Tomorrow (11 page)

18

PICTURE US, ANYWAY
—and mock us, if you will—in our bedroom in Herne Hill, in the first weak light of dawn, our backs grimly turned on each other, waiting, hoping for a little duvet-denting pounce. After the fifth or sixth day, even this pathetic scene would have looked more pitiful still. The fact is, Otis wouldn’t have been there, but nor would your dad. You’d have seen your mother lying by herself with just a dip in the sheet where your dad had been.

I never urged him to it. On the other hand, I never told him not to. I never said: don’t be a fool. Your dad, who could hardly blame himself for Otis’s disappearance, nevertheless, after a certain while, saw it as his duty, his vaguely penitential mission to get Otis back. The days of his dawn patrols.

I’d pretend still to be asleep or at least I’d never acknowledge his slipping from the bed. I’d give the impression, perhaps, that this was behaviour I only expected and would even have demanded. There’s a word, perhaps, for
my
behaviour. I’d be aware of him getting up and stepping carefully across the room. A little later, I’d hear the click of the front door being gently shut behind him. I wouldn’t move.

It may be hard for you to imagine your father—though it may become tomorrow’s presiding image—like some vagrant without a home. When these days he drives a top-of-the-range Saab, and in any case has the occasional services of a driver, in a dove-grey jacket and peaked cap, to pick him up, often me as well, and drive him hither and thither (I’m talking, of course, about Tony, in his black Mercedes, who’s stopped threatening—I know it wouldn’t look cool—also to drop you off at school). It may be hard to picture your father wandering like a lost soul round the streets of Herne Hill. But I still see him doing it and never without a pang.

I’m seeing him doing it now, though he’s here beside me, as if the whole sorry phenomenon could be weirdly transposed, even now, to Putney. And I think Mike still dreams of it—those dreams we all have of impossible searches, unendable tasks. He may be dreaming of it this very minute. He’s back there, tonight, in those dawn streets, looking for Otis again.

I didn’t force him to do it, but once the pattern was established, it couldn’t be abandoned. It became a kind of ritual, a superstition. Your scientific father, your hard-hearted mum. Our cat might already have perished, but if your father missed one of these sorties, then Otis was surely doomed.

I don’t know what he actually
did.
But I suppose he did what anyone committed to such a desperate exercise would have done. He kept his eyes open, he scoured the gutters and kerbs. He looked under parked cars, among putout dustbins. He stood listening intently, perhaps, beside plastic-sheeted skips. And, of course, he would have called out. Perhaps reluctantly and softly at first, feeling an idiot, not wishing neighbours stirring in their beds to hear what might sound like the cry of some lunatic, but then loudly, unashamedly: “Otis! Otis!” A cry we’d both got used to uttering, sometimes to the accompaniment of a rattled box of cat-crunchies, and to hearing fall, bleakly, on empty air.

The theory was that at dawn errant cats—or returning, limping-home cats—would be conspicuous, a reasonable enough theory. In the hour or so before human traffic starts, cats own the streets. And your dad must have seen them. He must have seen black cats and since, at a distance, one black cat can look much like another, your father’s heart must sometimes have raced…But no, it wasn’t Otis.

Picture your father in tracksuit and trainers. A rare sight now, though remember he was thirty-three then, and what else, at that time of the morning, should he have worn? At that hour, apart from cats, a sparse turn-out of dedicated joggers would have been the only other life around.

And I confess that your dad and I, as we passed thirty, had been seized by one of those keep-fit fevers that can strike couples at about that age, and nowadays even seem the norm. Don’t assume, my shrimps, that you will be immune. Not that either of us, if I say it myself, was in poor shape. But in our case you might say it was something more than the regular malaise. I think our unspoken argument may have gone like this: if it’s to be just us, then let us be a specimen pair, let us be trim and exemplary—adverts for non-issue. Forgive us. Though in your dad’s case it wasn’t so simple and even worked in reverse. I think your father (the qualified biologist) may actually have thought that if he exercised and sweated and generally pumped up the virility, then perhaps—who knows?—that slovenly sperm count of his…

When all’s said, I started going to a gym—and, as you know, I still do. Your father, only getting what Tim Harvey paid him, started to jog (or to use his word, “run”). And his exertions lasted about a month. But he kept the tracksuit and trainers, still in almost-new condition, and now, for these Otis-searching forays, out they came again. A perfect alibi, in fact. He wasn’t a suspicious and possibly demented loiterer, he was just an early-morning jogger. He just happened to be peering under a Volkswagen.

And, needless to say, he’d steal back home after these vain quests, a little like a cat himself, hoping, every time, that Otis would have beaten him to it and slipped in, in his old way, by the back door. That when he returned to the bedroom, unzipping his tracksuit, I’d be awake and smiling and saying: “Look who’s here.”

That was my wish too, believe me. But the truth is that when he crept back I’d be awake, but still rigorously pretending to sleep, as if unaware he’d ever gone. He’d take off the tracksuit and get back in beside me, I’d sense his cool skin appreciating the warmth, and I’d almost hear him contemplating the wisdom or total folly of sidling up to me and whispering in my ear some sweet lie: It’s okay, I saw him, in Winterbourne Road. I couldn’t catch him, but I saw him, he’s okay. He’ll be back in his own good time.

I still see him out there—your poor dad, I mean. In my vision the streets are mockingly peaceful, as they would be at that time. The houses are still slumbering, their curtains drawn. The sky is a rosy grey. Not such a bad time of day to be up and about in, once in a while. And it was spring. A green haze on the trees, a tingle in the air, even in Herne Hill. The birds would have been chirping. Not so peaceful in fact, and only more mocking: it was the mating season. Quite. And among the many, groping theories for Otis’s decampment was precisely that. That he’d been searching for—he’d found—a mate. Though, in his sad anatomical condition, how could that have possibly worked?

Picture us both lying in bed again, back to back, like two curled-away-from-each-other foetuses, as if no strange expedition had just occurred.

But the truth is your dad used to do that little disappearing act
anyway.
He even still does it now and then. You may have noticed and you may have wondered—I hope not too much—what exactly is going on. On the other hand, both of you are usually far beyond consciousness in the early hours of the morning. I hope you are now.

Your dad would get up, I mean, and leave the bed—not to roam the streets, just to leave it and come back. Just for twenty minutes or so. He’d slip on his dressing gown. He’d pad around the house or sit quietly somewhere communing with it, listening to the little creaks and clicks and murmurs houses make when everything else is hushed. I suppose you’d have said, Kate, a few years back, that he was communing with Edward. At Davenport Road, who would it have been? Dave?

These days, of course, he has that expensively kitted-out study to retreat to—almost, I sometimes think, a kind of house within a house. He often goes there in the early hours (but not this morning, I fancy) to do a dawn stint of Living-World work, which you may think is as odd as his roaming the streets. It’s the pressure of success, it’s valuable time that has to be found. Except he still finds time (I’m glad to say) to come back a while to bed.

But this habit of your father’s began long ago, before there was any pressure of success, when we first moved to Herne Hill and first acquired that novel but slightly sobering possession, a house. A habit or a game? He’d get up anyway, very early, just for “the sheer pleasure,” he’d say, of coming back. Married life, how grown-up people behave. The game involved, if I was awake, my pretending to sleep while he tiptoed away. On the other hand, if I
was
asleep, his very absence, soundlessly accomplished though it was, would often be the cause of waking me, as if I knew something was wrong. I’d reach out a hand and find an empty space. I was alone! And if I wanted to, I could indulge the frisson of a panic, a terror, a desolation I knew wasn’t real.

Easy enough in those days, not so easy now. A game, or not such a game? There are all those apparent “games” of animals which, as Professor Mike will tell you, look like play but are really serious training and preparation underneath. Was Otis playing a game with us?

A little benign dissembling, like the joy of finding a bad dream was only a dream. A little delicious feigned absence and desertion. It became our favourite time anyway, even before Otis was there to egg things along. Your dad would simply return from his bogus disappearance, somewhere in the far reaches of the house. I’d pretend sometimes to be just waking up. Or I’d be staring at that indentation in the sheet.

He’d get in and nuzzle up. Here I am after all, I hadn’t vanished, I hadn’t gone. Here I am, it’s me, all present and correct.

And it still happens, in the first light, to the first sound of birds. How wonderful life is.

19

IT’S GONE THREE A.M.
It’s getting closer. Not “tomorrow,” I can’t play that trick on myself for much longer. Today, today: the soft drumming of the rain seems to be saying it over and over.

Whatever else you’re about to discover, I hope there’s one thing you don’t need to be told: that you came from happiness. Wherever else you came from, that’s surely the main thing. I’m telling you about one of our worst times, but that’s only to throw up the other thing, the truer thing. So—we had our patch of rough weather. Who doesn’t? And in the grand scale, how does it rate? Our cat went missing. Hardly an earthquake.

And in the grand scale, how will this impending day rate, if you know that, underneath, you came from happiness? Happiness breeds happiness: it’s as simple as that? It’s not biology, but it’s the best and the soundest system of reproduction. It’s the best beginning and the best upbringing, all other circumstances aside, that anyone could ask for.

Though arguably, of course, it’s also the worst, the very worst, and parents can never win, nor children. It only leaves you unprepared and unarmed for all the knocks and frights. Like tomorrow. Let’s still call it that.

Look at Mike dreaming away here, as innocent as you are, right now, of what’s to come. Don’t wake yet, Mikey, sleep on. I swore to myself last night that I wouldn’t let him wake up first, alone. He can still play that waking-first game—but he’s here now already, and if I wasn’t afraid of waking him, I’d be holding him tight. I have the shivery feeling that he won’t be here any more, not after tomorrow.

There used to be a game, I suppose there still is though I don’t think there’s so much call for it now, called Happy Families. A simple, popular and platitudinous card game. Shuffle the pack, then put the families together: the smiling Mr. Baker with the smiling Mrs. Baker, and the two of them with the smiling little Bakers, so they all match up and beam. Not a popular game any more, and “happy families” these days, maybe, is a glaring misnomer, a contradiction in terms. Perhaps it always has been. Happiness, yes, families, yes—but the two together, forget it. The very idea is a fantasy from which we all have to wake up sooner or later. Would this Hook family, with its crooked name, have been a happy family
anyway
?

You got the one thing and not the other, and the rarer and the more important by far. Is that how you’ll take it? A minor point, what we do with the fantasy. Family-shamilies, what do they really matter?

I’ve never had the Edward-fantasy, Kate. I’ve never thought any house I’ve lived in was like a person. Though I’m intrigued. Was this Edward (is he still?) like a friend? A father? A live-in lover? But I’ve often thought about the houses I’ve lived in, including this one, and wondered if the people who lived in it before were happy. Is there happiness in the fabric, in the bricks and walls, or is there still unevaporated sadness, a mildew of sorrow? That’s just as daft, I’m sure, as dreaming up an Edward. How many here, before us—since this house was built? The people we bought Davenport Road from were called the Mallinsons, the people who sold us this place were called the Sutcliffes. Were they happy?

A “happy home”: that’s another inherent misnomer perhaps, another fantasy out of which we all have to be shaken, but in which, though you’re sixteen, you’re still carefully blanketed and cradled. Though you’ll be woken abruptly enough soon.

For what it’s worth, while you sleep on these last few hours of your sixteen-year sleep, let me tell you how I woke up long ago and came out of a dream (in more senses than one, you’ll have to agree) when I was even younger than you. Don’t worry, I haven’t forgotten about poor Otis, or your poor dad, out there in the streets looking for him, I’ll get back to them. And oh yes, your mother really
was,
once, if it’s hard to picture, even younger than you.

Let me tell you the story which I once told your father, and never, till now, anyone else. As a matter of fact, I told him that time we went to Craiginish, the year we met: pillow-talking in the “croft,” our skins all salty, that very first night, after he’d “proposed” to me and I’d said yes. You came from happiness, my darlings.

And this story can really be called a fairy tale, since your mother was not only younger than you at the time, but (unlike your Grandma Fiona) she was actually a fairy.

I was thirteen, though this was still, just, the nineteen-fifties when thirteen was younger than thirteen is now. But I didn’t
want
to be a little fairy.

My all-girls boarding school was a posh sort of place in the Thames valley, as befitted the daughter of a judge. Every year in the summer they’d put on a Shakespeare play, outdoors, in a little natural grassy arena between the hockey field and the music rooms, in front of a clump of trees. And every other year, it seemed, it would be
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Such a good play for the time of year and that setting and, of course, for girls. All those fairies.

I wanted to be Puck. Not a fairy, not Hermia or Helena (fairly soppy parts, in my view), not even Titania. When it comes to
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
Puck, if a girl may say so, is your only man: “I’ll put a girdle round about the earth in forty minutes” (the word “girdle” producing a titter in a pack of schoolgirls, for reasons that, thankfully, you don’t have to bother with). But my acting skills, I’ll be honest, were rudimentary and Puck was a part for older girls. So I got Mustardseed: one of the fairies, number two or number three, it doesn’t really matter. A couple of half-baked lines and a little flapping costume the colour of Colman’s best.

It invariably turned grey and chilly, or it blew a gale. The arc lights, evoking moonlight, in among the trees, usually failed or crashed down. It was traditional, painful fun. But that year the weather was perfect: a serene and golden June evening turning to dusky purple even as the show progressed. The scent of newly mown grass. Not even a troupe of squeaking schoolgirls murdering Shakespeare could quite spoil the effect. Even the most long-suffering among the audience of stoical parents couldn’t fail to be charmed.

As my father, I hope, was charmed. I hope it was at least some small, diverting consolation.

He was there, of course, to see me, his Mustardseed, to judge my performance. Just, as it happens, a little later that same year I’d go to see him, to judge his performance or at least just to witness it, from that secret but public gallery. He was there in the audience. I’d seen him secretly then too, from an off-stage spy-point, his bobbing, unostentatious panama visible among some fairly attention-seeking motherly hats. But the person I couldn’t see (and her hat would have made its mark) was Fiona. Beside my father there was an empty space, an unoccupied brown-canvas and tubular-steel chair. It remained unoccupied, as the twilight gathered, throughout the evening.

This wasn’t a matter of some temporary mishap or misunderstanding. My father wasn’t looking at his watch, or appearing merely incidentally worried or annoyed. He kept looking at the “stage,” at the magic transformations being enacted before him, including his daughter’s temporary fairyhood, a vague but fixed smile on his face. I understood that something serious, not minor, had occurred, or perhaps had been occurring for some time, and this was my first, world-rearranging indication of it. My knees felt weak, though the show, of course, must go on. It was just as well I had that mere wisp of a role.

Afterwards, I could have simply asked him. I was thirteen. But thirteen was a still hesitant age. And best not to ask was my instinct. And not the best of times, patches of jaundice-like make-up still on my cheeks. Best just to listen to his obvious brave fib, and nod.

“Mummy’s very sorry. She’s feeling under the weather. Such
lovely
weather too, such a lovely evening…But you were wonderful, Paulie. A star! They really should have given you a bigger part.”

That summer was the first year we didn’t go to Craiginish. And that confirmed it. By then I knew there was a “situation,” an ongoing situation. Ours was not any longer a happy home or a happy family, though it had been. And from now on I’d have to play a part and quite a big one, I’d have to polish and refine my acting skills, since the situation, if not carefully contained and managed, might be damaging to a judge’s reputation.

Meanwhile, a former yellow fairy, I took a bus to the law courts to see a man in red robes.

There you are, I was a fairy once, in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
Picture that. I had little wings. It’s midsummer now, though it’s raining, but all of you are dreaming. Your dad, when I told him, certainly tried to picture it. He said he wished he’d been there. He said he was jealous of my dad, even though my dad can’t have been so happy that night. He said he wished he could have seen your mum when she was Mustardseed.