Obstacles to Young Love Read online

  ‘You might have had other Emilies. Lovely children.’

  ‘We cannot unmake this Emily. Retrospective wishful thinking is not an option.’

  ‘Naomi?’

  ‘Yes, Mum?’

  ‘Do you believe that one day you and I will meet again, in a better place?’

  The truth. Always, the truth is better.

  No, Mum, I don’t. I think that if I had not lost my faith before, I would be losing it now. How can any God with any love in him or compassion in him let this happen to you, let your lovely body be wracked by this awful disease, let my dear dear kind innocent father suffer so terribly, and allow so many dreadful people to go through their wicked lives unscathed. Free will is just a feeble excuse, an abrogation of all responsibility. I thought I was an agnostic. I surprised myself when I told Timothy, in Peru, that I was an atheist. I don’t think now that I was. I think this, happening to you, is what has made me an atheist.

  The truth is not always better.

  Is there a form of words that I can use that will satisfy my conscience without upsetting my mother?

  Perhaps there is. If I express it with enough conviction.

  Well, I should be able to. I am an actress, after all.

  Forget nosy neighbours coming round asking for sugar and sex-mad chiropodists with foot fetishes. Act properly for once.

  ‘I certainly wish that we will.’

  Not perfect, but her mother smiles.

  Naomi holds her nose metaphorically, and downs her tea in two horrendous gulps.

  A year ago today. How awful it is, though it makes no difference really. A year ago today he was still alive. A year ago today they were a happy family. Except neither Maggie nor Timothy has said that. And they weren’t.

  No mention of the fact was made at school today, because of Liam. It might seem unfair to Sam that it should not be mentioned at all, but Liam must come first, and small boys don’t think in terms of this day last year, except for Christmas and birthdays.

  Liam comes above everything. One of the many things they have never got round to in Ascot House is removing the telltale numbers from the bedroom doors. It still seems like a B & B upstairs. In fact, it was two months before they removed from their bedroom door Miss de Beauvoir’s notice which said, ‘Private. In case of emergency ring 294693’. Sam had room number one, as the older, and Liam had room number two. The numbers remind Timothy every day of his feelings in that moment when he first saw that it was Sam who’d died. He so wants to move Liam to room number one. He could remove the numbers, of course, and indeed always intends to, but there’s always something like a delivery of a dead pike that some self-important berk from the Coningsfield Angling Club wants preserved immediately because he’s got visitors coming, and he doesn’t get round to it, and anyway it wouldn’t make any difference if he did, because they would still feel like rooms one and two.

  They have put Liam to bed. He hasn’t said a thing about the anniversary. They don’t think he’s aware of it. What do they do now? On the anniversary of something nice people drink champagne. What is the opposite of champagne? Arsenic?

  They sit on either side of the coal-effect fire, which is lit up but not on; it’s a warm day, though not as warm or as wonderful as that day. They sit in exhausted silence for perhaps two or three minutes. It seems longer.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ explodes Maggie at last. ‘A whole year, and they’ve found nothing. Did no boy behave oddly that night? Have no tongues wagged? Has neither boy said a word to anyone? Have no parents noticed unexplained damage to either car? Did no garage make the connection? The police are pathetic. They didn’t even try.’

  ‘Leave it, Mags.’

  ‘It’s a conspiracy of silence. It’s a cover-up.’

  ‘We don’t know that.’

  ‘Whose side are you on?’

  ‘I’m on our side, of course, but we have to move on. We have to—’

  ‘Forget?’

  ‘No. No, Mags, of course not. We have to rebuild our lives. Look to the future, not the past.’

  ‘You sound like a politician.’

  He feels that the insult is deserved, because he is saying things that he doesn’t believe, he is saying them because he feels that he ought to believe them. Sometimes they do look, to outsiders, as if they are rebuilding their lives, because they have to seem to be doing so, for Liam’s sake. There is laughter in their lives, for his sake. There is normality on the surface, for his sake. Everything is for his sake, and thank goodness it is.

  ‘You’re punishing yourself. You’re hurting yourself. It’s doing no good.’

  ‘That…that murderer…driving around…scot-free.’

  ‘Not a murderer, Mags. It was manslaughter at worst. Death by dangerous driving. Accidental. Terrible, horrendous, wicked, but accidental. I’m actually rather sorry for the young man.’

  Maggie stares at him wildly.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Her voice is an iceberg, and Timothy is the Titanic.

  ‘What did you say?’ she repeats.

  He remains calm.

  ‘I said I’m actually rather sorry for the boy. He’ll have to live with it for the rest of his life.’

  She begins to shout. ‘No, he sodding well won’t. He’ll have forgotten all about it, the callous little yob. He killed my son, who came out of my body, not yours I might point out.’

  ‘No fault of mine. I’d have been happy to have him if I could.’

  ‘Oh, shut up. Don’t be so stupid, you horrid little man. He killed our son, and you forgive him.’

  ‘I didn’t say I forgive him.’ He is also shouting now. ‘I should forgive him, I call myself a Christian, but I don’t, I can’t. I said I was sorry for him. Listen to what I say, will you, woman?’

  ‘I can’t believe in any faith that forgives like that. It’s madness.’

  ‘I said I haven’t forgiven.’ He screams his frustration.

  ‘I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about Christianity.’

  The door opens. Liam appears, in his bright green pyjamas. They trail on the floor. He’ll grow into them. If he lives. Nobody makes assumptions any more.

  ‘Stop shouting,’ he cries.

  ‘We weren’t shouting, darling. It was the television,’ says Maggie.

  ‘It’s not on.’

  ‘We switched it off because of all the shouting,’ says Timothy. ‘We hate shouting too.’

  ‘You were shouting. I hate it when you shout.’

  ‘We won’t shout any more, darling. Kiss Daddy goodnight and I’ll take you to bed.’

  Liam looks very doubtful, then runs to his daddy, hugs him, turns away rapidly, and lets himself be led back upstairs.

  Timothy sits and thinks. He turns off the light on the coal-effect fire. It was making the place look like a B & B.

  They can’t go on like this. They both had the thought that they must soldier on, for Liam’s sake, and for their own. They can’t continue to occupy this place with too many rooms, and with the dark presence of the dingy house next door always looming, the knowledge that there are dead animals just behind the chintzy wallpaper that had graced Miss de Beauvoir’s select establishment. Dead animals next door. A dead son here. They should move. Or maybe they should part. Did he have the heart to suggest it?

  Maggie returns.

  ‘He’s settled.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘We can’t go on like this.’

  ‘No.’

  There is just the slightest pause before she speaks, just the slightest softening in her tone.

  ‘I’m leaving you, Timothy.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Why can he say nothing more? Why can he not acknowledge that it’s what he has wanted and that he is relieved to have the decision taken out of his hands?

  Because he’s Christian and marriage is sacred? Does he really believe that? Because he can’t admit failure? No, he’s not as pathetic as that. Because he’ll lose Liam, and
without Liam there will be no need to even try to fight his grief?

  ‘I really think it’s best for us both. I can’t go on working at that school, passing that spot. We remind each other of what we’ve lost every time we see each other.’

  And then an extraordinary thing happens. At least Timothy thinks it’s extraordinary. She smiles.

  ‘Thank you for being such a good father,’ she says.

  ‘Me, a good father?’

  He is utterly astonished.

  ‘Specially since the…accident. Yes, you’re right. I must drop all that. It’s killing me. No, playing with Liam, taking him to the park, and having to go all the way to the other park, twenty minutes’ driving every time. I know it doesn’t come naturally to you but you’ve done it as well as you’re capable of. Liam needs to get away too. A new school. A new town. Sell this place which is much too big for us, you move back next door – don’t look like that, you can brighten it up. Your dad needs you. A new start, Timothy, for all three of us.’

  Timothy sits there, wanting to agree, wanting to cry with relief, hating the thought that he can even contemplate feeling relief ever again, wanting a new start, believing that it is impossible to make a new start.

  ‘I…’

  Go on. It’s not difficult.

  ‘I agree.’

  There. Done.

  ‘I’ll give in my notice tomorrow,’ says Maggie. ‘They won’t be entirely surprised. I’ll maybe look for jobs in Cornwall.’

  ‘Cornwall??’

  ‘Near my sister.’

  He is aghast. He is drowning. Cornwall is a million miles away. He will never see Liam again. He will lose his other son.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Timothy. There are trains and planes. You can see Liam whenever you want. You’re a good man, Timothy.’

  It’s extraordinary. There is more affection for him in her tone than for…oh, months. Years.

  She goes over to him, and kisses him.

  ‘I love you,’ she says.

  He is reeling.

  ‘Not in that way. I’m not made for marriage. I’ll never have sex again. Wretched business. Wet sheets and a dry throat. What would you say to a bottle of wine?’

  She mistakes his bewilderment for disapproval.

  ‘Sorry. That’s tactless. Nothing to celebrate.’

  ‘No, I fancy a bottle too. We never do. If we can find one.’

  They find a bottle. They can’t remember where the corkscrew’s kept, but they find that too eventually.

  They stand in the huge kitchen where Miss de Beauvoir once cooked full English breakfasts and kippers for her guests, and where very little cooking now goes on. A house needs cooking, Timothy thinks, and that was one of our mistakes.

  They raise their glasses to each other, feeling a little bewildered, extremely sad, but also, strangely, only slightly but mystifyingly excited.

  ‘Do you get any consolation from that God of yours?’ she asks.

  ‘No,’ he says after some thought. ‘I don’t think that’s what I’m searching for.’

  ‘What are you searching for – forgiveness?’

  Yes, partly. For a spasm of disappointment that lasted all of twenty seconds, and I can never possibly mention that to Maggie.

  ‘I’m not sure there’s a great deal to forgive. I feel heartbroken, not guilty. Though I think I might start to feel guilty if I ever stopped feeling heartbroken. So I don’t truly think there can ever be any happiness for me again.’

  ‘We have to find some true happiness, Timothy. We have Liam.’

  ‘You have Liam.’

  ‘No, no. Oh no, Timothy. No.’

  It’s extraordinary. He has never seen her so animated.

  ‘If we lived close together,’ she says, ‘there would be all the agony of sharing him, dividing up the week, trips to the zoo, endless difficult arrivals and even more difficult departures. Liam would live in a world of tension. If we live in Cornwall he will have a secure life there, a new school, a proper home. And you can come and visit any time you like for as long as you like. I promise you that, Timothy. Take him swimming, surfing, sailing. And he can come to visit you, holidays in Yorkshire, trips to the moors, outings to London, trips abroad. You can be the fun in his life, Timothy. I’ll be the solidity. I don’t have much talent for fun. So, for his sake, you need to learn how to have fun again. We’ll have an easy divorce. On good terms. I’m not a horrid woman, Timothy.’

  ‘Of course you aren’t.’

  They drink in silence for a while. They are as close as they have ever been, as they contemplate their separation.

  ‘You should get married again, Timothy.’

  He smiles. It is the first utterly genuine smile that he has managed in his life After.

  ‘Hey! Slow down,’ he says. ‘Separated, divorced and engaged in one evening. Must be good wine, this.’ He grows solemn again. ‘I don’t think I could dare to love ever again,’ he says.

  ‘You will. You must. Didn’t you say your drinking chums wanted to take you to Majorca for a boys’ weekend?’

  ‘Ghastly thought. I couldn’t stand it. Anyway, it’s rather fallen through, luckily. Tommo pulled out. Needed at work. Apparently the world of biscuits is feeling the crunch. Steven’s too busy in London, big new job, he’s a rising star again. That leaves me and Dave. He’s always up for getting away from his wife. I said I’d prefer Seville.’

  ‘Why Seville?’

  ‘Apparently it really is exceptionally beautiful. And very religious. Apparently the tapas bars are fantastic.’

  ‘What’s a tapas bar?’

  ‘I don’t know. Presumably a bar where they drink tapas.’

  ‘What’s a tapa?’

  ‘I don’t know. I live in Coningsfield.’

  And with the mention of Coningsfield Timothy returns to reality. The beauty of Seville fades from his face. The glimpses of flamenco dancers disappear from his eyes. He has let himself down, thinking of these good things. He cannot believe that he has allowed himself to do so, even for a moment. He sighs deeply, and returns to his private hell.

  ‘Get them off!’ says the man with a smile, salt water dripping off him.

  Naomi gives him an answering smile, trying to make it look genuine. She hasn’t got much to get off. She has just raced Emily to the water’s edge, and is standing there in her skimpy bikini, plucking up that little bit of courage which she still needs to find before she wades out into the sea.

  The man turns round, a little anxiously.

  ‘I have got it right, haven’t I?’ he asks. ‘It is you.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she says. ‘It’s me all right. I looked in the mirror this morning to make sure, and there I was, me.’

  Naomi wishes she hadn’t said this. It sounds ungracious. So she gives him one of her very best smiles, and says, ‘Thank you.’

  The man gives her a thumbs-up, and calls out to someone, ‘I was right. It is her.’

  Emily, who picks up on everything, says, ‘Don’t you like being famous, Mum?’

  ‘I’m not exactly famous, Emily, and I had hoped, when I started my career, that I’d be doing great work in Shakespeare and Chekhov and Pinter rather than being remembered for saying, ‘Get them off,’ in a rather silly sitcom.’

  They stroll along the edge of the sea, swishing the water with their feet.

  ‘I don’t really get it why it’s funny when you say, “Get them off,” Mum.’

  ‘Nor do I, really, but the joke is that people think I’m asking them to get their trousers off and all I’m meaning is the shoes and socks, so that I can do their feet. That’s the little joke that is giving your mum her tiny slice of fame, Emily.’

  ‘Let’s swim.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  They are at L’Ancresse, the favourite beach of the Walls family on their summer holidays. There’s a broad sweep of firm sand at low tide, sand perfect for playing cricket on, and beach tennis. Emily didn’t know you could play tennis without rackets, and N
aomi has shown her how to do it.

  She worried a little that she might find her return to Guernsey sad, that it would all be spoilt, that her memories had exaggerated its charms, but all has been well. Emily has loved it, and they have already had six days of delicate pleasure together.

  Delicate? Why? Because for Naomi all pleasure contains a slight fear of the moment when it will end, because all the pleasures adults get from their children are tainted by the fear of what will happen as they grow up and because, in this instance, there is always the possibility that her memories of her mother will turn suddenly to sorrow.

  But they don’t. Naomi has such happy memories of her. Her memories are so vivid that her mother has seemed to be with them this week as they’ve taken the boat to Herm, gathered shells on Shell Beach, explored rock pools at Cobo, drunk the beauty that Renoir loved at Moulin Huet, and marvelled at the daily miracle of the sun. She has seen the anxious working of her mother’s mouth, for her mother never truly relaxed, was always worrying whether Julian would behave, or Clive would stub his foot and cry, or Naomi would drown, or it would rain (which it never did in the memory). Now her mother is anxious no more. She is at peace. Her father, of course, has been absent from these memories. He’d never been with them in Guernsey; unless he popped into St Peter Port harbour on the tide and saw them for one night, he’d been away on his boat, in his space, which was why he had always seemed to be just a little bit of an outsider in the family. Now he is having to cope with his loneliness, having to learn to look after himself, although staff members and their wives are making sure that he is well fed and Mrs McGuire, the cleaner, comes in to do the ironing, lay out clean pants, matching socks and ties that go with shirts, to save him from sartorial howlers which would otherwise threaten his powers of discipline.

  Emily is so at home in the water. She screams with pure joy, enjoying pleasure that is not delicate, for she doesn’t even consider the possibility of its ending. She says, ‘I love this sea, Mum. It does things. It goes in and out. It slides into rock pools. It knocks down my castles. That other sea, it just sat there.’ The sea Emily talks about so contemptuously is the Mediterranean.

  Naomi has hired two deckchairs and a wind break from the man at the kiosk. They don’t really need the wind break today but it gives them a bit of privacy, makes them feel that a bit of the beach is theirs. After their swim they go back to their bit of the beach and rub themselves briskly with their towels so that they won’t get goose pimples, and then they have their chocolate. A swim isn’t a swim without chocolate afterwards. Then they have another game of beach tennis. Naomi wins. She had tried to let Emily win once, and Emily had shouted, ‘Don’t toy with me.’ And the adult expression had made her laugh, and Emily had stamped her foot and shouted, ‘And don’t laugh at me either,’ which had only made her laugh all the more. Anyway, it makes a nice change to win because every day of every family holiday she had lost at everything to Clive and Julian. Not that they had been nasty to her. Clive was never nasty and Julian, who could be such a pain most of the time, had always been nice to her. The day after their mother’s funeral, just before leaving, Julian had said, ‘Story of my life. I’ve only ever met one woman pretty enough and nice enough for me to marry, and she has to be my bloody sister.’