Nothing much, by which I mean even less than usual, happens for a couple of weeks. I find a copy of ‘All Kinds of Everything’ in a junk shop near the flat, and buy it for fifteen pence, and give it to Johnny next time I see him, on the proviso that he fuck off and leave us alone forever. He comes in the next day complaining that it’s scratched and demanding his money back. Barrytown make a triumphant debut at the Harry Lauder, and rock the place off its foundations, and the buzz is incredible, and there are loads of people there who look like A&R men, and they go absolutely mental, and honestly Rob, you should have been there (Marie just laughs, when I ask her about it, and says that everyone has to start somewhere). Dick tries to get me to make up a foursome with him, Anna, and a friend of Anna’s who’s twenty-one, but I don’t go; we see Marie play at a folk club in Farringdon, and I think about Laura a lot more than I think about Marie during the sad songs, even though Marie dedicates a song to ‘the guys at Championship Vinyl’; I go for a drink with Liz and she bitches about Ray the whole evening, which is great; and then Laura’s dad dies, and everything changes.
Twenty-five
I hear about it on the same morning she does. I ring her number from the shop, intending just to leave a message on her machine; it’s easier that way, and I only wanted to tell her about some ex-colleague who left a message for her on our machine. My machine. Her machine, actually, if we’re talking legal ownership. Anyway. I wasn’t expecting Laura to pick up the phone, but she does, and she sounds as though she’s speaking from the bottom of the sea. Her voice is muffled, and low, and flat, and coated from first syllable to last in snot.
“Cor dear oh dear, that’s a cold and a half. I hope you’re in bed with a hot book and a good water bottle. It’s Rob, by the way.”
She doesn’t say anything.
“Laura? It’s Rob.”
Still nothing.
“Are you all right?”
And then a terrible moment.
“Pigsty,” she says, although the first syllable’s just a noise, really, so ‘pig’ is an educated guess.
“Don’t worry about that,” I say. ‘Just get into bed and forget about it. Worry about it when you’re better.”
“Pig’s died,” she says.
“Who the fuck’s Pig?”
This time I can hear her. ‘My dad’s died,” she sobs. ‘My dad, my dad.”
And then she hangs up.
I think about people dying all the time, but they’re always people connected with me. I’ve thought about how I would feel if Laura died, and how Laura would feel if I died, and how I’d feel if my mum or dad died, but I never thought about Laura’s mum or dad dying. I wouldn’t, would I? And even though he was ill for the entire duration of my relationship with Laura, it never really bothered me: it was more like, my dad’s got a beard, Laura’s dad’s got angina. I never thought it would actually lead to anything. Now he’s gone, of course, I wish … what? What do I wish? That I’d been nicer to him? I was perfectly nice to him, the few times we met. That we’d been closer? He was my common-law father-in-law, and we were very different, and he was sick, and … we were as close as we needed to be. You’re supposed to wish things when people die, to fill yourself full of regrets, to give yourself a hard time for all your mistakes and omissions, and I’m doing all that as best I can. It’s just that I can’t find any mistakes and omissions. He was my ex-girlfriend’s dad, you know? What am I supposed to feel?
“You all right?” says Barry, when he sees me staring into space. “Who were you talking to?”
“Laura. Her dad’s died.”
“Oh, right. Bad one.” And then he wanders off to the post office with a pile of mail orders under his arm. See? From Laura, to me, to Barry: from grief, to confusion, to a fleeting, mild interest. If you want to find a way to extract death’s sting, then Barry’s your man. For a moment it feels strange that these two people, one who is so maddened by pain that she can hardly speak, the other who can hardly find the curiosity to shrug, should know each other; strange that I’m the link between them, strange that they live in the same place at the same time, even. But Ken was Barry’s boss’s ex-girlfriend’s dad. What is he supposed to feel?
Laura calls back an hour or so later. I wasn’t expecting her to.
“I’m sorry,” she says. It’s still hard to make out what she’s saying, what with the snot and the tears and the tone and the volume.
“No, no.”
Then she cries for a while. I don’t say anything until she’s a bit quieter.
“When are you going home?”
“In a minute. When I get it together.”
“Can I do anything?”
“No.” And then, after a sob, “No” again, as if she’s realized properly that there’s nothing anybody can do for her, and maybe this is the first time she’s ever found herself in that situation. I know I never have. Everything that’s ever gone wrong for me could have been rescued by the wave of a bank manager’s wand, or by a girlfriend’s sudden change of mind, or by some quality—determination, self-awareness, resilience—that I might have found within myself, if I’d looked hard enough. I don’t want to have to cope with the sort of unhappiness Laura’s feeling, not ever. If people have to die, I don’t want them dying near me. My mum and dad won’t die near me, I’ve made bloody sure of that. When they go, I’ll hardly feel a thing.
The next day she calls again.
“Mum wants you to come to the funeral.”
“Me?”
“My dad liked you. Apparently. And Mum never told him we’d split, because he wasn’t up to it and … oh, I don’t know. I don’t really understand it, and I can’t be bothered to argue. I think she thinks he’ll be able to see what’s going on. It’s like … ” She makes a strange noise which I realize is a manic giggle. “Her attitude is that he’s been through so much, what with dying and everything, that she doesn’t want to upset him any more than she has to.”
I knew that Ken liked me, but I could never really work out why, apart from once he was looking for the original London cast recording of My Fair Lady, and I saw a copy at a record fair, and sent it to him. See where random acts of kindness get you? To fucking funerals, that’s where.
“Do you want me there?”
“I don’t care. As long as you don’t expect me to hold your hand.”
“Is Ray going?”
“No, Ray’s not going.”
“Why not?”
“Because he hasn’t been invited, OK?”
“I don’t mind, you know, if that’s what you want.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet of you, Rob. It’s your day, after all.”
Jesus.
“Look, are you coming or not?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Liz’ll give you a lift. She knows where to go and everything.”
“Fine. How are you?”
“I haven’t got time to chat, Rob. I’ve got too much to do.”
“Sure. I’ll see you Friday.” I put the phone down before she can say anything, to let her know I’m hurt, and then I want to phone her back and apologize, but I know I mustn’t. It’s like you can never do the right thing by someone if you’ve stopped sleeping with them. You can’t see a way back, or through, or round, however hard you try.