Candelo (26 page)

Bernard asked the police whether they needed to see Simon again. He did not ask directly, of course. He referred to the fact that he wanted to take his family home. That evening, in fact. He assumed there would be no problem.

If the sergeant had hesitated at all, my father would have looked confused. He would have said that they all needed to get back to their lives. They all needed to come to terms with this
terrible tragedy
, and as he spoke he would have begun to make his way towards the door. Surely there could be nothing further?

And the sergeant would also have stood up.
Obviously, if we need your son for questioning?

Of course
, my father would have said, one foot already in the corridor, one hand grasping the sergeant's.
Of course
.

And as Bernard thanked him for his time, he would have told the sergeant to call him.
If you need anything further. You have my card
.

In the intense heat of the afternoon, the main street would have been deserted. The few people who were out would have been down by the river, sitting listless on park benches underneath the shade of the elms. Old people. People passing time.

My father's car was parked outside the police station. A city car. Out of place. Obvious. The fine film of dust coating the black duco doing little to alter the fact that it did not belong on these streets.

And as Bernard unlocked the driver's side, he was aware
that the sergeant was watching him from the window of the station. He turned around and waved, briefly, as he let himself into the car. Just once. Friendly. Casual. And then he drove back along the dirt roads, his windows up, the airconditioning on high, the speedometer just over the speed limit, taking the bends without slowing down, driving back to where we waited for him.

Our bags packed and ready for him to take us home.

As he finished speaking, he put his wine glass down on the table between us. He had drunk two-thirds of the bottle, but it did not appear to have had any effect on him.

And there were no further questions?
I asked him.

He shook his head.

I looked down at the fine Persian carpet, crimsons and blues twisting in and out of each other, and I did not know what to say.

We did the wrong thing
, I muttered, my words so low that they were barely discernible.

But he heard.

And as he leant forward to speak, there was anger in his voice and impatience.
Tell me
, he asked,
what it is that you would have done in the circumstances. Even if you did have doubts. What would you have done?

The full resonance of his voice filled the room, silencing me.

No matter what kind of father I may have been, he is my son, and she was my daughter
, and there was no pleading in his tone, no asking for understanding, just an angry statement of fact.
What on earth do you expect?

Outside, a light rain had begun to fall, uncertain, a fine mist balanced on the edge of either abating or building. I could hear the elevator clanking as it slowly made its way up the shaft. People coming home for the evening. I had not brought an umbrella. If I was going to leave, this was the time when I should go.

But my father stretched across the table and held out his hand towards me.

I had
, he said, and I could not bring myself to look at him,
no choice
, and he let his hand fall back onto his knee, his eyes still resting on my face.

Simon and I used to pick flowers for a woman who lived down the road from us.

Coming home from school in the early afternoon, we would stop on our street corner and play handball with the boys who lived next door, hitting the ball back and forth, back and forth, until they were called in for afternoon tea. Bored and restless, knowing that Vi would probably not be home, and if she were, she would be working, we would continue to hit the ball dispiritedly to each other for a little longer.

It would usually be Simon who would first say that he'd had enough. That we should get home.

And do what?
I would ask.

Have something to eat
, he would answer.

I would look at him.

Stale wholemeal bread, cheese and a few limp radishes in the fridge. Compared to the next-door neighbours' biscuits and cake, it was hardly enticing.

Pulling at a few sweet-smelling twists of jasmine, honey-tipped
nasturtiums and daisies, I would start picking flowers for Mrs Hastings.

And Simon would help.

Roses, geraniums, marigolds; we would raid each of the gardens leading down the hill to her front door, until by the time we let ourselves in through her gate, our hands were filled with an extraordinary array of colours.

Mrs Hastings lived on her own. I do not know what happened to her husband. Perhaps he died, perhaps they were divorced. She seemed old to us, terribly old, but now I realise she must have only been in her fifties.

We did like her. And the very first time we took her flowers, our reasons were not self-serving.

We were taking them home to Vi, coming back up the hill with our stolen bouquet, when she stopped us. Leaning over her fence, she told us that daisies were her favourite.

It was Simon who offered them to her.

And she asked us in, filling our now empty hands with the sweets that she kept in her cupboard. Sugared mint leaves, jubes and caramel buttons. Sticky in our fingers.

She had a house full of things. Ships in bottles, wind-up toys, old magazines, different-coloured wool, clutter collecting dust in every corner.

She showed me how to crochet with an old cotton reel.

She gave me bottles of perfume that she no longer used.

And each time we went to leave, she would ask us to stay a little longer, to have some tea, to make sure that we came back soon.

And we did.

Picking the flowers a little more hastily on each occasion, the bunches a little scrappier, a little more wilted, a little less colourful, until one day Simon stopped me.

You can't do that
, and he looked at the few leaves and weeds that I was holding in my hand.

I couldn't see what the problem was.
It doesn't matter
, I told him, impatient to get going.

He wouldn't move. He wasn't coming. It was wrong.

I just rolled my eyes and walked off without him, heading down the hill, wanting the sweets she gave us, and any other small treasure that might also fall my way.

But when I got to the gate, I stopped. In my hands, the leaves had begun to wilt, the one dandelion head, white fluff, had blown away leaving only a dry stalk between my fingers.

And as I let them all fall to the ground, I turned around and headed home.

In the weeks that followed the funeral, Simon and I did not talk much.

I don't think either of us knew what to say.

Each time I would find myself about to speak, about to lean forward and say something, the words would dissolve and I would pull back again, open-mouthed and silent.

It was not even possible to ask him the mundane questions I had always asked him. I would try, but in the light of all that was still unsaid, my words would wither in their inanity, leaving me speechless.

Once, closing the front door to my mother's house and stepping out onto the street, I saw Simon walking towards me
in the early evening light. I watched him as he slowly made his way up the hill, the afternoon paper tucked under his arm, his too small parka, pale grey and dirty, zipped up to his chin, his eyes fixed on the ground.

He looked up, just as my bus came around the corner, and in the slowness of the moment that followed, I didn't let the bus just go past and stay to talk to him; I turned towards the stop and started walking in that direction, not looking at Simon, but seeing him, his hand frozen in the air, waving at me as I turned my back on him. And as the doors closed with a thud behind me, and the bus pulled out onto the road, I could not bring myself to look back to where he still was, there on the footpath watching me disappear from sight.

I knew then that this was the worst place to which we had descended.

But it was not only him to whom I could not talk. I could not talk to anyone.

I tried with Lizzie, as she drove me home from the clinic. Once again, I found myself without words. Overwhelmed by the enormity of my brother's revelation, I could not bring myself to repeat it out loud. And I changed the topic. Skipping from what I had begun to say to something else, anything, with a speed that made me stumble mid-sentence, and left her looking at me, confused.

What are you talking about?
she asked.

Nothing
, I said, and she did not question me any further.

I also tried with Marco.

Late one night, after spending the day with Vi, I came home and saw the scrap of paper on which I had written his number on the floor by the side of my bed.

I dialled without thinking.

It rang eight times.

And just as I was about to give up, he picked up the phone.

He was surprised to hear from me.

How are you?
We both asked each other the same question at the same time, and we both responded with the same words:
fine, good
, our sentences synchronised in an awkwardness that made me want to hang up without going any further.

He told me he had moved. He told me he had a new job. And he told me he had recently started seeing someone; his words a jumble, a rapid-fire of facts with little behind them other than a desire to let me know that he had been doing well, never better, since we had seen each other last.

And how about you?
he asked.

I looked up at the ceiling.
Just the same
, I said.
Just the same
.

And I knew then that I wasn't going to tell him, not even when he asked me if I was calling for any reason, for anything in particular.

No, I said,
I just wanted to see how you were
.

And he told me he was fine, again, and he asked me how I was, again, and I, too, told him I was fine; all our words seeming to have done little more than take us back to where we began.

We hung up, without me having told him a thing.

I sat on the edge of my bed and I looked at the telephone there on the floor.

Apart from Bernard, there was no one with whom I could really speak.

And I needed to talk to someone.

I still do.

I just don't know who to go to. I just don't know who I could tell.

Because I am worried about Simon.

And I do not know if Vi should know.

Mari's picnic is arranged for today.

I offered to make a salad and then wished I hadn't. As usual, there was nothing in the fridge. I am not, as my friends often tell me, very good at taking care of myself.

In the twenty minutes before they are due to arrive, I decide to go up the street and buy something, but just as I am about to close the door behind me, the telephone rings.

It is my friend Lester.

He is calling to let me know that he has finally pulled together the money he needs to make his film.

Where have you been?
he asks me.
I keep leaving messages and you never get back to me
.

I tell him I am sorry, I have been busy.
Snowed under
.

He is excited. He wants to give me the lead.
You're perfect for it
.

I am surprised.
Really?
I ask him.

Absolutely
, he tells me.

He has talked about his film for so long that I have never
really thought it would happen. We arrange to meet tomorrow, and when I finally hang up, I realise I have no time to go to the shops and nothing to take with me.

I am standing by the open fridge door, looking at the few scraps of food and wondering what to do, when I hear him coming down the path.

Simon.

And seeing him walking towards me, the excitement I felt at Lester's news evaporates and the heaviness descends.