The Toll Bridge (33 page)

‘Maybe I needed a cuddle as well.'

Adam said nothing.

Jan said, ‘And I'm here if you want any more.'

They sat in silence again. The fire crackling, an occasional vehicle crossing the bridge, the constant muffled surge of the river, never as loud inside the house during the day as it seemed during the night. Listening with pin-drop extra sharpness, Jan realized how much he had come to love the river and its ever-present noise, its slip and slide, its shifty moods, its always-the-same never-the-sameness, the hidden mystery of its opaque uncertain depths, its changing colours, the vein of it flowing through the countryside, and he remembered the holiday he and his father spent along this very reach, when he was twelve, the last wonderful week of his childhood, when each evening after their day's boating, his father read aloud from
The Wind in the Willows
, the book that had been the favourite of
his
childhood, and still Jan vividly recalled the passage that came at the end of their first exciting day, when Mole asks Rat whether he really lives by the river and Rat replies,
By it and with it and on it and in it. It's brother and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and (naturally) washing. It's my world and I don't want any other. What it hasn't got is not worth having, and what it doesn't know is not worth knowing. Lord! the times we've had together! Whether in winter or summer, spring or autumn, it's always got its fun and its excitements
, and he had thought how glorious that was, and in his father's face was the look of a boy the age of Jan himself, and for a strange moment he felt as if he and his father were the same age, boys together sharing this riverbome holiday without any adults to harbour them, and the next day they rowed their dinghy and Jan caught a crab just as Mole does in the episode his father read out that evening, while they giggled till tears ran and hugged each other and said what a day they'd had, and next day, his father, still in his boyhood mood, tied a rope to a tree overhanging the river and showed Jan how to play Tarzan just as Adam had his first morning at the bridge and Jan had said he had never played it for fear of what he might have to admit if he said yes and told all.

‘Tell me again what you told me yesterday,' Adam said.

‘About you being here?'

‘Yes.'

Jan retold the story, more shaped this time after yesterday's rehearsal.

‘Don't remember any of that,' Adam said afterwards, ‘none of it. Doesn't even sound like me.'

‘Want to see the photos again?'

‘If you like.'

He pored over them, pursing his lips and shaking his head.

‘I've never decorated nowhere, don't know a song like the one you say I camped up.'

‘How'd you know if you don't remember anything even from before you came here?'

Adam eyed him warily. ‘Just do, that's all.'

‘Have you remembered something?'

Adam lowered his head to the photos and withdrew into silence.

Unable to sit still any longer Jan left Adam to his brooding and set about the housekeeping chores. Made the beds, tidied the bedroom, washed up the breakfast things, fetched wood for the fire, swept up ashes from the hearth. It was then he remembered Gill's bag left by Tess behind the armchair. He took it into the bedroom, intending to stow it there till he was ready to return it.

But in the bedroom curiosity got the better of him. And more: a desire to handle Gill's belongings, to touch things that had intimately touched her.

As he unzipped the bag and spread it open the familiar smell of Gill's body breathed out, a mix of talcum powder, her soap (Cusson's Imperial Leather), her favourite perfume (‘Penelope' by Lauren, which she wore because Jan had given her a small bottle as a birthday present), and the faint musky tang of her sweat. His nose twitched and his mouth watered, and he felt an echo of her hand caressing him between the thighs, which made him feel suddenly very lonely.

He eased the crotch of his jeans and began unpacking. Conscious of his illicit behaviour, he treated each item with delicate fingertip care, laying them out neatly on the bed.

Aubergine jumper.

Breton-sailor-style T-shirt, one of his that Gill had ‘borrowed' because she wanted something of his to wear.

Two large sloppy T-shirts, one white with Shakespeare's head on the front in black (bought on a visit they'd made together to Stratford) and a plain red one.

Pair of washed-out pale blue cuff-frayed jeans.

Three pairs of flimsy pink cotton panties.

Flimsy halter bra to match (memories of the pleasure of removing it).

Two pairs of socks: one pair pink; one pair white-and-red stripes.

Traveller's electric hair drier trailing the twisted snake of its umbilical cord.

Orange and yellow polka-dotted hand towel.

Mauve toilet bag with pattern of blue and yellow Matisse flowers containing:

He held the packet of condoms in the palm of his hand, thinking of the message it bore of a time that might have been and Gill must have hoped would be; and remembering their times together before. Collision of past and present, of sight and smell and touch.

He sat on the edge of the bed surveying Gill's possessions, acutely aware as never before of the difference, the
otherness
of the female from the male: different other smell and texture, difference of
weight
, difference – he searched for a word, for a phrase that named the deepest, most different difference and found:
density of being.

He fingered Gill's things, his imagination busy. Images of images, he thought now – now in this my now, now in your now, me now not me then. Marks on paper. Bridge between subject and object. Outside over there from inside under here. Janus in this hand, these eyes, this mouth, this head.

Everything was there, what was true of him and why. All there in Gill's possessions neatly laid on the bed and Adam next door and Tess soon to be on her way to them. All there at the bridge. But bridges freeze before roads. So cross with care. But cross you must. And the time when he must cross, he sensed, had come.

He was about to repack the bag when he saw there was something else inside. At first he thought it was a picture postcard. But no: it was a photograph Tess had taken of himself and Adam, arms round each other and laughing. Had Tess given it to her? She had told him
about Gill looking at her pictures but had said nothing about giving one to Gill. Had Gill taken it without Tess knowing? Stolen it? Why had she wanted it anyway?

Suddenly, as if a blockage had been cleared, a membrane breached, there rose from the pit of his belly a sickening sense of remorse at his treatment of Gill. He suddenly saw all the past few months from her vantage, saw how he and everything at the house must have looked to her. He could not believe that he had been so unthinking, so unfeeling, so unknowing. Battering himself with self-reproach, breaking into a sweat, too weak to stand, he could not bear the sensation of being imprisoned in himself, unable to escape his self-accusations. Again and again he sighed and thumped his thighs with his fists and rubbed his hands back and forth, back and forth.

He suffered like this for some while before the bout subsided. When at last it did he felt a refreshing sense of relief – the relief of knowing at last something you have not even recognized before. And knowing what to do about it.

He stood and stretched himself, reaching for the ceiling with his fingertips, like a man after a long sleep. Then he carefully repacked Gill's bag, carefully stowed it under his bed, and returned to the living room to attend to Adam.

Time to dress the wound. There had been no more bleeding; the cotton-wool pad had left the skin chicken-skin wrinkled and white. Jan sponged the area with a damp disinfected cloth. Adam flinched as he dabbed at the cut.

‘You'll live,' Jan said, ‘but best leave it uncovered. Probably heal quicker if the air can get at it. What about the headache?'

‘Gone.'

Adam turned away and inspected his wound in the shaving mirror above the sink then, without another word, began making two mugs of coffee: Maybe now he would start talking.

But he didn't. Instead he sat in the armchair and gazed unseeing at the blank TV screen, as shut-in and unwelcoming as before.

When he'd finished his coffee Jan said, trying another strategy, ‘Feel like a walk? I phone home on a Sunday morning.'

Adam shook his head.

Maybe some time on his own would be good for him.

Jan stood up. ‘You'll be OK?'

Adam nodded.

‘Not be long. Half an hour or so.'

As he reached the door Adam said, ‘Jan –'

Jan turned.

‘Thanks.'

‘No problem.'

‘I mean for everything.'

Nonplussed by this unAdam-like declaration, Jan could only smile and nod.

Snow began falling again as he left the bridge, thick feathery flakes slowly descending as in the aftermath of an astronomic pillow fight. On the phone, he had the usual conversation with his mother: everything was fine, his father had been doing this and that, Mrs Fletcher had had a nasty attack of angina but her son was doing wonderfully in his new computer software job, they hadn't seen Gill yet this weekend but perhaps she'd call later, had this week's parcel (a fruit cake) arrived safely? (yes), had he decided about school next term? (yes, he was staying in his job), she was longing to see him at Christmas, etc. His father followed, talking for five minutes about the garden and painting the inside of the tool shed, telling a lawyer joke heard in court, and working in a coded message – ‘Your mother's been in good fettle', meaning she was getting along well after the recent crisis.

Duty done, he took a deep breath before punching Gill's number, the call he really wanted to make. On the way there he had composed a short speech on the lines of how sorry he was about the weekend and everything else, that he hadn't meant to hurt her, that he'd be writing a letter trying to explain and would talk to her at Christmas, but he was ringing to find out that she had got home safely and was all right.

Gill's mother answered. ‘Oh, it's you, Piers.'

‘Hello, Mrs Redmond. Could I speak to Gill, please.'

There was a muffled pause before Mrs Redmond said, ‘Yes, well now, Gill's not here, I'm afraid, well, no, she is here –'

‘Could I –'

‘– but the fact is, Piers, she'd rather not speak to you today –'

‘But if –'

‘– and to be honest, we're rather cross with you, her father and I, for the way you've treated her –'

‘Would you please ask –'

‘She arrived home in a terrible state. I don't know quite what went on between you, she wouldn't tell us, but one thing I do know she's very upset –'

‘I'll explain if –'

‘So we think it would be best if you left her alone and didn't try and contact her for a while –'

‘But –'

‘She'll get in touch when she feels up to it –'

‘Couldn't I –'

‘And frankly, Piers, I'm surprised you've called now after being so silent all the time you've been away, which wasn't very friendly, you must admit, especially when you consider how much Gill did for you before you went away, how much we all did. So I'll say goodbye for the present.'

The dialling tone burred in his ear. He slammed the receiver down and cursed. And remained where he was for some minutes, blank of mind, until Tess's voice brought him to his senses again.

‘Making your Sunday call?'

He nodded and they set off together towards the bridge, hunched against the snow, hands in pockets, heads down.

‘You all right?' Tess asked as they stomped along. ‘Seem a bit down.'

‘Tried Gill.'

‘But she didn't want to talk.'

‘Right.'

‘I know, I phoned her as well.'

‘She talked to you?'

‘Sure.'

‘Bloody hell! So why won't she talk to me?'

‘Oh, come on! Why didn't you answer her letters?'

‘Just wanted to know she got home OK and tell her I'd be writing this week.'

‘Promises, promises.'

‘I will, I've been thinking.'

‘Try doing.'

‘Been doing as well, looking after Adam.'

‘And how's he this morning?'

‘Talking.'

‘Thank God! So what's the story?'

‘Still can't remember.'

‘D'you believe him?'

‘About the time he's been here. But I've a feeling he can remember before.'

The snow was brisker now, blown by a gusty breeze the flakes having turned to spelks of ice stung the face.

Jan said, ‘The raven came back. He tried charming it, but it wasn't having any, which set things back a bit.'

Tess stopped abruptly.

Jan had taken eight or nine paces before he realized she was not beside him.

‘What's up?' he called.

She shrugged, head down, huddled into herself.

He went back. ‘Something wrong?'

‘Can't face it.'

‘Face what?'

‘Him.'

The unTess-like pitifulness of her voice anguished him. They were on the outskirts of the village, nowhere to get out of the snow. But a few metres ahead was a bus shelter. Jan put an arm round Tess's shoulder and guided her into it. Doing so, he felt a decisiveness that was new; Tess too, and in the calm part of herself she thought: He's changed, grown. More certain of himself. How much I like him.