In a while he sits up. Wipes his face on his sleeve Sorry about that. You alright? He nods, blows his nose, embarrassed I think, but says Listen Eily, if you really don’t mind, some company would be good. Great — I get up — Something to eat? Yeah, I’m fucking ravenous, you wouldn’t make scrambled eggs, would you? I would. And already he’s closing himself up neat but that’s fine now he won’t be alone.
You shouldn’t say that, you know. What? he asks opening the Minstrels and vaguely tidying up. All that stuff about yourself. But he’s busy shovelling the sweets in and just shrugs. What about work? Plenty of actors would be delighted with half of what you’ve achieved. Fucking work, he says — chewing a massive amount of chocolate — I’m so sick of it Eil. What do you mean? Sometimes I think it’s just bled me dry. You know, I started rehearsing ’Tis Pity the week after David died. Someone dropped out and the director was a mate and I needed to be doing something so I agreed. But after David it was like someone had taken a hammer to me. For months I felt like that. Sometimes still. But I went straight into it and worked like a dog. It gave me somewhere to hide, I suppose, but that play every night what it’s about by the time the run was over I was at the end of myself. And I realised all those years of trying to keep myself still, keep myself well, I’d just been ripping out of my insides which was fine except there’d been nothing going back in. I knew something needed to change or I’d just stop and then what would I do with myself? So I decided maybe it was time for the script. I’d been thinking about it, on and off, for months. Nick said he was interested so I started it and within a week there you were. Apparently I thought I’d let love in. He laughs a little now and picks chocolate shell from his teeth. But anyway. Anyway. Well, the eggs are ready and when I serve up he eats away like a wolf. These are great Eil. There’s more in the pan. Aren’t you having? I already ate and you clearly need it Stephen. I know, it’s ridiculous, he says I can’t believe I still do it myself. Christ, when I was a child I’d have done anything not to go hungry but now food’s the first thing that goes.
I pick about his room while he eats more. Put that tape on, would you Eily? You don’t mind me hearing them? No, what difference does it make now? Look at each other then but blank it out for the only way we will get through this night is to forget we are apart.
This time he reads to her. Questions and chat. But why did he blow down the house? Him doing the voices. Tickling, I think, when he huffs and puffs because she screams with excitement. He just sits, fork mid-air, listening like they’re both in here. Amazing, it feels like no time’s passed. You sound different though. Your accent. Your voice. That’ll be the forty a day, he says. You shouldn’t smoke so much. Oh well, all the shagging keeps me fit. I catch his eye. Sorry Eil — like he’s just heard himself — I didn’t mean that. Oh yes you did! And then, broke as we are, we both laugh.
Later, when it’s black and I’ve drawn the curtains tight, he liberates some photos from an ancient Keats. These are some pictures for Grace. I asked John for them a while back then couldn’t face sending them on so that’s her my mother, I mean if you want to see. And I do.
Black and white. Tattered tan. By a low brick wall a young woman stands. Slight. Long dark hair. Serious-eyed but in such a pretty dress and I am surprised She really looks I know, like me and Grace. I didn’t look like my father. I never did. Look at this one. A younger. Her family. Two little girls, bows in their hair. Looking so Irish from back then. Parents stern and the family resemblance goes their father’s way. I don’t suppose I’ll ever know what happened there, he says But I could probably guess, if I tried.
Sit together then, slowly finding the other’s hand. Silence coming in on us but right it should now. No more to tell. Nothing to explain. For the rest of the night we scarcely say a thing. Sometimes he smokes. Sometimes I make tea but, anywhere we are in this room, he keeps touch with me. Long fingers through my fingers, or his head on my knee, or letting me doze on his chest. All night I wait and watch with him. Sleep, and don’t, but we see the dawn come. And morning. By half six I’m awake, stretching and looking at him, looking better already. Just sitting, staring out at the sun. Palming my ankle. Thumbing my new burns. I’m fine now, he says I’m fine again. So I break the tie and get up. Good luck today, and kiss his cheek. You too, he says With your Juliet, then as I get my coat on. Eily? Yes? Thank you. You’re welcome, I say and keep my promise to go.
Out into the cold sun of morning. I am tired but I am still. That shake of losing him settling itself, becoming what it is. I do not rebel. I have given love its due. Put kindness where it should be. Now we may part in this good memory. I hope he will be happy, that today will not be bad. But now my own clock ticks and turns inside. Go on. Get on. Let your own Juliet in.
Walk round the College of North London to the Prince of Wales Road. Anglers Lane. The Church of Christ. Grafton Road. Under the bridge at Kentish Town West. Harmwood studios up on the right. Talacre Gardens. Dalby Street. Malden Road. Across to the Fiddler’s Elbow. Up by the Crown. In there, St Silas. Wide blue skies as I go on up the stone steps. Earlier even than pigeons at infernal coo. Second last day of term now. Second last of this year. Touch the grey door. Tap the code in. Open. Strange in its stillness and. Some new thing in me which, if followed, who knows where will lead? When I first came here I wanted the world to look at me and now I might prefer to be the eye instead.
But fall back in. Romeo and Juliet. All other life switched off. Get her going in myself and feel that life of hers inside. Her precious heart and all things of her moving round, readying themselves, until their time. How she walks and how she speaks. What she does. The way she thinks. Making her particular. Setting her free. Just the right way. Find the right way to show her through me. All that tuning. No more today. Time to be ready. Time to turn on the light.
Afterwards, cross-legged, in the Church. The Principal drums deep into us all we’re not worth. I get one nice nod though so am reprieved. Interviews later for the less fortunate. But for the first year, that’s it. See you all in here early for the Agents’ Showing run-through, he says Watch and learn boys and girls. Off you go.
*
Hello? I say. But no one’s in. Try the taps in the bathroom sink. Nothing. So we’ve reached that final stage. I have reached and I accept it. Calm too in here now, though cool. All bare in the Missus’s room. In Danny’s, an empty can of Coke. Crumbs on the sideboard, I won’t bother to wipe. Pizza boxes crammed in the bin — I’ll never empty it — and white bread run to mould on the fridge. Sitting room then. Carpet all stain and nicked-sofa imprinted. On the window sill still an ashtray. I think I’ll leave it as memorial to the laughs we had. Make my way back to the toilet. Empty a bottle into the tank. So this is how it will be, last night in our flat. Tomorrow there’ll be a party. I’ll sleep on someone’s couch. Later I’ll take the Stansted Express. Get a plane to Ireland. Waves come over as I sit on my mattress. Quiet and deserted. Summer’s come. The absent men. Desolation in this moment and where the future is, blind. But after I have cried, lie back and close my eyes. Stick my Walkman on. Batteries clinging to life. Perhaps I’ll sleep right through this night. I’m tired enough. Try. I try. And soon I am rolling on through it. Dreamless, mercifully, and whenever I almost wake, seem to persuade myself to go back down again. All the distant sounds of city though still managing to get in so Wake!