Things We Never Said Page 11

  Sean closes the front door and follows her. He’s glad of the visit but simultaneously regretful for his vacuuming. It had taken him so long to pluck up the courage that he wonders if he’ll ever manage to get motivated again.

  ‘A man with a Hoover,’ Maggie says.

  ‘A Dyson,’ Sean corrects. ‘And I’ve always done the hoovering. Even when Catherine was around, it was always my job.’

  Maggie stares into his eyes for a moment and smiles vaguely. Sean can sense that she is noticing his newfound ability to mention Catherine without his voice becoming brittle. ‘Good,’ she says, then, ‘I suppose it should be dysoning, really. Not hoovering. But it doesn’t have the same ring to it, does it?’

  ‘Not really, no,’ Sean agrees. ‘Vacuuming, maybe?’

  Maggie wrinkles her nose at the suggestion. ‘So in addition to hoovering, do you make coffee?’

  Sean smiles. ‘Sure,’ he says. ‘Come through.’

  ‘So, how have you been?’ he asks as he plugs in the kettle and pulls the cafetière from the cupboard. ‘I haven’t seen you for weeks.’

  Maggie shrugs off her coat and hangs it over the back of a chair. ‘And whose fault would that be?’ she asks.

  ‘I wasn’t really thinking it was anyone’s fault,’ Sean says.

  ‘I came last weekend, actually,’ Maggie says. ‘But you were out.’

  ‘I was at April’s place,’ Sean explains. ‘We went to that Brexit demo.’

  ‘Brexit demo?’ Maggie repeats.

  ‘Well, anti-Brexit demo.’

  ‘I didn’t know there was one, to be honest.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Sean says as he spoons ground coffee into the glass jug. ‘It wasn’t huge. And the media pretty much ignored it.’

  ‘I think everyone’s given up,’ Maggie tells him. ‘But well done for trying.’

  ‘I think you’re right. That’s what it felt like, anyway.’

  ‘It’s strange,’ Maggie says. ‘I mean, they’ve admitted that the money won’t go to the NHS. And they’ve admitted we aren’t getting some fabulous trade deal. And they’ve said that immigration won’t even go down now, too. It’s as if everyone agrees that it’s a stupid idea, but everyone accepts that we’re going through with it anyway. It’s like a horrible toddler who has made a stupid decision but is sticking to it rather than admitting the error. It all smacks of cutting off your nose to spite your face more than anything else. Cutting off your continent to spite your face, perhaps.’

  ‘That’s exactly what’s happening,’ Sean says.

  ‘My sister’s all for it, you know?’

  ‘Really?’

  Maggie nods. ‘She lives in Ealing. They call it Little Warsaw. Not that I think that’s a recent thing. I think the Poles have been in Ealing since the war, but there’s no telling Angie that. Anyway, she’s all for Brexit if it means the poor Poles will have to bugger off.’

  ‘They may well all bugger off,’ Sean says. ‘But they include her doctor and her nurse and probably her plumber, too. I think she’ll miss them if they do leave.’

  ‘That’s what I keep saying. Anyway. You went to the demo. That surprises me. But in a good way.’

  ‘It was just something to do with April, really. She’d never been to a demo before.’

  ‘Never?’

  Sean shakes his head.

  ‘Gosh,’ Maggie says. ‘Kids today! And how is lovely April?’

  ‘Um, pregnant,’ Sean says.

  Maggie’s eyes widen. ‘No!’

  Sean nods. ‘She and Ronan are moving to their own place. They’re both flat-sharing at the moment, so . . .’

  ‘Of course. And does this mean there’ll be a wedding?’ Maggie asks.

  ‘Nope,’ Sean says. ‘They don’t believe in silly old-fashioned concepts like marriage.’

  ‘Do you mind? You sound like you do.’

  ‘Do I?’ Sean asks. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe. But no, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Gosh, a baby! How exciting.’

  ‘Yes, it’s quite a shock, really.’

  ‘You know, I never saw April as the baby type,’ Maggie says. ‘I don’t know why, but I just never really imagined it.’

  ‘That’s what Catherine said.’

  A shadow crosses Maggie’s features. She sighs gently.

  ‘Don’t say it,’ Sean says.

  ‘No. It’s just . . . I was only going to say that it’s a sh—’

  ‘Don’t say it,’ Sean repeats. ‘Please.’

  ‘No,’ Maggie says. ‘Of course. Sorry.’

  Sean presses the plunger and then pours the coffee into two mugs, which he places on the kitchen table. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘So, what have you done with Dave this weekend?’

  ‘I buried him under the patio,’ Maggie tells him, solemnly.

  ‘That’s the first place they’ll look.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The police.’

  ‘Ahh. No, he’s gone back to his flat for the weekend, actually. Said he needs some “space”,’ Maggie says. She uses two fingers to indicate the quote marks around the word ‘space’.

  ‘Trouble in paradise?’ Sean asks.

  Maggie laughs sourly. ‘If this is paradise then give me hell any day of the week.’

  ‘That bad, huh?’

  ‘Oh, it’s all right, really. It’s just so much harder to fit together with someone in your fifties. We get so set in our ways, you know? I mean, when you meet someone in your teens, like you two did, well, you’re still growing, aren’t you? You automatically adjust so that you fit together. But when you’re my age, all the likes and dislikes are set in stone. That’s the trouble.’

  ‘I can imagine it’s not easy,’ Sean says. ‘But you’re clever enough. You’ll make it work.’

  Maggie sighs again, more deeply this time. She looks out at the garden. ‘So, I’m assuming that if it was you who used to do the hoovering, then the gardening was Catherine’s responsibility. Am I right?’

  Sean follows her gaze. ‘Oh. Yes. It’s looking bad, huh?’

  ‘You need to at least mow the lawn,’ Maggie says. ‘Because soon it’ll be too long to mow, and then you’ll be stuck.’

  ‘Yes,’ Sean says unenthusiastically. ‘Yeah, I know.’

  ‘I could give you a hand. Tomorrow, maybe.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ Sean says, frowning. ‘Isn’t it supposed to be raining tomorrow?’

  ‘Nope. Sunny all day. So, what do you say? I’ll bring my secateurs. It’ll do me good . . . take my mind off things.’

  Sean shrugs. ‘Sure. Why not? If you’re sure. But tomorrow afternoon, maybe?’ He wants to reserve the morning for his next dose of Catherine.

  Snapshot #12

  35mm format, colour. A pale, blonde woman sits on a green bedspread. Beside her is a thin tabby cat, rolling on its back, offering its tummy to be tickled. The light in the room, filtered through curtains, gives to both the woman’s face and the cat’s fur a distinctly green tinge.

  Cassette #12

  Hi Sean.

  I’m so happy I found this one. A rare photo of Green Donna!

  This must have been our final year in Wolverhampton because Theresa had moved out to live in her Buddhist community and Donna had moved in to replace her.

  Theresa had asked us to take Donna in because she was depressed and needed what Theresa called a ‘nice happy house’ to live in.

  The trouble was that by the time we had swapped Donna for Theresa the house wasn’t that happy, was it? Because no matter how chirpy and friendly we all tried to be, none of us could really help Donna with her sadness.

  I’d go as far as to say that Donna’s sadness ended up winning that round. It oozed out of her room and drifted down the stairs like mist, enveloping us all. Even April went quiet when Donna was around – though, often enough, we took that as a blessing.

  The first thing she did when she moved in was to paint her room green, and while she was doing that she slept in the lounge, which irritate
d us all. Once the paint had dried, I can’t recall ever having seen her for any length of time in any of the shared parts of the house again. She was always in her room.

  One good thing about Donna was that she got me reading. She started me off with Fay Weldon, which I loved, and then gave me Lynne Reid Banks and Sylvia Plath. She even tried to get me to read Virginia Woolf at one point, but though I could see that the words were lovely, that they had a special kind of rhythm to them, if I’m telling the truth, Woolf was always a bit beyond me.

  I used to worry about Donna so much, though. I’d come home from my shift at the shop and you’d be out somewhere with April, and Donna would either be listening to Dead Can Dance or Echo & the Bunnymen. Other times the house would be in absolute silence, so I would creep up to Donna’s door and take a deep breath and knock. I was always scared that she wouldn’t answer. I was terrified that she had slit her wrists or taken twenty bottles of paracetamol or attached a rope to that beam in her room. But no. She was always there. Always in her room, sitting in that strange green light, reading some book or other for her course, looking utterly, utterly miserable.

  Do you remember how funny I was about leaving April with her? Well, I don’t think I ever stated clearly why that was. I’m not certain that I was ever even quite sure why myself. But looking back, I reckon that I was afraid that she’d top herself. And I was afraid she would take April with her when she went.

  I always thought that something terrible must have happened to Donna before she came to us. I do hope I’m wrong. And I do hope that she sorted herself out eventually.

  Before she moved in, Theresa and I went to see her acting in a shopping centre. She was studying humanities and specialising in drama, and as part of her course she had to participate in a play in a public space.

  They had organised this happening in the Wulfrun Centre, and Theresa took me along so that we could meet.

  Now, Donna, believe it or not, was playing the role of a mushroom cloud. There were five people with horror make-up playing the dead and dying and a girl dressed as a rocket – she was supposed to be a cruise missile, I think. There was a Grim Reaper with one of those grass hooks you hold in one hand – I don’t think anyone had a scythe available. And Donna, well, she was the mushroom cloud.

  Oh, Sean, it was so awful, it was hilarious. You have no idea . . .

  After the cruise missile had shouted ‘boom’ and the five horror make-up victims had fallen down, Donna, who had a big white sheet over her head, appeared, waving her arms around and whistling. I think the whistling was meant to represent the wind or the fallout or something.

  She looked like a five-year-old pretending to be a ghost. It was so, so bad, Sean. I wish you had been there to see it.

  Theresa, who took the whole nuclear disarmament thing very seriously, got angry with me because I got a fit of the giggles, and once I started I just couldn’t stop. One of the dead people even sat up to tell me to be quiet at one point, and in the end I had to leave. I thought I was going to wet myself.

  I assumed, based on Donna’s performance in the sheet, that she would be great fun to live with, so I told you and Alistair that we should let her move in. But I had got that wrong. Donna wasn’t a laugh to live with at all, was she?

  The day she moved in, she asked me what I had thought of their play and, because I didn’t know what else to say, I told her it had left me speechless.

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I got so into the part I was weeping under my sheet. All those dead people, you know?’

  I almost burst out laughing, Sean, but instead I managed to say, ‘Yes, it was very moving.’ I had tears in my eyes, so I think I got away with it.

  I missed Theresa so much once she was gone. I had never imagined that her moving out would be the end of our friendship. I had thought that she was one of my closest friends and assumed it would be that way forever.

  But I only ever saw her twice after that, and even then it was only because I bumped into her – it was only ever by accident. All she talked about, even then, was how amazing her new housemates were and how wonderful Buddhism was. Not a mention about any of us. Theresa was very self-sufficient, I suppose.

  My newfound self-esteem took a bit of a hit over Theresa, I think, but that too, I suppose, was a necessary part of growing up. You meet people and sometimes they’re more important to you than you are to them. Sometimes you just have to give thanks for all the ways knowing them has changed you, and watch them walk away to pastures new.

  You know, even now, when I think about Theresa, when I think about how quickly she moved on from one group of friends to another, I can still feel almost tearful about it. I can still feel quite angry, too.

  Maggie’s weather forecast turns out to be spot on. It’s a beautiful June Sunday.

  After listening to this week’s tape, Sean heads down the garden to the shed, where he drags the old lawnmower from beneath the other gardening tools. He then hunts for the extension lead for almost an hour.

  About a month after Catherine died, Sean had decided to be brave and clear her clothes from the wardrobe. Seeing them every morning had been upsetting him, but he had got no further than bagging them up. They had sat in the bedroom for weeks, and then the hallway for a few weeks more, before finally migrating to the cupboard under the stairs. It is under these bin bags of clothes that he finally discovers the extension cable.

  He is just finishing a sandwich when Maggie arrives. He’s still sucking the crumbs from his teeth as he opens the front door to find her brandishing pruning shears.

  ‘Hi Mags,’ he says. ‘You’re looking scary.’

  ‘I know!’ Maggie replies, stepping into the hallway, snipping at the air with her secateurs.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Sean asks. ‘Because I can make you a sandwich if you want.’

  ‘I brunched quite late,’ Maggie explains. ‘So let’s just get on with it, eh?’ She pauses to look at the pile of bin bags next to the stair cupboard. ‘Having a clear out?’

  Sean sighs and pulls a pained expression. ‘It’s Catherine’s stuff,’ he says. ‘I bagged it all up ages ago, but I’ve been struggling to actually get any further than that.’

  Maggie nods thoughtfully. ‘Yeah, that’s got to be a tough one. I can take them when I go, if you want. There’s an Oxfam shop just round the corner from me. If that helps?’

  ‘That would be great, Maggie,’ Sean says. ‘Thanks.’ He leads the way through the kitchen towards the back door. ‘You’re sure you don’t want something to eat? Or a drink?’

  ‘Totally sure,’ Maggie says as she follows Sean into the backyard. She stands with her hands on her hips and surveys the long, thin garden. ‘So, I’m thinking, you do the mowing while I prune that forsythia. How does that sound?’

  ‘Great,’ Sean says, then, ‘Which one’s the forsythia?’

  Maggie points with the shears. ‘That bush over there. It had yellow flowers until recently, but they’re all gone now, so it’s time to prune.’

  Sean nods. ‘OK,’ he says. ‘I would have started earlier on the lawn, but I couldn’t find the extension lead.’

  ‘Under the stairs?’ Maggie asks.

  Sean smiles. ‘How could you possibly know that?’

  ‘It’s just where we keep ours,’ Maggie says, already starting to snip at the forsythia.

  ‘Right,’ Sean says. ‘So! Mowing!’

  The grass is too long – much too long – for their feeble electric mower, so Sean has to heave and lift and push to get it to advance down the garden. Even though the lawn occupies a plot of land no larger than the width of the house, by the time Sean has mowed a single strip, he’s broken out in a sweat. He switches the mower off and heads inside to change.

  When he returns, in shorts and a vest, Maggie looks up from her pruning and scans him slowly from head to toe. ‘That’s right,’ she says. ‘Let those rays in!’

  ‘First time this year,’ Sean tells her, feeling self-conscious. ‘I was overheating i
n jeans.’

  ‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’ Maggie says, smiling up at the blue sky. ‘It’s the longest day next week. The first day of summer.’

  ‘I always think that’s strange,’ Sean tells her, ‘that the longest day is the start of summer, rather than the middle of it.’

  ‘I just consider myself lucky when we get any summer at all,’ Maggie says.

  By the time the lawn has been mowed, Maggie has pruned three bushes and weeded the flower beds. ‘That looks much better,’ she says as Sean wrestles the mower back into the shed.

  ‘It does,’ he agrees. ‘But you were right. I should have mowed it before. I left it too long. The mower ended up ripping it all up.’

  ‘It’s fine. Tea break?’

  ‘Sure. Tea and cigarette break, actually.’

  When he returns with the tea, Maggie has put two fold-out chairs beneath the pear tree at the bottom of the garden. Sean hands her a mug, places his own on the scrappy lawn, and pulls his cigarettes and matches from his pocket.

  ‘I’m surprised you started smoking,’ Maggie says.

  ‘Yeah,’ Sean agrees. ‘I mean, I’m only smoking two a day. But I agree. It’s a strange one.’

  ‘Particularly . . .’ Maggie says. Then she visibly interrupts herself. ‘Um, when are the pears ready?’ she asks. ‘What time of year do they ripen?’

  ‘Early September. And were you going to say, particularly because Catherine died of cancer?’ Sean asks, blowing a jet of smoke up into the branches of the tree.

  ‘Yes. Sorry. I was being insensitive.’

  ‘No, it’s fine. And maybe that’s why,’ Sean says. ‘Catherine hardly ever smoked, after all.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Well, she smoked about ten cigarettes at college, I suppose. But she rarely went near one after that.’

  ‘So what’s this? Are you getting your own back on the cigarettes that didn’t cause Catherine’s cancer?’ Maggie asks, looking confused.

  Sean frowns and studies the end of his cigarette. ‘No,’ he says, finally. ‘No, I think it’s a nostalgia thing, to be honest. The tapes she left, they’re all about the past. They’re all about when I was young and did smoke. And that made me want to smoke again.’ He takes a drag on his cigarette, then stubs it out in the grass. ‘But I wouldn’t try to analyse that too deeply. I’m pretty sure it doesn’t make any sense.’