Black Chalk (16 page)

I looked at his ponderous forehead, more creased than I'd ever seen, at the rim of his glasses pushing his thick eyebrows into his waving brow, and I tried to reach for a memory, but I found a dark pit, and I shook my head, slowly at first. As I pictured telling him more, dread rose and my shake became more resolute, until I had my jaw clenched, and I finally spoke through gritted teeth:

‘I told you everything.'

His head dropped for a second, and then it rose again, his eyes suddenly full of intent. He grabbed my shoulder and squeezed hard.

‘You didn't and we both know it. But tomorrow, next month, or in ten years, you'll want to, and you won't find another person like me. And I promise you something: I'll still want to listen. So when you finally man up, come and find me.'

He let go of my shoulder, and studied me, a mournful look on his face. He took his keys out, and let them dangle from his fingers.

‘I'm leaving,' I said.

‘So you are,' he nodded.

‘I won't come back.'

‘I'll still be here,' he said, and he extended a hand. I shook it, and he left.

***

To the few people present, we were celebrating my birthday. To me, we were celebrating my departure. I spent the first hour of the party gliding in between guests, thinking of how I should break the news.

Her son already tugging at one hand, my aunt put down her flute so that her daughter could grab the other. Pulled from both sides, she listened to my descriptions of television studios.

‘But what did you think of them?'

‘What, the lights?'

‘No, Chris and Mary.'

‘Ah.' I raised my eyebrows. ‘They seemed nice enough. Didn't you watch the show?'

‘Yes, but I wasn't there.' She looked down at her daughter: ‘What?'

I finished my glass. She crouched down to the level of her children, shooting me the odd encouraging smile while I rattled my memories for titbits she wouldn't have seen. I didn't know whether they were only pretending to be together for the cameras – my mind had been on other things. I spoke about the cameras, the green room, while she juggled her children and her nephew, until I felt the courage to point at my empty glass and move away.

There was too much room for the children to run and scream between the three groups people had flocked towards: my friends around a sofa, my grandparents talking to James and my mother, and my father speaking to his sister and her family. A champagne bottle in hand, I strolled past my grandparents and joined my friends. All four were giggling, squeezed together on a small sofa. I perched myself on the coffee table and, facing them, brandished the bottle.

‘Yes, please!'

‘Here, here.'

‘Leave the bottle, will you?'

‘What's so funny?' I asked, downing my flute.

‘Nothing,' Beth said, her response muted. She seemed embarrassed when I looked at her.

‘What?' I said.

She pointed her chin towards my aunt.

‘What?'

‘She just spilled her drink over your cousin.'

My aunt was waving a hand manically in her husband's direction while addressing my father. Clearly more used to his sister than me, my father left her with a smooth smile and made for the kitchen. Here was my father alone in the kitchen, I thought. It was time to act.

‘Finish the bottle. I'll go see if there's more,' I told my friends. My father was pulling ice out of a bag onto a cutting board.

‘Can I speak to you?' I asked him.

His head turned my way for a second.

‘You are speaking to me.'

‘Alone.'

‘We are alone. What is it?'

‘I'm leaving tonight,' I said, looking at the floor.

He put down the ice hammer, assembled the ice he'd just crushed, and, cupping it in his hand, transferred it to a bowl. Then he turned to face me.

‘What do you mean?'

‘I'm leaving. I'm not coming back. Tonight, I'll go to Oxford with my friends for my birthday. And then I'll leave.'

‘How?' he asked, ever practical.

‘Does it matter? I'd rather not say.'

He wiped his hands on a kitchen cloth and came close. He hadn't stood so close to me since I'd come home. He held his hands behind his back, in his heavy thoughts pose, the weight of his arms counterbalancing the rest of his frame.

‘Your mother will want to know why. Have you talked to her?'

‘No, Dad, I don't want to,' I said. The thought of facing my mother and seeing her break down was off-limits. Keeping my voice firm, as though I'd given what I was saying much thought, I spoke on: ‘I thought you could do it. She'll understand better if it comes from you.'

He nodded slowly.

‘And when should I tell her that you're coming back?'

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a bundle of documents.

‘My passport's got three years on it. That's my birth certificate, my driving licence, and I've made copies.'

His head rose to take in the documents, and his hand made as if to touch them, but his arm dropped before he reached my passport. He leaned back against the sink.

‘She would want to hear it from you.'

The champagne was making me harsher than I wanted to be.

‘No, I can't. Tell her yourself. But promise me you won't until tomorrow night. Do you promise?' I looked directly into him, almost violently.

‘Yes, Nate, if that's what you want.'

‘Yes. I don't know what you should tell her. Say it's got nothing to do with her,' I said, grabbing his arm and releasing it instantly. My shoulders slumped. ‘There's nothing for me here. And it's not my fault either,' my voice rose on the last syllable, as if I were asking a question.

‘I won't tell her anything. You're an adult now.' Jerkily, he grabbed me and brought me closer into a hug. ‘That might just break her. Go and spend the evening with her. Be nice, like old times.'

I left him and stumbled into the living room. Fighting the tension building around my shoulders, I walked towards my mother and grinned.

***

Late that evening, as the coach pulled out of Gloucester Green, I didn't think of the friends I'd lied to. They would enjoy their night out in Oxford without me. No, to avoid the inspector's challenge, my thoughts were circling around my mother's opened mouth when I sneaked into her conversation, the crow's feet around her eyes when I praised her in front of my father's parents. Her broadening smiles, her fingers shyly tapping my arm, her spontaneous laughter – she'd looked happy and it was all because I'd lied to her. Still, I hoped that she would cling to these memories while I was abroad, that she'd know I didn't meant to hurt her, that I appreciated what she'd done for me. That she wouldn't ask herself why I'd spoken to my father and not to her. I closed my eyes. The coach drove over Magdalen Bridge, past the John Radcliffe, out of Oxfordshire.

It's been eight years since the shooting. Four months since I came back to England and sat in my mother's little attic room to record what made me leave. And now, I'm balancing on an exercise ball in the spare bedroom of my Cowley flat, struggling to impose sense on the paths my life has taken. It's the knowledge that this journey is coming to an end that is once again driving me to the soft clicks and clacks of my keyboard, to the saccadic travel of a cursor over a blank document.

Every minute of my life has been a step across a mountainous landscape. Whenever I reach a pass, as I have just done, I turn back and look at the ground I've covered. In some places, I see my footsteps clearly etched into the snow, and I recall exactly my fears, my desires: how afraid I was of slipping towards the drop to my left, how I aimed for a knoll ahead, focusing all I had until I reached it. In others, my path has gone faint, perhaps because of a shadow thrown across it, or perhaps because I was walking on rocks. But in the majority of places, I can't see where I've been. My memories lie below an incline, in a damp hollow, or they hide behind a peak, and if I remember that a section was tricky, I still can't use my vantage point to see the land around it, the rocks perched above a tight turn, the crumbling cliff hidden underneath wild flowers.

From pass to pass, different sections of my life come into my line of sight, so that, when I ask myself how I got to where I am, I look back at the landscape, and think that, of course, it all had to do with that particularly treacherous stretch the sun is shining on at the moment. A stretch I can see now that I'm a few miles further down the road. And yet, six months ago, I was on the other side of the range, tracing my steps down a ridge which then seemed crucial, but has now become irrelevant. I'm forever looking back, and yet, what's behind me is forever changing.

Reaching this pass, I look at the charred stone ahead, and smell the coldness of the wind behind the drop. My legs burn as hard as my fears, forcing me to stop and contemplate what I've done. But, even if I give in to these impulses, I know that whatever I'm going to remember over the next four days is only part of the story.

This room around me hasn't changed much since I turned it into my studio. Thinking it'd be good for my back, I haven't swapped the exercise ball for a chair. The five sketches I've made since I took it up just about cover the walls, and the tiny window fogs up minutes after I lock the door. Besides two virgin canvases hiding a small stack of sleep-deprived doodles, there's nothing but this desk and my computer around me, but the room feels jammed full.

***

For five years, I drifted. Problems arose, and then they were gone. Anger and love washed off with the rains. And I drifted on, refreshed.

I left England in that time-proven way: as cheap labour on a cargo ship. My first was a black beast going by the name of
Hunter
. She was a thirty-year-old matriarch, lumbering into ports, her prow held high, staring down any who thought she was too slow to crisscross the tropics.

Aboard, my Conradesque ideas of life and honour on the ocean survived the best part of a year, despite the months I spent chipping rust and washing dishes. If anything, that sort of work fitted well with my desire to stop thinking. I woke up sore, ready to gaze at the horizon and dream of cannon balls crashing into ancient frigates, worked hard and finished the day exhausted, yet satisfied.

We stopped in ports for a few days at a time, during which I pulled out my notepad, and made sketches where others were taking pictures. Being idle didn't suit me and my duties were considerably lighter when we were dry, so that after a few days on land, I'd yearn to be back at sea. It was during a prolonged break in Vancouver, while our ship underwent minor repairs, that I received my mother's first email. I'd fished it out of the junk folder.

Subject line: test.

Body: Nate, this is a test. Tell me if you've received it. I'm still new to emails. Beth has been very kind. She's given me your address, and then she's set up this one. I'll send you more news once I hear back from you, Love, Mum.

I didn't reply, but I started to question what I was doing. I was certain that I'd done the right thing in leaving England, but I also had the feeling that my travels couldn't last forever and that spending them aboard
Hunter
wasn't as exciting as I'd first made it out to be. I started voicing my doubts to OJ, a man with a forward jaw, a full beard, and a rising count of tattoos, who came from one of the Home Counties. Ever since I'd come on board, he'd taken me under his wing in a rough fatherly way, alternating between stern instructions and hefty pats on the back. One drunken Canadian night, as he fed me cheap blended whisky, I started telling him about home. He stroked his beard and told me of his village green, of his father the butcher. I spoke of our cricket square, of the view from Stone Hill. And as he poured me another glass, as he told me about his mother's blackberry pudding, something in me moved. I caught the tears before they'd gone too far, and downed my glass, stinging myself back into shape.

‘What's wrong, my boy?' he asked me, putting his hand on my shoulder.

And I didn't know. I had trouble speaking, but the only feeling I understood was a sense of wasted opportunity. So, without realising that he'd started his career doing what I was deriding, I told him that cleaning toilets and dishes didn't satisfy me. He was a good man, for he bent his head and listened, refilling my glass when it went empty. When my babble turned back into man's talk, he put a hand on my wrist, commanding my silence, and with a knowing look, told me what I needed:

‘A pair of legs and a pretty cunt, that's what you need, my boy.'

He spoke to the captain, and arranged to have me transferred to a cruise ship. It happened in Brisbane. I was given a white uniform with sparse epaulettes, and I was ushered into a cabin with bunk beds. In my new job, I carried drinks, cleared plates, coached racket sports, smiling to all the old ladies I passed, strutting past rich men's daughters. Despite my rather dashing uniform (I must say), it was difficult to follow OJ's instructions and socialise with our guests. For one thing, there weren't many young people on board, and for another, they tended to band together and giggle in their closed groups. But the crew was a different prospect – more than half were young and looking for adventure. We partied hard, and soon I was in a stormy relationship with Sally, an Australian girl with hair more pink than red, who appeared shy only around people she didn't know. A few drinks in her, and she'd suddenly grab a chair, thrust it in the middle of a group, and sit on it as on a throne. It was the same thing when she took her clothes off. She once tied me to the railing of my bed while I was sleeping, and left me there until my roommate walked in and undid me. Word spread, but nothing came back my way that justified my own mortification.

Sally kept my mind off my mother's irregular emails.

Your father is working harder than ever. And your brother is turning into a full-blown teenager. He leaves the house for the whole day and he doesn't tell me where he's gone. You were never like this. I'm going to have to get him a mobile phone.

Beth had encouraged her and, despite my silence, she'd kept at it. On birthdays, around bank holidays, she'd send me short vignettes. Always truthful, always brushed clean of conflict, she needed me to think of them, to long for home. Her first few emails repulsed me. There was one I left unopened for three weeks so strong was the feeling. It stood bold like a great pulsating barrier, representing all I needed to flee. To live, I needed to be a thousand miles from their great hunt.

But as with all things, I grew used to her intrusions, pebbles aimed at a still pond.

***

Sally and I stayed together for over a year, somehow managing to work the same routes, and OJ was right, her legs engrossed me for that whole period. It all changed when we were shifted to the Mediterranean, and I met George. George was a twenty-something intellectual, the sort who knew his own genius and expected the world's universities to recognise it as soon as he'd decide to grace them with his presence. His bedside reading started with Freud and moved on to such exciting titles as
Core Reading in Psychiatry, an Annotated Guide to the Literature
. George's chief danger lay with his ability to hide his ideological fervour behind a normal, almost jovial appearance. When he was one among many, he could laugh just as hard as the rest of us, but taken alone, he would suddenly grow very serious, identify a barrier, and try to break past it.

‘Nate,' he told me once at the end of a drunken romp in Crete, waving at the group that had walked ahead of us, ‘look at them. Take Jung and Winnicott together, and you have it…' He marked a pause. ‘The personas we adopt are walls to our true selves. They might be a social necessity, but don't you think we should go past them?'

He spoke as if he had no doubt that I would agree. Agreeing seemed easier, so I did, but if anything it proved to be a greater mistake. George was English, and on hearing my name had immediately worked out who I was. He'd kept silent about his knowledge, hoping to do a good deed quietly, as all good men should. He'd tried to speak to me alone many times, drawing me out into philosophical discussions, only to interrupt halfway through my answer and ask me about home. ‘But take your dog, for example. What does thinking of your dog make you feel?' Unaware, I played along until I saw something better, perhaps Sally's outstretched hand, or a free bottle of booze, and I left him frowning thoughtfully, his lips delicately pursed.

It all came out one evening three weeks into his assault on my psyche.

‘Nate,' he said while I watched Sally speak to a new guy, ‘I have to confess something.'

And he confessed that I ought to confess. And with his words, my bubble seemed to collapse – the purity of drunkenness, the appeal of ever-changing shores, the joy of Sally's mouth over my cock. It was a simple world, built on a thirst for endorphins and new experiences. With his roundabout revelations, I harked back to Andrew Hill's thick glasses, to my hospital bed, and I heard screams and smelled smoke, and my mother was by my side and yet further than she'd ever been. It was as if I hadn't and couldn't ever run far enough.

‘I have to be frank with you,' George said. ‘Keeping this quiet is not healthy.'

I guess, Yeah, That's interesting, Each to his own – I said them all, but he drove on, his questions more direct – Have you spoken to anyone about it? To Sally, at least? – and I shrugged, but he wasn't going to let me go. As if I'd just heard Sally call me, as if that call were interrupting the best of conversation, I made an apologetic face, asked him to hold his thought for a second, and retreated towards the others. I spent the evening avoiding him, holding on to Sally as I'd never done before, shoving the new guy out of the way, fondling her in public one instant, downing half a beer the next. But even my beer tasted warm and leaden. The streets of Cairo, which a few minutes before had felt full of well-meaning strangers, suddenly seemed overflowing with clingy touts. I woke up the next morning with dried vomit stuck to my hair and the sticky blueness of one dirty memory. That memory rushed back, all at once, when I was convoked to my boss's office: slurred insults, wide bloodshot eyes, an aggressive lean, I could recall doing all that and more. Her formal manner, the careful words she chose, instantly sharpened my mind.

‘I'm afraid that sorry isn't good enough,' she answered, in the same dry, rehearsed tones she'd used since the start of our interview.

‘Well, it was more than that,' I started, and her expression changed as she listened to me, until she looked as if it was her who could never be sorry enough.

I left her office with my job safe and my honour sullied. For two days, I walked around feeling like nothing could wash away the layers of dirt I'd encrusted in the skin of my palms. Two nights after my antics, her roommate gone for a strategic walk, Sally called me to her room and faced me with tears in her eyes.

‘After all we've done together,' she said, her voice breaking with every sob, ‘sixteen months with me… and you never told me a thing… How could you do that to me?'

Two weeks later, I disembarked in Nice and holed up in a dirty hostel near the airport until I saw the cruise ship leave. It was the end of my sea career.

***

George wrote to my mother and my mother wrote to me. The nerve of the man, the sheer confidence – he hadn't spent a full twenty hours with me that he already knew how best to cure me.

Nate, darling, your father informs me that emails should be short. Not like the long letters your father and I used to send each other when I was teaching in Newcastle. So let me get to it: I'm afraid I have bad news. We went to see the vet about Sloppy yesterday, and the prognostic is what you would expect for a sixteen-year-old dog. The vet recommended putting him to sleep now. The three of us talked about it, and James felt very strongly that Sloppy is your dog, and that you should be the one choosing. Do you think that perhaps you could let us know your wishes?

On another note, your friend George emailed me on Tuesday. I was glad to receive first-hand news about you.

She signed: Your mum and your dad who love you very much.

***

It was the start of years drifting between the Mediterranean and the Alps, drifting with the seasons. I spent my first summer raking sand, my first winter shovelling snow. And there were friends, enemies, bosses, colleagues, jealousy and lovers, the sea and the slopes – but none of it ever reached deep, for I was always one season away from another move. In Antibes, I worked at the Galapagos, a beach bar on a narrow strip of sand, where pink skin reddened during the day, and where, in the evenings, it came back, clothed in white, adorned with gold, to sip mojitos and watch black Ferraris roll past. In Chamonix, I started on the mountain, and when the constant glare, wind, and sun got the better of me, I switched to working in shops. Of all the places I lived in, Chamonix was the one I returned to the most – for its slopes, yes, but also because the valley soothed me. Weeks into my first season there, I'd learned to ignore the glitzy shops selling branded bags/jewellery/clothes, the mountains rising above the valley, where every day someone else seemed to die, until I had the town down to its essentials: three bars (one Scottish, one Irish, and one strange mixture: between its polar bears and fake stalactites, it was a haven for all things kitsch, but there was something there that had me coming back), two cafés (to read, to meet pretty tourists), Guilia's restaurant (with her homemade pasta and her fresh pesto), and one supermarket (grey but functional).