Twenty-five
‘How’s Lorna?’
Ethan tried to make the question casual, blurting it out as he raised his cup of coffee to his lips, and taking a gulp before her name was properly out of his mouth, then busily lighting a cigarette. He and Harry had had an arduous game of squash (won, as usual, by Harry), and the flush that rose to his forehead when he mentioned Lorna could, he hoped, be put down to exercise.
‘Fine.’ Harry picked up the chocolate-chip cookie he’d bought, broke it in two and put one half into his mouth. His next words were muffled and indistinct. ‘She was away the last couple of days, visiting her father.’
‘Yeah?’ Ethan stared intently into his cup.
‘She goes quite a lot. It’s a bit of a drag. But her mother died and she’s the oldest of four girls. I think she feels a bit guilty that she’s not there to help out any more. She’s a responsible kind of person.’
This last was said with a faint suggestion of a sneer, but Ethan’s heart was hammering at the thought of Lorna having a dead mother, a forlorn father, three younger sisters in need of her protection. He sighed blissfully, imagining himself accompanying her to a tiny, run-down house where the fridge was empty and the heating broken down. He would cook, clean, bring comfort and cheer to the motherless girls, be a stout companion to the father. He would rescue them and she would love him for it.
‘How long ago?’ he asked.
‘How long ago what?’
‘Did the mother die?’
‘Oh. I dunno. A year or so. Cancer, I think – it usually is, isn’t it? She doesn’t talk about it much. I only found out when she was on the phone to her little sister, trying to calm her down about something or other.’
‘Poor thing,’ said Ethan, filled with melting tenderness.
‘Oh, boy,’ said Harry, smirking in a way that made Ethan feel uncomfortable.
‘What?’
‘Nothing, nothing. Just – oh, boy.’
‘I don’t know what you’re on about.’
‘Ha!’
Ethan finished his coffee, stubbed out his cigarette and fiddled in his pockets for coins. ‘I guess I ought to go. Richelieu beckons.’
‘We need to find you a girlfriend.’
‘I don’t want a girlfriend.’
‘Yeah, you do. You’re pining.’
‘Crap.’
‘Wasting away. Smoking too many cigarettes.’
‘Look who’s talking.’
‘“I hear singing and there’s no one there,”’ Harry warbled, in a comic falsetto, ignoring the stares.
‘Stop.’
‘“I smell blossoms and the trees are bare.”’
‘I’m really going now.’
‘“All day long I seem to walk on air.”’
‘Right. That’s it.’ Ethan stood up.
‘She’s not a goddess, you know, Ethan.’
‘Who? What are you going on about?’
‘She’s not even all that beautiful.’
‘I’ll see you around. But why are you with her if you don’t think she’s beautiful?’
‘So you do know what I’m going on about. Lorna’s nice-looking, but she’s not like – like that Elizabeth on your course, for example. She’s a stunner. She likes you, by the way. Why don’t you ask her for a drink or something?’
Ethan stared at Harry. Elizabeth was tall, dark-haired and striking, but not a patch on Lorna. A tiny window of hope opened in his mind: if Harry didn’t think Lorna was beautiful, he shouldn’t be with her. And if he could talk about her so casually, as if she was dispensable rather than unique and precious, he certainly didn’t deserve her.
‘ ’Bye,’ he managed.
‘But hands off, Ethan. OK?’
‘I’d never – I’d never try to …’ He trailed to a halt and stared at Harry. The atmosphere between them was suddenly cold.
‘I watched the way you were with her on the beach that day. Huddled up together and whispering sweet-nothings in her ear.’
‘No!’ Ethan was aghast at how Harry’s version dirtied the few minutes he’d spent with Lorna, which he had relived many times since. ‘We were talking, that’s all.’
‘Yeah, right. That’s why she kept asking about you afterwards.’
‘You’re my friend, Harry! I’m not like that,’ Ethan said, while he stored away the words for later: she had asked about him. Did that mean she liked him?
‘Just thought I’d warn you, in case.’
‘You didn’t need to.’
‘Fine. So it’s clear.’
‘Clear.’
They met by chance in the bookshop. Ethan often spent hours in there, picking books that caught his interest off the shelves and reading them while he leant against a pillar in his coat and scarf. He had read the whole of Homage to Catalonia earlier in the week, and a sizeable portion of an idiosyncratic history of salt. Today he’d come in from the wind and rain to take refuge in the warm comfort of the shop. He was cold and tired – probably cold because he was so tired – and at a loose end. He had no plans for the rest of the day and didn’t want to go back to his room yet, where he knew he would not work but instead would brood, eat cold baked beans or Pot Noodles and smoke too many cigarettes.
He picked a collection of Raymond Carver’s short stories from the shelves, and a psychology book about the trustworthiness of intuition, then wandered further into the interior of the shop, where the wind didn’t sweep over him every time the door opened. At the children’s section, in an alcove at the back, he saw half a shelf of thin, brightly coloured Dr Seuss books and pulled several out, smiling to himself. Strange, bright-eyed, outraged, baffled creatures; fish with smiles; turtles and long-haired, long-legged, spindly hump-backed waifs and mongrels. Such skippety rhymes. The Cat in the Hat. He opened the book and found the picture he remembered of two children looking in a woebegone fashion out of the window at the rain. Then along comes the cat, walking on its hind legs with a glint in its eye, to wreak havoc and bring fun. ‘Fun is good,’ it says. That was what his mother used to say, laughing over her shoulder at his frowning, captivated father.
He flicked through the pages, and his early years seemed to return to him. Tucked up in bed with his mother sitting beside him, sleeves rolled up and slippers on her feet. Green Eggs and Ham: he’d loved that book. And here was Horton Hatches the Egg, the story of a patient elephant sitting on an egg in the place of the feckless mother-bird, and finally, after pages of adversity and woe, hatching out an elephant-bird. His father would always say that the book was about being a stepfather, really: it’s love, not biology, that counts. His mother had read all these to him when he was little, over and over again. They’d known whole chunks off by heart, and he could still remember fragments, as if they were hard-wired into his brain. Probably when he was on his deathbed he would still be able to recite, ‘Bump, Bump, Bump, have you ever seen a Wump? We have a Wump with just one Hump …’ He opened up One Fish, Two Fish and found the poem, murmuring it to himself out loud: ‘“But we know a man called Mr Gump, and Mr Gump has a seven-humped Wump …”’
‘“So if you want to go Bump, Bump, just jump on the Hump of the Wump of Gump,”’ a voice joined in. ‘Do you always go about reciting things, Ethan?’
He turned, open-mouthed and flame-faced. ‘Lorna.’
‘Because this time I can compete. “Sighed Maisy the lazy bird, hatching her egg, I’m bored and I’m something and I’ve something or other and rum-te-tum …”’
‘“I’m tired and I’m bored and I’ve kinks in my legs, from sitting just sitting here …”’
‘OK – “Day after day. It’s work, how I hate it, I’d much rather play …”’ I don’t know any more. Except “An elephant’s faithful …”’
‘“… one hundred per cent.”’
They stopped, grinning at each other, then abashed and awkward.
‘Hi,’ he said.
‘So you like Dr Seuss too.’
‘My mother used to read them to me. Things you love when you’re little – you never forget them, do you? They stay with you.’
‘My mother used to read them to me, too,’ said Lorna. ‘And one day I’ll probably read them to my kids – if I have any, that is. Handing things down.’ She took one from his hand and looked at its jacket. Thidwick the Kind-hearted Moose. ‘Except I always used to insist that Thidwick was a goat, not a moose.’
‘That must have played havoc with all the rhymes.’
‘I guess so.’
‘I’m sorry about your mother,’ Ethan said awkwardly.
‘Thanks.’ She pushed the book back into its space on the shelf.
‘Was it recent?’
‘A year ago, more or less. Is that recent or is it a long while? I don’t know.’
‘Time’s odd like that, I guess. It goes slowly and quickly all together. It seems pretty recent to me, though.’
‘She was ill for a long time before she died. We knew it was coming, like a juggernaut rumbling over a hill – but you’re never ready, however much you think you are. She certainly wasn’t ready. She thought she would hold on till we all left school, and she said she was going to insist on having at least one grandchild before she went.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ethan repeated. ‘Were you close?’
‘Yes. But in a different way by the end – I couldn’t be a raging adolescent or anything when I knew she was dying, so there was a way in which we didn’t share the things we would have. I thought I had to protect her; now I think she would have preferred it if I’d let her protect me. I almost stopped her being a real mother to me, so in a way she was gone before she was gone or something. I don’t know. Why am I telling you all this? I hardly know you. Most people don’t ask – they just mumble something and change the subject.’
‘You must miss her.’
‘Are you going to buy any of these?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to –’
‘I don’t want to cry in a bookshop, that’s all.’
‘OK. Well, I wasn’t going to buy them. I just read them in here.’
‘Don’t they mind?’
‘I don’t think they notice. I like it here, among all the books. I like the smell and all the nooks and crannies. And the thought that there are hundreds of thousands of ideas and images and facts packed away and you just have to open the pages to find them.’
‘No. No, look, Lorna –’
‘What?’
‘How about if I buy you some of these Dr Seuss books? For the memories.’
‘Don’t be daft.’
‘Really. Unless you’ve still got them.’
‘I haven’t but –’
‘Please let me, then. For you to read to your children one day.’
‘Ethan!’
‘I’d like to. Really. Let me.’ In his eagerness, he took several and held them out to her. ‘Which ones are your favourites?’
‘OK. You can buy me one if I buy you one.’
‘But –’
‘Take it or leave it.’
‘All right, then. I accept.’ He gave a small bow and she smiled at him with her generous mouth, and her beautiful almond-shaped eyes shone and he saw how smooth and pale her skin was and how delicate her collarbone and … He gulped. ‘Which one will you have?’
‘Oh, that’s so hard.’
‘Take two, three. As many as you like!’
‘It’s got to be One Fish, Two Fish.’
‘Right.’
‘What about you?’
‘The same.’
‘The same?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we can’t lend each other our copies.’
‘Were we going to do that? Then I’ll choose something else. Of course. Um, Horton Hatches the Egg.’
‘Good. I was hoping you’d choose that one.’
‘You were?’ He almost took her in his arms right then.
They queued to pay and then, rather formally, they handed the books to each other.
‘Thank you,’ said Ethan, gravely.
‘And thank you.’ Lorna hesitated. ‘Do you want a cup of coffee?’
‘Oh.’ He remembered Harry, heard his words: ‘Hands off.’ Saw his cold eyes. ‘I don’t think I can …’
‘Don’t worry.’ She half turned from him. ‘It was just a thought.’
‘No! Actually, I’d love to.’
‘If you’re busy …’
‘No. I’m not busy. Not at all. Nothing happening. Coffee’s perfect. There’s a lovely place down the road. I go there a lot. They do the best chocolate cake. I sometimes have it for breakfast.’
Out in the street, he walked beside her and thought, his heart bursting with terrified pride, that people who saw them might assume they were together. Her shoulder brushed his; her right hand nearly touched his left; little wisps of her hair blew against his cheek. He matched his stride to hers so they were walking in rhythm. In the coffee shop, he ordered a double espresso for himself, a cappuccino for her and a slice of chocolate cake to share. Then they sat opposite each other in a dark booth in the smoking area at the back of the café. He looked at the tiny band of froth on her upper lip, a crumb of cake on her cheek, then down at her hands, which lay on the table a few inches from his own. If he moved his a bit he could touch her. If he shifted forward in his seat, their knees might meet.
He sat up straight and offered her a cigarette.
‘No, thanks. Maybe later.’
Later – was there going to be a later? He lit his own cigarette and dragged smoke deep into his lungs, tapped non-existent ash into the ashtray, looked intently at his coffee as if something of great interest was in there, waited for his heart to stop thudding.
They talked about other books they had loved as children (him, The Phantom Tollbooth, Winnie-the-Pooh and later the Northern Lights trilogy; her, the Moomintroll books and The Little White Horse – all of which her mother had read to her – and books by Michael Morpurgo, David Almond and, later, Agatha Christie thrillers in the bath). They talked about their gap year (him, travelling through Eastern Europe, sometimes with other people – he didn’t mention that ‘other people’ actually meant one person, Rosie – and sometimes on his own, ending up in Moscow; her, the final days of her mother’s life and then a period in which she mourned, worked in the local supermarket and took care of her father and her sisters). They swapped bands they liked, drew up a list of the five worst films of the last year, agreed that the planet was being poisoned, discussed the meaning of dreams, found out they both loved Thai food and sushi. And suddenly Ethan realized that it was dark outside. Evening had fallen; the world had become more dangerous. He mustn’t forget Harry’s words, or he would lean towards her right now and touch the curve of her cheek. He clenched his fists.
‘How long have we been here?’ he asked.
‘I don’t know. Are you meant to be somewhere?’
‘Not as such, but –’
‘Can I have that cigarette, then?’
He shook one out of the packet, handed it to her and struck a match. His fingers trembled and she put her hand round his to keep the light steady and, for an instant, they gazed at each other through the orange flame. The rest of her face was close up and blurred, but her eyes were clear and he could see his face reflected in them. He moved towards her; he felt her breath on his skin and his heart pounding in his chest; he felt a groan force its way up his throat.
Abruptly, he removed his hand from hers, lit his own cigarette, blew out the flame with a sharp, emphatic puff, sat back from her. ‘I’ve got to go in a minute,’ he said briskly.
‘Oh – all right, then.’
‘Work. I’m behind.’
‘Work,’ she said. ‘I see.’
‘What are you up to this evening?’
‘Well – I said I might meet Harry later.’
It was the first time Harry’s name had been mentioned and Ethan felt himself flinch. ‘That’s nice,’ he said.
‘But I had this thought that –’ She stopped.
‘What?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Harry’s great.’
‘Yes.’
‘Great,’ Ethan repeated, more loudly. He heard himself boom on in an absurd, avuncular tone: ‘One of the nicest people I’ve met here.’
‘He’s fond of you too,’ said Lorna, dutifully.
‘Good,’ said Ethan. He stabbed his cigarette into the ashtray and ground it down. ‘That’s good. To have friends.’
‘Ethan?’
‘What?’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong? Nothing. Nothing at all. Why should anything be wrong? Everything’s fine. Really fine.’
‘You’ve just gone a bit –’
‘A bit what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Go on, tell me.’
‘A bit odd, that’s all. Have I said something to offend you?’
‘No! Honestly. What makes you think such a thing? I have to go, that’s all. I have to work. I’m behind with everything. I keep thinking that if I work all night without stopping, then in the morning I’ll be almost back on track, but then I’ll be so bloody knackered that I’ll let it get out of control again.’
‘You’re going to work all night?’
‘That’s what I say now. I’ll probably wake up with a jerk at dawn and realize I’ve been asleep for hours and got nothing done. I’d better get going now.’ He rose to his feet and put on his coat.
Lorna stood up, too, and edged out of the booth. ‘It’s been nice,’ she said, suddenly shy. ‘Thanks.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It has been nice. Really nice. Lorna –’
‘Yes?’
‘I didn’t mean to be odd. I just –’
‘Nothing.’ He pulled open the door. ‘I think we go in opposite directions from here.’
‘Do we?’
‘Yes.’ He shuffled awkwardly. ‘So – goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye. Unless you want to go and see a film with me or have something to eat maybe? Before working all night, that is.’
‘No!’
‘All right. It was just a thought.’
‘I mean – I can’t.’
‘Don’t worry – I’ve got the message.’
‘Lorna, you don’t understand – I’d like to – I’d love to.’
She shrugged, suddenly cool. ‘Yeah, well. Another time.’ And turned to go.
‘Christ, Lorna!’ The fury in his voice spun her round to face him again. ‘I can’t because I want to so much.’ Ethan felt all his resolution leaving him, like water finally breaching the dam. Words gushed out of him. ‘Don’t you understand? All I want is to be with you, it’s driving me mad, I dream about you for God’s sake, don’t smile like that, I know it’s stupid but it’s how I feel, and anyway you’re going out with Harry and Harry’s my friend, and even if you felt one iota of what I feel about you – no, don’t say anything, don’t say anything, and don’t look at me like that, I know you don’t, of course I know you don’t – but if you did, I still couldn’t go out with you because he trusts me. Well, maybe he doesn’t really trust me, but he should, he should trust me not to – not to – I know you wouldn’t want it anyway, I’m not assuming anything, I hope you don’t think that – oh, God, Lorna, just tell me to shut up. I’m his friend.’
‘Faithful one hundred per cent,’ said Lorna.
She smiled, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, just to one side of his mouth. Then almost before he realized what she was doing, she left him standing there and walked away. He watched her go: the straight-backed, light-footed glide he’d seen on that first evening, her soft hair shimmering under the lamplight, until she melded with the other figures in the street and at last disappeared. Still he stood and stared, imagining that she would change her mind and return to him and put her arms inside his coat and hold him tight.
At last, he sighed and stirred, glanced at his watch. It was time to go and work, as he had said he would. He would stay up all night because he couldn’t imagine sleeping now. He would smoke too much and drink too much instant coffee and his eyes would sting with tiredness and emotion. He felt sick with her absence and his foolishness. He felt sick with hope and loss.
‘Hello? Hello, Ethan my darling. It’s me. I hope you get this soon. Your mobile always seems to be turned off. I’m planning to come up tomorrow to collect the car and I want to take you out for lunch. Or tea. Or both. Whatever you want. Let me know as soon as you can because I’ve got to leave first thing tomorrow and I don’t want to come if I’m not going to see you and I know you’re probably busy with work and stuff so I don’t want to get in your way but it will be lovely to see you. I hope you’re OK. Are you OK? Ring me. ’Bye. Oh, and, Ethan, tell me what you want me to bring you – I mean, do you want any special food, or anything like that? Or if there’s anything you forgot to take and you’ve discovered you need – this is going on too long, isn’t it? Sorry. I’ll go now. Lots of love. Take care.’
Ethan, listening to the message, imagined his mother as she left it – her hair would be coming undone at the end of the day, she would be gesturing as she talked, or walking around the room with the phone. He felt a sharp stab of homesickness. He didn’t want to be here, in his messy room, crumbs on the carpet and a bin full of beer and beans cans; he didn’t want to sit up all night with his history essay, or to fall asleep fully clothed and wake up to a corridor of other students whose lives occasionally brushed against his. He didn’t want to be in love with his friend’s girlfriend. He didn’t want to be in love at all. It was too tiring and bewildering. He wanted to be a child again, living peacefully at home, in the room he’d had almost all his life, surrounded by familiar objects. He wanted to hear his father at the computer in his study, or listening to his beloved Bach, and his mother singing in the shower or laughing with friends downstairs, or calling up to him to come down for supper.
He looked at his mobile to see the time. Eight o’clock. What would they be doing now? Probably his father would be cooking something, slicing red peppers into thin strips, carefully mixing cardamom and cumin in his mortar, peeling and crushing garlic, never hurrying; the fragrant steam would be rising into his concentrated face and every so often he would take a sip of wine from the glass at his elbow. And his mother, she’d be curled up on the sofa with a book most likely, or maybe lying in a luxuriously hot bath with candles and foam. If he was there now, he might be playing cards with her, or sitting at the piano and letting his fingers range over the keys. He’d go to sleep on clean sheets and wake to the smell of coffee being ground.
He sat on the bed, still in his coat, and keyed in the home number.
‘Hello, Ethan.’ She sounded breathless.
‘Mum, sorry, I’ve only just got your message.’
‘So, then, are you around tomorrow?’
‘Yeah. When do you reckon you’ll be here?’
‘I can fit myself round you. I’ll get an early train and be with you whenever. But if tomorrow’s no good I can always come another day. Whatever’s best for you.’
‘No – tomorrow’s good.’
‘Tomorrow it is, then. When do you want to meet?’
‘You said lunch – is that still OK for you?’
‘Of course. Shall I come to your room?’
‘Why don’t you ring me when you get here and then we can decide?’
‘Fine. And are you all right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Really all right? You sound a bit subdued.’
‘Mum, I’m good. A bit tired, maybe.’
‘What can I bring?’
‘I can’t think of anything I need.’
‘How about marmalade? Or coffee? Have you run out yet? Some ready meals? Biscuits?’
‘Tell you what, surprise me.’
‘Fine. What are you doing tonight?’
‘But everything’s –’
‘Mum, everything’s good. Honestly. We can talk tomorrow.’
‘You’re right. I’ll ring when I arrive, then. Hope your work goes well.’
‘Thanks. See you.’
He disconnected and lay back on his bed, with his hands behind his head. In a few minutes he’d raise himself, make strong coffee, sit at his desk with his laptop. No, not at his desk: it was piled high with books, files, clothes, cups, scraps of paper, CDs. He closed his eyes and let himself, for just a few seconds, remember the feel of Lorna’s lips on his skin. Her face glimmered behind his eyelids.
He worked through the night, drinking coffee until his head buzzed, smoking cigarettes until his throat was sore and his chest ached. He plugged himself into his iPod and didn’t answer his phone. He ate two stale custard creams to keep him going. At just before half past six, he had finished. He transferred his work to his memory stick, turned off his computer and closed its lid. He felt empty rather than tired; his body ached as if he’d been for a long run. Later, when he drew back the curtains, he saw that it was getting light outside. The sky was a clear turquoise, with tiny scribbles of clouds like white runes along its horizon. He rubbed his eyes and opened the window, leant out to feel the wind fresh against his prickling skin.
He pulled on his shoes, and the coat he’d left in a heap on the floor, and went out on to the deserted campus. His footsteps echoed in the silence. With each gust of wind, leaves floated silently down. In the branches of one tree, stripped almost bare for winter, dozens of small brown birds bunched and swayed like unpicked fruit. Ethan walked for a long time. He didn’t know where he was going, or what he was thinking. He just wanted the clean air to pass through his tarry lungs and his fevered brain. At last he stopped at a diner to buy a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea, which he had standing at the counter. The bacon was salty, the bread plasticky and the tea stewed enough to make him wince, but he felt himself revive, and the sense of being disassociated from the world receded. The vague drift of melancholy emotions sharpened into thoughts. He looked at his watch, and saw that he must hurry if he was to shower and dress in clean clothes before his tutorial.