ABOUT A WEEK LATER, AN EMAIL FROM KARL. FIORELLA HAD agreed to go camping with him.
Followed by two months without a word.
As I expected, I thought. The camping holiday has worked out as he hoped. Now he doesn’t need my help anymore.
For me those two months were an uneasy time. The doctor sent me to a consultant. He arranged tests. The tests proved the specialist’s diagnosis. Prostate trouble, but no cancer.
With my ready agreement, they prescribed a new drug, still in the testing stage, which might clear up the problem without surgery. Anything to avoid hospital.
It took three or four weeks for them to get the strength of the drug right, and for me to get over the side effects (some of which I’d rather forget than describe), but after that there was noticeable improvement. I slept at night, didn’t need to go to the loo so often.
But I didn’t forget Karl, thought of him often, wondered what he was up to. Had he passed his driving test? How was he getting on with Fiorella?
Then one morning just before lunch, a phone call.
Karl’s mother, Mrs. Williamson, asking if she could come and see me.
Of course I said yes, full of curiosity, and also a touch of apprehension. She had sounded edgy.
She arrived an hour later.
She refused anything to eat or drink. We sat down, facing each other exactly as Karl and I had been the first time he visited, Mrs. Williamson looking awkward and uncomfortable on the sofa, me in my chair, trying to look relaxed when I wasn’t.
“How’s Karl?” I asked to get the conversation going.
She gave me a wary, inquiring look that reminded me of her son. But he didn’t take after his mother in appearance. She was small, slight, probably petite and pretty and blonde before middle age filled her out and her hair turned to brown, already flecked with grey. Karl was tall, solidly built, dark haired. But they had the same eyes and as we talked I noticed a number of little mannerisms and tricks of speech they shared.
“It’s about Karl I’d like to talk to you,” she said.
“Is he all right?” I asked, as calmly as I could, for if he was, why would she want to talk to me about him?
“He’s not well,” she said with defensive hardness.
A twinge of panic in my guts bent me forward with genuine anxiety. “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the matter?”
“Before I tell you,” she said, hard still, “could I ask you something first?”
“Of course.”
“Why,” she said with more aggressive emphasis than I think she intended, because she tried to tone it down by repeating the word with less force. “Why are you so interested in my son?”
I sat back and waited a moment while I took in the implication of her question before saying:
“Forgive me for answering your question with a question. I know how irritating that is. But what do you know about Karl and me?”
Now it was her turn to wait. Were we going to play that awkward game “you answer my question before I answer yours”?
But she said, “I know he came to you about writing to Fiorella. But I also know you went fishing together, and you let him drive your car. And I know something happened that upset him the last time he saw you.”
“But you don’t know exactly what happened?”
“He won’t tell me.”
Was it right, I wondered, to tell Karl’s mother about something he didn’t want to tell her himself? Besides, I’m secretive by nature. I don’t like telling what I know about one friend to another, or to anyone else. And I don’t like people telling other people what they know about me.
But Mrs. Williamson had said Karl was ill, and she was suspicious of our friendship. A worried mother defending her son. She deserved an answer.
With a reluctance I hoped she heard in my voice I said, “The last time Karl and I met we had a meal in the local pub. I went to the loo. While I was there, a loud-mouthed man at the next table said some offensive things to Karl. Karl tried not to get involved, but the man wouldn’t leave off. He had a go at Karl. Karl instinctively defended himself and knocked the man down. The publican wasn’t too pleased and threw them all out.”
I let Mrs. Williamson take this in before adding, “Karl wasn’t to blame. But he was very upset. He thought he’d behaved badly.”
She shook her head as if trying to clear it of ugly thoughts.
I said, “I’ve not seen Karl since then. He emailed that he and Fiorella were going camping. I haven’t heard from him again.”
Mrs. Williamson didn’t look at me.
I said, “But that doesn’t answer your question, does it?”
Now she did look at me, firm eyed. “No.”
I said, “You know I’m a writer and that Karl asked me for help because Fiorella has read my books and wrote me a fan letter and told Karl about me.”
“Yes, I know that.”
“What you probably don’t know is that eighteen months before Karl came to see me my wife died.”
Mrs. Williamson’s face changed. The hardness vanished.
I said hurriedly, “Please don’t say anything. Jane’s death is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me … I was devastated … Fell into a deep depression. Like being in a very deep dark pit. A living grave …”
I stopped. Thank goodness, Mrs. Williamson remained still and silent. One movement, one word would have breached the dam.
I hadn’t spoken about this to anyone for months. Why to a stranger?
When I could, I said, “The worst time was the first anniversary. All I wanted was to die.”
It was hard to talk. I blew my nose, looked anywhere but at Mrs. Williamson.
Then on again. I had to finish.
“After that, I decided I had to pull myself out of the pit. Had to accept … Well. Anyway … But the thing is, I couldn’t write. I mean, a book. Writing is my life. When Jane died, I was in the middle of a novel. But afterwards, it seemed pointless. I couldn’t write a word without feeling sick.”
I blew my nose again.
“Only two things have ever really mattered to me. Our life together and writing novels. And it looked like I’d lost both.”
I stopped again.
I heard Mrs. Williamson move and breathe out as if she’d held her breath all the time I was talking.
A long silence again.
Mrs. Williamson must have sensed it was safe to say something now. “Could I get you anything? A drink of water?”
I shook my head. An interruption would wreck whatever it was she and I were coming to.
“You miss your wife?” Mrs. Williamson said.
“Of course. You miss your husband?”
“Of course. How do you miss her?”
“What do you mean?”
“I always felt John was in front of me. Leading me. Now he’s gone, it’s like I’ve been abandoned. I’m on my own. And to be honest I feel lost half the time.”
“I see. Odd you should put it like that. I always felt we were side by side. I’m a bit of a pessimist. Always expect the worst. She made me feel the future was possible.”
“And you feel you don’t have one now?”
“None.”
“I think I might feel the same if I didn’t have Karl. Have you any children?”
I shook my head again, words stymied.
Silence. We both shifted in our seats.
“Then,” Mrs. Williamson said, “my Karl came to see you.”
“Yes.”
I managed to look at her.
Her eyes were full up too.
“Who has become … what? Like a son?”
I couldn’t help laughing. Which was, as always, a blessed relief.
Looking puzzled, Mrs. Williamson said, “What’s funny?”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “It isn’t like that. Not that I’d mind. I’d be proud to have Karl as a son. We’re alike in a lot of ways, and I’ve come to admire him. But I wouldn’t be a good father.”
“Why not?”
“Too hung up on my work. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“So is it that he makes you feel young again?”
Another laugh. “No. I’ve given up any hope of that. I know I write fiction, but I’m a realist, not a fantasist.”
This time Mrs. Williamson laughed as well. There was the delicious feeling of someone warming to you and you to them.
I said, “I know what you were thinking when you arrived. But it isn’t that either.”
“Don’t be. It was natural. We’re conditioned to be suspicious these days.”
“That’s true. So what was it, then?”
I shrugged and smiled.
“You don’t know about writers.”
“I suppose I don’t. You’re the first I’ve met.”
“Well, I’m afraid I must tell you that we’re all disgracefully ruthless.”
“Ruthless?”
“And unscrupulous.”
She gave me that wary look again. “With my son? You were ruthless and unscrupulous with Karl?”
“I’ll explain.”
“I think you should.”
“Writers. We can be as nice as pie personally. And genuinely. But the fact is, everything we do, everything that happens to us, everyone we know, well, it’s all grist for the mill. Everything is raw material for work. For what we write.”
“You’re telling me Karl is only raw material for you?”
“No, no! Karl is Karl. Young. A breath of fresh air. And in need of help. I’m old. Tired. In need of fresh air. And in need of help.”
“What kind of help?”
“To get me writing again.”
“And how could Karl do that?”
“Just by being Karl and asking me to help him. I tried to put him off. But he was determined. And very quickly that first time, when he explained his difficulties …”
I stopped, trying to assess whether she would understand what I was going to tell her.
“Yes?” she said.
I said, “I saw myself in him. He’s stronger than I was at his age, but at the same time, he’s as vulnerable as I was. And something else. I’m also dyslexic. Not seriously. I didn’t know until a few years ago. But when I was a child, and people didn’t know about it, I suffered because of it.”
Mrs. Williamson gave me a long assessing look, which ended with a smile.
“I think,” she said, “I’m beginning to understand.”
“That’s a relief.”
“Helping my son was helping something in yourself?”
“Repairing an injury.”
“And helping him to write to Fiorella got you writing again.”
“Exactly. And you know, the strange thing is, it’s only as I tell you this that I realise it’s true.”
“And what are you writing?”
“Nothing.”
“I’m sorry? If he got you writing again how can you be writing nothing?”
“Well … Let’s see … How can I put this? … A book, a novel, for me, always starts very vaguely. Like a cloud in my imagination. It drifts into view for no reason I know of. It’s shapeless. Impossible to get hold of. But it’s there. I know it’s there. Floating about. But I have no idea what it’s made of. What it wants to be. What it means. And over the years I’ve learned that what I have to do is wait. Wait for the cloud to take shape, become solid, become something I get hold of. Then I can try to catch it in words on paper. And it’s only when I’m doing that, when I’m writing the words on paper, that I find out what it is, what it means, what it’s trying to say to me.”
Mrs. Williamson thought for a while. “So there’s a cloud in your imagination, but you haven’t started writing the words yet?”
“Correct.”
“And being with Karl made that happen?”
“Yes. And I’ll always be grateful to him.”
She thought again.
“Does he know?”
“We’ve never talked about it.”
More thinking.
“I understand what you went through when your wife died. I’ve been through it too. My husband died when Karl was twelve.”
“I know.”
This surprised her. “You know?”
“Karl told me.”
“He did?”
“Yes. The day we went fishing.”
She took a deep breath and her eyes filled again.
“Why does that surprise you?”
“He never tells anybody,” she said. “He hates talking about it. Even to me.”
I waited.
“It explains a lot,” Mrs. Williamson said.
“Explains what?”
“When he told you about his father’s death, did you tell him about your wife’s?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because in my experience, when I’m upset, and I tell someone, and they say, ‘Oh, I’ve been through that too’ and start telling me about it, I always feel worse. Seems to me when someone tells you about something that’s really upsetting them, what they want is for you to listen to their troubles, not talk to them about your own.”
“I don’t know. I think it’s good sometimes.”
“Perhaps.”
“And you never told him what he was doing for you?”
“No.”
“Well, as I say, I think that explains a lot.”
“A lot about what?”
“His illness.”
I’d forgotten. Talking about myself, answering her question, I’d forgotten. Panic in the guts again.
“What’s happened?”
“Fiorella,” Mrs. Williamson said.
“What about her?”
“She broke it off.”
“He won’t say.”
“Oh Lord! When?”
“While they were camping.”
“But that’s weeks ago.”
“He came home sooner than expected. He looked dreadful. I asked him what was the matter. He said Fiorella had dumped him and burst into tears. I haven’t seen him cry since his father died.”
“But he wouldn’t explain?”
“No. For a few days he was all right. Or seemed to be. Very low, of course, but going to work. I thought he’d get over it. But then he suddenly got worse. He was getting his bike out to go to work one morning and had a sudden panic attack. Shaking all over, struggling for breath, sweating, couldn’t stand, couldn’t even hold a glass of water. Since then he hasn’t been to work. Mostly stays in his room. Won’t talk. Eats very little. He’s lost a lot of weight. I don’t know what he does all day. Stares at the wall or sleeps as far as I can make out.”
“The doctor?”
“Yes, of course. He couldn’t get any more out of Karl than me. Depression, he says. Because of the breakup.”
“So what has he done?”
“Prescribed antidepressants. Offered to arrange for Karl to see a psychotherapist, but Karl refuses. I can’t get him to leave the house. Won’t take any exercise. And for someone as active as him …”
“Have you talked to Fiorella?”
“No.”
“Wouldn’t that be a good idea?”
“I like Fiorella. But to tell the truth, I never thought it would last.”
“Why not?”
“They’re both very young, young for their years. They’d fallen head over heels, but it was more passion than good sense. I was never sure what she found so attractive in Karl. In most ways they were chalk and cheese. She’s a clever girl. Beautiful and talented. I got on well with her. But her parents weren’t happy about it. They are very well off. Professional people. Didn’t think a plumber was good enough for her.”
“How d’you know?”
“Karl told me. And Fiorella used to joke about it. I think she quite enjoyed going against their wishes. Probably the first time she had.”
“So it’s not just a lovers’ tiff?”
“I don’t think so.”
“No hope of them getting together again?”
“I’m not sure it would be a good thing if they did.”
“You must be worried sick.”
“I am. I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid of what might happen if he goes on like this much longer … I’m desperate, to be honest.”
By now I was so upset I needed to collect myself, and I could see Mrs. Williamson was on the edge of caving in as well.
Time for that panacea to which the English resort in times of crisis.
“Look,” I said as levelly as I could. “How about a cup of tea while we take stock?”
She looked at me with a faint smile and said, “I’d like that. Thanks.”
Ten minutes later we were sitting at the kitchen table exactly as Karl and I had sat that first time, had even talked while I made the tea about cooking and housekeeping, as he and I had. The relief of distraction. The comfort of familiar everyday chores. The consolation of food.
Then a silence that meant we were strong enough to face distress again.
I said, “When you asked to see me, you thought I might be in some way responsible for what’s happened?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still think so?”
“Not the way I did.”
“But in some way?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think now. All I’m sure of is that you helped Karl with Fiorella. Then she broke it off. And that made Karl ill.”
She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.
I said, “I’ll do whatever I can. But I don’t know what to suggest. Do you?”
She finished her tea. I offered more. She shook her head, and said, “One thing I’ve found out today is that Karl talked to you about something he never ever talks to anyone else about. And for the few weeks when he and Fiorella were getting on well, he was the happiest since his father died. Now he’s lost Fiorella and isn’t seeing you, and he’s worse than when his father died.”
Easy to see what she was coming to.
“Do you think you could talk to him? He might open up to you.”
My turn to take a deep breath.
“I’m not sure he would.”
“I think he would. He talked a lot about how you made him think about things he hadn’t thought about before. What he called your cool sense of humour. He took to you.”
“Well, if you think it’ll do any good, I’ll try. But how?”
“You say you suffered from depression after your wife died?”
“Melancholia. Yes.”
“So you understand how Karl is feeling.”
“I do. But won’t he think it odd if I suddenly contacted him after all this time?”
“You invent stories. Surely you can think of a convincing reason?”
“Is he writing emails?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. As I say, he doesn’t seem to do anything.”
“I can’t just turn up. He’d be suspicious, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, he would. But there’s something else.”
“I have to go to work every day. His father had his own small business. He was an electrical engineer. I did the office work and the accounts. After John died, I got something from a life insurance. I have the house, which we owned outright. John was determined about that in case the business failed. But there was nothing more. So I have to earn a living. And with Karl not working …”
“What do you do?”
“Secretary at our local primary school. I took the job because the hours were the same as Karl’s. I could be at home when he was. He needed a lot of attention. I’m worried about leaving him on his own all day.”
“Are you asking if I can be with him?”
“Not every day. Not all the time, of course. But maybe you could persuade him to go fishing? Or anything that would get him out of the house and give him something to do and think about besides whatever is going on in his mind at the moment.”
I was stumped to know what to say. So much emotion, so many thoughts, all at once.
“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Mrs. Williamson said. “But if you could.”
We sat in silence.
Finally, “I’m not saying I won’t,” I said. “I will. I’ll do all I can. But I’ve never been quick. I’m a tortoise, not a hare. That’s why I’ve written so few books. I need time to work things out.”
Mrs. Williamson stood up. “I’m sorry. I understand.”
I got up. “Let me brood about it overnight. I’ll get in touch tomorrow. How shall I do that? Shall I phone you?”
“On my mobile, please. Karl doesn’t answer the phone these days, but he does ask who’s called. I think he always hopes it will be Fiorella.”
She gave me her number.
I saw her out.
I went back into the kitchen to clear away the tea things, but before I could do it my knees gave way and I slumped into a chair feeling utterly exhausted, and burst into tears.