Canvey Island (29 page)

I was wearing my smarter work clothes, a fleece and a white polo shirt, jeans and Timberland's, but even this felt overdressed as I approached the edge of the island, a ramshackle world of roofing felt piled outside sheds, goose huts and chicken coops. The only businesses left were pubs, bookies and newsagents. I reached the creek where the boats were moored and headed across a narrow walkway, following the loops and swirls of the water as the waves retreated from the banks.

Linda's narrowboat was about fifty feet long, and it was decorated in traditional green and red with faded paintings in the picture panels. It was low tide and Dave was waxing the hull of the cockpit.

‘Martin …'

‘Dave …'

‘We heard you might be coming.'

‘I didn't want to trouble you.'

‘Why would you do that?'

Dave scooped the marine wax from the tin on to his cloth, rubbing in the finish. ‘It's been so hot I don't want the paint to blister or the wood to crack. It's a good day for it.'

‘It's a fine boat.'

‘We get by.'

Dave had the look of a man who had left his hopes in a pub a few winters ago and had forgotten which one. The eyes that had once possessed a bulging, thyroidal energy seemed afraid; the hair that had once been glossy and slicked was grey and cut close to the scalp.

‘You all right?' I asked.

‘Can't complain. It's a life.'

He'd never made it in the music business. Ade told me how he'd also been made redundant from the docks. He had tried a bit of chef work and earned money part-time in a friend's second-hand shop, but now he spent most of his time knocking about with boats: caulking leaks, doing a bit of stripping and repainting, repairing old sextants.

‘Is Linda here?'

‘She'll be back soon enough.'

I looked at his smoker's fingers, yellowed like my father's. His eyes carried a faint air of accusation:
if I'd had your privileges I wouldn't be in this mess
.

I didn't notice Linda arrive with the shopping. I only heard her soft voice and its cigarette rasp.

‘Hello, love, I'm home.'

It could have been me
, I thought,
it could have been me that she was calling
.

‘We've got a visitor. A surprise. Like Ade said.'

At first I thought I had made a mistake, that Linda was somebody who had come to collect something. Her hair was longer and thicker, shoulder-length with grey curls. The shadows were deeper in the cheeks and her eyes weren't as vibrant as I had remembered. She was wearing a sky-blue cotton dress and espadrilles which made her shuffle slightly as she walked.

‘Didn't expect to see you.'

‘He popped round,' Dave explained. ‘Been seeing his dad.'

‘How is he?'

‘He's fine.'

‘That's good then.'

‘I'm sorry, if it's a bad time …'

‘No, no,' said Dave, ‘you're all right.' He picked up a T-shirt. ‘I'll have a quick wash and change.'

‘What brings you here?' Linda asked.

‘I just thought …'

‘Tea?'

‘If you're having some.'

I followed her through a pair of doors in the rear deck and down through the boatman's cabin. The walls had been decorated with roses and castles and the floor and coal box were painted with diamonds, hearts and circles. Deep pelmets of white crocheted lace hung from each shelf; pierced-edge china plates had been stuck to the walls.

‘You'll have to take us as you find us, I'm afraid.'

I noticed how small the double bed was.

I watched as she packed away her shopping. Linda had never worn jewellery. Now there was a silver bangle and a wedding ring. Her lipstick was raised above her lips, and she wore pale-blue eye shadow that didn't quite match her dress.

She put the kettle on the stove. ‘Here we go again, I suppose.'

‘No,' I said. ‘It's not like the last time.'

‘I should hope not.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘I didn't think you were interested in me any more …'

‘Well …'

‘I thought you made your position pretty clear.'

‘I wanted to see how you were.'

‘If I was alive, you mean.'

‘I wanted to explain.'

‘After ten years? Bit late for that, don't you think? A postcard would have done.'

‘I sent one.'

‘Oh yes. “Sorry. I'm so sorry. Things are difficult.” Very good. Nice and concise, that. And then the end, “All my love, M xxx.” All my love? I don't think so.'

‘I meant it.'

‘All my love. Well, let's see: there's the love for your daughter, the love for your wife, and the love for your father, your friends and your job. I'd have been lucky with five per cent. Come to think of it, that's about what I got.'

‘It's a means of expression.'

Dave emerged from the shower and changed back into his jeans. ‘I'd better be going …' he said.

‘No, no, you don't have to …' I almost wanted him to stay.

‘It's all right. I'm off.'

‘You got money?' Linda asked.

‘Enough …'

As soon as Dave left Linda turned to me and said, ‘Do you want this cup of tea then?'

‘Do you have anything stronger?'

‘I've got vodka.'

‘Wouldn't mind.'

‘We can drink it upstairs. It's too hot and cramped down here. I'll get a tray.'

We went back up on deck and on to the roof. There were people in the other boats getting ready for Saturday night: young couples without children, miming telephone calls after they had turned to part, smiling and laughing, confident their love had a future and that nothing bad would ever happen to them. A passing dog-walker called out: ‘You've got the right idea.'

Linda mixed the vodka with orange. ‘What are you doing here?'

‘I thought it would be nice.'

‘Nice?'

‘Well, I suppose that isn't the right word.'

‘I don't know why I let you stay so long the last time. I told myself I wouldn't.'

‘I'm sorry it got so out of hand.'

‘Out of hand? For God's sake, Martin. You can't come into a woman's life and say that you have never loved anyone as much as her and think that it will have no impact.'

‘It was true.'

‘But did you mean what you said?'

‘It was the truth.'

‘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
.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘No. I don't think that. You said that. To me.'

‘I can't remember everything.'

‘Oh, very good …'

‘I just tried to tell you the truth.'

‘The problem is, Martin, that a man's truth changes all the time. Women go over and over what you say even when it's ridiculous. I was once with a friend in the toilets as she was crying her eyes out because her boyfriend had chucked her. He had told her, “I never want to see you again,” and she asked me, “What do you think he means by that?”'

‘You're exaggerating.'

‘I'm not. That's what women are like. We listen. We call our friends. Men say what the hell they like. They get it out of their system, move on and watch the football.'

‘I hadn't expected you to be angry.'

‘Oh. And what
had
you expected?'

‘I just wanted to talk to you.'

‘What about?'

‘I don't know. I couldn't imagine the conversation. I just wanted to remember us being together.'

‘Oh please, Martin. Don't give me that crap.'

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I didn't know what I was doing. It was selfish of me. But I missed you. I couldn't stop thinking about you.'

‘You couldn't stop thinking about me?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘But you shouldn't have thought about me at all. You had a wife.'

‘I know.'

‘And then you left. Without a backward glance.'

‘If I had looked back I'd have gone mad.'

‘Well, if you had happened to have glanced backwards you would have seen a pregnant woman of thirty-six wondering what the fuck to do with her life.'

‘What?'

‘You heard.'

‘But you didn't tell me.'

‘No,' Linda said. ‘I didn't.'

‘Why not?'

‘I don't know. Perhaps it was because I didn't think it would make much of a difference.'

‘It would have changed everything.'

‘No, Martin, I don't think it would have done. You'd still have gone back.'

‘You don't know that.'

‘No, I don't. But I didn't want you taking over or thinking that I had got pregnant deliberately to blackmail you into leaving your wife. I wanted some dignity.'

‘Tell me,' I said. ‘Please, tell me what happened.'

‘God, I didn't want to get into all this. You've upset me now. You've upset me all over again. I can't believe how you keep doing this to me.'

‘I knew I couldn't go through with it. I spent hours staring out of the window and playing the same record over and over. It was Billie Holiday singing “You're My Thrill”. Then one day I'd had enough and I smashed it. I threw it on the floor and it broke into two. But that didn't do it for me, it just felt a bit pathetic, so I got a hammer and bashed it about until it was all in tiny pieces all over the floor. I almost sent it to you in a big brown envelope but then I thought no, you wouldn't understand, and besides, what would your wife say?'

‘Why didn't you tell me?'

‘It was too difficult,' I said, ‘and in the end I didn't want the child to be yours, reminding me of the mess I'd made of my life. Once you'd left, it wasn't to do with you any more. It was about me. And I decided that in some way I deserved it for being so stupid. A mistake. And I was too tired and too upset and too scared to do it on my own. I ran out of confidence. And hope. And love.'

‘You could have said. At any time you could have said something.'

‘And you would have come running? I don't think so.'

‘It would have been different if you'd told me, completely different.'

‘Did you tell her about us?'

‘It doesn't matter.'

‘That means you did. So there's nothing special between us anyway.'

‘There is, Linda.'

‘No, Martin, Claire has everything. She has all the knowledge. I don't have anything.'

‘I don't think it's like that.'

‘Married men don't talk about their wives, of course. Not if they want something. And we, the other women, don't ask. But Claire's been fortunate. And lucky with me. You both have. I almost wondered if you worked that out – that I'd be safer for you than having an affair with someone else, someone you didn't know so well who might have cut up rough. Was that part of your thinking?'

‘No.'

‘Liar.'

‘I'm sorry …'

‘And now every time I pass a ten-year-old boy, I think: “That could have been mine if I'd kept him.” '

‘It was a boy?'

‘Yes. Funny that, isn't it? I asked especially. You could have had a son.'

‘I can't think about it.'

‘You don't have to. But I do. Every day I think about it. I learn to look so that I can tell the difference between nine and eleven. I've done it for years, but I never say anything. I never told your father he could have had a grandson. Perhaps he would have liked that. But he's a decent bloke and I didn't want to upset him. He gave me some money. Helped Dave. Saw we were OK. I don't know, perhaps he guessed. But he did right by me. I like your dad.'

‘Does Dave know?'

‘Of course he does. I tell him everything. Isn't that the point?'

‘He's a good man.'

‘We survive. Unless you want to make us picturesque and romantic; salt-of-the-earth types who live by the sea and it's
Great Expectations
and Pip comes to visit and he's a bit too grand for them but somehow their lives are a bit richer and they've got something he hasn't. Why are you here again? Remind me.'

‘My dad.'

‘No, I mean here on this boat.'

‘It doesn't seem right now.'

‘I bet it doesn't.'

‘Don't be hard on me.'

‘Oh God, I'm not your mother.'

‘I never asked you to be.'

‘It's as well you found one in the end then.'

‘Don't.'

‘I'm sorry, Martin, I don't know what to say. I was never good at all this talking.'

‘No, I'm sorry. I should go …'

‘Have you got a cigarette?' I asked. ‘That vodka's taken a hit.'

I couldn't quite understand how I had ever loved him, this strange middle-aged man on my boat dressed like something out of the Rohan catalogue. I wanted Dave to come home.

‘It is irritating, you know, Martin: men wanting to be forgiven, men wanting to be told it's OK.'

‘And so what should I do?'

‘Not everyone can like you, Martin. That's what you have to learn in life.'

‘But are you all right?'

‘Yes, I'm all right. Of course I am. I get by. I've learnt not to expect too much. Nothing surprises me any more.'

‘I should go,' he said. ‘I suppose I just wanted to see if you were happy.'

‘Happy?' I said. ‘Do you know, Martin? I don't know what happy is.'

Lucy kept asking about her father and when he was coming back. What was he doing and why was he at home so little? She had that adolescent trick of always being one meal behind, eating her breakfast at lunchtime, wanting proper food at eleven at night. She always wanted to ask questions before I was about to go to bed. She stood in the centre of the room expecting me to entertain her; too old to be a child and too young to be a friend.