Ordinary Miracles (6 page)

The man then stood up and scanned my bulging book
shelves. ‘Bruce says most of these books are yours,’ he said. ‘From what I can gather, Jasmine, your interests include fly
fishing, English porcelain, the hostelling movement, the natu
ral history of the whale, the construction and maintenance
of the ketch, bee keeping and art deco – not to mention
backpacking in Nepal and the development of the Quaker
movement.’

‘A lot of those books aren’t mine really,’ I said. It seemed
a shame to disabuse him but I’m usually found out when I lie.
‘A lot of those books belonged to people who are gone.’

‘Gone? Gone where?’

‘Gone. As in passed away. As in released from this mortal coil.’

‘Oh, you mean dead?’

‘Yes,’ I answered, wishing he didn’t have to be so blunt
about it.

Then Bruce came back and they started to discuss business,
while I wondered how to make room for books, and maybe
even a life, of my own choosing.

I’m not very good at loss, you see. When my parents, or
an aunt or an uncle died, I was the member of the family
– there’s always one – who was more stricken by the large,
loaded, black plastic bags than their coffins.

‘No! No! That can’t go to charity!’ I’d screech, swooping
down on
Australian Marsupials: A Field Guide,
or that
ornament of a desert oasis that made a sandstorm when you shook it.

I haven’t just confined my nostalgia to books and orna
ments. There are piles of other things too, including my
parents’ best plates, which I used every day. Those plates
can even make scrambled eggs a poignant experience.

So, given this weight of memories and mementoes, I’m
absolutely amazed that I managed to leave my home with
just two large suitcases and two canvas holdalls. Fury does
indeed concentrate the mind.

A number of things came together and made me blow my fuse.

I’d decided to give Bruce and Cait’s behaviour at the dinner
party the benefit of the doubt because Bruce was so vehement
in his protestations of innocence. Then he forgot my fortieth
birthday. I’m sensitive about my birthday. In some weird, unreasonable way, I feel that if people close to me forget it
it’s as if they’ve forgotten I was born. I usually play safe and tip them off in advance, but this year I didn’t give Bruce any
subtle hints. I decided to put him to the test.

To make up for his oversight, Bruce suggested that we visit
Katie in Galway that weekend. We were going to stay in a
nice hotel and have candlelit dinners. But then he cancelled
this at the last moment because of some problem with
Avril:
A Woman’s Story;
and he fell fast asleep in bed while I was
dolling myself up on Saturday night.

Saturday night was sex night in our house. We occasionally
managed it on other nights as well but, frankly, sex between
us had grown rather dutiful. There was a touch of the aerobics class about it.

So, you can imagine what I felt like when I found Cait
Carmody’s fake diamond hair grip in my marriage bed. I
was a perfect candidate for Oprah Winfrey.

When Bruce came home that night I tried to bar his entry to
the house. I shouted expletives at him through the letter-box; he remained extremely calm and reasonable, as though
one of his actors was throwing a slight tantrum. So, after a
while I let him in and told him I wanted him to pack up
and leave. Only he said that he wouldn’t. There were tears
in his eyes and when I found myself feeling sorry for him I
decided I’d leave instead. Bruce’s feelings have always carried considerable weight in our marriage. If I’d stayed any longer I
knew I’d end up consoling him because I was heart-broken.

There was a bleak, unreal feeling about the night I left. A strange kind of hush amidst my histrionics, as if it had just
snowed. We should have been talking in Swedish, with sub-
titles. The only thing that made me hesitate was Katie. I really,
really want Katie to have a happy home. But she’s a sensitive
girl. She’d guess something was up if her mother barricaded
herself in the attic. And she’s hardly ever home now anyway.

So I phoned Charlie. I could have phoned Susan but she
has a flatmate now, so I’d have had to do all my crying in the
sitting-room. Charlie’s house is big. He often said he should
find someone to share it.

At first I found staying at Charlie’s place very strange. That
only lasted a week or so, and now I’ve really settled in. I
was tempted to start tidying but, thankfully, that feeling also passed. I slop around in old jeans and big borrowed baggy
jumpers and avoid answering the phone. I doze a lot and my television viewing includes re-runs of
Pets Win Prizes
and
Baywatch.

My memory isn’t that great at the moment – for practical
things anyway. I find I have to write little notes to myself
like ‘wash hair’. I have, however, become a dab hand at lentil
soup. I leave Charlie, who’s a vegetarian, to deal with the tofu
burgers. Occasionally we cheat and buy Linda McCartney’s
vegetarian spaghetti bolognaise. George was my favourite
Beatle, but Charlie liked John Lennon.

It’s great having a shoulder to cry on, but by this stage
Charlie’s must be wringing wet. I’m glad he doesn’t get
alarmed by my sobbing. Bruce just tended to get exasperated.

Sometimes I think I’m like Alice in Wonderland and that
my tears are going to flood this place, but Charlie says not
to worry. He says that, if necessary, we can use his cousin’s
canoe which is stored in his garage.

I know it may sound silly, but one of the upsetting things
about being older is that I no longer feel attractive when I cry. When I was younger there was more style to my tears. They had a dramatic, almost hopeful feel to them.
I felt sure that if some man saw me – probably someone
suave and older – he’d want to make me feel better. He’d be moved by the photogenic quality of my despair. He
wouldn’t have to know me or anything, it would just sort of happen.

‘And what would the man do?’ asked Charlie, when I told
him this.

‘I’m not quite sure.’ I sniffed into my handkerchief. ‘He’d just care and be incredibly protective. He’d say something
like “There, there, my dear, don’t worry. You’re young. You
have a lot to learn.”’

‘He’d probably offer to teach you it too.’ Charlie sounded rather cynical about my knight in shining armour. ‘Frankly,
Jasmine, I think you’re better off with me.’

I’m only beginning to realise what a good pal Charlie i
s. He can even look interested when I’m dredging up the
mind-numbingly minute details heart-break seems to require.
For example, the fact that a door was half ajar when Bruce
said something should not be worthy of comment, but I
mention it anyway. The fact that Bruce then unwrapped
a Milky Mint or ran his hands through his hair seems
important too.

It’s like I’m relating every frame of some weird art-house
movie. I’ve even said things like, ‘And then I decided I had
to leave him. I didn’t take the big brown suitcase because the
canvas holdalls were roomy and so much lighter.’

‘When I’m leaving a relationship I usually use a fold-up
trolley for the heavier items,’ Charlie commented, his blue
eyes twinkling mischievously.

Being a gentle but firm sort, Charlie doesn’t tell me to shut
up when he’s had enough – maybe after an hour or so. He
just offers to make us some tea. He pours mine into the mug
he’s bought me. It’s got a big teddy bear wearing a T-shirt
on it. The T-shirt says ‘So Where’s The Picnic?’

While we’re drinking our tea Charlie usually suggests a
diversionary tactic, like renting a DVD, or going for a walk. At first I’m a bit pissed off, but after a while I’m relieved. I
think Charlie knows this. He only interrupts my monologues
when, deep down, I’ve had enough of them myself.

Sometimes, when we’re out walking, Charlie tells me a bit
about his own romantic disappointments. It’s nice that he
knows I need some reciprocal revelations. He doesn’t wallow
in them like I do though – his are more light-hearted and
anecdotal. You can sense he’s polished them up over time, and sanded down their sharper contours. He is attractive, so
I’m sure he’s disappointed quite a few people himself.

Music has been his real passion for a long time now, and
of course that’s awfully seductive to some women. They s
tart off by loving that passionate, intriguing commitment
to something other than themselves. Then, when they can’t
somehow get at it, they can end up hating it too.

Maybe that’s why the woman Charlie almost married was
also a musician. They lived together for years – until Rosie
arrived.

‘It’s either that pig or me,’ she told him.

He hasn’t gone into detail about the ensuing drama, but
it’s pretty obvious who won out. The pig thing was probably
just the tip of the iceberg anyway. They’re still friends though.
After a frosty patch she took to calling round and pouring her
heart out about her new boyfriend. Then she went to live, alone, in Stockholm. Just as well really – it would be a bit
much having us both whimpering and wailing on his sofa.

I suppose staying here is a bit like a convalescence, but it
would be unfair to Charlie to let it drag on too long. I’m
paying him some rent, but not enough. I’m using the money
Bruce and I put aside for a conservatory.

I think I’ll try to get some temporary secretarial work. In
fact I’ve been practising my word-processing on Charlie’s
computer, but typing a short letter still feels like flying an
aeroplane. Charlie’s not much help because he doesn’t seem
to understand the thing either. He tries to obscure this fact
with smatterings of obscure terminology, but I see right
through it. Learning about computers is, it seems, not that
unlike learning about love. As a novice one presses all sorts
of buttons that veterans know to leave alone.