All we have, p.9
All We Have, page 9
“Yes, admirably, I suppose.” The coffee pot began to sing and I got up to turn it off. Grabbing a couple of mugs from the cupboard, I leaned on the kitchen counter, looking back at Meg. She was leaning forward, her previously half-closed eyes now open and sparkling. She loved this stuff. “But,” I protested, “that doesn’t explain why she called it an autobiography. Having pretended to be a man, that makes even less sense, as whoever read it and believed it had been written by a man would have known he wasn’t talking about himself.” I paused, not sure that last sentence had made much sense. But Meg, to her credit, appeared to have managed to follow my meandering train of thought.
“Ah,” she said eagerly, “You’re right. And if Currer Bell had claimed to be the author of the book, that would have been so, but he doesn’t claim to be that.” I was listening to her with one ear as I poured milk into the cups, then added the hot coffee, and walked back to the table with the two steaming mugs. I decided I should have listened with two.
“Sorry?” I put a mug in front of Meg, and one next to my plate. I shook my head. “But I read his name, right on the title page, he’s listed as the author.” Now I was getting confused. I blew on my coffee, looking expectantly at Meg, who nodded, but then shook her head as I finished talking.
“No. I mean, yes,” Meg said, “his name is on the title page, but not as the author. He’s listed as the editor. That’s quite a different role to that of author.”
“Ok, so you’re telling me Charlotte Bronte pretended to be a man, this Currer Bell, and then this man, who wasn’t even a real man, he was only a pseudonym, then pretended to be recording the true story, the autobiography, of a woman, who was herself fictitious?”
“Exactly.” Meg seemed proud that I’d grasped all this. I sipped my coffee while I waited for my head to stop spinning.
I tried another angle. “So was it a true story? Was Jane a real person?” I held my breath as I waited for Meg’s reply.
“Hmm.” Meg picked up a piece of toast and waved it at me as she continued. “I’m sure the story of Jane Eyre isn’t the story of Charlotte Bronte, if that’s what you mean.” She took a large bite of the toast.
It wasn’t really what I meant. I was starting to get all tied up in knots with this conversation. I’d thought it might offer some insight into the situation with Dan, but suddenly I wasn’t so sure. After a moment I tried again. “So why did Charlotte Bronte call it an autobiography if it wasn’t?”
“Well, think about it. When you read an autobiography, how is it different to a novel?” She sipped her coffee, looking at me over the rim of her mug.
“Well, I know it’s written by a person describing the story of their life.”
“Ok, so when you read an autobiography you know the speaker, the voice that is telling the story to you, is the person the events described really happened to. How does that impact upon your perception of the story?”
“I know it’s a true story, that it really happened.”
“So given this, what is your attitude towards the speaker in the book? And the author?”
“In an autobiography the speaker and the author are the same person...” I began slowly. “And I guess that means I feel like I can believe what they are saying to be true, that they are a real person who experienced real events. Whereas when I read a novel, I know it’s fiction and therefore the story I’m reading is not true.”
“Right. So on the one hand, autobiography is true and on the other, novels are fiction and therefore not true?”
“That’s what I always thought,” I asserted, although I was feeling less confident of my position by the minute. But as I listened to Meg, an idea had started to germinate in my mind. An idea that I couldn’t quite grab just yet.
“But....” and here Meg paused for effect. “The question we are left with then is: what is truth?”
I sighed then, frustrated. “Since when did this become a philosophical discussion? You’ll be asking me how I know I exist in a minute.”
“No, not quite,” Meg chuckled. “But the two questions are related in some ways.”
“Are they? How do you work that out?”
Meg stopped to take a sip of coffee while she thought about this. Putting the cup down, she walked over to the bookshelf, selected a book, and brought it back to the table. The cover photo was of a thin, rather anemic looking guy with shoulder length brown hair. “This, for example, is Bob Geldof’s autobiography.”
“Bob Geldof?” I wrinkled my brow. “Isn’t he that old Irish guy, the one who’s the father of those improbably named socialites? Peaches? Fluffy? Something like that?”
“That’s him,” Meg laughed at my description. “Before Peaches and Fluffy were born, and before you were born, Geldof was an activist. He took action against poverty in Africa. And even further back, before he was an activist, he was a rather disreputable rock star.”
“Really?” I couldn’t imagine it.
“Yes, really,” Meg replied with a grin. “I wasn’t always as old as I am either, you know!”
“Yeah, well I know that” I said.
“So, this is his life story, written by him,” Meg went on. “But is it the truth?” She looked at me questioningly.
“Well, does he say it is?” I countered.
“Yes, he does, and I believe him.” Her answer bounced right back at me.
“So it is the truth then?” I was getting kind of confused, and this conversation seemed to be veering away from where I wanted it to be, which was finding out if fiction could be real, and I was not sure how to get it back on track. But Meg’s next comment confounded me even more.
“Yes, I think it’s his truth, but I also believe it’s not the only truth.”
“What do you mean? It’s his life, isn’t it? Surely he’s the one position who can tell us what really happened in it?”
“Ye-es, perhaps he is,” Meg nodded. “But what about his childhood? Is he the most reliable person to tell us about that? Or would his mother or father be in a better position to recall details about his life then? About events that happened when he was small?”
“Hmm, maybe,” I admitted, “at least when he was really young.” I considered for a moment how little my parents knew about my life currently.
“And what about his wife?” Meg continued. “I’m sure she would have quite a different view of their marriage. Wives usually do, so which view is the truth, his or hers?”
“Well, I guess they both are in a sense?” I offered.
“So are you saying that when we think of autobiography as truthful, it’s really it is only one possible construction of the truth?
“Ok, I’ll give you that,” I conceded, but feeling like I was sinking further into the mire of this argument. “but that still doesn’t explain why Bronte called Jane Eyre an autobiography, does it?”
“I think it does, at least a little. You see, I think Bronte wants us to believe in Jane Eyre, to believe that she exists.” Meg paused, looking expectantly at me.
“And does she get what she wants? Do you believe?” I asked. I have to admit I couldn’t quite believe what I was hearing. It meshed so closely with the thoughts that had been circling in my head all night. “Are you saying you believe in Jane Eyre? That she is a real person?”
“Yes, I think I do.” Meg smiled. “When I read Jane Eyre she seems as real to me as people I’ve known, and more real than a lot of people I read about who are real in the traditional sense.” This was the point my conscious and subconscious brains had been trying to get me to see, I now realized. And suddenly I knew what to do next. Or at least, as soon as I’d finished my coffee. Cupping my hands around the warm mug I raised it to my lips, sipping the hot strong liquid in companionable silence with Meg, who luckily is one of those rare adults who knows when to stop talking and let things settle.
If you need to take a moment at this point to stop reading and just breathe, or perhaps shout at me, dear reader, please feel free. For you will have perceived that, as preposterous and unbelievable as Dan’s story undoubtedly remained, I’d decided to believe him. In fact, I’ll also admit, seeing as we are talking frankly, that believing him felt inevitable to me at that moment. It felt like he had suddenly held before my eyes a universal truth, one that had been around me all my life but that I’d been unaware of until now. The only comparator I can think of it when your science teacher reveals the mysteries of Newton’s first law, or the complexity of genetic inheritance. Although you have no chance of really getting it, at least not right there and then in that lesson, you know it to be true because, after all, millions of earnest science teachers can’t be wrong, right? And then, in case you are inclined towards free thinking and decide not to take their word for anything (which, by the way, I consider to be a sign of true intelligence as, let’s face it, who knows what kind of junk science the government has loaded into the curriculum?) they get you to do some really lame experiment, and what do you know, the science seems to stack up. Unless you stuff something up somewhere along that way and some boffin finds out and tells everyone, then it’s proven. No denying proof you see with your own eyes.
So, I’d arrived at my own rationally arrived at scientific conclusion about my current situation. And it was that, considering all the evidence I’d seen over the past couple of days, I really felt I’d no choice but to believe Dan. And once I’d reached this conclusion, I immediately felt a whole heap better. Strange, I know, but somehow it was easier to believe Dan was a fictional character than to contemplate the alternative reality that he was a complete loony. True, the theory he had expounded had seemed at first blush to be unbelievable, that much I’ll admit is undeniable. But when I considered the proof I’d seen yesterday, in this very house, pointing to the existence of an alternate reality, how much more of a stretch was it to believe that such a reality could be inhabited by characters from books?
Obviously, my first instinct was to dash next door, find Dan, and make him tell me everything. But, given that it was still only seven fifteen in the morning, this wasn’t really an option. And I knew I’d to play it cool, otherwise Meg would work out something was up. For an absent minded writer she was amazingly perceptive in some ways. She was different from a parent like that. For instance, she often wouldn’t notice you hadn’t eaten for twelve hours, but if you so much as looked slightly worried (say you were sitting in the back of her car and suddenly wondered if you’d actually put your swimming costume into the bag you’d slung in the boot before you’d taken off for the beach) she’d pick up on the change in your expression from her position in the driving seat after only a quick glance at you in her rear vision mirror, and be asking you what was wrong.
I didn’t want to share this new knowledge of mine with anyone, not then. And besides, Meg was amazing and open minded and all that, but I knew she wouldn’t believe me if I did tell her. I wouldn’t have believed me either. So I assumed what I hoped was a thoughtful expression that conveyed I was still mulling over our Jane Eyre conversation, and when I’d finished my coffee I retreated to the kitchen with my dishes. From that safe distance, I queried, “any plans for today?”
“Umm. Well, I was hoping to work this morning?” Meg offered half apologetically. “Then I thought we could go into town for lunch and take off exploring for the afternoon? I’ve found a few amazing places I’d like to show you, the river for starters, and then there’s a shortish hill walk with views that are to die for.”
“Sounds like a plan, Aunt,” I replied brightly. “You go and get on with your work, and I think I’ll take it easy. Maybe read a bit more of Bill’s manuscript. I’ve only read a couple of chapters, but I’m fascinated already.”
Meg blushed a little at this last comment, obviously trying not to think about what I might be finding it so fascinating in light of the parallels she knew I’d undoubtedly be finding between the manuscript and the details she had shared with me that day at the museum about her summer with Joe and Bill. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” she said, “It’s quite different from his other books, and I wasn’t sure....” she trailed off uncertainly, as if she had started the thought in her head without thinking about where it would end up.
“I haven’t read any of his books,” I said. “Are they around here somewhere?”
“He keeps a copy of each in his study,” Meg confirmed, so I stored that information away for later reference.
Ten minutes later I was sprawled on my bed with the manuscript open in front of me. I’d chocolate on board; I find it helps with my concentration. A bar of dairy milk was gone before I’d even read one chapter. The writing was amazing. In Dan Bill had created a character both incredibly appealing and utterly frustrating. The chapters written from Dan’s point of view were passionate, heartfelt and moving. So much so that I felt like I was with him in the darkness outside the Blue Lagoon while he watched Fergus kissing Tamara, and again when he came across her alone at the swimming hole and watched her as she, unaware of his presence, lay stretched out on her back on a smooth rock above the river. When he described how, when she was sunning herself, the sunlight turned the water on her skin to diamonds before his dazzled eyes I felt like I was there with him, feeling all the pain and longing for her but not feeling able to tell her.
The contrast with the chapters written from Tamara’s point of view was stark. Her voice was that of a child playing at being in love, without any idea of what it means or where her game will lead her. She seemed to be completely oblivious to Dan’s feelings for her, and sometimes her treatment of him amounted to cruelty, although it seemed this was unintentional on her part as she was too besotted with Fergus to pay much attention to Dan, or anyone else for that matter. But as I read I couldn’t help thinking back to the day before when I’d seen Tamara and Dan together. The relationship they appeared to have didn’t quite add up to the one they had in the book. The more I read the more Bill’s characters seemed almost like different people from those I’d met. In the book, Dan was painfully and obviously besotted with Tamara, so why had I not seen that side of him when I’d seen them together yesterday? Admittedly I’d spent barely a few moments in Tamara’s company, but Dan had seemed to treat her almost casually, like a slightly painful younger sister, certainly not like the much-desired love of his life. In fact it had seemed to me that Tamara was the one with a thing for Dan, but how could that be? It just didn’t match up at all with what I was reading and I was finding it all very frustrating.
I was also finding it hard to stop looking at my watch. I’d decided to wait until 9am before I went next door looking for Dan, and it was still only 8am. I was edgy too, half expecting him to appear outside the French doors and rap his knuckles on the glass. If I’m honest, that’s exactly what I was hoping for. I was just telling myself to stop being so obsessive and start concentrating on getting through the manuscript when there was a knock at my bedroom door. What if it was him, come to visit only this time via the more conventional access point of the front door? Suddenly, the manuscript felt like contraband. I closed it and quickly shoved it under the bead, and jumped up to open the door. But it was only Meg. She had a plain white envelope in her hand. “Someone put this under the front door for you,” she said as she held it out to me so I could read my name scrawled across the front of it.
“When did it come?” I asked, taking it from her. It was sealed, I noticed, and I made no attempt to open it but stood there with it burning itself into my hand.
Meg shrugged. “This morning sometime, I assume. It wasn’t there when I locked up last night anyway. I thought I heard the door just now, but when I went and checked there was no-one there, just this on the door mat.”
“Ok, thanks,” I said, offering a smile that I hoped looked relaxed and unconcerned, like I got mysterious hand delivered notes under my front door every other day. But I needn’t have worried, Meg was already heading back to her study, her head obviously still in whatever part of her book she was writing. Shutting the door again, I sat down on the bed and tore open the envelope.
Inside was a single sheet of white paper, folded into thirds. I unfolded it, my eyes momentarily confused as I registered there was only one word written right in the center of the otherwise white space: Sorry. It was unsigned, but of course it had to be from Dan. Who else? I let the paper fall to the bed. Somehow I couldn’t look away from it. After all the confusion of the past twelve hours, my hard-fought battle to understand seemed in vain as I realized what this one word meant. Suddenly I saw his face in my mind as I’d seen it last, the sadness in his eyes, and knew with absolute certainly what intention that sadness had signaled. Looking at the note I knew what he’d been planning as he’d looked at me. He’d been sad because he was taking me home, and intended for us never to see each other again. And I knew for sure that wasn’t what I wanted. I needed to understand what I’d stumbled into when I’d met Dan. And to do that I had to find him again and make him tell me more. I couldn’t let it go now.
Chapter eight
I reckon I made it to the schoolhouse in under two minutes. Helen would have been amazed, and my PE teacher would probably have had heart failure, if they’d seen me. I sprinted up the steps onto the veranda and, tripping on a warped and lifting board, crashed against the front door. Trying the handle, I found it was locked and rattled it in frustration. “Dan! Dan, I’m here, I need to talk to you.” I smacked my hand against the unyielding wood. Then I waited, listening. Nothing. “Please Dan. I really need to see you. I need to ask you…to tell you...” I stopped. What did I need to tell him? That I’d thought he was a kook but now I believed his crazy story? Maybe that I thought I was starting to have feelings for him? I wasn’t sure I was ready to admit anything about how I was feeling to anyone at this point, not even to myself. I just wanted to see him, make sure he was ok, and to stop him from doing anything rash. Anything like never seeing me again.
I raced along the veranda to the window of the map room. Peering through the grimy window I experienced a sense of déjà vu. This was the exact spot where Dan had startled me the day we’d met. Was it really only two days ago? Everything inside the room looked the same as when I’d last seen it, with one crucial difference: there was no sign of the curtain and no sign of movement at all. The room looked completely, depressingly normal. “Dammit!” I swore, scrubbing ineffectually with the heel of my hand at the grimy window trying to see more clearly, but it was pointless. “Back door,” I muttered. I dashed around the side of the building, my feet pounding almost silently on the damp, leaf littered grass. Rounding the back corner of the house my eyes went straight to the deserted barbeque, then to the French doors that were now shut. But, I hoped, not locked. I tried the handle without much expectation, and when it turned easily my heart jumped in my chest. The door stuck a little. I shoved it hard and it gave way, banging back against the wall.
