The Executor

It was October before I made it back to Jill’s. My seventh visit. Or was it the eighth? I’d lost track. The house looked the same as it always had, and so did Jill. But my missionary fervour had gone. The job at the paper was my priority now and things had been going well there. The special feature on flash fiction I’d commissioned for the Review (the first idea I’d come up with in months) had had a big online response. I’d also written a couple of book reviews. As for Emma, we exchanged smiles when we passed each other, but there were no more clandestine trips to the pub. I felt myself again. Whatever interest I still had in the archive was business-like, not obsessive. By the end of the day, if I kept going, the plastic crates would be fully itemised. I would give the unpublished poems to Jill and let a decent interval elapse while she absorbed the contents.

She waved me through and upstairs. Low sun was frazzling the room. I pulled the blinds down and retrieved the poems from their hiding place. All were in order, as I left them. Then I opened the last crate, which I’d rushed through once before, but set about double-checking, just in case. Notebooks, folders, cancelled drafts: it was the usual dull fare. No joy – which to me was joy: no more discoveries to complicate my work. I imagined Rob whispering in my ear: ‘Feeling pleased with yourself, are you?’ ‘And why not?’ I replied. ‘I’ve done all you asked.’ ‘Really?’ he came back. ‘The archive’s not been sold, the poems haven’t been published, people will soon forget I ever existed.’ ‘I’m getting there,’ I said. ‘I’d have been quicker if you’d made things easier for me, instead of hiding stuff away.’ ‘I know you like a challenge.’ ‘Up to a point. I can think of better ways to spend my time than sifting through the papers of a corpse.’ Saying ‘corpse’ was a mistake. Any reference to him being dead made him angry. But it had been a while since we talked and the word slipped out. ‘I’d be less of a corpse if you did your work properly,’ he said. ‘It was always all about you, wasn’t it, Matt? You selfish git. I should never have appointed you.’ Now I was the angry one: ‘Me, selfish? You forget there’s a world out there, with other people in it. Living people,’ I said. ‘I’m not here to defend myself,’ he said. ‘You’re not here at all,’ I said. ‘Then why are you talking to me?’ he said. ‘I wish I weren’t,’ I said. ‘I wish you weren’t,’ he said, ‘your conversation skills are pathetic.’

I was kneeling on the floor as we spoke, with a printout from a natural history website in my hand. The printout had a photo of a hoopoe, with a description of its plumage, breeding patterns and habitat. I remembered Rob’s childhood scrapbook, the one I’d looked at on my first visit, and how for a time he’d pasted photos of birds in it, a phase he’d quickly outgrown. As far as I knew, no poem of his referred to a hoopoe. But perhaps he’d planned one and the website printout was part of his research. You old hypocrite, I thought, smiling at the memory of him dismissing the Internet as ‘a passing fad, like fax machines’. For all his fogeyism, he knew his way around the web. Any reviews he did for us came as attachments. And then there were his personal emails, albeit few in number and stiff in tone (he couldn’t bring himself to begin them ‘Hi’) …

I stood up. Christ, I should have thought of it months ago. Yes, Hadingfield must have its internet cafés, like everywhere else. But hadn’t Rob told me that he never left the house all day apart from a walk to buy a paper? And hadn’t Jill confirmed it (albeit with a Labrador and second walk added in)? In which case, he must have used a computer at home. On which there might be stuff I ought to see.

When I steeled myself to ask Jill, she seemed surprised I hadn’t asked before.

‘Didn’t I say? The laptop’s in the spare bedroom. If I bring work home, that’s where I do it from.’

‘No, I have a desktop. Sorry, I should have given you a tour of the house when you first came.’

‘I took it in there after he died, to close his email account. The provider talked me through what I needed to do. They’ve set procedures when someone dies.’

His emails might have been worth preserving, but never mind. Poems were my only concern.

‘I doubt there’ll be poems. He handwrote them first, then typed them out on his Olivetti. But have a look if you like.’

She was stalling again, to no purpose. Self-defeatingly, even, since the longer it took me to finish, the more time I’d have to spend at the house. Perhaps she’d begun to like me coming. But her manner didn’t suggest so. More likely, she wanted to look at the laptop before I did, to check if there was anything private there (diaries, letters, jottings) and then delete it – that’s if she hadn’t deleted it already. I wished I’d known about the laptop earlier. Her antennae were up. The trust we’d built before the summer had evaporated.

I idled away the next hour and refused her lunchtime sandwiches, with the excuse that I felt unwell and was thinking of leaving early. She hovered by the desk while I pretended to be busy. What about the unpublished poems? she asked. Once I’d looked at the laptop, I’d have completed my searches, I said, and she could have them. She turned on her heel and left the room. So be it. If I had to wait till next time, she could wait, too. I wasn’t going to give in.

She reappeared carrying the laptop. It was fully charged, she said: would I like to look at it before I left?

I logged on (no password required). It was a MacBook, an older model than the one I had at home, but otherwise much the same. The big difference was the screen: mine was cluttered with folders; Rob’s had only four: REVIEWS, BUSINESS, LETTERS and KILTER, the last an abbreviation of the title of his last collection, Out of Kilter (he’d come up with the title after spending a fortnight in St Keverne, in Cornwall, in whose parish there’d once been a hamlet called Kilter). As I scanned the folders, any excitement soon wore off. All the stuff was stuff I’d seen before, in his filing cabinet and desk.

I clicked on the wastepaper basket in the bottom corner of the screen, to see what he – or Jill perhaps – had deleted. It was empty. I clicked on Safari and entered Gmail, hoping Rob’s account might come up automatically, as my Gmail account does, but nothing happened – Jill’s attempt to close it had obviously worked. There was nothing in Dropbox or Downloads. A hopeless quest, I decided.

Before handing back the laptop to Jill, I clicked on REVIEWS again and – more from nostalgia than anything else – opened a document called APPEAL: it was the last review he had written for us, and began with a quote from a Kipling poem of that title:

Rob had used the piece to sound off against literary biography. It was long, two thousand words or so, and we’d cut it, to his annoyance. I read through it again to remind myself what had been there before we did. According to the page count at the bottom of the screen, the document ran to twenty-five pages. That couldn’t be right: we hadn’t cut it that heavily. I scrolled ahead. The review ended on page 4. At the top of page 5 I read UNP3.

Fuck – a large batch of new poems! I started reading through and paused on one called ‘Predatory’, a word that had come up during an argument with Marie. ‘In bed they could be anyone,’ I read, then became conscious of Jill, standing by my shoulder. Even by her ghostlike standards, it was quite an achievement to materialise so suddenly.

‘The printer’s in the spare bedroom. If you print them out, I can read them with the others.’

If she wasn’t actually standing with her hands on her hips, that’s how it felt.

She took me along the corridor. The spare bedroom couldn’t have been sparer – an implausibly narrow single bed, a wooden chair, a desk with a phone, computer and printer, and a shelf full of office folders. She showed me how the printer worked and hovered nearby. Then her mobile phone went off. She stepped outside to take the call.

In her absence, I printed out two sets. Knowing how she felt about anything leaving the house, I considered hiding the second set. But these were printouts, not original manuscripts. And I was tired of playing games.

‘I’ve not read most of them yet. I’ve made copies to take away. The handwritten poems I found before are in a folder on Rob’s desk. I’ve taken photos of them on my iPad. So we’ll both have a complete set to read.’

‘I should warn you,’ I said, like a TV news presenter prefacing some violent footage, ‘you might find some of them upsetting.’

The innocence of the question, her earnest look, the risk that anything I said would make it worse – it was all too much. I bottled it.

‘I’m not sure. Apart from finding a buyer for the archive, I’ve done all I can here.’

What’s to discuss? I resisted saying. Louis and I are Rob’s executors, not you.

‘Come on a weekend,’ she said. ‘Bring Marie and the kids. Now you’ve finished, things will be more relaxed.’

In the hall downstairs, for the first time ever, she kissed me on the cheek: now my occupation of Rob’s room was over, she could afford to be affectionate.

‘When you began I wondered how serious you were – whether you’d just cut and run. But you’ve worked really hard, Matt. And I’m grateful. I know Robbie would be grateful, too.’

‘Don’t worry about the poems upsetting me. I know what Robbie was like. I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

‘That’s good to hear,’ I said, wondering once again if I’d underestimated her.

Siesta

May my siestas often turn out that way! (1.5)

An afternoon in the old colony, during monsoon season.

The roads were under water, but the rickshaw-man surfed through.

We sat in the kitchen, gossiping over tea and biscotti,

while rain barrelled down beyond the blinds. The light was dusk-light,

less for songbirds than for bats, but with a glow through the slats

that printed lines across our faces, black on white, white on black.

I’d come with a queasy stomach and a migraine,

so she suggested I lie down in her bedroom. It felt cool in there,

on the divan, under the rotor of the ceiling fan,

while kids played in the street and rain rat-tat-tatted on the glass.

At some point she came through and asked was I feeling better

and did I mind if she siesta’d too? She lay on her side behind me,

her hand on my hip, her breathing deep and steady, as if she’d dropped off,

until the hand moved down a bit – all this and what followed

without a word spoken, just the chop-chop of the fan,

the swish of her underthings, and the whap-whap of naked flesh.

Sometimes I find the memory hard to credit, as if I’d stolen it

from a porn mag, but then the shutters come back and the slats

across her body and the rain rat-tat-tatting on the glass.

Predatory

For the hunter, pursuit is all … (2.9a)

‘When will I see you again?’

they’d ask, some minutes after.

But for me the thrill had gone.

All I wanted was to be alone,

savouring our time together,

which – as I tried to explain

(though they didn’t seem to hear) –

was impossible with them there.

… when I’m sick of the whole business,

some kink in my wretched nature drives me back (2.9b)

Then the reverie would fade

and I’d need to share my solitude.

You’re gorgeous, I’d say,

and mean it, but in bed

they could be anyone

and once it was done

I’d be out of there, pronto.

Bastard, they’d go,

but aren’t we all on a journey

to discover ourselves,

and never mind

the guff about finding

our other halves.

Private v Public

There appeared before me Elegy … Behind her stalked barnstorming Tragedy (3.1)

It’s a man’s favourite dream or worst nightmare,

Two women fighting over him in public.

There I was in Caffè Nero, with Eleanor,

Going over the draft of a new poem,

When in off Oxford Street walked Tania,

Both beautiful in their own way –

Eleanor blue-eyed, high-cheekboned, short-haired,

Her voice rising at the end of sentences,

Tania tall and intense with an Amnesty badge

Pinned to her blouse and black leather boots –

Each, till then, unaware of the other’s existence.

I was torn between confessing and running away,

When Tania snatched the poem from my hands

And over the hiss of the espresso machine

Read it aloud in a mocking voice.

‘Call this love poetry?’ she said, reaching the end.

‘I daresay she thinks it is. Huh, I’ve read

Better verses printed on Valentine’s cards.

Are your horizons no wider than a double bed?

Don’t you read the news? 500 shot dead in Cairo.

Famine in Somalia. The polar icecaps melting.

Poverty and homelessness like never before.

You should be writing about things that matter

Not the sex you hope to get by flattering

The tits off some slag you met five minutes since.

Here’s your key back. You’re welcome to him, love.’

She turned – then Eleanor spoke. ‘Pompous bitch.

Because he’s stopped writing you love poems,

You think you can rubbish the whole genre.

Catullus? Dante? Petrarch? Shakespeare?

You can’t call their poems Valentine’s slush.

True, his are no good. That’s why I’m here –

As his tutor, trying to help him improve.

Did he tell you he signed up for mentoring?

Nah – no more than he told me about you:

According to his poems, he’s been living

Like a monk while waiting for the woman

Of his dreams to come along and now she has,

A woman with blue eyes who writes poetry,

Only he’s too shy to tell her what he feels …

Well, I’m not so daft as to fall for that line,

And anyway I’m married with two kids.

Slag, did you say? You owe me an apology.’

Tania stood there speechless, eyes as sharp

As the pin holding her Amnesty badge,

While Eleanor clenched her fists ready for more.

‘Ladies, ladies,’ I said, like a UN delegate

Urging warring factions to call a ceasefire,

‘Can’t we talk about this calmly over coffee?’

It seemed my diplomacy had worked,

Because Tania muttered ‘Sorry’ and sat down,

And Eleanor, touching her arm, said ‘Sorry’ too.

While I stood at the counter waiting for our order,

I fantasised about them becoming friends

And the threesome we’d have that night,

But while the froth rose in the metal jug

They somehow slipped past me into the street

And were lost among crowds of shoppers

Like wood nymphs disappearing between trees.

Friends

Venus, goddess, please blow my innocent perjury out to sea (2.8)

I can’t help loving your friends. Sally, Brigitte,

Daphne, Cindy – not all at once, but each has been to bed

With me. If you knew, you’d call me indiscriminate.

But would you want me to sleep with someone you hate?

In sticking to your mates I’m paying tribute

To your good taste. Not once have I heard them deprecate

Your looks or bitch about your latest coat.

They know their place, too – don’t try to compete

With you in my affections or set out

To see us divorced. If you’re ever in doubt

How loyal and devoted they are, forget it.

No truer friends exist throughout the planet.

Fruit

Why cheat the laden vine when grapes are ripening …? (2.14)

She called one day, asking to meet

Outside her appointed time.

‘I’ve some news,’ she said. ‘Nothing terrible,

Just something you should know.’

We met near a park in Wandsworth –

her car and mine in adjoining spaces –

and sat on the grassy slope

as the sun fell into Barnes.

Nothing terrible? It was the worst.

I’d been so careful

To keep a clean sheet. Now this.

What could have gone wrong?

I’d sometimes felt her coil scratching,

Like a paperclip or loose wire,

But perhaps she’d hoiked it out.

We were growing fruit

And she wanted me to rejoice,

To tell her I loved her

And would be with her always,

Not to look (as I must have) scared.

I took her hand and squeezed it.

She had a pink gingham dress

And a rash on her legs

From the spiky summer grass.

‘You don’t want it, do you?’ she said.

‘It’s a shock, that’s all.’

‘How would you feel if I went ahead?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said.

A mosquito was circling her ankle

And I slapped it dead.

‘Ouch.’ ‘I was trying to help.’

‘You’re no help at all,’ she said.

It was dark by the time we parted,

Agreeing to think things over,

Our cars turning away from each other

At the bottom of a hill.

She phoned two days later.

‘I’ve made a date at the clinic.

I don’t want you with me.

I just need a cheque.’

Blood money, she called it

The night of the weepy call

And the threatened leap

From Vauxhall Bridge.

Later she moved away

But I still get Christmas cards

With baby Jesus haloed on the front

And her name in red pen inside.

Elegiac

Though flint itself will perish, poetry lives (1.15)

These women I’ve written about – were they just bodies to me?

Had I no interest in their thoughts and feelings? Didn’t I love them?

Of course, while I was with them. But then I went back to my life,

my room, my writing (my writing about them!) and I loved that more.

If I’d been free to be with them, they’d not have loved me as much.

If I’d loved them more, I wouldn’t have been free to write.

It wasn’t a deal we shook hands on, but for a time it suited us

and afterwards there were no hard feelings: they found a new man,

and I had my writing, not erotic now but elegiac.

Yes, I loved those women. But remembering, I love them more.

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