Ten Things I've Learnt About Love

by Sarah Butler

  Cee almost spits her wine across the room. Neither of us say anything. Tilly looks from me to Cee, to me again, her eyes wide.

  ‘Well, at least Dad’s not around for this one,’ Cee says at last.

  I watch the tears spring to Tilly’s eyes. ‘Stop it,’ I hiss at Cee.

  She folds her arms. ‘And what’s Toby’s take on all of this?’ she says. ‘He’s going to leave his wife?’ She says it like it’s something that will never happen. She has a point, but Jesus.

  ‘Are you happy about it, Tilly?’ I am sitting on the sofa next to hers. I lean forwards and take her hand. It’s warm and her palm is slicked with sweat. She looks at me gratefully and I make myself hold her gaze and smile. She nods. A tear dislodges down her cheek.

  ‘You’re nearly forty, Tilly,’ says Cee.

  Tilly kneads her lips together and nods again. ‘I didn’t think it would work,’ she says.

  Cee frowns. ‘You two planned this? What was he thinking?’

  Tilly shifts her weight and the sofa groans like an animal in pain. ‘He doesn’t know.’ She says it so quietly I almost miss it.

  ‘Will you tell him?’ I ask.

  She shrugs.

  ‘He’ll run a mile,’ Cee says.

  ‘You don’t know what he’ll do,’ I say.

  ‘Cee’s right,’ Tilly says. ‘Kids aren’t part of the deal.’

  ‘So, what? An abortion?’ Cee says.

  Tilly flinches and squeezes my hand. I listen to the muffled sounds of a television coming from upstairs; the soft metallic tick of the clock in the living room.

  ‘I want it,’ Tilly says. ‘I’m going to keep it.’

  ‘And lose him?’ I say.

  She shrugs. ‘I meant for this to happen.’

  ‘I’ll be an aunty again,’ I say, and smile. ‘So will you, Cee.’

  ‘Well, I suppose if he pays child support,’ Cee says.

  Tilly shakes her head.

  ‘It’s not easy, Tilly,’ Cee says.

  ‘I know that.’

  I look at Tilly. She’s wearing blue cotton trousers and a loose white shirt. I imagine the baby, small as my finger, or maybe my fist, curled up inside her.

  ‘When—?’ I start.

  ‘I’m two and a half months,’ she says.

  Cee finishes her wine in one long drink. ‘I don’t know,’ she says.

  ‘There’s nothing for you to know, Cee. It’s Tilly’s business. We’re just here to cheer from the sidelines, aren’t we?’ I glare at Cee until she shrugs and says, ‘I’m just worried that—’

  ‘I think it deserves a toast,’ I say. I fill Cee’s glass, and raise mine towards the centre of the room. ‘To Tilly’s baby,’ I say. ‘May it be happy and loved and know that it has the whole of the world at its feet.’

  Ten times I’ve wanted to die

  1) My first day at school, when a girl stole my satchel, tipped everything out, and laughed.

  2) After the time in the cafe, when she said no.

  3) After I found out about the crash.

  4) Before I found out about the crash.

  5) When my mother called me to tell me what he had done.

  6) That whole winter in Preston.

  7) When my mother died. I held a knife to my wrist, but didn’t press hard enough.

  8) When the gallery went bust and I lost the only job I’ve ever loved.

  9) That time on the beach – not because I wasn’t happy, just that it seemed to make sense.

  10) I’ve never really wanted it, because of you, but there are times when it feels like it would be easier than all this.

  I am a coward, simple as that, a fucking coward. I come back here because I don’t know where else to go. You didn’t understand what I was trying to say. Which is fair enough. I take the half-buried, half-empty bottle of whisky, unscrew the cap and drink, straight from the neck. It burns a line down my throat. I am too old to be sitting on the floor. The leaves have kept the worst of the rain away, but water has seeped into the ground; it’s like sitting on a damp towel. No matter. I stare up at the colours. Alice. Daughter. Love. Sorry. Father.

  Brighton beach. We stood on the shoreline – your mother and I – holding hands, our feet bare on the hard white stones. It was early morning, and the world smelt of salt and seaweed.

  ‘We could fill our pockets with pebbles and walk,’ she said. I looked at her blankly, and she told me about Virginia Woolf. She walked into a river, she said, in Sussex, wearing wellingtons and a fur coat with a large stone in the pocket.

  I drink some more. It has been a long time since I’ve allowed myself to, but it feels familiar, this slow sinking.

  I filled my pockets – all of them: trousers, jacket, shirt – the stones pulling at the seams, dragging the material out of shape. She watched me, and laughed. I danced around her, rattling my burden, and then I took her hand and walked into the sea. At first she came willingly, almost skipping at my side. I had a moment of hesitation, and then I just kept going, the water pressing my clothes against my skin, the stones weighing me down into the seabed. She hesitated, tried to stop, tried to let go of my hand, but I wouldn’t let her.

  I was joking, I told her afterwards, I didn’t want to hurt her, of course I didn’t want to hurt her; it had been her idea in the first place, why did she have to ruin things, it was just a joke. I still remember, though, the panic in her voice, rising up over the water, and the deep sense of peace I found, walking into the sea, holding her hand, with no intention of turning back.

  I pull a leaf from the branch just by my head. The bush judders and sends drops of rain into the shelter like tiny, cold bullets. I push my thumbnail into the edge of the leaf, until it slices through and my nail meets my forefinger, then drop the tiny semicircle onto the ground, and cut out another, and then another, until only the spine is left.

  I’d known Julianne long enough by then to be able to recognise how things went. First came angry words, coated red, a thick, volcanic roar; and then a blue prickling silence. I had broken the weekend. We’d planned to stay until the sun set, but she folded her arms across her chest and announced she wanted to leave straight away.

  We walked back to the hotel in silence. In the bedroom she pulled off her wet clothes and threw them at me. I wrapped my arms around her, buried my face in her hair and told her I loved her. She clawed at me, pummelled my chest with her fists, but her fingers searched out the fastenings of my clothes all the same. Afterwards she rolled away, left me in the empty sea of the bed, listening to the fall of water onto her skin in the narrow ensuite bathroom. She still insisted we left early, and the silence still chilled the inside of the car ice-blue on the journey home.

  I think it was that morning that you were conceived. In anger – with the idea of death hovering in the room. That shouldn’t have been the case; I’m sorry for it.

  I swill whisky like mouthwash, passing it from left cheek to right and back again. I push my forefinger into the damp ground, and feel the soil settle itself beneath my nail.

  When the whisky is finished, I screw the top back on and slam the bottle into the ground. It doesn’t break. I want something to break.

  It is quicker to destroy something than it is to make it. I start slowly, almost reluctantly. I pull at the colours until the branches dip and the cotton strains. I tense my body against each break, the leafy rush upwards, the shake of leftover rain; plastic, string, paper, metal in my hand – nothing but pieces of rubbish. Charcoal grey. Magenta pink. Ice blue. Magnolia. Green. Silver. Maroon. Orange. Gold. I was a fool to think – I never thought. Not really. I drop them out of order onto the ground, until they’re just a meaningless collage that crunches beneath my feet.

  I could go back to the house. The odds are you’ll still be there. But what’s the use of it? What good would it do you?

  It’s all over too quickly. I pace, grinding the colours underneath my shoes, looking for more, but I am done. The lengths of cotton hang like so many snapped nooses,
their ends frayed and weak. It is not enough.

  When I understand what I’m about to do, I drop to my knees. A sound – abrupt and animal-like – escapes from my lips.

  I have carried this picture of your mother since that afternoon in the cafe, when she traced the line of my cheek with the tip of her finger and it felt like the clean cut of a knife that holds the pain back for later. I have been careful enough that the paper still holds itself together, the ink still curves around the contours of her face. I lift my hand towards my jacket pocket.

  Don’t.

  My heart hurries against my ribs. There is nothing left now. It doesn’t matter any more. I take the picture from my pocket, and lift it out of the plastic bag.

  Don’t.

  She looks up at me. Smiling, like she knows something I don’t. There is nothing left now. It doesn’t matter any more.

  The paper is soft with age. It barely resists when I hold its top edge between my forefingers and thumbs and tear a line down the centre of your mother’s face. If it had resisted, maybe I could have stopped myself. But once I hold two pieces instead of one, something snaps inside me, and I rip and rip until she is unrecognisable, until I am surrounded by tiny white scraps of paper; like confetti. And I cry – pathetic, childlike sobs, wet breathless sounds I wouldn’t want anyone to hear.

  It is too much for my heart. Not just the picture, not just the colours, but all of it. I reach for the spray, but it isn’t there.

  Ten things I’d rather forget

  1) The colour of my father’s skin before he died.

  2) When we were kids, Cee used to hide food under her jumper at dinner, take it to her room, and then creep downstairs to throw it away in the middle of the night. I sussed her and told Dad. I don’t think it helped.

  3) That Kal and I are over.

  4) I went through a shoplifting phase – make-up and chocolate bars and tights.

  5) I took the money Dad offered me – out of habit, because it was easy.

  6) I cheated on Kal. Just once, and not the whole way. A snog – I kissed a man in a nightclub. Vodka and stress. No excuse.

  7) I am an orphan.

  8) I used to wish Cee had died instead of Mama – arguably I still do.

  9) All the times I was rude to my father.

  10) That I can never speak to him again.

  Tilly’s in Cee’s spare room; pregnant. I lie on the sofa bed in the attic, underneath a thick artificial duvet, with a white frill and blue flowers embroidered across its surface. The pillows sport the same design; I can feel the raised petals pressing into my cheek. There’s no blind on the skylight and I’ve been awake since sunrise, thinking about Kal.

  I shove the duvet to one side, pull on my T-shirt and jeans and then sit up with my back against the pillows, my legs crossed, my bag – a black Slazenger holdall rescued from Dad’s attic – in front of me. I take the gifts one by one from the side pocket of the bag, and lay them out in a line.

  He’s crazy. It’s the only explanation. Except it doesn’t quite fit. Old, in need of a wash, probably homeless, yes – but no more crazy than me. I pick up the small pink flower – it has shrivelled into a fragile ball.

  The door opens with no knock to forewarn me. I move my hands over the gifts, as though to protect them, and look up to swear at Cee. But it’s Max, and he is inside the room and up on the bed before I can say a word.

  ‘Aunty Alice, can I stay here with you and not have to go to church?’ His blond hair is still ruffled from the night, and he has sleep like encrusted tears at the corners of his eyes. He wears blue pyjamas dotted with aeroplanes. The top three buttons gape open to reveal the smooth pale skin of his chest. I feel a stab of love. Of course Tilly wants a baby, I think; of course she does. Max scrambles over the duvet until he is on his hands and knees at my side. The gifts lurch about as he moves and I circle my arms to keep them steady.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asks.

  I look down. Rubbish. They’re just bits of rubbish. ‘I think you’ll have to go to church,’ I say. ‘Or I’ll be in trouble with your mother.’

  Max pulls a face, raising his upper lip, scrunching his nose, rolling his eyes. He picks up the piece of orange cardboard. I reach out my hand for it. ‘Leave that, Max, it’s just—’

  ‘Look, it’s the stars. That’s cool.’ He holds the cardboard up towards the ceiling. ‘We did Space at school. This one’s Orion, he was a hunter. And then here’s the Big Dipper. It’s got another name too.’

  ‘It’s part of Ursa Major. Are you serious?’ I take the cardboard from him and look at the pattern of holes punched with a biro, smears of ink around their edges.

  Max rolls his eyes. ‘In the olden days, they used to lie and look at the stars for so long they learnt all the shapes and how they move round – Miss Jordan said so.’

  ‘Do you like this one?’ I pick up the silver flower.

  ‘It’s girly.’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s pretty?’

  Max grimaces.

  ‘An old man gave them to me.’

  Max looks at me, tips his head to one side and frowns. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘But he knows you?’

  I shrug.

  ‘Mummy says not to talk to strangers.’

  ‘And she’s right.’

  Max picks up the string of fake pearls. He holds it so the pieces of plastic and cardboard, the string, the conker and the rose swing beneath it. I fidget my hands in my lap. I want him to stop.

  ‘Maybe he’s a magician.’ Max looks up. He loops the pearls around his wrist. I hold out my hand but he doesn’t give them to me. ‘We did magicians at school too,’ he says. ‘We all got to dress up and I was a wizard, except Bradley Stevens had the best hat, it was like this big.’ He stretches his arms out to each side of his head and the string of pearls dances through the air. Then he stops and lays them down with a sudden reverence. ‘Maybe these are his spells,’ he says. He surveys the cluster of gifts, then fixes me with a serious look. ‘I hope he’s a good kind of a wizard,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure he is. I don’t think you need to worry about that.’

  * * *

  We all go to church. I sit next to Tilly, behind Cee, Steve and the three boys. I look at my nephews’ scrubbed necks, and think about Daniel and the piece of cardboard pierced with stars. Every time we kneel I’m aware of Tilly, her eyes scrunched, her hands pressed hard together, murmuring intently under her breath. Church is another thing that’s more theirs than mine.

  We stay for lunch. Cee is all conciliation and care today. She can blow hot and cold; according to Tilly it’s something she’s inherited from our mother. She’s told Steve; he keeps smiling knowingly, and offers Tilly water when he’s pouring the rest of us a glass of wine. We are eating Cee’s low-calorie chocolate mousse when Max announces that I know a real-life wizard. I feel Cee’s gaze rake my face. I try to laugh it away.

  ‘He left her spells,’ Max says.

  ‘It’s just a joke.’ I don’t look at Max. ‘Just a joke.’ I scrape my spoon around my bowl and look at the matching white-and-brown napkins with their silver napkin rings, the place mats with their pictures of fruit. I need to leave. I help clear up, slot plates into the dishwasher, and rinse out the wine glasses. Cee starts to make coffee.

  ‘I’m going to go,’ I say. ‘See how Shaun’s doing.’ And then the thought of Dad’s kitchen cabinets ripped from the walls makes me have to stop and hold my hand against my mouth.

  ‘Are you pregnant too?’ Cee stands with her hip against the dishwasher.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Maybe you should come and stay here for a while. It can’t be much fun in that house.’

  I look at Cee. She’s being serious. ‘We’d kill each other,’ I say.

  But instead of smiling, she looks sad. ‘I want you to think of this as your home, Alice.’

  What she means is, Dad’s dead, Tilly’s flat’s the size of a postage stam
p, and you’re a drifter, so this is the base now.

  ‘I’ll book a flight this week,’ I say.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Delhi, I think.’ Far away. Somewhere I can stop thinking. ‘Don’t worry, the house is practically done.’

  Cee looks towards the dining room. Tilly and Steve are talking quietly. She turns back to me and raises her eyebrows.

  I shrug. ‘She’ll work it out.’

  Cee purses her lips.

  ‘I think she’ll be a great mum,’ I say.

  ‘Of course she will. I just worry—’

  I squeeze Cee’s arm. ‘She can worry enough for the lot of us, Cee. Let’s just be – supportive.’

  ‘You’re going to be supportive from Timbuktu, then?’

  ‘I’ll walk to the station.’

  I put my head round the living-room door and say goodbye. I say I’ve got to rush back; I tell Tilly not to bother rushing too.

  * * *

  When I get back, Shaun’s van isn’t there. The house looks tired and empty. I don’t want to go in on my own, so I carry on walking. I wish it was winter, that the air was cold against my face, and my limbs were snug inside jeans and jumper. I wish the sky looked like a smudged-up charcoal picture, rather than a blue-wash computer screen.

  The Heath is cluttered with people. I walk quickly, the bag tugging at my shoulder. The wind jostles the trees. I can see the dark, damp soil in between the blades of grass. Sweat starts to dampen my T-shirt, and panic rises like a trapped bird in my throat, beating its wings. I can’t find it. I know this place, I tell myself, I should know this place, but it evades me, again and again.

  I can’t even find Kenwood House, and I’ve been there a hundred times, a thousand times. I’ve always prided myself on being happy to get lost, to work things out as I go along. But today I’m on edge. When, finally, I reach the crest of a low hill and see the white form of Kenwood House in the distance, I feel a tug of something closer to disappointment than relief. The cafe is packed. A long queue snakes towards the ice-cream counter in the far corner. Kids squawk and fuss, high on sugar and sunshine. French, Italian, Spanish, Polish conversations fuse together in the still air.