481

IX

Every morning, I cannot still the fear, upon awakening, that I will discover her vanished, no more than a creation of my imagining. But always she is present. Always, she is fizzing with words: chit-chat, observations, jokes, thoughts on art, on the news, on the possible war with Germany. I begin to cease caring if Ginny can overhear me talking to thin air, and give her a hefty pay rise in the hope of loyalty.

Her voice: I am in love with it. All of its shades: teasing, breathy, light, prickly, soft, shrill. My gramophone sits untouched, for I have lost my ear for music; I do not like to drown her out. We tend to prefer reading together in the evenings, a gentle tsk signalling that she is ready to turn the page. We play chess, and I move her pieces at the command of her voice. If I walk, I favour the woods over the city. On one afternoon, when my wintery body tires and I slump on a tree stump, I tell her that I feel less afraid of death, knowing that my fate is no longer unknown, that I can fly on the wind with her.

It is Finn who makes me wretched. His last letter asked why I had not replied; my last missives must have gone astray. And how can I inform my boy, a man of science, who believes God is a fairy tale and only that which can be measured and slotted into a table of hierarchy is true and real, that his mother is a voice that dances in the 482air? Rachel and I debate the issue a dozen times without conclusion.

Then the telegram arrives.

My dear Mr. Turridge, it has been some time since your last visit. I would be most grateful if you would do me the honour of joining me for afternoon tea this coming Thursday at 3 p.m. Yours, Mr. Gwent.

It is most unexpected. I was not aware that Mr. Gwent was still alive. His name brings a sensation of unease. The maggots – just to vex me – seem to have specifically eaten away at that strand of memory which tells me when I saw him last. I reply saying that I would be delighted to attend.

We travel to Gwent’s house in a merry mood; as our hackney carriage rolls past her gallery, we notice advertisements for her exhibition hanging pride of place in the windows, shoppers gathering with interest.

When we arrive we find that the notice by his door remains in place:

i must ask anyone entering the house never to contradict me or differ from me in any way, as it interferes with the functioning of my gastric juices.

When I was a child, the ceilings of Gwent’s abode seemed as high as those of a cathedral, but age has changed my 483sense of scale. The hallway still has its patterning of white and black tiles, a little cracked and faded now. The maid takes my frock coat and hangs it up. As she leads me into the parlour, and as we pass the dining room, I catch a glimpse of the taxidermy on the wall. They are greyed with age; their fur patchworked by moths.

THEY LOOK ARDENT FOR A PROPER FUNERAL.

I burst out laughing and the maid gives me a curious glance.

‘Would you like some tea, sir?’

I even out my voice: ‘I am fine, thank you – I will wait for Mr. Gwent.’

‘Very good, sir.’

In the parlour, I am about to sink on to the méridienne, when Rachel says: LOOK.

The bookcase to the right is crammed with paperbacks by Oscar Wilde, H. G. Wells, George Eliot. There is an entire shelf devoted to Gwent’s own oeuvre, comprising a dozen tomes, with titles such as The Monstrous Machines of Atlantis and The Future Dawns Purple and The Telephone That Could Talk.

LOOK.

I go to pull one out—

NOT THAT ONE. THE ONE ENTITLED 2014.

We read the blurb together:

Rachel and Jaime are two young lovers in the year 2014. She is an artist, he is the owner of a record shop in Manchester. When Rachel’s latest exhibition, Metamorphoses, is shown at their local gallery, they meet and find their lives changed for evermore –

‘This is too much of a coincidence. He’s stolen your name 484and your profession!’ I cry, shocked. ‘I do not remember giving him permission to do so – the scoundrel.’

ПОМНИТЬ MANCHESTER: the scribbled note in my desk. Yet I cannot recall Rachel and me ever visiting the place.

I open at the first chapter, and read:

I’m walking down Oxford Road, Manchester, when I become aware that my eardrums have thinned to the finest of membranes. Everyday white noise – students chattering, buses trundling, cars picking up speed between traffic lights – is a headache of heavy metal. I dive into a shop called ‘The Eighth Day’.

SOMETHING IS WRONG, THOMAS. SOMETHING DOESN’T FEEL RIGHT.

Flicking through, I see that the perspective of each chapter alternates between Jaime and Rachel.

‘He should have paid us commission, the scoundrel. Have you ever’ – I swallow – ‘been aware of Mr. Gwent harbouring amorous feelings towards you?’

NO. STAY FOCUSED: FINN NEVER MENTIONED THIS BOOK TO US. HE DEVOURS ALL HIS BOOKS, AND IT WAS PUBLISHED SOME TIME AGO. HE WOULD HAVE TOLD US IF HE THOUGHT WE HAD FEATURED.

‘The names may just be a coincidence. Still – Metamorphoses. That is the exhibition you were intending to do next!’

LET ME READ A LITTLE MORE. 485

‘But—’

HUSH, NOW. LET ME READ.

We carry on reading the story of Rachel in Manchester, heading for the Corner House, where her exhibition is being held—

THIS DOESN’T ADD UP. THIS ISN’T ME, I MEAN, IT IS ME, BUT I’M NOT IN MY BODY, THAT’S WHY I CAN BE HERE NOW TALKING TO YOU, DON’T YOU SEE, I’M NOT A GHOST, I’M ME. THIS WORLD IS RULED BY FATE!

I bite my lip, feeling very tender towards her. I had thought that, up until this point, she had been rather too calm and stoical about the loss of her body. ‘My darling, I know that you are still you, whether you are air or flesh.’

NO, YOU’RE NOT LISTENING. WE’RE IN A BOOK NARRATED BY FATE. IT’S NOT REAL.

‘What do you mean, dearest? I am sure Gwent has been generous in his portrayal of you, otherwise I shall be challenging him to a duel—’

GWENT’S SO-CALLED BOOK IS OUR WORK! WE LIVED IT; WE WROTE IT TOGETHER. IT WAS THE SECOND BOOK. WE STARTED OFF IN FATE’S NOVEL AND NOW WE ARE BACK HERE AGAIN. DON’T YOU SEE?

I am uneasy: is this senility? She may not have a physical brain but she has a mind, a beautiful mind, and I do not want to feel its sharpness and wit and compassion leave me …

YOU’RE A FOOL, she bursts out.

‘Steady,’ I say, prickly now. 486

ASK HIM TO SERVE YOU SOME SOMA TEA. INSIST.

There comes from the hallway a fearsome cacophony and the door swings open; Gwent is in mid-argument with a portly red-haired gentleman. Gwent’s middle-aged visage – which once seemed so elderly to my boyish soul – is shocking to me. Why, he looks just as he did when I saw him last, his hair still a fulsome chestnut riot across his forehead, his eyes the colour and shape of a mischievous cat’s. I perceive that he has failed to recognise me; there is even dismissal in his gaze, as though I am some spurious elderly visitor who needs to be quickly dispensed with. The accusations of his companion continue apace:

‘Mr. Gwent, your deadlines have been and gone and our readers are impatient for the next instalment—’

‘Well, you know what Dickens himself used to say. “Make them laugh, make them cry, make them wait”!’

‘They grow old waiting. They grow grey.’

‘My novel is fully written, I have simply not yet translated it to paper,’ Mr. Gwent asserts.

‘Then I should like the money I have paid you to be returned to the bank account of John Murray—’

Mr. Gwent looks pale at this. ‘It will be with you by Monday,’ he promises.

His publisher nods and makes his exit. Mr. Gwent turns to his maid, who gestures towards me.

‘You have a guest, sir. I did not take his name, but he claimed to be an intimate acquaintance.’

‘Yes, yes. And do something about the light, please – it is awfully dark in here.’ Mr. Gwent approaches me with his bouncing walk and shakes my hand vigorously. 487

‘Mr. Gwent, it is I, Thomas. Thomas Turridge. I received your telegram …’

‘Oh my … By God, it is you!’ Mr. Gwent clasps me into a tight hug and I suddenly feel like weeping into his neck, but I restrain myself. ‘But did you find the Storyteller?’

YOU SEE!

Seeing my blank face, he quickly sits down, gesturing for me to sit upon the méridienne. To the maid, he says, ‘Some Soma tea please.’ He glances at me. ‘I think it will do you the world of good.’

NOW YOU WILL SEE.

I wish that Rachel would be quiet for once, to allow the confusion in my mind to find order.

‘I was most sorry to hear about the passing of Rachel,’ Gwent says gravely.

‘Thank you,’ I say, sensing her smirk. ‘Her final exhibition will open next month. The gallery is predicting rave reviews and vast sales.’

‘I am sure,’ says Gwent, with warmth.

‘Our son – he is the main worry,’ I say, for he remains a splinter in my mind.

‘You have a son?’ Gwent looks astonished.

‘Oh yes, Finn Turridge. He’s a botanist, currently in the Galapagos. He fancies himself as Darwin’s heir, I think, hoping that in the natural selection of botanists he will jig himself to the top.’ Thinking of his letter, I try not to punctuate my sentence with a sigh.

The maid enters and pours out the tea. It is a smoky green colour. I frown, for as I lift my cup to my lips, I suffer a distinct sensation of déjà vu, the past layered into present. I recall how, as a child, Gwent fed me some insidious 488beverage. The details are blurry, but I know that I suffered a fit of derangement and that my father’s temper was severely frayed.

DRINK IT. DRINK IT.

‘No.’

‘Sorry?’ Gwent asks.

‘Oh – nothing.’

‘I expect you heard the dodo speaking,’ he remarks, nodding at his stuffed pet.

‘Yes,’ I laugh. My gaze flits to the mirror above the fireplace, encased in gilt, scriss-scratched with black marks of age, as though its face is liver-spotted.

I am so thirsty, that is the trouble. And even though we took a hackney carriage here, I am still tired. I am usually napping by the fire at this time of the afternoon. Just one sip, I tell myself and Rachel, but as I lift the cup, the temptation is too much, and I take three.

‘It tastes so very fine,’ I remark, ‘better than it looks.’

‘Yes! It looks like green ink, does it not?’ Gwent jests. ‘As though one ought to dip a nib into it rather than a teaspoon.’

A pause.

‘Are you still a critic?’ Gwent asks.

‘Oh no, I am retired. I have not written a piece for five years.’

‘I have not forgotten your review of Hans Richter’s version of Wagner’s Ring cycle as “painfully constipated”. Dear me, I am glad you are a critic of music and not novels.’

I smile and take another sip of tea without thinking. There is a tension in the air, a curious sort of anticipation, but I am not sure what it pertains to, and I wonder if he is 489waiting for me to ask about his writing. ‘Are you working on a new novel?’

But as he begins telling me about his latest work, his voice shimmers and acquires an echo; black spots blur before my eyes. I am too old for this, I tell myself, for I am feeling increasingly out of sorts.

I hear Rachel asking me if I am all right and Gwent urging me to take a little more of the tea. I drink its lukewarm dregs, set the cup down and hear the crash as it misses the table. I cry apologies, declaring that I ought to go home, but even the sensation of standing feels unconvincing, as though my body is still there on the méridienne, struggling to catch up with my consciousness. I find myself staggering forwards a step and clutching the edge of the mantelpiece, gazing into the mirror above the fireplace.

The smoke from the fire has a tremulous quality; the room blurs and reshapes itself as though it is a theatre stage being recast for a new set. I see a young man and a young woman lying on a bed, side by side. I see a man with a beard standing over them. He gently wipes a cloth over the woman’s face.

Rachel.

Revelation dawns.

KEEP CALM. DON’T GET ANGRY.

‘The bastard!’ I slam my fist against the mantelpiece.