The train takes just under two hours to rattle up the centre of the country to a small market town on the east of the Peaks. From there it’s another two hours to travel half as far again, before finally arriving at the village where Henry grew up. He’s quiet today and becoming more so with every station we leave behind, staring out of the window, seemingly hypnotized by the heavy rivulets of horizontal rain. Last night we watched The Graduate on DVD and Henry was so quiet I almost wished I’d taken on an extra shift at the pub. But we have only five weeks left, so anything I’m going to earn in the Duck is no longer going to affect the course or duration of my travels. I continue to work there now, as much for the comfort of routine as for six pounds an hour and all the cholesterol you can eat. And besides, I want to be with Henry, even if he has been quiet lately. Maybe he’s nervous, and after everything he’s told me, I suppose I can understand.
It’s a little after three in the afternoon and we’re already on gin and tonic number two. Maybe for all his protestations to the contrary, he is sulking about my imminent departure. But if he is, I wish he’d just talk to me about it.
For me, the best bits in The Graduate were between Dustin Hoffman and Anne Bancroft; there was a chemistry between them that, from what I could see, Ben simply didn’t share with Mrs Robinson’s daughter. For all of Hoffman’s brooding and mooching and running to the church, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what he saw in dreary old Elaine. But even so, I was rooting for him when he followed her across the country, tracked her down on campus, hammered his fists against the chapel windows. I cried when they rode away together on the bus, Elaine in her wedding dress, dishevelled Ben, for once, smiling. And all I could think was, We have so much more than them, so why is it so easy for him to let me go?
Because it’s far from easy for me. The question has become a nagging voice inside my head, and I have had to physically bite my tongue to keep from saying something. Take me with you. That, I suppose, is what I’m waiting for Henry to say, ask, demand. But then how would I answer? The whole point was for me to travel alone, to ‘find myself’. Can you do that with someone else in tow? I guess that depends on who that someone is.
‘Excited?’ I ask.
Henry turns away from the window slowly, almost with reluctance. He sees his drink is empty and rattles the empty can. ‘Want anything from the bar?’
‘Talk to me,’ I say, drawing a glance from the woman sitting beside Henry and diagonally across from me. I reach across the table and take hold of his hands. ‘Nervous?’
Henry nods, and I raise my eyebrows to let him know that this doesn’t count as an answer.
‘Yes,’ Henry says. ‘A little.’
‘It’s just an anniversary. It’s not like you have to give a speech, or anything.’ A small laugh to lighten the mood, but Henry doesn’t pick up on it.
The woman opposite is wearing headphones, but as she fiddles with her phone it’s clear that she is lowering the volume.
‘I don’t suppose she went into labour then?’
‘My mother?’ Henry says, smiling.
‘You know who . . . she who must not be named.’
Henry shakes his head. ‘If she has, no one’s told me. But then, they wouldn’t, would they.’ And he looks at me with so much more depth and meaning than the statement would seem to deserve.
‘Will she throw a drink over you?’ I ask. ‘God, that would make a good picture. Give me a nudge if you see it coming.’
Henry doesn’t seem to find this possibility as funny as I do.
‘Look, I know you were engaged,’ I say, dropping my voice to a whisper on the last word, ‘but, well,’ – my mind flashing back to The Graduate – ‘it’s not like you left her at the altar, or anything.’