Shadows & Tall Trees (6 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 turn 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 only wanted 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.

T
he auteur has been tripped up on the pavement outside the Acme Hotel. He’s just come through the revolving doors, down the marble steps and turned in the direction of the main thoroughfare. It was not the tip of the sole of his right shoe (chestnut gleam of leather on the upper) catching an uneven paving-stone. And no, it has nothing to do with an occasional weakness of the knees, allowable in a man of seventy years, or even a failure to adjust to his new bifocal spectacles, which lie broken (spider-cracks in both lenses, the frames askew) six inches away from his outstretched right arm (hand marked with chalky grazes, a droplet-chain of blood). It is as if someone’s curled a foot, or the curved handle of an umbrella, around his ankle and jerked his leg violently upwards.

Later, he will tell himself that he lost consciousness for several seconds, although now as he levers himself upright, blood dripping from the side of his chin, he is not aware of having done so. But this will be his only explanation for the fact no one is anywhere near him on the street.

The pigeon (iridescence of wing-glaze, white mark on the throat) perched on the roof of a derelict warehouse is not an adequate witness to what happened, though it knows the south side well: has flown many times through the open windows of buildings that glass has forgotten; alighted on chimney tops tufted with wild grass; hopped under bus shelters to inspect abandoned Chinese takeaways; examined crisps wrappers with a critical eye. It has an excellent view of the Acme Hotel: the marble steps, washed every day; the brass glint of the revolving doors; the shafts and arrowheads of black railings; the orange-red brick of the façade; the Gothic windows in all storeys but the sixth, from which you can see the gleaming towers of the second city’s centre, though not the ring road that ropes them in.

The pigeon may have noticed the auteur, his silver hair and white linen jacket bright in the sunshine of a waning summer, when he pushed the revolving door, walked down the marble steps and into the street (just as a blue van was passing, too quickly for the driver to witness what happened next) and he could have observed a man or the shadow of a man or a shadow from a nest of English shadows, slipping out from an abandoned factory, or a shop with shuttered windows, where no one has been served for thirty years, and coming up swiftly behind a man leaving a hotel on his way to a meeting with the son, his only child, that he has not seen for a quarter of a century.

As the man brushes himself down (an action he immediately regrets as a streak of blood appears on the right pocket of his linen jacket) and hobbles back to the Acme Hotel, the pigeon flies off in the direction of a café, where there will be the crumbs of croissants and sesame seeds, left over from
de luxe
burger buns.

Cotton wool, commiserations, antiseptic cream and directions to the nearest optician have been provided by the staff at the Acme Hotel. The auteur has phoned his niece and asked her to postpone the meeting. He must not appear in the restaurant (expensive, central, overlooking a canal) with sticking plaster on his hands and chin. As he will be unable to see further than his own table, the other diners will be indistinct blobs of colour, the details on the menu squashed insects on a white background. It is most important that he should meet with his son. There are questions he must ask. He will need to observe his reactions closely.

It is a hot day. The domed mosque with a minaret, the greengrocers selling unfamiliar fruit, the women in
niqabs
, the men with their long beards and traditional dress - all surprise him. Only the red brick of the shop frontages and the scarlet pillar boxes are familiar. He has not visited his native city for many years; it pains him that on his return he is no longer a wealthy man.

The optician’s shop is in a side street and as he walks past a row of semi-detached Victorian villas (bow-windows, trimmed box hedges, neat front gardens) he feels a faint longing for his childhood. Opposite is a low white building with a flat roof that consists of three shops. There is a florist and the optician, but the middle unit is empty. A yellow skip sits next to a pile of salmon-pink bricks. The auteur is slightly early for his appointment. He peers through the window. The reception area is not welcoming. No one is behind the desk, and only one rack, which is attached to the wall, has any frames for sale. A free-standing display unit is just shining skeletal bars, somehow sinister, as if it has been expertly boned. In one corner, there are two uncomfortably upright chairs and a low table. Just as he takes the decision to kill time in the florist’s, a door at the back opens and a man in an open-necked white shirt steps out. As he is standing in front of an oblong of yellow light from the treatment room, the auteur cannot see his face, but there is no mistaking the gesture signalling him to come in. A bell rings, a tiny ecclesiastical note; for a second, the auteur thinks he can smell incense. Then the dust coats the back of his throat and he coughs.

Instead of waiting for him, the optician has gone back into his room, but the door is open. The auteur knocks once and then enters without waiting for an answer.

The optician, who has his back to him, is bowed over a work space. His elbows are moving very slightly as if he is carrying out some delicate operation.

“Please sit down. I won’t be long.”

“I’m sorry to be slightly early.”

“Don’t worry. I assure you that will not be a problem.”

The treatment chair reminds him of the dentist (a sharp psychosomatic stab in a back molar) but he takes his seat. As the optician materializes behind him and swiftly positions the chin and head rests, the auteur thinks of a film he once made: the head of a knight encased in a helmet.

“I just need you to sit very still, eyes wide open, look this way.”

He grasps the horizontal bars. A puff of air in each eye. The beam of a torch and then the test card appears in the wall mirror. One lens is exchanged for another until the letters start to clarify. He reads the top two lines only. A change, much sharper now, AXO TVH and then—quite clearly—SEX.

The woman who gets off the bus dresses with an eloquent simplicity unusual for the area. Her skirt and blouse are a vibrant blue. In the midst of shoppers in shades of milk chocolate, grey and mouse-brown she has the electric plumage of an American jay in a garden of house sparrows. She was seen in the lobbies of Parisian hotels. If it were not for her tinted glasses, we might recognize the eyes that once stared at us from the back covers of magazines (
Vogue
,
Tatler
)
.
Her blonde hair touches her shoulders and is cut straight across her forehead. And she wears a loose silk scarf (perhaps Jaeger or Hermes) with a blue and yellow pattern. Her shoulder bag has the sheen of soft Italian leather bought in Milan.

She walks quickly, ignoring the outstretched hand of the beggar in khaki trousers (army surplus) squatting on a rug outside the supermarket. At first she appears to be heading past the pawnbrokers, the snooker hall and the curry house towards the
patisserie
on the corner, with its display of baked bread in the window, its coffee shop and small courtyard garden: the one place redolent of France in a suburb of chain shops,
halal
butchers, convenience stores, moneylenders, estate agents and one laundrette that smells of hot metal, washing powder and Saharan-dry heat. But without pausing to look at the baskets filled with almond croissants and
pain-au-chocolat,
she makes her way past the chairs on the pavement. One man looks up from his newspaper and knows in an instant the damage done to the perfectly symmetrical features: the hairline cracks beneath the repaired porcelain skin, the brittle lips that threaten breakdown and grief. And then she turns down a side street.

Now that she is away from the crowds, her pace slows, and once she halts and rummages in her shoulder bag. Beneath her dress is a slim white body that appeared naked in a film made in Paris. An art house movie directed by her uncle. Every night and every morning when she steps into the shower, she returns to a scene in the film when she showered with a camera on her side of the curtain. But now she is thinking of a building with a flat roof and three shops, a florist’s that sells red flowers only on Tuesdays, an empty room that was formerly filled with brochures for holidays abroad
,
and an optician’s. She knows that if she maintains her pace she will reach her destination in under two minutes. As she is moving more slowly, it is easier to see the streaks of silver in her blonde hair. But there is no one else in the street to observe this. In spite of the heat, the thick green foliage of the trees lining the pavement suggests the dampness of the winter months has yet to be entirely dissipated. The refuse is to be collected today and the front gate of every house has at least one squat black sentry with a topknot on guard next to a wheelie-bin.

She catches sight of the yellow skip and the pile of pink bricks ahead of her and knows there’s not much further to go; and indeed it is not long before she opens the door of the optician’s (the bell gives its priestly tinkle) and walks over to the reception desk. Although there is no one there, a spectacle case, with a rubber band wrapped around it, is waiting for her. This she slips into her shoulder bag and turns to leave. But before she reaches the front door she hears the sound of someone moving around heavily in the treatment room. She looks at the skeletal frames on display in the racks, the uncomfortable straight-backed chair and the side-table that has no magazines on it. Perhaps she should tell someone that she has collected the glasses. The noise in the treatment room stops. Which would be worse, she wonders: opening the door and seeing no one or finding somebody there?

Even objects he knows to be hard-edged are indistinct. The hotel staff, from Poland, Lithuania and the Tamil-speaking tip of southern India, hover as they walk, their white-sleeved arms blurred like the wings of hummingbirds. The auteur can’t read his newspaper, which lies folded on his lap. He is waiting in a fudge-coloured leather armchair in the residents’ lounge. His niece has agreed to fetch his glasses (he is shaky, a delayed reaction to his fall) from the optician’s and then meet him for lunch. What troubles him most is that he remembers neither the second half of his eye examination nor choosing his frames—or his return to the Acme Hotel. His first recollection is waking in the middle of the night and knowing he has been dreaming about the alphabet: black letters, like those on the treatment chart, swirling in a space as white as snow.