Us

by David Nicholls

  The revolution continued at dinner. Despite smoking like a pair of burning tyres, my parents were rather reserved about alcohol and kept their sparse selection of ancient bottles in the garden shed with the spiders. Sherry was for trifles; brandy was for shock. Alcohol loosened inhibitions, and inhibitions were worn tight here. When it became clear that my parents were not going to open the bottle we had brought with us, that it would join the miniature of whisky and the curdled advocaat at the end of the garden, Connie made a great show of ‘popping out for some more wine’, returning in the car with two bottles and, it transpired later, a small bottle of vodka concealed in her coat.

  I wish I could say the alcohol made things go with a swing. Over a dinner of fatty pork, talk somehow turned to immigration policy because, famously, nothing brings people together like the subject of immigration. We had all been drinking now, Connie and my father in particular, and my mother had asked a question about the relative racial mix of Kilburn in comparison with Balham. Were there still a lot of Irish there, as opposed to West Indians or Pakistanis? The implication being, I suppose, that the Irish were in some way ‘not so bad’. Connie had replied, in moderate tones, that there were all kinds of communities there, that often when people said Pakistani they meant Bangladeshi, which was like confusing Italy with Spain, and that the racial mix was part of the excitement and pleasure of living in London. But did she feel safe at night? asked my father.

  It is probably not necessary to transcribe the argument that followed. In their defence, my parents’ views were widely held, but they were expressed with inappropriate anger, my father’s curled finger tapping an invisible window pane with every spurious ‘fact!’, and soon Connie was shouting, ‘My step-father is Turkish Cypriot, should he go home? My half-brothers, they’re half English, half Cypriot. What about my mum, she’s English, Irish, French, but she’s married to one of them – should she have to go, too?’

  ‘Maybe we should change the subject?’ I suggested.

  ‘No, we will not!’ said Connie emphatically. ‘Why do you always want to change the subject?’

  And so we went on. The insinuation on Connie’s part – perhaps she even stated it outright – was that my parents were provincial bigots. The contention on my parents’ part was that Connie was ‘not in the real world’, that she was not waiting for a council house with her three kids, that she was unlikely to lose her job in some swanky art gallery to somebody who had just got off the boat from Poland. ‘You don’t get the boat from Poland,’ said Connie, petulantly, ‘you fly.’

  There was a pause, and we all looked at our congealed dinner.

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ said my mother, in hurt tones.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I agree with Connie.’

  For the most part I did agree with Connie. But if Connie had been arguing for a moon made entirely of cheese, I would have agreed with her too. I was going to be on her side from now on, and my parents saw this, and were saddened by it, I think. But what choice did I have? In a fight you side with the people you love. That is just how it is.

  84. immense wristwatches

  The three gentlemen at breakfast were large and self-confident: a Dutchman, an American and a Russian. They were well-dressed, teak-tanned, expense-account men, reeking of cologne, the kind of men who let other people shave them, the kind of men you find on yachts. With their immense wristwatches, they were a different breed, and our party of four seemed rather grey and muted in comparison. Connie and I had slept badly, Cat and Albie not at all, and they were still drunk or stoned or some combination of the two. If they reeked of beer and spirits, I reeked of disapproval. A reckoning was due between Albie and me. There had been complaints from the hotel staff about last night’s party, and I was waiting for an opportunity to announce that no, I would not be paying for the contents of the mini-bar and no, I was not happy that we had missed the best part of our final morning in Amsterdam due to hangovers. And so the seven of us sat in the gloomy subterranean breakfast room, at tables too close together, consuming acrid coffee and the kind of croissants that come in cellophane wrappers while the businessmen boomed away.

  ‘People talk about manufacturing costs,’ the handsome American was saying, ‘and we’re not stupid, we see that as a factor, but where’s the benefit if we’re left with a shitty product?’ He was no older than thirty, blue-chinned, muscular beneath a tailored shirt. ‘Our current manufacturers, we’re sending 10 to 15 per cent back as faulty or under par.’

  ‘It is a false economy,’ said the nodding Dutchman, slighter and less confident, some sort of middle-man or facilitator. Perhaps there was a business conference in town, a trade fair of some kind.

  ‘Precisely. A false economy. What you offer us, and this is why we’re pursuing this so hard, is consistency, efficiency, transportation links …’

  ‘Reliability …’ said the Russian.

  ‘It is a win-win situation,’ said the Dutchman, who seemed to have a business idiom for every circumstance. They continued in that rather brash tone, and I attempted to bring our own conversation back to check-out times, the storage of luggage, the importance of intelligent packing. We were heading to Munich by sleeper train that evening, then across the Alps to Verona, Vicenza, Padua and Venice, a journey that had seemed rich with romance when I had made the reservations, but now seemed fraught with danger.

  Yet Albie and Cat seemed transfixed by the men to our right, exchanging eye-rolls and little shakes of the head and derisive little huffs and tuts at all this talk of timescales and profit margins and brands. ‘Take this model …’ said the American, and a glossy brochure made its way across the table, close enough for us to see.

  The brochure illustrated a gun, some sort of assault rifle, and it was one of many glossy documents among the coffee cups. We were close enough to reach across and grab one, and for a moment I thought Albie might do just that. Here was the gun in loving close-up, here was the gun dismantled, cradled in a mercenary’s arms. I’m no expert on combat weapons, but it looked like rather an absurd object to me. Embellished with telescopic sights and spare magazine clips and jumper-snagging bayonets, it looked like the kind of gun a teenage boy would draw – a space rifle. Indeed, there was discussion about the specialised leisure and hunting sectors, the accessories they’d buy, the gadgets and gizmos. That’s interesting, I thought, they’re weapons manufacturers, and I drank the last of my coffee. ‘Well, Cat,’ I said, ‘I’m afraid it’s time to say goodbye!’

  But nobody was listening to me. They were too busy staring, doing their best to radiate disapproval. Cat was craning her neck towards them, shoulders thrown back, eyes wide, street-theatre style. Bad enough that these men were capitalists, but to be discussing such a trade in public, in daylight, in voices loud enough to make our coffee cups shake?

  ‘Well, the museum opens at ten!’ I said, and began to stand.

  ‘You are here on holiday?’ said the Dutchman, unable to ignore the stares.

  ‘Just two days, unfortunately!’ I said, neutrally enough I thought. ‘Come on, everyone. We’ve still got to check out.’

  And now Albie pushed his chair noisily away, stood and planted both hands firmly on their table. ‘The bathroom’s over there,’ he said, in a clearer voice than I was used to hearing.

  The American adjusted his shoulders. ‘And why would we need the bathroom, son?’

  ‘To wash all that blood off your hands,’ said Albie, and then several things happened at once, not all of them entirely clear to me. I recall that the American stood, placing one hand behind Albie’s neck, pressing his face towards the open palm of his other hand, saying, ‘Where? Show me the blood, son! Where?’ I saw Connie hanging off the American’s arm, calling him an arsehole, attempting to pull his hand away, a coffee cup spilling, the Dutchman gesturing at me angrily – why couldn’t you mind your own business? – the waiter crossing quickly, amused and then alarmed, the big Russian laughing at it all until Cat stood too, took a glass of orange jui
ce and poured it onto a brochure, then another, then another, until it began to pool on the glossy pages and then cascade into the Russian’s lap and he too stood, revealing his great size just like in a slapstick comedy, at which Cat started to laugh herself, a theatrical cackling, quite maddening, which caused the Russian to start calling her a stupid bitch, a stupid mad bitch, all of which made her laugh even more.

  At least that is what I recall. It was not quite a brawl, no punches were thrown, it was more a tangle of reaches and grabs, jeers and sneers, ugly in the extreme and pointless too, I felt. As to my own behaviour, I had intended to play the role of peacemaker, disentangling arms and appealing for calm. That was my intention, to calm the situation, and at some point I wrapped my arms around Albie, holding him back but incidentally allowing the American to shove his shoulder – not hard, just a demeaning little jab. I held on to Albie tight, pulling him away, doing my best to separate the parties and proceed with the day that I had planned for my family. As I say, it was all a blur. What was undeniable, though, because everyone remembered it afterwards, was that at some point I had dragged Albie away and used the words:

  ‘I’d like to apologise for my son.’

  85. sunflowers again

  Albie did not come to the Van Gogh Museum. Connie nearly didn’t make it either, so sullen and angry was she that morning, riding her bike with head-down fury, barely bothering with hand signals.

  We stood in front of Sunflowers, one of several versions Van Gogh painted, and I was reminded of the print I’d had on my wall. ‘Do you remember? In the Balham flat? I bought it to impress you.’ But she was not in the mood for nostalgia, and all my other observations about the thickness of the paint on the canvas and the rich palette of colours made not a mark on the impenetrable shell of my wife’s contempt. She was even too angry to buy postcards. So much for the soothing power of great art.

  Sure enough, the explosion came as we stepped outside.

  ‘You know what you should have done? When that guy went for Albie? You should have punched him in the nose, not held Albie’s arms so he could hit him.’

  ‘He didn’t hit him, it was a little shove.’

  ‘Makes no difference.’

  ‘Albie started it! He was being obnoxious, he was showing off.’

  ‘Makes no difference, Douglas.’

  ‘You think that would have helped? That guy would have knocked me flat! Would that have helped the situation, me getting beaten up in front of everyone? Is that what you’d have preferred?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, that man would have broken your nose and split your lip and I’d have wanted to kiss you, Douglas, because you’d have stood up to someone for the sake of your son! Instead, you simper away: “We’re having a lovely time here, just two days unfortunately”.’

  ‘It was a fatuous argument in the first place! Good God, what are you, nine years old? So they make guns! You don’t think we need guns? The police, the army? You don’t think someone has to manufacture them? It’s the politics of primary school to shout abuse at people going about their lawful business, even if you disapprove …’

  ‘Douglas, you have an incredible capacity for missing the point. Will you listen to me, just for once? The debate does not matter. It’s not about the issues. Albie might have been naïve or ridiculous or pompous or all of those things, but you apologised. You said you were embarrassed by him. You took the side of a bunch of arms-dealers! Bloody bastard arms-dealers against your son – our son – and that was wrong, it was the wrong thing to do, because in a fight you side with the people you love. That’s just how it is.’

  86. daydreams of near disaster

  When I first began to feel my son slipping away from me – I think perhaps he was nine or ten when I first felt the wriggling of his fingers in my manic grip – I found myself indulging in a particular fantasy. I’m aware that it sounds perverse, but what I hoped for at that time was some accident, some near disaster, so that I could be as heroic as the occasion demanded, and show the strength of my devotion.

  In the Everglades of Florida, Albie is bitten by a snake that finds its way into his shoe, and I suck the venom from his filthy heel. Hiking in Snowdonia a sudden storm descends, Albie slips and breaks his ankle and I carry him through fog and rain to safety. A freak wave sweeps Albie off the Cobb at Lyme Regis and, without hesitation, without even thinking about taking my car keys and phone and placing them somewhere safe, I leap into the pounding surf, dive and dive again beneath the grey waters until I find him and carry him to the shore. It transpires that Albie needs a kidney. My kidney is a perfect match – be my guest, please. Take two! If ever he were in danger, I had no doubt about my instinctive courage and loyalty.

  Yet put me in a little breakfast room in an Amsterdam hotel …

  I would apologise, that’s what I’d do. I would take him somewhere quiet and explain, that I was tired, that I had not slept all night, and perhaps he had not noticed but there were certain tensions between his mother and me and that consequently I was a little on edge, but that I loved him hugely and couldn’t we now move on, both literally and figuratively? The train to Munich was in two hours. We’d be in Italy in two days’ time.

  But when I returned to the hotel, I found Connie leaning on the reception desk, the heels of her hands pressed to teary eyes. Without looking up, she slid the letter towards me, written in Albie’s scrawling hand on the back page of my itinerary.

  Mum, Dad,

  Well, that was fun!

  I appreciate the effort and all the money but I don’t think the Grand Tour is working out. I feel like I’m being got at all the time, which isn’t much of a holiday for me, surprise surprise, so I’m heading off and leaving you to get at each other instead. At least now you’ll be able to stick to your schedule, Dad!

  I don’t know where I’m going. I might stay with Cat or I might not. I’ve taken my passport from your room and also a little money – don’t worry, Dad, I’ll pay you back, and for the mini-bar too. Put it on the bill.

  Please don’t try to email, text or phone. I’ll be back in touch when the time is right. Until then I just need some time to clear my head and think certain things through.

  Mum, don’t worry. And Dad, I’m sorry if I disappoint you.

  See you whenever,

  Albie

  part four

  GERMANY

  –

  Surely you have to succeed, if you give everything you have.

  Penelope Fitzgerald, The Bookshop

  87. couchette

  We had taken a sleeper train once before, to Inverness then on to a cycling holiday in Skye, the autumn of our second year.

  The trip had been a birthday surprise; meet me at such and such a time, bring your passport and a swimming costume, the kind of larky spree that was new to me. If Connie was disappointed to discover that she would need neither passport nor swimming costume then she didn’t show it, and we laughed a lot, I recall, in the tiny couchette of the train from Euston. In the films of my childhood, sleeper trains were shorthand for a kind of suave sauciness. In reality, like saunas and Jacuzzis, sleeping compartments are not nearly the sensual playground we’re led to believe and this is another way in which fiction lies to us. The real experience can easily be simulated by paying two hundred pounds to make love in a locked wardrobe on the back of a fast-moving flatbed truck. Nevertheless, we persevered despite a great deal of giggling and cramp, and somewhere between Preston and Carlisle there was a mishap with birth control.

  This was something about which we’d always been quite fastidious, and while neither of us panicked, we both were forced to contemplate the theoretical notion of parenthood, of how that might feel, what it might look like. We thought about it as we cycled across a squally Skye, we thought about it while lying whisky-breath’d in soft, strange beds in various B&Bs, we thought about it while peering at Ordnance Survey maps in search of shelter from the latest downpour. We even joked about it, that if it was a girl we would call her C
arlisle, if it was a boy, Preston, and we found the idea … unhorrific. ‘Pregnancy scare’ is the traditional phrase and yet we weren’t scared in the least, and this, too, felt like another milestone.

  On our return journey to London, we squeezed into a bunk the size of a large cot and Connie revealed that she was not pregnant after all.

  ‘Well, that’s good news,’ I said. Then, ‘Is it?’

  She exhaled, then turned and lay with her hand across her forehead. ‘I don’t know. I think it is. It always was in the past. I actually feel a little disappointed, to be honest.’

  ‘Me too,’ I said, and we lay in silence for a while in our shared berth, taking in the implications of this.

  ‘That doesn’t mean we should start trying, full on. Not yet.’

  ‘No, but if it happens …’

  ‘Exactly. If it happens – are you okay?’

  ‘Just cramp.’ In truth I could no longer feel my legs, but didn’t want to move away just yet.

  ‘For what it’s worth …’ she said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, I think we’d be quite good at it. Being parents, I mean.’

  ‘Yes, so do I,’ I said. ‘So do I.’

  And I returned to my own bunk, sure in the knowledge that she was at least half right.

  88. couchette 2