A to Z of You and Me (8 page)

“No? I'd have thought she was everyone's type.”

I shrug. “I'm not everyone then, I suppose.”

Do you hold my gaze for a second longer than normal? I'm sure—

At this moment Becca leans across the table. “Cheers, ears!”

“Cheers!” I say and turn to you. “To a really good gig.”

We all strike glasses, but you pull me up short.

“No, no, you're not doing it right. You've got to maintain eye contact when you're clinking glasses,” you say.

“Oh, is that what you're supposed to do?” asks Becca.

“Wasn't I?” I say.

“No, come on. Do it again,” you say. “Cheers!”

“Cheeeers—” I say and malcoordinatedly proffer my glass. “This is hard. I should be looking at the glass.”

“Nope, then it doesn't count,” you say. “Try again. Cheers!”

“Cheeeer—”

The glasses knock together:
t-tinggg
.

“OK?” I say.

You scrunch your nose up. “Well, technically it needs to be a cleaner
ding
.”

I try again, looking deep into your eyes. “
Cheers
.”

Tinggg
.

“Perfect!” you cry, and grin at me.

“It's the spontaneity, I think, that really made it special,” I say.

Definitely a lingering look there.
Definitely
.

My phone, trapped between us, buzzes once more in my pocket. You jump.

“What's that?”

“Oh, sorry,” I say, hopping up from my half of the chair. “I keep…I keep getting calls.” I look down at Mal's flashing name and cry, “Leave me alone!” rather weakly at the screen.

Feeble.
Feeble
.

I look down at you, and you're watching me with amusement. “You must be very popular.”

And still, your look sustains.

I don't know what it is about you, but for the first time in…in years?…I can feel a little of the anxiety beginning to slip away. I'm able to keep your gaze. And it's only now I realize how unconfident I've become lately.

My phone ceases vibrating.

I say, “You have lovely eyes.”

There it is. I have said it. Matter-of-fact.

“Well, thank you,” you say, a little taken aback. “That's a sweet thing to say.”

No! It's a terrible thing to say! Everyone will have said this to you!

But you smile.

And I smile too.

“Ivo?” calls Laura.

“What?” I look up at her, and she's holding out her phone.

“Mal wants you.”

And I can't stay. I can't fucking stay.

“I'm really sorry,” I say. “It's been lovely to meet you, but I've got to—”

“Ivo…” Laura's shaking her phone at me.

“Tell him I know,” I snap at her.

“Oh, right,” you say disappointedly. You look instinctively away, and I can feel the disconnect.

“You coming?” says Becca to me, as she gathers up her bag and coat.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say, trying hard to think of some way to pick up again on what we just had. “Hey, listen—I know we've only known each other for about three minutes, but would you maybe fancy coming out for a drink with me at some point? Unless…”

“Oh,” you say, surprised. “Well, yeah, yeah. That would be nice.”

“Brilliant. I'll get your number off Becca maybe, and—” My phone starts again. “I've got to go. I'll ring you, OK?”

“OK.”

I stumble my way across the pub, trying to answer my phone and catch up with Laura and Becca.

“Y'all right, our kid?” says Mal on the end of the line. “Where've you been? I've been ringing for ages.”

I feel a tug on my arm, and I turn around to see you holding on to my sleeve. I mouth “What?” at you.

“Sorry,” you say. “I was forgetting… I'm going home tomorrow. I mean home home, back to my mum's up in the Lakes for Easter.”

“Ah, shit.”

“You what?” says Mal.

“But, you know, after then perhaps?” you say.

“Yes, definitely,” I say.

“Here, let me get a pen, and I'll write down my mum's landline. Maybe give me a call there?”

You root around in your bag while Mal's voice in my ear demands to know what's going on.

“Just hold on,” I say to him testily.

“Here you go,” you say, pulling out an old pen. “Have you got some paper?”

“Write it on here,” I say, offering the back of my hand.

You twist my wrist around with your palm and write the numbers out nice and clear and render a very professional-looking treble clef at the end.

“So you remember who it was in the morning.” You smile.

Ears

Ears. I haven't thought about this for years.

It's you again: it's you, just after that Easter, on the railway station platform, surrounded by all those people.

Hours we've spent, talking on the phone this holiday. And it's been so comfortable and warm, talking about anything and everything, how you missed your mum all term, but five minutes was enough to drive you crazy. And we've got the tragic dad stories out of the way too. And it feels—it feels
right
with you. I've told the dad story a thousand times, and I always find people embarrassingly backpedaling. I constantly have to reassure them everything is fine and so on and so on. But when you told me about your dad, I was struck by how matter-of-fact you were.

“Yeah, my dad left—what, back when I was fifteen? He was a drinker. Still is, I think. And he couldn't give my mum what she needed. I mean, for years they stuck at it, but it was never going to work. They were a real mismatch.”

“Oh, right.”

“I don't blame him for it, though—he's had some rough times, made some bad choices. But it doesn't make him a bad man.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“I don't see that much of him, because I think it sends him off the rails a bit. I think he feels bad, and I don't want to cause that. It's sad. But, you know, I don't let it define me.”

I was almost able to hear your shrug on the phone. So I embarked on the thousand-and-first version of my dad story and sort of found myself mimicking your matter-of-fact tone. It felt for the first time like I was telling it in a way that I wanted to tell it.

So now I know: I don't have to be Laura about it. I don't have to amp up the melodrama, because it's a thing that has happened. It was sad, and it remains sad. No one's going to take that away, for good or bad.

You called it sad-dad top trumps. “Ah, dead dad beats nonviolent alcoholic every time.”

After weeks of talking almost every night until the early hours, I can't believe we've only met once before.

You said, “How are you going to recognize me at the train station?”

“Of course I'll be able to recognize you.”

“Ahhh, yes, it'll be my lovely eyes.” Teasing me for what I said on our only actual meeting. “I'll fix them on you like a gorgon and draw you across the station concourse.”

“Nooo—actually, it'd be your enormous, deformed ears.”

You gasped and slammed down the phone. As a joke. I think.

Now I've managed to work out which train is going to be yours, and after the anxious eight extra minutes' wait, my limbs tingling with the anticipation, it has flashed up as “arrived” on the board, and I'm beginning to worry that I genuinely might not recognize you. And if I don't recognize you immediately, you're totally going to read it in my face, and that will be the end of everything.

As the passengers begin to flow through, first in small numbers, but now in an unmanageable surge, my eyes flit around for the sight of you. The sight of something familiar. Something I might be able to recall from that night three weeks ago.

I'm wondering whether I've built all this up too much. And of course I have. I mean, face-to-face there might be nothing between us, no chemistry, no low pub lighting to give a bit of atmosphere. Just the flattened dabs of black chewing gum on the platform, the squat coffee shop, offering the same old coffee since 1989, only this time in a cardboard cup with a plastic lid, exactly not quite like the posh coffee chains.

Still no sign. I look behind me, half expecting to see you leaning against a wall, looking at me and tapping your foot in disappointment.

When it all comes down to it, what the hell am I doing, leaving myself open to all this?

But no, look: there you are. Bobbing along the platform, already looking at me, already smiling, half hidden behind a disordered group of students.
That's
you. I totally would have recognized you. And nestled unselfconsciously in your hair, a pair of pink bunny ears bounce over your face like exclamation marks.

“Hello!” you say, dropping your bag when you finally reach me and giving me a kiss on the cheek and an enthusiastic hug.

“Hello,” I say, and all of my anxiety melts away with the warmth and ease of our greeting.

“It's so lovely to see you finally,” you say.

“Yeah! You too,” I say. “So, what's with the ears?”

You frown and look at me noncomprehendingly.

“Ears?”

Aha. I get you.

“Oh, nothing,” I say.

“Right,” you say airily. “So, are we getting the bus then?”

You turn and bend down to pick up your bag.

A fluffy white bunny tail, elasticked to the back of your jeans.

No, I'm not going to mention it.

I've got a laugh smoldering in my chest all the way to the bus depot.

• • •

Urgent electric siren now sears my ears and seizes my brain, jolts me awake, and my heart pound-pounds and the sweat starts to prickle and emerge out onto the surface of my skin.

What's…?

I look around for some sign about what I should do. What should I do?

The siren settles in, oppressive on my ears, redrawing the shape of my skull with each regular blare.

It's punctuated now by the sound of urgent footsteps.

I see Sheila flash past my doorway and stop a short way along the corridor.

Then a male voice, buried among the echoes. Jef, I think. I can't make out the words.

“No,” replies Sheila. “Yes, but it's been opened. Have you got the key?”

Another Jefish sound from off down the corridor, and I see Sheila relax and stroll back up toward my room.

She notices me and stops half in and half out of my doorway.

“Sorry about this,” she calls, keeping an eye up the corridor. “People are always pushing on the alarmed door. It says it
right there
: ‘Alarmed door.' What do they think's going to happen?”

“I haven't seen anyone around,” I say.

“No.” She sighs, without surprise. “It's a bloody nuisance. Everything's on electrics. They say to you, Oh, it's going to be a big improvement on what you had before, and the next thing you know the whole bloody place has been improved out of all usefulness.”

She keeps an eye out the door and rolls her eyes to Jef as he strides past, flipping a small bunch of keys in and out of his hand.

The door is slammed shut, its echo rolling down the corridor, and the blare stops dead, leaving the ultrasonic imprint in my ears, and my heart racing.

Was it you who sent a gust of wind to open the alarmed door and assault my ears?

Sometimes I could be persuaded.

Calm now, calm.

Hzzzzzzzzz.

Ah, there. Old Faithful.

“Thanks, lovey,” Sheila says to Jef as he comes back past.

“All right,” he says.

“It won't be long before they're putting the respirators on the same circuit as the coffee machine,” she says, coming fully into the room. “And we'll have a double-shot latte and a side order of dead resident.”

She dumps herself in the visitors' seat and strains to lift her foot up to her other thigh, pushing her finger inside her shoe to ease an ache.

“I'm sorry,” she says wearily. “I probably shouldn't be talking like that to you, should I?”

I smile, more troubled by the presence of her foot. “Don't worry about it. It's good to see you care.”

“Well, I do care. This is supposed to be a place of peace and tranquillity. But you still have to deal with all the efficiencies and management brainwaves like anywhere else. If you can't escape the red tape here, you can't escape it anywhere, can you?”

Feet

Lying on the sofa, I cannot bring myself to speak.

Mum comes and lifts my legs and drops them back across her lap as she sits on the seat beside me.

A cartoon is on TV with the sound down, but I'm not watching it.

I can see she's found my card. Or the rattly collection of macaroni, sugar paper, and glue that the stand-in teacher sent us all home with. Mum must have dug it out of the bin.

Happy Father's Day.

Mum rubs my feet, carefully avoiding the ticklish areas. She looks sometimes across at my face.

“Takeout tonight, kiddo?”

I can't answer.

Looking down at my foot, she says, “Looks like it's just you and me then, foot. How are you feeling? Are you feeling sad?”

After a short pause, my foot nods sadly.

“And how about you,” she says, collecting up my other foot, “are you sad too?”

It too is sad.

“Oh dear,” she says. “Oh dear.” And she sits there, considering, while I clutch a cushion to my belly and look at the screen.

Long silence. Long, long silence, full of cartoon noises. Bullets and boings.

“I tell you what,” she says, addressing my big toe, “let's have a talk about what you've done today. Let's talk about your shoes. What shoes have you been in today?”

My foot thinks for a while and looks across the room, toward the door.

“Your Hi-Tec Silver Shadows?” she says. “Are they your favorite shoes?”

Foot nods.

“And what about you?” she asks the other foot. “Have you been wearing Hi-Tec Silver Shadows?”

The other foot nods too.

“Of course you have. It'd be silly to wear something else, wouldn't it? Then you'd be in odd shoes. Did you like wearing your Hi-Tec Silver Shadows?”

The left foot nods yes, and the right foot shakes no.

“Er…”

I say, “They like them, but one rubbed a bit.”

She leans in to my feet. “Who's that?” she whispers, gesturing up toward my head.

Both feet shrug.

• • •

“Do you have tingly feet at all?”

Dr. Rhys.

“Do you have tingly feet?”

“Mmm…sometimes? Maybe?”

“Yes, you see, that's not normal. With diabetes that could indicate the onset of nerve damage. Which can mean you get sores that don't heal and become infected, and then we might have to amputate. I've got four people in this district who have a cupboard full of useless left shoes as we speak.”

• • •

This is it. This is good.

I'm walking. I've left my bed and I'm walking down the corridor and it was my idea.

I'm so rubbish at having the idea myself. I have to imagine what you would say to me. What would you say? You'd say:

Imagine yourself there. Then you'll recognize it when you get there.

I'm walking, I'm walking.

I'm doing something with my life.

And it's good. Good to keep the feet moving.

Got my blanket on my back, your arms around me.

It's nice. Take it slowly.

One foot in front of the other.

Push, slip my way through the fire doors. They chunk shut behind me.

It gets the circulation going. Gets the brain going. Gets the thoughts, the ideas going. It's good; it's positive. Something as simple as things to look at, new things to take in. Makes you look more kindly on the world.

Wish I'd done it earlier.

The coffee machine, there it is. The Café Matic 2. There's a big stack of mugs beside it. All different. The staff brings them in.
I Love London. Phantom of the Opera. A Room of One's Own… Virginia Woolf.

Steady, now. It's nice to go at a glacial pace. Keep near the wall.

I glance in on the room to my left. There's an old lady on the bed. A younger woman looks up at me from the visitors' chair, and I'm gone.

Around the corner now. Bulletin board up on the right, pinned every inch over with flyers and leaflets. The papers at the bottom lift and flutter in the convection of the heater beneath.

Convection current. Another concept Mr. Miller taught us in science. Will I never be rid of that man's influence?

St. Leonard's Church Fete
—
£430 raised for the hospice.
Not a bad sum. Or is it? It's hard to tell.
Huge thanks to all.
Yeah, thanks.

Palliative Care in the Home. We all want to be where we feel most comfortable. Familiar surroundings.
Not my home.
With family and friends
. Not my family. Or my friends.

Cancer, Sex, and Sexuality. Everyone is different. There is no such thing as a normal sex life. You may still have needs and desires even if you are very ill.

Massage. Karen Eklund. Swedish masseuse. Twice weekly sessions in the Baurice Hartson room. Sessions last approx. 50 mins. Write your name below for a consultation.
No pen provided.

Reflexology, Bowen Therapy, and Reiki. Heal yourself.

Time to move on.

Laughter now colors in the corridor from the room at the far end. Audience laughter. And a voice. Familiar voice. By the time the sounds travel down the corridor to me, the words gather shimmer from the walls and the floor, so they are buried amidst the avalanche of sound, of gloss paint and vinyl. They talk of the corridor. They talk to me of pastel wallpaper and detergent. Shiny floor. Easy to clean. Health-inspector fresh.

I squeak along the corridor toward the sound, and the words grow more distinct.

“
So what about the Budget then, eh? Terrible, wasn't it?
”

The Budget. Ugh, noise. Outside noise. Noise of a world carrying on without me.

“
But you wouldn't want to be chancellor, would you? No. You wouldn't want to be chancellor
.”

Everything in me wants to turn back to my room, to get back into bed.

“
Can you imagine? Cutting all those public healthcare budgets. You wouldn't dare fall ill, would you?
”

No, come on, come on.

“
…well, I'm sorry, Chancellor, all these health cuts, you know? I can't afford to give you anything for constipation. You'll have to stay full of crap.
”

In the TV room the television's broadcasting to an audience of empty chairs. Screen light switches upholstery now blue, now yellow, now white, now blue. I've gotten this far. I might as well sit and watch for a bit. I select the chair next to the big trunk of toys, pick a Rubik's Cube off the top, rotate it uselessly in my hands.

“
So what's the answer, eh? You're so good at budgets, I suggest you go back to number eleven and work it out with a pencil. Yes?
”

There is loud laughter now, and I wince at the noise. They turn it up higher and higher these days.

“
That'll help him budge it, won't it, eh?
”

Laughter.

Amber appears at the doorway, carrying two empty coffee mugs. I look up at her and smile.

“Hiya.”

She peers at me from behind her hair, and I think for a moment that she's not going to acknowledge me, but she does, tentatively stepping in and looking at the screen.

“On coffee duty?”

She doesn't reply but looks down at the mugs in her hands.

“I've come to get myself a bit of culture.”

“Oh, him. Yeah. I don't really like him.”

“They always turn the audience up so loud.”

She smiles politely. Ugh. Such an old-man thing to say.

We're not such different ages. Twenty years. Twenty-two, -three. I just want to say to her,
I understand you
.
I get what it is you're trying to say. With your deep blue streak of hair and the way you dress
. I mean, I want to turn to her and say,
You, me, friends, yeah? Same, yeah?

But no. No, no.

You can't cling on to things like that.

“Sorry to be a pain,” I say, “but if you're off to the machine, would you mind getting me a cup of tea? I'd go myself, but—”

She clears her throat. “Sure,” she says. “Milk and sugar?”

She disappears.

I flick through the channels for something a bit less full-on. News, news, panel show. What would Amber want to watch? I end up on one of the music channels and leave it at that. Turn it down to background.

She returns bearing two mugs. Deep red and deep blue. One says
Humph
on the side, and one says
Albert
.

“Humph,” she says.

“Thanks very much.” I take it from her.

She retreats a few seats away and sits cross-legged, cradling the cup against her lips, propping her elbows on her knees. Green-and-black-striped tights.

“Have you got stuff to keep you busy out there?” I ask. “All the waiting. It's draining.”

“I've got some books. But it's not really the best place to read. I can't concentrate.”

“No, it's hardly surprising, is it? You want to try playing Sheila's game.”

“What's that, then?”

“Well, what you do, you go through the alphabet and think of a part of the body for each letter. Then you think of a story about that body part, like, say what is the best thing your fingers have ever done. The moment in your whole life when they were best used.”

My explanation grinds to a halt, and I think she must wonder what the hell I'm talking about.

“Adrenaline,” she says brightly. “I'd start with
A
for
adrenaline
.”

“Why adrenaline?”

“It motivates you and keeps you safe. It makes people do amazing things, like become superhuman. Do you know there was a woman who managed to actually heave up a car that was crushing her child?”

“No, really?”

“Yeah, in America. I read about it—it was the adrenaline in her arms.”

“That makes my Adam's apple story feel a bit inadequate,” I say. “But that's what you get for working in a garden center all your life.” I look at her, and I don't see a light go on. “Garden of Eden,” I say. “Adam's apple.”

“Which garden center did you work at?”

“You know the one down the road from here? At the junction?”

“I know. We go out to the café there sometimes.”

“Oh, yeah. Good cakes.”

“Yeah!
Great
cakes!”

We gaze at the TV screen for a while, and begin to get drawn in by its conversation-sapping magnetism. I try to think of something to say about adrenaline. I can only think of it as an antidote to drug overdose.

“I love your blanket,” I hear her say. I look, and she's reaching over to touch the edge of it.

“Oh, thanks,” I say, smiling. “It was made for me.”

“Wow. It's gorgeous. Can I have a look?” She turns a corner. “It's a got a beautiful tension in the stitches. I'm looking to do textile design at college. I've always loved it.”

“Here,” I say, handing it to her. “It's really heavy.” I can't keep the pride from my face.

Amber interrogates the blanket with confident, intelligent fingers. Funny how a slight difference in movement or poise can tell you about a person's talents. “Look at this.” She holds the blanket up to herself, talking to herself almost. “The hexagons. Really unusual. It must have taken forever.”

“She went for hexagons because they're a bit more gentle, I think, than squares.”

“Who was it who made it?”

I hesitate a moment, unwilling to admit to ever having had a girlfriend, in case—in case
what
? Amber might be
intereste
d
?

Jesus.

“My girlfriend,” I say. “Ex.”

Amber looks up at me with sudden sympathy.

“She could do a lot better than me,” I say, to deflect any questions.

“It's beautiful-quality wool, must have cost a fortune.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, totally. She definitely must have thought you were worth some trouble.”

“Heh. Yeah.” I smile, and then my face must fall a little, because Amber looks concerned.

“Are you OK? Sorry, I don't mean to—”

“I always used to get roped into her big schemes. Always some plan to carry out some random creative act somewhere. She used to do yarn bombs. Is that a known thing in textiles, yarn bombs?”

“No… What's that?”

“She used to plan to go to these places in town at four in the morning and decorate them with crochet hearts or daffodils or whatever else it was she was making.”

“Oh wow, that sounds amazing.”

“Yeah, little snowflakes at Christmas, little chicks in the spring. Just random acts of kindness, but executed to an insanely high standard. She was totally meticulous about it.”

“And you had to trail along after her?”

“Yeah, well, I never wanted to look at it like that. People used to say to me, ‘Oh God, I bet you hate getting up in the morning, don't you?' But I never wanted to be the person who hated getting up in the morning. It was hard, but it was never bad. It was really, really good. Maybe that's how proper projects should be.”

“Didn't the crochet just get swiped?”

“Oh yeah, they were inhaled. But that's absolutely not a reason not to do it. People will be how they're going to be. You'll never be able to control that.”

“Yeah…” Amber looks unconvinced.

She hands me back the blanket, and I pat its thick form. It looks like a flag they fold up at military funerals.

“Would she come and visit you? Even though she's an ex?”

The question takes me by surprise.

“No,” I say. “No.”

Fingers

“What's this? It looks like a bumhole!”

Mal jabs a finger through one of the holes in the stitching of the blanket, and his fingernail raps the wood of the pub table beneath. The burned-down roll-up pinched between his knuckles drops a flake of ash.