A Question of Love (42 page)

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 ‘
ka
fay’—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…
‘

‘I see,’ I said quietly. ‘So now you have. And I suppose you think you’re doing a marvellous thing, deigning to return now
you’re
good and ready…’ my throat was aching, ‘to tell me where the…
fuck…
you’ve…
been
…’ My hands sprang up to my face. ‘You crash-landed my life…I hardly left this flat…it was as much as I could do to get dressed…I couldn’t sleep…I was a
wreck…
the stress of it—I didn’t
eat…
‘

‘I’m sorry, Laura,’ he said again. ‘I’m very sorry.’

I shook my head. ‘You could say sorry to me every day for the next twenty years and it still wouldn’t be enough. You have caused
mayhem,
‘ I said. My throat was aching with a suppressed sob. ‘The
turmoil
you left behind—the day-to-day difficulties—not to mention the agony of those first three months when I didn’t know if you were even
alive
. I used to walk around this flat at night, wringing my hands!’

‘I’m sorry,’ he repeated. His eyes were shimmering.

‘You didn’t have to
go missing,
‘ I wept
.
I extended my hands towards him, as if in supplication, the fingers splayed and stretched. ‘You could have just said, “Listen Laura, I don’t want to be with you any more. Let’s separate.”‘

‘But I didn’t see it, clearly, like that. I saw nothing but my own…pain. I felt I was disintegrating. That I’d been…dismantled, somehow…first, my father dying like that…’

‘That still doesn’t justify it,’ I sobbed. Tears streamed down my face. ‘
Nothing
justifies it. Nothing justifies what it does to the people left
waiting
.’

‘I hadn’t spoken to him for two months. I was angry with him, and I wanted to make it up, but I didn’t know how. And I kept hoping that he’d phone and say “come on Nick, let’s have lunch”. But he didn’t do that, and
I
didn’t ring
him—
and then he ran up a flight of steps, and
died
. And I couldn’t bear knowing that the last time he saw me I was
angry
with him.’ Nick’s left hand covered his face. ‘I’d wanted to have him put his arms round me just once more…’ He was crying again now. ‘But I never got the chance. And then you lost the baby and I blamed myself for that too—and
you
blamed me for it. What you said to me, Laura—that terrible, terrible thing that you said…’

‘I know—I know—I’m sorry. It was wrong.’

‘And it probably
was
my fault, but it was too
much
—all at once. And we’d seen her…that was what was so unbearable—that we’d
seen
her, waving to us…’ He buried his head in his hands.

‘We were unlucky, Nick.’ A tear seeped into the corner of my mouth. ‘The crash shouldn’t have caused it—the impact wasn’t that great. And I hadn’t been feeling well that day, and we’d had that earlier scare so maybe it was going to happen anyway…We’ll never know…’

I heard him groan. ‘I was…overwhelmed by guilt and regrets. My father, and then my child…I couldn’t…absorb it, Laura. I couldn’t cope with it.’

‘…we could have had another chance. But then you
went.
So there were to be
no more
chances—
that’s
why I’ve been so angry. On top of all the other stresses, I felt doubly deprived. I felt I’d never recover.’

We sat there in silence, smashed by emotion. I stared at the floor.

‘It said in the paper that you’re with Luke,’ I heard him say. ‘I remember you used to mention him sometimes.’

‘I was with him. But I’m not any more. And you?’ I croaked, looking at him now. I wiped my eyes. ‘How’s
your
love-life? It must be a bit tricky in a tent,’ I added bitterly.

‘I don’t live in a tent any more. That was just for the first few months. I live in a small house on the farm. I’m the foreman there now.’

‘Oh. That’s good.’

‘I have a dog—a Rhodesian Ridgeback. Betsy. She’s very sweet.’

‘You always wanted a dog…we couldn’t have had one here with both of us out at work. It wouldn’t have been fair.’

‘Laura…’ There was a mark on the carpet. It needed attention. ‘There’s something else I want to tell you.’