To Heaven by Water Page 5

  Josh is certainly one of these men. He took up fishing: if by chance a big trout takes his fly it is because Josh has chosen exactly the right fly – you must match the hatch – and has positioned it with uncanny knowledge of the fishy mind, just where a monster is lying up. It’s not, of course, that trout are terminally dim and easily deceived – at times suicidal – but because of Josh’s intuitive understanding of certain mysteries, susceptible only to the male mind. Others are the meaning of sport and the underlying logic of the stock market. In fact, as she approaches the restaurant, which is, she knows, wildly fashionable, she has cheered herself up with the thought that men are, in a way, to be pitied. And thank God she will never have to walk a riverbank again, watching the Izaak Walton de nos jours snag trees and thrash the water while explaining his next brilliant ruse to confuse the trout.

  Ed is waiting. She spies him across rows of upholstered banquettes. She has a certain restaurant presence, and despite herself takes a little pleasure in how happy the maître d’hôtel is to shepherd her to her brother’s table, where he is waiting in his new light-grey suit.

  He stands up to kiss her, which she finds pleasantly formal.

  ‘Only twenty minutes late, but hey, who’s counting?’ he says.

  ‘You are, obviously. By the way, coming from someone who will be late for his own funeral, it’s a little uncalled for. This is pretty damn swish, my bro.’

  ‘I like it. And it’s far enough from the office not to see too many fucking lawyers. You look great, Luce.’

  ‘Thank you. You look fit in your suit, sort of right. I think you like being a lawyer really, but for the sake of your cred, you have to pretend you hate it. What’s to eat?’

  ‘It’s all good. It’s the same people who did the Ivy and the Wolseley. I’m going to have a rib-eye steak. I am desperately short of protein. Rosalie, of course, doesn’t eat meat.’

  ‘Good for her. How is she?’

  ‘She’s OK, but worried about the baby business.’

  ‘What are you doing wrong? Can I give you some advice? Feel free to ask.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, don’t start. We are not doing anything wrong, as far as I know.’

  But she can see that the baby business is bearing down on him, too. He’s too easy to read.

  ‘It’ll happen,’ she says.

  ‘And if it doesn’t?’

  ‘I guess it’s the glass jar and the porn mags for you.’

  ‘Jesus, Lucy.’

  ‘Is that so bad?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I’ve been there already for the fertility tests, and I certainly don’t want to make a baby looking at porn.’

  ‘I don’t think it will come out deformed or anything just because you were spanking the monkey.’

  ‘Oh good. That’s a relief. What are you going to have?’

  ‘I’ll have the tuna sashimi and a Caesar salad.’

  ‘Two starters?’

  ‘Anything wrong with that?’

  ‘No, fine. I am having six oysters and the rib-eye.’

  ‘Ah, I see the subplot: lead in the pencil.’

  ‘You’re beginning to annoy me.’

  ‘Already?’

  ‘Yes.’

  But it’s not true: they are always delighted to see each other. He’s ordering two glasses of champagne.

  ‘Any clients this afternoon?’

  ‘Fuck them.’

  ‘What are we celebrating, by the way?’

  ‘We’re not celebrating. We’re remembering. It’s Mum’s birthday.’

  ‘Oh shit, so it is. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten her so soon.’

  ‘You know I haven’t. I was thinking of her on the way here. I really only properly appreciate her now.’

  ‘Me, too. It’s odd. And also, it’s like when someone dies you are more or less bound to feel guilty for all the things you didn’t do at the time.’

  ‘Yup. And the problem is you can’t tell her or explain what you really thought.’

  ‘Josh rang me this morning, Luce.’

  ‘Which Josh?’

  ‘Your former boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh, that one. What did he want?’

  ‘He wondered if I thought he could ask you out.’

  ‘Why didn’t he ask me if he could ask me out?’

  ‘It was like maybe she is so pissed off she won’t take my call. I didn’t tell him that you have been sitting by the phone hopefully for six weeks.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Can he call you?’

  ‘Of course, we’re both adults, except for him.’

  ‘He’s scared you’ll raise the question of the one-night stand.’

  ‘Oh, so it was a one-night stand?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m just using a generic term. Maybe it was two nights.’

  ‘Which is worse?’

  ‘Look, Luce, can I be brutally honest with you? Other people’s affairs are not that interesting to the bystander. I’m just relaying a message. He’s terribly sorry, et cetera, et cetera, and misses you – blah, blah. Can he call?’

  ‘He can. No big deal.’

  In fact she’s delighted. She will not take the moral high ground and anyway she’s since had a one-night stand, too. She’s banked that one against a rainy day.

  They drink to their mother and she whispers, just above the level of audibility, Happy birthday, Mum. She feels a familiar surge of desolation for a moment, as Ed squeezes her hand. Happy birthday, Mum, he whispers.

  For a moment they sit silent. She drinks half of her champagne in a gulp.

  ‘We both miss her, but...’

  ‘But what?’ she asks.

  ‘Dad. I’m not sure about him.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Do you think he’s behaving normally?’

  ‘What’s normal when your wife has died?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I really don’t know, but it is a fact that he seems a little detached.’

  The oysters arrive. God knows what it is with men and oysters. It seems to be a manly thing to do, to slurp down, raw, suggestively shaped molluscs, a very primitive life form. They arrive sitting seductively on their shells, which, in turn, are placed on top of a Gallic silver holder, apparently designed specially for the job. The French have made a fetish of food. Last time she ate an oyster she was horribly sick. Maybe it’s the Russian roulette element that appeals to men: every sixth oyster could kill you. In the knowledge that Josh is pining for her, she tries to forget that he is fantastically stupid, despite his misleading good looks, and that he is sexually disturbed, chronically promiscuous and vicious when drunk. Apart from that, Mrs Lincoln. ... Her mind is racing cheerfully. Her sashimi is beautiful, five thin slices of a very pale tuna laid out in a fan and doused in lime, soy and ginger. You could eat the Yellow Pages marinated in this stuff. She looks at Ed as he swallows the first oyster, tossing his head back like a burgher in a Dutch painting. A moment of very male satisfaction, which of course is accompanied by a bit of self-congratulation.

  ‘Fantastic,’ he says. ‘They fly them in from Ireland.’

  ‘I’m glad for your sake they didn’t make them walk.’

  ‘You’re hilarious.’

  ‘Yes, I am. You think women shouldn’t make jokes, don’t you?’

  ‘You shouldn’t.’

  ‘You know what happened this morning? I was just leaving the flat when I heard this wonderful whistling from round the corner. It was “My Way”, and whoever was whistling was in a bad way. Very emotional, lots of wobbly vibrato. Anyway, a dog comes around the corner, which I recognise, a boxer, and then a bloke of about Dad’s age appears whistling away. Each note was pin sharp and packed with feeling.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘He is the bloke from the newsagent, George, who sold it to the nice Bangladeshis when his wife died last year.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I spoke to him and asked him how he was, and he said, “Devastated, I’ve
got nothing to live for.”’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. I found it very poignant.’

  ‘Because of Mum?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. He’s a big fat bloke, sort of unhealthy the way some of these older geezers are – gold chain, cheap sports clothes, large clapped-out dog, wheezing, and he’s whistling “My Way”. I was moved. That’s what happened to me. Little things get to me. I don’t have much control.’

  ‘Me neither.’

  He swallows another oyster, and then another. Lucy imagines a faint marine sound – water slapping on a jetty – as they slide away.

  ‘Ed, do you think Dad’s got another woman?’

  ‘That’s what Rosalie thinks. But she would.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Would you mind?’

  ‘On a theoretical level, no, I wouldn’t. In practice I think I would.’

  ‘Has he ever hinted to you, you know, man to man, about nookie?’

  ‘Nookie? What sort of a word is that? But no, to be fair he hasn’t. What’s he said to you? He always tells you first.’

  ‘Nothing. I asked him why he was so thin and he said he liked working out. He’s going to the gym every day.’

  ‘Let’s just accept it, for the moment.’

  ‘We don’t have a whole lot of choice.’

  ‘True.’

  She sees that Ed thinks he is carrying the burden now, as the one in the family who has to keep the ship steady, what with Dad running around wearing those cheap bracelets and distancing himself from his children. We have suddenly been promoted beyond our competence, handed the responsibility for tending the family flame. This flame, she thinks, is love, even though she can’t possibly say that to Ed, whose head is tilted back to receive the last oyster. He swallows and his eyes perform a brief, ecstatic victory roll.

  ‘Do you mind if I ask you a direct question, Ed?’

  ‘Go on,’ he says, without enthusiasm.

  ‘Do you think he loved Mum?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask him.’

  ‘Of course I can’t ask him. And, why would I? What’s he going to say? No, I didn’t? What I mean is, do you think there’s a kind of love which survives a marriage?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose I do. I hope so. Christ, I hope so. Otherwise, what’s the point?’

  Maybe Ed is thinking ahead: what if he and Rosalie can’t produce a child? What if he does have a sperm problem? And maybe she was insensitive talking about wanking into a glass jar. Rosalie could be too formed a personality for Ed. There’s a sort of woman with very definite standards and expectations which don’t allow for too much divergence. Rosalie is one of those. Her airily sweet and elegant exterior – Lucy thinks – hides a rigid and conventional sense of her due. Her due is to be the mother of beautiful and similarly elegant children, who will run charmingly – like the von Trapps – after her, employing only ballet steps. Ed is definitely under pressure.

  ‘My sperm count is high, just in case you were wondering.’

  ‘I didn’t ask.’

  ‘No, but you were wondering.’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘So you were wondering.’

  His steak arrives. She looks at it, oozing thin and watery blood, like the blood that appears in your mouth at the dentist.

  ‘But you’re not taking any chances, I see.’

  ‘Oh Jesus, Lucy, it’s a steak. Boys like steak. Trust me, I’ve got enough healthy sperm to impregnate the whole of a small country. Men, women and livestock. I wanted to talk about Dad.’

  ‘We have.’

  ‘Yes, but do you want me to talk to him properly? About money and so on? He’s planning to sell the house.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t really know. He says he’s cutting back. I think he’s trying to go minimalist.’

  ‘What about the cats?’

  ‘Are you turning into the sort of fruitloop who worries about cats?’

  ‘No, but you and I could each take one.’

  ‘Rosalie’s allergic to cats.’

  ‘Oh so, so sorry. Pardonnez-moi.’

  ‘You don’t really like her, do you?’

  ‘Of course I do. What’s happening to her, in fact to all of us, is that life has begun to get serious. We’re supposed to be grown-up. Look at you in your suit with your big-balls steak. And look at me, pathetically pleased that the lowlife wants me back, even though I know he’s a total flake, and look at poor Rosie, thwarted in her ambition to be the loveliest young mother on the planet, the lead in a ballet where she dances all the solo roles surrounded by charming little ankle-biters in dirndls, and then there’s Dad the minimalist gym rat, opting out of all responsibility. Fuck me, what’s happening to us? And finally, there’s you obsessing about your sperm count. A whole small country! Wow.’

  ‘I’m not obsessing about my sperm count. You’re a bit like Mum – whatever anybody told her she adapted for her own use.’

  ‘That is actually true. She sort of fitted everything to her world view.’

  ‘And now you are doing it. My sperm – I will say this once, and only once – are fine. Oh look, your rabbit food has arrived.’

  ‘When did you last see a rabbit eating Parmesan and raw eggs?’

  ‘Good choice, Madame,’ says the waiter suavely, as he places the salad on the brilliantly white cloth.

  ‘I’ve come to seize your salad, not praise it,’ says Lucy.

  ‘Ah, the old jokes.’

  There is blood oozing down one side of Ed’s mouth.

  On the way to the tube she wonders whether she should call Josh or wait. She decides to wait. On the train she wonders why her father is proposing to sell up. There’s something disturbingly nihilistic about him these days. She spent most of her life in the house and, although she has had her own small rented flat for two years, she still thinks of the house as home. She feels she must be consulted before it is sold. It is a betrayal. What has caused him to become so insensitive? So much has happened in this house, in a quiet back street of Camden. Her parents, in their telling, were pioneers arriving in the first covered wagon to this wild, unknown place in the sixties. Her small room is up three floors under the roof, where she looks out over the dreary disarray and failed endeavours of Camden’s sodden gardens towards a heavily salted Gothic church. She can sometimes hear the Greek Orthodox service on Sunday evenings. She can sometimes smell the censers, which the plump priests and their acolytes – she believes – swing about with terrific vigour, like gauchos hunting rheas. Her mother used to read to her in that little room before sleep. Most of these books, early on, had animal heroes, which in a way formed her own world view. She had sex there for the first time, not frightening at all, but strange and reassuring that two human beings could merge in this way. And when you think about it, it is a peculiar business, this connection of expressly designed bits of the body, a connection that seems to convey so much human significance.

  The sky outside that window is never dark. The London sky is rarely vivid, but always distempered and suffused, and always, like the sea, in flux. Christ’s blood does not stream in the firmament; nothing that dramatic takes place in the muted, crawling sky of Camden. But framed by her window, by her ex-window, the view is dear to Lucy. A view, she thinks, is personal property.

  4

  David rows away. It’s far from certain where he is heading. The upper body is something new, a sort of unexplored region attached by the isthmus of the waist to the lower body, which houses the restless sex organs and is also the terminus for the legs. The rowing machine is good for the upper body and the legs. Straightening his back, using his legs (all of the power in rowing comes from the legs), imagining the water flying by, ducks happy to get away unscathed. Ahead of him, staring at the video screens, the three Muslim women walk on the treadmills. He notices that today they are walking more slowly, because they have the machines inclined slightly upwards and they hold on as tho
ugh they are being towed, in danger of being left behind, in fact. He looks at their bottoms to see if there is any sign of improvement in definition. So far – it’s about five weeks since they first appeared – there is no obvious change. He rows on for half an hour until he has floated free of the gym and on to a sea of tranquillity.

  He whispers to himself, To heaven by water.

  He remembers Burton’s face so vividly, the pockmarks above the beard clearly visible in the side lighting, like a reminder of pestilence, his eyes glistening with anguish: he is caught in a terrible tragedy:

  O I’ll leap up to my God! Who pulls me down?

  See, see, where Christ’s blood streams in the firmament!

  One drop would save my soul, half a drop. Ah my Christ!

  And now as he rows he thinks of Darcey Bussell ignoring gravity, while the singer standing by the side of the stage moaned, For ever, for ever. Darcey Bussell, who reminds him so keenly of Jenni.

  So much has passed me by in all those years since I stood with Jenni and Adam watching Burton.

  They found a space for themselves on the set behind a huge arc lamp that hid them with its intense radiance. As he rows he wonders how he lost his faith in transcendence: film entranced him then, but somehow, over the following forty years, he lost that ecstasy. At times – treacherously – he has blamed Nancy in his heart, but he knows that this is unfair, even repugnant. It was her sensible – how demeaning that sounds – and clear understanding that provided the stability a family needs. It is just that there is no libretto for how the world really works: it might work entirely differently. Now, a single man, he feels entitled, even obliged, to live on a higher plane. When Lucy asked him why he was thinking of selling the house, he muttered evasively about releasing money for her and Ed and about downsizing, but he couldn’t tell her the truth: he was going to spend his remaining years in some way free of the material: how crazy, how absurd that would have sounded. It isn’t an idea you can easily discuss. And yet he has an urgent need to get rid of everything and to tread lightly on the surface of the earth. It’s nothing ecological, it’s entirely personal: to strip himself bare of distraction, to make himself naked, to open himself to ... to what, exactly?