She woke with the drugged feeling you have coming up from deep sleep, the kind of sleep where you wake in the same position in the bed as you were when the last conscious thought left. For a few seconds she had no idea what day it was, whether she was working or not. Then she remembered: it was Thursday and she was going to see Daniel. She had bought thick lined curtains for her bedroom, since she often came home at dawn and had to try to sleep then. Despite the traffic the summer mornings did not wake her as they had at Braeside.
She checked her alarm clock: after nine already. She lay back, still coming to the surface, for another ten minutes. Then she got up and went to have her shower.
All the way over to Glasgow on the train she worried that Daniel would not be there. It was as if she had imagined the telephone call, so much had she longed for it, willing it to happen. He might simply disappear again. No, he said he had somewhere to stay and a job. He meant to be in Glasgow for a while. He had called her; she had not found him. It would be all right.
At Queen Street the station was busy. She walked down the platform head high, looking for him, feeling sick, her stomach churning. Be there, be there.
Then she saw him. He was scanning the arrivals board. He turned and began walking towards her, seeing her almost immediately. She broke into a run, desperate to reach him, terrified he might vanish, as he had in all her dreams the last three and a half years.
‘Hello,’ he said and put his arms round her.
She held him tight. ‘You’re here, you’re here.’ Eventually she drew back and looked at him. He was the same and not the same. Thinner perhaps, with an inch of beard and his hair longer, but she could see past that, she could, he was still in essence her mirror image, he had not changed so much.
They walked arm in arm out of the station into George Square. A thin rain had begun to fall.
‘Where do you want to go, what will we do?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know – somewhere out of the rain, I suppose. We need to eat, don’t we? Have you had any lunch?’
‘No. ’
‘I’m so hungry – I haven’t had much to eat the last couple of days.’
‘Let’s get some food. Maybe we could go to Kelvingrove or something? It’s quiet there, we could just walk round, look at paintings? I do that quite a lot.’
This took a moment to register.
‘How long have you been here?’
He looked uncomfortable. ‘About a month.’
‘Why on earth didn’t you – ?’
‘I had to get settled a bit first. Had to be sure I was going to stay for a while.’
‘I could have helped.’
‘No.’ He smiled, softening this. ‘Come on, there’s a wee place round here we can get something to eat, then we could head up to Kelvingrove.’
She looked at him, uncertain and frightened. It was too like a dream: he might vanish if she turned her back. He seemed less familiar than he had even a few moments ago; the beard made him look older. She let him lead the way to a small steamy café tucked into a side street about ten minutes’ walk from the station. They had bacon and eggs. The bacon was crisp and salty, the eggs with soft fresh yolks they mopped up with floury rolls. They sat on with mugs of tea in peaceful silence.
‘That was just what I needed, after the last few days I’ve had.’
‘Good.’ He smiled, wiping a smear of egg from the corner of her mouth. Then his knuckle touched her cheek, just under the eye socket. ‘You’re tired. Dark shadows.’
‘Of course I’m tired,’ she said, dismissing this. ‘I’m tired all the time – it’s just what it’s like.’
‘So you stuck with it.’
‘I said I would.’
‘Unlike me.’
‘Unlike you.’
‘Sorry.’
‘I said I would, that was the bargain. But I didn’t think you would do this to us, stay away so long. Why did you?’
He did not answer. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘tell me about it. Tell me you’re not sorry you’re a doctor.’ He seemed to be pleading. Giving way, she said,
‘Well, sometimes it’s utterly grim. I’m not even going to pretend I’ve liked it all. But something makes you keep going. I don’t know – a sense of doing what you’re meant to do.’ Their eyes met again across the table. ‘I never thought I’d feel like this.’
‘You’ve changed then.’
‘Yes.’ The words so have you hovered unspoken. Before she could ask him about himself, however tentatively, he got up.
‘I’ll pay for our food and we can walk up to the gallery.’
‘I’ve got money – ’
He was already at the till, getting a crumpled note and some coins out of his jacket pocket. It was an old tweed jacket with leather elbow patches, frayed at the cuffs and with a piece of the lining hanging loose, the hem unpicked. He looks poor, she thought with a flush of shame and pity. He was clean, his hair soft, his fingernails short and scrubbed looking, but his skin was sallow and he was, she saw, bone-thin. The jacket hung loose and the belt of his jeans was drawn so tight he had punched another rough-edged hole in the leather to make it fit.
Outside the fine misty rain had thickened: real rain now, Daniel said.
‘We’ll get soaked walking all the way to Kelvingrove.’
‘We could go somewhere else.’
‘Let’s just get a taxi.’
‘Well – ’
‘Come on, you paid for the food so I’ll get the taxi – they’re not that expensive.’
‘I suppose you’re a high-earning doctor now?’
‘Hardly. Not yet anyway. But I can afford a taxi.’
In a few minutes they caught one and got into it, grateful the driver wasn’t the talking kind, as he so easily might have been. They sat in silence as the rainy streets went by and they drove toward the West End.
In the cool quiet spaces of Kelvingrove Gallery, they stood uncertain for a few minutes on the black and white flagstoned floor.
‘Have you seen the Dali Christ?’ Daniel asked.
‘No, I don’t think so. Or not for years.’
‘Come on then.’
They reached Christ of Saint John of the Cross quickly, since Daniel knew exactly how to find it, and stood for a long moment gazing.
‘He’s a very modern-looking Christ,’ was all Caroline could think of saying. She was uneasy at how absorbed Daniel was in this vision. ‘Shall we go and look at the Colourists now?’
He seemed reluctant to move, to take his eyes from the Christ figure suspended above a dreamlike landscape.
‘Daniel?’ She touched his sleeve.
‘Sorry, yes, let’s go.’
In the room with the Peploes, Cadells and Fergusons, there was a bench, and when they had gone round the walls they sat down in front of Cadell’s Orange Blind as if by silent mutual agreement.
‘I like this elegant lady,’ Caroline said. ‘I imagine her waiting to have tea with her lover in a grand hotel.’ Daniel nodded, Mm. ‘Are you ok? We don’t have to stay – what would you like to do?’
‘It’s fine. I’d rather be here.’
After a moment, he said, ‘Don’t you think it seems a kind of suicide, the crucifixion?’
‘Suicide?’
‘He decides for himself. He doesn’t have to die.’
‘But it’s about God, isn’t it? He’s doing his Father’s will, dying to save us.’ She was tempted to add, except it didn’t work – we’re not saved. ‘We never believed in all that, though, did we? Despite Granny taking us to Sunday School.’
Every Sunday morning of early childhood they had been dressed in their best, kept clean and tidy and not allowed out in the yard or near the steading. They had walked to church in fine weather, and she could remember the sound of the church bells as they approached Drumoak and joined other people in their Sunday best. This was a vital social event in their grandmother’s week, especially the half hour or so after the service when they had shaken hands wi
th the minister, and stood talking to neighbours while the children ran out of the church hall to join them for the walk home. Caroline struggled to remember much about Sunday School except the hard benches they sat on and the books given out as prizes in June before the summer holidays, each with a coloured plate inside, inscribed with your name. She had learned the Lord’s Prayer and heard the same Bible stories over and over, so that in the years since they had stayed folded in her mind like memories. Going home from church, they were not watched so closely and were inclined to dawdle, to dive into ditches after a rabbit or scuff their shiny shoes in the dust, racing each other up the road.
None of it had seemed much to do with God, or having faith, which she did not.
‘I probably think much more about God now than I did then,’ Daniel said. ‘Although, whether or not He exists, He’s pretty capricious. He favours some of us, but not others.’
Caroline did not know whether he meant something personal, or if it was a general remark about – say – famine in Africa. She wanted to steer him away from this, feeling they were on dangerous ground, without understanding why that might be.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked. ‘You said you had a job, but you’re not working today?’
‘Not till six. I work in a restaurant.’
‘Cooking?’
He laughed and his face brightened for the first time, so that she caught a glimpse of him as he used to be and her heart leapt. ‘Definitely not! I’m a kitchen porter.’
‘Oh.’
‘I quite like it. No responsibility.’
‘Not like medicine then,’ she said before she could help it, and keep the caustic note from her voice.
‘I think I’ve had enough of pretty women in hats,’ Daniel said, getting up with a nod to the Orange Blind.
‘Better than men dying on crosses,’ Caroline retorted. She followed him out of the room. He did not linger or look at paintings as they went past them. ‘Wait!’ He stopped. ‘What about a cup of tea – there’s a café here isn’t there? Then we don’t have to look at paintings or anything but we can sit and talk.’
Daniel said nothing for a moment but gazed at her, as if working out what should come next. His dark eyes told her nothing, nothing but that he was profoundly sad. Her eyes filled with tears and she reached her hands out to him. He took them in both of his and they stood for all the world like lovers who cannot bear to look away from each other.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I think this is as much as I can cope with today.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I should go. You should go back to Edinburgh.’
‘But we’ve only just – ’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I can’t bear it if you disappear again – I just can’t bear it. You’ve no idea what it’s been like – for all of us. But worst for me, did you think of that, did you think about how I might feel?’
‘Yes. I did. That’s why I kept sending postcards, so you would know I was all right.’
‘That wasn’t reassuring, actually. Getting an occasional postcard sent on by Janet. They were all so angry with you when you didn’t keep in touch properly – I couldn’t argue them out of that. Granny didn’t seem to understand you weren’t even in this country, and Janet was cross because she was upset. Harry never said much, but Dad’s just gone on being angry. I think it’s partly guilt, but you can’t speak to him about it. They were all so worried.’
‘I did sometimes start writing a letter but it never got finished somehow, and I didn’t want to get any back. I had nothing more to say, just, here I am and I’m ok.’
‘Were you ill?’ she asked. Something more than distance had separated them. Professionally, she knew this and both hated knowing it and was relieved. An explanation.
‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘Are you ill now?’
‘I don’t think so.’ He squeezed her hands. ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. Nothing physical.’ He sighed. ‘Look, let’s have the cup of tea, and you tell me about your job, what you’ve been doing. I’d like that. Then maybe – ’
‘We will keep meeting, though.’
‘Yes. I promise.’
Reassured, she slipped her hands from his and they went downstairs to the café.
Once she had begun, it was easy to talk to him about work. He understood, for all he had abandoned medicine more than three years ago.
‘I haven’t finally decided what to do next,’ she told him, letting her tea grow cold, not wanting it. ‘But I’m considering neurology. I did think of psychiatry, but then I realised I want some answers. I want to understand the relationship between the brain and the central nervous system, I want to know how it all works, what that means for human beings. Psychiatry has no answers it seems to me; one explanation for human behaviour is as good as another.’
‘You’re really interested in it. You must be a good doctor, Caro.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. I’m still terrified of making a mistake. They leave you in charge when you’re barely competent, a whole ward full of sick people relying on you. And some of the nurses can be so snooty, waiting for you to make a hash of it, knowing better.’
He smiled. ‘Yeah, I remember that.’
‘Would you think of coming back, picking it up again?’
He looked down at the cup held between his long hands, the nails short and scrupulously clean, and she saw his shirt cuffs were frayed. He did not answer.
‘That means no, does it? No for now, or no for ever?’
‘No for ever, I think. But we’ll see. It’s done me good to be with you. I feel better.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad.’
She was able to accept it now when he said he must go. The rain had stopped and they came out to the freshness of wet grass and a watery sun making its way through thinning cloud.
‘’I’ll get the bus from here.’
‘How will I reach you? Do you have a phone number?’
‘I’ll phone you next week.’
‘No – no, that’s no good, I’ll worry too much if I don’t hear and I can’t bear not to know how I can find you.’
‘I’ll write down my address. Will that do? There’s no phone but you can leave a message for me at the restaurant if you call in the morning after eleven. Don’t ring them at lunchtime or in the evening. They’re too busy then and they won’t bother to tell me.’
She found a small notebook in her bag and gave it to him with a pen, so that he could write his address and the restaurant phone number. He handed it back to her with a bow.
‘Here you are, ma’am. But I will call you.’
‘If I’m working – ’
‘I’ll just call another time, till I reach you.’
She took a deep breath, accepting this. ‘All right.’
‘Come with me to the bus stop.’
‘Can’t I get the same bus?’
‘I want to sit on the top deck and look down and see you wave me off.’
She laughed. ‘Why?’
‘I just do.’
‘All right. I might walk back to the station now that it’s fine.’
They had stood at the stop for only a moment when a bus came along and Daniel said he would take it. He put his arms round her and they hugged. She felt the warm boniness of him through jacket and shirt, almost felt his ribcage, the core of him, and breathed in his clean dusty scent, familiar all over again, Daniel her brother, her twin, her self. How can I let him go? But she must.
From a seat at the front of the top deck he waved and she waved back, waving and waving until the bus was out of sight. Then, hardly able to see the pavement for tears, she began to walk towards the city centre.
Going back to Edinburgh on the train, Caroline was tormented by questions she had not been able to ask. It was not only Daniel’s strangeness, his reserve that had stopped her but her own wish to be with him quietly, as they used to be. Wherever he had been, whatever he had been doing while
he was away, she would know in time. It scarcely mattered, as long as she could be with him now, and be sure he would not disappear again.
She was not sure. She took out the little notebook and read over and over the address he had put there: Flat 1/3, 102 Cessnock Crescent. He had written the capital ‘Cs’ like crescents themselves, large and curving around the rest of the words they headed. She was comforted by that, wanting to recognise as much as she could of the Daniel he had been, though he was changed. They both wrote capital letters larger than they needed to be; their handwriting was very alike.
Her heart seemed to be beating louder and faster than usual, as it does with fear. She was afraid. Before they met she had decided to wait before telling anyone else, but had imagined herself calling them: Margaret, then Granny and Janet, telling them she had found him, he was back, he was all right. She had rehearsed the words she would use, the calm and almost casual way she would break the news.
Now she did not think she would tell anyone else – yet. All her attention must be on him, on convincing herself he was real and she was with him. She wanted only to keep him by her, not to take a single risk with his attention, his presence, his affection. She had been sure of that at least. Whatever else, he had not changed towards her. There was a barrier she did not understand, but she didn’t believe it was a barrier he had put there. It was as if he was powerless to reach her. She had waited and he had tried, but he could not do it. All she could do was go on waiting, but at least she would be with him while she did.
She was sure Daniel did not want anyone else to know. If she told them, he might disappear again and she would never take that risk.
They met again just over a week later, this time in Edinburgh. Caroline had been on nights and those nights usually stretched far into the morning. There were times when she was light-headed with being on her feet so long, giddy with a sensation of being dissociated from the rest of her life, from the world itself. The hospital engulfed her; it was the world.
Work kept her from the madness of worrying that she would never hear from Daniel again. When she eventually had the chance to sleep, the terror of that reared up. She saw herself going to the flat in Glasgow and some stranger opening the door to her knock. No, nobody called Daniel here, never has been, he would say and look at her with pity, thinking her a duped girlfriend.
The Treacle Well Page 14