by Isabel Wolff
From outside we could hear the shrieking whistles and loud cheers of the May Day protestors.
‘Anyway, thanks for the coffee, Cynthia. I’m going for a walk now. It sounds rather jolly out there.’
‘Well thank you, Laura—for this.’ She patted the dressing gown. ‘I shan’t ever want to take it off.’
I walked to the end of Dunchurch Road and, there, coming up Ladbroke Grove, were the Reclaim the Streets cyclists—peddling up the hill, maybe two hundred of them, all blowing their whistles and hooting their horns—and with them, in force, the anti-capitalist demonstrators in their Bush and Blair masks and their fat cat suits. It was a bit like the Notting Hill Carnival.
No Bombs, Bosses, or Borders! announced banners. Split The Pea—Not the Atom! Slogans were emblazoned on backs, fronts, and huge placards. Solidarity with Asylum Seekers—Free Movement of People Not Goods! More Jaw Jaw Less War-War! Protestors were dressed as clowns, Vikings and vicars or just wrapped in pages from the Financial Times. One cyclist was in cricket whites, with Smash Capitalism for Six! emblazoned on his shirt. Two anarchists held up a huge banner: Why Should the Police Have a Monopoly on Violence? Meanwhile the policemen themselves were nervously eyeing the protestors whilst trying to look relaxed.
‘One more word and I’ll arrest you,’ I heard one officer say to a man wearing a lacy wedding dress.
‘Sod off copper!’
‘One more word and I’ll arrest you.’
‘Sod off copper!’
‘One more word and I’ll arrest you.’
‘Sod off copper!’
My mobile rang.
‘Laura?’
‘Tom.’ I turned up the volume so that I could hear him. ‘How are you?’ I said, pressing my index finger to my left ear.
‘I’m fine. And you?’
‘I’m fine, thank you.’
‘Good. Now I have a very serious question for you.’
‘Yes?’ I smiled. ‘What is it?’
‘Well…did you really tell Nerys that in your opinion I was the most gorgeous, handsome, wonderful, marvellous, sexy, brilliant man you’d ever laid eyes on? Because she’s just dropped in to see how it’s going here, and she told me that you said all those things to her, no exaggeration. Of course I’m much too modest to believe it,’ he added. ‘So I thought I’d better check. So…did you?’
I hesitated for a second.
‘All You Need is Love.‘
‘Yes, Tom,’ I said. ‘I did.’
I walked up to the top of Ladbroke Grove with the protestors, then left them as they turned towards the West End, while I veered right to Holland Park. As I went through the gate, I felt a thousand times happier than I had done when I’d gone there twenty-four hours before. Somehow, telling Tom everything had made me feel lighter. Today I didn’t avoid the toddlers’ playground as I usually did. In fact I stood there for a few moments, watching the children being pushed on the tiny swings, or bounced on the springy horses, being helped up the climbing frames or just happily scraping and digging in the sandpit. And I knew the chances were that, one day, I’d be doing that with my child too. I had been pregnant once, after all, so maybe it could happen again. And if it didn’t—then there were other ways to have a family.
I believe that if you truly want children in your life, then one way or another, children will come.
I’d bought a copy of the Evening Standard from the newsagent’s at the top of Ladbroke Grove and I sat on a bench, reading it. As it was a Bank Holiday it was a thin edition—there was quite a bit about the power cut, and its aftermath, a couple of pages on the May Day demonstrations, some pre-election coverage, some foreign news, and then something caught my eye in the media diary: NORMAN SERVICE WILL NOT BE RESUMED. It was about Scrivens. It said that R. Sole had sacked him for buying shares on his behalf, in a company that was apparently involved with animal experimentation. R. Sole was, famously, an animal nut. I thought of the awful ‘Incognito’ piece, and the horrible coverage it had unleashed, and the pain and turmoil it had caused me, and couldn’t help a little smile.
It was half past six. I went back to Dunchurch Road and cooked myself an omelette, and by now it was eight thirty.
Bzzzzzzzzz. I went to the door.
‘Laura.’
‘Luke.’ He looked tired and dishevelled, five o’clock shadow darkening his jaw. He’d obviously dumped his suitcase and come straight round.
‘Look, I know you’re very cross with me Laura, and I do understand it, but there was no need to block all my calls.’
‘But I didn’t want to talk to you, and you kept ringing.’
He looked at me imploringly. ‘Don’t be like that, Laura.’
‘Luke,’ I said patiently. ‘You told me that, after Venice, everything would change—and it is going to.’ I shut the door.
Bzzzzzzzzz. Reluctantly, I opened it again.
‘Did you know,’ he said, ‘that in Florida it’s illegal to sing in a public place while wearing a swimsuit?’
‘No,’ I said wearily. ‘I can’t say that I did.’
‘And did you know that bamboo can grow thirty-six inches in a single day?’
‘No.’ I shook my head. ‘I didn’t know that either.’
‘And did you also know that the ancient Egyptians trained baboons to wait at tables?’
‘That’s absolutely fascinating, but can we please leave it now, Luke? There’s really no point.’ I shut the door.
Bzzzzzzzzz. I opened it again.
‘And did you also know…that for reasons which no-one understands, twins are much more common in the east than the west?’
I stared at him. ‘No I didn’t know that. And did you know—that I really don’t care. I like you very much, Luke—but we’re not going to be together. We can be friends again, at some indeterminate time in the future, but our relationship is not going to resume. We’ve been round the block twice—and that’s enough. We are not Charles and Camilla.’
‘I’m sorry, Laura,’ he said. ‘I know I’ve let you down…in many ways…with Magda. I feel so bad…’
‘Well there’s no need to,’ I sighed. ‘It was only because you love Jessica so much. But you know, Luke, why don’t you answer that sad little prayer of hers—the one about her mum and dad living together again?’
‘Oh God…’ He was rolling his eyes.
‘Why not? Then you’d have Jessica with you all the time. Okay, Magda’s insane—but no-one’s perfect. And it isn’t going to work out with me. Goodbye for now, Luke. There’s nothing of mine at your house, so we won’t need to speak. And please don’t ring the bell again.’
I shut the door, then went back inside, feeling more upset than my sardonic tone might have implied, although I knew that I’d done the right thing. I went downstairs. My omelette was cold and leathery—not that I was hungry. I binned it, then filled the sink.
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Right, I thought. I am now going to get very cross.
I flung open the door. Shit. This was all I needed. One of those day-release guys with their bloody holdalls…Tall and thin, cropped hair and a short dark beard, black leather jacket. I heaved an exasperated sigh.
‘Please don’t shut the door in my face…’ he began.
‘Look, can we just cut the tragic sales pitch,’ I interrupted. ‘I promise I will buy something from you, because I always do, but I do not want a long sob story on my own doorstep and, while I’m at it, can I just say that I wish you guys didn’t always have to turn up when it’s dark and—’
He had started to cry. Oh shit. The man was crying. I stared at him, too shocked even to breathe. Then he looked at me, and his features became more distinct now. Familiar. Oh. Shit…
‘Laura.’
I felt my mouth quiver, then the sudden thump in my ribcage. My eyes had filled now, too.
Nick.
‘Laura,’ he murmured again.
‘I…didn’t…recognize you,’ I whispered. The Nick I knew was a big bear
of a man. This Nick was…thin and lean and hard looking—like a plank of wood. And he was sun-tanned—his face and neck a ruddy brown—and there were deep furrows at his eyes and brow. His hair, which had been thick and wavy and the colour of mahogany, was very short—and sprinkled with grey. I’d had to hear his voice again, to be sure.
He was staring at me. ‘Can I…Do you mind…if I…?’
I had rehearsed this moment so many times—the things I would say—the sang froid I would display, or, more likely, the bitter rage. But now that it was here, I could barely speak, except to utter the most mundane of sentiments.
‘Oh…You want to come in?’ I croaked. ‘Yes…of course.’
As he stepped over the threshold I saw that he was wearing jeans—Nick had never worn jeans—and was probably three stone lighter than the Nick I knew. He was a different man. Everything about him seemed changed—his face, his physique, his gait, and even his hands. As he put down his brown canvas holdall, I saw that they were rough and reddened.
We went into the sitting room and just stood there, staring at each other in semi-silence, like strangers at a dismal drinks party.
‘Do you…want something to eat?’
‘No,’ he murmured. ‘Thanks. I hitched a lift—and we stopped at a café.’ I noticed that his intonation was subtly different—he didn’t say ‘kafay’—but ‘ka-fay‘.
‘You hitched a lift…From where?’
‘Harwich.’ He looked around the sitting room. ‘It’s different in here. You’ve changed it. The colour.’
‘Yes…I’ve…had it decorated…Not that long ago actually…’
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’
‘Of course…I don’t mind. Erm…would you like…a drink?’
‘No. Thank you. It’s okay.’ That slightly odd inflection again.
We sat on either side of the fireplace. Intimate strangers. It was as though we were facing each other across a canyon, although we were less than six feet apart.
‘You’ve been living in Harwich?’ I murmured. My mouth was dry and I was clenching my jaw.
‘No. Not living there. I got off a boat.’
‘From where? Where? I want to know…’ I could feel my heart begin to pound. ‘I want to know where you’ve been? Where have you been, Nick? Where?’ My voice was thin and high as though I was keening. ‘Tell me. Where have you been?’
‘In Holland.’
‘In Holland?’ I repeated. ‘But why…? Doing what?’
‘Working. In agriculture.’
‘Farming?’ I said. Nick had hated the countryside. He was an urban person.
‘Not farming exactly. Flowers. Tulips. I work in the tulip fields…’
A jolt ran the length of my spine. I stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ I heard him call.
‘I think we both need a drink.’
‘I’d been trying to come back for a long time,’ Nick explained a few minutes later. He had taken off his jacket, and I saw how toned and muscled his arms had become. They were as tanned and weathered as his face. His neck looked thicker, and more sinewy.
‘Then why didn’t you?’
He stared into his tumbler of Glenmorangie, tipping it this way and that. I noticed that his fingertips were calloused and cracked.
He sighed. ‘Because I didn’t know how. I kept thinking of you…feeling so terrible…and so ashamed. But it was easier to stay where I was than face it all.’ We could hear the tick of the carriage clock.
By now the initial shock had subsided and the whisky—which I never normally drink, but had fallen upon like an alcoholic—had started to sedate my mangled nerves. I began, slowly, to ask the questions that had been cramming my throat.
‘You’ve been in Holland all this time?’ He nodded. ‘So when you left the car in Blakeney, is that what you’d planned…?’
He shook his head. ‘I had no idea what I was going to do. I only knew that I had to…escape. Not from you,’ he added. ‘From myself. From the mental mess I was in. I can talk about it now, because things are different for me—but I couldn’t have explained it to you then.’
‘Where did you sleep that first night?’
‘In the car. And in the morning I walked down to the harbour, and there was this big fishing boat and I overheard someone saying that it was going to The Hague. So I paid the skipper to let me come on board. It was a very rough crossing. We arrived the next day.’
‘And then?’
‘I got a bus to Leiden, and I stayed in a hostel for a while. And there was a notice on the board about this bulb farm, at Hillegom, a few miles to the north, and they were looking for casual labour. So I bought a bicycle—and a tent…’
‘A tent?’
‘You have to camp. I didn’t mind. In fact, I liked it. And I started to work.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Grading lily bulbs at first—in the warehouse. Sorting them by size. The calm monotony of it was…a relief. My hands were busy, but my mind was free.’ He lifted his tumbler to his mouth again and I heard the ice cubes in it chink. ‘I was paid forty guilders a day. Then I worked in the green-houses with the tulips, planting them, picking them, tying them into bunches of ten, packing them in boxes; and later in the year, after the harvest, peeling the tulip bulbs ready for export.’
‘And no-one ever asked who you were, or why you were there?’
‘No. There were a lot of us—mostly men. Many from Turkey and Eastern Europe. But no-one asked questions.’
‘And how long did you think you’d be there?’
‘I had no idea. I made a decision to live day to day. I thought I’d come back, eventually…but then…time just kept passing and…’ His voice trailed away.
‘So why have you come back now?’
He looked at me, and I noticed how worn he looked, hollow at the cheeks and temples, as though the wind had eroded his face.
‘Do you believe in signs, Laura?’ he asked quietly. ‘I don’t think you do, because I remember that you used to dismiss the idea of anything that couldn’t be accounted for in purely rational terms.’
He’s standing in a field of flowers.
‘I know I did.’
He’s surrounded by them—it’s a marvellous sight.
‘But I’ve changed my mind lately.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Because…I’ve learnt that some things just can’t…be explained.’
‘I believe I had a sign,’ he went on. ‘A short while ago, something…happened. And that’s why I’ve come back now.’
‘What happened?’ I said. ‘What was it?’
‘It was…exactly two weeks ago.’ He took a deep breath, then exhaled. ‘I was in one of the tulip fields. It was the height of the season—the tourists coming in their thousands, every day; getting off the coaches to take photos.’ He had another sip of whisky. ‘It was a wonderful day,’ he went on. ‘Bright and sunny, but with this very strong breeze blowing in—it’s often windy there, because it’s close to the sea. And it was about three o’clock and I’d been walking through the rows of tulips since the morning, checking the plants for disease. We plant single variety crops, so first I went through a field of yellow ones, called “Golden Flame”, then into a field of deep pink ones with a white stripe; “Burgundy Lace”—’
‘I know that one.’ I thought of Luke, on Valentine’s Day, his arms filled with them.
‘- then through a field of red ones—“Fringed Appledoorn”. And a tour group had just stopped in the café area, for tea—they were pensioners. A short while later they left. And I suddenly saw, in the distance, that the guy who ran the café was trying to catch this newspaper—it was flying all over the place—and he was catching the pieces. But one bit of it blew right away, and it was flying across the field—flapping across the tops of the flowers like a big white bird. It was coming towards me, swooping and twirling in the strong breeze, turning over and over. And eventually it came to within a few feet of me, and I
grabbed it. And I was just about to screw it up and put it in my bag, when I saw that it was an English newspaper from the day before. And I turned it over. And saw you…’
My Remorse
‘The shock of it…not just that it was you—but your sad expression, and the terrible headline and your guilt and despair. I stood there, as rooted to the spot as the flowers around me and I felt so…bad.’
But even though he’s standing in this field of exquisite flowers he’s looking mournful and sad…
‘I knew then that I must come back. You might say,’ he went on, ‘that it was Chance. That on one level a British tourist left their copy of the Sunday Semaphore on a picnic table, and it blew away, and I just happened to catch the particular piece of it which just happened to feature you. But on another level, you might say it’s a sign…’
‘It is a sign,’ I said quietly. ‘You don’t need to convince me. But you’ve come back with what in mind, Nick?’
‘To…talk to you…to explain. I couldn’t have done it before, but now, things are different for me—and I can try and explain what happened…why I did what I did.’
‘Well I’ve certainly deserved an explanation, ‘ I said bitterly. ‘And I must say, it’s really nice to know what it was that detained you that day three and a half years ago. Oh, and thanks for phoning the National Missing Persons’ Helpline that time so that I could stop trudging round The Embankment peering under cardboard boxes, or having nightmares about you lying dead in a ditch—or rather a dyke, as it turns out—that was considerate of you. Pity you didn’t do it after three days rather than three months though wasn’t it? I presume you heard me on the radio?’ I added.
‘I did. I had a small transistor and I picked up Radio 4 on long-wave. So I called the Helpline.’
‘But then when they told me that you didn’t want to see me or even talk to me…I couldn’t understand it. If you were able to phone them, then why couldn’t you have phoned me?’
‘I did try actually. Twice.’ I remembered, now, the silent phone calls. ‘But I put the phone down, because I knew that if I spoke to you, even for a few seconds, then a dialogue would begin, which would make it inevitable that I’d have to come back. But I wasn’t ready to. I wanted to come back in my own time…‘