Dying to Know You Page 6

  Camping together and living together like that would be a kind of poetry to me living it instead of writing it I could certainly show her what I mean. That sounds like I mean sex. We do talk about sex, it will be no surprise to know we do it but not with plenty of time and private which isn’t the best way but I’m not talking about sex I’m talking about living together properly on our own. Even though only for a short time but that would be enough for a start. With her half term holiday coming up I can take a week’s holiday from work and I’ve got all we need, tent, sleeping bags, cooking gear

  What do you think would it be a good idea to write something like that to her and if you do could you write it and send it to me so I can send it to her as before

  I’m sorry about the business at the pub. I know it upset you. It has upset me to but it all happened so quick and I just acted by instinct and that guy really did ask for it but I’m sorry it happened I should have known better and just walked away but I do have a hot temper sometimes and he hit the spot Karl

  This made me smile and raised my spirits. The best relief, if not cure, for most ailments. And because, when the prostate pain is on, it’s worse in bed at night, and Karl’s email had restored my energy, I was glad of the excuse to put off going to bed and spent an hour drafting what I’d come to think of as “a Fiorella letter” and sent it.

  In a covering note, I said:

  Seems to me your own typing plus spell-check is a lot better than what Dragon does for you.

  Yes, I was upset after the pub, but only because I knew you were. Not your fault. There have been times in my life I’ve walked away when, looking back, I think it would have been better to stand my ground. But at the time it’s hard to know which is best or the right thing to do. I agree, letting the other guy call the shots when the shots are violent, even if you can’t avoid it, leaves you feeling the loser. Whatever you do and whatever the outcome, you feel you’ve let yourself down.

  Write it off to experience, which is the name, Oscar Wilde said, we give to our mistakes. Besides, the man who never made a mistake never made anything, as Napoleon is supposed to have said, and he ought to know, he made plenty.

  How’s the following for Fiorella, who I’m amused to see your Dragon calls fur ella.

  Hi, Fiorella [or whatever],

  I’ve read your poem and thought about it a lot. I don’t know anything about poetry. I don’t read much of it—well, none, to tell the truth—and I don’t know what is supposed to make a poem good. But I can see your poem is clever. I mean, the way you use language, like the way you play on the word “know” and “knowing.” It also made me think. I can see your poem is really another way of telling me you want to know all about me, and that love is about knowing all about the person you love, and the person you love knowing all about you.

  You’re probably right. But it isn’t easy for me. I’m not sure why. The trouble is, it’s hard to write down the answers to what you want to know. And telling you is hard as well, but not as hard as writing. But I haven’t told you because we are never alone together for long enough for me to be relaxed the way I need to be to talk about myself.

  Also, it seems to me some people are word people, like you, and some are not, like me. People like me need to do something before we can tell you what we want to say. We are action people.

  I’ve thought about this a lot because of your poem, so it has worked like you wanted after all, because I have a suggestion.

  As I say above, we need to be together long enough on our own for me to get into the right mood to tell you what you want to know.

  My suggestion is that we go away for the week of your half-term holiday to a nice spot I know in the country by a river. We could camp there. I could fish (which helps me to relax a lot). You could read and write (or I could teach you to fish!). You could read me your poetry and explain about it. We could play chess.

  Have you camped before? (See, there are things I still don’t know about you!) I like it and am pretty good at it. I’ve got all the gear—big tent, sleeping bags, etc. I like cooking, as you know. You won’t have to do any of that, if you don’t want to. I will be camp manager, chief cook and bottle washer.

  Doing that would be poetry to me.

  What do you think?

  Karl must have gone to bed late as well, because next morning when I booted up, an email from him was waiting, received at 1:33 a.m.

  good, thanks. have sent. lot of work next 2 weeks, overtime as well, wont see you for a bit, will let you know about camping, hope you ok, karl

  ABOUT A WEEK LATER, AN EMAIL FROM KARL. FIORELLA HAD agreed to go camping with him.

  Followed by two months without a word.

  As I expected, I thought. The camping holiday has worked out as he hoped. Now he doesn’t need my help anymore.

  For me those two months were an uneasy time. The doctor sent me to a consultant. He arranged tests. The tests proved the specialist’s diagnosis. Prostate trouble, but no cancer.

  With my ready agreement, they prescribed a new drug, still in the testing stage, which might clear up the problem without surgery. Anything to avoid hospital.

  It took three or four weeks for them to get the strength of the drug right, and for me to get over the side effects (some of which I’d rather forget than describe), but after that there was noticeable improvement. I slept at night, didn’t need to go to the loo so often.

  But I didn’t forget Karl, thought of him often, wondered what he was up to. Had he passed his driving test? How was he getting on with Fiorella?

  Then one morning just before lunch, a phone call.

  Karl’s mother, Mrs. Williamson, asking if she could come and see me.

  Of course I said yes, full of curiosity, and also a touch of apprehension. She had sounded edgy.

  She arrived an hour later.

  She refused anything to eat or drink. We sat down, facing each other exactly as Karl and I had been the first time he visited, Mrs. Williamson looking awkward and uncomfortable on the sofa, me in my chair, trying to look relaxed when I wasn’t.

  “How’s Karl?” I asked to get the conversation going.

  She gave me a wary, inquiring look that reminded me of her son. But he didn’t take after his mother in appearance. She was small, slight, probably petite and pretty and blonde before middle age filled her out and her hair turned to brown, already flecked with grey. Karl was tall, solidly built, dark haired. But they had the same eyes and as we talked I noticed a number of little mannerisms and tricks of speech they shared.

  “It’s about Karl I’d like to talk to you,” she said.

  “Is he all right?” I asked, as calmly as I could, for if he was, why would she want to talk to me about him?

  “He’s not well,” she said with defensive hardness.

  A twinge of panic in my guts bent me forward with genuine anxiety. “I’m sorry to hear that. What’s the matter?”

  “Before I tell you,” she said, hard still, “could I ask you something first?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why,” she said with more aggressive emphasis than I think she intended, because she tried to tone it down by repeating the word with less force. “Why are you so interested in my son?”

  I sat back and waited a moment while I took in the implication of her question before saying:

  “Forgive me for answering your question with a question. I know how irritating that is. But what do you know about Karl and me?”

  Now it was her turn to wait. Were we going to play that awkward game “you answer my question before I answer yours”?

  But she said, “I know he came to you about writing to Fiorella. But I also know you went fishing together, and you let him drive your car. And I know something happened that upset him the last time he saw you.”

  “But you don’t know exactly what happened?”

  “He won’t tell me.”

  Was it right, I wondered, to tell Karl’s mother about something he didn’t want t
o tell her himself? Besides, I’m secretive by nature. I don’t like telling what I know about one friend to another, or to anyone else. And I don’t like people telling other people what they know about me.

  But Mrs. Williamson had said Karl was ill, and she was suspicious of our friendship. A worried mother defending her son. She deserved an answer.

  With a reluctance I hoped she heard in my voice I said, “The last time Karl and I met we had a meal in the local pub. I went to the loo. While I was there, a loud-mouthed man at the next table said some offensive things to Karl. Karl tried not to get involved, but the man wouldn’t leave off. He had a go at Karl. Karl instinctively defended himself and knocked the man down. The publican wasn’t too pleased and threw them all out.”

  I let Mrs. Williamson take this in before adding, “Karl wasn’t to blame. But he was very upset. He thought he’d behaved badly.”

  She shook her head as if trying to clear it of ugly thoughts.

  I said, “I’ve not seen Karl since then. He emailed that he and Fiorella were going camping. I haven’t heard from him again.”

  There was a long silence.

  Mrs. Williamson didn’t look at me.

  I said, “But that doesn’t answer your question, does it?”

  Now she did look at me, firm eyed. “No.”

  I said, “You know I’m a writer and that Karl asked me for help because Fiorella has read my books and wrote me a fan letter and told Karl about me.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “What you probably don’t know is that eighteen months before Karl came to see me my wife died.”

  Mrs. Williamson’s face changed. The hardness vanished.

  I said hurriedly, “Please don’t say anything. Jane’s death is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me … I was devastated … Fell into a deep depression. Like being in a very deep dark pit. A living grave …”

  I stopped. Thank goodness, Mrs. Williamson remained still and silent. One movement, one word would have breached the dam.

  I hadn’t spoken about this to anyone for months. Why to a stranger?

  When I could, I said, “The worst time was the first anniversary. All I wanted was to die.”

  It was hard to talk. I blew my nose, looked anywhere but at Mrs. Williamson.

  Then on again. I had to finish.

  “After that, I decided I had to pull myself out of the pit. Had to accept … Well. Anyway … But the thing is, I couldn’t write. I mean, a book. Writing is my life. When Jane died, I was in the middle of a novel. But afterwards, it seemed pointless. I couldn’t write a word without feeling sick.”

  I blew my nose again.

  “Only two things have ever really mattered to me. Our life together and writing novels. And it looked like I’d lost both.”

  I stopped again.

  I heard Mrs. Williamson move and breathe out as if she’d held her breath all the time I was talking.

  A long silence again.

  Mrs. Williamson must have sensed it was safe to say something now. “Could I get you anything? A drink of water?”

  I shook my head. An interruption would wreck whatever it was she and I were coming to.

  “You miss your wife?” Mrs. Williamson said.

  “Of course. You miss your husband?”

  “Of course. How do you miss her?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I always felt John was in front of me. Leading me. Now he’s gone, it’s like I’ve been abandoned. I’m on my own. And to be honest I feel lost half the time.”

  “I see. Odd you should put it like that. I always felt we were side by side. I’m a bit of a pessimist. Always expect the worst. She made me feel the future was possible.”

  “And you feel you don’t have one now?”

  “None.”

  “I think I might feel the same if I didn’t have Karl. Have you any children?”

  I shook my head again, words stymied.

  Silence. We both shifted in our seats.

  “Then,” Mrs. Williamson said, “my Karl came to see you.”

  “Yes.”

  I managed to look at her.

  Her eyes were full up too.

  “Who has become … what? Like a son?”

  I couldn’t help laughing. Which was, as always, a blessed relief.

  Looking puzzled, Mrs. Williamson said, “What’s funny?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “It isn’t like that. Not that I’d mind. I’d be proud to have Karl as a son. We’re alike in a lot of ways, and I’ve come to admire him. But I wouldn’t be a good father.”

  “Why not?”

  “Too hung up on my work. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “So is it that he makes you feel young again?”

  Another laugh. “No. I’ve given up any hope of that. I know I write fiction, but I’m a realist, not a fantasist.”

  This time Mrs. Williamson laughed as well. There was the delicious feeling of someone warming to you and you to them.

  I said, “I know what you were thinking when you arrived. But it isn’t that either.”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was natural. We’re conditioned to be suspicious these days.”

  “That’s true. So what was it, then?”

  I shrugged and smiled.

  “You don’t know about writers.”

  “I suppose I don’t. You’re the first I’ve met.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I must tell you that we’re all disgracefully ruthless.”

  “Ruthless?”

  “And unscrupulous.”

  She gave me that wary look again. “With my son? You were ruthless and unscrupulous with Karl?”

  “I’ll explain.”

  “I think you should.”

  “Writers. We can be as nice as pie personally. And genuinely. But the fact is, everything we do, everything that happens to us, everyone we know, well, it’s all grist for the mill. Everything is raw material for work. For what we write.”

  “You’re telling me Karl is only raw material for you?”

  “No, no! Karl is Karl. Young. A breath of fresh air. And in need of help. I’m old. Tired. In need of fresh air. And in need of help.”

  “What kind of help?”

  “To get me writing again.”

  “And how could Karl do that?”

  “Just by being Karl and asking me to help him. I tried to put him off. But he was determined. And very quickly that first time, when he explained his difficulties …”

  I stopped, trying to assess whether she would understand what I was going to tell her.

  “Yes?” she said.

  I said, “I saw myself in him. He’s stronger than I was at his age, but at the same time, he’s as vulnerable as I was. And something else. I’m also dyslexic. Not seriously. I didn’t know until a few years ago. But when I was a child, and people didn’t know about it, I suffered because of it.”

  Mrs. Williamson gave me a long assessing look, which ended with a smile.

  “I think,” she said, “I’m beginning to understand.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “Helping my son was helping something in yourself?”

  “Repairing an injury.”

  “And helping him to write to Fiorella got you writing again.”

  “Exactly. And you know, the strange thing is, it’s only as I tell you this that I realise it’s true.”

  “And what are you writing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I’m sorry? If he got you writing again how can you be writing nothing?”

  “Well … Let’s see … How can I put this? … A book, a novel, for me, always starts very vaguely. Like a cloud in my imagination. It drifts into view for no reason I know of. It’s shapeless. Impossible to get hold of. But it’s there. I know it’s there. Floating about. But I have no idea what it’s made of. What it wants to be. What it means. And over the years I’ve learned that what I have to do is wait. Wait for the cloud
to take shape, become solid, become something I get hold of. Then I can try to catch it in words on paper. And it’s only when I’m doing that, when I’m writing the words on paper, that I find out what it is, what it means, what it’s trying to say to me.”

  Mrs. Williamson thought for a while. “So there’s a cloud in your imagination, but you haven’t started writing the words yet?”

  “Correct.”

  “And being with Karl made that happen?”

  “Yes. And I’ll always be grateful to him.”

  She thought again.

  “Does he know?”

  “We’ve never talked about it.”

  More thinking.

  “I understand what you went through when your wife died. I’ve been through it too. My husband died when Karl was twelve.”

  “I know.”

  This surprised her. “You know?”

  “Karl told me.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. The day we went fishing.”

  She took a deep breath and her eyes filled again.

  “Why does that surprise you?”

  “He never tells anybody,” she said. “He hates talking about it. Even to me.”

  I waited.

  “It explains a lot,” Mrs. Williamson said.

  “Explains what?”

  “When he told you about his father’s death, did you tell him about your wife’s?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because in my experience, when I’m upset, and I tell someone, and they say, ‘Oh, I’ve been through that too’ and start telling me about it, I always feel worse. Seems to me when someone tells you about something that’s really upsetting them, what they want is for you to listen to their troubles, not talk to them about your own.”

  “I don’t know. I think it’s good sometimes.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “And you never told him what he was doing for you?”