Surprise Me
Page 75
Cautiously I ring the bell, and form my face into an apologetic expression as John answers. His eyes are red-rimmed, I instantly notice. They weren’t before. I feel a jab through my heart and want to back away instantly; leaving him in his private space. But I’m here now. And so I clear my throat a couple of times and say awkwardly, ‘I just thought you might like … You might not have thought about food …’
‘My dear.’ His face crinkles. ‘My dear, you are too kind.’
‘Shall I bring it in?’
Slowly I proceed through the house, afraid of disturbing Owen, but John nods towards the closed sitting-room door and says, ‘He’s resting.’
I put the tray on the kitchen counter and the cold items in the fridge, noticing how bare it is. I’m going to get Tilda in on this, too. We’ll make sure they’re permanently stocked up.
As I finish, I turn to see that John seems lost in a reverie. I wait in wary silence, not wanting to break his thoughts.
‘Your daughter.’ He suddenly comes to. ‘I believe she left … a small rabbit. Small … white … large ears …’ He describes vaguely with his hands. ‘Not a breed I recognize …’
‘Oh! You mean her Sylvanian Families. I’m sorry. She leaves them everywhere.’
‘I’ll fetch it for you.’
‘Let me!’
I follow him out to his greenhouse, where sure enough one of Tessa’s Sylvanian rabbits is standing incongruously by the rows of frondy plants. As I pick it up, John seems lost again, this time transfixed by one of the plants, and I remember something Tilda told me the other day. She said she’d googled John and apparently his research on plants has led to a breakthrough in gene therapy, which could help millions of people. (I have no idea how that works, but there you go.)
‘It’s an amazing life’s work you’ve achieved,’ I venture, wanting to say something positive.
‘Oh, my work will never be done,’ he says, almost as though amused. His face softens and he rubs a leaf between his fingers lovingly. ‘These wonders will never reveal all their secrets. I’ve been learning about them ever since I was a boy. Every time I look at them I learn a little more. And as a result I love them a little more.’ He moves a pot tenderly, patting its fronds. ‘Tiny miracles. Much like people.’
I’m not quite sure if he’s talking to me or to himself, but every word he says feels like a drop of Wise Potion. I want to hear more. I want him to tell me all the answers to life.
‘I don’t know how you—’ I break off, rubbing my nose, inhaling the earthy, greeny smell of the plants. ‘You’re very inspiring. Dan and I have …’ I swallow hard. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter about us. I just want you to know, you’re inspiring. Fifty-nine years.’ I look straight at him. ‘Fifty-nine years, loving one person. It’s something. It’s an achievement.’
John is silent for a few moments, his hands moving absently around his plants, his eyes far off with thought.
‘I am an early riser,’ he says at last. ‘So I watch Owen wake up every morning. And each morning reveals something new. The light catches his face in a particular way, he has a fresh thought, he shares a memory. Love is finding one person infinitely fascinating.’ John seems lost in thought again – then comes to. ‘And so … not an achievement, my dear.’ He gives me a mild, kind smile. ‘Rather, a privilege.’
I stare back at him, feeling choked up. John’s hands are trembling as he rearranges his pots. He knocks one over, then rights it, and I can tell he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. I recall Owen just now, pale and shrunken, the tube in his nose, and have a sudden, horrible fear that it’s bad, really bad.
On impulse I grab John’s shaky hands and hold them in mine till they’re still.
‘If you ever want company,’ I say. ‘Help. Lifts in the car. Anything. We’re here.’
He nods and squeezes my hands. And we go back into the house, and I make two cups of tea, because that’s something else I can do. And as I leave, promising to return tomorrow, all I can think is: Dan. I need to talk to Dan. I need to communicate. Even if he’s still in Devon. Even if he has no signal. Even if it’s a one-sided conversation.
As I get inside our house I’m already reaching for the phone. I dial his number, sinking down on to the bottom step of the stairs, desperate to let him know, desperate to make him understand … what?
‘Dan,’ I say as the phone beeps. ‘It’s me. And I’m so sorry.’ I swallow, my throat all lumpy. ‘I just … I wish … I just …’
Oh God. Terrible. Why am I so bloody inarticulate? John, with all his worries, manages to sound like some elegiac poet, whereas I flounder around like an idiot. I click off, dial again and start another voicemail.
‘Dan.’ I swallow the lumps down. ‘It’s me. And I just called to say …’ No. I sound like Stevie Wonder. Bad. I click off and try again.
‘Dan, it’s me. I mean, you knew that, right? Because you saw Sylvie pop up on your screen. Which means you’re listening to a message from me. Which I suppose is a good sign …’
What am I going on about? I click off before I can sound any more like a rambling moron and dial a fourth time.
‘Dan. Please ignore all those other messages. Sorry. I don’t know what I was trying to say. What I am trying to say is …’ I pause, trying to untangle my thoughts. ‘Well. I suppose it’s that all I can think about is you. Where you are. What you’re doing. What you’re thinking. Because I have no idea any more. None.’ My voice wobbles and I take a few seconds to calm myself. ‘It’s ironic, I guess, because I used to think I knew you too well. But now …’ A tear suddenly runs down my cheek. ‘Anyway. Above all, Dan … and I don’t know if you’re even still listening … but above all, I wanted to say …’
The door opens and I’m so startled, I drop my phone in shock, thinking, Dan? Dan?
But it’s Karen, wearing sneakers and earbuds and her cycling backpack.
‘Oh, hi,’ she says, looking surprised to see me sitting on the stairs. ‘I forgot my iPad. Shit, Sylvie, your hair.’
‘Yes. My hair.’ I peer at her in confusion. ‘But wait, aren’t you supposed to be with the girls?’
‘Dan’s with them,’ she says casually – then, at my reaction, her expression changes. ‘Oh. Wasn’t I supposed to say? He just turned up and said he’d do the party.’
‘Dan’s here?’ My heart is thudding so hard, I can hardly breathe. ‘He’s here? Where? Where?’
‘Battersea Park,’ says Karen, eyeing me weirdly. ‘Climb On? You know, the climbing place?’
My legs are already moving. I’m scrambling to my feet. I need to get there.
SEVENTEEN
Battersea Park is one of the reasons we like south-west London. It’s an amazing resource – huge and green and full of activities. It’s a fine evening as I reach the gates and people are out in force enjoying themselves. They’re strolling, cycling, rollerblading, riding recumbent bikes and hitting distant tennis balls. Everyone’s relaxed and smiling at each other. But not me. I’m desperate. I’m not smiling. I’m a woman on a mission.
‘My dear.’ His face crinkles. ‘My dear, you are too kind.’
‘Shall I bring it in?’
Slowly I proceed through the house, afraid of disturbing Owen, but John nods towards the closed sitting-room door and says, ‘He’s resting.’
I put the tray on the kitchen counter and the cold items in the fridge, noticing how bare it is. I’m going to get Tilda in on this, too. We’ll make sure they’re permanently stocked up.
As I finish, I turn to see that John seems lost in a reverie. I wait in wary silence, not wanting to break his thoughts.
‘Your daughter.’ He suddenly comes to. ‘I believe she left … a small rabbit. Small … white … large ears …’ He describes vaguely with his hands. ‘Not a breed I recognize …’
‘Oh! You mean her Sylvanian Families. I’m sorry. She leaves them everywhere.’
‘I’ll fetch it for you.’
‘Let me!’
I follow him out to his greenhouse, where sure enough one of Tessa’s Sylvanian rabbits is standing incongruously by the rows of frondy plants. As I pick it up, John seems lost again, this time transfixed by one of the plants, and I remember something Tilda told me the other day. She said she’d googled John and apparently his research on plants has led to a breakthrough in gene therapy, which could help millions of people. (I have no idea how that works, but there you go.)
‘It’s an amazing life’s work you’ve achieved,’ I venture, wanting to say something positive.
‘Oh, my work will never be done,’ he says, almost as though amused. His face softens and he rubs a leaf between his fingers lovingly. ‘These wonders will never reveal all their secrets. I’ve been learning about them ever since I was a boy. Every time I look at them I learn a little more. And as a result I love them a little more.’ He moves a pot tenderly, patting its fronds. ‘Tiny miracles. Much like people.’
I’m not quite sure if he’s talking to me or to himself, but every word he says feels like a drop of Wise Potion. I want to hear more. I want him to tell me all the answers to life.
‘I don’t know how you—’ I break off, rubbing my nose, inhaling the earthy, greeny smell of the plants. ‘You’re very inspiring. Dan and I have …’ I swallow hard. ‘Anyway, it doesn’t matter about us. I just want you to know, you’re inspiring. Fifty-nine years.’ I look straight at him. ‘Fifty-nine years, loving one person. It’s something. It’s an achievement.’
John is silent for a few moments, his hands moving absently around his plants, his eyes far off with thought.
‘I am an early riser,’ he says at last. ‘So I watch Owen wake up every morning. And each morning reveals something new. The light catches his face in a particular way, he has a fresh thought, he shares a memory. Love is finding one person infinitely fascinating.’ John seems lost in thought again – then comes to. ‘And so … not an achievement, my dear.’ He gives me a mild, kind smile. ‘Rather, a privilege.’
I stare back at him, feeling choked up. John’s hands are trembling as he rearranges his pots. He knocks one over, then rights it, and I can tell he doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. I recall Owen just now, pale and shrunken, the tube in his nose, and have a sudden, horrible fear that it’s bad, really bad.
On impulse I grab John’s shaky hands and hold them in mine till they’re still.
‘If you ever want company,’ I say. ‘Help. Lifts in the car. Anything. We’re here.’
He nods and squeezes my hands. And we go back into the house, and I make two cups of tea, because that’s something else I can do. And as I leave, promising to return tomorrow, all I can think is: Dan. I need to talk to Dan. I need to communicate. Even if he’s still in Devon. Even if he has no signal. Even if it’s a one-sided conversation.
As I get inside our house I’m already reaching for the phone. I dial his number, sinking down on to the bottom step of the stairs, desperate to let him know, desperate to make him understand … what?
‘Dan,’ I say as the phone beeps. ‘It’s me. And I’m so sorry.’ I swallow, my throat all lumpy. ‘I just … I wish … I just …’
Oh God. Terrible. Why am I so bloody inarticulate? John, with all his worries, manages to sound like some elegiac poet, whereas I flounder around like an idiot. I click off, dial again and start another voicemail.
‘Dan.’ I swallow the lumps down. ‘It’s me. And I just called to say …’ No. I sound like Stevie Wonder. Bad. I click off and try again.
‘Dan, it’s me. I mean, you knew that, right? Because you saw Sylvie pop up on your screen. Which means you’re listening to a message from me. Which I suppose is a good sign …’
What am I going on about? I click off before I can sound any more like a rambling moron and dial a fourth time.
‘Dan. Please ignore all those other messages. Sorry. I don’t know what I was trying to say. What I am trying to say is …’ I pause, trying to untangle my thoughts. ‘Well. I suppose it’s that all I can think about is you. Where you are. What you’re doing. What you’re thinking. Because I have no idea any more. None.’ My voice wobbles and I take a few seconds to calm myself. ‘It’s ironic, I guess, because I used to think I knew you too well. But now …’ A tear suddenly runs down my cheek. ‘Anyway. Above all, Dan … and I don’t know if you’re even still listening … but above all, I wanted to say …’
The door opens and I’m so startled, I drop my phone in shock, thinking, Dan? Dan?
But it’s Karen, wearing sneakers and earbuds and her cycling backpack.
‘Oh, hi,’ she says, looking surprised to see me sitting on the stairs. ‘I forgot my iPad. Shit, Sylvie, your hair.’
‘Yes. My hair.’ I peer at her in confusion. ‘But wait, aren’t you supposed to be with the girls?’
‘Dan’s with them,’ she says casually – then, at my reaction, her expression changes. ‘Oh. Wasn’t I supposed to say? He just turned up and said he’d do the party.’
‘Dan’s here?’ My heart is thudding so hard, I can hardly breathe. ‘He’s here? Where? Where?’
‘Battersea Park,’ says Karen, eyeing me weirdly. ‘Climb On? You know, the climbing place?’
My legs are already moving. I’m scrambling to my feet. I need to get there.
SEVENTEEN
Battersea Park is one of the reasons we like south-west London. It’s an amazing resource – huge and green and full of activities. It’s a fine evening as I reach the gates and people are out in force enjoying themselves. They’re strolling, cycling, rollerblading, riding recumbent bikes and hitting distant tennis balls. Everyone’s relaxed and smiling at each other. But not me. I’m desperate. I’m not smiling. I’m a woman on a mission.
