Now she’s made her mother angry. She doesn’t look over toward her, but she can hear the cross clattery sounds as she gets on with her tasks. Carrie stays hovering in the kitchen, her eyes on the terrace, because she wants to be there when Toby finally tears himself away from countryside pursuits and comes in.
She hears the background hum of the dishwasher cut out, and the clunk as her mother pulls open the dishwasher door. A small cloud of steam rises into the kitchen air.
“I don’t suppose you want to unload the dishwasher, Carrie.”
“Not right now,” says Carrie. “I’ll do it later.”
“Now’s when I need it done.”
“I can’t do it now,” says Carrie, separating the words as if her mother is being stupid.
Then comes the clinking of plates as her mother starts emptying the dishwasher herself.
What am I supposed to do? thinks Carrie. He could come in at any moment. I have to have driving practice. He may be in a good mood. This could be the time with him that changes everything.
She hears the rattle of cutlery. Then she hears her mother give a sharp cry of pain.
“Damn!” she says. “Damn! I knew I’d do that one day!”
“What?”
Carrie turns to her in alarm. Her mother goes to the sink and runs the cold tap.
“Get me an Elastoplast, darling.”
Blood is running down the plughole.
“Christ, Mum! What happened?”
“It’s okay. I just stabbed a finger, that’s all.”
Carrie hurries to the medicine cupboard and gets out the box of Elastoplasts. Her mother is holding her hand under the tap, running cold water over the cut. Blood mingles with the water.
“Unpeel the tabs,” she says, tearing off a sheet of kitchen paper.
“How did you do it?”
“Reaching down to empty the cutlery. I didn’t see the blade of the kitchen knife sticking up.”
The cut is on one of her finger tips. It’s deep and clean. She takes the finger from the stream of cold water and squeezes it tight with kitchen paper to dry it.
“Okay, Carrie. Get the plaster on.”
The wound starts to bleed again even as Carrie pulls the Elastoplast tight round the finger.
“Don’t worry about the blood,” her mother says. “It’ll stop now.”
“Poor Mum. Are you okay?”
“It doesn’t hurt. I’m just cross with myself. Such a stupid thing to do.” She indicates her ring, hanging on the hook where she puts it whenever her cooking involves getting her hands messy. “Now I won’t be able to get my ring back on until it heals.”
Carrie sees what she had not noticed before, that the cut is to her mum’s ring finger. She feels a pang of guilt.
“I should have helped you.”
Her father comes in from the garden, followed by Terry and Toby.
“The global economy may be on the brink of disaster,” he announces. “My productive life may be over. But the garden is rabbit-free! They shall not pass!”
He reaches for his work bag, which is lying in the window seat where he dropped it yesterday evening, and hunts out his checkbook.
“Mum’s cut herself,” says Carrie.
“Oh dear,” he says, not at all concerned. “So what’s the damage, Terry?”
“Call it a round £250,” says Terry. “That’ll cover materials as well.”
Henry writes the check. Carrie glances toward Toby, who seems to be interested in the contents of the Magimix.
“It’s for Saturday dinner,” says Laura.
“What will I be missing?” says Toby.
“Taramasalata,” says Laura. “It’s the starter.”
“You make it yourself?”
Toby shakes his head, awed by this fact. All Carrie takes in is that he will be gone by Saturday evening.
“There.” Henry tears out the check and gives it to Terry.
“Cheers,” says Terry. “And if the little buggers start climbing the gate, you know where I am.”
“Climbing the gate? Might they do that? Can’t we stop them?”
“We could nail a couple of batons, raise the wire another couple of foot. If you think it’s worth it.”
“Listen, Terry. This is serious. I don’t want to leave one single crack in the defenses.”
“It’s your money.”
“When can you do it?”
“I’m on a job at Blackboys all tomorrow. I could come over Friday.”
Terry goes at last. Carrie watches Toby to see if he’ll turn toward her now, give her some attention.
“I told Terry about the garden party tomorrow,” says her father, “and guess what? He wants us to tell the Queen she’s doing a great job. It’s people like Terry who keep the monarchy in business.”
“Bread and circuses,” says Toby.
Carrie feels a mounting irritation, which comes out against her father.
“Why did you tell Terry about the garden party?” she says.
“I just knew he’d be thrilled.”
“You’re not thrilled. I don’t even know why you’re going.”
“Curiosity. And after all, why not?”
He throws Toby a smile, and Carrie gets what it is that’s annoying her. Her father is showing off to Toby. That is so depressing.
“Mum cut her finger quite deeply,” she says.
“Bad luck, Laura. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” says Laura. “Nothing serious.”
“Nothing serious,” says Carrie. Suddenly she can’t stand it all any more. “Nothing serious. Nothing’s ever serious.”
She goes quickly out of the kitchen and up the stairs to her room. She feels the impulse to cry and doesn’t want anyone to see, least of all Toby.
In her room, the door closed, she sits cross-legged on her bed and takes up her guitar. She plucks at the strings, forming little chains of sound, not listening, going nowhere. Her thoughts are all churned up, she feels angry with everyone, most of all herself.
Dad going on about people like Terry because he’s such a snob but can’t bear to admit it. Mum wounding herself just to make Carrie feel useless and guilty for not helping. Toby acting like he cares about rabbits when all he’s doing is holding up a great big sign saying: I DON’T CARE ABOUT YOU.
So what did I do wrong?
He held my hand like he wanted more. Then it was like he moved away again. Back into that private space he carries round with him, that keeps him apart from everyone else. I suppose I got a bit too close. Now I’m being trained, like he’s training his mum. I have to be shown my life doesn’t revolve round him.
So is that it? Do people who are different from other people and find each other and feel good together have to be different to each other too? Is everyone always alone in the end?
I don’t want to be one of anything. That’s what he says. That’s why he likes tools. A hammer does a hammer’s job and that’s it. A hammer doesn’t follow you round the room with wounded eyes. You can put a hammer away in the shed and forget about it until you need it again. Toby likes forgetting about things.
So fuck him.
The brief explosion of energy takes her by surprise. It’s accompanied by a bristling chord on the guitar. Through the vibrating air she hears footsteps on the landing. She sees her door handle turn. No knock, no request.
He comes in.
She looks at him in silent amazement. He gives her a smile, shuts the door behind him.
“Okay if I come in?”
“Looks like you just did.”
He sits beside her on the bed, uninvited.
“So here’s where I am,” he says. “I’m not really a good person. If I’ve hurt you or made you angry, you just say so.”
“I don’t see why I should bother.”
“Yes, you do.”
Now that he’s here and he’s giving her his full attention everything that has been distressing her fades away.
“People don?
??t have to say everything,” she says.
“Okay.” He taps her guitar with one forefinger. “You could always sing me one of your songs.”
“No way!”
“Why not?”
“Because you won’t like it.”
“Why wouldn’t I like your songs? Are they all posing and lies?”
“No, not at all.”
“Then I’ll like them.”
It seems so simple when he puts it like that. When he looks at her so directly. More than that: it comes over like a command she can’t refuse. Does not choose to refuse. So she arranges her fingers on the strings and starts to strum her very limited sequence of chords. She sings him “It’s Over Now.” She sings with a soft voice, and keeps her eyes down on the guitar, never once looking up to see how he’s taking it.
“I know it hurts
But it’s over now
I know you lost
But it’s over now . . .”
She’s amazed at herself. She has never sung her songs to anyone, let alone someone she wants so much to approve of her. She does it because he asks her. His is by far the stronger will.
So no longer shy, no longer attempting to protect herself from whatever criticism will come, she sings her song to the end. When it’s finished she lets her hand rest on the strings, deadening the last reverberations. She does not look up.
For a long moment he says nothing. Then he reaches out and puts his hand on the guitar.
“That was beautiful,” he says.
She can tell it from his voice, he means what he says. She has pleased him. A sweet blush of relief steals over her.
“It’s a great song, Carrie,” he says. “And you sing it wonderfully.”
“Thank you,” she says.
She looks up now and finds his eyes on her. She wants him to say more, to tell her more about her song, because this is the first time her song has ever existed outside herself. Any of her songs. This is the very beginning. But it must come from him, unasked, or it will be tainted by her need. Enough to see his smile of surprise, and the look in his eyes that searches her face as if to say, Where did that come from?
His hand on her hand.
“You’re the first,” she says.
“Then I’m proud,” he says. “I’m honored.”
“Wouldn’t you rather be out chasing rabbits?”
“The rabbits have all gone away,” he says. “I have to find something else to play with.”
“And I’ll do for now.”
She seems to have fallen into some deep still place where all she can say is what she really feels.
“I told you I’m not a good person,” he says.
“I heard.”
“You don’t mind?”
“I’ll mind later.”
“That’s all right, then,” he says, “because there isn’t any later.”
He lifts his hand from her hand, and takes the guitar from her lap and puts it down on the floor. She doesn’t move. She wonders if he’s going to kiss her now, waiting to see what will happen. He’s the one with the will.
He lies down beside her on the bed.
“Lie down,” he says.
She lies down. He takes her in his arms.
“That was a great song,” he says.
“Was it?” she says.
“But you’re wrong. It’s not over. It’s never over.”
“Isn’t it?”
“Now,” he says. “Now. Now. Now. Now. Now.”
“Okay,” she says.
“Put that in a song. How now never ends.”
“Maybe I will.”
Now she’s lying on her bed with Toby in her arms and it’s never going to end.
26
Andrew is on his own in the flat and outside the long day is ending at last. So long as he’s focused on the screen before him there are problems to be solved and he knows what it is he’s supposed to be doing. But by the end of the day he’s had enough, he’s restless, his mouse-hand aches and his arms feel empty. He wants to be swimming in the ocean, beating through great strong waves. He wants to be high up on a mountainside, feeling the blast of wind on his cheeks, stopping for breath and turning to look back and seeing for miles. He wants to strive and to overcome.
Jesus, I need a break. When did I last take a holiday?
He remembers it then, with perfect clarity, the trip he made with Maggie to Bruges. Only two nights away, in March, but they were lucky with the weather. Maggie was so happy walking the streets of the old city. “Look!” she would say, pointing out a gabled roofline or a mullioned window. “Isn’t that glorious?” They found their way into a curious treelined square called the Beguinage, lined with terraces of white-fronted steep-roofed houses and occupied by an order of nuns. The nuns were emerging from the church as they arrived, filing down the path between the trees. Andrew read the descriptive panel about the Beguinage aloud. It was founded in the thirteenth century as somewhere for women to live together after they’d lost their men, to war or disease. Maggie was fascinated by this notion. “Somewhere to live, your own space, friends when you want them.”
Also in Bruges they met the ideal waffle. It became one of those little shared references that are so precious in the life of a couple, that can be named without being explained. The ideal waffle was crisp on the outside, soft within, and light as air in the mouth.
Thinking about Bruges makes Andrew want to cry. He’s in a bad way, though he’s fighting it. Once he starts crying he’ll just fall apart, so he’s pushing the temptation away. Also the unanswered question that wraps round him like a cloud, that he doesn’t want to see but can’t escape, which is: why hasn’t she called?
Nothing has happened. They’ve not had a row. And yet some vital thread has snapped. It must be so, or why doesn’t he call her? This is what he longs to do and will not let himself do. To call her would be to exacerbate the very fault in him that causes the problem. If Maggie has stopped wanting him in her life it can only be because he’s too easily pleased, too concerned to please her. It seems unfair, being punished for selflessness, but truth to tell Andrew knows it’s not selflessness but weakness. He wishes he could behave differently. He longs to be the kind of man who takes command of each social situation with confident ease, knowing always what he wants, allowing the woman in his life to accompany him or not as she chooses. But this is not who he is.
I’m one of life’s pleasers. And that’s just not sexy.
This is why Andrew, half crying in his unhappiness, forces himself not to phone Maggie. He adores Maggie and would do anything in the world to make her happy. So right now, because he is not a fool, because he does have some self-knowledge, because he adores her, he does not call her.
But all through the long evening spent not calling Maggie life must somehow go on. He tries watching TV, punching channels at random. Dragons’ Den depresses him with its pathos and its nastiness. A documentary about two gay millionaires longing for babies proves a little too close to home. Though neither gay nor a millionaire, Andrew would love to be a father. He has never dared say this to Maggie, but he does so much want to have babies with her. He’d like a little girl who looks just like Maggie, who he could love without any fear that his love was too much. You’re allowed to love your children totally and forever. It’s only with grown-ups that it all gets so complicated.
His phone rings. For one heart-stopping moment he thinks it’s Maggie, but it turns out to be her friend Jo. Andrew likes Jo, but better still, she’s a channel to Maggie.
“Jo!” he says, determined to sound strong and upbeat. “What’s doing?”
Jo is in some church hall in Fulham where she’s been rehearsing all day.
“So guess who I had lunch with yesterday?” says Jo. “I hear you’re going to be a neighbor.”
“That’s the plan,” says Andrew. At once he starts saying too much, to hide his fragile condition. “Feels like a good moment to make the break from the city. The lease on this plac
e coming up for renewal, that sort of stuff. A little inheritance coming through. Opens up the odd door.”
He realizes as he’s speaking that any moment now he’s going to start crying and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He has no idea why this is, maybe it’s the sympathetic tone in Jo’s voice, or maybe it’s hearing his own voice list the reasons that make this the perfect time to take the next step with Maggie. The step on which both of them have come to a standstill.
“So anyway,” he hastens on, trying to outrun himself, “tell me the news in Jo-land.”
Then out of nowhere he starts to sob. He pushes the phone away, he tries to muffle the sounds, but it’s no good. He feels the tears streaming down his cheeks. He dabs at his face with his sleeve. He hears tiny squeaks from his phone. He takes deep breaths to regain control. And so, slowly, the wrenching motion passes.
“Sorry about that,” he says.
“Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.” Jo’s voice is so kind it’s almost more than he can bear. “You in your flat right now?”
“Yes,” he says.
“You got anything to eat?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “I haven’t thought much about eating.”
“You stay right there,” she says. “I’m coming round. Give me half an hour.”
After that Andrew starts to feel much better. The crying has released something that needed to be released, and knowing Jo is coming round gives the evening a new shape and color. Shameful to admit, but he’s not so good on his own. And with Jo he’ll be able to talk about Maggie.
Better still, when the doorbell rings barely twenty minutes later, she’s carrying two immense slices of pizza and a bottle of red wine.
“I decided to grab a cab,” she says. “This is a mercy dash.”
“Oh, Jo. You’re my guardian angel.”
She’s so bright and cheerful, she fills the flat with warmth and activity, finding plates and knives and forks and glasses, laying out the pizza and pouring the wine.
“This is not good, Andrew,” she tells him, pressing a full glass into his hand. “You’ve been neglecting yourself.”
“Oh, Jo. I’m so confused over Maggie. Everything just seems to have fallen down a hole and I don’t know what to do.”