Us

by David Nicholls

  141. conversation while washing-up

  ‘Can I ask you a question?’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘At work, how many people do you know who can’t tie their shoelaces?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘And how many adults do you know who can’t use a knife or don’t eat any vegetables at all?’

  ‘Connie—’

  ‘Or who talk about poo and wee at dinner, or leave the lids off felt-tips, or are afraid of the dark?’

  ‘I realise the point you’re making but—’

  ‘So can we just assume that Albie will learn these things and that the time you spend constantly getting at him, which is all the time, is not well spent?’

  ‘The point you’re making doesn’t stand.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s not about teaching him how to tie his laces or to eat broccoli or talk sensibly. It’s about doing things properly; teaching him application, perseverance and discipline.’

  ‘Discipline!’

  ‘I’m teaching him that not everything in this life is easy or fun.’

  ‘Yes,’ Connie sighed and shook her head. ‘You certainly are.’

  Was I an authoritarian? Certainly less so than my own father, and never unreasonably so. Connie was of the school that thought a certain degree of cheekiness, irreverence, rebellion – the crayon on the wall, the unwanted cauliflower hidden in the shoe – should be treated with an indulgent nod, a wink, a ruffling of the hair. I wasn’t like that, it was not in my nature or upbringing, and neither was I of the school that thought praise should be unearnt, or that ‘I love you’ should be tossed around with wild abandon, just another way of saying ‘goodnight’ or ‘well done’ or ‘see you later’, a clearing of the throat. I did love my son, of course I did, but not when he tried to set fire to things, not when he refused to do his maths homework, not when he spilt apple juice into my laptop, not when he whined because I’d turned off the TV. He would thank me in the long run, and if I did overstep the mark sometimes, if I did lose my temper, snarl when I should have forced a smile then, well, I was very, very tired.

  142. opportunities

  I was commuting by then, eating breakfast before sunrise and fighting against the tide of in-comers at Paddington as I travelled to my work as a project manager based in the research labs just outside Reading. A tube, a train, another train, a walk; then, at night-time, the same journey in reverse. Exhausting, brutal, that working day, and yet I had only myself to blame.

  I had left academia. Shortly after Albie started school, I had been offered a new job in the private sector, working for a multinational that you will have heard of, on the news or in documentaries, a huge global company with diverse interests in the world of pharmaceuticals and agrochemicals, a company that had, at times, in the past, perhaps not placed ethical considerations at the heart of its strategy.

  But now here was this job proposal, brought to me by an old colleague with a tan and a sharp suit, and here was my family in a perfectly pleasant flat but with no savings, no pension and a hefty mortgage. Before Albie arrived I’d been employed on a series of short-term projects on reasonable but unspectacular pay and this had been enough for the cinema tickets and vodka and tonics that made up the greater part of our household budget. I had a fellowship now, with students working for me, and there seemed every chance that in a few years, I’d become a professor. But now, with nursery fees and endless new shoes, with Connie on a part-time salary from the museum, money was considerably tighter. There were other frustrations, too: long-term insecurity, administrative demands, the endless pressure to publish in ‘high-impact’ journals, the undignified scramble for funding. When I began to study science I had presumed, naïvely I suppose, that politicians would be falling over themselves to further human knowledge. Surely any government, irrespective of its political hue, could see that innovation in science and technology led to wealth and prosperity? True, not all research had an immediate commercial application, it was not all obviously ‘translational’, but who knew where a line of thought might lead? So many of the great breakthroughs had first been glimpsed out of the corner of an eye, and surely anything that added to the sum of human knowledge was valuable? More than valuable – essential.

  Not if our funding was anything to go by. Increasingly we found ourselves scrabbling around for enough money to pay our research assistants the lowest possible wage. Apparently the nation’s future lay not in innovation and development but in global finance and telesales, in the entertainment industry and coffee shops. Britain would lead the world in frothing milk and making period dramas.

  And now here was this large multinational company, with its security and pension scheme and its salary commensurate to my achievements and qualifications, its well-equipped labs and the brightest, best graduates, and here was my family too. I felt – is this common among new fathers, I wonder? – a new-found obligation to provide, which all sounds very atavistic and primitive but there it is. Of course, I couldn’t make the decision independently. Connie and I talked many nights until late. She had heard of my potential employers, had noted their name in the press and on the news, and while she never used the phrase out loud, it played on her lips: sell-out. Her response to big business was instinctive and emotional and, I thought, naïve, and in turn I rationalised the issues: surely it was only by working for a large organisation that you could make a meaningful change, and wasn’t it better to be inside than out? Was profit really such a dirty word? And what about the financial security, the extra money? What about another room, a garden of our own, or a house near a much, much better school, outside London maybe? A studio for Connie – she could paint again! What about school fees?

  Connie bridled. ‘I don’t want those things—’

  ‘Not now, perhaps—’

  ‘And don’t pretend you’re doing it for us!’

  ‘But I am; if I accepted, I would be, to an extent …’

  ‘The bottom line is I don’t think you should make a decision based on money, that’s all.’

  Which is a noble sentiment, and a very Connie thing to say, Connie the nurturing artist. But substitute that chilly word ‘money’ for ‘security’ or ‘safety’, substitute ‘money’ for ‘comfort’ or ‘peace of mind’ or ‘well-being’, ‘a good education’ or ‘travel’ or simply ‘a happy family’. Often – not always, but often – didn’t they equate to the same thing?

  ‘No,’ said Connie. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘So what would you have me do? If it was up to you?’

  ‘It isn’t up to me. It’s your job, your career—’

  ‘But if it was up to you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t take the job. You’ll lose your freedom. You’ll be working for accountants, not for yourself. If you’re not making money for them, they’ll cut you off and you’ll hate that, and it won’t be fun. There’ll be no joy in it. Find something better paid or more secure by all means, but I wouldn’t take this job.’

  I took the job.

  She did not berate me for it, or very rarely, though Albie certainly would in years to come. But neither was she sympathetic if I struggled in at eight or nine or ten at night, and there was no doubt in my mind that I had slipped somewhat in her estimation. An awful feeling, that; sliding down the scree, scrabbling at the dust but unable to get a grip. That shine, the idealism I suppose, that had caught Connie’s attention on the night we met, had faded. It couldn’t last but still, I regretted its passing. Connie had always said I was at my most attractive when I talked about my work. ‘The lights come on,’ she had said. Now I’d have to find another way to make that happen.

  143. a free man

  A little before seven a.m. I was woken by a warder bearing an excellent cup of coffee. I had eaten nothing since the jelly sweet that I’d taken from the boy on the Siena train, and though the thick black liquid burned my mouth and made my stomach spasm, it was delicious. I sat on the edge of the cell bench, sipped from the plastic c
up, rubbed my eyes and forced myself to acknowledge the full, all-encompassing hopelessness of my situation.

  Grimly, I sketched out my retreat to London. I would walk down the hill to Siena station, find out the cost of a single ticket to Florence, and plead with the clerk – in English? – to take my wristwatch and phone as security for the train ticket. That accomplished, I’d retrieve my property in Florence, withdraw cash, return to Siena to buy back my watch and phone, then try and catch the next plane to London from Pisa. It was a dull and dispiriting plan, requiring some leniency on the part of the Italian Rail Service, but the alternative – phoning Connie and asking her to wire some money – was unacceptable. What did that mean, anyway, ‘wiring money’? It was one of those things that people only did in films.

  I switched on my telephone. Battery power stood at 2 per cent. Without considering what I would say, I decided to call home. I pictured Connie’s phone on top of her pile of books, her sleeping figure, recalled the comforting scent of the sheets, and I imagined how things might have been had all gone to plan. Imagined the sound of a car on the driveway, Connie going to the window, seeing Albie and me stepping out of the taxi, Albie smiling a little shame-facedly, raising his hand to the bedroom window, me joining him, my arm around his shoulder. I imagined the tears of gratitude in Connie’s eyes as she ran for the door. I had returned him safe and sound as I had promised. ‘You found him! In all of Europe! Douglas, how did you do it? You clever, brilliant man—’

  Back in the real world, Connie picked up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Darling, it’s me—’

  ‘It’s six in the morning, Douglas!’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry, but the phone’s about to die, and I wanted to tell you—’

  I heard the rustle of sheets as she sat up in bed. ‘Douglas, have you found him? Is he safe?’

  ‘I lost him. I almost had him, almost, almost, but I lost him.’

  A sigh. ‘Oh, Douglas.’

  ‘You mustn’t worry, he’s perfectly safe and well, I know that—’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘I found Kat.’

  ‘How on earth did you—?’

  ‘It’s a long story. My phone’s about to run out. Anyway, I’m sorry, I failed.’

  ‘Douglas, you didn’t “fail”.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t achieve my result, so yes, I did fail.’

  ‘But at least we know he’s safe. Where are you now? Are there people with you? Are you safe, are you well?’

  ‘I’m in a hotel, in Siena.’ I tapped the stainless-steel toilet with my toe. ‘It’s very nice.’

  ‘Do you want me to come out?’

  ‘No, no, I want to come home.’

  ‘Good idea. Come home, Douglas. We’ll wait for him together here.’

  ‘I’ll be back tonight, tomorrow at the latest.’

  ‘I’ll be waiting. And Douglas? At least you tried. I’m grateful—’

  ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘And when you come home—’

  A bleep, and the phone died. I fastened my watch, placed the phone in my pocket, folded my blanket neatly on the bench and left my cell, closing the door behind me.

  It was a bright, cool summer morning, fresh and clean. The police station lay in the modern outskirts of the town, beneath the city walls. I was about to walk down the hill towards the station when I heard music, the theme from The Godfather, played on the accordion.

  Perched impertinently on the bonnet of a police car was Kat.

  ‘Hey,’ she said, offering her fist to bump. I obliged.

  ‘Hello, Kat. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting for you. How was your first night behind bars?’

  ‘Better than some hotels I’ve stayed in. I regret the tattoo, though.’

  ‘What tattoo did you get, Mr P.?’

  ‘Just gang-related stuff. Big dragon.’

  ‘Your tan’s evened out. On your face. You look less like a road sign.’

  ‘Well, that’s something, I suppose.’ She smiled and time passed. ‘Well, Kat, I should get going. Nice to meet—’

  ‘Have you tried texting him, Mr P.?’

  ‘Of course, and calling too. He said he’d ignore them all and he has.’

  ‘Then send him one he can’t ignore. Here, hold Steve.’ Kat slid off the bonnet, handed me accordion-Steve then reached into her pocket and produced her mobile phone, tapping on it with her head down. ‘I shouldn’t do this. It’s a betrayal of trust, Mr P., and I feel bad. Plus there’s the cost to my personal dignity and integrity. But given that you’ve come this far …’

  ‘What are you writing, Kat?’

  ‘… and “send”! There. All done. Take a look.’

  She held her phone out to me, and I read:

  Albie I need to talk to you about something. Urgent. Has to be in person so don’t call me! Just meet me tomorrow eleven am on the steps of the prado, do not be late!!!! Love you still kat

  ‘There you go,’ said Kat. ‘I’m delivering him to you.’

  ‘Good God,’ I exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘No thanks required.’

  ‘But … but doesn’t the message sort of imply …?’

  ‘… that he’s knocked me up? You do want him to be there, don’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, but—’

  She took the phone from my hands. ‘I can always tell him I was kidding …’

  ‘No, no, no, I think … let it be. But tomorrow morning? Can I get to Madrid for tomorrow?’

  ‘You can if you run.’

  I laughed, bundled the wheezing accordion back into her arms and with a certain wariness – we were neither of us daisy-fresh – embraced Kat, and began to trot across the car park before halting and turning back.

  ‘Kat, I realise I’m pushing my luck, but the money I gave you yesterday – could I get it back? My wallet is in Florence, you see …’

  She shook her head slowly and sighed, crouched and reached into her backpack.

  ‘And maybe if I could borrow twenty, maybe thirty euros more? And your bank details, so I can return the money …’

  I confess I made this offer in the expectation of her declining, but she took some time to write out her account numbers, including IBAN and SWIFT codes. I promised to make good my debts as soon as I returned, and then I was off, running down the hill, running, running, running towards Spain.

  part seven

  MADRID

  –

  There is no such thing as reproduction. When two people decide to have a baby, they engage in an act of production, and the widespread use of the word reproduction for this activity, with its implication that two people are but braiding themselves together, is at best a euphemism to comfort prospective parents before they get in over their heads.

  Andrew Solomon, Far From the Tree

  144. the glitter wars

  Time being what it is, we got older. We thickened and sagged in ways that would have seemed implausible, comical even, to our younger selves, just as our son, before our eyes, began to elongate. We accumulated things; vast quantities of moulded plastic, picture books, scooters, tricycles, bicycles, shoes and clothes and coats and paraphernalia that no longer served a purpose but which we couldn’t quite throw away. Connie and I entered our forties in quick succession, and though we suspected we’d never need a bottle steriliser or rocking horse again, we found we couldn’t quite discard them, and now there was a piano, too, now a train set, a castle, a tangled box kite.

  My new salary meant that the fridge seemed fuller, the wine tasted better and we bought a bigger car, took Albie on trips abroad and came back to the same small flat we’d bought together before we were married, cramped and tatty now. We ought to move house, we knew it, but the effort required was beyond me. Five years of commuting against the tide had begun to take their toll, and I was perpetually tired, perpetually stressed and bad-tempered, so that my nightly homecoming brought no pleasure to either Albie or Connie
, or indeed myself.

  Take, for example, the famous Glitter Wars that scarred the December of Albie’s ninth year. Albie and Connie had been making Christmas cards at the kitchen table, heads close together in that way they had, Phil Spector’s Christmas Album playing, the kind of home-spun artsy-craftsy activity that occupied their evenings while I struggled to stay awake on the 1957 into Paddington, self-medicating with a warm gin and tonic from the station buffet then another from the trolley, hurrying through the rain to a flat that felt too small and entering to no greeting, no loving kiss or filial hug, just a scene of utter disarray; music blaring, tissue-paper and cotton wool everywhere, poster paint daubed all over the table. Here were my son and wife in their own little self-contained world, laughing at a self-contained joke, and here was Albie shaking glitter onto PVA glue and the table, too, and the floor and onto his pyjamas. Anyone who has attempted to clean away large quantities of spilt glitter will know that it is a pernicious and vile substance, a kind of festive asbestos that clings to clothes and burrows into carpets, sticks to the skin and stays there, and now here were great snowdrifts of the awful stuff blowing across the table.

  ‘What the hell is going on in here!’ I said, I shouted. They noticed me now.

  ‘We’re making Christmas cards!’ said Connie, still smiling. ‘Look! Isn’t this a beauty?’ She held up one of Albie’s efforts and a shower of gold and silver cascaded to the floor. ‘Your son is an artist!’

  ‘Look! Look what you’re doing. It’s going everywhere! For Christ’s sake, Connie,’ and I threw down my briefcase and went to the sink to dampen a cloth. ‘Would it kill you to put newspaper down first?’