Her Name Was Lola

‘Put it in the boot with mine,’ says Lola. The picnic hamper takes up most of the boot but Max jams his things in and sinks into the leather upholstery beside Lola. They kiss good morning, the Jaguar roars and they’re off. Up the North End Road, through West Kensington, on to the Great West Road, Hogarth Roundabout, and the M4. Motorway miles moving towards them, passing under them, the Jaguar purring sweetly at seventy and sometimes more. ‘When is your birthday?’ says Max.

  ‘Today,’ says Lola. ‘I’m a vernal-equinoctial kind of girl. My first quarter-century.’

  ‘You never told me,’ says Max. ‘I’d have got you a present.’

  ‘You’re my present,’ says Lola. She kisses her fingers and touches them on his lips.

  ‘We’re heading west,’ says Max. ‘Where to?’

  Lola smiles and says, ‘You’ll see.’ The Jaguar swallows the miles as the names of towns grow large in front of them, small behind them. Exits beckon here and there with forceful arrows. Max and his mind are working on what he’ll say to Lola. O God, she’s so beautiful, so aristocratic, so deep, so wild at heart, so everything he longed for just a short time ago. Longs for still but …

  ‘Lola,’ says his mind as he rehearses possible openings, ‘I don’t know how to say this but I guess the simplest way is the best. Lula Mae is pregnant and I’m the father.’

  ‘You’re very quiet,’ says Lola.

  ‘I fall into a travel trance sometimes,’ says Max.

  ‘Me too,’ says Lola, ‘except when I’m driving.’ She’s humming that Dusty Springfield song. ‘But if you stay,’ says her humming, ‘I’ll make you a day like no day that’s been or ever will be …’

  ‘Lola,’ says Max’s mind, ‘the days and nights I’ve had with you have been like no other days and nights I’ve ever known …’

  ‘Sickening,’ says Max. ‘Brutal was better.’

  ‘ … the pebbles according to size,’ says Lola.

  ‘What?’ says Max.

  ‘Chesil Beach,’ says Lola. ‘Ever been there?’

  ‘No. I’ve read about it though – it’s a shingle storm beach where the waves sort the pebbles according to size.’

  ‘That’s what I just said,’ says Lola. ‘It’s not far from Dorchester. Did you know about Veästa?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Chesil Beach sea monster, last seen in 1995.’

  ‘There’ll always be monsters,’ says Max. ‘God made them along with Virginia Mayo and … Chesil Beach.’ He was going to say Lula Mae Flowers but stopped in time.

  ‘Events,’ says Max’s mind, ‘sort people according to size. It seems I’m one of the smaller ones.’

  ‘What events are you talking about?’ says Lola.

  ‘Was I speaking out loud?’ says Max.

  ‘Unless I’m hearing voices,’ says Lola. ‘I say again, what events?’

  ‘Just reviewing my life,’ says Max, ‘as a drowning man might do.’

  ‘Max, are you drowning?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ says Max.

  ‘How’s the writing going?’ says Lola.

  ‘On the novel front,’ says Max, ‘I may or may not have a protagonist but so far no Page One. On the children’s side there’s Charlotte Prickles waiting for a new story which I haven’t got. That’s two No Page Ones.’

  Lola puts a sympathetic hand on Max’s thigh. ‘That’s happened before though, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Many, many times,’ says Max.

  ‘And you always work through it and you manage to live pretty well off your writing,’ says Lola.

  ‘Thanks to Charlotte,’ says Max. Sudden vision of her lying flattened in the road. No, no, please.

  ‘Those books still bring in royalties!’ says Lola.

  ‘Oh yes, I’ve done seven and they’re all alive and well. That’s how I can afford to write novels. This is the first time you’ve asked me about my finances.’

  ‘Well, you know, one day I might want to introduce you to my parents and I’ve got to be prepared.’

  ‘I’ve seen photographs of your father in The Times,’ says Max. ‘He looks like the last days of the Raj.’

  ‘Somewhat to the right of that, actually,’ says Lola.

  ‘And I’ve seen photos of your mother in Tatler, so I know where you got your looks.’

  ‘The fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree,’ says Lola.

  ‘Speaking of fruit, I could use an apple or a banana right now,’ says Max.

  ‘No snacks,’ says Lola. ‘We don’t get to have the picnic until we’re on top of where we’re going.’

  ‘Maiden Castle?’ says Max.

  ‘Right,’ says Lola. ‘Have you been there?’

  ‘Not yet,’ says Max. ‘It’s one of those things I’ve seen in dreams but not in real life.’

  ‘What kind of dreams?’

  ‘All I remember is wideness and greenness and the wind.’

  ‘By day or by night?’

  ‘Always by day, in the golden light of late afternoon.’

  ‘Never in the morning?’

  ‘Not that I remember.’

  PUDDLETOWN, says a sign. An arrow points to WEYMOUTH and Lola turns as directed. At Maumbury Rings she gets on to the road that takes them to MAIDEN CASTLE. ‘Mai Dun is the old name,’ she says as they pull into the car park. And here it is. Not looming very high but very wide, happed in ancient grasses green and brown and tawny. Sheep graze on the layered years. The wind sighs, the ghosts also. Max and his mind as well. The day is bright and sunny but on the cool side with a fresh breeze blowing.

  Although this is the beginning of the weekend there aren’t too many cars in the car park. There are information boards and Max wants to read them but Lola pulls him away. ‘Facts will just get between you and it,’ she says. ‘Mai Dun is beyond facts.’

  Carrying hamper, sleeping bags and blanket, Max and Lola start up the brown path to the access track. ‘Why is this day different from other days?’ says Max’s mind.

  ‘You know why,’ says Max.

  ‘You could have called off this trip after you saw Lula Mae,’ says his mind.

  ‘I didn’t know how,’ says Max.

  ‘This day is different from other days,’ says Lola.

  ‘I know,’ says Max. There are little white daisies and small yellow flowers by the track. ‘What do you call this yellow one?’ says Max.

  ‘Primula,’ says Lola.

  They climb to the inner rampart and feel the sky around them. Looking south past the outer ramparts and ditches they take in the tree-lined fields and meadows undulating in easy sweeps to the blue distance. ‘This is the place,’ says Lola.

  ‘That’s what Brigham Young said,’ says Max’s mind. ‘Women were no problem for him.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ says Max. ‘Be quiet.’

  They spread their blanket and open the hamper which is full of good things including three bottles of Cristal in icy sleeves. At a nod from Lola, Max uncorks the first bottle and Lola takes it from him and pours a little on the ground. ‘Absent friends,’ she says.

  ‘They’re probably used to something a little less expensive,’ says Max. He pours two glasses and he and Lola drink to each other.

  Lola takes the ribbon from her hair, ties it to a long stem of grass where it flutters like a tiny banner. ‘They’re all around us,’ she says, ‘the ones who lived here on Mai Dun thousands of years ago. The wind that’s blowing my ribbon blew the smoke of their fires. Nothing goes away. I chose this day to come here because it’s the vernal equinox, the first day of spring when the night and the day are the same length.’

  ‘The light and the dark equal,’ says Max as his mind gives him that image: light on the left, dark on the right.

  The hamper now gives up its contents: melon and prosciutto, ciabatta and roast peppers, pâté and salami, ripe Camembert and oat crackers. Max uncorks the second bottle which goes down even more smoothly than the first. The third follows in due course.

  There are only a few other peo
ple, some with dogs, all with cameras taking pictures of the ramparts and ditches, the views and one another. Lola and Max take out their cameras and photograph each other and their picnic spread. ‘I want to stay here till midnight,’ says Lola. She and Max press close to each other as the afternoon grows colder. Evening comes and they’re alone with the sky all around them. They zip the sleeping bags together, take off their clothes, get inside and make each other warm. Max’s rucksack provides a bottle of Courvoisier which dissolves any vestigial chill. Evening becomes night and they lie listening to the speaking of the earth and the wind in the grasses of Mai Dun. Noah’s Ark appears, stranded in Max’s mind from his father’s memory of long ago. The raven flies out, loops the loop once, and is gone. ‘What does this mean?’ Max asks his mind.

  ‘I can only tell you what I know,’ says his mind, ‘and I don’t know what this image means or why it haunts us.’

  The almost-full moon rises and looks down on the banks and ditches of the hill-fort, the labial configurations at either end meant to baffle invaders or possibly honour the white goddess. Despite the paling of the sky the stars are clearly visible, brighter than in London. Burning and flickering, they send their light from before the age of dinosaurs, the Babylonian exile, the fall of Rome, the sack of Jerusalem. ‘See the Great Bear?’ says Lola. ‘Ursa Major?’

  ‘The Big Dipper,’ says Max, ‘and the North Star.’

  ‘Polaris,’ says Lola. Gripping Max’s hand, she murmurs rapidly, ‘Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda, Merak, Dubhe.’

  ‘What was that?’ says Max.

  ‘The names of the seven stars of Ursa Major. Say them after me: Alkaid.’

  ‘Alkaid.’

  ‘Mizar.’

  ‘Mizar.’

  ‘Alioth.’

  ‘Alioth.’

  ‘Megrez.’

  ‘Megrez.’

  ‘Phecda.’

  ‘Phecda.’

  ‘Merak.’

  ‘Merak.’

  ‘Dubhe.’

  ‘Dubhe.’

  ‘Max and Lola,’ says Lola.

  ‘Stop,’ says Max’s mind. ‘This is a serious ritual. What are you doing?’

  ‘Lola and Max,’ says Max. He thinks he might faint.

  ‘That’s it then,’ says Lola. ‘That’s us with the seven and the absent friends. And Hale-Bopp says yes.’

  ‘Who’s Hale-Bopp?’

  ‘The comet. It’s up there in the northwest between Andromeda and Cassiopeia. Very bright, although you can see the tail better on moonless nights.’ She takes Max’s head in her hands and aims him at the comet. ‘See it?’

  ‘Got it. You seem to be good friends with the stars.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lola, ‘good friends with the stars. I’m pregnant.’

  When Eve first said those two words to Adam she watched his face closely. Lola’s doing the same with Max.

  ‘Wow,’ says Max.

  ‘Say more,’ says Lola.

  ‘Speechless,’ says Max. Big hug, big kiss.

  ‘So you’re happy about it?’ says Lola.

  ‘Like crazy,’ says Max.

  28

  Overload

  March 1997. It’s 01:15 so it’s the 22nd now. Lola has just made her announcement and Max has said his very few words. It’ll take about ten minutes to come down from Mai Dun and walk back to the car. Not much traffic at this time in the morning so it’s maybe two and a half hours back to Fulham. Say a total of two hours and forty minutes that have to be filled with something. ‘What am I going to say?’ Max says to his mind. ‘What am I going to do?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ says his mind. ‘What we have here is overload. All I want to do is be somewhere else.’

  ‘That makes two of us,’ says Max.

  ‘Two of us what?’ says Lola.

  ‘Two of us with something to think about.’

  ‘You said you’re happy about it but you don’t seem happy,’ she says.

  ‘It’s a lot to take in,’ says Max. He squeezes her hand but she doesn’t squeeze back.

  ‘I’ve never come here with anyone else,’ says Lola. ‘Never said the names of the seven at midnight on this day of the year with anyone before.’

  ‘I’ll never forget this day and night as long as I live,’ says Max.

  ‘You look, you sound, as if you’re saying goodbye,’ says Lola.

  ‘The present is always saying goodbye to the past,’ says Max.

  ‘You never used to talk bollocks like that,’ says Lola. ‘Wait a minute — do I smell Lula Mae Flowers again?’

  ‘Deny everything,’ says Max’s mind.

  ‘I cheat,’ says Max, ‘but I don’t lie.’ Saying it out loud. Did he mean to?

  ‘So you’ve slept with her,’ says Lola.

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ says Max.

  ‘Stop there,’ says his mind, ‘or you’ll be doing more harm than you can ever undo.’

  ‘Say more,’ says Lola. ‘I need to know the whole thing so this day can be complete.’

  ‘She’s …’ Max pauses as he looks into the abyss.

  ‘O my God,’ says Lola. ‘Don’t say it. Say it.’

  ‘Pregnant,’ says Max.

  ‘Pregnant!’ says Lola. She recoils as if she’s been smacked in the face with a dead mackerel. ‘You bastard! And while your baby’s growing in her belly you crawl on top of me and do me one more time for good measure. You’re disgusting. Stupid, stupid me! I brought you here and we did our stupid little ritual because I thought I was your one and only and you were mine. I thought I was your destiny woman – that’s what you called me in the Coliseum Shop and everyone turned to look, remember?’

  ‘I remember.’

  ‘And this would be our destiny child,’ says Lola.

  ‘We need to talk about all of this,’ says Max feebly.

  ‘No, we don’t.’ They’re in the car now, the Jaguar snarls, leaps forward with a VROOM, and they’re off to the Weymouth Road and up to the A3 5.

  Max can’t think of anything useful to say and Lola preserves a stony silence as she looks straight ahead into the darkness and the yellow motorway lights. Names and numbers of exits grow large in front of them, small behind them. Arrows point to right and left, up and down. ‘You’re driving too fast,’ says Max. ‘Remember, we’ve had quite a bit to drink.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Lola.

  ‘Where did the raven go?’ thinks Max as the car veers off the motorway, plunges down an embankment, and crashes into something concrete with numbers on it.

  29

  The Mountains of Ararat

  April 1997. Afternoon. ‘What about the raven?’ says Max.

  ‘All I know,’ says his mind, ‘is that Noah sent it forth and “it went to and fro until the waters were dried up from off the earth”.’

  ‘What then?’ says Max. ‘I want to know more.’

  ‘That’s all it says in Genesis, just what I told you.’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Max, ‘that raven is still out there, looping the loop, doing aerobatics, flying up a storm.’

  ‘Well, they are great flyers,’ says his mind. ‘This one must have gone crazy, cooped up in the Ark for almost a year. So I expect it would loop the loop and so on when it got out of there.’

  ‘What about Mrs Raven? There were two of everything but this bird took off on his own and was never heard from again. Mid-flood crisis? What?’

  ‘Don’t know,’ says Max’s mind.

  ‘The mountains of Ararat,’ says Max, ‘are they behind the boiler?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the raven’s not behind the boiler.’

  ‘Nevermore,’ says Max’s mind.

  ‘Hello,’ says a nurse. ‘Welcome back.’

  ‘It’s great to be back,’ says Max. ‘Where?’

  ‘Poole Hospital,’ says the nurse. ‘How’re you feeling?’

  ‘Not sure,’ says Max. ‘When is this?’

  ‘Sixth of April,’ says the nurse.

  ‘When di
d I get here?’ says Max.

  ‘Twenty-second of March.’

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘What?’ says Max.

  ‘You’ve been in a coma and you’ve just come out of it.’

  ‘Lola?’

  ‘Lyla,’ says the nurse.

  ‘What Lyla?’ says Max.

  ‘Me Lyla,’ says the nurse. ‘I thought you were speaking my name.’ She shows him her name badge: LYLA MURPHY.

  ‘I wanted to ask about my girlfriend, Lola Bessington,’ says Max. ‘She was driving the Ark. Cark. Car.’

  ‘No injuries other than minor cuts and bruises and she was a bit shaken up,’ says Lyla. ‘She tested over the limit and had a summons to answer. She was discharged a couple of days after she was admitted. Her parents came and picked her up.’

  ‘She’s pregnant. Is the baby all right?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Could you try to find out for me, please?’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘When can I go home?’

  ‘Probably in a day or two. They might want to do a follow-up EEG but I doubt it. I’ll see if I can find out about the other. Stay quiet for a while, OK?’

  ‘OK. Thanks, Lula Mae.’

  ‘Lyla, me.’

  ‘Sorry. Names move around behind the boiler.’

  ‘What boiler is that?’

  ‘The big black lying-down one.’

  ‘With names behind it?’

  ‘Alkaid, Mizar, Alioth, Megrez, Phecda, Merak, Dubhe.’

  ‘I was thinking of going to Dubai,’ says Lyla. ‘Nurses make good money there.’

  Later she reports that there was nothing about pregnancy in Lola’s admission report. Max takes this to mean that she’s been told not to tell him anything.

  That afternoon he’s moved out of Intensive Care to a ward with three other men, all of them old. One of them keeps wetting the bed. His name is Byron. Another stares at Max and moves his mouth but no words come out. He’s Neville. The third is Fred. He was in the submarine service in World War II. ‘Were you ever hit by depth charges?’ says Max. ‘Wouldn’t be here if we’d ever taken a direct hit,’ says Fred. ‘Close ones sometimes, the plates would start to buckle and you’d get some water coming in but you’ve got to expect that sort of thing from time to time.’