Dying to Know You

It was like when I’m fishing.

  You know?

  Concentrated, absorbed, you forget everything. Time. Other people.

  The pile got higher and higher.

  And then it got so big it got top heavy and fell over.

  Collapsed.

  I didn’t like that.

  It was a mess.

  I hate messes.

  So I started again.

  But this time I kind of planned it.

  Made a square of bigger stones, bigger than I’d need except for the base.

  When I’d laid the base, like a platform, I had a thought.

  I’d brought a photo of Dad to have with me when I did it.

  But now I thought I’d bury it in the pile of stones.

  A memorial.

  Sort of.

  Yes. A memorial.

  I think I still meant to do it.

  But I wanted to build this memorial to Dad and him and me being here.

  This time it took a lot longer than before.

  For each layer I had to have the right size and shape of stones, getting smaller towards the top, to make the thing solid and stable.

  I needed a lot more stones as well.

  So I kept going.

  And you know what?

  What?

  I started to enjoy it.

  And the more I went on, the better I wanted it to be, and the better I made it, the more I enjoyed it.

  I kept undoing what I’d done and redoing it better.

  With better stones from the river for each layer.

  And that’s when you turned up.

  [He chuckled again. Smiled again. Looked at me.]

  Lurking in the trees.

  Which you are no good at!

  Can’t tell you how relieved I was when I saw you.

  I hadn’t finished when I saw you.

  I was still going to do it.

  But then I saw you.

  And I wasn’t.

  [He turned away.

  Stood up.

  Took up his rod, which he’d laid down on the ground before he started his declaration, and wound in the line.

  Nothing on the hook. Not even the bait.

  He chuckled again at this.

  I waited for him to say some more. There was so much more I wanted to know.

  But he said nothing and I sensed he’d said all he was going to say today.]

  [I stood up.

  He put his hand into a pocket, took it out, turned to me, holding out his hand, which was clasping something.

  He waited a moment, then opened his hand.

  Lying in the palm was a small rust-red stone, about the size of my thumbnail.

  It was smooth and round, with flat sides.

  And there was a hole through the middle.

  Like a very small doughnut.

  I couldn’t tell whether it was natural. Or the hole was manmade.]

  For you.

  Why? What is it?

  A present.

  Take it.

  [I took it. It was unexpectedly heavy for its size.]

  Thank you.

  [I was at a loss for any other words.]

  Give us a hand to finish.

  [He turned away and walked to the stone pile, the memorial. I pocketed my present and followed him.]

  WE FINISHED BUILDING THE CAIRN WITHOUT MUCH BEING SAID, except of a practical sort—which stones to use; how to construct the cairn so that it was stable and solid—the photo of his father buried at its heart.

  Karl was concentrated, as if all the emotions of his declaration were absorbed into the stones and his attention to our work.

  By the time we were done the cairn looked sufficiently monumental for anyone who came across it to see it was more than merely a pile of stones. About a metre square at the base, it stood a metre and a half high, tapering to a flat top about thirty centimetres square, which we capped with a slab of slate just the right size that we’d found in the river.

  We stood for a moment or two, side by side, looking at it.

  I felt something should be said to mark the occasion, but couldn’t think of anything appropriate.

  Then we washed our hands and faces in the river, collected our belongings, and strolled in single file, Karl leading the way, up to the car. We retrieved Karl’s bike from the hedge where he’d hidden it and stowed it in the back of the Rover. And then I phoned Mrs. Williamson to let her know we were on our way.

  By now I was feeling the pinch. My old man’s energy wasn’t up to such unrelenting activity and emotional ups and downs. And the long drive, without a stop, and the shifting of heavy stones had set off the sciatica. The last thing I felt like doing was drive the car back home. I’d supposed Karl would do this, but he climbed into the passenger seat without a word, and by the time I’d phoned his mother and eased into the driver’s seat, he was fast asleep, out like a light and dead to the world.

  I had to stop three times to walk about, rest my back, and consult the hedgerows. Karl never woke, never moved during the entire journey.

  When we got back, Mrs. Williamson, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, did both simultaneously. The prodigal son responded as best he could, but all he wanted was to go to bed. His mother urged food on him, a bath, a shower, a litany of questions about how he was and what he wanted (“Just bed, Mum, just bed”), and telling him how good I’d been and wasn’t I clever to know where to find him.

  All to no avail. Karl was in bed, unwashed, unfed and unconscious fifteen minutes after we arrived.

  As for me, I wanted to be back in my own home and to attend to myself no less than Karl wanted his bed. But out of fellow feeling accepted Mrs. Williamson’s offer of a meal while I gave her a brief report on what had happened, including the building of the cairn, but omitting Karl’s declaration, which I knew would raise many questions to which I neither knew the answers nor had the stamina to discuss. I left her to nurse her relieved delight on her own as soon as I could, promising to phone later.

  I felt a touch guilty, leaving her like that, but there are times when guilt is no rival to the need to save yourself.

  When I phoned late that evening, Mrs. Williamson reported that Karl had slept until about six, then got up, showered, ate a meal of fried eggs and bacon, before going back to bed, where he still was, fast asleep. He’d said very little, except that he “felt a bit better” but was “knackered.”

  We agreed his fatigue was natural and understandable and was perhaps a good sign that he was recovering.

  Mrs. Williamson, however, was as lively as a bumblebee, still buzzing with relief, gratitude and maternal desire to coddle her only child.

  I promised I’d phone again next morning, which I did, but not till midday. I, too, was knackered. To adapt the famous lines from the Remembrance Day poem, age does weary them, and the years do condemn those who live to be old. There is no escaping the deracination of time. I felt done in by the previous day’s excursions. But the pain of revived sciatica prevented solid sleep. My joints ached, my limbs felt filleted of their bones, and I was urinating even more often than usual and with some pain. No position, standing, sitting or lying down, was comfortable for long. I’d been through this before, much worse, and knew that patience was the only cure for my body and listening to music the only salve for my soul. Exhaustion that would have needed no more than a good night’s sleep for recovery only a few years ago, now required three or four.

  This time when I phoned, Mrs. Williamson sounded as if she had tumbled down from yesterday’s high and fallen into a slump. Karl, however, was up and in better shape than for some weeks. He was in the garden “pottering about,” his mother said. Of course, he hadn’t gone to work, too soon for that, if indeed he was on the mend, which it was also too soon to know. Mrs. Williamson was staying home from her job, because she was afraid to leave Karl alone “in case he relapsed.” She was worried about being off work so much.

  Had I felt up to it, I’d have offered to Karl-sit. But my resour
ces of compassion were as weak as the rest of me. I said I’d help out tomorrow, which seemed to cheer her up.

  I phoned early next morning, intending to be at Karl’s in time for Mrs. Williamson to go to work as usual. But she said Karl wanted to be on his own, had persuaded her that he would be OK, wouldn’t “do anything silly,” and needed her to trust he’d “get himself back onto his feet.” He had agreed that she could phone him whenever she wanted to. I asked her to tell Karl he could phone or come and see me at any time.

  That day passed without a word from Karl. Mrs. Williamson phoned during her lunch break to tell me that Karl was pottering about in the garden, and again when she got home that afternoon, to tell me he was making another fly for his fishing.

  Next day, the same calls, and the day after. The fourth day, Mrs. Williamson reported that Karl had cleared his room out and—for the next three days—was repainting it, the walls white, the woodwork the shade of blue, Karl had told his mother, of the song thrush’s eggs.

  Each day she sounded more cheerful and confident. But “we’re not out of the wood yet,” she added with a defensive caution against disappointment that I’d come to recognise was part of her nature.

  And so as the days went by, I called less and less frequently, and so did Mrs. Williamson. It became clear that Karl was much better and improving in spirits all the time. And though still not going to work, he was keeping himself busy at home and had started fishing again in the local river.

  During that time my doctor arranged for me to see a consultant, who advised I might need a prostate operation in the next few months if the medication I was taking didn’t show better results soon. Luckily, the condition was still in the early stages and, he suggested, could be dealt with without too much difficulty, the prognosis being good for a complete recovery.

  This began to occupy me—by which I mean worry me—more than my concern for Karl. Of course, I didn’t mention it to Mrs. Williamson, though there were moments when I had to resist a temptation to spill the beans. One of the problems of living on your own at my age, after more than forty years of married life, is having no one at home to talk to about your worries, no one who can shore up your confidence and cheer you up. Friends, however good and close, are not the same support as a loving partner, who knows you inside out.

  A couple of weeks later Fiorella’s name popped up in my message box.

  Hi. I heard Karl is ill. Is he OK?

  I asked who had told her.

  His boss. He’s doing some work in our house. What’s wrong with Karl? Is it serious? His boss says it is.

  It was. But he’s getting better.

  What was it?

  It’s not right for me to tell you.

  That means it must be mental or emotional, because if he’d broken a leg or something physical was wrong, I think you’d tell me.

  No comment.

  Was it because of what happened between us?

  No comment.

  I bet it was. I wish you’d tell me because if it is I feel I’m to blame. Partly anyway.

  I wouldn’t say you’re to blame.

  So it is, isn’t it? I’d like to see him.

  I thought you’d broken up with him for good.

  I did, but I can’t forget him, can’t get him out of my mind. Maybe what happened wasn’t so bad. It frightened me and I panicked. I’ve thought a lot about it. I think I can see why he behaved like he did. He was all mixed up about his dad and me and not being able to write like I wanted him to. What do you think?

  I don’t know.

  I think he needs me. I could help him get better. And I want to see him again. I’ll try to.

  Up to you, of course. But it wouldn’t be a good idea just to turn up at his house unexpected.

  Give me some credit.

  Best of luck.

  I

  A couple of weeks went by after that without anything more from either Karl or Fiorella.

  Mrs. Williamson called every two or three days to keep me up to date—Karl was pretty much the same.

  During the third week the good news was that Karl had gone back to work. Only part-time but a good sign. He found the first week hard going but stuck at it. Though he was still morose now and then, his mother felt he was at last on the mend.

  Then, the following week, I had a phone call. The organiser of a weekend conference for teachers on the subject of teaching novels. They’d planned a talk by a famous author for Saturday after lunch, but she had cancelled because of a family crisis, and they wondered if I could “save their bacon.” A very good fee was offered, all expenses paid, hotel accommodation if required. I was assured of the delightful nature of the location—a comfortable conference hotel in the Devon countryside—and of a hearty welcome from the hundred and fifty appreciative teachers. I suppose on the embarrassment-saving principle of “never explain, never apologise,” nothing was said about why I hadn’t been their first choice, or indeed how many other possible substitutes they’d approached before coming to me. But then, I didn’t need to be told. I have no illusions that I am anything other than an author of minor importance, who enjoys, if that is the word, a devoted but small readership.

  My first impulse was to refuse. I hate public speaking, probably because I’m not very good at it; I detest anything to do with selling myself or my books; I dislike socialising as the celebrity guest; and, to be frank, felt a bit miffed at being shoehorned in as the last-minute replacement for the best-selling author everybody was expecting to meet.

  But this impulse was stifled by—what? The seduction of vanity. Even as the understudy, at least I’d been invited, and however much you dislike yourself for it, flattery does work. More persuasive than that, the prospect of publicity. It’s easier to write a book than sell it, as every publisher will readily tell you if you complain about your poor sales. And all of us in the word business know that authors meeting readers is the best way of selling their books. I’ve never understood why readers are so influenced by meeting writers. As a reader myself, it’s the last thing I want to do. In my experience most writers of books you’ve admired are disappointing as people. How can it be otherwise? If they’re any use as writers, the best of them will be in their books.

  So, out of vanity and crude commercial judgement, I accepted. As there was no convenient rail service, I said I’d drive there on Saturday morning in time for lunch, and return home after my talk.

  I regretted this as soon as I put the phone down. Had to restrain myself from phoning back and cancelling. But no. It would have been unprofessional.

  To get me out of the house—an action that would quieten my troubled mind—I drove to the local petrol station and filled up and put the car through the washer—but knew by the time I got home, even from that short trip, I’d be crippled by sciatica after a two-and-a-half-hour drive, never mind the drive back. I could stay overnight to give myself a rest before driving home, but the thought of spending the evening with a crowd of teachers letting their hair down decided me against that solution. And though I could do it all in one day by train, I didn’t fancy a long train journey with two changes. Besides, the weather was cold and grey, and all my instincts were urging me to hibernate.

  Again I thought of cancelling. But dithered.

  Then I thought of Karl. Perhaps he’d drive me. Perhaps he’d like a day out. And one more persuasion. Apparently there was a sculpture park in the extensive grounds of the hotel, which was bounded by a river offering “excellent trout fishing available to hotel guests.” Ideal for Karl while I was at the conference—three or four hours at most, but enough perhaps to tempt him.

  Which it did. We agreed to set off at eight on Saturday morning. When we got there, Karl would fish while I cavorted with the teachers, then set off home about four. Back by seven, traffic and weather permitting.

  II

  During the journey neither of us was talkative. I never am before a public appearance. My mind is all on what I’m going to say. My nerves are
agitated by fear of failure. I’m withdrawn and irritable.

  Karl was, I guess, regretful, wishing he’d refused. I knew from my own time in the pit of depression that you grow almost to enjoy your illness, even when it’s at its worst, preferring to be shut away on your own, no one else to attend to but yourself, wallowing in the slough of your maundering condition, like a hippopotamus lolling about in a sticky slough of mud.

  Needless to say, we had to stop after an hour for me to consult a hedge.

  When I got back into the car, instead of driving on, Karl, staring ahead as if at something blocking the way, said,

  “Why am I me?”

  It took a moment to adjust my enclosed mind. “You mean, why are you you rather than someone else?”

  “Why am I me? D’you ever wonder why you are you?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  “Do they? Does anyone know why?”

  “I very much doubt it.”

  “You know how many people there are in the world?”

  “Billions?”

  “Very nearly seven billion. That’s seven with nine noughts after it.”

  “Unimaginable.” (And can we please get on?)

  “Why am I not one of them and not me? Don’t you think it’s weird to be you and not someone else?”

  “If anything’s weird, the weird thing is being human.”

  A pause. No sign of getting on.

  I said, “I thought you believed that what is is and that’s all there is to it.”

  “I do normally.”

  “What do you mean, normally?”

  “Before. I’m not normal now, am I? I haven’t been normal for ages.”

  “You mean, since the crisis.”

  “Yes. When I was really bad, I mean the worst time. I couldn’t stand being only me. And not knowing why. I wanted to stop being me. I just wanted to stop. I wanted not to be. I wanted to be nothing.”

  “And now you’re over the worst?”

  “Since at the river. Not wanting to get rid of myself. I do believe what is is. Only I keep wanting to know why. And I wish …”