A Thousand Paper Birds

by Tor Udall

  After the incident in the bluebell woods, Chloe has been tempted to call him, but to say what? She has convinced herself that the experience was simply her imagination plus some kids mucking about, but the boots still sit on her shelf, gathering doubt and dust.

  Holding a kitchen knife in her hand, Chloe makes the first cut. It takes a while to slice through the industrial tape. She levers the box open to find a large screwed-up ball of newspaper, the many sheets of the Observer stuck together. She turns this bundle over, then unravels each sheet, the ball becoming smaller and smaller as if she were playing pass-the-parcel. She notices the grinning politicians, the murders and passing fashions, then, on the penultimate page, red pen is slashed across the newsprint. Because despite all this you make me want to get out of bed in the morning. The final page is not a newspaper but a score. It has been screwed tightly into a ball. As she smooths out the wrinkles, she cannot read the music, a foreign language to her, but she understands the simple title: Found.

  Harry has watched the routines of a solitary man; the self-doubt Jonah faces in the mirror. He has seen the widower swear when he stepped into a paint tray, but also the boy-like hope when he stared out of the window. Harry has played another man’s piano, and watched Jonah sleep, and in the early-morning light he has understood what Audrey fell in love with.

  He is on the train east. His old green jumper droops with longing, the wool aching for its grave. When he arrives in Dalston it begins to rain. He takes off his socks, now no more than threads and stitches, and throws them in a bin. He stands under Chloe’s window and begins to sing. He knows Jonah’s composition by heart. At the piano, Harry had hoped it wouldn’t cause any harm. Not this morsel of compassion. Not this invisible, much-resisted love.

  As it pelts down, water drips from Harry’s chin. Flawed as they are, both men still have enough faith to highlight their favourite sentence in a novel, or create something in a broken world and hope it will flower. It doesn’t even matter that Harry is singing off-key.

  Jonah’s strange love letter has been sitting on her kitchen table for several days. Chloe glances at it as she picks up her portfolio, and, glad to leave, she walks down the stairs. Striding down an autumnal street, she wonders if Jonah’s playing her at her own game. ‘It’s safe to want something you can’t have,’ she chants under her breath. Dressed in navy, she takes the overland to Highbury and Islington, looking elegantly pale.

  In Euston, she meets a man who wants to commission several paper mobiles for Great Ormond Street Hospital. As Chloe leafs through her portfolio, she remembers her habit of running away; then she discusses colour palettes and hanging space.

  Chloe has lunch with a gallery owner who will be showing her work next spring. There is talk of the exhibition travelling to America, and they discuss the practicalities of transporting folded paper overseas. It is rush hour by the time Chloe returns to the station, but she doesn’t get on the train. Clutching her portfolio, she watches the constellations of people gathering and departing, movement and stasis. A couple debate the best route to Piccadilly Circus. The woman jabs at the map emphatically but they are at sea amongst a maze of choices.

  The Last Thought

  The train moves from the tunnel into sunlight, and Chloe leans her head against the window to gaze at the stretched-out sky. It’s like diving into a swimming pool. Thirty minutes later, she is standing by Dalí’s clock in Kew Gardens, wearing an elegant blue coat and no lipstick. She swaps her weight from right foot to left and considers Jonah’s parcel. She promises to be as clear as the sky in her intention: she has only arranged to see Jonah because of a woman she has never met, because she refuses to become another ex-lover haunting his future.

  She almost relaxes into this glorious, autumnal afternoon but when Jonah walks towards her, she realises she had forgotten. Now she sees it coming, the earthquake of him. She had remembered his orange fisherman’s jacket, the sturdy toggles, but she had forgotten the sound of his footfall. Ten strides away. Here comes the cavalry of his smile, the arson of his charms. He takes off his woollen hat. Close enough.

  ‘Hi there.’ He bats his beanie against his hand. ‘You look fantastic. Shall we?’

  He holds out the crook of his arm, but she stuffs both hands into her pockets.

  ‘Sure. Where to?’

  ‘The pagoda?’

  As they walk, she keeps one step away. Jonah celebrates her artwork.

  ‘It was a wonderful concept. Really caught people’s imaginations.’

  ‘Did you fold a bird?’ Of course he did. She had unwrapped each one and catalogued the messages. She knew the grey bird was his, the one with the stave and notes scrawled inside.

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I can’t remember what colour.’ He gestures towards a bench that stands between an ash and a maple. ‘Can we sit here a while?’

  She wants to keep moving, but his smile is true, broken. After taking in the cool elegance of Temperate House, she perches down. The bench is warm from basking in the sun. The weather watches them, waiting.

  They each have different motivations for being here, but the risk of failure and success sits equally weighted between them. When he turns towards her, it is a scuffed moment.

  ‘This is Emily’s bench we’re sitting on,’ he says. ‘Emily Richards.’

  He is looking at her pale face and thinking of Chinese porcelain. He is picturing pagodas painted in dazzling blue, the same colour as her eyes, and how not to break this plate he holds in his hands. Her features are delicate. He doesn’t know how to tell her about his months hanging out with a dead girl – his madness. His body is still registering the shock of it.

  ‘You were the last person to see her.’

  Her fingers grip the bench, trying to steady herself; but it looks like the slightest breeze might take her away.

  He yearns to put his hand on her knee. ‘I read it in a local newspaper. Why didn’t you say something?’

  ‘Because I could have stopped it. Because I thought . . .’ She smiles wanly. ‘I thought you would hate me.’

  Her lips part, hesitating, then she starts from the beginning; how she once stumbled across a weeping child. She describes the broken sunflower and an origami boat. Jonah thinks of all the places he could start, but begins with the ending, in one incomprehensible burst.

  ‘It wasn’t your fault.’

  Chloe’s forehead crinkles with confusion. He wants to stroke her face, as if it could be uncreased, unfretted, adored.

  ‘I’ve been having these dreams – well – hallucinations. The doc says it happens when people haven’t slept.’ He squirms then takes a deep breath. ‘I saw her, Chlo.’

  Her laughter mocks him. ‘Like some kind of visitation?’

  He tries to chuckle too. ‘Crazy, I know. But have you ever dreamt about stuff and you can’t let go of this feeling that it’s trying to tell you something?’ He can’t stop tossing his hat from one hand to the other. ‘She always carried a flower press. It was full of daisies, dandelions . . .’

  Chloe shakes her head. ‘How could you know that? You must have known her before.’

  ‘No.’

  Chloe stares into the middle distance. It is an uncomfortable silence. It waits, doubts and waits some more.

  ‘Either you’ve gone insane, or you’re making it up, trying to make me feel . . . Are you asking me to . . . surely you don’t believe in ghosts?’

  ‘No. I don’t.’

  Silence again. She is still refusing to look at him, her eyes set on Temperate House. She hasn’t let go of the edge of the bench, as if her hands are the only things keeping her here, and every other part of her wants to run.

  ‘I left Milly on her own,’ he tries. ‘Time and time again. It could have happened to anyone.’

  Her jaw tightens – her shoulders, her neck. ‘But you said it wasn’t real . . .’

  ‘My choices were.’ He drops his hat, puts his hand over hers. They both stare down at her bitten nails. ‘I wish you had tol
d me.’

  When she turns to him, the rims of her eyes are red. ‘I went to her funeral. But I could hardly go up to her mum and say I was the one who didn’t bring back your daughter. But she knew who I was. We both knew. We both recognised each other’s failure.’

  ‘You’ve got to stop blaming yourself.’

  ‘You can talk.’

  Jonah leans back, as if studying the missing pieces of a jigsaw.

  ‘I went looking for Harry at the house on Earl Road,’ he nudges. ‘The guy said you’d been there.’

  Chloe takes her time. But finally they are sharing their seasons of spying and secrets.

  ‘I saw him,’ she admits. ‘Harry – in the bluebell woods. He kind of vanished. But this is ridiculous. This is . . .’

  ‘Don’t you remember what you told me? All those traditions you studied when you learnt origami. You said it, remember? Some Japanese believe in ghosts like we believe in the weather.’

  ‘Jesus. Can you hear yourself?’ She frantically searches his eyes. ‘I don’t trust you.’

  He lets out a short laugh, then raises his arms in surrender. ‘So now you know how it feels.’

  It is said without malice. As he holds her gaze, her expression changes; a sky full of clouds and flux and the hope of light.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chlo. I didn’t treat you the way you deserved.’

  Her sigh scatters his words like seeds from a dandelion clock.

  ‘I should have told you sooner.’

  As they recount their misdemeanours – not just remember, but honour – Jonah sees a broken-hearted splendour, a scarred loveliness.

  They stare at the glasshouse where Chloe saw a girl holding a sunflower. Their postures haven’t changed, yet there is a different quality in the air around them, the moment when two people witness the beauty in each other. The woman next to him is gaining more presence, more weight; she has never looked so human. He wants to promise that everything is going to be OK, but it would be a lie masquerading as faith.

  This is the last day of summer. The sky is so still, it’s as if all states, all seasons, are holding their breath.

  She breaks.

  It starts with her body, the tiniest tremor that asks more questions than he can answer. Tears flood her face, and he knows them, he knows their smell. They are for her lost childhood, for Milly’s.

  As he holds her, Chloe’s muscles remember what it feels like to have his body upon hers, the crushing together of their limbs and sex. Everything he has told her is surely a delusion. But stranger than a child’s ghost is this, this unfamiliar surrender. Now he is resting his forehead against hers, the air dense with hesitant breath.

  ‘Chloe, I—’

  ‘Thought you wanted to go to the pagoda.’

  She wipes her face then stands up; vigorous, practical. Why would she choose to return to this haunted land, to a man who is now frighteningly available? She tries to hold on to the sound of the birds, the grass beneath her. When they arrive at the pagoda, she gawps up at the flaking paint, the large arch windows.

  They skirt around each other, dwarfed by the rotting, red pillars.

  ‘I know you think I’m insane, but I was hoping . . .’ He rubs his forehead. ‘I am getting help,’ he adds. ‘Getting better.’

  ‘I wouldn’t worry about it,’ she suggests.

  It sounds like an unfair dismissal but she’s still reeling from the impact Milly had on her life. As she looks up towards the top of the pagoda she feels her weight plummeting.

  ‘Perhaps,’ says Jonah, ‘love is when you hold on to something and fall through the air. You don’t know if you’re flying or falling—’

  ‘Until you crash,’ she says.

  Jonah knows he will remember this day in the future. The way Chloe looks now: her coat the same blue as the pagoda.

  ‘What do you want, Joe? Really?’

  He tries to ignore her crossed arms, her impatient stance.

  ‘Everything,’ he says simply. ‘And I know what I don’t want. A lightweight life.’

  She looks at him quizzically.

  ‘I’d rather have pain,’ he continues, ‘than be on the peripheries, alone, and . . .’ He squints in the sunlight. ‘I don’t want to grow up – I want to grow down, you know, grow some roots. Like having a child, or staying put.’

  He catches a glimpse of the finial and wonders if he is on a fairground ride, the world spinning.

  ‘It’s fine if you don’t want kids. But please choose for the right reasons—’

  ‘But—’

  ‘When you start appreciating what you have, when you settle for what you’ve got, perhaps life starts sparkling.’

  ‘Settling for what you’ve got?’

  His momentum is broken. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

  There is her back again. Beautiful though it is, he is tired of seeing her turn away and gaze into the distance. The poise of her neck, the defiance of her chin, her young, brittle will coming up against his.

  ‘A relationship is not a thing,’ she states flatly. ‘It’s not an object you can hold or plan out on paper. It’s a movement. Love is what you do.’

  Jonah knows this. It’s listening to your wife when you’re exhausted, remembering to unstack the dishwasher, or compliment her shoes. Countless little gestures, the daily attempt to see your partner anew. It’s making a woman a piece of music. But Chloe mutters, ‘This way. C’mon.’

  As they stroll down Pagoda Vista, she remembers them on a beer-soaked evening, ambling through an open market – when being together was as simple as sunshine. Then she realises they are walking in time. Right foot, left. Even though they are a metre apart, a passer-by apologises for striding between them. She remembers what she wrote in her letter. Hope is a rhythm.

  Once they have passed the Palm House, they stop by a bench.

  Well, there we are, aren’t we?

  In loving memory of Dilys ‘Phyllis’ Schub

  1920–2003

  As Chloe continues to stare at the inscription, she feels the beginning of a movement, just the quiver of some kind of momentum, however small. She tries to stay with it, to listen to that tiny impulse.

  She can feel, without looking, that Jonah’s brow has softened.

  ‘What are you smiling at?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She turns to him. ‘No . . . what were you thinking?’

  ‘Just thank you – for making these years easier. I’ve been . . .’

  ‘An idiot?’

  The anticipation of a kiss is almost the best part: the shyness, and the doubt. Their eyes search for agreement. When they kiss it is all the more tender for the wait. The ambiguity of words, the slip of the heart, all being surmounted by this. This kiss.

  Chloe pulls away – sees the hopeful slant of his mouth.

  She takes his hand. ‘There’s something I want to show you. It’s not far.’

  She leads him past Kew Palace to a path he has not seen before. Through the bushes is an undiscovered garden. Jonah turns around, taking it all in. On the right is a modern glasshouse, angular and curved.

  ‘It’s closed to the public,’ says Chloe. ‘But I saw a paper collection there, for work.’

  They walk further into a place that holds no memories for Jonah. There is a lake overhung with beauty, and a path wandering through rocks, leading to a bridge across to the Sir Joseph Banks Building. Standing near a fountain is a heron Jonah has never met before: leaner, perhaps younger, preening its feathers and catching the last hour of warmth.

  The day is ending, but it feels like a beginning as Chloe ventures along the path, urging him forward as if she wants him to open a present. He follows her beyond the lake, where a wrought-iron rotunda stands on a mound. From here there is a view across to the formal garden of Kew Palace. There are clipped box hedges lined with statues and beds of herbs. To the right is the Thames, and, as Chloe stretches out her arms in appreciation, Jonah fumbles in his coat for his phone and takes a picture. It is not of
the landscape. Standing under a mustard sky, half of Chloe’s face is lit by the sun, the other half remains in shadow. The intensity of her blue eyes is focused on the man behind the lens and Jonah grins at the image, then at the real person, checking to see if he has captured what he wanted. He knows ‘5.09’ will be the title: 5.09, the twenty-ninth of October.

  As they stand opposite each other, Chloe balances like a tightrope walker on the middle of a wire.

  ‘The gates are shutting. We should go.’

  ‘Stay. Just for a minute. It’s quite a sunset.’

  As he sits on the grass, Chloe gazes down at his shoulder. A moment of indecision, then she joins him. Jonah lies out, resting his head on her stomach. She lets the sun warm her bones, feeling the encouragement of light against her being. She stares at the subtle divide, the fine line of the horizon, and wonders what they are supposed to birth together. A friendship? A child?

  It seems such a distance to travel, but when she brings herself to the present she realises she is already there, his hand on her thigh. She looks up again at the dying light.

  ‘It’s different every time I turn back,’ she murmurs.

  As the sun begins to dip beneath the horizon, they shift position. She lies down, resting her head on his chest, the simple gesture of allowing herself to be supported. She remembers him talking about silence; without this lull the beats can have no rhythm. His heartbeat against her cheek sounds like a bass line.

  ‘We should get back,’ says Jonah. ‘The policeman at the gates . . .’

  ‘All right.’

  He offers out his hand and hauls her up to standing. Not knowing the future, they walk away. This is the day British summertime ends. The clocks change.

  Harry continues caretaking the benches, moving forgotten pieces of wood into the sunshine or twinning two together so a family can enjoy the view. He tends particularly to the ungrieved, those who didn’t love enough, then he rests on a bench that says simply ‘We Miss You’. Stretching out his muddy toes, he wonders if Chloe and Jonah will eventually be here, and whether their benches will stand together or alone. Later he spends the night on the street and discovers them sleeping behind an open window. A guitar leans against the wall. The wind moves the strings but neither of them hears it. Harry is so overwhelmed he has to sit down on a brick wall.