Page 29 of Things We Never Said
At least one good thing came out of it all, though. Well, two, including April, obviously. All that fear taught me that I’d been right about you. Because you, my darling, were perfect. I think you must have been almost as scared as I was, but you remained calm and collected, you were reassuring and helpful and devoted at every step.
People kept saying how much she looked like me, and that, I recall, really upset me. I so wanted someone to tell you that she looked like you.
But even that didn’t seem to faze you. You just plodded on through, learning to change nappies and give a bottle, and somehow managing to put up with my crazy moods even as you cycled in and out to your courses at the poly. What with the studies and the homework and the part-time jobs, it’s amazing, looking back, how you managed to still be such a perfect dad. But you did. You were a keeper all right!
It rains solidly for three days. It rains so hard and the sky is so dark that it doesn’t look like May at all. January would be more like it. January in Iceland, perhaps.
Surprisingly, Sean doesn’t mind. Sunshine makes him feel guilty, as if sitting indoors feeling miserable is perhaps more acceptable during a downpour.
Yet on Thursday morning, when Sean wakes up to blue skies and a miraculously warm breeze, his spirits unexpectedly lift.
As he drives to work, the window open and the radio on, he feels better, he admits to himself, than he has in months. He even allows himself to sing along a little to an old Steely Dan song on the radio.
He works enthusiastically all day. The windows and doors are finished on the retirement home, and he’s now landscaping the gardens – in a virtual way, of course. When a blackbird settles outside his office window and starts to chirp with gusto, he can almost convince himself that he’s there, inside his drawing, doing it with a shovel. He wonders if, just maybe, his grief is waning. He wonders if his fog of depression might be lifting.
Superstitiously, he fears that even allowing himself to ask that question puts his good mood at risk. It’s as if hope is a ghost in the corner of his vision, a ghost he knows will vanish if he turns to look at it straight on. So he does his best not to wonder how long this will last, and hums the Steely Dan song in his head like a mantra, and concentrates himself fully on the task at hand. Incredibly, the mood lasts all day.
His arrival at the house that evening feels dangerous and he hesitates, his key in the lock, as he imagines the cool, dark, silent interior. And then, feeling spooked, he withdraws the key and walks down to the river instead.
It’s a gorgeous evening, and half of Cambridge seems to have had the same idea. The cycle paths are congested with parents on pushbikes and kids on trikes; the beer gardens of the pubs are packed solid with laughing, drinking students. Goodwill seems to float in the air, there for the taking.
On his way home, Sean sits outside the Fort StGeorge and eats a burger and chips – anything to put off his arrival at the house. Even this, eating alone, does not dent Sean’s day. An old, raggedy pigeon perches on a fence to his right and tips its head from side to side, so he isn’t quite alone, after all.
Returning to the house, just as the sun is setting, does provide a significant challenge, but instead of submitting to it he’s able, this once, to analyse it. He considers, for the first time ever, that he may have to move, and imagines himself, almost with pleasure, in a modern, architect-designed bachelor flat somewhere. Perhaps he should buy a plot of land and design his own house – a long-forgotten dream.
On waking the next morning, he lies in bed for a moment before he dares to ask himself the question: has the mood survived a night of dreams? Amazingly, he has woken feeling OK again. Frowning in surprise and silently apologising to Catherine for his good mood, he climbs from the bed, nods with relief and descends to the lounge where he puts an old Simple Minds album –New Gold Dream– on the new turntable before heading through to the kitchen to make breakfast.
He very nearly makes it all the way to the weekend without being tripped up. But at ten to five that afternoon, as he is closing documents on his computer, the company secretary sidles up and leans on the top of his alcove.
‘Hi Sean,’ she says. ‘How are you?’
Sean scratches his head. He’s tempted, he’s not sure why, to lie. But after a brief internal argument with himself, he says, ‘I’m fine, actually. I’m good.’
‘Oh!’ Jenny says.
Does her surprise indicate reproach or is Sean being paranoid? Perhaps his first instinct to lie was the right one. Perhaps he’s not allowed to feel this good just yet.
‘Oh,’ Jenny says, a second time. ‘Well, that’s good. That’s great, Sean.’
‘Thanks,’ Sean says, frowning. ‘Sorry, but did you want something specific? Because I was about to head off.’
‘Oh?’ Jenny says, glancing at her watch. ‘You’re usually such a night owl. Still, I suppose it is such a lovely weekend.’
‘Yes.’
‘It can wait till Monday,’ Jenny says. ‘Not much longer, but it can wait till then.’
‘What can?’ Sean asks.
‘Oh, nothing important,’ Jenny says. ‘Just holidays. I need to slot your dates into the rota. Everyone else has done theirs. You’re the last one.’
‘Right,’ Sean says, trying not to think about the implications of this, trying desperately not to realise that this simple, stupid question has the power to demolish his upswing. ‘I’ll, um, give you the dates on Monday,’ he says, forcing a smile.
‘Great,’ Jenny says. ‘Um, well, have a good weekend.’
‘I’ll try,’ Sean says.
‘And, erm, Sean,’ Jenny adds as she leaves. ‘It’s good to see you doing so well.’
