Saturday, 13 July 2013
Morning
I know without looking at a clock that it is somewhere between seven forty-five
and eight fifteen. I know, from the quality of the light, from the sounds of the
street outside my window, from the sound of Cathy vacuuming the hallway right
outside my room. Cathy gets up early to clean the house every Saturday, no
matter what. It could be her birthday, it could be the morning of the Rapture –
Cathy will get up early on Saturday to clean. She says it’s cathartic, it sets her up
for a good weekend, and because she cleans the house aerobically, it means she
doesn’t have to go to the gym.
It doesn’t really bother me, this early-morning vacuuming, because I wouldn’t
be asleep anyway. I cannot sleep in the mornings; I cannot snooze peacefully
until midday. I wake abruptly, my breath jagged and heart racing, my mouth
stale, and I know immediately that’s it. I’m awake. The more I want to be
oblivious, the less I can be. Life and light will not let me be. I lie there, listening
to the sound of Cathy’s urgent, cheerful busyness, and I think about the clothes
on the side of the railway line and about Jess kissing her lover in the morning
sunshine.
The day stretches out in front of me, not a minute of it filled.
I could go to the farmers’ market on the Broad; I could buy venison and
pancetta and spend the day cooking.
I could sit on the sofa with a cup of tea and Saturday Kitchen on TV.
I could go to the gym.
I could rewrite my CV.
I could wait for Cathy to leave the house, go to the off-licence and buy two
bottles of Sauvignon Blanc.
In another life, I woke early, too, the sound of the 8.04 rumbling past; I
opened my eyes and listened to the rain against the window. I felt him behind
me, sleepy, warm, hard. Afterwards, he went to get the papers and I made
scrambled eggs, we sat in the kitchen drinking tea, we went to the pub for a late
lunch, we fell asleep, tangled up together in front of the TV. I imagine it’s
different for him now, no lazy Saturday sex or scrambled eggs, instead a
different sort of joy, a little girl tucked up between him and his wife, babbling
away. She’ll be just learning to talk now, all Dada and Mama and a secret
language incomprehensible to anyone but a parent.
The pain is solid and heavy, it sits in the middle of my chest. I cannot wait for
Cathy to leave the house.
Evening
I am going to see Jason.
I spent all day in my bedroom, waiting for Cathy to go out, so that I could
have a drink. She didn’t. She sat steadfast and unmoveable in the living room,
‘just catching up on a bit of admin’. By late afternoon I couldn’t stand the
confinement or the boredom any longer, so I told her I was going out for a walk.
I went to the Wheatsheaf, the big, anonymous pub just off the High Street, and I
drank three large glasses of wine. I had two shots of Jack Daniel’s. Then I
walked to the station, bought a couple of cans of gin and tonic and got on to the
train.
I am going to see Jason.
I’m not going to visit him, I’m not going to turn up at his house and knock on
the door. Nothing like that. Nothing crazy. I just want to go past the house, roll
by on the train. I’ve nothing else to do, and I don’t feel like going home. I just
want to see him. I want to see them.
This isn’t a good idea. I know it’s not a good idea.
But what harm can it do?
I’ll go to Euston, I’ll turn around, I’ll come back. (I like trains, and what’s
wrong with that? Trains are wonderful.)
Before, when I was still myself, I used to dream of taking romantic train
journeys with Tom. (The Bergen Line for our fifth anniversary, the Blue Train
for his fortieth.)
Hang on, we’re going to pass them now.
The light is bright, but I can’t see all that well. (Vision doubling. Close one
eye. Better.)
There they are! Is that him? They’re standing on the terrace. Aren’t they? Is
that Jason? Is that Jess?
I want to be closer, I can’t see. I want to be closer to them.
I’m not going to Euston. I’m going to get off at Witney. (I shouldn’t get off at
Witney, it’s too dangerous, what if Tom or Anna sees me?)
I’m going to get off at Witney.
This is not a good idea.
This is a very bad idea.
There’s a man on the opposite side of the train, sandy blond hair veering
towards ginger. He’s smiling at me. I want to say something to him, but the
words keep evaporating, vanishing off my tongue before I have the chance to say
them. I can taste them, but I can’t tell if they are sweet or sour.
Is he smiling at me, or is he sneering? I can’t tell.
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