“That’s kind, Suze.”
Susan stopped to retie her lace. “You didn’t write back this morning?”
“No. Not yet. Which is pretty stupid, since I started it.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Because…” Isabella stood watching her friend fashion a methodical double bow. “I suppose because I’m shocked to hear from him at all. Because it’s been ten years. Because of his stroke. Because I don’t know exactly what to say. And because I still really, really dislike him. Because everything.”
“Do you feel sorry for him?”
“I feel sorry for anyone who has had a stroke… but. It’s hard to explain, Suze… It doesn’t change anything. It shouldn’t change anything.”
“But it does, it does.” Susan rose and they went on. “You do want to stay in contact now, right?”
“Yeah. It’s just the idea of actually doing it that makes me feel sick. It’s almost worse, now that I know he is actually reading what I write. And I definitely can’t face the thought of talking to him on the phone or—Christ—seeing him. Then there’s the whole thing with Gabs.”
“You mean you can’t tell Gabriel if you are in touch with your dad?”
“No. No way. He would be really upset. He’d be crazy. He’d think that it was some kind of betrayal.” She paused. “Are you sure of that, Is?” Susan asked. “Yep. It’s probably the only thing I can’t talk to him about.”
“It’s still that bad?”
“It’s worse.”
“Gabriel wasn’t that keen on your dad when he was little.” Susan clicked her tongue. “Well, either we have to think of a way of telling Gabriel or you have to stop bothering with your dad.”
They were side by side now.
“Yeah. Except I feel like I owe Gabs. I want to help him despite himself, if you know what I mean. Apart from anything, he’s been so good to me with all my fuckups. I don’t want to give you the twins shtick, Suze, but there is something about being born on the same day or whatever—you know, a weird kind of extra loyalty. Maybe it would be different if we had more siblings, but… Well, seeing as it’s just us two and we’ve always been that way and—”
“But come on…” Susan waited for the noise of a passing bus to die down. “Come on, Is, surely he’s got to take care of himself?”
“Yeah. Yeah, of course, in some ways… But I worry that he can’t see the problem. It’s as if… as if Gabs carries this backpack of hatred or hurt with him everywhere these days. And he never takes it off or talks about it. But it stops him sitting still, and it gets in the way when he wants to move. Basically, it’s hindering his whole life. And only I can see it. It’s ridiculous. I was exactly the same. Until, for some reason, I think Mum’s dying changed me.” They were coming to the steepest part of the walk. “I left Petersburg two days after Gabriel, Suze, and I was on my own and I had to go back to her flat again and box some more of her papers and stuff up to be shipped here. And I was in the maddest state I have ever been in. It’s hard to describe—it’s like total obliterating-everything sadness and you feel so on your own with it, because she was no one else’s mum, I suppose, and you are on your own with it. And I was walking along the canal where she used to live and I crossed the bridge outside—it’s the Raskolnikov bridge, where he stops in the book—and I wasn’t even crying. More like I had just been punched in the stomach or whatever and was completely winded, completely empty, everything gone inside, everything totally gone, like a child turning around from the fun at a playground and realizing that her mum has left not just for a minute but forever—feeling really, really desolate. But on that bridge it was as if I suddenly caught sight of my true reflection in the water—as if I suddenly saw myself with this huge lump of a backpack on my back. And even though it has taken me weeks to get the shit off, all that time in New York sitting at my stupid desk at work, I have definitely done it now—I’ve taken my backpack off and I’ve got it where I can see it. Unpack. Face. Sort.”
“It’s difficult for me to imagine. I’ve never lost anyone.” Susan slowed. They were coming to the entrance to the cemetery. “But I sort of understand. You’re stuck. You can’t tell Gabriel if you speak to Dad, and you can’t speak to your dad without telling Gabriel.”
“And now I’m worried that I’m running out of time with Dad too.”
They stopped. A crowd was gathering for the next tour of the morning.
“What on earth happened between those two, anyway?” Susan asked.
“Oh, about fifty million things. Apart from the general fact that he was the worst father of all time, Dad used to like to mock and humiliate Gabs in front of other people when he was young. Belittle him. Although it was only when Gabs was older that Dad got seriously nasty. He used to go around to Gabriel’s girlfriends’ parents’ houses and tell them not to trust Gabriel.” They set off again. “All kinds of shit went on between them. You remember when Gabs came home from college and put on his play at the Gatehouse? As You Like It—you remember?”
“Of course I remember. I went. It was fun.”
“Yeah.”
“Shame about that horrible review,” Susan said. “He was so upset.”
“Right.” Isabella nodded. “It was a massive thing for him—you know, he had borrowed money from the bank to finance it, rehearsed all the actors, persuaded them not to go up to Edinburgh, directed the play, more or less designed the set, the lighting, everything… It was a huge risk, and it meant everything to him—you know what it’s like when you’re twenty-one. He really wanted to be a director badly. And he thought this was make or break.” Isabella looked across. “Well, anyway, that review: Dad wrote it.”
Susan stopped. “Oh shit—no.” Her mouth fell open and she shook her head slowly, her even features aghast. “No… That’s… that’s sick. All that stuff about how students shouldn’t be allowed near the stage?”
“Yep. All of it. Dad was mates with the theater critic and they swapped jobs that week for a joke.”
“And Gabriel found out?”
“Wasn’t difficult. Dad told him.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No. Dad gave him this long horseshit lecture about how he had to understand the cut and thrust of the adult world, and how it was an honest review and it was better that Gabriel heard the truth from him rather than someone else. Let this be a lesson to him. That he should have got a proper summer job and learned how to support himself and stop hanging around. Earn his keep. And… and Gabs just lost it. He went crazy. I don’t think they ever spoke again. Not alone.”
Susan let out a low whistle. “I didn’t know. I mean, I had absolutely no idea… That was your dad.”
“Well, Gabriel didn’t want anyone to know. So we kept it quiet. What else could we do? It’s not exactly the sort of thing you can explain.” Isabella shrugged. “And nobody came to the play then, of course, so he lost the money he had borrowed as well.”
“My God.”
Isabella began walking again. “That was just one thing, Suze. There was a lot of other stuff too. And physical violence between them. All the way through. Though I don’t think Gabriel ever struck back. Even though he could have put Dad on the floor.”
Susan’s voice hardened. “Did your father hit you?”
“Yes, sometimes. When he was angry. Until I was about thirteen.”