‘Maybe I won’t come in,’ she said, disengaging her arm. ‘I need plenty of time to look at this house tomorrow. I have to make an early start. I’d better be getting back.’
For some reason her words took me quite by surprise, and for a second I remained uncertain how I should respond. I glanced over towards the cinema, then back at Sophie.
‘But I thought you said you wanted to …’ I began, then, pausing, said in a calmer tone: ‘Listen, this is a very good film. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.’
‘But you don’t even know which film it is.’
The idea flashed through my head that she was playing some sort of game. Even so, a strange panic had begun to seize me and I could not keep a pleading note out of my voice.
‘You know what I meant. The desk clerk. He suggested it to me. He’s someone I know to be very reliable. And the hotel has its reputation to think of. It’s hardly likely to recommend …’ I trailed off, the panic now mounting further as Sophie began to move away from me. ‘Look’ – I raised my voice, no longer caring who heard me – ‘I know this will be a good movie. And we haven’t been to one together for so long. That’s true, isn’t it? When did we last do something like this together?’
Sophie appeared to give this consideration, then finally smiled and came back towards me.
‘All right,’ she said, taking my arm gently. ‘All right. It’s late, but I’ll come in with you. As you say, it’s ages since we did anything like this together. Let’s have a really good time.’
I experienced a considerable feeling of relief, and as we entered the cinema it was all I could do not to grasp her tightly to me. Sophie seemed to sense something and nestled her head on my shoulder.
‘It’s so good of you,’ she said softly. ‘Not to be angry with me.’
‘What is there to be angry about?’ I muttered, looking about the foyer.
A little way in front of us, the last of a queue was filing into the theatre. I looked around for somewhere to buy tickets, but the kiosk was closed, and it occurred to me there might exist some special arrangement between the hotel and the cinema. In any case, when Sophie and I brought up the rear of the queue, a man in a green suit standing at the threshold smiled and ushered us in along with everyone else.
It was virtually a full house. The lights had not yet gone down and many people were moving around finding their seats. I was looking to see where we might sit when Sophie squeezed my arm excitedly.
‘Oh, let’s get something,’ she said. ‘Ice creams or popcorn or something.’
She was pointing down to the front of the theatre where a short queue had formed in front of a uniformed woman holding a tray of confectioneries.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘But we’d better hurry or there’ll be no seats left. It’s very crowded in here.’
We made our way down to the front and joined the queue. After a while, as I was standing there, I could feel my anger rising again, until eventually I was obliged to turn away from Sophie altogether. Then I heard her say behind me:
‘I have to be honest. I didn’t actually come to the hotel tonight to find you. I didn’t even know you two would turn up there.’
‘Oh?’ I leaned forward, looking towards the confectioneries.
‘After what happened,’ Sophie went on, ‘I mean, once I’d realised how silly I’d been, well, I didn’t know what to do. Then I suddenly remembered. About Papa’s winter coat. I remembered I still hadn’t given it to him.’
There was a rustling noise. Turning, I noticed for the first time that Sophie was carrying on one arm a large shapeless package in brown paper. She raised it in the air, but it was obviously quite heavy and she soon lowered it again.
‘It was silly,’ she said. ‘There was no need to panic. But you see, I suddenly thought I could feel the winter in the air. And I remembered about the coat and I wanted to get it to him without any more delay. So I wrapped it up and came out. But then I got to the hotel and the evening was so mild. I could see I’d been panicking about nothing and I didn’t know if I should go in and give it to him tonight or not. So I was standing there and it got later and later and eventually I realised Papa would have gone to bed. I thought about leaving it at the desk for him, but then I wanted to give it to him myself. And I was thinking, well, I could just as well give it to him in a few weeks’ time, it’s still so mild. That’s when the car drove up and you and Boris got out. That’s the truth of it.’
‘I see.’
‘I don’t know if I’d have had the courage to face you otherwise. But there I was, right across the street from you, so I took a deep breath and phoned.’
‘Well, I’m glad you did.’ I gestured at our surroundings. ‘After all, it’s a long time since we’ve come to a movie together like this.’
She gave no response and when I looked at her she was gazing down fondly at the package on her arm. She patted it with her free hand.
‘The season won’t be turning for a little while yet,’ she murmured, as much to the coat as to me. ‘So there’s no desperate hurry. We can give it to him in a few weeks.’
We had now reached the head of the queue and Sophie stepped in front of me to peer eagerly into the tray the uniformed woman was proffering.
‘What are you going to have?’ she asked. ‘I think I want an icecream tub. No, a choc-ice. One of these.’
Looking over her shoulder, I saw the tray contained the usual ice creams and chocolate bars. But curiously these had all been pushed untidily to the edges of the tray to give pride of place to a large battered book. I leaned forward to examine it.
‘That’s a very useful manual, sir,’ the uniformed woman said eagerly. ‘I can heartily recommend it. I suppose I shouldn’t be selling it here like this. But then the manager doesn’t mind us selling the odd personal item, just so long as we don’t do it too often.’
On the jacket was a photograph of a smiling man in overalls half-way up a step-ladder, a paint brush in his hand, a roll of wallpaper under his arm. When I picked it up I could feel the binding starting to come apart.
‘Actually it belonged to my eldest son,’ the uniformed woman continued. ‘But he’s grown up now and gone to Sweden. I was finally sorting through his things last week. I kept anything I thought had sentimental value and the rest of it I threw out. But then there were one or two things that didn’t seem to fit into either category. This old manual, sir, I can’t say it has much sentimental value, but it’s such a useful volume, it shows you how to do so many things around the house, decorating, tiling, it teaches you everything step by step with very clear diagrams. I remember my son found it very useful when he was growing up. I realise it’s a little ragged now, but it really is the most useful book. I’m not asking much for it, sir.’
‘Perhaps Boris would like it,’ I said to Sophie, flicking through the pages.
‘Oh, if you’ve got a growing boy, sir, it really would be perfect. I can vouch from our own experience. Our son got so much from it when he was that age. Painting, tiling, it shows you everything.’
The lights were starting to dim and I remembered we had yet to find seats.
‘Very well, thank you,’ I said.
The woman thanked me profusely as I paid her and we came away with the book and the ice creams.
‘It’s good of you to think of Boris like that,’ Sophie said as we moved up the aisle. Then she raised her package again with a rustle and hugged it to herself.
‘It’s odd to think Papa went the whole of last winter without a proper coat,’ she said. ‘But he was just too proud to wear that old one. It was mild last year, so it didn’t matter so much. But he can’t go another winter like that.’
‘No, he certainly shouldn’t.’
‘I’m quite unsentimental about it. I know Papa’s getting older now. I’ve been thinking things through. About his retirement, for instance. He’s getting older and it has to be faced.’ Then she added quietly: ‘I’ll give it to him in a couple of weeks. That should
be fine.’
The lights had continued to dim and the audience had quietened in anticipation. I realised the theatre was even more crowded than before and I wondered if we had left it too late to find seats. But then as the darkness settled over us, an usher came down the aisle with a torch and pointed out two seats near the front. Sophie and I edged down the row, mumbling apologies, and sat down just as the advertisements were starting.
Most of the advertisements were for local businesses and seemed to go on interminably. When the main feature finally started we had been seated for at least half an hour, and I saw with some relief it was to be the science fiction classic 2001: A Space Odyssey – a favourite of mine which I never tired of seeing. As soon as those impressive opening shots of a prehistoric world appeared on the screen, I could feel myself relaxing, and I was soon comfortably absorbed in the film. We were well into the central section of the narrative – with Clint Eastwood and Yul Brynner on board the spaceship bound for Jupiter – when I heard Sophie say beside me:
‘But the weather could change. Just like that.’
I assumed she was referring to the film and murmured back something in assent. But a few minutes later, she said:
‘Last year, it was a nice sunny autumn, just like this. It went on and on. People were sitting out on the pavements drinking coffee right into November. Then suddenly, virtually overnight, it got so cold. It could easily be like that again this year. You never know, do you?’
‘No, I suppose not.’ By this time, of course, I had realised she was again talking about the coat.
‘But it’s not so urgent yet,’ she murmured.
When I next glanced at her, she appeared to be watching the film again. I too turned back to the screen, but then after a few seconds certain fragments of memory began to come back to me there in the darkness of the cinema and my attention once more drifted from the film.
I found myself recalling quite vividly a certain occasion when I had been sitting in an uncomfortable, perhaps dirty armchair. It was probably the morning, a dull grey one, and I had been holding a newspaper in front of me. Boris had been lying on his front on the carpet nearby, drawing on a sketch pad with a wax crayon. From the little boy’s age – he was still very small – I supposed this to be a memory deriving from six or seven years ago, though what room we had been in, in which house, I could not remember. A door to a neighbouring room had been left ajar through which several female voices could be heard chattering away.
For some time I had gone on reading my newspaper on the uncomfortable armchair, until something about Boris – some subtle change in his demeanour or his posture – had made me glance down at him. Then in an instant I had seen the situation before me. Boris had managed to draw on his sheet a perfectly recognisable ‘Superman’. He had been attempting to do just such a thing for weeks, but for all our encouragement had been unable to produce even a vague likeness. But now, perhaps owing to that mixture of fluke and genuine breakthrough so often experienced in childhood, he had suddenly succeeded. The sketch was not quite finished – the mouth and eyes needed completing – but for all that I had been able to see at once the huge triumph it represented for him. In fact I would have said something to him had I not noticed at that moment the way he was leaning forward in a state of great tension, his crayon held over the paper. He was, I had realised, hesitating whether to go on to refine his drawing at the risk of ruining it. I had been able to sense acutely his dilemma and had felt a temptation to say out loud: ‘Boris, stop. That’s enough. Stop there and show everyone what you’ve achieved. Show me, then show your mother, and then all those people talking now in the next room. What does it matter if it’s not completely finished? Everyone will be astonished and so proud of you. Stop now before you lose it all.’ But I had not said anything, continuing instead to watch him from around the edge of my newspaper. Finally Boris had made up his mind and begun to apply a few more touches with great care. Then, growing more confident, he had bent right forward and started to use the crayon with some recklessness. A moment later he had stopped abruptly, staring silently at his sheet. Then – and I could even now recall the anguish mounting within me – I had watched him attempting to salvage his picture, applying more and more crayon. Finally his face had fallen and, dropping the crayon onto the paper, he had risen and left the room without a word.
This whole episode had affected me to a surprising degree, and I had still been in the process of composing my emotions when Sophie’s voice had said somewhere close by:
‘You’ve no idea, have you?’
I had lowered my paper, startled by the bitterness of her tone, to find her standing in the room staring at me. Then she had said:
‘You’ve no idea, what that was like for me, watching what happened then. It’ll never be like that for you. Look at you, just reading the newspaper.’ Then she had lowered her voice, making it gather even more intensity. ‘That’s the difference! He’s not your own. Whatever you say, it makes a difference. You’ll never feel towards him like a real father. Look at you! You’ve no idea what I went through just then.’
With that she had turned and disappeared out of the room.
It had occurred to me to follow her through into the next room, visitors or no visitors, and bring her back for a talk. But in the end I had decided in favour of waiting where I was for her return. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Sophie had come back into the room, but something in her manner had prevented me from speaking and she had gone out again. In fact, although during the following half-hour Sophie had entered and left the room several more times, for all my resolve to make my feelings known to her, I had remained silent. Eventually, after a certain point, I had realised any chance to broach the topic without looking ridiculous had passed, and I had returned to my newspaper with a strong sense of hurt and frustration.
‘Excuse me,’ I heard a voice say behind me and a hand touched my shoulder. Turning, I saw a man in the row behind leaning forward and studying me carefully.
‘It is Mr Ryder, isn’t it? My goodness, it is. Please forgive me, I’ve been sitting here all this time, I didn’t recognise you in this poor light. I’m Karl Pedersen. I’d been so looking forward to meeting you at the reception this morning. But of course unforeseeable circumstances prevented you from attending. How opportune I should now meet you like this.’
The man had white hair, glasses and a kindly face. I adjusted my posture slightly.
‘Ah yes, Mr Pedersen. I’m very pleased to make your acquaintance. It was, as you say, all very unfortunate this morning. I too had been greatly looking forward to, er, to meeting you all.’
‘As it happens, Mr Ryder, there are several other councillors here now in this cinema, all of whom were most sorry to miss you this morning.’ He looked about in the darkness. ‘If I can just ascertain where they’re sitting, I’d like to take you over to meet at least one or two of them.’ Twisting round, he craned his neck to search the rows behind him. ‘Unfortunately, just now I can’t see anyone …’
‘Of course I’d be very pleased to meet your colleagues. But it’s rather late now, and if they’re enjoying the film, perhaps we should leave it to another time. There are bound to be many more opportunities.’
‘I can’t see anyone just now,’ the man said, turning back to me. ‘What a pity. I know they’re in this cinema somewhere. In any case, sir, as a member of the civic council, may I say how pleased and honoured we all are by your visit?’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Mr Brodsky has by all accounts made very good progress at the concert hall this afternoon. Three or four hours solid rehearsing.’
‘Yes, I heard. It’s splendid.’
‘I wonder, sir, if you managed today to visit our concert hall.’
‘The concert hall? Well, no. Unfortunately I’ve not yet had the chance …’
‘Of course. You had a long journey coming here. Well, there’s still plenty of time. I’m sure you’ll be impressed by our concert hal
l, Mr Ryder. It really is a beautiful old building, and whatever else we’ve let deteriorate in this city, no one can accuse us of neglecting our concert hall. A very beautiful old building, and set in the most splendid surroundings too. That’s to say, in Liebmann Park. You’ll see what I mean, Mr Ryder. A pleasant walk through the trees, and then you come to the clearing – and there! The concert hall! You’ll see for yourself, sir. An ideal place for the community to gather, away from the bustle of the streets. I remember when I was a boy, there was a city orchestra in those days, and the first Sunday of each month everyone would gather in that clearing before the concert. I can remember all the various families arriving, everyone smartly dressed, more and more people arriving through the trees and greeting one another. And we children, we’d be running everywhere. In the autumn we had a game, a special game. We’d rush around gathering up all the fallen leaves we could see, bring them up to the gardener’s shed and pile them up against the side. There was a particular plank, about this high on the wall of the shed, it had a stain on it. What we told each other was that we had to collect enough leaves so that the pile reached up to that stain before the adults started to file into the building. If we didn’t, the whole city was going to explode into a million pieces, some such thing. So there we all were, rushing back and forth, our arms full of wet leaves! It’s easy for someone of my age to become nostalgic, Mr Ryder, but there’s no doubt about it, this was a very happy community once. There were large happy families here. And real lasting friendships. People treated one another with warmth and affection. We had a splendid community here once. For many many years. I’ll be seventy-six next birthday, so I can vouch personally for that.’
Pedersen fell silent for a moment. He continued to lean forward, his arm on the back of my seat, and when I glanced at him I noticed his eyes were not on the screen but somewhere far away. Meanwhile, we were approaching that section of the film in which the astronauts first suspect the motives of the computer, HAL, central to every aspect of life aboard the spaceship. Clint Eastwood was stalking the claustrophobic corridors with a terse expression and a long-barrelled gun. I was just starting to become engrossed when Pedersen began to talk again.