Serious Sweet (23 page)

Six thirty p.m. and I'll be somewhere else and just now I can speak to my daughter. I'll manage. I am sustained.

Then again, Becky knew that he usually didn't answer personal numbers when he was at work and so her trying to reach him might imply urgency …

Please not ‘We got married on a whim.' Please not ‘Dad, I think I'm—'

‘Becky, how wonder—' And this noise, simply this noise reaching him, of a young and intelligent woman having been, in some manner, destroyed by something. Just sobs. He told her, ‘Oh, darling … what's the …? I'm here. Daddy's here. Your dad's here. I am.' More sobs. Actually, increased distress. ‘I'm here.' And then some attempt at words which immediately distorted and ended in heaves of breath. His baby, his child, was breathing in spasms and too far away for him to hold. ‘Darling, whatever it is, we'll work it out. We will. I promise.' A sort of howl now. ‘No, we will. We'll cope …' It was simply very tricky, though, to help if he didn't know what he was helping with. ‘If you could … Is it your health? Darling, are you OK?'

Please be OK.

‘No.' Her one syllable elongating and wavering.

Please.

‘Well, no, I know you're not OK, but are you well?'

Another gulp of air and, ‘Yeah.'

Thank you.

‘And your mum's fine?'

Jon was aware he was speaking a touch too loudly and that his upcoming content might be unsuitable for an office that was unavoidably open-plan.

This is our sole concession to transparency, I think – we now have transparent interior walls, due to their absence.

Jon broke out across the breakout area.

Again – whoever imagined such a term wants shooting.

‘Becky … Becky, please speak to me, though. Is everyone else OK?'

‘Mm-hm.'

Thank you.

‘Good.' Jon scampered himself towards the stairwell exit. ‘That's good.'

His daughter's voice was snuggled beside his cheek, while his own aimed at comfort, at certainty. ‘Becky, whatever's happened, things will be all right, I promise.' And he tucked himself beyond the department's hearing.

We're primates, we have complex social hierarchies which take constant maintenance and that's a bit of a burden, really – even if we don't have to mount and groom each other all the day – and therefore we need breaks away from company. We need to hide.

‘Can you tell me what's the matter, darling?'

‘—ess.'

‘That's good … So … You're OK and Mum's OK …'

And Jon knew, absolutely understood by this point, that no one gets upset with this level of intensity unless it's to do with sex, with love – more properly and horribly with love. And the knowledge of this fragmented and then fought inside his chest, its separated pieces seeming dreadful to him.

‘Keep talking to me, darling, I'm here. Take your time.'

If that fucker Terry has fucking done something to her I will genuinely … If he's left her … If he's hurt her … But if he's left her … If she's left him …

Christ, how bloody marvellous. He was such a twat.

‘It's Terry.'

Don't blow this, don't fuck up.

‘Is it, darling …? Is he … ill?'

‘He's gone.'

‘Oh, I'm so …' Jon in the stairwell now. He didn't see enough of the stairwell. It was nice: plain, unfrequented, a potential source of healthful exercise. ‘I am sorry.'

‘He's gone.'

Gone. Then sweet Christing Jesus, there is always hope. Thank you.

Jon swallowed, reminded himself that smiles are audible. ‘But that's …'

Exactly what I wanted.

He began again, while a silence rose from the phone – dismal and horrible – the silence of the girl he loved, the girl whose pain he always wished to banish. ‘People do fight, Becky … I know you know that … But they do and they say things they don't mean and maybe—'

‘He's gone!'

It's good she's yelling. It's good. Good for her.

She kept on now, her volume approaching something painful and making it necessary to hold the phone slightly at bay. ‘He's fucking gone because I fucking threw him out because he was fucking screwing someone else. He was fucking screwing Jenny. For two months.'

‘Oh, God … I mean … Oh, God.' Jon remembering that first kneedintheballs realisation that what had been loved as only yours was not, that your privacy never was private, that in the shadows other eyes had looked, hands were fumbling, making you dirty at one remove and robbing you in your heart. ‘I mean …'

‘I had to. Didn't I?'

‘Of course you had to. Sweetheart, you absolutely had to. I mean, if you think that was the right thing and it feels right—'

‘It feels horrible!' And the crying again.

‘I know, I know, I do, I know. Of course. But probably you did have to and nothing is written in stone if you … But you did have to …'

Chuck the bastard out and change the locks and hallelujah.

‘I know.'

‘You've got more backbone than I did, than I have … You know that, too, don't you?'

Jon Sigurdsson almost entirely lacking in vertebral calcium and despicably overjoyed that Terry fucking Harper the dickhead is out of the picture and now there will be a period when Becky needs me and when we can, we can, we can … I can be her dad. She's letting me be her dad.

‘Dad, could you …'

There we go – there it is.

Jon sat on the cool of a step and wiggled his feet for a moment, as if he were dipping them into the shallows of success.

Oh, but—

‘Dad, I don't like to ask.'

The thing is that—

‘Do, though. Ask.' The step taking on a new chill and seeming to shrug slightly, as he realised, felt her inevitable request nose round the corner and head towards him like a Wild West locomotive on a bend: heavy and high and decided, potentially harmful.

‘I'm in the flat. Could you come round?'

‘Sure.'

Please. Please don't prove me a bad father all over again.

‘Can you …'

You're going to, but please maybe could you not ask me precisely …
‘Can you come round now? Would that be difficult?'

And under the train I go.

‘No, no, not at all. It wouldn't, darling. Of course. You stay there and I'll … I was leaving early, anyway, sort of … I mean, now I won't, but … I mean, I will but for a different reason … Things are going on, but … I'll come round.'

‘You don't have to.'

‘I think clearly I do, though. So …'
Despising that plummet in my chest.
‘So I'll be round in a bit. Do nothing.'
She was with him for three years. It's not easy, losing three years. ‘
I'll bring food. I'll bring … stuff for the bath … I mean, nice stuff – not cleaning fluid … I'll be there. With stuff.'
And it's also not easy being punished immediately for one's uncharitable thoughts.
‘And call again if you need to, we can talk as I'm on the way, and I'll stay above ground so you can.'
It's good, though – gets it over. I hate waiting for pain.

Why I'm so conscientious – I expect disasters and therefore plan accordingly. In work as in life. If I have to wait, I'll wait fully equipped.

‘Really, darling … Ask me to bring anything you need and I will.'

‘No, I'm all right.'

‘Well, yeah … You're always all right. Always. I've always got your back. And I'm on my way. OK?'

‘OK.'

‘OK, then. A couple of things to do here, but I'm on my way for sure, for sure. And love, Becky, I'm sending love. I am. And bye-bye. Bye-bye.'

‘Bye, Dad. Thanks.'

And Jon considered it appropriate to sit for a while longer on the step and rub and rub at his face and close his eyes, because he did not want to see and see and see.

I love Becky.

He rested his head on his knees, folded over the tired and echoing nothing he cradled within, until this made him especially nauseous and he had to stop, right himself and swallow.

It's not that late … I could pop my head in to Becky and then …

No.

I won't make it. I can't get up there and then back to London Bridge for six thirty … But maybe for eight thirty … Or nine. I mean, I could get away again … I mean, it's a disaster, but not a complete disaster – for her. I'm not thinking of me. I am thinking of …

Would not seeing me be a disaster? Surely not that. Hardly that. Presumptuous of me to think it would be that.

I'll have to call and say I'm rescheduling again. Text. I'll send a text. I can't do a call. I think a call would make me faint.

Pathetic, aren't I?

I do want to go and be there – at London Bridge. I do.

All of me wants that.

So why am I also relieved now I might not have to?

Jon stood, leaning for support on the banister, watching the steps below him undulate briefly.

I love my daughter.

Maybe I shouldn't love anyone else.

A woman sits in a café on a not unpleasant day. There may be rain later, but it's gentle now and quite mild for October. She sits by the window reading and sipping a coffee. She is in her forties and although she seems healthy there is something slightly gaunt about her. She is carefully dressed: neat black shoes with a moderate heel, business suit in dark grey cloth with a pale blue stripe, pale blue blouse. Everything is of quite good quality but is a touch large for her, a touch out of date. It might be that she hasn't worn this ensemble in a while, took it for granted and then discovered, too late to do better, that it wasn't exactly suitable, or as she'd wished.

Perhaps it's this cause for regret that lends her a noticeable tension. The woman might, equally, be expecting company. That said, she has left a black mackintosh of traditional design folded over the chair opposite and has a book with her – no one appears to be on the way.

There are two waiters on duty – one behind the counter and one with a roving commission – and both of them seem to know the woman in the sense of recognising a regular customer. They do not resent that she has ordered just this small coffee, has ignored the generous towers of brownies, heaped scones, the possibilities of hot dishes. They don't mind that she seems in no hurry to leave.

Then again, it's not busy now. The square outside is quiet, the afternoon is lengthening, even dimming. The day is coming to an end. The place will close soon, as it doesn't cater to the after-work crowd, leaving that to the pub over the way, to the restaurants dotted round about. There would be no absolute harm in the woman staying put until that happens.

She looks at her watch and orders another cappuccino in a voice which is soft, maybe distracted, maybe involved with the book she reads and then does not read, instead glancing out through the window at nothing much. It may be an uninvolving book.

All of these actions on her part have a kind of weight, a significance, simply because she is the café's only customer and therefore a focus of attention.

There is nothing significant in her lifting the new coffee to her lips, then deciding against it, standing, paying the waiter without getting change and walking outside.

Her expression, though, as she opens the door – her expression reflected in the glass panel that lets her see the wet autumn pavement opposite – her expression is one of such certainty and content. She seems to be more than she was. It is remarkable to her.

MEG HAD ARRIVED
late. She had decided that rather than haunt her flat she might go into town and do what AA recommended in case of emergency.

Which is that I should pick up the phone and call someone or go to a meeting. And picking up the phone would involve speaking and I've been speaking a lot today – feels like a lot, feels like I am all spoke out. A meeting is just peaceful – being there in a room with members of your own species … really your own true species. You don't need to speak when you're that closely related.

And it was humiliating to be over forty and upset about a boy. A man. About nothing much having gone wrong in connection with a man – a man she had very rarely been in the same room with, if you wanted to think of it like that. So why miss something that hardly happens?

But he matters. And it's pathetic that he matters, so I'd rather not mention it, thank you. I will simply sit. In the seat that I clattered into just as the speaker was finishing up, so I have no idea what she said. Everyone looks a bit thoughtful, so she was presumably sharing stuff of the momentous and spiritually insightful kind.

Quite glad I was too late for that. I was more on the prowl for something funny. Or really grim. Either would be cheering. Funny is cheering in itself and grim makes you glad that you're only yourself and not somebody else.

My late and disruptive self.

It's OK that I wasn't on time, though. No one is thinking badly of me, or if they are I don't care. You're only ever late for your first meeting: that's how the saying – I think it's a smug saying – seems to go. AA has a lot of sayings. It can get a bit much – the slogans and sayings and suggestions and steps and the spiritual fucking insight – the assistance. It can irritate.

It always reminds me of Jim – friend of my father's – who had a stroke a while back and they stuck him on a ward with a bunch of old men. Jim didn't think himself old and found this a bit insulting. He also didn't want to look at what could be his future – joining the shambling, babbling victims of their own lumpy blood supply. They scared him. They weren't showing him a good way to be old.

Every morning, volunteers would turn up in the ward and would read to the patients – including Jim – from the Bible. This didn't please him, not one bit. The stroke meant, at first, that he did sort of join the shamblers. But he couldn't move one of his feet, or one arm, too well, so he couldn't get up without help and nobody wanted to help him get clear of the readings. More importantly, he couldn't even babble. He was completely unable to speak. And the people with Bibles kept on.

But after a week, Jim was able to utter his first words – to a Bible-reader.

He said, ‘Fuck off.'

Possibly AA works like this – it annoys the hell out of you, talks and talks, and so you find out what you think, you find what you have to say and you get better. Possibly.

Possibly, you look at the shambling and babbling when somebody first arrives and you know you aren't like that any more. You have been spared and want to stay that way. Or else, people tell you their stories and you hear about the chaos inside, which is like your chaos inside – you have the
Hindenburg
burning inside you always – and that's worse than any stumbling in the street, or dropping bad sentences, slurring, acting as if you are gravely ill when you are only self-inflicted … And you see these other types of people – brand-new people, just-in-the-door people, getting-better people – and you can believe that your trouble could be compelled to pass you by. The bullet came close, it whined at your ear and you felt its heat, but now it's flying on without you. It didn't hit.

Or maybe it did hit, but being here makes the time roll backwards and the lead burrows up out of you and leaves, goes and tucks itself back in the gun.

Maybe this is the place where you can keep on with being alive …

If I do have to or do want to stay alive …

Which I do, I do – I've got things I can be getting on with …

Meg sat at the edge of the rearmost line of chairs.

But most of the things today seem to involve plastic chairs …

She and the chairs were set out in the vestry of a Palladian church on the verge of the West End. There was musty-sweet air about that suggested sanctity, that had the flavour of thought upon human thought attempting to hold out for better things, reaching. That elevated type of straining after God left a noticeable aftertaste, it was there under every breath. It was like flowers, like honey, like old paper – it was practically religious. But thank Whoever that it wasn't, in fact, religious.

If I had to really pray it would stop me breathing.

Tea, coffee and not bad biscuits were also available.

Meg hadn't been here before, because attending afternoon meetings was something she associated with not really having a life.

And I do, I do. I do have a life. I matter. I can be firm about it when I say that I matter to more than just a Machiavellian dog.

It had taken her a while to find the building and there were no faces here that she recognised.

So I can nip out smartly at the end and get away, not be detained by pleasantries.

How am I? I'd rather not tell you and I don't have a genuine interest in how you're doing, so I won't ask. Forgive me.

I am glad to be here, but I do also want to leave.

An older man whose name she hadn't caught was telling the room, in a slightly mumbly way, about something or other – some custody battle with his wife – Meg couldn't bring herself to listen. There were murmurs of sympathy, or comfort, or approval from the occupied plastic chairs and that should be enough for the guy – he didn't need the whole world, surely, to hang on his every word.

She could let her mind be soft and wander, leave the stacks of fading hymn books, the irrelevant psalm numbers posted up and the strangers' pains.

I will meet you.

So so sorry.

It will be seven thirty or possibly eight. Could you do eight? Dinner at eight?

So sorry.

And, as the meeting rolled and worried on, Meg knew she wasn't going to stick her hand up like an eager student and then wait to get picked and then shout out that she'd had a recent anniversary. She wasn't going to say a word. She didn't feel like celebrating any more. She felt as if she was waiting for a distant point to hit her – a point which dodged away and away and away and who could tell if this was a good or a bad thing.

I will not resent him. I will resent a meeting which isn't a meeting for making me finally finish with my anniversary.

Every delay he makes is not forever. It will feel as if it is forever, because people of my sort feel everything bad as if it will go on forever.

And we get worried by joys because we know they're short and when they're gone we'll miss them.

Fun being us, isn't it?

The older man stopped talking and there was a disjointed hubbub of thanks before a very young woman took over, tumbling into some complicated saga about her neighbours.

I don't have to join in, if I don't want. Those in more need can have the time – there's only an hour in the first place … Why should I stick my oar in? I have nothing to contribute, not a word.

Speaking can be the uncommunicative option. Sometimes, instead of fretting down the night over conversations you can't build, can't have, can't face, conversations you know you'll lose – because any conversation is competitive and you never can compete – you can sit down with paper and write what your best self would say, write as someone who seems better than yourself, write to someone who seems better than yourself. That can work.

So Meg had written – letters.

Letters for Mr August.

Dear Mr August.

She set them out on that paper her mother left: good-quality stuff, lying still in its box on a wardrobe shelf in what had been her parents' room and what was currently the ghost room, mainly empty, mainly echoes upon which the door was shut and shut and shut and had to be shut while she was drinking.

The paper was cream, heavy, serious enough to be intimidating.

The last hands to touch it had most likely been been her mother's. It was a personal stock for responses to formal occasions like anniversaries and weddings, or notes sent after relatives had stayed. Any departure left behind what her mother would interpret as an ongoing desire for reassurance on the part of absentees. Her correspondence had wished well and made requests that whoever read it should come back as soon as possible. Her mother had liked a full house and had never been able to settle, not really, until she'd received a reply of equal vehemence, equal need – something that promised.

So it was paper with a history of wishes and determination and that was maybe no bad thing, Meg didn't know. It was available and it was nice and it made her feel comforted, rather than guilty, and she'd used it.

She hadn't imagined how fast the whole block would be worked away by her efforts. This was partly because the pen-and-paper thing was like life – mistakes were permanent. If you wanted to end up with something you wouldn't be sorry to show someone, then you had to destroy attempt after attempt and keep starting again.

Which isn't much like life, actually. Unless the drinking – the coming round again and drinking again and passing out and then coming round again – unless that's an attempt at tearing up your own stupidity. Tearing and beginning and tearing and beginning – forever.

But I am here now and trying to start again. Forever. Different kind of forever.

Today. Forever inside today – I'm told I can pop it all, my everything, inside these twenty-four hours and that it won't be too big to grip. I try to believe this in the AA way. I'm trying all kinds of things. I am.

I am sitting on a plastic chair and trying to listen while a wife goes on about her son getting drunk at a party for his first time and being terrified he'll now do that every night. This doesn't apply to me in any way – I won't have children.

I do understand being terrified.

I can be terrified of paper.

For Mr August, she'd torn up so much paper. There had been so many tries for a clean start. For Corwynn August. And all the attempts at that first letter were the hardest. They felt like for ever.

I wanted to answer you, because

When you wrote you made me happy

When you wrote it made me happy

You make me happy

I had to answer

She almost gave up. Also for ever. After all, he'd written that she needn't answer if she didn't want to. Meg was paying him for letters, they would arrive anyway. But she did want to answer. Answering Mr August was as right as picking up the phone in that golden moment had been right – it was a right thing to do. She'd felt that for lots of reasons – most of them pathetic, but still there all the same.

And there was the forward-slanting shape to his words, this rush in his handwriting – and his choice of pale blue paper. And it seemed, when she read him, that he was being kind to her – which is what she'd paid for – but it also seemed that he didn't have a friend, that how he was and what he was doing with these letters had been partly caused by not having a friend.

And I'm not the most wonderful human being – I know that – but a person can't do well if they haven't got anything friendly they can be with. Any friend to keep you going is what you need – that's maybe not great, but it's better than no one.

I am better than no one.

I could be really a step up from no one and all right.

And kind people should be able to live, they should be helped with that.

Finally, his third letter had been freshly opened and in her hands, was warm there and clear and had this decency, which was unusual and made you think you would like to have more of that
around. And it made her want very much, this time, to write something she would send him.

She'd bought a dictionary from the Oxfam shop in case any faults of spelling might shame her. Her brain felt out of use and as if it would betray her in that area. For this attempt, she'd sat at the kitchen table, which she had wiped down and then dried and then dried again. She'd put out the paper again, tapped the edges of the little stack to make it neat again. She'd sat – on a wooden chair, not plastic. Her mother's chair.

Meg's thumb and forefinger, her fist, her forearm – all of her – was used to keyboards, typing on a screen. If she used paper at all then she was only scribbling lists and notes. And so the special paper – the downy texture of its skin – and the good pen … She could only make them produce unpleasant loops and scratches, unreliable forms that hadn't been part of her since she left school and which had compressed and deteriorated. Everything she wrote looked fraudulent, but made plain the underlying truth – that here was a scrawling drunk, wet writing.

I have the hand of a woman whose cheques came back from the bank – refused. And not often due to lack of funds – it was mostly just that signing my name in the usual way was now beyond me. I could no longer write my name. Not every day, not on demand. Some accountant, me … Some human being …

That whole evening when she first tried to write a letter in the kitchen – it had crumpled into heaps around her. She had nothing but abandoned pages and a sore forearm. She'd written for longer and therefore gone more astray, made more errors. The effort had actually made her muscles sting – the unaccustomed effort.