Close to the Edge

by Toby Faber

  Wednesday, 5 August – 7.45 p.m.

  Laurie felt a nudge on her shoulder. ‘The Reading Room is closing now.’ She looked up from her book, surprised. She’d been vaguely conscious of announcements, but had taken little notice of them since the arrival of the books she’d ordered. Sylvester had long since been finished; now she was deep into The Masqueraders.

  Laurie joined the queue to return her books – yes, could she keep just the one on reserve please? – and then another to leave the Reading Room, waiting for security to check the belongings of those in front of her. She glanced up at the clock: almost eight already! Dad would be waiting for her. She was dreading the inevitable explanations. How would he behave? He’d be on her side of course, but she couldn’t bear the thought of sympathy. Perhaps now was a good time to try Paul? The moment she got out of the Reading Room, Laurie pulled out her phone to call him. No luck: there were the usual four rings and then the call went through to voicemail. Should she send him a text? Somehow she couldn’t face it.

  A few last stragglers were leaving the locker room when she got down there. Rows of lockers stood agape, their doors open. She dug her key out of her pocket to remind herself of the number: 592. It was one of only two or three that remained shut. As Laurie collected her things two security guards appeared. They started moving down the rows of lockers, checking they were empty and removing the occasional pound left behind in the door by a forgetful reader.

  ‘What do you do about the locked ones?’ Laurie asked.

  ‘We empty them.’ one of the guards replied, a large woman, whose open friendliness was in marked contrast to the taciturnity of her colleague. ‘We can’t leave them because they might be a bomb!’ This was with a laugh that invited Laurie to share in her opinion of the ridiculousness of the idea.

  Laurie couldn’t help smiling back. ‘At least you get the pound, I suppose.’

  ‘Goes in the collection box,’ the guard replied. Then, as if unwilling to let the conversation end there, she added, ‘The funny thing is, often enough the lockers themselves are empty.’

  ‘What?’ Laurie asked. ‘You mean people take the keys home with them, even when they’ve left nothing behind?’

  ‘Yes. Caught one of them at it once. Asked him what he thought he was doing. He said it was worth losing a pound just to make sure he had a locker the next morning. Gave him a piece of my mind, I can tell you.’

  Laurie grinned in response, gave a wave and went on her way, but inside she was delighted at the turn the conversation had taken. It might not be the solution to why the man under the train had a British Library key, but it was a plausible explanation at least: one less thing for her to worry about. It balanced out, to a surprising degree, the sick feeling that came from having been as good as sacked earlier in the day. She felt unexpectedly happy as she unlocked her bike and started the uphill ride back towards Tufnell Park.

  *

  Laurie could hear laughter when she came into the flat. She followed the sound into the kitchen. Dad and Jess were in the middle of some sort of chopping race. Dad had clearly been passing on his technique – the one that involved pivoting off the end of the blade; Laurie remembered him doing the same with her years ago. Jess seemed to have mastered the speed aspect, but not the quality; the slices of courgette on her chopping board had thicknesses ranging from a millimetre to an inch. Laurie felt vaguely affronted at seeing them together like this, but suppressed the urge to make an acerbic comment about the danger of playing with knives.

  In any case, they stopped as soon as they noticed her in the doorway. Dad had a broad smile on his face. ‘Hello darling. Stir-fry tonight, if that suits you. There’s some wine in the fridge. We’re celebrating my triumph.’

  The bottle of Gewürztraminer had just enough for a glass left in it. Laurie helped herself and sat down. Dad and Jess didn’t seem to need her help. And it didn’t seem the right time to bring up the subject of where she’d spent the day, either. She took the opening implied by Dad’s remark. ‘Your triumph?’

  Dad looked up from the counter, where he was now reslicing Jess’s courgette into uniformly thin pieces, and smiled. ‘The man you saw fall was William Pennington. He was sixty years old and he lived in Watford. Are you impressed?’

  William Pennington? It was good to put a name to the face. Yes, Laurie thought, he looked like a William. That’s how she would think of him now. Mr Pennington was too formal for someone you had seen die; and Billy or Will just weren’t right. In the meantime, Dad was waiting for a response; she just had to oblige. ‘Go on, then. Tell me how you found out.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever read the Camden New Journal?’ Laurie must have looked suitably blank. ‘It’s your local paper. There are piles of it sitting in the hall downstairs. I thought they might be the sort of people that knew, or at least be able to point me in the right direction. So I went down to their office. It’s in Camden itself, right by the bus stop. Spoke to a nice man there; he seemed quite pleased to be asked a proper news question. That used to be how you started in the newspapers – on a local before moving on to the nationals. Wouldn’t surprise me if he just never moved on. Anyway, he’s a proper old-style investigative journalist, with a filing system to match. Took him five minutes to find your man, in a report that his inquest was adjourned, pending psychiatric reports. He said that meant he was a jumper.’

  Laurie sighed. Her evidence had made no difference at all. ‘But I saw him fall. I told that policewoman.’

  ‘Apparently, there’s less than one accidental death a year on the Underground. Whenever it looks like someone just fell, they turn out to have been a jumper.’

  ‘But I saw it.’ Laurie could only repeat herself. It was so frustrating.

  ‘Are you really sure? Even if he didn’t jump, how about if he was pushed?’

  ‘Dad – you’re ridiculous. How likely is that?’

  ‘Well, apparently even that is more likely than him just falling. So anyway, I thought I might pop up to Watford tomorrow to visit Mrs Pennington. See if she can shed any light.’

  ‘Dad! You can’t just drop in on her two weeks after her husband’s died. You’d be like some tabloid doorstepper, intruding on her grief.’

  ‘Well, she didn’t seem too distraught when I spoke to her a couple of hours ago. In fact, she seemed quite glad at the idea that I was taking an interest.’

  ‘You didn’t call her! What were you thinking?’

  ‘I’d prefer to have written, of course. That’s what you should do after a death, but we haven’t got time for that.’

  ‘So he was married,’ Laurie mused. ‘I guess there’s no reason why he shouldn’t have been. I’ll come with you, if that’s OK.’

  Through all this exchange, Jess had been chopping. She had clearly been listening, however, as her first contribution to the conversation made clear. ‘Things still quiet at work?’

  Ah well. They would have to be told at some point. ‘I’m afraid that looks like it’s not going to be a problem.’ Laurie settled down to explain her day.

  It was Jess who was most voluble in response, expressing the mixture of sympathy and horror that Laurie required, but also coming through with the necessary consolation. ‘You know you’ll have no problem getting another job, don’t you?’ Dad, by contrast, was much quieter. Only the way he seized on that last remark – ‘Yes, I’m sure that’s right’ – betrayed his worry.

  Jess picked up Dad’s tone too, and made an immediate move to lighten the mood. ‘Tell you what. How about watching an episode of University Challenge? I’ve got several on TiVo that I promise I’ve never watched. A nice bit of competitive question-answering will take your mind off things.’

  Dad was clearly nonplussed, but Laurie had to smile. ‘I know you’ll beat me, but you may have bitten off more than you can chew, challenging Dad too. When I was little I thought he knew everything. I’m not so sure even now that I was wrong.’ Then she turned to him in explanation. ‘It’s one of Jess’
s little obsessions. Humour her. If you know the answer, shout it out, but it only counts if you start speaking before anyone on screen buzzes.’

  So after supper, Jess scrolled through the TiVo menu system and the University Challenge theme tune started to play.

  ‘Goodness, I thought this went off air years ago,’ Dad began, before his tone changed to one of disbelief. ‘Jeremy Paxman?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jess sounded amused. ‘He took over from Bamber Gascoigne when it switched to BBC.’

  Then the questions began. As Laurie had predicted, Jess knew far more than her. She’d explained why the first time they’d played together. ‘Benefits of a classical education, I suppose, plus the general knowledge that comes with age.’ Laurie scored a couple of points from mental arithmetic and a lucky guess based on something half remembered from Mum’s Mrs Gaskell period, but that was it. Jess seemed to be cruising for an easy victory. And then Dad got going. By the end of the first episode he was beginning to give Jess a good run for her money. During the second he seemed to know the answer to almost every question. Jess admitted defeat gracefully, but she still wanted a rematch. Dad was keen too – Laurie couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him so fired up – but she at least had played enough. She left them to it.

  Jess had been right to suggest it, though. The whole experience had been fun – especially the way Dad had taken to it. It left Laurie sufficiently buoyant to dig out her CV there and then, to start thinking how she could tart it up for the agency. Then she went online to check the best route to Watford: no surprise that it turned out to be a train from Euston. Her emails took a while to download. How could she have accumulated 139 in two days? It was message 53 that was the problem. It clearly had a large attachment; it seemed an age before the computer starting ticking fast again, through 54, 55, 56 and onwards. Laurie, meanwhile, experienced a moment of shock when she realised that the message responsible for the hold-up was from herself. There it was: the email that had caused all the trouble. No harm in forwarding it back to Henry, she supposed, as evidence that she had done nothing wrong.

  Dad and Jess were still watching television, shouting at the screen, when Laurie went to bed.

  Thursday 6 August – 10 a.m.

  Laurie and Dad walked to Tufnell Park station together. They’d both dressed up for the occasion. She wore her Zara dress, looking for all the world as if she was on her way to work. He had emerged from the bathroom as smart as she remembered seeing him for a long time, in a brown linen suit that was so unrumpled it could only be new. He had looked embarrassed when Laurie raised her eyebrows at it. ‘I thought old clothes weren’t quite right for a grieving widow. Jess took me shopping. Do you like it?’

  Laurie had given her yes almost without thinking, but now, stealing a glance at him as they walked side by side, she was struck by how good Dad really looked. He’d never lost his figure, of course: one of the benefits, she supposed, of the country lifestyle. She slipped her arm through his and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

  The Northern line was as hot and stuffy as ever. Dad’s suit started to lose its crispness. Later, sitting opposite Laurie on the empty train out from Euston, he produced a tie from his pocket and whipped it into a schoolboy knot with the practised ease of one who did this every morning. Presumably it was the kind of skill that, once learnt, was never forgotten. The tie itself was new to Laurie – relatively sober, square cut, with muted greens and blues in horizontal stripes. It made him instantly elegant, but not flash. In fact, it suited Dad perfectly. Laurie wondered if that was new too, but any questions were forestalled by the emergence of yesterday’s crossword from another pocket. She settled down to look out of the window.

  It was only when the train pulled in to Watford Junction that Dad made any attempt to initiate conversation. ‘I thought we’d play it by ear a bit with Mrs Pennington. All I’ve said to her so far is that you were on the platform with him. I don’t know which of us should take the lead in the conversation – it depends a bit on what state she’s in.’

  ‘So she really doesn’t know anything about us?’ Laurie could only admire Dad’s chutzpah. ‘How do you know she won’t throw us out the moment we arrive?’

  ‘I don’t, I suppose, but there’s nothing to lose by trying, is there?’

  Dad had clearly memorised the route. They walked past houses separated from the road by driveways and weed-free lawns. A couple of children ran by on some nameless errand. The sound of their laughter seemed to hang in the still air long after they had gone. With no wind, the heat was getting oppressive. The space between Laurie’s shoulder blades began to prickle. She imagined the net curtains twitching as they walked past.

  ‘Dad,’ Laurie suddenly asked, ‘why are you doing this?’

  Dad stopped walking and looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know what I mean. You never leave home, especially in the summer. You hate London. Yet all of a sudden here you are, turned into Sherlock Holmes. And please don’t tell me it’s just because you’re worried about me. That might account for you coming to stay – just – but not for all this.’ Laurie gestured at the suburban idyll around them.

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s time for me to get out a bit more.’

  ‘Dad!’ Laurie warned. She wouldn’t let him get away with an answer like that.

  ‘OK.’ Dad paused. ‘Do you remember us watching True Grit on telly when you were young? John Wayne western. It was one of Mum’s favourite films.’

  Laurie did remember. She nodded.

  ‘Well, there’s a great line in it when the old guide played by Wayne looks at the girl who has refused to be left behind. I think she forces her horse to swim a river. Anyway, he looks at her and says, “She reminds me of me.” That’s what I thought when you insisted on going back to London to follow up what you’d remembered about William Pennington. Then I thought about it some more – once you’d gone – and I realised that might not be how you see me. It’s certainly not how I’ve behaved over the past few years. Anyway, I guess what I’m saying is, you might be seeing a bit more of me in London from now on.’

  Laurie pondered this reply as they walked, surprised at how good it made her feel. Any form of Dad was great, but one that had a bit of the old dynamism? That would be wonderful.

  All the houses on Chestnut Avenue were detached, solid-looking constructions of dull brick: places for bringing up a family in middle-class comfort. There was even an old-style telephone box on the corner. Number thirty-seven seemed to have undergone fewer redesigns than its neighbours: the garage had not been extended; its bay window was still glazed with what looked like the original little leaded diamonds; and the front door was a relatively plain slab of wood, with no added porch. Dad rang the bell. During the pause that followed, he straightened his tie and ran a hand over his hair. Laurie felt an odd nervousness. What were they doing here? What must they look like? Then they heard a bolt being shot back and the door opened to reveal a woman wearing jeans and a striped cotton shirt rolled up to her elbows. Her grey hair was slightly at odds with a face that seemed to belong to a younger woman: relatively unlined, but with a mobility that said Botox was not the reason. She could have been any age between forty and sixty. The woman looked at them enquiringly.

  ‘Mrs Pennington?’ Dad began, and on receiving a confirmatory nod, continued, ‘I’m David Bateman, and this is my daughter Laurie. I spoke to you on the phone yesterday.’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman’s voice was surprisingly strong and deep. Laurie looked at her with renewed interest. Mrs Pennington, however, was looking beyond them.

  Laurie turned round to follow her gaze. On the other side of the road a car was just pulling away, reflecting back the sun from tinted windows that could only be necessary on a day like today. Presumably the glare had caught Mrs Pennington’s attention; perhaps she thought that was their taxi? No harm in putting her straight on that: ‘We came up on the train.’

  ‘Of course. You’d better come in. I hope y
ou don’t mind my gardening clothes.’ Mrs Pennington stood back from the door to let them pass and fingered the top button of her shirt. Muscles flexed in her forearms as she did so, giving her a slightly masculine air, for all the prettiness in her face. She noticed Laurie’s glance, but seemed to misinterpret it, admitting, ‘It’s an old shirt of my husband’s.’ That was all it took. Without warning, she emitted a strange keening cry, a precursor to great convulsive sobs that shuddered through her body and tears that streamed down a suddenly contorted face.

  Dad took charge, ushering Laurie and the grieving woman into a cork-floored conservatory, while he went into the kitchen and prepared tea. Uncertainly, Laurie sat beside Mrs Pennington on a rattan sofa, holding her hand as the sobs subsided. She didn’t know what to say. How did you soothe a complete stranger, someone old enough to be your mother? In the end, she stayed silent; her presence alone seemed comfort enough.

  When Mrs Pennington eventually spoke again, it was with a measured tone. She had regained control. ‘We never had children: never felt the need, really. I had my yoga - I teach it, you know – that and the garden. He had his work and his old Sunbeam.’ Her voice really was powerful, like a singer’s, but there was a crack to it. She paused. Laurie glanced across. Mrs Pennington was composing herself again, and seemed in no hurry to withdraw her hand. ‘You guessed about the shirt didn’t you? Was it the buttons? It still has his smell, you see. Is that silly?’

  Laurie shook her head and Mrs Pennington continued. ‘Now it turns out he’d lost his job in June. He never even told me, just carried on getting up in the morning, putting on his suit, going into work. I mean, why would he have done that?’

  Laurie didn’t try to respond.

  ‘And now he goes and throws himself under a train. Of all the unnatural things to do. I just don’t understand it. We could have worked things out. With his pension and my classes we had more than enough to live on. I thought I knew him. It feels like I’ve been living with a stranger all these years.’