Things We Never Said Page 3

  Sean feels shattered. His first week back at work groaned by. He found himself totally unable to concentrate on his work and had to mentally prod himself tens of times every hour to think about the balconies he was supposed to be designing rather than the images constantly springing up in his mind: Catherine gasping for air. Catherine pressing the morphine button. Catherine in pain. Catherine’s body, no longer in pain but no longer Catherine at all. On Wednesday, though, something blessed happened. Just for an hour, he managed to lose himself in his work. Just for one hour, he managed to forget everything and think instead about the tensile strength of reinforced concrete, about the shock resistance of laminated glass and chrome-plated brackets. On Thursday, he managed it twice. And by Friday, he was dreading the weekend, dreading a rainy Saturday in front of the television. A rainy Saturday in that oh-so-empty house. So he brought work home with him. He managed to survive Saturday by pretending, simply, that it was Friday all over again.

  Now it’s Sunday morning and Sean is surprised that he managed to sleep at all. This second message has been playing on his mind all week – so much, in fact, that he has handled the envelope repeatedly before relenting and returning it to the box. Yesterday evening he even started to peel back the flap. But he couldn’t help but wonder if Catherine isn’t somewhere watching him. He couldn’t stand the idea of being a disappointment to her.

  The photo is from the summer of 1982, the day that they met. He and three college friends, Tracey, Theresa and Glen, had travelled to Margate for the weekend. Tracey had invited them to visit during the holidays. Her mother ran a slowly disintegrating guesthouse in down-at-heel Cliftonville and was letting them all stay free of charge in exchange for their help with wallpapering one of the bedrooms.

  Catherine was the prettiest girl that Sean had ever seen. He isn’t quite sure what it was that first caught his eye – perhaps her lion’s mane of hair, or maybe her make-up, which was bold, verging on punk. Looking at the photo now, it’s surprisingly hard to see what the all-consuming attraction had been. Her hair had been a mock–Bonnie Tyler mess. Her earrings had been huge, vulgar hoops. He remembers a twinkle in her eyes, though. They had always somehow looked as though they were smiling; as if, perhaps, she was in on some private joke.

  Whatever it was, he had glanced across and spotted her filing her nails while manning the turnstile to the Hall of Mirrors. He had turned back to Glen, who’d been spouting forth (most likely about the Falklands War, which he opposed with a vengeance), but then something had made Sean turn to look again and the girl had glanced up and winked at him. She’d pointed towards the interior with her nail file and said, ‘Go on. You know you want to. It’s only 10p.’

  So Sean had dragged the others, in varying states of willingness, into the maze of mirrors and they had stumbled around laughing at their reflections. Glen had complained continuously how ‘naff’ it all was. But even Glen had laughed at the ‘alien head’ mirror.

  Sean had made sure he was the first to reach the exit.

  ‘That was quick,’ the girl had said. ‘I hope you don’t want your money back.’ Slapping the top of the turnstile with one hand, she’d added, ‘This thing’s got a counter in it, so there’s not a lot I can do.’

  ‘No,’ Sean replied. ‘No. I just . . .’ He could feel himself blushing.

  ‘You wanted to invite me out for a drink or something?’ the girl asked, grinning cheekily. ‘Is that it?’

  ‘No, I . . .’ Sean spluttered.

  She had pouted with exaggerated sadness and Sean remembers noticing her lips. They were plump and shiny. She had applied two different shades of lipstick, both pink and purple. ‘Oh, well . . .’ she had said.

  ‘I mean, yes, then,’ Sean said bravely. He was imagining kissing those multicoloured lips.

  Her mouth then slipped into the broadest of grins. ‘I don’t get off till nine,’ she said.

  ‘Um. OK.’

  ‘But I get twenty minutes for lunch. At twelve thirty. We could go get a hot dog or something, if you want.’

  At that moment, Glen, Theresa and Tracey had lurched from the maze. ‘Well, that was shite,’ Glen was saying.

  ‘Oh, it was OK,’ Theresa insisted. Theresa believed in seeing the positives in everything. She’d studied the girl’s face for a moment, then checked out Sean’s expression and frowned before addressing her. ‘Hello. So who are you, then?’

  ‘Me? I’m Catherine.’

  ‘I’m Theresa. Pleased to meet you. And this is Glen, Tracey. Oh, and Sean, who you seem to have met already.’

  Sean hadn’t had the nerve to return for their lunch date. He’d fully intended to have the nerve: he had even managed to ditch his friends on the other side of the funfair before speeding back to the Hall of Mirrors. But when he got there, his courage had failed him. Sean had never considered himself attractive, that was the thing. His mother had spent most of his childhood telling him that his face was as long as a ‘rainy Sunday’, which probably hadn’t helped. Why, he had wondered, would Catherine possibly be interested in him?

  So instead of walking up to her and inviting her for lunch, he had lingered outside the postcard shop opposite, praying that Catherine would notice him there.

  He had gone inside to pay for the cards he had chosen – tacky images of people in kiss-me-quick hats on Margate seafront – and by the time he came back outside, she’d been replaced by a tall, skinny lad whose acne was even worse than Sean’s. Feeling panicked and remembering her mentioning hot dogs, he had jogged to a nearby stand he’d spotted. And there, at the front of the queue, had been Catherine.

  ‘Oh, you made it then,’ she had said, on spotting him. ‘So come on,’ she added, slapping her thigh, encouraging him to jump the queue. And he had felt as if he’d known her forever.

  Cassette #2

  Hello gorgeous, it’s me.

  This is my first ever recording and this is my third attempt. I keep erasing them and redoing them. I had the machine too close and then too far away so you couldn’t hear a thing. Like most people, I hate the sound of my voice, too. It’s very tempting to hit that erase button and start again, but if I keep doing that, I’ll never get these done. Hopefully I’ll get the hang of it in the end.

  So, I’ve been sitting looking at this photo trying to remember what it was that first attracted me to you. That will sound wrong, I know. It sounds as if I can’t believe that I was attracted to you, and that’s not what I’m trying to say at all.

  When I look at this photo, I see a chavvy Margate lass with a Chewbacca hairstyle, and a skinny, spotty boy with a fringe. But I did like you. I liked you instantly. And when I try really hard, when I close my eyes and try to remember, the two things that keep coming back to me are how shy you were and how familiar you seemed. Of course, we came up with a reason for that strange sense of familiarity much later on, but at the time it seemed magical.

  But your shyness was very attractive to me. I remember, for instance, how when I winked at you, you averted your gaze. And the more I think about it, the more I come to the conclusion that you were simply the first shy boy I had ever met.

  That will sound strange, I expect, but there weren’t any shy boys at my school. They were all too busy being tough and jack-the-lad, even when it was just pretence.

  I remember asking you how you liked your hot dog and you saying that you didn’t know, and then blushing when I laughed at the fact that you’d never had a hot dog before.

  I thought that was so sweet! Not that you’d never had a hot dog before but the fact that you were embarrassed about never having had one. You actually apologised.

  Your voice was really soft, too. That was partly your West Country accent, I suppose, but I loved how quietly you spoke. Half the time I wasn’t sure if I’d heard you correctly.

  I remember that tic you had, where you tipped your head all the time to get your fringe out of your eyes, and I remember that your eyelashes seemed huge.

  You’ve still got long eyelash
es, of course, but your face got wider and more rugged as you grew into manhood, and the lashes somehow got lost in the whole. But when you were twenty, they seemed huge. I remember wanting to kiss your eyes. I don’t think I ever told you that. Isn’t that funny?

  So, you jumped the queue and we got our hot dogs. You smothered yours in mustard and then raved about how good they were, which was funny and sort of cute, as well.

  You asked me about my job and I told you it was just for the summer, and you asked me if I had a boyfriend and then stared at your feet when I said no. You talked about me. You wanted to know all the silly, boring details about my life in Margate. You wanted to know what pub I went to and if I lived with my parents. And that was new to me, too. Boys generally seemed to spend all their time telling girls about themselves, in my experience. But you – you wanted to know all about little old me!

  We walked past a photo booth and you said you needed a picture for your student railcard or something, and I ducked in halfway through to join you. The first two were of you looking all serious and the third one was blurry, but this one came out. I can’t believe how young we look. And I can’t believe our hair! Still, it was 1982. Bucks Fizz were in the charts, so clearly no one knew what bad taste meant.

  When we got back to the mirrors, I asked you about you, and you said you were at college, that you were studying to be an architect, and I remember being really shocked. I remember not quite grasping it. I think I must have said something daft like, ‘What, you’re going to build houses and stuff?’

  The people I knew worked in Dreamland or Tesco’s. Mum’s boyfriends tended to be bricklayers or car mechanics or, more often than not, on the dole.

  So your being at college, your intention to design actual houses, seemed incredible to me. You were like no one I had ever met.

  You spoke softly, you blushed, you were learning to design buildings and you wanted to talk about me! And I thought, Oh God. This is the one I want!

  That might sound . . . what’s the word? Mercenary? But it wasn’t like that at all. I felt, almost instantly, as if I’d known you forever. And I felt, suddenly, as if I’d been a square peg in a round hole all my life.

  You had this whole different way of talking and listening and existing, and it was as if you’d opened a door I had never noticed before and I peeped through it and suddenly realised that I’d spent the first eighteen years of my life in the wrong room.

  So by the time your friends came by and swept you up with them, I knew. You were everything I wanted.

  Actually, it was more, even, than that. You were everything I had ever wanted. I just hadn’t known it until then.

  As you went off with your friends, I got all tongue-tied. I watched you leaving and felt a sensation of utter panic. And as you turned the corner, I realised that I might never see you again. I imagined myself twenty years down the line still thinking about you, still regretting. So I abandoned my turnstile and I ran after you.

  I caught up with you in front of the skating rink. Skate on plastic, it’s fantastic. Do you remember the plastic ice rink?

  I grabbed your arm. ‘Sorry,’ I panted, ‘but are you coming back later?’

  ‘Um, if you want me to,’ you said, blinking madly and blushing again. ‘At nine, right?’

  Your friend Glen made a stupid ooooh noise and you told him to shut it.

  ‘Yes, nine,’ I said. ‘I’ll meet you there, by the exit. OK?’

  Then, ignoring Glen, who was still being an idiot, I asked you to promise you’d be there. And you did. And you were. And I was so relieved that I kissed you.

  It’s Wednesday evening and Sean is in the process of unloading shopping from the car when Maggie’s little Fiat pulls up.

  He carries the shopping bags he’s holding to the front step, then returns to greet her.

  ‘Hello,’ he says as she steps from her car. It’s baby blue with leopard-print trim. Sean always thinks it looks more like a handbag than a car and had been mortified the one time he was forced, by circumstances, to borrow it. ‘Have you come to check up on me?’

  ‘Well, if you won’t return my calls . . .’ Maggie says, closing the car door behind her.

  ‘Sorry,’ Sean says, leaning in for a peck on the cheek. ‘But I’ve been ever so busy. We’ve got tons of work on at the moment.’

  ‘Really?’

  Sean nods vaguely. ‘Plus, if truth be told, I’ve not been feeling that sociable. You know . . .’

  ‘Of course,’ Maggie says, joining him at the rear of his Astra. ‘Let me help you with that.’

  ‘I’m nearly done,’ he says. He lifts a final insulated carrier bag from the car and slams the hatch.

  When they reach the doorstep, Maggie picks up one of the bags, and as they enter the house she peers inside at the contents. ‘Wow,’ she says, mockingly. ‘It’s a ready-meal bonanza. That’s not like you.’ Within their circle of friends, Sean is famed for his cooking, specifically his authentic Kerala curries.

  ‘I’m failing to get motivated to cook at the moment,’ Sean says. ‘At least it’s better than sandwiches.’

  ‘I’m just glad you’re eating,’ Maggie says. ‘You’re looking skinny.’

  ‘I know.’ Sean shrugs and forces a weak smile. ‘I had to make a new hole in my belt. My trousers kept falling down. But I’m eating better now.’

  ‘So, how’s it going?’ Maggie asks, lifting the bag onto the kitchen counter.

  ‘It?’ Sean repeats.

  ‘I mean, how are you coping?’

  Sean shrugs again. ‘I’m OK, I suppose,’ he says, opening the freezer and beginning to stack the newly bought packages. ‘I’ve got lots of work on, like I said. So that’s good.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie says, scanning the room. ‘Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Are you looking for something?’

  ‘Oh no. Just, you know, the box I left.’

  ‘Catherine’s box?’

  Maggie nods and looks into Sean’s eyes. ‘I take it you opened it?’

  ‘Yes. Did she tell you what was in it?’

  Maggie shakes her head. ‘Not really. I’m assuming it was photos. Was it photos?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Sean says. ‘Yeah, that’s pretty much it.’

  ‘Do I get to see them?’ Maggie asks. ‘Over a cup of tea, maybe?’

  Sean frowns and smiles at the same time. ‘Er, no, Mags. You don’t.’

  ‘Oh, fair enough,’ she says. ‘Sorry. Am I being insensitive? It’s just without knowing exactly what—’

  ‘It’s not just photos,’ Sean explains. ‘There are messages, too. On those little Dictaphone tapes. Quite personal. Well, very personal really. I’m supposed to open one a week.’

  ‘Oh,’ Maggie says. ‘One a week, eh? That’s very organised.’

  ‘Well, Catherine is . . . was . . . very organised,’ Sean says, wincing at the pain of having made the is/was mistake yet again. It’s still happening regularly.

  ‘Yes, yes she was,’ Maggie agrees, reaching for her car keys.

  She looks so uncomfortable that Sean suddenly wants to help her out. ‘I alternate between wanting to open them all at once and never wanting to open any of them, to be honest,’ he says, feeling that sharing this intimate detail will in some way ease Maggie’s discomfort. ‘But so far, in the absence of a better idea, I’m just sticking to orders. One a week.’

  ‘Right,’ Maggie says.

  ‘It’s hard, though.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘How’s Dave?’ Sean asks. ‘You don’t seem to mention him much at the moment.’

  ‘Oh, you know,’ Maggie says. ‘Dave’s Dave.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Messy. Disorganised. Confusing. Distracted.’

  ‘Things are no better, then?’

  ‘Do things get any better at our age?’ Maggie asks through a sigh. ‘Does anything change?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sean says, thoughtfully. ‘Things can certainly get worse, so . . .’ He scratches hi
s head.

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie says, looking uncomfortable again. ‘Sorry, here’s you with . . . with all of this to deal with, and I’m the one complaining. I’m sorry. I don’t seem to be very good at this.’

  ‘It’s fine, Maggie. You’re fine. Really.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t know how to . . . I don’t know. I mean, you don’t want to talk about . . . all of that . . . and that’s understandable. Of course it is. But everything we normally would talk about . . . sounds silly. Unimportant. Compared with . . . your stuff. Do you know what I mean?’

  Sean blinks slowly. ‘A dead wife trumps everything, I guess.’

  ‘Yes,’ Maggie says. ‘I’m sorry. I should go.’

  ‘You don’t want that cup of tea?’

  ‘No. I should just . . .’ She gestures towards the hallway. ‘I just wanted to check that you’re OK.’

  ‘Well, your concern is appreciated.’

  ‘Thanks. And you’re doing very well.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘You are. So just, you know . . . keep it up.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll do my best.’

  ‘So, what’s for dinner tonight?’ Maggie asks, nodding at the freezer.

  ‘This.’ Sean lifts a still-frozen chicken tikka masala box from the countertop. ‘They’re quite edible, actually.’

  ‘Good,’ Maggie says, stepping towards him and leaning in for another peck on the cheek. ‘Bye sweetie.’

  ‘Oh, Mags?’ Sean says as she turns away.

  Maggie pauses, her hand on the doorjamb, and glances back. ‘Yes?’ she asks. She sounds almost hopeful.

  ‘Don’t tell April, yeah? About the messages.’

  ‘Oh. No,’ Maggie replies. ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘It’s not that . . . it’s not, like, a secret or anything . . .’ Sean stumbles. ‘I just want to listen to them all first. Before I tell her.’

  ‘Of course,’ Maggie says. ‘And you know me. I won’t say a word.’

  Snapshot #3

  110 format, colour, faded. Slightly out of focus. A woman in a pinafore, wearing oversized, lightly tinted glasses, is raising a stemmed glass and smiling broadly. Behind her can be seen a number of yellow Formica wall cabinets and a white electric cooker.