Never Let Me Go (Movie Tie-In Edition) (11 page)

‘Hold on, Tommy. Did she actually say your art was “rubbish”?’

‘If it wasn’t “rubbish” it was something like it. Negligible. That might have been it. Or incompetent. She might as well have said rubbish. She said she was sorry she’d told me what she had the last time because if she hadn’t, I might have sorted it all by now.’

‘What were you saying through all this?’

‘I didn’t know
what
to say. In the end, she actually asked. She said: “Tommy, what are you thinking?” So I said I wasn’t sure but that she shouldn’t worry either way because I was all right now. And she said, no, I wasn’t all right. My art was rubbish, and that was partly her fault for telling me what she had. And I said to her, but what does it matter? I’m all right now, no one laughs at me about that any more. But she keeps shaking her head saying: “It does matter. I shouldn’t have said what I did.” So it occurs to me she’s talking about later, you know, about after we leave here. So I say: “But I’ll be all right, Miss. I’m really fit, I know how to look after myself. When it’s time for donations, I’ll be able to do it really well.” When I said this, she starts shaking her head, shaking it really hard so I’m worried she’ll get dizzy. Then she says: “Listen, Tommy, your art, it
is
important. And not just because it’s evidence. But for your own sake. You’ll get a lot from it, just for yourself.”’

‘Hold on. What did she mean, “evidence”?’

‘I don’t know. But she definitely said that. She said our art was important, and “not just because it’s evidence”. God knows what she meant. I did actually ask her, when she said that. I said I
didn’t understand what she was telling me, and was it something to do with Madame and her gallery? And she did a big sigh and said: “Madame’s gallery, yes, that’s important. Much more important than I once thought. I see that now.” Then she said: “Look, there are all kinds of things you don’t understand, Tommy, and I can’t tell you about them. Things about Hailsham, about your place in the wider world, all kinds of things. But perhaps one day, you’ll try and find out. They won’t make it easy for you, but if you want to, really want to, you might find out.” She started shaking her head again after that, though not as bad as before, and she says: “But why should you be any different? The students who leave here, they never find out much. Why should you be any different?” I didn’t know what she was talking about, so I just said again: “I’ll be all right, Miss.” She was quiet for a time, then she suddenly stood up and kind of bent over me and hugged me. Not in a sexy way. More like they used to do when we were little. I just kept as still as possible. Then she stood back and said again she was sorry for what she’d told me before. And that it wasn’t too late, I should start straight away, making up the lost time. I don’t think I said anything, and she looked at me and I thought she’d hug me again. But instead she said: “Just do it for my sake, Tommy.” I told her I’d do my best, because by then I just wanted out of there. I was probably bright scarlet, what with her hugging me and everything. I mean, it’s not the same, is it, now we’ve got bigger.’

Until this point I’d been so engrossed in Tommy’s story, I’d forgotten my reason for having this talk with him. But this reference to our getting ‘bigger’ reminded me of my original mission.

‘Look, Tommy,’ I said, ‘we’ll have to talk this over carefully soon. It’s really interesting and I can see how it must have made you miserable. But either way, you’re going to have to pull yourself together a bit more. We’re going to be leaving here this summer. You’ve got to get yourself sorted again, and there’s one thing you can straighten out right now. Ruth told me she’s prepared to call it quits and have you get back with her again. I think that’s a good chance for you. Don’t mess it up.’

He was quiet for a few seconds, then said: ‘I don’t know, Kath. There are all these other things to think about.’

‘Tommy, just listen. You’re really lucky. Of all the people here, you’ve got Ruth fancying you. After we leave, if you’re with her, you won’t have to worry. She’s the best, you’ll be fine so long as you’re with her. She’s saying she wants a fresh start. So don’t blow it.’

I waited but Tommy gave no response, and again I felt something like panic coming over me. I leaned forward and said: ‘Look, you fool, you’re not going to get many more chances. Don’t you realise, we won’t be here together like this much longer?’

To my surprise Tommy’s response, when it came, was calm and considered – the side of Tommy that was to emerge more and more in the years ahead.

‘I do realise that, Kath. That’s exactly why I can’t rush back into it with Ruth. We’ve got to think about the next move really carefully.’ Then he sighed and looked right at me. ‘Like you say, Kath. We’re going to be leaving here soon. It’s not like a game any more. We’ve got to think carefully.’

I was suddenly lost for what to say and just sat there tugging away at the clovers. I could feel his eyes on me, but I didn’t look up. We might have gone on that way for a while longer, except we were interrupted. I think the boys he’d been playing football with earlier came back, or maybe it was some students strolling by who came and sat down with us. Anyway, our little heart-to-heart was at an end and I came away feeling I hadn’t done what I’d set out to do – that I’d somehow let Ruth down.

I never got to assess what kind of impact my talk with Tommy had had, because it was the very next day the news broke. It was midway through the morning and we’d been in yet another Culture Briefing. These were classes where we had to role play various people we’d find out there – waiters in cafés, policemen and so on. The sessions always got us excited and worried all at the same time, so we were pretty keyed up anyway. Then at the
end of the lesson, as we were filing out, Charlotte F. came rushing into the room and the news about Miss Lucy leaving Hailsham spread through us in an instant. Mr Chris, who’d been taking the class and who must have known all along, shuffled off guiltily before we could ask him anything. At first we weren’t sure if Charlotte was just reporting a rumour, but the more she told us, the clearer it became this was for real. Earlier in the morning, one of the other Senior classes had gone into Room 12 expecting Music Appreciation with Miss Lucy. But Miss Emily had been there instead and she’d told them Miss Lucy couldn’t come just at that moment, so she would take the class. For the next twenty minutes or so everything had gone quite normally. Then suddenly – right in mid-sentence, apparently – Miss Emily had broken off from talking about Beethoven and announced that Miss Lucy had left Hailsham and wouldn’t be returning. That class had finished several minutes early – Miss Emily had rushed off with a preoccupied frown – and the word had started to go round as soon as the students had come out.

I immediately set off to look for Tommy, because I desperately wanted him to hear it first from me. But when I stepped into the courtyard, I saw I was too late. There was Tommy, over on the far side, on the edge of a circle of boys, nodding to what was being said. The other boys were animated, maybe excited even, but Tommy’s eyes looked empty. That very evening, Tommy and Ruth got back together again, and I remember Ruth finding me a few days later to thank me for ‘sorting it all out so well’. I told her I probably hadn’t helped much, but she was having none of that. I was most definitely in her good books. And that was more or less the way things stayed throughout our last days at Hailsham.

Sometimes I’ll be driving on a long weaving road across marshland, or maybe past rows of furrowed fields, the sky big and grey and never changing mile after mile, and I find I’m thinking about my essay, the one I was supposed to be writing back then, when we were at the Cottages. The guardians had talked to us about our essays on and off throughout that last summer, trying to help each of us choose a topic that would absorb us properly for anything up to two years. But somehow – maybe we could see something in the guardians’ manner – no one really believed the essays were that important, and among ourselves we hardly discussed the matter. I remember when I went in to tell Miss Emily my chosen topic was Victorian novels, I hadn’t really thought about it much and I could see she knew it. But she just gave me one of her searching stares and said nothing more.

Once we got to the Cottages, though, the essays took on a new importance. In our first days there, and for some of us a lot longer, it was like we were each clinging to our essay, this last task from Hailsham, like it was a farewell gift from the guardians. Over time, they would fade from our minds, but for a while those essays helped keep us afloat in our new surroundings.

When I think about my essay today, what I do is go over it in some detail: I may think of a completely new approach I could have taken, or about different writers and books I could have focused on. I might be having coffee in a service station, staring at the motorway through the big windows, and my essay will pop into my head for no reason. Then I quite enjoy sitting there, going through it all again. Just lately, I’ve even toyed with the idea of going back and working on it, once I’m not a carer any more and I’ve got the time. But in the end, I suppose I’m not really serious about it. It’s just a bit of nostalgia to pass the time. I think about
the essay the same way I might a rounders match at Hailsham I did particularly well in, or else an argument from long ago where I can now think of all the clever things I should have said. It’s at that sort of level – daydream stuff. But as I say, that’s not how it was when we first got to the Cottages.

Eight of us who left Hailsham that summer ended up at the Cottages. Others went to the White Mansion in the Welsh hills, or to Poplar Farm in Dorset. We didn’t know then that all these places had only the most tenuous links with Hailsham. We arrived at the Cottages expecting a version of Hailsham for older students, and I suppose that was the way we continued to see them for some time. We certainly didn’t think much about our lives beyond the Cottages, or about who ran them, or how they fitted into the larger world. None of us thought like that in those days.

The Cottages were the remains of a farm that had gone out of business years before. There was an old farmhouse, and around it, barns, outhouses, stables all converted for us to live in. There were other buildings, usually the outlying ones, that were virtually falling down, which we couldn’t use for much, but for which we felt in some vague way responsible – mainly on account of Keffers. He was this grumpy old guy who turned up two or three times a week in his muddy van to look the place over. He didn’t like to talk to us much, and the way he went round sighing and shaking his head disgustedly implied we weren’t doing nearly enough to keep the place up. But it was never clear what more he wanted us to do. He’d shown us a list of chores when we’d first arrived, and the students who were already there – ‘the veterans’, as Hannah called them – had long since worked out a rota which we kept to conscientiously. There really wasn’t much else we could do other than report leaking gutters and mop up after floods.

The old farmhouse – the heart of the Cottages – had a number of fireplaces where we could burn the split logs stacked in the outer barns. Otherwise we had to make do with big boxy heaters. The problem with these was they worked on gas canisters, and
unless it was really cold, Keffers wouldn’t bring many in. We kept asking him to leave a big supply with us, but he’d shake his head gloomily, like we were bound to use them up frivolously or else cause an explosion. So I remember a lot of the time, outside the summer months, being chilly. You went around with two, even three jumpers on, and your jeans felt cold and stiff. We sometimes kept our Wellingtons on the whole day, leaving trails of mud and damp through the rooms. Keffers, observing this, would again shake his head, but when we asked him what else we were supposed to do, the floors being in the state they were, he’d make no reply.

I’m making it sound pretty bad, but none of us minded the discomforts one bit – it was all part of the excitement of being at the Cottages. If we were honest, though, particularly near the beginning, most of us would have admitted missing the guardians. A few of us, for a time, even tried to think of Keffers as a sort of guardian, but he was having none of it. You went up to greet him when he arrived in his van and he’d stare at you like you were mad. But this was one thing we’d been told over and over: that after Hailsham there’d be no more guardians, so we’d have to look after each other. And by and large, I’d say Hailsham prepared us well on that score.

Most of the students I was close to at Hailsham ended up at the Cottages that summer. Cynthia E. – the girl who’d said about me being Ruth’s ‘natural successor’ that time in the Art Room – I wouldn’t have minded her, but she went to Dorset with the rest of her crowd. And Harry, the boy I’d nearly had sex with, I heard he went to Wales. But all our gang had stayed together. And if we ever missed the others, we could tell ourselves there was nothing stopping us going to visit them. For all our map lessons with Miss Emily, we had no real idea at that point about distances and how easy or hard it was to visit a particular place. We’d talk about getting lifts from the veterans when they were going on their trips, or else how in time we’d learn to drive ourselves and then we’d be able to see them whenever we pleased.

Of course, in practice, especially during the first months, we
rarely stepped beyond the confines of the Cottages. We didn’t even walk about the surrounding countryside or wander into the nearby village. I don’t think we were afraid exactly. We all knew no one would stop us if we wandered off, provided we were back by the day and the time we entered into Keffers’s ledgerbook. That summer we arrived, we were constantly seeing veterans packing their bags and rucksacks and going off for two or three days at a time with what seemed to us scary nonchalance. We’d watched them with astonishment, wondering if by the following summer we’d be doing the same. Of course, we were, but in those early days, it didn’t seem possible. You have to remember that until that point we’d never been beyond the grounds of Hailsham, and we were just bewildered. If you’d told me then that within a year, I’d not only develop a habit of taking long solitary walks, but that I’d start learning to drive a car, I’d have thought you were mad.

Even Ruth looked daunted that sunny day the minibus dropped us in front of the farmhouse, circled round the little pond and disappeared up the slope. We could see hills in the distance that reminded us of the ones in the distance at Hailsham, but they seemed to us oddly crooked, like when you draw a picture of a friend and it’s almost right but not quite, and the face on the sheet gives you the creeps. But at least it was the summer, not the way the Cottages would get a few months on, with all the puddles frozen over and the rough ground frosted bone hard. The place looked beautiful and cosy, with overgrown grass everywhere – a novelty to us. We stood together in a huddle, the eight of us, and watched Keffers go in and out of the farmhouse, expecting him to address us at any moment. But he didn’t, and all we could catch was the odd irritated mutter about the students who already lived there. Once, as he went to get something from his van, he gave us a moody glance, then returned to the farmhouse and closed the door behind him.

Before too long, though, the veterans, who’d been having a bit of fun watching us being pathetic – we were to do much the same
the following summer – came out and took us in hand. In fact, looking back, I see they really went out of their way helping us settle in. Even so, those first weeks were strange and we were glad we had each other. We’d always move about together and seemed to spend large parts of the day awkwardly standing outside the farmhouse, not knowing what else to do.

It’s funny now recalling the way it was at the beginning, because when I think of those two years at the Cottages, that scared, bewildered start doesn’t seem to go with any of the rest of it. If someone mentions the Cottages today, I think of easy-going days drifting in and out of each other’s rooms, the languid way the afternoon would fold into evening then into night. I think of my pile of old paperbacks, their pages gone wobbly, like they’d once belonged to the sea. I think about how I read them, lying on my front in the grass on warm afternoons, my hair – which I was growing long then – always falling across my vision. I think about the mornings waking up in my room at the top of the Black Barn to the voices of students outside in the field, arguing about poetry or philosophy; or the long winters, the breakfasts in steamed-up kitchens, meandering discussions around the table about Kafka or Picasso. It was always stuff like that at breakfast; never who you’d had sex with the night before, or why Larry and Helen weren’t talking to each other any more.

But then again, when I think about it, there’s a sense in which that picture of us on that first day, huddled together in front of the farmhouse, isn’t so incongruous after all. Because maybe, in a way, we didn’t leave it behind nearly as much as we might once have thought. Because somewhere underneath, a part of us stayed like that: fearful of the world around us, and – no matter how much we despised ourselves for it – unable quite to let each other go.

The veterans, who of course knew nothing about the history of Tommy and Ruth’s relationship, treated them as a long-established couple, and this seemed to please Ruth no end. For the first weeks after we arrived, she made a big deal of it, always putting
her arm around Tommy, sometimes snogging him in the corner of a room while other people were still about. Well, this kind of thing might have been fine at Hailsham, but looked immature at the Cottages. The veteran couples never did anything showy in public, going about in a sensible sort of way, like a mother and father might do in a normal family.

There was, incidentally, something I noticed about these veteran couples at the Cottages – something Ruth, for all her close study of them, failed to spot – and this was how so many of their mannerisms were copied from the television. It first came to me watching this couple, Susie and Greg – probably the oldest students at the Cottages and generally thought to be ‘in charge’ of the place. There was this particular thing Susie did whenever Greg set off on one of his speeches about Proust or whoever: she’d smile at the rest of us, roll her eyes, and mouth very emphatically, but only just audibly: ‘Gawd help us.’ Television at Hailsham had been pretty restricted, and at the Cottages too – though there was nothing to stop us watching all day – no one was very keen on it. But there was an old set in the farmhouse and another in the Black Barn, and I’d watch every now and then. That’s how I realised that this ‘Gawd help us’ stuff came from an American series, one of those with an audience laughing along at everything anyone said or did. There was a character – a large woman who lived next door to the main characters – who did exactly what Susie did, so when her husband went off on a big spiel, the audience would be waiting for her to roll her eyes and say ‘Gawd help us’ so they could burst out with this huge laugh. Once I’d spotted this, I began to notice all kinds of other things the veteran couples had taken from TV programmes: the way they gestured to each other, sat together on sofas, even the way they argued and stormed out of rooms.

Anyway, my point is, it wasn’t long before Ruth realised the way she’d been carrying on with Tommy was all wrong for the Cottages, and she set about changing how they did things in front of people. And there was in particular this one gesture Ruth picked up from the veterans. Back at Hailsham, if a couple were
parting, even for a few minutes, it had been an excuse for big embraces and snogging. At the Cottages, though, when a couple were saying goodbye to each other, there’d be hardly any words, never mind embraces or kisses. Instead, you slapped your partner’s arm near the elbow, lightly with the back of your knuckles, the way you might do to attract someone’s attention. Usually the girl did it to the boy, just as they were moving apart. This custom had faded out by the winter, but when we arrived, it was what was going on and Ruth was soon doing it to Tommy. Mind you, at first, Tommy didn’t have a clue what was going on, and would turn abruptly to Ruth and go: ‘What?’, so that she’d have to glare furiously at him, like they were in a play and he’d forgotten his lines. I suppose she eventually had a word with him, because after a week or so they were managing to do it right, more or less exactly like the veteran couples.

I’d not actually seen the slap on the elbow on the television, but I was pretty sure that’s where the idea had come from, and just as sure Ruth hadn’t realised it. That was why, that afternoon I was reading
Daniel Deronda
on the grass and Ruth was being irritating, I decided it was time someone pointed it out to her.

It was nearly autumn and starting to get chilly. The veterans were spending more time indoors and generally going back to whatever routines they’d had before the summer. But those of us who’d arrived from Hailsham kept sitting outside on the uncut grass – wanting to keep going for as long as possible the only routine we’d got used to. Even so, by that particular afternoon, there were maybe only three or four apart from me reading in the field, and since I’d gone out of my way to find a quiet corner to myself, I’m pretty sure what happened between me and Ruth wasn’t overheard.

I was lying on a piece of old tarpaulin reading, as I say,
Daniel
Deronda
, when Ruth came wandering over and sat down beside me. She studied the cover of my book and nodded to herself. Then after about a minute, just as I knew she would, she began to outline to me the plot of
Daniel Deronda
. Until that point, I’d been
in a perfectly okay mood, and had been pleased to see Ruth, but now I was irritated. She’d done this to me a couple of times before, and I’d seen her doing it to others. For one thing, there was the manner she put on: a kind of nonchalant but sincere one as though she expected people to be really grateful for her assistance. Okay, even at the time, I was vaguely aware what was behind it. In those early months, we’d somehow developed this idea that how well you were settling in at the Cottages – how well you were
coping
– was somehow reflected by how many books you’d read. It sounds odd, but there you are, it was just something that developed between us, the ones who’d arrived from Hailsham. The whole notion was kept deliberately hazy – in fact, it was pretty reminiscent of the way we’d dealt with sex at Hailsham. You could go around implying you’d read all kinds of things, nodding knowingly when someone mentioned, say,
War
and Peace
, and the understanding was that no one would scrutinise your claim too rationally. You have to remember, since we’d been in each other’s company constantly since arriving at the Cottages, it wasn’t possible for any of us to have read
War and
Peace
without the rest noticing. But just like with the sex at Hailsham, there was an unspoken agreement to allow for a mysterious dimension where we went off and did all this reading.