If I stand by the window of my room I can see approximately ninety per cent of my garden walk. In some places I can see where individual footprints occur as I pace out the same walk day after day, so you can see where I’ve left my mark on the garden. This makes me smile.
The whole walk, disregarding the bit about shinning up the rear wall to look into the quarry, consists of 457 steps. The number 457 is, satisfyingly, a prime. The original walk was – completely naturally, as it were – 456 steps, but I adjusted it.
In the morning I am in the kitchen when Pris comes in, wrapped in a big white towelling robe. ‘Hey, honey. You’re up early.’ Her face looks a little crumpled, eyes puffy. Her glossy black hair needs brushing but it looks attractively tousled on her. When my hair needs combing I look like an axe murderer.
‘I’m making Guy’s breakfast.’ I look at the clock on the wall. ‘And it’s not really early.’ I am boiling a couple of eggs in a pan.
‘Early for the weekend, sweetheart. It’s weekend early.’ She scratches her head and goes over to the kettle. ‘New kettle. There you go. Something has changed.’ She looks out of the window at grey clouds and dripping black trees. ‘Though sadly not the weather.’
She makes a mug of tea, sits at the table. She glances at the clock. ‘Just having a cup of tea,’ she tells me, unnecessarily. ‘Meeting the other half in Ormers for breakfast.’
‘That’s nice,’ I say.
‘That’s nice’ is one of those pointless phrases I would never have used but for Hol. My natural response to something like what Pris has just said would be to say nothing. So, she is going to Ormiscrake to meet her relationship partner for breakfast. Does that really require any reply from me? No.
Yet Guy would sneer and be sarcastic towards me on such occasions. ‘Still perfecting the blank look, are we?’ he’d say (or something similar). ‘Good for you, kid. Treat these phatic fuckers with the contempt they deserve.’
Hol eventually took exception to this behaviour, too. ‘You just say something, Kit,’ she told me, when I protested that usually these misunderstandings occurred when I had nothing useful to say in return to something I’d just been told. ‘A nod, or a grunt, would be an absolute minimum, or an “Uh-huh”. Just a “Really?” or “That’s nice”, or “I see”, or partially repeating what you’ve just been told, or thinking it through a little so that if they say they’re going out you ask, “Anywhere exciting?” or suggest they take a brolly cos it’s pissing down. You don’t just stare blankly at them. Apart from anything else these meaningless replies are like saying “Roger”, or “Copy that”; you’re letting people know that you received their message. If you don’t use them you’re getting the whole communication thing wrong. You’re making them think they need to repeat themselves or rephrase what they’ve already said because you didn’t get it the first time. That’s unneeded redundancy and inefficient and, frankly, I’d expect better of you. Get the procedure right, Kit; your comms protocols need refreshing.’
I think this little diatribe shows Hol knows exactly which of my buttons to push. I took note of some of the phrases she’d mentioned, and started using them. I still find it bizarre that we get away with spouting such inanities, but they seem to work. I get fewer funny looks.
That said, I’m still thinking of replacing ‘That’s nice’. I think ‘Aha’ serves just as well and sounds less potentially sarcastic. ‘What’s fucking “nice”?’ is Guy’s usual, half-sneering, half-incredulous reply to that particular phrase.
‘Have you met Rick?’ Pris asks, frowning. ‘My chap?’
‘No,’ I tell her. The sweep hand on the kitchen clock reaches twelve; I switch off the ring beneath the pan with the eggs. I think about Hol’s advice regarding thinking things through. ‘What’s he like?’
Pris snorts a little laugh. ‘Mostly he’s not like Haze,’ she says. She and Haze used to be a couple. ‘Got some gumption. Some get-up-and-go.’ She plays with the fluffy white belt of her gown. ‘Not sit-down-and-whine.’
‘Aha.’
(That was definitely not a gap during which to employ ‘That’s nice’. I feel quite pleased with myself and I am liking the neutrality of ‘Aha’ more and more.)
‘He’s sweet,’ she tells me. ‘I mean, he’s not like, you know, one of … He’s not been to uni or anything, he doesn’t … Anyway, hopefully you’ll see him later. Hope you like him. Be nice if people liked him.’
‘Of course,’ I say.
‘Anyway,’ Pris says, in that slightly drawn-out way that I’ve come to recognise means we’re finished with that particular topic (and it’s cross-platform; by which I mean that this signal is used by other people, not just Pris). ‘How are you, Kit? Really, I mean.’
‘Really?’ I say (look for a part of the question you can repeat). I nod. ‘I’m well.’
‘Yeah, but really really?’
‘No, really, I’m—’
‘I mean about Guy; about the house,’ she says, interrupting.
The kitchen clock’s second hand reaches the top of its arc again. I remove the pan from the hob, take it to the sink and run cold water into it. The eggs shake and bounce around in the water, clonking against the pan’s sides. ‘You know when—’ I begin, at the same time as she starts saying something.
‘Sorry,’ she says, ‘what were you—’
‘No; you, please,’ I tell her, taking the eggs out and placing them on the breadboard.
‘I was just going to say,’ Pris says, ‘that we all … We all feel for you, Kit. We all love you. We’re maybe not all very good at showing it, but … That’s always been … None of us …’ She makes a noise like she’s exasperated with herself. ‘Well, we do. We just do, okay?’ She gives a laugh that isn’t really a laugh. ‘Listen to me, eh? Anyway, I interrupted … What were you saying?’
I’m shelling the eggs. The eggs were past their use-by date but they smell okay.
‘I’m just taking it one day at a time, Pris,’ I tell her, and feel suddenly very mature. It’s one of those phrases you hear a lot on television that seem to work well in reality. ‘It’s all you can do.’ I feel even more mature now; that’s sort of my own embellishment and seems to reinforce the first statement, so it’s not left hanging out there alone like the cliché it is. I smile quickly at her, look back to the eggs. I chop them up. The yolks are just off completely hard, which is how Guy prefers them. I put the warm pieces in a mug pre-warmed with water from the kettle.
‘Well,’ Pris says, ‘that’s all you ever can do. But if you want to talk, about anything – anything at all – you know you can talk to me. You do know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ I tell her.
‘I’m serious, Kit. I deal with people facing bereavement in my job all the time. In some ways it can be harder for the people being bereaved than it is for the person who’s going to die. There can be all sorts of emotions involved, often conflicting, often – usually, even – ones people feel anxious, even ashamed, about having. If you need to talk about any of that you can talk to me … you know; completely confidentially. I mean, as a friend, I hope, but also as somebody who knows about this kind of thing, who’s dealt with it professionally.’ She has an expression on her face that looks like she’s in some pain. ‘I always wanted to be more of a friend to you, Kit. More like Hol’s been, you know?’
I nod.
‘I’m so sorry I just never had the kind of job where I could take that sort of time off, not when I always had other people to think of as well. I just want you to know that.’
I nod again.
‘So, please, let me do this for you, if I can. Talk to me, any time, about anything. Okay? Yeah?’ She smiles.
I set my mouth in a tight line. I wait a moment or two, then nod. ‘Thanks, Pris,’ I tell her. ‘I’m okay for now, seriously, but thanks.’ I go back to the breadboard.
‘Okay,’ she says, letting a breath out. ‘So … how long do they think he’s got, now?’ she asks, watching me dic
e up a piece of soft white bread.
‘Maybe a month,’ I tell her. ‘Maybe two.’
‘Jesus. Well … that’s what I’d heard, but … really? Is that all?’
‘Yes. That’s the oncologist’s best estimate. But she did say you should never give up hope.’ I scoop the little squares of bread into the mug and stir with a teaspoon. Pris looks at the eggy mug like she wants to say something, but she doesn’t.
‘Is there nothing more they can do?’ she asks.
‘There is more they can do,’ I tell her. ‘But Guy doesn’t want it done. They could continue the radio and the chemo and maybe get him another month, but maybe not, and none of it’s very pleasant. The side effects are … distressing.’ I’m doing, I reckon, really well here, using euphemisms and semi-technical terms and everything. Guy would be a lot more blunt. ‘They seem to have his pain relief sorted now,’ I tell her. ‘That’s been a good change.’ There is a plastic tomato sauce bottle half afloat in a basin of warm water in the sink. I add a generous squirt of the sauce to the mug of egg and bread, wipe off the sauce bottle and return it to the cupboard.
Warming the sauce – as well as the mug – is my innovation, to ensure the mixture is at the right temperature when it gets to Guy. There used to be complaints.
Pris is silent, staring at her mug of tea, so I add, ‘When Guy asked the oncologist whether she’d continue with the treatment if it was her, she said she was supposed to dodge the question and say, well, it had to be his decision, but the honest answer was just no, she wouldn’t.’
‘Yeah,’ Pris says quietly. ‘Medics. Most medics are okay … Do you think we’ll find this tape?’ She looks up at me.
I have to think about this. ‘Probably?’ I suggest.
Pris looks down at the table again. ‘Wouldn’t be good if that came out. The others would … Well, they’re not in the sort of job I am. You know, caring. For vulnerable people.’ She makes a noise like a laugh. ‘Leaves me vulnerable, too.’
‘I’m sure we’ll find it,’ I tell her.
There is a pack of playing cards on the table. Guy likes to play a game called Patience sometimes. Pris lifts the pack up, turning it over in one hand. ‘Funny,’ she says. ‘It’s mornings when I miss smoking. First one of the day, with a cuppa.’ She looks up at me with a small smile. ‘Most people, it’s the evening, after a drink or two.’
I do a last stir of the egg mug with the teaspoon, take a glass of chilled milk from the fridge and a fresh teaspoon from the drying rack, put everything on a small tray and head for the doorway. I stop there and look back; first at the window, then at Pris. She looks quite small, all of a sudden.
‘Don’t forget a brolly,’ I tell her.
‘You still on the radio?’ Paul asks Holly as I put his toast in front of him. ‘Haven’t heard you for a while. Oh, ta. You got any napkins, Kit?’
I nod to show I’ve heard and tear him off a square of kitchen towel. He looks at it, sighs, and places it delicately on the lap of his dressing gown, which is deep blue and slightly shiny and might be silk.
‘Yup,’ Hol says, not looking up from the open magazine on the kitchen table in front of her. She is wearing green PJs I’ve seen her in before. They remind me of hospital scrubs. ‘Still on the radio.’
‘A face for radio, eh?’ Haze says, looking round at the others, then adds, ‘Just kidding, like, Hol,’ though she is already speaking.
‘Uh-huh,’ she says. ‘And a voice for mime.’ She looks up. ‘Anybody else?’
‘What are you on?’ Alison asks her.
Hol looks at her.
‘What radio station?’ Alison says, smiling.
‘Greater London Local,’ she says. ‘Horizons strictly fixed within the M25.’
‘I really should listen,’ Alison says. She and Rob are dressed in matching white PJs and cotton gowns. Alison’s blonde hair looks perfect; Rob’s shaven head gleams even more than usual.
‘I still listen to you, Hol,’ Rob says, putting his fork down. He had the last of the out-of-date eggs, scrambled.
‘Do you?’ Alison says, turning to him and sounding terribly surprised. He doesn’t look at her, but smiles and winks at Hol. Hol frowns and goes back to her magazine.
‘It’s on podcast,’ I say. They all look at me. ‘I listen on the podcast,’ I explain. They go back to their breakfasts. Except Hol, who is still looking at me. ‘I saw The Hobbit,’ I tell her. ‘I didn’t think it was that bad. You said it was Peter Jackson’s Phantom Menace.’
Paul chokes on his toast, or pretends to.
‘Phwoar,’ Haze says, sort of half laughing. ‘Harsh!’ Haze is wearing a brown dressing gown with a green cord. The gown has some interesting stains. The pale ones are probably toothpaste.
Hol shrugs. ‘Yeah, I didn’t think it was quite that bad, either, Kit, but it’s still a piece of disproportionate, self-indulgent wank with values driven entirely by the needs of the studio and the distributors, not the original story, and it needed saying.’
Alison sighs. ‘I loved it.’ She shrugs. ‘I can’t wait for the next two films. Sorry,’ she says to Hol, who has gone back to reading. ‘Guess I’m just such a low-brow these days.’
‘Always were,’ Rob says.
She play-punches him. ‘Why I married you. Darling.’
‘Knew there had to be a reason!’ Haze says, but then – when they both look at him – he clears his throat and starts humming while he pushes the last of his sausages round his plate with one finger.
‘Really?’ Rob is saying to Alison. ‘I thought you’d been sent by Fun-Be-Gone Industries to stop me enjoying myself too much. Or at all.’
‘What,’ Alison says, ‘shagging everything with an infrared signature and a cleft was your idea of fun?’ As Rob looks thoughtfully up at the ceiling and gives a small shrug, Alison turns to look round at the rest of us. ‘You’ll have to excuse my husband; he’s still having trouble with the whole quantity/quality dichotomy.’
‘You weren’t exactly parsimonious with your favours yourself, my love, were you?’ Rob says, smiling at her.
‘We ran the figures, remember?’ she says to him. ‘The ratio was – what? – one of mine to four or five of yours?’
‘Four point six,’ Rob says, grinning.
Alison spreads her hands. ‘Rest my case.’
‘Oh, get a room, you two,’ Haze says. Rob and Alison both look at him again, frowning. Haze goes back to humming.
‘Guy awake?’ Paul asks me.
I shake my head. ‘No, he’s sound.’
Hol, still focused on her magazine, mutters, ‘That’s a first.’
Haze stops humming just long enough to look at me and say, ‘Pris gone off to see what’s-his-name?’
‘Rick,’ I say. ‘Yes.’
Haze sighs.
Haze – his real name is Dave Hazelton but he’s been known as Haze since Fresher’s Week ’92, allegedly – is in local government; planning. Career-wise, according to Pris, he’s currently in a sort of ‘slumped, drooling-with-the-autopilot-on’ state and has been for the last ten years; they split up six years ago. His interests and hobbies have varied over the years as he’s looked for something he can invest his declining supply of enthusiasm in (this is all from Pris). Apparently he’s been through surfing, hang-gliding, green politics, landscape sculpture and Lib-Dem politics. He is currently managing an amateur women’s football team. They are bottom of their league.
Pris is back in the single-bed room she had when she first lived here; the original plan was for her and Rick both to stay here and have Guy’s room this weekend, before he got so poorly that this became impossible. Instead, Haze was asked to give up his double-bed room for them, but he didn’t want to.
Pris is an ex-social worker now running the local franchise of a care services outsourcing agency on the south coast.
Alison and Rob work for Grayzr. They’re back in the London office for the year but they’ve been all over the world, fast-tracked for the executi
ve heights, apparently. I switched from Google to Grayzr last month but I feel shy about telling them for some reason. Hol calls them corporate bunnies.
Last year, when Alison and Rob dropped in while driving back from Scotland, Hol happened to be here for the week and I remember this exchange, over tea and cake:
‘… No, we’re thinking about buying a place out there.’
‘Oh, good grief,’ I heard Hol mutter.
‘Yeah,’ Rob said, ‘but not on one of the islands. Those are a bit … you know.’
Alison nodded. ‘Yeah. No. But there are lots of beautiful apartments near the Burj, though. Really tasteful. Cheap now but a really good investment in the medium-to-long. Honestly, Grayzr Arab Street is growing scary-fast, even faster than vanilla Grayzr. Ground-flooring there would be a sound move, strategically.’
Hol looked at both of them. ‘Seriously?’ she said. ‘Fucking seriously?’
‘And there’s more autonomy out there,’ Rob added. ‘You’re not exposed to the beady gaze of Head Office the way you are in Londinium.’
Hol looked at them for a bit, then nodded. ‘You should move to Saudi,’ she told them. ‘They take an even more hands-off approach there.’
… I believe the remark might have caused a certain frostiness.
But back to now, and breakfast:
‘Hon,’ Hol says to me, ‘you’ve been running after us for over half an hour. Sit down; have something yourself.’
‘I’m fine,’ I tell her.
I’ve been up for a while. I woke really early, played an hour of HeroSpace and then spent forty minutes in two of the top-floor bedrooms – where all the spiders live and there’s a near-constant sound of dripping water even on dry days – peering into old packing cases and soggy cardboard boxes, looking for S-VHS-C tapes (nothing, though if we ever discover an urgent need for damp back copies of the Bew Valley and Ormisdale Chronicle and Post dating from the nineties, I know just where to lay my hands on them). Then I had a shower, because Hol said I was a bit whiffy yesterday. I’m wearing a fresh set of clothes, three days early. I even stripped my bed; I’ll put new sheets on it tonight.