They Do the Same Things Different There (42 page)

At length she rolled off, and thanked me, and kissed me on the mouth. The kiss was nice. I grant you that, the kiss was nice. She curled up beside me and went to sleep. Then she turned away from me altogether and I was alone, so alone.

The curtains were still open, but there was no light spilling into the room, it was just black and bleak out there. And from my position I couldn’t crane my head to see whether there was any light coming through the pane on the bottom left.

I didn’t want to wake Lisa. I got out of bed very gently. It was cold. My pyjama trousers had got lost somewhere. I’d have had to have turned on the bedside lamp to find them. I wasn’t going to turn on the bedside lamp.

I went straight to the pane, I looked out.

As before, the pathway to the centre was lit by sparkling pebbles. But this time the snow was falling in droves, big clumps of it, and every flake seemed to catch the moon, and each one of them was like a little lamp lighting up the whole garden. The flowers were in bloom. It was ridiculous, but the flowers were in bloom—the blanket of red and white roses was thick and warm, and the snow fell upon it, and the roses didn’t care, the roses knew they could melt that snow, they had nothing to fear from it. I looked out at where Lisa had planted the hyacinths and the tulips—it was, as she’d said, like a wave of blue breaking upon a brightly coloured shore.

And at the fountain itself. Ian was throwing up all the water he had inside him, and he had so
much
water, he was never going to run out, was he? But I would have thought his face would have been distressed—it was not distressed. The worst you could say about the expression he wore was that it was resigned. Ian Wheeler had a job to do, and he was going to do it. It wasn’t a pleasant job, but he wasn’t one to complain, he’d just do the very best he could. And the flowers were growing around him too, and vines were twisting up his body and tightening around his neck.

Over the sound of the fountain I heard another noise now. Less regular. The sound of something dragging over loose stone. Something heavy, but determined; it seemed that every lurch across the stone was done with great weariness, but it wasn’t going to stop—it might be
slow
, but it wasn’t going to stop. And I can’t tell you why, but I suddenly felt a cold terror icing down my body, so cold that it froze my body still and I could do nothing but watch.

And into view at last shuffled Max. He was naked. And the snow was falling all around him, and I could see that it was falling fast and drenching him when it melted against his skin, but he didn’t notice, he was like the roses, he didn’t care, he didn’t stop. Forcing himself forward, but calmly, so deliberately, each step an effort but an effort he was equal to. Further up the path, following the trail of sparkling pebbles to the fountain. Following the yellow brick road.

I tried looking through the other panes. Nothing but darkness, and the snow falling so much more gently. I wanted only to look at that garden, at that reality. But I could hear the sound from the other garden so much more clearly, I couldn’t
not
hear it, the agonized heave of Max’s body up the path. The flow of running water, the way it gushed and spilled, all that noise, all of it, it was pulling him along. I had to look. I did.

Once in a while the bends of the path would turn Max around so that he was facing me. And I could see that dead face—no, not dead, not vacant even, it was filled with purpose, but it wasn’t a purpose I understood and it had nothing to do with the Max I had loved for so many years. I could see his skin turning blue with the cold. I could see his penis had shrunk away almost to nothing.

And now, too soon—he had reached the statue of his dead son. At last he stopped, as if to contemplate it. As if to study the workmanship!—his head tilted to one side. And maybe his son contemplated him in return, but if he did, he still never stopped spewing forth all that water, all the water there was in the world. Then—Max was moving again, he was using his last reserves of energy, he was stepping into the freezing pond, he was wading over to the stone angel, raising an arm, then both arms, he was reaching out to it. And I thought I could hear him howling. He was, he was howling.

I battered at the window. I tried again to open it. The catch wouldn’t lift; the catch was so cold it hurt.

But Max had his son in his arms now, wrapping his arms about him tightly, he was hugging him for dear life, and he was crying out—he was screaming with such love and such despair. And then, then, he fell silent, and that was more terrible still—and he put his mouth to his son’s, he opened his mouth wide and pressed it against those stone lips, and the water splashed against his face and against his chest, and yet he kissed his son closer, he plugged the flow of water, he took it all inside and swallowed it down.

The window gave. The rush of cold air winded me. I called out. “Max!” I shouted. “Max!” But there was nothing to be seen now the window was open, nothing but dead space, dead air, blackness.

“Darling,” said Lisa.

I turned around. She was awake.

“Darling,” she said. “Darling, close the window. Come back to bed.” She patted the mattress beside her in a manner I assumed was enticing.

I closed the window. I looked through the pane once more, I looked through every pane, and there was nothing to make out, the moon was behind the clouds, the darkness was full and unyielding. I went back to bed. I did as I was told.

I had fully intended to go to church the next morning. I had made a promise, and I keep my promises. But when I woke up the house was empty. Max and Lisa had gone without me. I made myself a cup of tea, and waited for them to come back. Eventually, of course, they did. All smiles, both looking so smart, Max in particular was very handsome in his suit. “Sorry, matey,” said Max. “I popped my head around your door, but you looked like you needed the extra sleep! Hope you don’t mind!” And Lisa just smiled.

Neither of them said a word about the adventures of the night before, and neither treated me any differently. Lisa had told me she’d cook a big peasant’s breakfast, and she was as good as her word—bacon, eggs, and sausages she said were from pigs freshly slaughtered by a farmer friend she’d made. Then we settled down in the lounge, and shared the Sunday newspaper, each reading different sections then swapping when we were done. It was nice.

Some time early afternoon, though, Max looked at the clock, and said, “Best you get back home, John! I’ve things that need doing!” And I hugged Lisa goodbye, and Max drove me to the railway station, and we hugged too and I thanked him for the weekend.

We drifted apart. I don’t know who drifted from whom; I doubt it was anything as deliberate as that. No, wait, I sent them a Christmas card, and they didn’t respond. So they’re the ones who drifted. They drifted, and I stayed where I was, exactly the same.

That would be the end of the story. I had heard from an old school friend that a couple of years later Max and Lisa had separated. It was just gossip, and I don’t know whether it was true or not, and I felt sorry for them just the same.

That was maybe six months ago. Recently I received a letter.

Dear John,

You may have heard that Max and I have gone our different ways! It was quite sad at the time, but it was very amicable, and I’m sure one day we will be good friends.

But sometimes when something has died, you just have to accept it, and move on.

I still have the house. Max was very generous, to be fair. All he wanted was half of the money, and the fountain from the garden. We had to dig it up, and I’m afraid it has made the garden a bit of an eyesore! I tried to tell Max it won’t work, it was specially designed to fit with all our underground piping, but as you know, there’s no talking to Max!

I’m going to rethink the garden. I’m sure I can make it even better.

All the locals have been very nice, and they’re attentive as ever in their own way. But I don’t know. I think perhaps they liked Max more than they ever liked me.

If you would like to stay again, that would make me very happy.

Maybe I shouldn’t say this. But that night we spent together was very special. It was a special night. And I think of you often. Sometimes I think you’re the one who could save me. Sometimes I think you could give me meaning.

But regardless. Thank you for always being such a good friend to me and Max, and for being best man at the wedding, and any other duties you took on.

Best regards,

Lisa Howell (once Briggs).

I haven’t written back yet. I might.

The woman at the front desk smiled at him sympathetically, and he thought nothing of that, she smiled sympathetically at everyone. But as he walked down the corridors to his wife’s private room even the nurses were at it, and one or two of the doctors, they were nodding at him in acknowledgement and offering good mornings. He didn’t question it, didn’t think about what all that might mean. But when he opened the door and he saw Helen sitting upright on the bed, and she was fully dressed, and her eyes were sparkling, and she looked so healthy and happy and
young
, he supposed he had guessed it, he supposed this is what he thought must have happened.

“Oh God,” he said. And, “No. No.”

Helen spoke to him then. “Hello, baby,” she said, and she hadn’t spoken to him in months, not properly, not with any real understanding of what she was saying or who he was, any words she’d said had come out like staccato grunts. And now she was calling him baby, just as she’d always used to, and he burst into tears, he couldn’t help it.

“Hey,” she said. “Hey. It’s all right.” And she got up from the bed, and came toward him, as if movement was no problem at all, as if the exercise of limbs wasn’t some slow torture. She stood close, she didn’t touch him, he didn’t know why.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“It’s a shock.”

“It
is
a shock,” he agreed. “Yes. Wow. Yes.” Yesterday he’d sat beside her, and he’d talked to her about nothing in particular, and he’d stroked her hair, and he’d held her hand. And she’d done nothing, not a thing, save grasping onto his finger when he tried to leave.

“I love you,” she said.

He didn’t even think about that just yet. “It’s too soon,” he said. “They told me you had ages. Another year, even. I haven’t. I haven’t had time to
prepare
.” And he was crying again, Christ. And he was angry with himself for that—and still Helen towered close, and it seemed as if her arms were itching to put themselves around him and give him some comfort. He realized at last why she hadn’t hugged him—she was shy, and that was so ridiculous, they’d been married forty-three years! So he put his arms around her waist, and held her instead, and she hugged him back, tightly, gratefully, and on he cried but he felt so much better.

“Do I look all right?” she asked.

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and she was.

She was taller, and plumper, but plump in all the right ways. Her balding white hair was now thick and brown and down to her shoulders. She had hips and long legs and she had breasts. She seemed altogether much bigger than he remembered, and that was the greatest surprise, how over the years she must have shrunk in on herself and he’d not thought to notice. The room around her now seemed small, like a box; it was just a box; it was the best room he’d been able to afford, and it was pretty enough, and she was on her own here, and the wallpaper was pink and there was a television in the corner and flowers. But now it was a box, and she’d been boxed up here for nearly two years, that was long enough.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

Now they walked down the corridor together, and the doctors and nurses were all smiling at the sight of them, but they were sorry too. “Take care, Mrs. Marshall,” said the woman who had used to turn her bed. “We’ll miss you, Helen, you’ve been lovely,” said the woman who’d injected her each morning. And Helen smiled back at them all, and nodded, and looked a bit awkward, as if she didn’t really know who all these people were.

Doctor Phillips was waiting at the exit, he must have been informed. He shook Helen Marshall firmly by the hand and told her that she’d been a kind patient, not many of his patients had been so kind. He shook Mr. Marshall’s hand too, and called him sir, and told him to be brave, and that he was sorry for his loss.

“We thought we’d have longer,” said Mr. Marshall. “You told me we’d have longer.” And Doctor Phillips just shook his head, and offered his hand once more.

The woman at the front desk with the sympathetic face smiled at them both sympathetically, and asked Mr. Marshall how he wanted to settle the final bill. Mr. Marshall handed her his credit card, and she swiped it.

Mr. Marshall wasn’t there to witness his mother’s last day. Dad was still alive back then, and he’d said he wanted her to himself. That seemed fair enough, and Mr. Marshall made his farewells to his mother every time he visited her, just in case he never saw her again. One day his dad called and said that his mother was gone. Mr. Marshall didn’t know what to say. Was it peaceful? “Yes,” his dad had said, “it was peaceful.”

For his dad, it had been another matter entirely. There was no one else left for Dad. He’d driven out to see him at the old family house, and there was his dad waiting for him, in the front driveway, all teeth and muscles, and wearing a flannel sports jacket. “Hey hey!” Dad had said. Dad wanted to spend his last day at a cricket match, so that’s what they had done. His dad seemed fit enough to play cricket himself if he wanted to, and Mr. Marshall knew he’d played in a team when he was younger, wouldn’t he rather do that? “No, no,” said Dad; spectating would be just fine. Mr. Marshall had never much enjoyed cricket, but they sat there together in the crowd, and Dad would tell him at which points he should be excited and whether anyone was playing well or not. Afterwards they went to the pub and drank beer and talked about girls, and it was easy to forget that the man ogling the barmaids beside him who was stronger and bolder and wittier than he had ever been was his old father; more than that, it was easy to forget they had anything in common at all. At the end of the day Mr. Marshall had driven his dad back home; “Thanks,” said Dad, “that was perfect, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way,” and he really seemed to believe that. He left his dad there, then; he asked him whether he’d like some company for the very end, and Dad said no, he’d be all right. It had been such a good day, why risk spoiling it? And sometimes now, when the cricket played on television, Mr. Marshall would sit down and watch it, and think of his dad, and almost enjoy the game for his sake.

Helen had been dying for such a long time. It had crept over her slowly. She had been the only woman he had ever loved, someone who had never failed to make his heart race, someone who always made him feel lucky and proud—and death had
crept
over her, so slowly, so carefully, it took away her looks, it took away her memory, it took away her
self
. Mr. Marshall had tried taking care of her for a while, until it became clear he really didn’t know what he was doing, and his wife stood a better chance of happiness if he put her away in a home—and if not a chance of happiness, then a chance of comfort maybe, or at least a chance of a few months’ extra life.

And the only consolation Mr. Marshall had allowed himself was that he was being given lots of notice. So that when her time was up, he could have everything ready. He’d have tickets for a London show, a musical, Helen liked those, the very best seats in the house, they could watch it in a private box if she wanted! He’d take her out to some fancy restaurant, and they’d stuff themselves with everything on the menu. They’d go to the seaside maybe. If the weather was nice. They’d go to the seaside, and walk along the beach, and kick at the sand, and they’d hold hands, and stare out at the sea, and stare out at the horizon, and they’d wait for the sun to go down.

He’d give her back everything the disease had stolen. Just for a little while. Just for as long as they were given.

“I’m taking you to the seaside,” Mr. Marshall told his wife, as they went out into the hospice car park.

“That sounds nice,” she said.

She got into the car beside him. He wished he’d tidied it up, the passenger seat was strewn with empty crisp bags; sometimes after he visited Helen he’d stop at a service station and buy bags of crisps and eat them parked on the forecourt. He pushed the rubbish onto the floor, he hoped she wouldn’t comment, and she didn’t.

“Oh God,” he said. “Nothing’s prepared. I wanted everything prepared.” And just for a moment he gave in. He leaned forward, he pressed his head upon the steering wheel in despair.

She stroked the back of his neck. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No,” he said. “You’re right. You’re with me now.”

“I’m with you now, baby.”

“And we’re going to the seaside!”

“Yes! Let’s do that!”

“Could you pass me the map?” he said. “It’s in the glove compartment.”

“I’ll need to go home first, baby,” said Helen. “I need to change.” It was true. She was bursting out of her clothes. And besides, they were old lady clothes, even Mr. Marshall could quite see they didn’t suit her.

They drove home. Oh, he wished he’d tidied up the house too. He said to her, “You rush in, I’ll wait here in the car. Don’t be long, we don’t have a minute to lose. We want to miss the traffic.”

She said, “Baby, I’ve got to go through my things. I can’t remember what I have to wear, I threw so much out! I’ve got to go through it all. And I want to put on some lippie, I feel naked without it. I won’t be too long, come indoors with me.”

“No,” he said, “it’ll be quicker if I wait in the car.”

She took his keys, and left the car, and let herself into the house.

He waited twenty minutes, then decided to go in after her.

She took another three quarters of an hour, and he paced up and down in the kitchen, and he fretted. When she appeared he forgave her at once. Her hair was done up the way he’d always liked it, her face was full of colour, and she was wearing a red dress that made her look so pretty it took his breath away.

“I hung onto this for years,” she said. “You know. Just in case.”

At first they made good progress on the A23. Helen said that when they’d gone on outings they’d sung songs along the way, did he remember? And Mr. Marshall did remember! Though he couldn’t necessarily remember what. So she taught him “Summer Holiday,” she sang it over and over again, and the words came back to him, and eventually they stuck. It was fun, although it was hardly summer yet, it was only May.

They didn’t talk much. When she’d been sick he’d talked to her non-stop. He’d found a way of filling the silences even though he’d had nothing to say—because there was never any news to share with her, all that he was doing with his life was visiting her in the hospice every single day. He’d talked, though; and he’d supposed she might be listening, he’d hoped that even if she weren’t able to understand what the words meant that the sound of his voice would be a comfort. But now, side-by-side in the car, he felt embarrassed. Still, they sang. And as he reached for the gearstick his hand brushed hers, she’d been lying in wait for it, she caught hold of it and grasped it tight. All the time looking ahead out of the windscreen quite innocently, as if she were doing nothing at all, just enjoying the scenery and singing Cliff Richard. And she tickled his palm with her fingernails, and he felt happy.

“How long do we have?” he asked suddenly. “You know, before?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“No.”

“I’m sure we’ll get our full day. Everyone gets a full day.”

He said, “We can have fish and chips tonight! The fish is better by the sea. I’m going to have battered cod and mushy peas!”

She said, “And I’ll have the haddock, if there’s any fresh!”

A little outside Lewes the cars ahead began to slow. “This won’t be a traffic jam,” he reassured her, “don’t worry.” But it was a traffic jam. Pretty soon they were just inching forward. All around them the cars were honking their horns in frustration. He did the same.

“That doesn’t do any good, baby,” Helen said mildly.

“Bloody hell,” he said, and fumed.

“Well, there’s not much we can do.”

“We could have set out earlier, that’s what we could have done,” Mr. Marshall said. “And who wears a bloody dress to the bloody beach anyway?” He felt sorry. “Bloody hell,” he said again, quietly.

She didn’t say anything for a while. He stole a look at her to see whether she was cross, or whether she was sulking. She didn’t seem to be either.

He said, “Are you frightened?”

She turned to him, frowned, tried to work out what he was talking about. Then she said, “Yes. A little bit.”