Dying to Know You Page 7

  “No.”

  “Well, as I say, I think that explains a lot.”

  “A lot about what?”

  “His illness.”

  I’d forgotten. Talking about myself, answering her question, I’d forgotten. Panic in the guts again.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Fiorella,” Mrs. Williamson said.

  “What about her?”

  “She broke it off.”

  “What! Why?”

  “He won’t say.”

  “Oh Lord! When?”

  “While they were camping.”

  “But that’s weeks ago.”

  “He came home sooner than expected. He looked dreadful. I asked him what was the matter. He said Fiorella had dumped him and burst into tears. I haven’t seen him cry since his father died.”

  “But he wouldn’t explain?”

  “No. For a few days he was all right. Or seemed to be. Very low, of course, but going to work. I thought he’d get over it. But then he suddenly got worse. He was getting his bike out to go to work one morning and had a sudden panic attack. Shaking all over, struggling for breath, sweating, couldn’t stand, couldn’t even hold a glass of water. Since then he hasn’t been to work. Mostly stays in his room. Won’t talk. Eats very little. He’s lost a lot of weight. I don’t know what he does all day. Stares at the wall or sleeps as far as I can make out.”

  “The doctor?”

  “Yes, of course. He couldn’t get any more out of Karl than me. Depression, he says. Because of the breakup.”

  “So what has he done?”

  “Prescribed antidepressants. Offered to arrange for Karl to see a psychotherapist, but Karl refuses. I can’t get him to leave the house. Won’t take any exercise. And for someone as active as him …”

  “Have you talked to Fiorella?”

  “No.”

  “Wouldn’t that be a good idea?”

  “I like Fiorella. But to tell the truth, I never thought it would last.”

  “Why not?”

  “They’re both very young, young for their years. They’d fallen head over heels, but it was more passion than good sense. I was never sure what she found so attractive in Karl. In most ways they were chalk and cheese. She’s a clever girl. Beautiful and talented. I got on well with her. But her parents weren’t happy about it. They are very well off. Professional people. Didn’t think a plumber was good enough for her.”

  “How d’you know?”

  “Karl told me. And Fiorella used to joke about it. I think she quite enjoyed going against their wishes. Probably the first time she had.”

  “So it’s not just a lovers’ tiff?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No hope of them getting together again?”

  “I’m not sure it would be a good thing if they did.”

  “You must be worried sick.”

  “I am. I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid of what might happen if he goes on like this much longer … I’m desperate, to be honest.”

  By now I was so upset I needed to collect myself, and I could see Mrs. Williamson was on the edge of caving in as well.

  Time for that panacea to which the English resort in times of crisis.

  “Look,” I said as levelly as I could. “How about a cup of tea while we take stock?”

  She looked at me with a faint smile and said, “I’d like that. Thanks.”

  Ten minutes later we were sitting at the kitchen table exactly as Karl and I had sat that first time, had even talked while I made the tea about cooking and housekeeping, as he and I had. The relief of distraction. The comfort of familiar everyday chores. The consolation of food.

  Then a silence that meant we were strong enough to face distress again.

  I said, “When you asked to see me, you thought I might be in some way responsible for what’s happened?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you still think so?”

  “Not the way I did.”

  “But in some way?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what to think now. All I’m sure of is that you helped Karl with Fiorella. Then she broke it off. And that made Karl ill.”

  She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

  I said, “I’ll do whatever I can. But I don’t know what to suggest. Do you?”

  She finished her tea. I offered more. She shook her head, and said, “One thing I’ve found out today is that Karl talked to you about something he never ever talks to anyone else about. And for the few weeks when he and Fiorella were getting on well, he was the happiest since his father died. Now he’s lost Fiorella and isn’t seeing you, and he’s worse than when his father died.”

  Easy to see what she was coming to.

  “Do you think you could talk to him? He might open up to you.”

  My turn to take a deep breath.

  “I’m not sure he would.”

  “I think he would. He talked a lot about how you made him think about things he hadn’t thought about before. What he called your cool sense of humour. He took to you.”

  “Well, if you think it’ll do any good, I’ll try. But how?”

  “You say you suffered from depression after your wife died?”

  “Melancholia. Yes.”

  “So you understand how Karl is feeling.”

  “I do. But won’t he think it odd if I suddenly contacted him after all this time?”

  “You invent stories. Surely you can think of a convincing reason?”

  “Is he writing emails?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. As I say, he doesn’t seem to do anything.”

  “I can’t just turn up. He’d be suspicious, wouldn’t he?”

  “Yes, he would. But there’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I have to go to work every day. His father had his own small business. He was an electrical engineer. I did the office work and the accounts. After John died, I got something from a life insurance. I have the house, which we owned outright. John was determined about that in case the business failed. But there was nothing more. So I have to earn a living. And with Karl not working …”

  “What do you do?”

  “Secretary at our local primary school. I took the job because the hours were the same as Karl’s. I could be at home when he was. He needed a lot of attention. I’m worried about leaving him on his own all day.”

  “Are you asking if I can be with him?”

  “Not every day. Not all the time, of course. But maybe you could persuade him to go fishing? Or anything that would get him out of the house and give him something to do and think about besides whatever is going on in his mind at the moment.”

  I was stumped to know what to say. So much emotion, so many thoughts, all at once.

  “I know it’s a lot to ask,” Mrs. Williamson said. “But if you could.”

  We sat in silence.

  Finally, “I’m not saying I won’t,” I said. “I will. I’ll do all I can. But I’ve never been quick. I’m a tortoise, not a hare. That’s why I’ve written so few books. I need time to work things out.”

  Mrs. Williamson stood up. “I’m sorry. I understand.”

  I got up. “Let me brood about it overnight. I’ll get in touch tomorrow. How shall I do that? Shall I phone you?”

  “On my mobile, please. Karl doesn’t answer the phone these days, but he does ask who’s called. I think he always hopes it will be Fiorella.”

  She gave me her number.

  I saw her out.

  I went back into the kitchen to clear away the tea things, but before I could do it my knees gave way and I slumped into a chair feeling utterly exhausted, and burst into tears.

  ANOTHER BAD NIGHT. THIS TIME THE KIND I HAVE IN THE MIDDLE of writing a novel, when I’m stuck. Thinking this way and that. What happens if … ? Supposing that … ? And no convincing answers.

  What to do about Karl?

  How to make contact without his suspec
ting contrivance and collusion with his mother?

  What reason for contacting him? Not Fiorella, which would make matters worse.

  Fishing? Perhaps, but why? He knew I wasn’t a fisherman.

  Such questions tangled in my mind till around five, when I fell asleep. And woke with a jangling start at nine thirty when the postman rang the front door bell. I stumbled downstairs, bleary and dazed. A book I’d ordered online.

  No point in going back to bed. A shower revived me. Breakfast calmed me. And as so often happens, a thirty-minute walk after breakfast clarified my jumbled nighttime thoughts and supplied the missing link.

  What had happened during their time together that caused Fiorella to break up with Karl and go home on her own earlier than planned?

  Whatever had happened was the cause of Karl’s plunge into depression.

  But Karl wouldn’t tell his mother or the doctor. So why would he tell me?

  If I knew what had happened and could think of a way to get in touch without scaring him off, he might open up as he had with me before, and I’d be prepared for what he told me. It’s always easier to help someone when you know what is bothering them and have had time to think about it before getting involved.

  So knowing what had happened was the key to unlocking Karl’s locked-up soul.

  The only other person who knew what had happened was Fiorella.

  Maybe she would tell.

  It was worth a try.

  Hi, Fiorella.

  I expect you remember our exchange of emails a year or so ago.

  Forgive me for writing to you out of the blue, but there’s something important I’d like to ask you. Would you mind? Email, MSN, phone, as you prefer.

  Luckily, it was a weekend. Fiorella was at home. She replied by MSN.

  Hi. Is it about Karl?

  Yes. How did you know?

  Is it about when we went away together?

  Yes.

  Why do you want to know?

  Karl is having a very bad time, which started after your trip. He won’t say what happened. Only that you broke up with him.

  But why do you want to know?

  His mother thinks I might be able to help him, because I helped him before.

  I know how you helped him and I was furious with you. And still am a bit.

  Why?

  Because I believed he wrote those emails but he didn’t, you did. You shouldn’t have done it. They were private.

  He told you, did he, that I only wrote what he told me to write?

  Yes. But writing is not just what is said, is it? It is how it is said. He didn’t dictate the words to you, did he? They were your words not his. So I wasn’t really getting him, was I?

  Did Karl explain why he asked me to help?

  Yes.

  What did he tell you?

  That he is dyslexic and was afraid I wouldn’t go on with him if I saw his writing.

  Did that matter to you?

  No. Why should it? If he had told me from the start I would have helped him. Then he would not have needed to ask you.

  So you broke it off with him because he involved me without telling you and you felt you couldn’t trust him anymore?

  No. That was not the reason. I was cross with him and with you and very upset at first. But I understood when he explained. And I would have forgiven him.

  So why did you break up?

  I don’t want to tell you that. It has nothing to do with you.

  I respect that, if it is what you decide. I’m sorry that I upset you. I did think it was risky. But Karl was so insistent and so desperate to do what you wanted him to do that I couldn’t say no.

  Well, alright. But that has nothing to do with breaking up with him.

  Karl is very ill. If you still feel anything for him, you’ll want to help him get better. His mother has asked me to try and help. But if I’m going to, I need to know what happened, and only you know that, apart from Karl, who won’t say.

  You are being very hard.

  It’s hard for me too. I feel I am partly to blame.

  Let me think about it.

  An hour or so later:

  OK. But I want to do it properly. I’ll send you an attachment later today.

  Fiorella’s Attachment

  I’m not sure I want to tell you this. I think I might regret it. I’ve told my parents what happened, well, almost all that happened, not all, but no one else. I’m only telling you because you emotionally blackmailed me. Do I still have feelings for Karl? Of course I do! And I don’t want him to suffer because of anything I’ve done. Also because you were my favourite author. You are not now because of the emails, which, whatever you say, were not his. I still like your books but I don’t like you.

  Anyway, this is what happened.

  Karl asked me to go away with him for the week of half-term holiday so that we could get to know each other better. He quoted some teacher or other who told him that the best way to find out if you really loved someone and could live with her was to go away with her to a remote cottage in bad weather, and if after a few days you didn’t mind seeing her in her dirty underwear and looking her worst, you’d know it would be alright. He thought this very funny. But he also believed it, I think.

  I was amused but didn’t take it seriously. I mean, what sort of girl is going to risk being seen in her dirty knickers when she goes away for the first time with her boyfriend? What off the beam teacher told him this rubbish?

  I must admit I’m not that fond of camping. In fact, I’m not all that keen on outdoor activities, full stop. But I put this aside because I wanted to be with Karl for longer than a day on our own, which is all we had had so far. And he was very keen we should camp together, so I did it for him. It crossed my mind to wonder how it would be if ever we set up together, him wanting to camp and fish and play rugby, and me not wanting any of that. But I pushed the thought away.

  Anyway, as it happened we had fun and I enjoyed myself.

  Until the crisis. I’m quite good at arranging things, I like having everything neat and exactly right, and Karl is the same. Karl isn’t one of those boys, men, who have to be in charge all the time and have their way over everything. He takes pride in what he does, he’s careful, he’s amazing at paring what you need down to the essentials, and packing everything. He knew I’m not an experienced camper (to say the least). He discussed everything with me. And he tried to make sure we took what would make me comfortable, even if he didn’t think it essential. The only thing we almost had a row about was the books I wanted to take and what Karl called my “stationery”—notebooks, pens, pencils, etc.—to which I am addicted and without which my life is unliveable. I countered by pointing out the amount of stuff he was taking for fishing. In the end, we came to an agreement, both of us cutting down to manageable amounts for carrying. But one thing I learned from this was how stubborn he can be. I had to be really firm before he agreed.

  Not that we needed to, because my dad drove us to the place we were camping. It was where you spent a day with Karl, he told me. This also annoyed me when I found out, which I didn’t till we were there. We could have taken a lot more stuff, but for Karl, Dad driving us was just luck, and we should only take what we could carry if we had to walk, otherwise, he said, it wasn’t camping, it was setting up house.

  As it turned out, it’s just as well we did as he wanted.

  We were lucky with the weather. There were showers in the night a couple of times, and a morning of rain. But I didn’t mind the showers because they freshened everything. And though I’m not keen on camping, I have to admit I found there is something relaxing, and romantic as well, about being in a good rainproof tent, and the smell the rain brings out of the earth and the plants, and the feeling of being secure but very close to nature is really beautiful.

  During the day Karl fished for hours on end. I knew he had amazing concentration. I’d noticed this when we played chess. But I didn’t know he had such stamina as well. Not that t
his was a problem, because I’m pretty good at concentrating for longish periods myself. I read a lot while he was fishing and also worked on an essay for school.

  The first three days were pretty idyllic. One reason Karl said he wanted us to go away together was that he thought he’d be able to tell me all the things I wanted to know about him, because he’d be relaxed, and we’d have time, and he could do it better by telling me than writing it. I didn’t remind him of this during those first three days. I thought it would be best to let him settle in and enjoy himself.

  Now I have to tell you something I’d rather not, but it’s part of what happened. It’s about sex. When Karl and I got together both of us had already lost our virginity. But the first times hadn’t been satisfactory for either of us. And neither of us had done any more. So we weren’t exactly innocent, but we weren’t what you’d call experienced either. Really, we learned about it together. What’s for sure is we never enjoyed it so much as during those first three days and nights. But love isn’t only about someone’s sex, is it? There are more important things about a person than that.

  So the first three days went by without us talking about Karl. But on the fourth day, because there was rain in the morning, we stayed in the tent and snuggled together and I decided it was a good time to talk about the things I wanted him to tell me.

  I asked him again why he found it so difficult to write answers to my questions. I said I’d liked his emails. Why couldn’t he go on writing them.

  He got all tensed up at that, and sat up.

  I asked him what was the matter? What had I said that upset him?

  He wouldn’t reply. He closed himself off. The sudden contrast with the way he’d been, from relaxed and loving to silent and hard, hurt me and made me nervous.

  I knew before that week he could be moody. Sometimes he would be full of fun and energy and playful and all over me. At other times he would be quiet and wanted to be still and serious. I didn’t know why he was like that but was used to it and didn’t mind. But this was different.

  I tried to soothe him. I said whatever it was it didn’t matter. We didn’t have to talk about those things that day, if he didn’t want to. But he wouldn’t give, wouldn’t look at me, didn’t want me to hold him. He’d never been like that before.