Dying to Know You

  Late in the morning of the fourth Sunday after our fish supper, Karl phoned. Could he come over and show me something?

  He arrived on his bike at two. He had his backpack. When he came inside, he took out a cardboard box, which he set down on the kitchen table and out of which he took what I knew at once was the model of the sculpture for my front garden.

  Attached to the base was a little paper plaque on which was written “Fishing for Words.”

  I could see what he intended. Wires that would be metal rods rose up from various irregular points round the circular base. The wires were shaped like lines cast from fishing rods, curving up into the air at irregular heights, some caught in mid-flight and some turning down into the base. By their overlapping they formed a kind of net. Inside the base was a bowl, which, as I looked, Karl filled with water. Then I saw how the ends of some of the lines dipped into the water.

  “It’s only to give you an idea,” Karl said. “I’ll make the lines of different metals, like black rods and stainless steel and copper so they catch the light differently. That’ll give it some colour. And I’m going to cut letters out of a sheet of metal, and I’ll burnish them to give them different tones as well, and scatter them in the bottom of the pool. And you see? The pool will be a birdbath. I thought of including a fountain coming up from the middle that would burst over the top of the lines so that there was a spray of lines of water as well, and that would make everything shine wet in the sunlight. I could plumb in the water supply.”

  I said, “It’s brilliant!” And I meant it.

  The model was only a hint. But I could imagine the finished thing and was touched and excited by the way he’d combined his love of fishing with my love of words, and the idea of writing being like fishing, and how he’d given the sculpture a practical use that included natural life. In a way, the thing was like a birdcage without being a cage. He’d planned the way the lines crossed and crisscrossed to leave plenty of spaces for smaller birds to get in and out without feeling trapped.

  I said, “A lot will depend how big the real one is, and the proportions, don’t you think?”

  “I wondered if we could work out how big it should be?”

  We talked this over and ended up in the front garden with a couple of kitchen chairs, arranging them on top of each other and on their sides and upside down and all such combinations, measuring the results with a tape measure, trying to work out the best dimensions. Finally, we got some sticks of bamboo I used for runner beans and did what we could to mock up a grid the height and footprint we thought would be about right for the sculpture.

  We were at it for over an hour. But at last felt we had cracked it. We’d agreed the precise spot on the lawn, the height and diameter, the area and depth of the birdbath and how to construct it. And came back inside after clearing up, feeling cold from the chill of the winter evening but sparkling with excitement.

  In all our times together so far, this was the first time I felt we were enjoying ourselves, without strain or any sense of difference of age or of deference, concession or inequality. It was, I thought afterwards, the first time we had met as ourselves, untrammelled, unguarded and in tune.

  I was glad Karl set off for home as soon as we finished planning. To have gone on would have risked blemish.

  THE IDEA FOR THE PARTY WAS MRS. WILLIAMSON’S. SHE SAID it was to celebrate the installation of Karl’s first sculpture. I’m sure she meant it, but I’m also sure she used it as an excuse to bring together with Karl some of the friends he’d neglected since the onset of his crisis six months ago.

  His pals from the rugby club came, and his boss from work, Mr. Cooksley, and, I was surprised to find, Fiorella, who brought her friend Becky, no doubt for moral support, though it crossed my mind that the typical combination of pretty (Fiorella) and plain (Becky) was meant to work to Fiorella’s advantage.

  When Mrs. W. first mooted it, I wasn’t keen. My energy sank to zero at the prospect of the preparations as well as the party itself. But in order to please her, I agreed, assuming that Karl in his present mood wouldn’t. When she told me he had, I swore to myself and asked how she’d done it. To which I received an enigmatic “mothers have their ways.”

  I didn’t find out till the day of the party what her mother’s way was. A midday event so that there’d be enough daylight for inspection of the installation before the winter evening set in. Mrs. W. was titivating the food and drink in the kitchen. I was hovering with Karl in the sitting room. Karl was upset because he hadn’t had time to fix the sculpture permanently. The rods were still loose, supporting each other just enough to keep them in place. (“And hope to heaven there isn’t a strong puff of wind or the whole shebang will collapse,” Karl said.) He planned to come back the next day to fix it permanently.

  To add to the stress and strain, we were both suffering those awkward moments before a party when everything is ready and you’re waiting for the guests to arrive, wondering if any will turn up and how you’ll get through it, when Karl said, “Why did you let her do this?”

  “Me?” I said. “It’s not my fault! Why did you?”

  “I thought you’d say no.”

  “And I thought you would.”

  “What? You said yes because you thought I’d say no?”

  “And you said yes because you thought I’d say no?”

  Pause for computation of one and one.

  “When did she ask you?” Karl said.

  I told him.

  “That was before she asked me.”

  “And she didn’t tell you I’d said yes?”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “And if she had?”

  “I’d have said no way!”

  “Well, I’ll be jiggered!”

  Karl grinned at me. “You still haven’t cottoned on to my mother, have you?”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “You think she’s as nice as pie, straight as a die, and wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”

  “Do I?”

  “But it’s a front. My dad used to say she was more canny than a con man and trickier than a conjuror. As innocent as a dove, he said, and as cunning as a serpent.”

  “Are you saying she’s unscrupulous?”

  “Wouldn’t go as far as that. She’s clever at getting what she wants. But she does have her limits.”

  “Does she?”

  “She knows how to twist you round her little finger, that’s for sure. Plays the fading flower and you fall for it.”

  “Me naïve? I’m shocked!”

  “You fall for it because you want to. I can tell by the way you look at her.”

  “So this is a day for telling truths.”

  “She’s just as bad about you. I’d go for it, if I was you.”

  “Don’t be so ridiculous.”

  “I wouldn’t mind, if that’s what’s holding you back.”

  “Nothing is holding me back. But even if you’re right, which you’re not, think of your mother’s age and mine. She could be my daughter.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “More than you can yet know, young man.”

  “Yes, Granddad.”

  Luckily at that moment the first guests arrived. A scrummage of Karl’s rugger pals.

  So we had a party.

  To adapt a well-known quotation: All happy parties are the same, each unhappy party is unhappy in its own way.

  At the time, this seemed to me to be a happy party. As I am not making things up and it is not a novel but an account of events in real life, all I can say is that during the party everyone seemed to me to behave well, so far as behaving well at parties goes. Karl’s sculpture was admired, though not without some teasing by his rugger pals, and the guests departed without over-staying their welcome and before the food and drink ran out.

  That said, there was one incident that might have marred the proceedings. We were all out in the garden viewing the sculpture. Mrs. W. insisted, much to Karl’s discomf
it, that we “raise a glass to Karl’s work.” We did as instructed. At that moment a gang of young men were sloping by on the road, tins of beer in their hands, and well oiled with booze. I recognised them at once: the same four who sat next to us in the pub and riled Karl the night of the fracas. They saw us, stopped, jeered, blew raspberries, and indicated by various gestures what we should do with ourselves.

  Karl bridled at this. As did his rugger pals. War would undoubtedly have been declared were it not for the intervention of Karl’s boss, Mr. Cooksley, who announced in the stentorian tones of a sergeant major on the parade ground, which outclassed the baying of the yobs by a good margin of decibels, “Steady, the Buffs!”*

  I doubt very much that Karl or his pals had heard this ancient command before. But the manner of its delivery carried such authority and its meaning was so plain that it had the effect of restraining Karl and his pals and, more astonishingly, silencing the yobs, who wandered on their inebriated way with a few yeowls and whoops to save face.

  After which, with huffs and smiles and raised eyebrows from the older of us, and some rumbling irritation among the younger, the party continued with pretended disregard of the interruption.

  Later, when I tackled him about it, I gathered from Mr. Cooksley that he’d spent eleven years in the army, where he reached the rank of warrant officer, which explained his expert and timely intervention.

  We were looking at Karl’s sculpture.

  “What d’you think?” I asked him.

  “Not my cup of tea, to be honest,” he said.

  “You don’t like it?”

  “It’s well made. But so it should be!” He smiled. “I taught him.”

  “But you’re not too keen?”

  “I don’t see what he’s trying to do. I like pictures, sculptures, that sort of thing, to look like they are meant to be.”

  “He means it to be what he feels. About fishing. What fishing feels like. What it means to him.”

  “Well, it’s beyond me. But I’ll tell you this. I’m pleased he wants to do it. His dad would have been pleased as well.”

  “You knew his dad.”

  “He was my best friend. Grew up together. Same schools. He was brainier than me. Went off and did engineering at college, built up his business. But never forgot where he came from. Never any airs and graces. And never forgot his old friends.”

  “You must miss him.”

  “You could say.”

  “And Karl. You must have known him since he was born.”

  “I was with his dad in the maternity ward the night he arrived.”

  “So, since his father died, you must have been like a second father to him.”

  Mr. Cooksley gave a huffing smile. “No, no! Nobody could replace him. I’ve never seen a father and son so close. Did everything together from day one. Too close. I used to think it wasn’t good for a lad to be that attached. And I was right. The loss of his dad devastated him.”

  “But you’ve been a big help.”

  “Done what I could. For him and his mother. She and my wife are as good friends as his dad and I were. Boyhood sweethearts we both married. Not cool by today’s standards.”

  “Admirable, in my view,” I said, thinking of Jane and me.

  Mr. Cooksley gave me a square look. “You’ve helped a lot. I’ll say that. Sometimes takes a stranger to sort you out when you’re in shtook.”

  “If that’s right, I’m glad.”

  “Seems to me, the trouble is his father died while Karl was still a kid. Before he was old enough to rebel.”

  “Before he was a teenager?”

  “Exactly. Before his balls dropped. If he had, rebelled a bit I mean, kicked over the traces, like most boys do when they’re that age, he might have got aback of his father and become his own man.”

  “Deidentified.”

  “Is that what it’s called?”

  “By the developmental psychologists.”

  “Really? Well, whatever it’s called, he never did it.”

  “From what you say and from what Karl has told me, he loved his father as much as one person can love another. I’m not sure that’s such a bad thing.”

  “However much you love somebody, you should always keep a part of yourself to yourself. Never give it all. You can never be yourself otherwise. And when his father died, Karl felt he’d pretty much died with him. That’s what’s caused the trouble. He’s struggling to find himself. Like who he is. What he is.”

  I said nothing. We were on touchy ground.

  “That’s my opinion, anyway,” Mr. Cooksley said.

  I said, “He’s told you he wants to do more sculpting?”

  “We talked about it.”

  “But he wants to go on being a plumber. To keep his feet on the ground, so to speak.”

  Mr. Cooksley smiled.

  “I’m proud of him for that,” he said.

  “Maybe the sculpting will help him find himself.”

  “You think so? I can’t see it myself. But there’s always hope.”

  When everyone had gone, Mrs. Williamson, Karl and I cleared away the debris and washed up. Then Mrs. W. went off home, leaving Karl and me to return ourselves to normal. But I sensed that in some as-yet-indefinable way the party had caused a change in our friendship.

  It was dark by then, and frosty. Icy, in fact, which, sitting in the warmth of my kitchen over final mugs of coffee, neither of us realised.

  “That went well,” I said.

  “Some of it was all right,” Karl said.

  “Only some? Everybody liked your sculpture.”

  Karl huffed. “So they said.”

  “You didn’t believe them?”

  “Not all of them. Most of them thought it was just about fishing and the fish were the letters to make words.”

  “You mean they only took it literally?”

  “They didn’t get it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Their eyes. They said nice things. But you could tell from their eyes they didn’t mean it.”

  “Give them a chance! People don’t always catch on straightaway.”

  “Maybe.”

  He drank his coffee.

  I said, “You find it hard to take compliments.”

  He gave me an unyielding look.

  “Do I?” he said dismissively.

  But I wasn’t going to be put off.

  “You shy away when you’re praised,” I said. “You didn’t believe them when they said they liked it. Would you have believed them if they’d said they didn’t like it?”

  “Probably.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t trust people when they’re being too nice.”

  His head went down. I knew better than to press the point.

  Silence.

  Then, giving me his wary sidelong look, Karl said, “What did you think of Fiorella?”

  Ah, I thought, now we’re getting to it.

  I said, “Not quite what I expected.”

  “How?”

  “Less sure of herself. Perhaps she was nervous.”

  “Why?”

  “Meeting me, perhaps.”

  “Why would that bother her?”

  “Readers often are when they meet a favourite author. They get excited. And often the author doesn’t live up to their expectations. At least, I don’t think I do. So they end up disappointed. And that makes them more nervous, because they don’t know what to say.”

  “I don’t think that was it.”

  “What then?”

  “It might have been.”

  “You were there as well. She was probably a bit nervous about that.”

  “Why?”

  “Unsure how you’d treat her. Unsure what to say about your sculpture. Three reasons to be nervous. You, me, and your sculpture.”

  “Maybe.”

  “So?”

  “She was a ladge.”

  “A ladge?”

  “Yes.”

  “You
’ve lost me.”

  “A ladge. You know.”

  “No, I don’t know.”

  “A ladge. An embarrassment.”

  “That’s a new one.”

  “No, it isn’t! You should get out more.”

  “I told you this was a day for telling truths. So she embarrassed you?”

  “Yes. You didn’t notice?”

  “Not particularly.”

  “The way she trumped around the lads? And the hyper guff about the sculpture?”

  “I didn’t hear. I saw you talking, but I was talking to your boss at the time.”

  What I didn’t say, because it was so obvious there was no need, is that nothing kills love—and friendship come to that—more quickly than embarrassment.

  Trying not to sound too obvious about why, I asked, “What about her friend?” I’d spotted them talking for a lot longer than he and Fiorella spent together.

  “Becky? She’s OK. I like her. She said some interesting things about sculpture.”

  “Such as?”

  “She asked what got me started. I told her. And she knew about Tucker. William Tucker.”

  “Really? What a coincidence!”

  “She’s doing art history. First year at uni. King’s College London. She’s a year older than Fiorella. Keen on sculpture. She understood what I’m trying to do straightaway. Which Fiorella certainly didn’t. I didn’t have to tell her. She told me! She’s seen a piece by Tucker at the Tate. Very minimal. The work independent of the subject. Getting the richest effect from the simplest means. That’s what I’m after. We’re going to see it together.”

  Even his vocabulary had changed: Tucker … A piece by … Uni … Minimal … The work independent of, etc. … Richest effect from, etc. … The Tate.

  All in one afternoon’s conversation.

  The changeful power of instant recognition!

  I smiled to myself.

  Hello, Becky. Good-bye, Fiorella.

  Karl sped on. “She’s read a book Tucker wrote about sculpture. Told me some of the stuff in it. Made a lot of sense. She’s lending it to me.”

  “What did she say about yours?”

  “She made a good suggestion for how to make it better. As soon as she said it, I could have kicked myself. Should have seen it myself.”