Magic Sometimes Happens

by Margaret James

  ‘It’s like I told you, Mom. She needs some space.’

  ‘Where exactly is she staying now?’

  ‘She’s with a friend who has a house.’

  ‘Where is this house?’

  ‘It’s on Grand Avenue.’

  ‘I hope the furnace works so Poll and Joe are cosy.’

  ‘I’m sure the furnace works.’

  I wasn’t going to tell my mother everything. She’d only start to cry and I couldn’t stand to hear my mother cry. It took me back to when I was a little kid and times were bad – real bad.

  So I didn’t tell her Lexie’s friend was Mr Wonderful and they were taking Joe and Polly to see Santa Claus at the North Pole, which was temporarily someplace in upstate Minnesota. Lex had told the kids about it and of course she got them all excited before she thought to share this information with their father. I would have looked like the world’s biggest, meanest bastard if I’d told them no, they couldn’t go.

  ‘So while Lexie has her space, you don’t get to see your kids on Christmas,’ my mother went on crossly.

  ‘They’ll be with us Thursday. Lex says they can come to the apartment and stay over. So you and I can take them to the zoo, the mall, the children’s theatre and the park.’

  ‘I hope that girl comes to her senses soon, remembers what she said in church. Pat, is Polly still in diapers? Did you get the turkey yet?’

  ‘I got the turkey.’

  ‘You don’t look too good. You hair wants cutting. You’re working much too hard. You always did. You need …’

  I zoned out of my mother’s monologue.

  It would be like this for a while, I realised. My poor mother fretting, fretting, fretting, worrying about me and my kids, convinced we must be suffering.

  She would do her nut – where did I hear that, it had to be a Tess expression – when she realised Lex was living with a man, information she’d be given by Joe the moment she and Joe met up.

  Yeah, I had been suffering.

  But no one goes on suffering forever. It’s too passive. It gets kind of tedious. Nowadays, I was working on how I could turn my life around.

  It started snowing very heavily. I concentrated on the road. After my mother went to bed that night, I made some calls.

  ROSIE

  My mother was determined that this would be a normal family Christmas, the kind we’d always had since I was born.

  I wished I could sleep through it in the flat in London, waking up in January when it was all over. But of course I went back home to Dorset.

  Dad fetched the great big box of decorations from the attic and we put them up, tacking tinsel garlands everywhere and hanging baubles on the Christmas tree. Mum had cooked herself into a frenzy, making everything from scratch – mince pies, Christmas puddings and a frosted wonder of a Christmas cake, special stuffing for the Christmas turkey, home-made cranberry sauce. The house was soon so styled and Christmassed-up that it looked like something in a December issue of a woman’s magazine.

  Christmas Eve was gruesome. Mum and Dad were very quiet. My mother was determined not to cry and in the evening Dad got out the usual party games. He’d evidently decided we all had to be jolly, which under the circumstances was impossible.

  On Christmas morning, my grandmother and mother went to early Mass. My father drove them into Dorchester. I suppose he hung about outside St Luke’s and smoked, or walked around the town while Mum and Granny were in church and praying for us all. I stayed in bed.

  When Granny got back home again she seemed quite calm and placid. I’d even say serene. It probably helped that she believed in heaven, that she was certain Charlie was an angel there. My mother probably thought the same. But this didn’t help my dad and me.

  While Granny dozed and Mum cooked an enormous Christmas lunch I knew we’d have to force ourselves to eat, Dad and I got drunk.

  January

  PATRICK

  The New Year brought the Limey a promotion. I read about it on the company website, where there was a brand new mug shot of his grinning face, complete with crooked teeth.

  But I didn’t care about the Limey.

  I had a ton of plans.

  Late one weekday evening as I was about to watch a favourite classic movie before I went to bed, Lexie came by the apartment, out of breath from slogging up the fourteen flights of stairs. She obviously wasn’t getting any exercise, that’s apart from flying with Mr Wonderful.

  ‘You’re not – going to – like this,’ she began as she slumped into an armchair, scarlet in the face and gasping like a landed fish. ‘But, if you remember, I told you it was possible the kids and I would get the chance to travel? Stephen’s job, it takes him to the Middle East and Europe?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘He has to do a bunch of work stuff in London, England soon. He’d like to bring the kids and me along. It would only be for a few months. I know you’ll be difficult about it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yeah, you’ll call the Feds, have me arrested for kidnapping your children. But Stephen says it would be a fantastic opportunity for them. It would be educational. They’d get to see the changing of the guard at Windsor Palace, visit Notre Dame and meet the hunchback.’

  ‘I think you ought to go to Europe, Lex.’

  ‘Oh – so do you mean—’

  ‘You’re right, it would be educational.’

  ‘Why are you laughing, Patrick? What’s so funny?’ Lexie glared at me. ‘I heard they got terrorists in Europe, the Taliban and stuff. It’s a very dangerous place. But it’s like I always said – you never cared about me or the children.’

  ‘Lexie, you may take the kids to London. If you email me your schedule – general travel plans, which airlines you’ll be using, details of where you’ll stay in the UK with dates, addresses, cell phone numbers, all that stuff – there won’t be any problem.’

  ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘There is no catch. I’m trying to be calm and reasonable about an awful situation. You said you wanted to be civilised. So have you changed your mind and do you want a fight? Do you want me filing for divorce? Do you want a sheriff on your Limey lover’s doorstep serving papers? Do you want to file for divorce yourself? Or shall we keep the situation open for the moment – while we’re both so busy, anyway – and see how things work out? I’ll continue paying maintenance for Joe and Polly into your account. You must let me know if you need more.’

  ‘Patrick, you’re impossible. You always were contrary. I’m sure you always will be. Why do you always put me in the wrong?’

  ‘Lex, I don’t have time for this.’ I got up from the couch. ‘I’ll see you off the premises. I suggest you ride the elevator at this time of night. But if you want to use the stairs, I’ll find a flashlight.’

  ‘I don’t do elevators, you know that, but if you don’t care about your children’s mother getting mutilated, raped and murdered in a dark and dangerous stairwell—’

  ‘Come on, Lex.’ I shrugged into my jacket. ‘I’ll walk you down the stairs. We could both use the exercise.’

  Or you could, anyway.

  ‘Oh, don’t let me put you out.’ She glanced toward the coffee table, saw the DVD case. ‘I hope that isn’t porn?’ she said suspiciously. ‘Stephen says men in your situation often use a lot of porn. It’s disgusting, jacking off to porn.’

  I flipped the case so she could view the artwork.

  ‘Lexie, as you see, it’s Unforgiven.’

  ROSIE

  You can’t miss Pat, I told myself.

  Look, you did as Malcolm Crawley said. You went for it, reached out to him. See where it got you – nowhere. All he sent was a three line reply.

  What was the matter with the man, could he not read between those lines?

  It would seem not.

  ‘Darling, what’s the problem?’ Fanny asked me every time we met. ‘You can tell Aunt Fanny, can’t you?’

  ‘I don’t have a problem, Fanny.’
<
br />   ‘You mean it’s a man.’

  PATRICK

  Okay, I admit it.

  I was figuring out how I could get to Europe, too. I told myself it should be possible. My students, graduate students and technicians were the best. Ambitious, dedicated and hard-working, they didn’t need me breathing down their necks 24-7. As long as they and I could video-conference, I didn’t have to be in Minnesota.

  I made more calls. I put out more antennae. I considered leaving academia, applying for a bunch of jobs in industry which all paid twice my salary. I offered to give a course of lectures at some British universities, the ones that had a range of research programmes in my field. I applied for my first passport, expedited service. If nothing else, I thought, when I got to page through all those wise, improving sentiments, I’d elevate my mind.

  I didn’t dare to hope things would work out. Or not for weeks, or even months. But London University’s Queen Alexandra College replied within three days. A professor from Australia who’d been due to visit was sick, had died, whatever. So my own proposal was most timely, there was funding, they would be delighted, it would be an honour, the department would be very happy, there were three post-doctoral students who would be most anxious to discuss – and all that stuff.

  When I saw the dean and told him JQA would not be picking up the tab, he said it would be very good to foster some new links with major UK universities, in fact he had been going to suggest it, but I had beat him to it.

  ‘You have a conference in Colorado in the summer, don’t you, Patrick?’ he continued. ‘Where you’re planning on presenting some of your new findings and developments in thought-to-text?’

  ‘Yes, Dean, that’s right.’

  ‘I get this feeling you’ll soon be in demand all over. You’ll get invitations to be a visiting fellow inside, outside of the States.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Tell me, did you get your passport yet?’

  FROM: Patrick M Riley

  SUBJECT: London

  TO: Rosie Denham

  SENT: January 14 09.34

  Hi Rosie

  Happy New Year!

  Thank you for the message you sent a couple weeks ago.

  I’m due to give some lectures at London University’s Queen Alexandra College starting Wednesday February 6th. I’ll be in the UK around three weeks. So if you’re in London, maybe we could meet for coffee some time?

  I hope your new job is working out.

  Sincerely

  Pat

  ROSIE

  I felt myself turn into one big grin.

  What’s all this sincerely rubbish? What’s so wrong with love? Perhaps he doesn’t love me? Then why’s he coming to London?

  Like he says, he’s going to give some lectures at Queen Alexandra College. Maybe, said a voice inside my head. But he’s really coming to see you.

  I wanted to believe it.

  FROM: Rosie Denham

  SUBJECT: London

  TO: Patrick M Riley

  SENT: 15 January 15.25

  My job is going well. I’d love to meet. Actually, my laptop’s on the blink, so maybe you could sort it?

  All best wishes

  Rosie X

  FROM: Patrick M Riley

  SUBJECT: Laptop

  TO: Rosie Denham

  SENT: January 16 17.45

  What’s this on the blink? You mean it’s ****ed? Okay, I’ll check it out. I’ll see you February, looking forward to it.

  Pat

  I wonder if it’s possible to be unhinged by joy?

  I also wondered about going to meet him at Heathrow. Maybe not, I thought – don’t want to look too keen and needy.

  ‘Perhaps,’ the voice of conscience whispered, ‘you shouldn’t meet at all?’

  The voice of conscience could shut up.

  February

  PATRICK

  As soon as I was through with immigration, I got out my cell and called her up. ‘Hi, Rosie, this is Pat. How are you doing?’

  ‘I – I’m very well.’ She seemed to take a great, deep, gasping breath. ‘I mean – I’m good. I mean – I’m fine. Patrick, I—’

  The way she said my name was like a blessing, even though she sounded kind of like she might be choking. ‘Rosie, you okay?’

  ‘I’ve just run up a flight of stairs. So I’m a little out of breath. Pat, it’s great to hear from you!’

  ‘It’s great to talk to you.’

  ‘How was your flight? Okay, I hope?’

  ‘My flight was fine. I saw some real bad movies. I ate some awful food. What do they do to eggs on airplanes? How do they turn them into rubber string?’ I want so much to see you, I couldn’t seem to say. ‘It would be good to meet some time,’ I added.

  ‘Yes, it would be lovely.’

  ‘Then let’s do it.’

  ‘Pat, where are you now?’

  ‘Still at the airport. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m at home. Why don’t you come round to my flat? I mean, to my apartment?’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Yes, if you like.’

  ‘How do I come into central London?’

  ‘The most convenient way is train or taxi. Or I could pick you up? But by the time I get there, you could have been here, if you see what I mean? I think the train would probably be best. You follow the directions to the Piccadilly line. Get yourself an Oyster card and stick on twenty quid, change at Earl’s Court for Paddington.’

  Get myself an Oyster card and stick on twenty quid – yeah, right. So what was this Oyster card? How much was twenty quid? What was the Piccasomething line? I knew nothing about trains. I’d never ridden one.

  I guess I should have read my guide to Europe on the plane, but when I looked it wasn’t in my carry-on. I must have put it in my case or left it on the couch back home in Minneapolis.

  ‘What’s your address, Rosie?’

  ‘It’s 18 Trenton Gardens, ground floor flat. You’ll be about an hour on the tube. Or only fifteen minutes, that’s if you get the Paddington Express. You’ll need a special ticket. You can’t use an Oyster card because it’s just for buses and the London Underground.’

  I took a cab.

  ROSIE

  Okay, I lied to him.

  I was not at home and I hadn’t run up any stairs. I left my office, and then I drove like somebody possessed back to my flat in Paddington, cutting up black cabs, white vans and silver limousines with tinted windows, and even big red London buses, which was beyond stupid – I knew that.

  But I couldn’t seem to help myself. I slewed my poor long-suffering Fiesta into a tiny space between some skips and then I raced into my flat, got showered and washed my hair. As I was scrambling into my most flattering pair of jeans, the doorbell rang. I dragged my fingers through my still-wet hair. I flung open the door. I beamed at him. I couldn’t help myself. I was so pleased to see him.

  Did I say hello? You found me, then? Did you have any trouble getting here? It’s great to see you? I’ll put the kettle on?

  No – none of that.

  ‘You said you’d sort my laptop,’ I began, still grinning like a loon.

  ‘Yeah, I did. What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It’s running very slowly. It takes half an hour to boot up. Okay, that’s a slight exaggeration. But it takes a long, long time. It’s like it’s an old man of a computer. But it’s only two years old, and—’

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, fool – stop blethering on! Say something smart and witty, don’t rabbit on about your ruddy laptop! Scintillate, why don’t you?

  ‘Ah – um – have you eaten recently?’

  ‘No, not since breakfast,’ he replied. ‘So maybe you could fix me something while I fix your laptop?’

  ‘Oh – right – it’s a deal.’

  ‘This is a most attractive lobby.’ He gazed up at the dusty cornicing and then down at the scuffed and scraped and grubby skirting boards, at the piles of junk mail on the staircase, at the universal mess
and clutter of communal entrances in all converted houses everywhere. ‘But it’s kind of chilly.’

  I blushed. I felt the blood rush up my neck. I felt it flood my face. ‘Where are my manners?’ I stepped back a pace or two. ‘Do please come inside.’

  He followed me into the flat. He stood there in the middle of the sitting room, his luggage heaped around him, looking like a refugee.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s so cold in here,’ I said. ‘My boiler’s buggered.’

  ‘Pardon me?’

  ‘My furnace, it’s not working like it should. I’m getting plenty of hot water, but the radiators are stone cold. The landlord says he’ll send a plumber round tomorrow morning. I do have an electric fire.’

  I flicked the switch. This was a big mistake. The flat filled with the stink of burning dust. ‘I’m sure you’d like some coffee,’ I continued stupidly. ‘Why don’t you take your outdoor things off and make yourself at home?’

  ‘Where’s this old man laptop?’ As he shrugged his coat off, he looked like he was trying not to laugh.

  ‘It’s on the bookcase over there.’ I felt my face begin to glow again and so I went into the kitchen. Making coffee for us both then starting to get dinner meant that I was doing something useful with my hands, and this was just as well.

  While I was in the kitchen peeling spuds and coating cod in batter – I was making good old British fish and chips, I was doing my domestic goddess stuff tonight, thanks to Waitrose and the god of freezers – I would not be able to touch him.

  He came up to the kitchen door to ask me for some passwords and check it was okay to see my personal files and folders.

  ‘If there’s a bunch of private stuff in here, perhaps you ought to take your laptop to some guy who doesn’t actually know you?’ he suggested tactfully.

  ‘It’s all right, there’s nothing classified. It’s just work stuff mostly. You can open anything. Where will you be staying while you’re here in London?’

  ‘I don’t recall the name of the hotel. But I have the address on my phone.’