The New Uncanny (26 page)

‘You’ve never been unfaithful?’

‘I’ve always liked women.’

I asked, ‘Do they like you?’

‘The local secretaries are friendly. Not that you can do anything. I can’t afford a “professional”.’

‘How often do you go to the pub?’

‘I’ve started popping in after work. My Billy has gone.’

‘For good?’

‘After university he’ll come running back to me, I can assure you of that. Around this time of night I’d always be talking to him. There’s a lot you can put in a kid, without his knowing it. My wife doesn’t have a word to say to me. She doesn’t like to do anything for me, either.’

‘Sexually?’

‘She might look large to you, but in the flesh she is even larger, and she crushes me like a gnat in bed. I can honestly say we haven’t had it off for eighteen years.’

‘Since Billy was born?’

He said, letting me caress him, ‘She never had much enthusiasm for it. Now she is indifferent... frozen... almost dead.’

I said, ‘People are more scared of their own passion than of anything else. But it’s a grim deprivation she’s made you endure.’

He nodded. ‘You dirty homos have a good time, I bet, looking at one another in toilets and that...’

‘People like to think so. But I’ve lived alone for five years.’

He said, ‘I am hoping she will die before me, then I might have a chance... We ordinary types carry on in these hateful situations for the single reason of the children and you’ll never have that.’

‘You’re right.’

He indicated photographs of me and my brother. ‘Without those babies, there is nothing for me. It is ridiculous to try to live for yourself alone.’

‘Don’t I know it? Unless one can find others to live for.’

‘I hope you do!’ he said. ‘But it can never be the same as your own.’

If the mortification of fidelity imperils love, there’s always the consolation of children. I had been Dad’s girl, his servant, his worshipper; my faith had kept him alive. It was a cult of personality he had set up, with my brother and me as his mirrors.

Now Mother opened the door – not so wide that she could see us, or us her – and announced that she was going to bed.

‘Good night,’ I called.

Dad was right about kids. But what could I do about it? I had bought an old factory at my own expense and had converted it into a theatre studio, a place where young people could work with established artists. I spent so much time in this building that I had moved my office there. It was where I would head when I left here, to sit in the café, seeing who would turn up and what they wanted from me, if anything. I was gradually divesting myself, as I aged, of all I’d accumulated. One of Father’s favorite works was Tolstoy’s ‘How Much Land Does a Man Need?’

I said, ‘With or without children, you are still a man. There are things you want that children cannot provide.’

He said, ‘We all, in this street, are devoted to hobbies.’

‘The women, too?’

‘They sew, or whatever. There’s never an idle moment. My son has written a beautiful essay on the use of time.’

He sipped his tea; the Beethoven, which was on repeat, boomed away. He seemed content to let me work on his legs. Since he didn’t want me to stop, I asked him to lie on the floor. With characteristic eagerness, he removed his dressing gown and then his pajama top; I massaged every part of him, murmuring ‘Dad, Dad’ under my breath. When at last he stood up, I was ready with his warm dressing gown, which I had placed on the radiator.

It was late, but not too late to leave. It was never too late to leave the suburbs, but Dad invited me to stay. I agreed, though it hadn’t occurred to me that he would suggest I sleep in my old room, in my bed.

He accompanied me upstairs and in I went, stepping over record sleeves, magazines, clothes, books. My piano I was most glad to see. I can still play a little, but my passion was writing the songs that were scrawled in notebooks on top of the piano. Not that I would be able to look at them. When I began to work in the theatre, I didn’t show my songs to anyone, and eventually I came to believe they were a waste of time.

Standing there shivering, I had to tell myself the truth: my secret wasn’t that I hadn’t propagated but that I’d wanted to be an artist, not just a producer. If I chose, I could blame my parents for this: they had seen themselves as spectators, in the background of life. But I was the one who’d lacked the guts – to fail, to succeed, to engage with the whole undignified, insane attempt at originality. I had only ever been a handmaiden, first to Dad and then to others – the artists I’d supported – and how could I have imagined that that would be sufficient?

My bed was narrow. Through the thin ceiling, I could hear my father snoring; I knew whenever he turned over in bed. It was true that I had never heard them making love. Somehow, between them, they had transformed the notion of physical love into a ridiculous idea. Why would people want to do something so awkward with their limbs?

I couldn’t hear Mother. She didn’t snore, but she could sigh for England. I got up and went to the top of the stairs. By the kitchen light I could see her in her dressing gown, stockings around her ankles, trudging along the hall and into each room, wringing her hands as she went, muttering back to the ghosts clamoring within her skull.

She stood still to scratch and tear at her exploded arms. During the day, she kept them covered because of her ‘eczema.’ Now I watched while flakes of skin fell onto the carpet, as though she were converting herself into dust. She dispersed the shreds of her body with her delicately pointed dancer’s foot.

As a child – even as a young man – I would never have approached Mother in this state. She had always made it clear that the uproar and demands of two boys were too much for her. Naturally, she couldn’t wish for us to die, so she died herself, inside.

One time, my therapist asked whether Dad and I were able to be silent together. More relevant, I should have said, was whether Mother and I could be together without my chattering on about whatever occurred to me, in order to distract her from herself. Now I made up my mind and walked down the stairs, watching her all the while. She was like difficult music, and you wouldn’t want to get too close. But, as with such music, I wouldn’t advise trying to make it out – you have to sit with it, wait for it to address you.

I was standing beside her, and with her head down she looked at me sideways.

‘I’ll make you some tea,’ I said, and she even nodded.

Before, during one of her late-night wanderings, she had found me masturbating in front of some late-night TV program. It must have been some boy group, or Bowie. ‘I know what you are,’ she said. She was not disapproving. She was just a lost ally.

I made a cup of lemon tea and gave it to her. As she stood sipping it, I took up a position beside her, my head bent also, attempting to see – as she appeared to vibrate with inner electricity – what she saw and felt. It was clear that there was no chance of my ever being able to cure her. I could only become less afraid of her madness.

In his bed, Father was still snoring. He wouldn’t have liked me to be with her. He had taken her sons for himself, charmed them away, and he wasn’t a sharer.

She was almost through with the tea and getting impatient. Wandering, muttering, scratching: she had important work to do and time was passing. I couldn’t detain her anymore.

I slept in her chair in the front room.

When I got up, my parents were having breakfast. My father was back in his suit and my mother was in the uniform she wore to work in the supermarket. I dressed rapidly in order to join Dad as he walked to the station. It had stopped raining.

I asked him about his day, but couldn’t stop thinking about mine. I was living, as my therapist enjoyed reminding me, under the aegis of the clock. I wanted to go to the studio and talk; I wanted to eat well and make love well, go to a show and then dance, and make love again. I could not be the same as them.

At the station in London, Father and I parted. I said I’d always look out for him when I was in the area, but couldn’t be sure when I’d be coming his way again.

IT MUST HAVE been Spring 2005. Which means we’d only been going out for a few weeks. The relationship was definitely still in its Frequently Asked Questions phase – the sitting up late, swapping childhood stories bit. Adé had a big advantage there. He was brought up in Ghana. Everything about his past was new to me. The names of streets, soft drinks, TV favourites, top ten tunes – they were all delicious and fresh. I had to spice up my own past just to justify opening my mouth. There was a story my mother used to tell about the four year old me, how I’d tried to cure a headache by pressing a Junior Aspirin to my temple, instead of swallowing it. I never believed it. Whenever she told it, I winced. But I told that story now, along with half a dozen others, as though I really remembered them, as though I’d never told them to anyone else. I turned myself into a fictional character, just to keep the conversation going. Cousins, aunts, teachers became cartoon franchises. My first real boyfriend, Peter Dillon – the one whose parents got divorced and then married each other again – I made it sound like they did that every week.

Then we got to the ‘I’d really like to meet your family, Sue’ phase. What do you do then? You either say, ‘Look I’ve exaggerated. My mother is not, in fact, some sort of obsessive compulsive hygiene terrorist. She’s just a bit fussy.’ Or it’s goodbye. I booked a pair of Awayday Weekend Saver Firsts and took him to Carlisle. From the minute we arrived, I was apologising for the place. Carlisle has a rich, dramatic history but let’s be honest, it’s over. If you wanted to see Carlisle at its best you had to be here during the Roman occupation.

‘Stop it,’ said Adé. ‘To me this town is the Theme Park of Sue. I want to see it all.’

He really did talk like that. My mother fell for him obviously. And my sisters. The four of them sat, wrapt, as he told them the name of his street, favourite soft drink, and TV programme. He sang them his top ten tunes. In the end I had to borrow a car and drive him to Silloth just to get a word in.

‘Silloth? What d’you want to take him to Silloth for?’

‘He’s never seen the English seaside.’

‘Silloth’s not a seaside. Silloth’s mud flats.’

‘It has an Edwardian promenade, and is home to breathtaking flocks of wader birds.’

‘He’s seen birds. They have birds in Africa.’

‘Different birds.’

‘Better ones. Why would he want to see barnacle geese when he’s got flamingos at home.’

‘Mother, just give me the car keys.’

Silloth of course is where Peter Dillon used to live. Everyone fantasises about bumping into their ex in the company of a fabulous new partner. But that really, really is not why we went to Silloth. Or why we walked up all the way to the far end of the promenade where his house stood, staring out across the mud.

As we passed I said, ‘If you wanted to see Silloth when it was buzzing, you really had to be here before the ice age.’

‘Sue, stop it.’

‘See that house there? See the porch? That’s where I had my first proper snog.’

‘Can we go and take a closer look?’

‘No we can’t. His Mum and Dad are probably home.’

‘Probably in the middle of a divorce.’

‘Or a wedding.’

But we did go into that porch. And we did ring that doorbell. There was no reply at first. I peeped in at the window, shading my eyes with my hand. And there they were, Peter’s parents, sitting at opposite ends of the couch, as still and vacant as Playmobil. Mortified, I tried to duck down out of sight, but his mother got up in one single sudden movement, stood for a second as if deciding what to do, then swiveled towards me and smiled.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said when she answered the door, ‘I couldn’t just pass the house without saying hello.’

‘Hello,’ she echoed. ‘Come in.’

Her tone was welcoming but impersonal, like a supermarket greeter. Did that bother me? Did I even notice? Not then. I had my own agenda. I was there to show them how well I’d done without their precious Peter. I was there to get Adé to eclipse my past. We went in. I wish we hadn’t.

Peter was there. In the garden playing penalties with a little red headed girl. When he heard we were there, he came straight in, all smiles. His parents were all smiles. They asked all the polite questions. Adé gave new and fascinating answers. I said that Peter hadn’t changed. Which he hadn’t. And nor had the house. There was the cupboard with the board games in, the bookshelf full of carefully chronological photo albums. There was even still a shelf of films on VHS. The little girl in the garden reminded me of his little sister, Ruthie – the same brass coloured hair. I was beginning to feel warm and nostalgic, which wasn’t in the plan, which wasn’t comfortable. Anyway, I’d made my point the moment Adé walked through the door. Hanging around would just be rubbing it in. So I said no thanks to tea and headed for the door.

Peter, his Mum and his Dad, all followed us to the door. A bit too closely to be honest, crowding us the way kittens crowd you when you’re opening the Whiskas. ‘You must stay to tea,’ smiled his Mum.

And I thought, yes, of course we must. Adé has never had a full-on Cumbrian spread. Of course we must stay to tea. Peter leaned forward, like he was going to whisper something, or kiss me on the cheek. But before he got close enough, he pulled back suddenly. He turned – almost span – on his heel and stepped away from me. It was the suddenness of it really. A mechanical, almost involuntary suddenness. I’d seen that movement once before. Ten years before. Seeing it again, here, I remembered. The two instances connected, they made a story. But not one I could share with Adé.

We didn’t stay to tea.

‘I would’ve liked to stay,’ said Adé as we walked into the wind along the promenade. ‘They seemed so happy. The happiest family I’ve ever seen. Peter seems like a good guy, too. I love the way he plays with that little girl. Is that his daughter?’

All his questions seemed like moves in a game I didn’t want to play any more. I drove home in silence. I haven’t really seen him since. I don’t see anyone much anymore.