There are two men on a crowded Northern Line Tube train. Both are dressed stylishly in jeans and shirts a little too young for their age. They have well-tended beards and moustaches and shaven heads. One man carries a young pug dog which is wearing a small neckerchief and a soft leather harness. The man is holding the dog snug and high, protective, clearly enjoying its newness and affection.
Because the carriage is so crowded, the dog cannot help but peer out, over-close to a middle-aged woman’s face. She is smiling in response and petting the dog’s ears. Both its owners tell her how brave it is being — it does seem only calm and curious and contented, despite the crush. They talk about introducing their dog to other dogs and about training sessions for good behaviour and about a day-care centre where they leave him when they go to work. Although they don’t like to be parted from him, they feel he should get used to novel experiences and people.
The dog is perfect, cherished, glances about himself with an air of security.
As passengers ease past it and out, or insist themselves into the crowd already on-board, the conversation continues. It is something cheery to be overheard as a mass of individuals undergo a mildly gruelling experience, pressed together.
Eventually, though, the chatting wanes and the men simply murmur between themselves and seem glad about their dog and being here and now and together. The woman withdraws into being a stranger again, her face becoming neutral and turning to examine the slide of the platform as the next station finds them, then slows and then stops alongside. For a moment she seems sad. She is perhaps considering that the men have this dog as their son and that they love him and that dogs do not live very long, not nearly as long as children are supposed to. It may be that she is surprised by how willing they seem to risk being very unhappy.
Meg was in a pub when her phone rang. ‘Hello?’
She wasn’t there for any terrible reason, it was only that the other places — shops, cafés, sandwich bars — they’d all looked too steamy and sticky and claustrophobic and someone can be in a bar, can sit on a stool in a bar, and still drink an orange juice and lemonade.
‘Hi, yes it’s …’ The sound of him flared in her, the music, the breath — her anticipation that something must be wrong, or why else would he call … ‘It’s you, Jon, yes. I know. I can recognise your voice. Probably always …’ And she tried to keep on talking, because then the bad news would not be delivered.
He’s either going to tell me about a problem, or something really great. There won’t be a medium option.
That’s OK. Alcoholics don’t do medium.
When she paused for breath, he started a fumbled, ‘That’s … I am. Well, Jon. Yes.’ And his tone was extremely careful, somehow — both painstaking and nervy. ‘I … I had to … I can’t.’
So it isn’t good news.
This cold unfurled through her torso and along her arms, which was disappointing because being sober and an adult meant you were supposed to get independent and not rely on other people to keep you happy.
‘I’ve tried. But I really …’ He sounds frightened. And numb. It’s tough to tell if somebody is lying or in shock when they offer you that kind of combination.
She asked him — because this is what you do when you care about someone, even when that someone is man: ‘What’s wrong?’
‘I can’t say.’
Which caught Meg slightly as an impact might — not a kick, but a strong shove.
I will keep civilised, though. I will be as I think I should and not chuck everything and tell him to fuck off, just to be done with all this messing about.
She even sounded civilised, produced this fairly convincing courtesy, ‘Can I help?’
And I would help. I want to.
‘You can’t … I can’t … And there’s a problem with my daughter and I won’t be able to … I wanted to phone because this … The day’s not over. There’s later. That would be quite a lot later, but would you be able. I sort of think if I don’t today and if I put it off, if we put it … I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s OK.’ It was not OK.
‘Things keep moving and I have to move because of them and I don’t want to and this has been a horrible day and I know you’ve had a … another horrible day. I truly am … I absolutely am …’ At this point there was an interruption from someone else, this distant other speaker, and Meg couldn’t make out the words, but it sounded as if a question was being asked and, of course, she then heard him say, ‘Nobody.’
And that was, of course, a name that suited her better than Sophia, or Margaret, or Maggie, or Meg, ‘That’s right — nobody. I’ll let you get on.’
‘What? No, no … It’s only that … I will call you again. Later. Later today. This evening. I won’t text. I will call you when I can call you and it will be today, I promise, I swear, and I will see you and we will do something and.. ’
There was a fumble of motion at his side of the call — a movement, perhaps, of hands that she knew and had liked and which were currently with him, there in his sleeves in another part of London.
I would have fucking helped.
Meg couldn’t hear what he said to her next — it didn’t quite sound like goodbye, but had the same effect.
She put down the silence he’d left behind himself and picked up her glass which was sticky. That served her right for ordering a kid’s kind of drink.
I’ll be fine, though.
Before midnight when we get to send sweet dreams, we’ll be all right.
Please.
I would like that.
I do think I need that.
Her drink was making her feel tearful, because it was unsuitable. An adult gets to move beyond orange squash and summery smiles and pretending a grown-up will help you know what to do next.
Meg waved to the barman and he stepped along to her section of the bar, ready to do what he could.
Here it is.
Jon was in his daughter’s bathroom, ‘I absolutely am …’ He was — again — letting his mouth start a sentence that he knew it couldn’t end. He was also mumbling, because he knew that his daughter was standing outside, beyond the door he’d locked for privacy and safety and so that he could be insane without anyone watching.
‘Dad? You’re on the phone in there?’ Accusing.
‘It’s nobody.’ Holding his mobile phone like a warm sin.
‘Dad?’ This was his daughter’s voice — dear voice — another dear voice — while he listened elsewhere and couldn’t say what he had to, because he felt too ill to try.
And because I have no balls.
I can’t do this. Not any of it.
‘I love you.’ This was his own voice — muffled blur of a voice –
and then he cut the call before there could be a reply.
I can’t.
Then this noise, a hacking sort of sob, lurched up from his chest and out and then once more and then he was bleating, yowling.
Inexcusable.
‘Dad?’
‘’M OK. Honest.’
‘Dad?’
Jon stepped to the sink and turned both taps full on, let their sound slightly mask his own as his arms cramped and he leaned over and further over and wished he could be sick rather than simply hollow.
Christ.
He cupped the water, let it be harsh against his palms, lifted it to his face and doused himself. In the process, he drenched his shirt, while his foot kicked at his phone, which had fallen and was somewhere on the carpet and no use to him.