnt About Love

by Sarah Butler

  ‘You’ve had a haircut,’ she said. ‘It’s nice.’

  I touched my head, self-conscious. ‘Thank you.’

  The cafe echoed with the sounds of teacups on saucers and cutlery on plates, and other people talking.

  ‘You’re tongue-tied.’

  ‘I’d like to paint you,’ I blurted.

  She put her head to one side.

  ‘Naked?’ she said.

  I felt my heart quicken. ‘Well – I mean—’

  And then she tipped back her head and laughed, like we weren’t in a public place, like no one else mattered.

  ‘I don’t want—’ I started, though I did.

  ‘I’m a mother of two,’ she said.

  ‘You’re beautiful.’

  It was the right thing to say. A look of pleasure flashed across her face.

  ‘No one’s told me that in a while,’ she said.

  ‘Not your husband?’ I said and then winced.

  She smiled, a little sadly. ‘Things get boring, it seems.’

  ‘I think you’re very beautiful,’ I stumbled. ‘I’d like to paint your portrait.’

  ‘You have a studio?’

  I shook my head. I could feel my breath tangled up in my chest.

  ‘Are you any good?’

  ‘At what?’

  She smiled. ‘At painting.’

  I shrugged and stared down at my hands. ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘Show me.’ She reached into one of her bags and drew out a large white envelope and a thin black biro. She laid them on the table between us. ‘Go on.’ She lifted her chin, pushed her shoulders back, brushed her hair along the line of her face.

  I told myself to take it slowly. I told myself it might be my only chance to spend time looking at her like this. I searched for the shape of her bones underneath her skin; the exact angle of her jawline; the detail – a tiny mole on her left cheek, the slight difference in the contour of her eyelids, the almost imperceptible discrepancy between the line of her lipstick and the line of her lips.

  ‘You’re not drawing,’ she said after several minutes.

  ‘I have to look first,’ I said.

  ‘I feel like you’re looking inside my brain.’

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Shall I tell you what I’m thinking?’

  ‘Don’t move, stay just like that.’ I drew her then, in quick confident lines, the tilt of her head, the mischief in her eyes, the slight curl of her lip.

  When I was finished I pushed the envelope across the table towards her. She spent longer than I could bear looking at it.

  ‘You don’t like it?’ I said.

  ‘You’ve made me look beautiful, and a bit mean.’

  ‘I didn’t intend to – the mean bit.’

  She smiled then, and went to put the envelope into one of her bags.

  ‘Could I keep it?’ I said.

  She lifted her eyebrows.

  ‘I’ll draw you again,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to—’

  She nodded and handed me the paper. We sat in silence, listening to the clatter of teacups around us.

  ‘Well.’ She gave a quick sigh, and smiled. ‘It’s been nice to see you, Daniel. I’m glad we—’ She shook her head, as though she was trying to get rid of an idea. ‘You’re a good artist. I’m impressed.’ She started to gather up her bags.

  ‘Don’t go.’ I said it before I could stop myself. It sounded desperate.

  She looked at me, a steady glass-green look.

  ‘I mean, would you like to see some of the paintings, maybe?’

  ‘No, not today, I don’t think,’ she said. ‘I’ve so many bags, and I have to get back for the girls.’

  I felt her words sink through my chest. I waited for her to stand, but she stayed in her seat, as though considering how to answer a question. Eventually she released her bags, fished in her handbag and produced the same pen I had drawn with, and a small lined notebook. She wrote quickly, ripped out the page and put it face down on the table. She kept her hand over it for a moment, as if trying to decide whether or not to pick it up again.

  ‘I really must go.’ Another flurry of bags, coat, umbrella, hair. I stood too, and tried, ineffectually, to help. She leaned forward, planted a kiss on my cheek, and was gone.

  I sat back down and stared at where a red lipstick mark remembered the shape of her mouth on the edge of her teacup. The blood pumped in my veins. I turned over the piece of paper. An address in Bloomsbury. A date – three days in the future, a pearl-white Friday. A time – 3 p.m. Nothing else. No phone number, no message. I looked at her writing, then my drawing. I don’t know how long I sat there.

  * * *

  It’s not safe to take it out too often. Ink and paper don’t last like you’d hope they might. It’s been a long time; it’s a miracle, really, I’ve still got it to look at. The gum along the edge of the envelope turned a dry, dark yellow years ago. The paper itself is soft with age. I push back the plastic so I can see her face. The ink has faded, but not so much that I can’t make out the spark in her eye, the lift of her upper lip. Do you look like her, I wonder, do you have the same pale skin, the same pattern of freckles across your shoulders? I bend over the picture so not even a glint of sunlight can reach her. I would like to touch her face, run my fingers along the lines, but I have learnt to think ahead; I have learnt how to keep things safe.

  Sometimes, during those afternoons in Bloomsbury, she talked about feeling trapped. Kids ruin your body, and then they ruin your sleep, she’d say. I love them, of course I love them, but sometimes I want to walk out of the house when they’re asleep, shut the front door behind me and never go back.

  I smooth the plastic bag over her, and fit the picture carefully into my jacket pocket. As I do it strikes me that she might be here, in this graveyard. It is far from impossible.

  I comb the whole place, stone by stone. I search for the bright, brash red of her name, but find only a Jennifer, a John, a Juliet, a Joseph.

  There’s another graveyard just opposite the church. I stand at the corner of it, holding onto the fence, and wait for you.

  Two black Mercedes make their ponderous way along the road towards the church. In the back window of the first car there are eight red letters – carnation heads held into plastic shapes: Granddad.

  Father. Grandfather. I’ve imagined, of course I have, that you might have had children. It’s been long enough. You’re old enough.

  The cars stop. I am standing absolutely still, but I feel like I’m in the great buffeting chaos of a storm. The driver’s door of each car opens, and solemn-faced men wearing smart suits and polished shoes step onto the tarmac. I wonder how many suits they own. I wonder if they have an account at their local dry-cleaners, and whether they take the suits in themselves or have a wife they expect to do it for them. Slow down. I notice the weave of my jacket between my fingers. There’s a breeze just got up and I can feel its touch on my cheek. Slow down.

  Father. Grandfather.

  The drivers open the passenger doors and stand by. The first person out is a man, short and overweight. I can’t imagine you with a man like that. After him come three boys. Two are almost as tall as he is; the third is younger. The man puts his hand on the youngest boy’s head, and I want – suddenly, desperately – to feel this boy’s hair and the shape of his skull underneath my own palm.

  I am starting to think it will kill me to see you, after all. But when you step onto the pavement it’s like the weight on my chest has turned to dust and blown away. You have her hair. I always knew you would. And you’re small, like she was. You hold yourself tight, and I can see from the set of your shoulders that you loved him. It is one of your sisters who walks to the man with his hand on the boy’s head.

  You turn away from the church, away from all the people waiting there, and as you turn I see your face. It is so like hers it frightens me: almond eyes, small mouth, the bottom lip thicker than the top. You wear your hair coiled up at the back of your he
ad, but I know if you unpinned it it would fall in russet curls across your shoulders. Your eyes skim the streets, as though you are trying to find something to hold onto.

  This is it. We are looking at each other. The wind is hustling at the trees and the world shimmers with a dappled, shifting light. We are standing face to face, with only a road and a stretch of pavement between us.

  I should know by now that however much I dream something, it doesn’t ever turn out that way. When I dream this, you recognise me. When I dream this, I raise my hand, like I’m doing now, and you respond. Sometimes you frown, then laugh; sometimes you know straight away; other times I have to tell you – four words: magenta, ice blue, maroon, pearl white. But your eyes skip over me as though I’m a stranger. I keep my arm raised. I lift my eyebrows and I smile. At you. My daughter.

  You turn back to the church and reach for your other sister’s hand. My heart can’t take this. It’s like someone is pressing into the centre of my chest, pulling down at the back of my jaw. You need to avoid emotional upset, the doctor told me, you need to keep yourself away from stressful situations.

  I could let it happen. Maybe you would turn back if I fell to the ground. But you are too far away now. I pull the bottle from my pocket and spray beneath my tongue. Then I cross the street and follow the last black-suited stragglers into the church.

  I sit in the same place I sat this morning, careful not to make eye contact with the vicar. He is at the lectern, smiling a smile he must have rehearsed in front of a mirror for these occasions.

  I can see the back of your head. You rub the fingers of your right hand against your neck. You glance around and I follow your gaze to a tall dark-skinned man with a thick mop of black hair and a neat beard. He is sitting with his head lowered towards his knees. You look away and I can see a slump of disappointment in your shoulders. I feel a sudden surge of anger towards the man. I try to concentrate on the vicar’s words. They flash colours across the backs of my eyes. Intelligent. Professional integrity. Committed father. Three beautiful daughters. Proud.

  I wonder what they would say at my funeral, what words they would use – almost; never quite; tried hard. I wonder who would come.

  The sister without the husband and children stands up and walks to the lectern. She is introduced as Matilda. I met them both the first time I saw your mother, in the cloisters of the National Portrait Gallery. I wonder if they remember; they were old enough to. I’d been looking at the Dame Laura Knight. I was standing right up close, examining the brushwork on the artist’s bright-red cardigan. I like to do that – I like to work out how things are made. Do you know the painting? It’s of the artist at her easel, painting a naked woman. The model stands to the right, her left breast just visible, her hands holding the back of her head, a faint blush around her buttocks. The artist isn’t looking at the model or at the easel; she gazes into the distance as though she’s thinking about something entirely different.

  ‘Mummy, why’s that man looking at the woman with no clothes on?’

  I jumped back from the painting. It was Cecilia – I only learnt her name later, a wiry girl with brown hair tied into bunches, glaring at me. I looked up and saw her mother, and my heart went into free fall. She held another girl, Matilda – softer, gentler-looking – by the hand.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ I said.

  ‘What on earth for?’ she said, and smiled, and my heart collided with something hard. ‘Darling, it’s an art gallery, people are supposed to look at the paintings,’ she said to the indignant girl on her right. ‘Now let’s leave this man to his examination.’ She smiled again, with that light in her eyes. I stood rooted to the spot.

  ‘Mummy, why is he staring at us?’

  My face burned. The woman hushed her daughter and threw me an apologetic look. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again. I was suddenly aware of my arms, useless and awkward, hanging down either side of my body. ‘I – um – I couldn’t buy you ladies a cup of tea?’ I said. It sounded ridiculous, but I couldn’t let her go. She pulled herself straight then, looked at me like she was trying to work me out.

  ‘Can I have a hot chocolate?’ That was Matilda. I wanted to hug her.

  ‘Of course you can,’ I said, ‘if that’s OK with your mother?’

  * * *

  They were nice girls, your sisters. I could tell they’d been brought up right. I don’t know what I was thinking when I asked her to leave him, to come with me. I thought somehow I could stand in for him, that I could do as well as him.

  I watch you gazing up at Matilda. She takes tear-stained gulps halfway through sentences, but she holds it together. Loving father. Dedicated. Always fair.

  He knew, your mother told me, he always knew. I hope it didn’t make things difficult for you.

  I hold your name in my mouth, such an ice-cold blue it makes my teeth hurt.

  * * *

  I stand with everyone else and we filter towards the door. I keep my head down. You are the only person I want to see. I step out from the cool interior into the bright heat of the day.

  But it is Cecilia who greets me. I think, for a moment, that she recognises me, but then I see in her eyes that she’s judged me for what I am and wants me to leave. You are turned away, crying. Matilda strokes the space in between your shoulder blades. The man you had looked at during the service stands awkwardly at the gate, as though torn between coming back to take you in his arms and leaving.

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ I mutter to Cecilia.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says, and lifts her eyebrows just a fraction – waiting.

  I don’t speak to many people, so words no longer come easily; I have to draw them up, like water from a well. When they reach the top there is always the danger of spillage, a sudden rush into empty space.

  ‘I wanted to come, to say, to give my condolences.’

  She looks like someone who diets – her face is slightly drawn and there’s an edge of discontent about her.

  ‘Your father.’ You are still turned away from me. I cannot lose you.

  ‘You knew him?’

  ‘Malcolm.’

  Something softens around her mouth.

  ‘Malcolm,’ I say again, like it’s some kind of password. ‘He was— I just wanted to pay my respects.’

  Her chin moves up a little, like the second half of a nod. She wants me to go. You are close enough to touch. She follows my gaze.

  ‘Well, thank you for coming,’ she says. The short man walks over, slips an arm around her waist and says something in her ear. She shakes her head, then turns back to me. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand this is a difficult time for all of us,’ she says. ‘A time to be together, with privacy.’

  ‘I knew your mother,’ I say. ‘Julianne.’ I haven’t said her name out loud for years. Lipstick red.

  There is a battle behind her eyes, but my skin and my hair, my clothes and my smell tell her what I am, and I am losing.

  The organ has stopped playing. ‘Thank you for coming,’ she says, and then turns away from me, towards you. I don’t know what she tells you, but when you look at me, I see she has ruined it all, and that you too think I’m a tramp with no right to be here.

  Matilda leads you towards the car. I don’t know where you live. I can’t run that fast. The other people are disappearing, turning corners, slamming their own car doors. I don’t hear the engine start, but the car you are in is moving. It’s back, the weight in my jaw, the crashing through my chest.

  Apart from the man who loves you – either that, or he has hurt you and wants to make it better – the other stragglers include an elderly couple, a tiny woman with black hair that looks like a wig, and a family – two kids, the youngest small enough to be lifted up into her father’s arms. I choose the woman.

  I push my hands through my hair, and run my finger around the edge of my lips. I straighten my jacket, draw my shoulders back, and drag up the accent that I’ve become so good at hiding it no longer feels like my own.


  ‘Excuse me.’

  She turns as though I’ve frightened her. ‘Hello?’

  And I know, from the lilt in her voice, from her height and from the blue-grey eyes, that she is Marina. We have never met, but she has been described to me, laughingly, with affection, and there was a photograph in her flat – standing with a furred hood pulled up around her cheeks, against a backdrop of snow-topped trees. Marina and I used to be such free spirits, Julianne had said once.

  ‘I forgot to bring the address,’ I say. ‘For the house.’

  Her eyes narrow. I’ve got it wrong.

  ‘You’re a friend?’ she says.

  ‘Of Malcolm, yes. Former colleagues.’ I manage to infuse my voice with a rich, coffee-cream sound. That swings it for me. She opens her handbag and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

  ‘Here you are.’

  The address is printed in black ink. The words I need are two shades of the same colour: dark navy and a lighter, brighter royal blue.

  ‘I hear Alice still lives there,’ I say. It’s hard to keep my voice under control.

  ‘Only while she’s back, I think. I do feel for them. It’s hard when the last parent dies. Can I give you a lift?’

  ‘No, no.’ I see suspicion flare in her eyes. ‘My car’s just on the other side.’ I wave behind me. ‘I’ll see you there.’

  ‘Marina,’ she says, and holds out her hand. She wears three gold rings, each glinting with stones.

  I swallow and offer her my hand. The skin is thick and callused, my nails are too long. I see she wants to pull back, but she doesn’t. I make myself let go, and as I do, I say my name, because it feels like there is nothing to lose now; she is perhaps the only one who might understand. I hold her gaze for a moment, and then I turn and walk away. And even when I hear her voice, turning my name into a call, into a summons, into a question, I keep on walking.

  * * *

  I know the road. I never took the Knowledge, but I have a memory for where one road branches off to become another. I make myself walk slowly: Heath Street. Perrin’s Lane. Gayton Road. Magnolia, olive green. Royal blue, gold. Purple, chestnut brown. Avoid emotional upset. I fix my eyes in front of my shoes. I follow the spaces in between the pavement slabs, register the occasional stubborn smattering of moss or grass. While she’s back. From where? For how long?