How You See Me (8 page)

I’m terrified I’ll pass on this cold.

Is this letter anything but nonsense? I can’t tell. Maggie keeps heaving up the stairs with questions and interrupting me. She said if I’m well enough to be scribbling I should be well enough to do without her. She must have had some other plan for today. How strange it is that we know so little about what goes on in her life away from here. Is that father of hers still alive behind the boards covering the front of the butcher’s shop? Why did she never marry?

(Later)

All is forgiven. I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to Maggie bringing me a tray with a bowl of tinned soup and a plate of buttered toast cut into triangles. She even pushed back my hair to feel my temperature with the back of her hand. Then she sighed and headed back downstairs. No words. Still, it is definite progress.

Daniel x

12th December

The Studio

Dear Alice –

I’m sorry this letter is late. I’ve been ill. What I thought was a cold turned out to be flu and had me laid up in bed for days. I had a fever. How I longed for your cool hands.
Maggie told me I spoke in my sleep; the first thing she said that I could make sense of was, ‘Who’s this Alice, then?’

I’ve been so distracted recently. Even before my illness this place infected me. I was seeing things not as the man I am, but as the boy I was when I escaped. You came to me in my fever and rescued me. I can still taste you on my lips. Milk and honey. I dread to think what I whispered to Maggie in the night.

I feel so weak and light, despite Maggie constantly calling me a ‘great lump’ as she helped me heave about the bed. She’s had to give me sponge baths, I’m ashamed to say. Though at least now I’m strong enough to take care of the delicate areas myself.

My mind is so clear, it’s as though I’m sitting with you. Like that day when we were first alone together. Darling, I’m so weak. I keep having to stop and put down the pen. But your face is so clear to me, so much better than the poor
doppelgänger
that’s been haunting me lately. I have the transcript of that special day. Did you know I rushed home and made one? Oh, how my fingers trembled over the keys. But I had to have a record. Here, let me see what I can do with it:

I’m standing outside the door to the staircase that leads up to Aubrey’s office. I’m smoking the fifth in a pack of cigarettes I brought especially to smoke here. I don’t really want them, but it’s nice to have an occupation. I’m early. I know you’re still in session. But I want to be prepared. I have ironed this shirt and inspected the rest of my clothes for coffee stains. I am still not sure about this jacket. There is nothing I can do about my hair, except try to avoid my
reflection in shop windows as I walked here from the bus stop.

I’m not prepared. I have no idea what I’m doing. There is no plan.

Not for the first time, I wonder at Aubrey’s choice of setting for his office, but he has always had a soft spot for the Northern Quarter. I can hear his voice in my head; see him mouth the words ‘soft spot’. We must have had this conversation more than once.

I smoke my cigarettes, lighting the next off the end of the last. For some reason it is important for you to meet me smoking. The street is busy, a mill of people and traffic. Something is kicking out or changing over. I am unused to it. The container that is myself is not properly sealed. I seep into the crowd, without moving from my place by the door. I allow myself to catch eyes, examine faces, and listen in to snatches of conversation. I allow myself to feel. I should know better. I have been too long confined. I have grown soft at my edges.

Maybe I am more prepared than I think I am. A girl. A shock of blonde hair. The door at my back. I had forgotten why I was here. ‘I’m sorry.’ Oh, why must my first words to you always be an apology?

‘No, it’s my – ’

‘No really, it was me.’

‘I don’t suppose you could spare one of those?’

You are standing next to me, smoking one of my cigarettes. You cough. You don’t really smoke. I already know this about you.

‘Are you going up?’ you ask, and you look towards the window of Aubrey’s office. I follow your gaze.

‘No. I mean, I don’t…’

‘Oh, I don’t mean to pry. He’s very good, you know. It’s difficult, isn’t it? I mean, it’s hard work. It is work. But, it’s worth it. He really is very good.

‘I’m Alice, by the way.’

‘Daniel.’

Weren’t we sweet in those first tentative days? Did you have any clue that I was already in love with you? I had no plan, but already I had decided my future was with you.

My love to you, my darling, as always,

Daniel xx

13th December

The fireside

Dear Mab –

Much stronger today. Thank you for your letter; I read some sections of it to Dad tonight in front of the fire. We both sat bundled up in blankets like old folks in their home and chuckled over your words. Well, only I chuckled, but Dad seemed to follow along all right. What are these secret plans you’ve got hidden up your sleeve? Are they anything to do with the portraits? It’s all horribly intriguing.

Thank you for the cheque, too. I’ve given a little something extra to Maggie. She’s been working day and night here with the pair of us on our backs. I don’t know if she’s found time to sleep, except for catching a few winks in Dad’s chair.

I convinced her to take me out with her yesterday, when she took Tatty for a walk. We put my coat on over my pyjamas and stuffed my feet into trainers. Maggie tied my laces for me, as if I were a child being dressed for an outing. Then my feet start to work, one foot in front of the other, out of the front door, stepping over the tree roots that vein the pavement running down our street. The cracks and swells in the tarmac on display under the gloss of fresh rain.

There was rain in the air too; it washed against our faces and left us gasping. My feet were still working. I couldn’t help but marvel at their dogged progress. Maggie talked to Tatty and to me, huddled deep in her raincoat; I could only catch snatches of what she said. I felt like a lunatic, stumbling alongside them with my empty head, borne onwards by my marching feet. The rain got into my eyes so I had to squint and cold leached past cuffs, waistband and neckline, penetrating my flesh in a deep shiver. My mouth formed a word and dropped it into the sharp wind that rattled our raincoats.

‘What did you say?’ Maggie pulled her hood to one side and stepped closer.

‘Cold. I’m cold.’

‘We’ll get you back.’

I was glad to be able to send her home for a good night’s sleep with a few notes tucked down the front of her dress.

(Later)

Dad’s sleeping now, head flung back and mouth open. Giving his molars an airing. Even loading the fire doesn’t disturb him, though it’s an awkward business trying not to dislodge Tatty from her place on my feet. Everything’s
cosy tonight. Without the wretched TV blaring, we’re like a sentimental painting. The kind of thing Dad always hated.

It was kind of you to offer me a break – I spared Dad that part of your letter – but to be honest I’m probably best placed here for the moment. And yes, you have that in writing! I need to get my strength back and see what I can do for the old man. Looking back over the past months, I am ashamed of the little I’ve actually managed to achieve. I was too busy wishing myself elsewhere. I’ve written to my girlfriend and she understands my position. I’ve made an appointment with the doctor for Monday, for me to talk to him about Dad. There has to be more we can do.

There has been no word from Sarah and I don’t expect there to be. That’s an old dream and I have to let it go. You weren’t here when she first arrived, were you? That day when Dad came back from London with a strange girl tucked under his arm. His lifetime muse, plucked off the streets. Easy as picking a flower. I wonder what he took her from? Strange, but it never seemed to come up. It took Maggie to tell me what kind of a gift she really was; what he was really saying by bringing her here.
Here, son, here is your dead mother to play with.
‘The spit of her,’ Maggie said that night, as she came in to check on me. ‘It’s not healthy.’

It was the next day that he started digging that pond outside. I sat eating eggs and staring at the mother I couldn’t remember. Sarah drank her coffee and smiled. She asked me questions about school and put on another round of toast for me. We were so polite, sitting there at breakfast. Me in my school uniform, she in a borrowed robe and Dad outside hacking at the turf.

Dad had cut himself out, a sharp silhouette on clean white paper; you and I were the figures that folded out of him. Hand in hand we stood. The last figure, the fourth, a little ragged, a little stained, had been snipped cleanly away. So we hung either side of Dad, the blunt-cut stumps of our fingers unable to grasp. And he tacked on another. She fitted the template. What could go wrong? How could we possibly complain? We were the model family.

It’s strange to stumble past the portraits lined up in the studio. Me and Sarah and Dad, all gazing to the corners of the room.

Why aren’t you part of the pantomime, Mab? Whatever can it mean? Does it even matter?

Forgive this letter,

Daniel x

15th December

The Studio

Dear Aubrey –

So I phoned you during a session. You usually relish interruptions. I am your employee after all; I
should
be phoning during work hours. You complained enough when I phoned you at home. And I’ll have you know I recovered from more than a simple cold. It was flu. The doctor confirmed it (and that’s a real doctor, not one of your pet pharmacists). And I’m feeling much better, not that you asked. The joy I’m finding is not some passing phase or brainstorm. It’s a new clarity and I’m enjoying it.

I’m sorry that I put you to the trouble of renewing my prescription, but it can hardly be a surprise to you if I look for a chemical solution when I’m desperate. It was you who taught me that was the answer. I’m sure you can put your little white pills to better use on someone else.

I had a letter from Mab today suggesting Dad and I take a short holiday to the coast. She’s even sorted out a house for us. It’s not far, just a couple of hours’ drive. I’m going to take her up on her offer. It will do us both good to get away from this place for a while.

It means I won’t be bothering you for a while. Oh, what am I saying? If you’re good, I might send you a postcard.

Daniel

18th December

The Studio

Dear Mab –

We spent today packing for our holiday!

Dad’s bag of clothes and bathroom gear looks so small compared to the one of assorted medical supplies. I picked those up at the doctor’s the other day. I managed to get that appointment to talk to him about Dad. He was quite encouraging about the possibility of taking Dad away, but didn’t have any answers about speeding up Dad’s recovery. He just nodded on as I ran through what I do for him during the day. Do you think they practise those sympathetic smiles in front of a mirror?

I saved the reality of the trip until yesterday, when the nurse visited. She grumbled about the lack of notice, but conceded it was a good idea. I gathered this, of course, from her conversation with Dad. Too much to hope she might actually speak to me directly. She did accept the cup of tea I made for her, though I’m not convinced she drank it. I even felt able to stay in the house as she ministered to Dad’s leg. (It’s nothing serious, just a rash that built up under the catheter bag. She’s given me some cream so I can treat it while we’re away.)

I did catch her pushing an emergency number card into Dad’s top pocket. Obviously I wasn’t meant to see. Why
does
she hate me so much? Maggie, of all people, must have put her straight about the rumours.

As I packed the car, I couldn’t help feeling as if we were preparing for an escape rather than a holiday. I can’t be sure how much Dad knows about what’s going on. I’ve been keeping to the regular routine as much as possible, so as not to overexcite or worry him, but actually he seems to enjoy the disruption. He followed me round the living room today as I picked up things for the trip and sat and watched me as I tried to explain what would be happening tomorrow morning. He watches so intently, like a child. He’s given up even trying to speak lately, unless I refuse him a refill of his whisky or try and turn down the television.

Maybe I’m pinning too much hope on this trip. I must remember I’m packing Dad and me along with the bags. And the reason for all this careful preparation is to keep things as close to home as possible. It’s just another location. We will still be there.

Daniel x