THERE ISN’T MUCH MORE TO TELL.
As I mentioned, when I came to in the hospital, Mrs. Williamson was at my bedside. I was dazy and remember only that she made sure I was conscious and aware of where I was and what had happened to me but nothing more, before she went off to be with Karl, about whose condition she said nothing and I was still too confused to ask.
Later, a nurse told me I was suffering from concussion and because I’d been unconscious for so long, which was a bad thing, and because of my age, when complications might set in, they needed to keep me under observation for a day or two.
I also needed three stitches in the cut on my head where I had hit the wall, and treatment for a few bruises sustained when I fell down. As it turned out I was perfectly all right and recovered without any ill effects.
It was not until the next day that I heard about Karl.
Mrs. Williamson came to see me around midday, bearing the usual hospital gifts: fruit, flowers, soft drinks.
She asked me how I was before detailing the events of the night before. And only then, when, I suppose, she had assured herself that I was strong enough to bear it, she told me about Karl.
His leg was so badly shattered they had performed an emergency operation, which took four hours to complete, during which the surgeons inserted a metal pin into his tibia and repaired the other bones and muscles as best they could.
His mother had been with him when he regained consciousness that morning, and had only come to me when Karl drifted off to analgesic sleep. The doctors thought the operation had been a success, but they wouldn’t know for sure for a few days. Karl was young and strong and fit and was responding well to treatment, so there was, they’d told Mrs. Williamson, no cause for worry and every sign that all would turn out well.
We reassured each other with the usual bromides: he’d pull through, he’d be OK, he was in good hands, everything was being done that could be done.
But our eyes spoke realities to each other, not hopes. We both knew that every operation is a risk, and doctors are always optimistic and put the brightest spin on a prognosis.
As we looked at each other, Mrs. Williamson’s eyes filled with tears, she reached out, took my hand in both of hers and held it tight.
In all she had gone through with Karl in the past year, not once during the trauma of his crisis or the relief of his recovery, not once until now had she touched me intimately.
“I’m sorry!” she said, but held on.
“Don’t be,” I said. “I’m glad you can.”
“It’s the sight of him lying there like that. Tubes and drips. His leg. Unconscious. Helpless. And not able to do anything.”
“Being there,” I said.
“D’you think he knows? When he wasn’t conscious, I mean. When he’s not awake.”
“My wife,” I said, “before she died. She was in a coma for a while. I was with her all the time. When she came out of it, she thanked me for staying with her. I asked her, I said, ‘You knew?’ Yes, she said, she’d known. Not like when she was awake but not like in a dream, either. A different kind of knowing. But she knew. She said she knew she was going. But because I was there, she wanted to come back and say good-bye. She died a few hours later.”
Mrs. Williamson let out a deep sigh. “We never know,” she said. “We don’t know everything about life. Or death, come to that. Do we?”
I said with a “that’s life” smile, “No, we don’t.”
She smiled too and gave a fatalistic shrug.
I said, wanting to give her the cue to go back to her son, “Thanks for coming to see me. And for the gifts. I’m OK. I’m fine. Waited on hand and foot. Having a holiday really.”
“I’ll come back later,” she said.
“Say hello to Karl for me and give him my love.”
“I certainly will,” she said.
I was sorry to lose her hands.
The day was long. They wanted me to rest and avoid all strenuous activity. They had to be sure the symptoms were clearing up and I didn’t need a brain scan. The worst of it was they wouldn’t let me read or write because that was supposed to be bad for me too. I realised once more how unbearable life would be if I could never read and write again.
Mrs. Williamson visited briefly that evening. Karl was recovering well. “Sitting up and taking notice,” she said. But was still fuzzy from the anaesthetic and the painkillers they were giving him.
She was going home for the night. Would be back tomorrow.
Next day was a day of visits.
Twice from Mrs. Williamson. The first time, happier, livelier, more confident, more like her best self. Karl was doing well.
The second time late that day, less hearty. Karl had taken a dip. The nurses said it was normal. Postoperative depression. As the anaesthetic wore off the patient was more aware of the pain, more aware of the consequences of what had happened. But Mrs. Williamson felt there was more to it than that. She recognised the signs. Karl had withdrawn into himself, wouldn’t talk about what was really bothering him. She was afraid this latest catastrophe might trigger the melancholia again.
Between Mrs. Williamson’s visits two others.
The first from Fiorella, in the afternoon.
When I met her at the party, we said only a few words to each other. Not enough for me to gain any sense of what she was really like. People often put on their party persona along with their party clothes, and just as often their persona, like their clothes, is quite the opposite of their everyday self. Which of us would want to be judged by our hair-down hijinks?
Fiorella was certainly got up to kill that day, leaving, as Mr. Cooksley put it, “not much to the imagination,” and strutted her stuff to the delight of the rugby youngbloods and the (envious?) scandal of the ancientry. (“I’m glad she’s not my daughter,” Mr. Cooksley muttered.) I thought at the time, whatever else you could say about Fiorella, one thing was for sure: she did nothing by half.
I say she delighted the youngbloods. But as I discovered later (and report in chapter twenty-four), one youngblood was not impressed—Karl, for whose eyes, I supposed, Fiorella had dolled herself up in her glad rags (if anything as expensive could be called rags) and to capture whose attention she flounced among the lads. Maybe she hoped the flames of jealousy might reignite Karl’s interest in her. If so, she badly misread her man.
When Fiorella turned up unexpectedly in the hospital, she was subdued and dressed as soberly as a nun.
Strangely enough, given what she said later, my instant thought was: She’s a performer. An actress. Her emails, I saw then, were all performances, voices she was acting out to see how they sounded. So who and what was the real Fiorella?
“Becky told me what happened,” Fiorella said with the face of a tragedian. “I thought I’d come and see how you are.”
“Very good of you,” I said, in the role of the suffering patient. “And to see Karl too, of course,” I added, switching to the role of the undeceived.
“Yes,” Fiorella said, with a quick change from tragic to coy. “But you mainly.”
“Really?” The question was rhetorical, and offered with the smile of disbelief.
“I want to explain.”
“What is there to explain?”
“Karl and me.”
“What about you and Karl?”
Her expression now was of intended seriousness.
She said, “I won’t be seeing him anymore.”
This was an announcement that worried me. Not for her sake but for Karl’s.
“Oh? When was this decided?”
“Yesterday.”
“Yesterday? But Karl was out of it most of yesterday. Did you see him then?”
“No. He doesn’t know yet. I was going to tell him today, but it wasn’t the right time. He’s worse than I thought.”
“And when it is the right time, what are you going to tell him?”
“That he isn’t my type.”
“I see! Well, in fact, I don’t see. I’m surprised, after all you wrote in your emails.”
“I was wrong. I thought he was, but he isn’t.”
“And this became clear to you yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“And what was it you realised?”
“That I’d been pretending.”
“Pretending? Pretending what?”
“Well, for a start, that I didn’t mind standing in the cold on the touchline while he played rugby when I’m actually not that keen on rugby, and then not seeing him for hours afterwards while he raved it up with his rugby mates. And pretending I didn’t mind sitting under a tree all day while he fished and paid me no attention, when I’m not that keen on fishing or sitting under trees all day. Maybe I wouldn’t have minded the rugby and the fishing if he’d talked to me about himself. And if he’d paid me more attention. But I never felt he was really thinking about me. It was always like there was something else than me on his mind and I didn’t know what it was and he wouldn’t tell me. I did try. That’s why I gave him the list of questions. And I thought if I asked him to write the answers it would be easier for him. I’m not that keen myself on talking about myself, but I do like writing about myself and I thought he might be like that too. Big mistake, as it turned out. But how was I to know he was dyslexic? He didn’t tell me, and neither did his mother. It might have been different if I’d known. Too late now, though.”
“But you must have known all along, about the rugby and the fishing?”
“I did. But, like I said, I pretended. To myself, not just to him. Because physically he is my type. And there is something about him. Like a mystery, a secret, something special locked up inside. And I really wanted to know what it was. And I thought I could kind of, you know, unlock it. And he was keen on me. Very keen. So I thought he’d let me in if I went along with him. So I did … Do you understand?”
“I think so. But what happened that made everything clear?”
“When I went to see him in his shed. His workshop. I wrote to you about it.”
“I remember.”
“We’d broken it off after … the trouble at the camp.”
“You’d broken it off, to be accurate.”
“Yes, I broke it off. But then I regretted it. I couldn’t get him out of my mind. So I thought I’d try again and went to see him. And I told you how I felt like I was being tested. But I didn’t know what the test was. Like an exam when you’re expected to give the answer to a question you haven’t been asked but have to guess.”
“I think you’re right. You were. Karl is like that. He does test you. He wants to be understood without having to explain.”
“I wrote to you about it. And all you wrote back was ‘Think artefact.’ “
“I did.”
“But I couldn’t think what you meant.”
“No?”
“No. I mean, I guessed you meant it had something to do with the bits of wire I’d seen. But what? I couldn’t work it out. You really weren’t much help.”
“I’m sorry.” I lied. I wasn’t a bit sorry. If she couldn’t work out what I meant, she was right, Karl wasn’t her type. More important—which Fiorella didn’t seem to have considered so far—Karl knew for sure then, that day in his workshop, that she wasn’t his type, either.
“It only came to me what you meant,” Fiorella went on, “at the party. You meant the bits of wire had something to do with Karl making something, and Karl was testing me to find out if I understood and what I thought of it.”
“And then it was too late.”
I nodded again. “You’d missed the moment,” I said.
“What d’you mean?”
“Sometimes the course of our lives depends on what we do or don’t do in a few seconds, a heartbeat, when we either seize the opportunity, or just miss it. Miss the moment and you never get the chance again.”
“That’s sad.”
“And we never forget and always regret a missed moment.”
“Are you talking from experience?”
“I try never to talk from anything else.”
She heaved a sigh.
“That isn’t all,” she said.
“There’s something else?”
“Becky.”
“Becky?”
“The girl who was with me at the party?”
“I know who you mean. But what about her?”
“I brought her with me for, you know … ?”
“Moral support?”
“I was nervous about meeting you and seeing Karl again. And with a lot of other people. I didn’t know what to say to him or how he’d treat me.”
“And?”
“Well, you must have seen. I’m sure everybody did. How he and Becky got on. I never expected that. I didn’t think she was his type at all. She’s quiet and studious. A bit of a nerd really. Mad keen on art. To be honest, one reason I asked her was because I thought … you know … she was … safe. But you must have noticed?”
“I did have an inkling.”
“Well, she went a bundle on him.”
“And Karl?”
“He talked more to her than he’s ever talked to me.”
“So you decided to cut your losses?”
“I wouldn’t put it quite like that!”
“No, sorry. A bit commercial. Blame it on my concussed brain. I’m still not thinking straight.”
Another lie. It seemed pretty obvious to me.
“There’s just one more thing?”
“Which is?”
“Would you tell Karl for me?”
“Tell him what?”
“That I won’t see him again.”
I couldn’t help laughing.
“Certainly not! You must tell him yourself.”
“You wrote those emails for him.”
“That was different.”
“I don’t see how.”
“Different or not, I won’t make that mistake again. You told me off for doing it, remember?”
“But it’s just that I don’t want to see him again. I’d say it all wrong. And get upset. And now there’s Becky. Who is a friend and I don’t want to lose her. And I might if she thinks I’m trying to take Karl from her. I mean, she really is gone on him. She talks about nothing else, which isn’t like her at all. I’ve never heard her talk about a boy for more than about two minutes before. I thought she didn’t like boys, to be honest. So you do see, don’t you?”
“I see, but sorry, Fiorella. This is something you have to do yourself.”
She looked miserable and sat in silence.
For the first time, I felt sorry for her. A performer who hadn’t yet found the role she was meant to play. And at the moment, she was failing at every role she tried on. But eventually, she would get it right. She was a trier. My guess is she is one of those people who are so self-confident, and are so well supported at home, and so admired wherever they go, that they can play around, trying roles out, getting them wrong, and bounce back without too much hurt or damage to their egos. The kind of people who always fall on their feet, whatever catastrophes beset them, many of which they cause themselves.
And Karl? He was the opposite of that. Which is why Fiorella found him so fascinating. Fiorella knew without even thinking about it that, give or take the occasional failure, she’d always succeed. What she didn’t know was that Karl thought he was nothing else but a failure. (I knew this because it takes one to know one.) This was the secret Fiorella sensed was locked up inside him. And what she didn’t know she wanted to know was what it is like to believe you are a failure and that you always will be. And what neither of them knew, and Karl needed to know, and I’d learned the hard way, was how to turn his belief in himself as a failure into success. Which is what I’d hoped he was about to discover, and which I worried might now be impeded by the calamity after the party.
Fiorella stood up. “Oh well, I’ll just have to write to him and tell him.”
“Maybe that’s best,” I said.
She nodded. “Well, then. I’ll say good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Fiorella. Best of luck to you.”
“I’ll still read your books.”
“Thanks. I need all the readers I can get.”
“Get well soon.”
As she walked away, I felt better about her. Beneath all the outward show, her tryout performances, there was a good and sensitive person. She’d had a pretty easy life. Then Karl came along, awkward, wary, passionate and withdrawn at the same time, a combination of physical strength and emotional weakness, of certainty and doubt. She wanted to be loved by him but, for the first time in her life, she couldn’t quite capture someone with her charm. Whatever gambit she played, Karl answered with an unexpected move, one of which shocked her and almost caused her to give up the game. But she returned because she couldn’t bear the thought of failing and hoped to checkmate him by one final desperate move. Now she had retired hurt. And though she couldn’t acknowledge it yet, she would be all the better for it.
That evening I was told I could get up next day.
And go home?
The doctor was concerned because there was no one to look after me. So perhaps I should stay another day just to make sure all was well?
I said I felt fine, no dizziness, no headache—both were true.
But I hadn’t been on my feet since the “accident.” So “let’s see how things are tomorrow.”
I didn’t say it, but I had no intention of staying another day in hospital.
Then Becky arrived.
She was—I keep using the past tense; I ought to say she is—one of those people who, at first sight, look plain, are quiet, unassertive, unmemorable even. But who, when they start to talk and you get to know them, become more and more attractive and impressive, and you see that in fact they are beautiful. Not conventionally beautiful, not celebrity beautiful, but beautiful all through.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Becky. I don’t know if you remember me? I was at your party.”
“Yes, I remember.”
“How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. I’ll probably be let out tomorrow.”
She smiled.
“Good.” And then serious, blushing, “It was awful, what happened.”
There as an awkwardness about her that was somehow attractive. I’d noticed as she walked towards me that she had feet of the kind that looked as though they’d trip over themselves and make you smile at the sight.
I said, “You’ve been to see Karl?”
“I’ve been with him all day. His mother’s with him now.”
“How is he?”
“All right, I suppose, given he’s had a major operation.”
“I wanted to go and see him, but they wouldn’t let me up. I will tomorrow.”
“I wondered about that. He’d like to see you. He’s a bit down. Not because of his leg so much but because of his sculpture. He can’t bear what they did to it. It’s like they destroyed some of himself … He doesn’t put it like that. He doesn’t say it … But I can tell that’s what he feels. We’ve tried to reason with him, his mother and me, but it’s like he can’t hear.”
“Or doesn’t want to.”
“Yes. I haven’t known him long. Well, only since the party. But we got on from the first minute. It was like we’d always known each other. We just fitted … If you know what I mean?”
“I know exactly.”
“We talked about his sculpture. Which I think is terrific, don’t you? … Very like William Tucker’s. Karl said you knew Tucker’s work.”
“Only what I’ve seen in photos, apart from the one we saw together.”
“Well, we talked about that and what he wants to do, and we were going to London to see some other sculptures that I think might interest him … But … I’m sorry …”
“Don’t apologise. I’m interested.”
“Well, the thing is … You see, I don’t know what to say that will make him believe again. I mean, believe he should go on.”
“Is that what he’s saying? That he won’t do any more?”
“Yes.”
“No, no, no! That won’t do. He must do more.”
“He must. I agree.” The slightly awkward, slightly shy manner had gone. She was suddenly very passionate. “When we talked at the party, I could tell. It’s him. Sculpture is him. It’s what he is. What he’s meant to do. Don’t you agree? Don’t you?”
So, I thought, behind that quiet exterior there lives a determined mind.
“Yes,” I said, “I agree.”
“I knew you would. I just felt you would.”
“Let me think about what to say. And I’ll go to him as soon as they’ll allow me tomorrow morning.”
“Thanks. Thanks so much.”
“No need to thank me. You’re the one to be thanked.”
“Me. Why?”
“For believing in him.”
“I do. But you see, I love him. I haven’t known him long. A few hours. But I know. I think sometimes important things happened to you in a flash. And sometimes it takes ages. And I know people will say I can’t know so soon. But I do.”
She said this with such matter-of-fact directness, it was utterly convincing.
“And,” she said in the same quiet tone, “if you don’t mind me saying so, I think you do too. Love him, I mean.”
I was so taken aback I couldn’t reply.
Luckily, she went straight on. “There’s something else.”
I waited, still unable to speak.
“If I tell you this, will you promise you won’t tell anyone else? No one at all.”
“Is it about Karl?”
“Yes.”
“Is it bad news?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I promise.”
“I know one of the nurses on Karl’s ward. We went to school together and have stayed friends. She shouldn’t have told me but thought I ought to know. She was at a meeting with the ward staff and the surgeon who operated on Karl. The surgeon said Karl would never play rugby again. It would be too risky because of his leg. But they agreed not to tell Karl or anyone else until he’s fit again and strong enough to cope with it.”
We stared at each other, too upset for words.
All of a sudden, I couldn’t bear lying down. My heart was pounding. I had to sit up. I struggled with the bedclothes, pulling them off, and pushed myself up so that I could sit on the edge of the bed.
Becky sat beside me, an arm round my shoulders.
Neither of us said anything.
When I’d caught my breath and my heart had calmed down, I said, “That’s not good news.”
“The reason I wanted you to know is so you’ll see why it’s more important than ever we get Karl’s mind back on his sculpture.”
“Yes, yes, I understand.”
“He has to start sculpting again before they tell him.”
“You’re right. And you did right to tell me. Thanks.”
“Between us, and with his mother’s help, it’ll be OK. Won’t it? Don’t you think?”
“Yes, yes. He’ll still be able to fish. And once he’s sculpting and working again, it’ll be OK.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yes, yes. I’m all right. It was just a shock.”
“What about I come to you tomorrow morning and take you to Karl and then leave you together?”
“Good idea. They are being a bit sticky about letting me out tomorrow. No one to keep an eye on me at home, and my age. All that sort of nonsense.”
“I see. Well, if they won’t let you walk, I’ll take you there in a wheelchair!”
I laughed.
“Oh God! Not a wheelchair!”
“Unfortunately, Becky, all too often a joke tells the truth.”
She stood up.
“I’d better go. It’s nearly chucking-out time and I want to say good night to Karl.”
“Go, go. And good night to you.”
“I hope you sleep well.”
“Till tomorrow.”
“Till tomorrow.”
She walked away down the ward and out of sight. And all I could think was how lucky she and Karl were to find each other.