Black Chalk (26 page)

‘Jeez, Emilia, I’m sorry, I didn’t realise,’ said Chad. ‘If I’d known all that, I don’t think I would have…’ And there it was, in his pause, Chad’s gift to Emilia.

‘Wouldn’t have what, Chad?’ Already Emilia was becoming agitated, sensing the enormity in the words left unsaid.

‘Emilia, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have … I didn’t mean to…’ Each of his pauses a gift to her. Gold, frankincense, myrrh.

*   *   *

XLVI(iv)
   ‘Whose idea was it?’ Emilia was fifty yards from them, striding, screaming, her silk scarf fluttering discordantly. ‘Was it you, Jack? I bet it was. Bastard.’

Jolyon, Jack and Dee were motionless on the picnic blanket, Jack not even raising his palms. They held the pose, their shock, as Emilia continued to advance. ‘Come on then, who was it? Which one of you?’

‘Emilia, what’s wrong?’ said Jolyon.

Chad was scampering behind the marching Emilia, hands locked behind his head. ‘Guys, I’m sorry, it just slipped out. She was talking to me all about her dad. I swear I didn’t tell her. She saw my face and kinda guessed and then I had to say something.’

Emilia was at the border of the picnic blanket now. She stood there, hands on hips. ‘Oh, but won’t that be a funny one, that’ll make a good consequence,’ she shouted down at the others. ‘Just imagine Emilia standing up in front of a crowd giving a speech about how Thatcher’s defeat of the miners was the most important single step in Britain’s economic recovery. A personal heroine. Just imagine. Funny as
fook
. Well, I hope this is a bloody good joke for you all. I hope you all laugh yourselves to sleep tonight. Come on then, one of you do the decent thing and tell me whose stupid idea it was. Jack?’

‘Why do I get the blame for everything? It wasn’t my idea,’ Jack yelped insistently. ‘It wasn’t me, OK?’

Chad was scratching the back of his head. ‘Jack,’ he said, ‘if it wasn’t your idea then who else said it first?’

‘Whoa whoa whoa,’ said Jack, ‘it was
literally
my idea. But that doesn’t make it
actually
my idea. If I said it then it was
way
before I had any clue about Emilia’s dad.’

‘Oh, then never mind, Jack. So you just went long for the ride, did you? Hah-de-hah, there’s no way she’ll do that, not in a million years, so she’ll lose her thousand pounds and we’ll all have a good chuckle about it in the bar later on. Or maybe you thought I’d be forced to do it, poor little miner’s daughter can’t afford to throw away that sort of cash. So which one of you was going to phone up my dad, “Hello, your daughter’s a bit shy about it and she won’t tell you herself, but she’s giving this speech and I think she’d really love you to be there”? Pathetic, the lot of you. You know, Jolyon, you’re not the only one of us who’s allowed to have principles. And I will never, ever show any disloyalty to the memory of what my dad went through, you understand? So this is all just a game, is it? Irony trumps love or values or loyalty every time. Just a game, a bit of a laugh to pass the time. Well, that means everything’s all right then.’ Emilia looked around. Only Chad looked back at her, at least you could say that much for Chad. ‘I’ve had enough of you all. It’s like we’re not even friends any more because of this game. Why would I want anything to do with something like that? The only losers in this stupid game are the ones still playing.’

They sat on the blanket feeling sick. Sick and ashamed.

But Jolyon decided that someone had to speak. ‘What do you want us to do, Emilia?’

‘Take it out,’ she said. ‘And I want us all to promise we’ll never put anything in as bad as that one. Not for anyone.’

Jolyon shifted uncomfortably. ‘That does sort of miss the point of the Game, Emilia. Look, Chad’s only here for a year. We have to finish at some point.’

‘Then let’s all just stop it right now. Why shouldn’t we? We can all agree it ends now before someone gets hurt. Come on, who’s with me?’ The others swallowed and looked down at the blanket.

‘Look, Emilia,’ said Jolyon, ‘you never really had the stomach for this game. You found out something you shouldn’t and maybe it’s for the best. You don’t owe the Game anything. Maybe you just pull out and we give you your money back. You walk away with your thousand pounds, no damage done, and everyone’s happy.’

‘Right, I see,’ said Emilia, ‘and that’s how you all feel, is it?’

No one said anything.

‘OK then,’ said Emilia, and then the anger seemed to drop away and was replaced by efficiency. She picked up her rucksack and slowly threaded her arms through its loops, each motion very deliberate. And then she began to walk across the grass, heading straight for the gate. There was no urgency to her step, perhaps she thought someone would follow. Very soon they all could see that her shoulders were shaking, shuddering to the rhythm of her tears.

‘Do you think I should go after her?’ said Jolyon, turning to Dee.

‘You should wait till tomorrow.’

While Chad sat down, Jolyon picked up the bottle and poured him some wine. And then they all sipped their drinks, staring off into the lake. There was the sound of birdsong and the water gulping with the splashing of frogs. ‘Who came up with that consequence anyway?’ said Jolyon. ‘I remember us talking about Jack’s idea for Game Soc and what a huge coincidence that Emilia’s father was a miner. How did we get from there to…? Chad, wasn’t it you?’

‘It might have been,’ said Chad. ‘Honestly, I don’t remember.’

*   *   *

XLVI(v)
   The sound, a harsh and sharp squealing, was so loud that Jack moved his hands to his head as if something were screaming down at them from the sky. Dee covered her ears. The noise lasted a few seconds and then came a crashing sound and a rumbling like rocks falling from a cliff.

‘Jeez, what the hell was that?’ said Chad.

Jolyon had already jumped to his feet. ‘Brakes,’ he shouted.

And then they were all on their feet, running, and Jolyon in front.

They ran across the grass and out through the gate. They ran up the lane. Some people had come out of their houses.

Jolyon was the fastest, he reached the end of the lane first and saw the jackknifed truck, its nose thrust into the front of a small stone cottage. The truck’s trailer was blocking off most of the road. He kept running. First he saw the bike. And then further along the truck driver bending over her. She was lying in the road, her silk scarf fluttering in the breeze but her body motionless. He called out her name. Emilia. Emilia. He called it out again and again and again.

*   *   *

XLVII(i)
   
We pull up outside my apartment at five thirty. I dash up my steps eager to find Dee’s reply. I have been thinking about our meeting all the way home. And that’s when I have an idea. I have just enough time if I run. Casey’s on Eleventh for my surprise and after that a drugstore.

*   *   *

The afternoon’s clouds have slipped from the smooth dome of the sky and the park is lush and loud, the East Village out and enjoying the gifts of an early summer.

A loudspeaker plays salsa, trombone sliding beneath Spanish words, horns stabbing the air. A path to my left is crammed with people, a prayer meeting, a preacher waving sunrise hands. The congregation is rapt, their heads like apples in a box.

And soon I am there, the middle of the park, out of breath. I scan our meeting spot and see no Dee, only the sunbathers who crowd the grassy knoll, pale flesh like matchsticks. This is good, I have time to prepare my surprise.

I conceal the gift, it takes only seconds. I have bought a picnic blanket on the way to the park. I spread it out and sit down.

While I am considering the worthiness of my surprise, I feel a tapping on my shoulder.

Hello, Jolyon.

Dee’s voice, unmistakably Dee.

I look up and see her fringed with blue sky as she bends down and kisses me lightly on the forehead. Then quickly she sits and crosses her legs. Red lipstick, white shorts and a gauzy white shirt. She has a large tote with her, woven and straw-like.

Say something then, she says, rocking.

I look at Dee’s simple clothes. You’ve changed, I say, you’ve become …

Boring, she says, stretching the word.

No, I was going to say refined.

Refined? Like sugar,
ugh
.

I always imagined you’d become more bohemian the older you got, I say. Headscarves and kaftans, cigarette holders.

Dee laughs. You know, when we were at college, I always thought I was going to be someone. Maybe I was even rehearsing to be someone. But instead I became bland. And all because I realised the time had come for me to hide.

Hide from what?

From failure. Like I told you, writing and writing and failing. And now I just want to disappear into the crowd. Who wants to stand out if they’ve achieved nothing?

Well, I think you look good, Dee, I say. And I like you as a blonde.

Dee looks happy. And I like you hairless, Jolyon, she says, pointing at her dimple.

I rub the smooth pommel of my chin.

I’ve been reading about how you lost your beard, she says.

I have become exceedingly forgetful of late, I reply.

She laughs. Well, yes, I’ve been reading about that as well.

I’m pleased to have made her laugh but now I can’t think of anything witty to say. Instead I scratch awkwardly at the pattern of the blanket, palm trees splashed against pale blue sky.

So I have something for you, Dee says. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a large book as thick as a wedding album. It is old but well cared for, red leatherette. You haven’t forgotten your promise, Dee says.

Of course not, I say, taking the book, touching it softly. I promise to keep it safe, I say.

Dee smiles at me gratefully. There are four hundred and ninety-nine poems inside, she says. I wrote another one today. And don’t worry, I didn’t write it to get closer to five hundred. I wrote a poem for you, Jolyon.

If I am quiet it is not only because I feel awkward holding a conversation with a woman for the first time in years. It is also because I feel close to tears.

Dee touches me kindly on the knee. Life should have been so much better to us, Jolyon, she says.

Maybe, I reply. Or better to you. This is probably all I deserved.

No, Dee says sharply. None of this was your fault. It’s like you said, what happened was the result of misfortune.

I don’t tell Dee that she’s wrong. But I suppose if she keeps reading, she will have to find out eventually. Instead
I say to her, I have something for you as well, Dee. Your present is under the Christmas tree.

Dee seems touched. Show me, she says, reaching out to me.

I pull her to her feet and lead her. On the lowest branch of the tree, attached with a piece of red ribbon, hangs a small gift bag. Dee opens the bag and removes the contents wrapped in tissue paper. Inside is an ink-pad and three rubber stamps. A silhouette of Jane Austen framed in laurel leaves, an illustration of Charles Dickens holding a quill and an ornate initial decorated with scrollwork and vines. The letter D.

Dee holds her hand to her chest and takes a single heavy breath. Oh how perfect, she says.
And the way she looks at me I feel a forgotten warmth returning to my heart.

*   *   *

XLVII(ii)
   Dee gushes gratefully over my gifts. It feels good to remember how to perform an act of kindness. Every day I feel closer to my goal, the whole man.

Dee chatters about her recent weeks. The bumpy flight over, the sights she has seen, how much she is enjoying my story.

I listen patiently and then ask her, So can we meet every day? Why don’t you come to my apartment? And then I correct myself. I mean, why don’t you come to my apartment while I’m actually inside it? I say.

Dee laughs. Why don’t we carry on meeting here? Six o’clock, every evening, and we’ll meet for an hour. Perhaps everything else should stay the same, for now. You leave your apartment at twelve, return no earlier than two. We stick to our framework, right?

If that’s how you want it.

It won’t be for long, I promise. You have to finish writing your story, Jolyon. No distractions. The same routine. It’s very important.

You’re right, I say, the same routine.

Maybe I could become your trainer, Dee says, prepare you for your comeback.

I grin eagerly. Yes, I say, that’s perfect.

And when does Chad arrive, how long have we got?

I don’t know, I say, feeling a sudden panic. Soon, I say, but I don’t remember. I must have written it down, yes, he told me on the phone. It was some time before … I stop and close my eyes, squeeze them tight and start to rock.

Jolyon, keep calm, Dee says, patting me gently. We’ll start tomorrow, however long we have I’m sure you’ll be fine.

I open my eyes and stop rocking.

What do you need training in? Dee says.

Sanity, I say, making Dee laugh. Well, maybe normal conversation would be a good start, I say,
wanting to add – and after that, the intimacy of women.

I look up and notice the light beginning to drain from the sky. And then something comes back to me, a memory from years ago, just before I shut myself away. Already in Dee’s presence my mind is beginning to open. I have another surprise for you, I say to her, but we have to wait a few minutes. And we have to keep our fingers crossed.

Dee sits tall and crosses the fingers of both hands.

And then it starts to happen. Slowly at first, a blink here, a flash there. But yes, the fireflies are emerging. There they are, bright strings, orange threads in the air. One by one the fireflies wake up and slide into the dusk.

Dee gasps, her head darts around. A blink here, a flash there. With her wrists together Dee claps, her fingers pattering with delight.

And soon the fireflies are aswarm. Gliding, unfolding. Their hearth lights puncturing every cupful of air.

I turn Dee around to point something out to her. Look, I say, spreading my arms. And for my next trick, I say, I have turned on the Christmas-tree lights.