Canvey Island (21 page)

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I just wanted to see you.'

‘Oh.'

‘Didn't Ade tell you?'

‘Yes, but what was I supposed to do? I didn't know when you were coming. You might have changed your mind. It's been a long time, Martin.'

‘Too long.'

‘I don't know about that.'

‘Well, what do you say, Linda? One drink. For old times' sake.'

‘I don't think “one drink” was ever enough for either of us. But I'll be in the Smack at six. You can buy me a vodka and tonic, easy on the tonic. Don't be late.'

She didn't wait for an answer, but opened the door to her flat with one hand and barged it open with her shoulder. She didn't look back.

I had so few ways of remembering her: a photograph taken by Vi so that her smile to the camera was guarded and false; some letters that she had sent to Cambridge; and singles she had given me for Christmas and birthdays: the Turtles singing ‘Happy Together', ‘All I Really Want to Do' by the Byrds. By driving along the back lanes, visiting the pubs and sitting on the same concrete bench in the sea wall, I hoped to remember more: the smell of soap on the back of her neck and paint on her hands, the bump on her left index finger where she held her pencil, the way in which she would ask ‘Now what?' whenever she was bored.

It had begun to rain when I headed back for the pub. A middle-aged couple dressed in cagoules had been braving the weather and were eating their scampi outdoors. They could have been Claire and me having a drink before going to see Dad. Inside a group of boys were playing snooker while some women were preparing for a hen night, putting L-plates on to the bride's jeans.

‘You got them then?' I heard Linda's voice. I was so lost in my memory of the past that it reminded me of that first time when she had asked about condoms.

‘The drinks …'

‘Oh. Yes.'

‘You look surprised. We did arrange to meet here. Is there something wrong? Were you expecting me to be seventeen?'

‘No. Of course not.'

‘Bet you were.'

Behind her was a photograph of Canvey from the 1950s: the parish pump and the Red Cow before the flood. I remembered that this was how we often defined the time in which we lived; not ‘before the war', or ‘after the war', like everyone else in England, but ‘before the flood', ‘after the flood'. It made the island biblical.

‘Well, cheers then,' I said.

I looked at the hen-night women, and the boys playing pool, and
I wondered how many of the couples in the pub having a quiet drink were either getting together or breaking up.

‘It's funny seeing you again,' said Linda.

‘We had some good times.'

‘I'm glad you think so.'

‘We did,' I said. ‘Don't you remember?'

‘I'm not so sure about that.'

‘Riding all over the island. Dancing to Dave's band. Whatever happened to him?'

‘He's all right. Still trying to make it. But he drinks a bit too much. You know Dave.'

‘Not really …'

‘You made me a necklace. I remember that. I've still got it somewhere.'

‘I didn't behave very well. I'm sorry.'

‘Yes. I remember you saying sorry at the time.'

‘That was the end, I suppose. At Aldeburgh.'

‘Well, we haven't seen each other since so I guess you must be right; unless you count the time in the restaurant when you were so embarrassed you could hardly speak.'

‘It threw me, seeing you and Claire in the same place.'

‘I couldn't work out whether you were embarrassed about me or embarrassed about her. Perhaps it was the both of us. And your awful Auntie Vi.'

‘She's got a bit better.'

‘She could hardly have got worse. Do you want to get me another?'

I made my way through the hen night to the bar (‘
You need company, mate? Fancy a bit of an evening?
' – ‘
No, I'm all right, thank you
' – ‘
We know you're all right, that's why we're asking
').

‘Made some friends?' Linda asked when I got back to the table. ‘Don't mind me.'

‘I came to see you, not them.'

‘Well, that was kind.'

‘I keep thinking of something we did, just us. Do you remember that cupping-hands thing? Pretending we had created new worlds?'

‘Show me.'

‘I put my hands in front of my face, cupping them forwards, see?
Then you put your hands in front of your face and we made a kind of ball.'

‘Looks daft.'

‘Don't you remember?'

‘Are you sure it wasn't someone else?'

‘No. Of course it wasn't.'

Linda downed her vodka. ‘I remember Aldeburgh all right. Couldn't forget that. Bloody cold it was. And you being hung up about the tide.'

‘I can't remember how it went wrong.'

‘I'm not sure if it was ever right.'

‘It was,' I said.

A girl from the hen party put Gloria Gaynor on the jukebox and they all started to sing along. Linda shuddered. ‘I can't stand that crap. What a load of desperate middle-aged bollocks. No, I will
not
survive. Let's go.'

We climbed the bank up on to the sea wall, avoiding the steps as we had always done in the past. I held out my hand to Linda but she didn't take it. When I looked down I could see her breasts showing through her T-shirt. We walked down to the jetty and watched a man flying his son's kite for him.

‘I know what it was,' Linda said at last. ‘In the end I gave you the confidence to leave me.'

‘I suppose I never realised …'

‘Did you ever get round to changing the world?' she asked.

‘I tried …'

‘Job a bit too big for you?'

‘The other week a whole cliff collapsed in the area I'm responsible for.'

‘It can't have been your fault.'

‘I don't know. Perhaps it was. I don't feel I've done much with my life, Linda.'

‘Well, you're not alone there.'

The sun broke through a bank of cloud and caught her eyes. She shielded them briefly from the light.

‘Why?' I asked.

‘What's happened?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Is that the problem?'

‘I don't know if it's a problem. I just haven't found anyone to love.'

‘A girl like you. There must be hundreds of men.'

‘Believe me, Martin. There aren't.'

‘Come off it …'

‘You get to the stage when you realise the time when you can choose has passed you by. And then there's no choice left.'

‘Perhaps your standards are too high.'

‘I went out with you, didn't I? They can't be that high.'

We walked on across the stones and broken seine nets, keeping to the harder parts of the shore, past the car tyres and the abandoned bottles, the bits of driftwood and strands of seaweed. I didn't want Linda to think that I was staring at her, but she looked even thinner than I had remembered. I wondered if she was eating enough, or if she had enough money. Then she stopped to light a cigarette, cupping her hands away from the breeze. Her nails had been bitten right down. In the pub she'd managed to hide the worst of them but now she needed both hands for the cigarette. I think she saw me notice them because she gave me a quick glance that told me to say nothing.

‘I sometimes wonder what would have happened if we'd stayed together.'

Linda laughed. ‘Disaster, probably.'

‘Why do you think that?'

‘Don't you?'

‘No,' I said. ‘I don't. Sometimes I think it would have been the best thing I ever did. Losing you was such a careless thing to do.'

‘Don't say that.'

‘I mean it.'

Linda bit at a nail. ‘Let's not talk about it.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because I don't have anything to say to you. In fact I don't know why you're here.'

‘I wanted to see you,' I said.

‘But why? We weren't even friends in the end. You hurt me. You hurt me so much.'

‘I didn't mean to.'

‘No. No one means to.'

The light was bright off the water. I didn't want Linda denying our past or changing it. But I didn't know what to say.

She picked up a pebble and put it into the pocket of her jeans. ‘I should go.'

‘I'll walk you home.'

She stopped. ‘All right. But you're not coming in. I don't want you getting any ideas. I remember what you're like.'

‘Did I ask?'

For the first time she smiled. ‘You're OK, I suppose.'

We bought some chips and walked back up Haven Road, past the gas installation. A man jogged past us, plugged in to his Walkman. A couple ahead were strolling with the girl's hand in the back pocket of her boyfriend's jeans. ‘Are you seeing anyone?' I asked.

‘Nosy.'

‘Just taking an interest.'

‘And what if I am?'

‘I'm only asking.'

‘You still married?' she said.

‘Can I see you again?'

‘You haven't answered the question.'

‘Sorry.'

‘I'll take that as a yes then.'

‘I did love you,' I said. ‘I can promise you that. I absolutely loved you.'

‘Not enough.'

‘No, perhaps not enough, but more than I realised. More than I had ever known.'

‘How long are you here for?' she asked.

For the first time she looked interested.
Perhaps it could begin again
, I thought. Perhaps it had already started.

When I thought about it I was angry. How could Martin come round after all those years and turn up like he'd just popped out to the shops?

It made me remember the emptiness I had felt when it was over: the staring into absolute nothingness, the going back to bed at eleven in the morning, the vodka and the crap afternoon telly, the rubbish food and the dressing gown with bits of crisp and chocolate stuck to it, the unmade bed and the unwashed hair, the pointlessness of every single activity other than lying down.

Two days later we drove over to Southend. The car smelt of his wife's perfume but I didn't say anything. We went for a walk on the pier, watching children screaming on the rides high above Adventure Island and their parents queuing for the ten-pin bowling. A handful of birdwatchers were chattering about black terns and a couple of punks with green hair were waiting to be photographed for a pound a time.

‘Why are you here?' I asked Martin. ‘Remind me.' Although it was good to be with him again I wasn't going to make it easy. ‘I can't believe you still fancy me.'

I had seen the confusion on his face when he had looked at me the last time. He had tried to pretend that he hadn't been eyeing up my breasts. It's amazing how men think women don't notice.

‘And we can't be seventeen again, Martin. Life doesn't work like that …'

A Punch and Judy show was in full swing and Judy was handing Punch the baby, leaving him in charge.
That's the way to do it
.

‘There's a pub at the pier head,' he said. ‘If we can get through the crowds we can have a drink there.'

We walked by the abandoned railway line and up to the lifeboat station. A group of Southend fans were singing:

Super, super, super Shrimpers
Super, super, super Shrimpers
Super, super, super Shrimpers
And our pier is fucking long, long, long
.

I said to Martin, ‘You took my dreams away. Have you come to bring them back?'

‘I don't know the answer to that.'

‘What do you know then?'

‘All I can say is that it's good to see you again. You've still got that spark.'

‘It's an act,' I said. ‘Show the world a bit of attitude. It's a game.'

‘I've missed you,' Martin said.

‘Steady.'

‘It's true. I've missed talking to you. When I'm away, I think sometimes you're still with me.'

‘Don't be daft.'

‘Walking here with you, it feels right. Everything is, I don't know, possible again.'

‘Have you gone soft?' I said.

‘No. It's true,' he said. ‘I mean every word.'

‘No, no, no, Martin. You don't get me that easily. It was a long time ago. We had some good times, I know that, but you can't dredge it back.'

‘But I can remember it all.'

Three blonde women were singing old Supremes numbers. They had finished ‘Baby Love' and were launching into ‘Where Did Our Love Go?' Martin smiled. ‘Appropriate or what?'

‘Don't push it,' I said. We had reached the pub at the head of the pier.

‘I'm telling you. Sometimes the memory of you fills my head and there's nothing else. It's you and only you and I feel this pain behind my eyes like I'm about to cry but there are no tears left.'

He held the door of the pub open for me. ‘Don't speak like that,' I said. ‘You can't feel that.'

‘I do. I can't help it.'

‘You can't mean it.'

‘I can. And I do,' he said. ‘I've told you. I mean every word.'

‘I should go,' I said. ‘We can't talk like this.'

‘I thought you wanted a drink?' he asked.

‘I'll have one to be polite,' I said. ‘But don't think this is going to work.'

I knew it wasn't right. Why was he doing this if he was still married, and where was his wife anyway? I hadn't asked about his daughter. That might have stopped him, I suppose, if I'd asked about her.

Then I realised I didn't want to know about either of them. I'd rather he kept it secret so that I could pretend that we were young again, and that we hadn't messed up our lives, and that the whole idea of a future together was possible once more.

Perhaps if I gave in to him I could find some of that hope again, some of that love.