Authors: Mike Gayle
We are standing in front of the entrance to Moseley Park and Pool: eleven acres of parkland that once belonged to a huge manor house and which was saved for posterity by a group of wealthy businessmen in the late nineteenth century. Surrounded by shops and houses on all sides it’s invisible to the casual passer-by but to those residents who pay a nominal annual subscription for a key it’s a blissful escape from an increasingly urban sprawl.
We walk in silence down a muddy path with brambles on either side that gradually opens up into a wide, tree-lined clearing. Taking a moment to get our bearings we walk along a path that leads off to the left down a slight incline until we reach our destination, the focal point of the whole park: Moseley Pool. We stand at the water’s edge and watch a family of ducks going about their business before making our way to a bench a few feet away.
‘How long is it since we last came here?’ asks Ginny as I take two pre-packed sandwiches and two bottles of water out of my bag.
I do the calculations. It was our friend Elliot’s family who had the keys and it would probably have been when all of us were home at the same time and the weather was decent so . . . ‘I think we’re probably talking the summer break of our second year at university.’
‘That long?’ Ginny shakes her head in disbelief. ‘It only feels like yesterday since we were all working in rubbish temp jobs to whittle down our overdrafts.’
‘I think I was working in the Unspoilt By Progress that summer. Do you remember you all used to come and see me on a Friday night and I’d sneak you the odd free beer.’
‘Just like I used to filch free crisps and chocolate for Bev and Kat when I was working at that sandwich shop over in the jewellery quarter. I feel guilty now that I think about it. Bev and Kat were in there all the time, the poor owner must have gone broke with the amount of stuff I gave away.’
I offer up the sandwiches. ‘Chicken salad or Brie and grape?’
‘You first.’
I take the Brie and grape knowing full well that’s the one Ginny wants, pretend to open it and at the last moment snatch the chicken salad from her hands.
‘I thought that was too weird to be true,’ she says, opening the packaging, ‘I would’ve bet good money that the chicken salad was yours. It’s all you ever ate in sixth form.’ She takes a bite of her sandwich. ‘This is delicious.’
We sit quietly munching for a few moments. A woman with two pre-school kids, a boy and a girl, passes by and the boy waves and asks what’s in our sandwiches, forcing his mortified mother to apologise on his behalf.
‘It’s OK,’ I reply, and turn to the boy, ‘Mine’s ready salted slugs on cheese and hers is crushed butterflies and bacon. You can have a bite if you like.’
The children writhe in paroxysms of laughter and ask me to say it again but their mum tells them to stop bothering people trying to eat their lunch.
We watch them trundle off down the path and Ginny takes a sip of her water. ‘How are things going with your new girlfriend? You didn’t mention her the other day. Is everything still OK?’
‘She’s good, thanks,’ I reply, relieved that this is coming out. ‘She’s in Wolverhampton all day today taking meetings with a gallery there.’
Ginny seems impressed. ‘What does she do?’
‘She works in arts funding. I suppose you’d call her a project manager.’
‘Sounds like a great job.’
‘It is,’ I reply, ‘and she’s good at it too, really dedicated.’ I reason that I should probably ask after Gershwin if only out of politeness. ‘How’s Gershwin?’
Ginny sighs. ‘Not great really. He’s under loads of stress at work. Last week they announced that they’re making everyone on his pay grade reapply for their own jobs, and of course they’re cutting positions at the same time so you can imagine how horrible the atmosphere is.’
I want to say something along the lines of: ‘That’s karma for you, love,’ because I’m a long way from forgiving Gershwin, but what I actually say is: ‘I’ll keep my fingers crossed for him.’
We fall into a comfortable silence until Ginny sets down her food, takes another sip of water and wipes her lips on a serviette, making it clear that the time to talk has arrived.
‘My gran died.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I reply. ‘How old was she?’
‘Eighty-four. We weren’t close. It was Dad’s mum so it’s not like I’ve had a great deal to do with her or the rest of his family over the years. My Aunt Louise called me last week – it’s been so long since we spoke that she wasn’t even expecting the number to work let alone that I’d answer – and she apologised for all the family arguments that got in the way of us seeing each other and ended up inviting me to the funeral.’
I make the connections in my head: if Ginny’s gran has died, chances are that her dad will be at the funeral and Ginny hasn’t seen or heard from him since she was ten, when he walked out on her and her mum. ‘And you’re not sure whether you should go because your dad’s going to be there?’
‘According to my aunt he’s been living in Ireland. She didn’t say whether he’d got a new family, but it wouldn’t surprise me.’
‘So how did you leave it?’
‘How do you think? Why would I want to see him after all these years? What could either of us possibly have to say to each other? I told her I doubted I’d come but that I’d definitely send flowers.’
‘And now you’re having second thoughts?’
Ginny nodded. ‘Is that weird?’
I shake my head. ‘You’ve probably got more to say to him than you think. What does Gershwin say about it all?’
Ginny doesn’t reply which I take to mean she hasn’t told him yet.
‘Any particular reason?’
‘He’s got enough on his plate with work – he doesn’t need all my mental baggage in his lap right now.’
‘You should tell him,’ I say, trying to be charitable. ‘If I was him I’d want to know.’
‘What would be the point? He’s up in Glasgow fighting for his job. I just want to know if I’m doing the right thing in going or not. Every time I convince myself I should stay away I change my mind and want to go; and then just as I think I’m settled I find myself shaking at the thought of seeing him again.’
‘And where are you now?’
‘Wanting to go.’
‘Then I’ll come with you.’
40
‘So are you going to tell me what that was all about then?’ asks Gerry as we sit in the pub for our first after-work pint.
‘What what was all about?’ I ask innocently.
Gerry sighs like I’m a five-year-old trying his patience. ‘So you don’t want to talk about it? That’s fine by me, but we do need to talk about something because you haven’t said a word in over five minutes and as much as I enjoy the comfortable silence that only male company can provide, truth is it’s not even the good kind.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means that when you asked me if I fancied a pint after work I didn’t think it would involve me watching you stare listlessly into your drink. Now, either you start talking about whatever’s on your mind or I’m going to take my pint back to the bar and do the crossword until Kara arrives.’
‘All right! All right!’ I hold up my hands in surrender. ‘I think I have what’s called in the trade a dilemma.’
‘And what might that be? It’s not like you disappeared for an hour today with a right cracker who you categorically promised your live-in girlfriend that you’d never see again, is it?’
I take a long sip of my pint and let the taste of the beer roll around my tongue. How long had I been drinking this stuff? Twenty-five years? More? Would I still be drinking it in another twenty-five? What would the world look like then? Who would I be with? Where would I be living?
‘I’ve volunteered to go to a funeral with her.’
Gerry raises an eyebrow. This wasn’t what he’d been expecting. ‘Whose?’
‘Her grandmother’s. Gershwin’s away with work and it’s a bit of an awkward one because it’s her dad’s mum who’s died, and Ginny hasn’t seen him or any of that side of the family since she was ten and he walked out on her mum.’
‘Can’t she find someone else? A female friend or something?’
I shrug. ‘I’m guessing that if she could’ve she would’ve. The bottom line is I’ve volunteered my services.’
‘And what are you going to tell Rosa?’
‘That’s the million-dollar question. I can’t tell her the truth and I don’t want to lie to her.’
‘So you’re going to say nothing,’ says Gerry, thankfully reaching the same conclusion that I had moments earlier.
‘What else can I do?’
‘Nothing,’ says Gerry, ‘it is what it is.’
I limit myself to just the one pint and leave within the hour as Kara and her mates turn up. As I start walking home I wonder if Gerry is as happy with the life he leads as he makes out. With the girls and the drinking and the being out all the time it seems like he’s never stopped living in his twenties, but as I think about going home to Rosa and the meal we’ll share and the evening we’ll spend together the thought of Gerry’s evening exhausts me. I don’t want to relive my twenties, I don’t even want to revisit my thirties. I want this next stage to be the one where I finally get my act together so I can start living the life I was meant to.
It’s quiet inside the flat and for a moment I think that maybe Rosa’s not in but then I hear her laughter coming from the kitchen, and I find her leaning against the counter with the phone pressed up against her ear, chatting animatedly into the receiver.
‘I know,’ she says into the phone.
And then, ‘That’s exactly what I always say to him.’
And finally, ‘He won’t listen, and he thinks he knows it all, but we know better don’t we?’
That is when I realise that she is talking to my mother.
My mother!
‘Why are you talking to my mum?’ I mouth in silent anguish at the thought of how long this conversation may have been going on.
Rosa waves and turns her back on me.
‘Stop this madness now!’ I mouth once more having circled round so that she can see me, ‘Stop before it all goes too far!’
Ignoring me, Rosa turns again and says into the phone, ‘Oh no, not at all . . . it has been an absolute pleasure talking to you Cynthia . . . Of course! Can’t wait to meet you and the rest of the family either . . . and you must let me bring something along . . . I make a really mean pavlova . . . of course, it goes without saying I’ll make sure that he’s there on time . . . I can’t stand it either . . . take care . . . no, I don’t mind you calling . . . you can ring any time.’
She returns the phone to the charger with a flourish. ‘How was the pub?’
I narrow my eyes at her. ‘Why are you talking to my mother?’
‘Because she called.’
‘I only gave her this number for emergencies! I told her a million times that if she needed me she could call my mobile.’
Rosa pulls her very best comically patronising face, the one she uses to put me in my place. ‘Matt, if you knew Cynthia like I know Cynthia you’d know that she doesn’t really like mobiles.’
‘You’re loving this aren’t you?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’ She plants a kiss on my lips. ‘She loves me, Matt, she adores me, she said I’m a good influence on you.’
‘She actually said that?’
Rosa scrunches up her nose and shrugs. ‘She might as well have done for all the praise she was passing my way.’
‘How long did you talk for?’
‘Half an hour, maybe forty minutes, who knows? All that matters is that we’re having lunch at your mum and dad’s on your birthday and so I will get to see them in person and wow them even more.’
Clearly amused to have one over on me Rosa exits the kitchen, leaving me alone to ponder once more my decision not to tell her about Ginny.
Later that evening as Rosa’s lying on the sofa with her slender limbs stretched across my lap as she reads through half a dozen reports she’s brought home with her, while I plough my way through a Rolling Stones’ biography that Gerry recommended, it occurs to me that I should come clean. Young as she is, in many ways she’s more mature than I am and if only I can find a way of explaining why I’m helping Ginny, she might understand there’s nothing in it, that this is simply one old friend helping another in their time of need. I take a deep breath, prepare for her reaction and open my mouth ready to give birth to the words, but it’s as if I’ve lost all power to communicate.
‘What’s up?’ Rosa looks up from her papers. ‘You look like a man with something on his mind.’
‘You know the other day when you said that you thought that I didn’t feel the same way about you that you do about me?’ She nods and puts her papers down, giving me her full attention, ‘Well, that’s not true. This is going to sound like something inside a Hallmark card but I love you, I really love you, I think I have for ages but just haven’t known how to get the words out.’
The interesting thing about this unexpected moment, the thing I hadn’t seen coming, is that despite half a lifetime during which I’ve seen, done and felt everything there is a million times before, these words feel as fresh and as new as the first time I said them on the day that Elaine moved into my apartment in New York all those years ago. How can something so clichéd and jaded feel so newly forged? I feel like no one in the history of the world has ever said these words and meant them with the intensity that I mean them now, and as Rosa leans in to kiss me, I know that she feels this too.