Separation for beginners, p.32
Separation for Beginners, page 32
‘Oh,’ I say, blindsided by the manoeuvre. I nod sagely as I take this on the chin. I’m twelve years older than Fran. I feel a bit grumpy and a bit unable to hide that fact.
‘Don’t sulk,’ she says, possibly the most annoying thing she could have said.
‘Look, for me,’ I say, ‘it’s just about having a drink with someone. I wasn’t even thinking about age or anything beyond having a chat so it’s less of an issue for me.’
‘You weren’t interested in sleeping together if we wanted to?’
‘On a first date?’ My voice squeaks. I could kill it.
‘Remind me, ’cause I get the two apps confused, did we meet on Tinder or on English Country Cottages?’
I laugh. And laughing allows me to relax and think, Sod it, who cares? It’s good to be out. And then I realise something else too, so I ask her, ‘So, are you saying that when you saw my photo and read my profile—’
‘Your incredibly short profile with no info on it,’ she reminds me.
‘You thought you’d possibly want to sleep with me?’
She nods, ‘Yeah. Until you started talking.’
I beam.
‘You were meant to find that offensive and fight back,’ she says.
‘Why? All I’m hearing is that even armed with a visual, you might have wanted to sleep with me. That’s wonderful. That’s all I need right now. Thank you.’
She smiles at me. ‘Keep being this weird and I might want to fuck you again.’
‘I’m not ready.’
‘And I’m not serious.’
We choose to have another drink, and without the potential of getting even a little bit involved with a woman who isn’t Claire hanging over me, I enjoy myself.
We part on the far end of the high street. She gives me a peck on the cheek, and I walk home feeling like I’ve just completed the first module of a Stage 1 course in re-entering society. The quickest way home takes me past the church so I pay a visit to my folks. I remove the flowers I left on their grave a month ago and say hello to them (my parents, not the flowers – not that one is less odd than the other) and tell them my news, specifically that I’ve closed down their shop.
I am possibly the first man to begin an evening on a Tinder date and end it in a graveyard, and not in a having-sex-with-your-date-on-a-tombstone sort of way.
Niall is still up when I get back.
‘How did it go?’
‘Brilliantly, she’s in my room now getting undressed.’
Niall pulls a yuck face. ‘I can’t be expected to listen to you having sex, you’re over fifty.’
‘Which brings us neatly back to the subject of you moving out.’
‘Tuesday,’ he says.
I detect in his tone that he is serious and find myself strangely dumbstruck.
‘Honest. Tuesday.’
I look at him. ‘Really?’
He nods. ‘I found somewhere nicer. A little bedsit.’
I swallow. I nod, as assuredly as I can. ‘Good stuff,’ I mutter. ‘Good.’
We stand there, in silence. I don’t know why I’m speechless. He is looking at me as if waiting for me to do something.
‘Shouldn’t you get going?’ he says.
‘Where?’
‘Bed? Sex?’
I stare at him, incredulous. ‘You actually think that gorgeous-looking woman would want to come home with me and go to bed with me, you deluded hippy?’
‘Yes, I do. Why not?’
I sweep my hand in front of me, to produce the evidence. ‘You’re too nice for this world, Niall.’
‘I’m moving out because I can’t listen to your self-deprecating garbage any longer.’
‘You’re moving out because this is my home and I’m in control and I’m kicking you out. Sit down, I want to ask you something.’
‘Is it quick or long?’ he asks.
‘Medium. It’s serious.’
‘Then hang on a minute.’ He leaves the room and reappears moments later holding a very ornate-looking bottle. ‘Client gave this to me last week. It’s toffee vodka and, apparently, it’s incredible. Shall we?’
I nod. ‘Why not?’
He pours a shot for each of us and hands one to me.
‘Sit,’ I say.
He sits on the sofa. I draw a chair up and lean forward to talk to him. We clink glasses.
‘Here’s to your new home.’
‘Thanks. Want to see it?’ He reaches for his phone, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him.
‘Show me tomorrow,’ I say. ‘Niall, have you thought any more about an injunction against your stepbrother? Or a warning letter from a lawyer? Deborah will help if you want her to.’
‘If you’d got laid tonight would you be asking me?’
‘No, I wouldn’t care.’
He smiles. He knocks back his shot. ‘I mean . . .’ He stops to think. Then he smiles at me. ‘We’ve ended up talking about him like he’s some scary ogre whereas in fact he’s just pathetic. He’s a really small-minded man who likes bullying me. There are loads of men like that – usually it’s their girlfriends or wives or ex-wives they like to control. But picturing you and Ed’s wife in a posh office talking about me, doing all this for me . . . Thank you. That’s enough. That’s all I needed.’
I smile at him and nod and what I am doing is telling myself to learn a thing or two from this, from Niall, about ignoring stuff, leaving some of it to deal with itself.
‘I’m going to kind of dump him. Starve him of oxygen,’ Niall says. ‘Thanks to you, he’s just . . .’ He mimes picking a piece of dirt off his clothes and flicking it away.
When I was at sixth-form college, I had a friend called Mel whose parents I adored. Mel and I are still in touch but she and her family live in Northumberland and we never meet up. I thought her parents were fantastic and I wanted to be liked by them so much, even though I had no gap to fill when it came to parental affection. I remember this feeling now, how good Mel’s parents made me feel about myself when they talked to me and listened to me.
I move across to the sofa and put my arm around Niall and tell him I’m proud of him and he tries to say the words ‘thank you’ but chokes.
We sit there for a few moments.
‘I didn’t think this through,’ I say. ‘Now I’m just stranded sitting right up against you on the sofa.’
‘It is awkward,’ he says, his head bowed.
I’m tempted to take the piss out of him and use that as an excuse to get to my feet, but I stop myself. Niall has never in his life had a decent conversation with his father or stepfather. I squeeze the back of his neck.
‘If things ever change, or he does something, tell me and I’ll defend you.’
He nods, and sniffs. I rub his back and then say goodnight and go to bed.
Next morning, I call Peggs and ask him if he has time for a coffee, because I’m going to have to miss our lads’ breakfast next week.
‘I’m being cancelled by the least socially active man since J. D. Salinger,’ he says.
‘Get over it and meet me for coffee so I can see that gorgeous boy.’
‘You betcha,’ Peggs says. ‘Why are you cancelling, out of interest?’
‘I’ve got a school governor training day at the Local Education Authority.’
‘Whoo-ooo!’
I absolutely, categorically knew that would be his reaction.
On my way to meet Peggs at the Boatshed, I call Ed to cancel.
‘Whoo-ooo!’ he says.
We sort of make up, in that Ed mumbles, ‘Sorry if I was abrupt and a bit useless,’ and I tell him, ‘Don’t worry about it, you can’t help being a prick,’ and we move on. But the call still feels like it’s caught him at the wrong time, like he’s busy and can’t talk for long. There’s a sense that he finds it all a bit irksome.
I feel differently about him and me. There’s something about being on the end of a friend’s sharpness, their irritated businesslike approach to things when it is not the appropriate response, that sticks. I love him, but it’s different and I cannot afford to ask him again to be something for me he is either incapable of or unwilling to be. I need to be strong and independent and selective about who I lean on. I would rather turn to Mary Blair for fifty pounds an hour than ever feel the way Ed made me feel when I turned to him. And I am aware that I am failing to be the friend he wants and needs me to be at this stage in his life. We’re both different now.
I ask him if he’s backing Niall, and he says yes and I tell him I’m glad, which I am, and I want to tell him not to mess Niall about in any way, but that would not go down well. Ed doesn’t like to be told.
After the call, I sit on a bench by the river and think about Ed. I ask myself, If there’s never a good time to talk, are you still good friends?
Ed can’t handle difficult stuff. It’s been a long-running joke between us who know and love him, his acute fear of death and inability to even talk about the subject. I mean, I’m not looking forward to it, but I can tolerate talk of it and do not shy away from its presence when loved ones die. But Ed can’t handle it. If he could have missed his dad’s funeral, he would have. Ed doesn’t like sticky subjects or doubt, and a friend like me going through a bad patch that threatens to be long-winded and existential, well, he just doesn’t ‘do’ that. And if I complain about that, it is no fairer of me than him complaining that I am going through it. He pulled out of being there for me because he’s terrified of ever being remotely like me. I need better than that and I can have it. Niall has been a better friend to me than Ed.
Bloody hell, that’s true.
It’s great to see Peggs, who still wants to take the piss out of me for cancelling breakfast.
‘You are busy! You! Pete is too busy for breakfast, because he’s busy!’
Anyone who thinks The Inbetweeners is for teenagers doesn’t know what being middle-aged is like. Peggs’s piss-take is justified. I haven’t been busy for years. I let him indulge in this for a couple of minutes before we get down to the serious business of me playing with the baby and him nodding off in his chair.
Later, I write an email to Mary, saying that I would like to book another appointment and I have thought about asking her to help me go back to diving. If you want to dive again, she replies, I think we can get you there.
She doesn’t make big claims about her capabilities; it’s all about us working together, and what I can achieve. It might be a load of bollocks, but it’s what I want right now.
Chapter 26
At seven the next morning, Erland calls. It’s eight in the evening for him. I step into the garden. It’s grey and chilly but the fresh air feels good. Niall is on the sofa, working, so I slide the doors shut behind me.
‘Lovely to hear your voice to start the day, darling boy.’
‘Got to be honest, Dad, I get a bit sick of FaceTime. Sometimes I just want to chat to you, not me and Susie to entertain you like a double act.’
‘I know what you mean but I like both. You okay?’ I ask.
He sighs, ‘Yeah. Actually, I’ve been offered a promotion here, quite a good one, assistant manager at the estate, and we’re all going out later to celebrate and I just kinda stopped in my tracks because if I take it I’m kind of saying this is where I live and am going to live and I love that but I also feel weird about it.’
I feel nauseous but I don’t want to say the wrong thing. I play safe, concentrating so hard on not saying, ‘Please come back, don’t make New Zealand your home,’ that, as a result, I don’t really say anything of any use.
‘Well done. That’s just fantastic.’
‘Thanks. Need to think.’
‘You’ll make the right decision, Erls.’
He goes quiet. So do I, as I fight the selfish demons inside me, the ones fed by how much I miss my boy.
‘I heard about the business closing,’ he says. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah, all good.’
‘Dad, I wish you’d told me and not Mum. This is a big thing and I didn’t want to hear it second-hand.’
‘I’ll tell you next time, promise.’
‘Next time you run a business into the ground?’
‘You’ll be the first to know.’
We both laugh under our breaths but I feel empty after the call. I remain in the garden, staring into space, taking the idea of being subdued to a whole new level.
I don’t tell my son and daughter stuff because my job is to protect them from worry. That’s a decision I made when they were children and, who knows, maybe it’s time to trust that my adult children want to know the good and the bad, that they have cottoned on to the fact that I am not Yoda, and that life throws some curveballs. Maybe the most boring dad in the world is the one who pretends all is well.
I look inside at the kitchen clock and realise I have been out here for an hour. Niall has gone. I cannot account for the last hour, save for about sixty seconds’ worth of introspection. There’s sunlight on the garden and a sense that this is slowly bringing it out of hibernation. Spring is taking hold. I should ask Niall to tell me a bit about how to keep this garden looking nice once he’s gone. It will be nine o’clock in Cable Bay now and the sun will be setting over Erland’s vineyard, or maybe it is dark there already. He will be out celebrating his new job.
I call him back, expecting to get his voicemail and intending to leave a message congratulating him more convincingly and telling him I’m here for him if he wants to talk it through. But he picks up, and all sounds quiet around him.
‘Hey,’ he says.
‘Hey. Thought I’d get your voicemail. Aren’t you meant to be out?’
‘Yeah, but we all worked late this evening. I’m sitting on the veranda with a beer in my hand, looking at the fields, before I head out. So you couldn’t have timed it better.’
I launch into what can only be described as full disclosure about the shop, the way the business slid downhill and my inability to see how to change things. This isn’t why I rang at all, but maybe this is what he wants to hear.
‘The premises are worth a little bit,’ I tell him, ‘and I got to the point of thinking I have to leap into the unknown. I haven’t spoken to you about it because I don’t really have a plan and shutting down a family business is a bit embarrassing, and I never want to worry you or Susie – I’m your dad and it’s your job to worry me.’
‘I don’t worry about you,’ Erland says.
‘Good,’ I say. ‘Why not? I’m an imbecile.’
He laughs. ‘Because you’ll sort something out. I’m glad you’ve shut it down, you hated it. And even though you’ll never say it, I also get that you’re still reeling from Mum going. Why should that be easy to get over in a hurry?’
I look over my small back garden in Surrey as Erland looks across the wine estate that is his home. He’s right about talking like this, with no picture – it’s better. We can do silences.
‘There’s so much I have to say about your job news, Erls. But I’m scared of saying the wrong thing and of being selfish because obviously one of my main thoughts is not wanting you to live on the other side of the world at all, let alone long-term. But that’s not fair.’
‘I’m not sure I do, Dad, that’s why I called for your advice. I think if you’re scared to talk to me or Susie, or to Mum for that matter, about what you think, well . . . you seem a bit detached.’
‘Which couldn’t be further from the truth.’
‘I know that, Dad, but I’m the bright one. Remember that Susie and Mum are a bit thick and need stuff explained to them.’
I laugh.
‘Mum said to me a few months ago that she sometimes feels hurt how unruffled you are by the divorce, that she has no doubts but feels incredibly sad whereas you seem . . . indifferent.’
‘No comment,’ I say, ‘other than that is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard. And we’ve had some interesting chats recently, I think she knows how much I care.’
We fall silent for a bit.
I amend my last comment. ‘How much I love her.’
‘I know you do,’ he says.
‘Would this promotion make you better qualified for a job back here one day, do you think?’
‘It can’t harm, can it? But that’s the sort of thing I’d like to be able to sit down and discuss with you.’
‘Then we’ll do it. Like you say, some calls just you and me, as well as the FaceTimes.’
We share another nice, easy silence. I hear a voice in the background, from a field on the other side of the world, call my son’s name. He calls back, ‘Be with you in ten minutes.’ It makes me proud. I don’t know why. No, I do, it’s obvious. He’s liked. I can be certain of that. He’s out there and he’s liked and valued. He’s my lovely boy.
‘You’re doing so well, Erland.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
It’s my favourite word in the English language. Dad.
‘You know . . .’ I say to him, calmly, softly. ‘What you can’t understand is that every time I am with you or speak to you or see your face on this little screen, or think about you, I have you in my arms as a baby, I have the feeling of you as a toddler wrapping your legs around my waist as we walk, the sensation of your weight resting against my shoulder and the fingers of one of your little hands playing with my hair or stroking the back of my neck. And sometimes it is breath-taking and almost makes me buckle because it is such a happy feeling, but a loss too. And parents are battling with that and the joy of watching you go into the world and, all I am saying is, it’s . . . it’s a lot. And it’s a bad parent that weighs their child down, and this isn’t anything to do with me and Mum not being together, I felt like this long before all that. It’s just about bringing another life into the world and spending a couple of decades desperately hoping it won’t ever come to any harm and finding the time you spend with it the best fun of your day, of your life. You shouldn’t have to listen to all this, but I love you. I love you and your sister more than it is possible to say and a part of me is absolutely one hundred per cent guilty of wishing you were three again and I could carry you everywhere I go. I’ve reached a certain age and you are an adult living your own life, but I don’t want to play golf or see more of my friends. I want to be your dad.’
