Sweetheart, Sweetheart

by Bernard Taylor

  “Go on now, or you’ll be late.”

  I found it impossible to sleep on the overnight plane. I couldn’t even relax. All I could do was repeat to myself that I was going back. Back to England. Back to see Colin again. I won­dered how he had reacted on getting my wire. Was he as excited as I was . . . ?

  I remembered how I went to see Colin, to say goodbye to him all those years ago before I left for New York. Having met so infrequently during our lives up to that time I’d had no real hope that any last moments spent together could do anything to make up for the lost years. I stood with him in the street outside the restaurant where we had met for lunch, facing him, while the office workers swarmed about us; seeing a mirror-image of myself and, at the same time, almost a stranger. And through it all I could feel that tie between us. But we just stood there and, as we had done throughout the meal, talked of unimportant things—unimportant at that moment. He spoke of his work as an architect, I of my work as a teacher, and we answered one an­other in platitudes, neither of us having the courage to go near the heart.

  I felt bound, constricted by emotion. At the loss, at the terrible waste. I wanted to embrace him, just put my arms around him; to be, just for a second, close to him as I had wanted to be all my life. But I didn’t. Of course. I simply stood there. And he stood there. And we smiled, grinned at each other and said we’d keep in touch. And in the middle of it all I felt this great resentment of my father stir up in me. Colin and I could have—should have—grown up together. We should have shared our boyhood, our games, our friends, adventures and secrets. There should have been an accepted bond between us, so natural as never to be ques­tioned. But that special closeness of brothers or friends had been denied us, undeveloped, left to atrophy. Before I was a year old I had been shipped off to Bristol, to be brought up by Aunt Marianne—childless, severe, abandoned Aunt Marianne—and as a result there I was, years and years later, saying goodbye to my twin brother who was almost unknown to me. Though, I thought on reflection, it surely hadn’t been necessary for us to have remained apart—not from the time we were adults, anyway. But that was probably my fault, I reckoned. If I had been more cour­ageous, more sure of myself—and less in awe of my broth­er’s seeming perfection, then I could have done something about it. As it was I had used reasonable excuses: it was a long, long way from Bristol to London and (until I met She­lagh, anyway) I wouldn’t go near the driver’s seat of a car. My leg, of course. So, with one thing and another, set on the course we were, Colin and I had hardly ever got together. Even so, in spite of that, I loved him. I loved him even though I hardly knew him.

  Perhaps my visit to him, meeting him in that awful restaurant, was my way of saying that. I know he was affected by it. I could see by the way he brushed his fingers over his jaw; it was one of my own mannerisms. I know that as we formally shook hands he was near to tears. He let go my hand after a long, long moment and aimed a gentle fist at my left shoulder—and that was his embrace. Then, in a voice that was an echo of my own, he said goodbye.

  My farewell to my father only underlined my feelings of resentment.

  I went to see him straight after seeing Colin. He answered the door to me, looked at my raincoat, my packed suitcase and Co-op carrier-bag, said, “So, you’re off then,” and retreated to his chair before the television screen. His welcome was no surprise.

  I hung in the doorway for a few seconds, wondering whether I should just turn and go, but I wondered too long for the ges­ture to be effective and in the end moved into the room and sat on the arm of a chair.

  “I’ve been to see Colin,” I said. “To say cheerio . . .”

  There was a second or two before he registered my words, as if the images on the screen were more interesting and he had to be torn from them.

  “He’s a good boy,” he said, his head not moving in my direction, and I thought, You’re classic, you really are.

  On the sideboard were pictures of my mother. My mother a young girl; my mother sitting on a five-barred gate; my mother standing with him, arms around his waist, laughing; a studio portrait—all taken before I was born. And it all amounted to about as much as I knew of her. I had long ago learned not to ask him for information.

  “No gardening for you today,” I said fatuously, and he gave a brief look at the teeming rain and said, “Doesn’t look like it, does it.”

  I got up. “. . . I’d better be off.”

  “What time is your train?”

  “An hour . . .” I headed for the door, scooping up my be­longings. “I’ll let you know how I get on. I’ll write as soon as I get settled . . .”

  “Yes, I’ll be interested to hear.” His voice was so casual. I might have been going to the shop at the corner.

  And I did write to him. Twice. He didn’t answer either letter.

  Colin kept in touch, though, regularly—at least up to the time of his marriage. It was only after that that his letters began to grow short and infrequent—eventually coming to a dead stop. But until that time we went on corresponding and exchanging our bits of news. I told him about She­lagh, my meeting her, my feelings for her, and later on he wrote telling me that he had met Helen. His following letter with the news that they were getting married came, surprisingly, only weeks later.

  And if the news was a surprise to me I could only guess at the shock it must have been for my father. I’m sure he’d reckoned on Colin staying around forever—as I had, I realised, when I came to think about it. I suppose I’d come to the unconscious conclusion that Colin probably wouldn’t marry. God knows my father made him comfortable enough at home. Oh, sure, Colin had had his share of short-lived liaisons—the odd names in his letters showed this—but they never amounted to anything, and I thought it was likely to go on that way. But then Helen came on the scene.

  I wondered about Helen. She had to be someone pretty special if Colin’s­ marrying her wasn’t just a gesture for freedom from our father. I didn’t think it was. She probably was different from the other girls he’d known. So I was naturally curious, and eager to meet her. I wanted to meet the girl who, in the space of a few weeks, could prove herself strong enough to break Colin’s­ ties with my father. And seeing from his early letters how happy he was, I wanted to meet her more than ever. I’d never received such letters from him as those he sent around the time of his marriage. They were brimming over with happiness and hope for the future. It was just after Christmas when they’d begun to tail off, and in the early spring when they stopped completely. Except for his card—but then, the letter he had promised to follow it up had never arrived . . . Still, here I was on the plane, going to see him. There’d be no need for letters now . . .

  The trip mercifully over at last, I alighted, bleary-eyed, in need of a shave, and followed the other travellers through Pass­port Control, then Customs, and then out of the restricted area to where people waited in anxious, eager knots, milling about, craning their necks to catch first glimpses of loved ones. I moved among them hesitantly, trembling with anticipation, look­ing every­where at once. I could see no sign of Colin’s­ tall frame—but there, when I’d cabled I hadn’t asked him to meet me, and also I’d arrived at very short notice. My disappointment tem­porarily smothered, I got in line and changed some dollars for sterling, then caught a bus to the air terminal. Once there I went straight to a telephone and dialled the number of the cottage. Still out of order. After I’d replaced the receiver I just stood there. I felt let-down and a little annoyed. All around me people were moving about with purpose and determination, while I could only hover, nervously smoking and feeling my excitement evaporate. I wasn’t even sure that Colin and Helen were at the cottage. They could be away somewhere and not even have re­ceived my wire . . .

  I pondered for a while on whether to take the chance and just make my way to Hillingham in the hope of finding them in. But what if they weren’t? Then I’d be stuck in a small, strange place, knowing no one . . . No, I wouldn’t risk a wild-goose-chase . . .
I’d go first to see my father.

  For some reason I didn’t want to examine I was glad of the excuse to go and see him. All the way here on the plane I’d had it in the back of my mind that I wouldn’t see him. I wouldn’t. I didn’t feel up to facing again that indifference in his eyes; hearing it in his voice. I didn’t even want to see him, I’d told myself; I knew I’d be unhappier for any confrontation. Nothing would have changed, I was sure. There wasn’t any reason why he even had to know I was in the country. He wouldn’t care, anyway . . .

  All these things I had thought about—and there I was, stub­bing out my cigarette, climbing into a cab and giving my father’s address in Hampstead. No phone call first, either. That would have stopped me; he would have said something, or not said some­thing, that would have been sufficient to keep me away . . . I sat gazing out at the strange streets of London. I was a fool, I knew it. I didn’t, couldn’t, give up. Thirty-two years of it and I still didn’t know when to call it a day.

  I avoided looking at his windows as I went up the front steps—just in case he might happen to be looking out. I rang the bell and waited. I looked at my watch. It was just after two-thirty. I rang again. And at last I heard his footsteps, and there he was, inching open the door.

  He looked at me, saying nothing, then, with a sudden move­ment, held the door wider. I stepped past him into the darkened hall and then followed him into the living-room. I stood looking at his back as he gazed from the rear window onto the garden—same flowers, same greenery.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  It was as if I hadn’t spoken, and I thought, I was right, nothing has changed—even after eight years. But I hadn’t really expected it to, had I? No, but I had hoped . . .

  “You didn’t waste any time, did you,” he said without looking at me.

  I didn’t understand him. “I’ve come over for a holiday,” I said. “I thought I’d just—call in and see you. Before I go on to see Colin . . .”

  “Yes,” he said, “you go and see him.”

  And here I am. Now. With Colin. And we’re probably closer than we ever were before, since the time we shared the space of our mother’s womb. We really are together again now. He won’t go away, and neither shall I.

  I turn to lie as he is lying. I can hear birds singing, smell the scent of the flowers. I close my eyes against the sun, feeling its warmth on my face. It’s what I came back for—to be with him.

  The only difference is, I’m on top of the earth and he is under it.

  3

  When my father said Colin was dead I thought for a moment I’d heard wrong. I stared at him, but his face remained impassive and I knew there was no mistake. I felt my lips beginning to twitch in the beginnings of a hysterical smile, and I stood clen­ching my hands, my eyelids, my teeth, in an effort just to be still.

  Opening my eyes again I could see the enormous change in my father. Not just the change wrought by the passing of years; it was much, much more. He stood silent, almost leaning against the back of his armchair, thin hands gouging the fabric like gnarled tree roots. His face was deeply lined and his eyes, red-rimmed, looked past me towards the rear window, seeing noth­ing. After a little while he turned his head and peered into my face, then let his gaze move down my body to my unmatching feet. He looked away again.

  I sat down on the sofa, tears welling up in my eyes, spilling and running down. When I could speak I said:

  “. . . When . . . ?”

  “The funeral was a week ago.”

  “How did it happen . . . ? Was he—ill?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s over.”

  “I’ve got to know.”

  “It can’t make any difference to you, one way or the other, what I tell you . . .” And then he was leaning over, opening a drawer in the sideboard. His hand had moved and a little bunch of keys fell on the carpet. I picked them up.

  “What are these for . . . ?”

  “His place in Hillingham. It’s yours.”

  “Mine . . . ? The cottage?”

  “In his will. There’s probably a letter on the way to you now—from his bank in the village—they’re his executors and trustees.” He nodded towards the keys. “He left that spare set with me.”

  “And that’s the way I would have heard,” I said, “from his bank?”

  He said nothing. I looked down at the keys in my hand. “Anyway,” I said, “it was Helen’s house. How come I’m getting it? What about her?”

  “Don’t talk to me about her.”

  It was clear then from the sound of his voice, his expression, how much he disliked her. Perhaps hated her. And he probably thought he had reason to. There Colin had been, safe, resisting all outside influences for over thirty years. Till Helen had come along. And Colin had gone away with her and now he was dead. Yes, my father could hate her for that. I wondered what Colin had really felt for this ageing man who now sat hunched in his chair, his mouth pressed into a thin, bitter line. Had he loved him? Perhaps. Even so, his love for Helen had been stronger.

  I fingered the keys. There was a small tag attached with words on it: Gerrard’s Hill Cottage.

  “You’ll also get whatever else he had,” my father was saying, “in time. Anyway, the house is yours. I wish you joy of it.”

  “But what about his wife?”

  “Wife.” He almost spat the word out. “She doesn’t need it.” He looked at me with his lip curled. “I’d be glad if you wouldn’t mention her to me—that neurotic—bitch—with her artsy-craftsy ways.”

  I just stared at him. Could she have done so much to rate such vitriol? Were my mother and my brother the only two people my father had found it possible to love?

  “Was he ill?” I asked.

  There was a long pause, then he said, “He had an accident. In his car . . .”

  So it was as simple as that. Colin had ended up just one in the year’s statistics.

  “If he’d stayed here he’d have been all right,” my father said, “but he had to go and meet her; marry her. And he knew next to nothing about her.” He shook his head in disgust. “He moved in with her—before they were married, I mean—and she already had one man—her fancy man—living with her.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  “He didn’t need to. I saw. I went down there; I met the man. Some layabout or other. A painter, too.” He made it sound like a dirty word.

  “Colin never mentioned him,” I said.

  “Well, it isn’t exactly something you’d want to shout about, is it. Anyway, he didn’t stay long after Colin got there. That was something, I suppose.”

  “I still can’t believe that—that Colin’s­ dead,” I said. “I can’t seem to—take it in.”

  “No,” he said slowly. “It’s not easy.”

  I felt sorry for him. Though he didn’t need my sympathy and would never have asked for it. But he was suddenly pathetic.

  “When did you get here?” he said. He sounded tired, as if it required effort to speak.

  “Not long ago. I came straight from the airport . . .” Who would have thought he was my father? I didn’t even know how to address him. “Father” sounded too formal and a joke, while “Dad” would have been a ludicrous lie . . .

  “You should have stayed in America,” he said. His voice had taken on a slightly softer tone; he might have been trying to be pleasant; I couldn’t tell—I just didn’t know him. “You’ll never know what a shock it was,” he said. “You—you’re young. You’re resilient . . .” He shook his head, bewildered. I had thought I would never understand him, but perhaps I was just beginning to—or maybe I didn’t even need to. Just accept. I felt suddenly less resentful—he had only been blind; all sensibility and no sense.

  “I can’t really expect you to understand,” he said. And then: “How could you? He was everything to me.”

  The feelings of sympathy and forgiveness in me died.

  “Where will you be staying?” he called after me as I st
rode into the hall.

  Ironically I had hoped that I might stay there with him that night. Colin’s­ death might have brought us together. No chance at all. I just wanted to get out.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I said. I was at the front door, wrestling with my suitcases. He came up behind me.

  “Where are you going now?”

  The front door was open. I was moving through into the sun. I shrugged. “Hillingham, I guess.”

  “Hillingham.” He nodded. “You don’t let the grass grow under your feet, do you?”

  At Paddington I caught a train to Reading, from where, I’d been told, I could get a bus to Hillingham. Waiting for the bus I killed time in a pub, drank a scotch with one meagre piece of ice floating in it, and asked myself what I was doing, what I hoped to achieve. Colin wasn’t at the cottage. Colin was dead. There was nothing to go there for. But still I sat there on the grained-plastic seat, sipping at my drink and watching the clock. Of course I would go there. I had to do something.

  It was after six when I got to Gerrard’s Hill. The friendly taxi-driver who had driven me from the village was heading back the way we had come, leaving me standing on the grass verge, my cases at my feet. I looked over the hedge, looked at the cottage.

  It was beautiful. Far more beautiful than it had appeared in any of the photographs Colin had sent, and for a while I stayed quite still, relishing my first sight of it. It was all so complete, I thought—so right. There was the tall, steep, peg-tiled roof, with the moss growing in the crevices; there were the dormer win­dows, the stout stone walls, the roses that climbed the walls and grew in profusion over the gate’s arch; there all the colours of the garden that lay around the house and stretched out, away, beyond; and the very lines of the house itself—not one of them precision-straight—all of them showing the personal touch of the hand—the laying on of stone on stone, tile on tile. I thought of the ugly blocks of flats I had passed while coming here in the train—great tall buildings of regimented slots; great grey slabs of concrete—buildings that would never mellow; to which a thou­sand years could not add, through age and weathering, a single touch of grace . . . Not so this place. This place, Colin said, had brought him happiness, peace. And standing there, I under­stood. Birds sang, leaves rustled. The only sound of man’s making came from the taxi as it disappeared into the distance. Before me stood the cottage. Helen and Colin’s­ cottage. Now mine.