Dying to Know You (9 page)

“Yes.”

I managed to look at her.

Her eyes were full up too.

“Who has become … what? Like a son?”

I couldn’t help laughing. Which was, as always, a blessed relief.

Looking puzzled, Mrs. Williamson said, “What’s funny?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “It isn’t like that. Not that I’d mind. I’d be proud to have Karl as a son. We’re alike in a lot of ways, and I’ve come to admire him. But I wouldn’t be a good father.”

“Why not?”

“Too hung up on my work. It wouldn’t be fair.”

“So is it that he makes you feel young again?”

Another laugh. “No. I’ve given up any hope of that. I know I write fiction, but I’m a realist, not a fantasist.”

This time Mrs. Williamson laughed as well. There was the delicious feeling of someone warming to you and you to them.

I said, “I know what you were thinking when you arrived. But it isn’t that either.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was natural. We’re conditioned to be suspicious these days.”

“That’s true. So what was it, then?”

I shrugged and smiled.

“You don’t know about writers.”

“I suppose I don’t. You’re the first I’ve met.”

“Well, I’m afraid I must tell you that we’re all disgracefully ruthless.”

“Ruthless?”

“And unscrupulous.”

She gave me that wary look again. “With my son? You were ruthless and unscrupulous with Karl?”

“I’ll explain.”

“I think you should.”

“Writers. We can be as nice as pie personally. And genuinely. But the fact is, everything we do, everything that happens to us, everyone we know, well, it’s all grist for the mill. Everything is raw material for work. For what we write.”

“You’re telling me Karl is only raw material for you?”

“No, no! Karl is Karl. Young. A breath of fresh air. And in need of help. I’m old. Tired. In need of fresh air. And in need of help.”

“What kind of help?”

“To get me writing again.”

“And how could Karl do that?”

“Just by being Karl and asking me to help him. I tried to
put him off. But he was determined. And very quickly that first time, when he explained his difficulties …”

I stopped, trying to assess whether she would understand what I was going to tell her.

“Yes?” she said.

I said, “I saw myself in him. He’s stronger than I was at his age, but at the same time, he’s as vulnerable as I was. And something else. I’m also dyslexic. Not seriously. I didn’t know until a few years ago. But when I was a child, and people didn’t know about it, I suffered because of it.”

Mrs. Williamson gave me a long assessing look, which ended with a smile.

“I think,” she said, “I’m beginning to understand.”

“That’s a relief.”

“Helping my son was helping something in yourself?”

“Repairing an injury.”

“And helping him to write to Fiorella got you writing again.”

“Exactly. And you know, the strange thing is, it’s only as I tell you this that I realise it’s true.”

“And what are you writing?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m sorry? If he got you writing again how can you be writing nothing?”

“Well … Let’s see … How can I put this? … A book, a novel, for me, always starts very vaguely. Like a cloud in my imagination. It drifts into view for no reason I know of. It’s shapeless. Impossible to get hold of. But it’s there. I know
it’s there. Floating about. But I have no idea what it’s made of. What it wants to
be
. What it
means
. And over the years I’ve learned that what I have to do is wait. Wait for the cloud to take shape, become solid, become something I get hold of. Then I can try to catch it in words on paper. And it’s only when I’m doing that, when I’m writing the words on paper, that I find out what it
is
, what it
means
, what it’s trying to say to me.”

Mrs. Williamson thought for a while. “So there’s a cloud in your imagination, but you haven’t started writing the words yet?”

“Correct.”

“And being with Karl made that happen?”

“Yes. And I’ll always be grateful to him.”

She thought again.

“Does he know?”

“We’ve never talked about it.”

More thinking.

“I understand what you went through when your wife died. I’ve been through it too. My husband died when Karl was twelve.”

“I know.”

This surprised her. “You know?”

“Karl told me.”

“He did?”

“Yes. The day we went fishing.”

She took a deep breath and her eyes filled again.

“Why does that surprise you?”

“He never tells anybody,” she said. “He hates talking about it. Even to me.”

I waited.

“It explains a lot,” Mrs. Williamson said.

“Explains what?”

“When he told you about his father’s death, did you tell him about your wife’s?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because in my experience, when I’m upset, and I tell someone, and they say, ‘Oh, I’ve been through that too’ and start telling me about it, I always feel worse. Seems to me when someone tells you about something that’s really upsetting them, what they want is for you to listen to their troubles, not talk to them about your own.”

“I don’t know. I think it’s good sometimes.”

“Perhaps.”

“And you never told him what he was doing for you?”

“No.”

“Well, as I say, I think that explains a lot.”

“A lot about what?”

“His illness.”

I’d forgotten. Talking about myself, answering her question, I’d forgotten. Panic in the guts again.

“What’s happened?”

“Fiorella,” Mrs. Williamson said.

“What about her?”

“She broke it off.”

“What! Why?”

“He won’t say.”

“Oh Lord! When?”

“While they were camping.”

“But that’s weeks ago.”

“He came home sooner than expected. He looked dreadful. I asked him what was the matter. He said Fiorella had dumped him and burst into tears. I haven’t seen him cry since his father died.”

“But he wouldn’t explain?”

“No. For a few days he was all right. Or seemed to be. Very low, of course, but going to work. I thought he’d get over it. But then he suddenly got worse. He was getting his bike out to go to work one morning and had a sudden panic attack. Shaking all over, struggling for breath, sweating, couldn’t stand, couldn’t even hold a glass of water. Since then he hasn’t been to work. Mostly stays in his room. Won’t talk. Eats very little. He’s lost a lot of weight. I don’t know what he does all day. Stares at the wall or sleeps as far as I can make out.”

“The doctor?”

“Yes, of course. He couldn’t get any more out of Karl than me. Depression, he says. Because of the breakup.”

“So what has he done?”

“Prescribed antidepressants. Offered to arrange for Karl to see a psychotherapist, but Karl refuses. I can’t get him to leave the house. Won’t take any exercise. And for someone as active as him …”

“Have you talked to Fiorella?”

“No.”

“Wouldn’t that be a good idea?”

“I like Fiorella. But to tell the truth, I never thought it would last.”

“Why not?”

“They’re both very young, young for their years. They’d fallen head over heels, but it was more passion than good sense. I was never sure what she found so attractive in Karl. In most ways they were chalk and cheese. She’s a clever girl. Beautiful and talented. I got on well with her. But her parents weren’t happy about it. They are very well off. Professional people. Didn’t think a plumber was good enough for her.”

“How d’you know?”

“Karl told me. And Fiorella used to joke about it. I think she quite enjoyed going against their wishes. Probably the first time she had.”

“So it’s not just a lovers’ tiff?”

“I don’t think so.”

“No hope of them getting together again?”

“I’m not sure it would be a good thing if they did.”

“You must be worried sick.”

“I am. I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid of what might happen if he goes on like this much longer … I’m desperate, to be honest.”

By now I was so upset I needed to collect myself, and I could see Mrs. Williamson was on the edge of caving in as well.

Time for that panacea to which the English resort in times of crisis.

“Look,” I said as levelly as I could. “How about a cup of tea while we take stock?”

She looked at me with a faint smile and said, “I’d like that. Thanks.”

Ten minutes later we were sitting at the kitchen table exactly as Karl and I had sat that first time, had even talked while I made the tea about cooking and housekeeping, as he and I had. The relief of distraction. The comfort of familiar everyday chores. The consolation of food.

Then a silence that meant we were strong enough to face distress again.

I said, “When you asked to see me, you thought I might be in some way responsible for what’s happened?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still think so?”

“Not the way I did.”

“But in some way?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what to think now. All I’m sure of is that you helped Karl with Fiorella. Then she broke it off. And that made Karl ill.”

She took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh.

I said, “I’ll do whatever I can. But I don’t know what to suggest. Do you?”

She finished her tea. I offered more. She shook her head, and said, “One thing I’ve found out today is that
Karl talked to you about something he never ever talks to anyone else about. And for the few weeks when he and Fiorella were getting on well, he was the happiest since his father died. Now he’s lost Fiorella and isn’t seeing you, and he’s worse than when his father died.”

Easy to see what she was coming to.

“Do you think you could talk to him? He might open up to you.”

My turn to take a deep breath.

“I’m not sure he would.”

“I think he would. He talked a lot about how you made him think about things he hadn’t thought about before. What he called your cool sense of humour. He took to you.”

“Well, if you think it’ll do any good, I’ll try. But how?”

“You say you suffered from depression after your wife died?”

“Melancholia. Yes.”

“So you understand how Karl is feeling.”

“I do. But won’t he think it odd if I suddenly contacted him after all this time?”

“You invent stories. Surely you can think of a convincing reason?”

“Is he writing emails?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. As I say, he doesn’t seem to do anything.”

“I can’t just turn up. He’d be suspicious, wouldn’t he?”

“Yes, he would. But there’s something else.”

“What?”

“I have to go to work every day. His father had his own small business. He was an electrical engineer. I did the office work and the accounts. After John died, I got something from a life insurance. I have the house, which we owned outright. John was determined about that in case the business failed. But there was nothing more. So I have to earn a living. And with Karl not working …”

“What do you do?”

“Secretary at our local primary school. I took the job because the hours were the same as Karl’s. I could be at home when he was. He needed a lot of attention. I’m worried about leaving him on his own all day.”

“Are you asking if I can be with him?”

“Not every day. Not all the time, of course. But maybe you could persuade him to go fishing? Or anything that would get him out of the house and give him something to do and think about besides whatever is going on in his mind at the moment.”

I was stumped to know what to say. So much emotion, so many thoughts, all at once.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Mrs. Williamson said. “But if you could.”

We sat in silence.

Finally, “I’m not saying I won’t,” I said. “I will. I’ll do all I can. But I’ve never been quick. I’m a tortoise, not a hare. That’s why I’ve written so few books. I need time to work things out.”

Mrs. Williamson stood up. “I’m sorry. I understand.”

I got up. “Let me brood about it overnight. I’ll get in touch tomorrow. How shall I do that? Shall I phone you?”

“On my mobile, please. Karl doesn’t answer the phone these days, but he does ask who’s called. I think he always hopes it will be Fiorella.”

She gave me her number.

I saw her out.

I went back into the kitchen to clear away the tea things, but before I could do it my knees gave way and I slumped into a chair feeling utterly exhausted, and burst into tears.

ANOTHER BAD NIGHT. THIS TIME THE KIND I HAVE IN THE MIDDLE
of writing a novel, when I’m stuck. Thinking this way and that. What happens if … ? Supposing that … ? And no convincing answers.

What to do about Karl?

How to make contact without his suspecting contrivance and collusion with his mother?

What reason for contacting him? Not Fiorella, which would make matters worse.

Fishing? Perhaps, but why? He knew I wasn’t a fisherman.

Such questions tangled in my mind till around five, when I fell asleep. And woke with a jangling start at nine thirty when the postman rang the front door bell. I stumbled downstairs, bleary and dazed. A book I’d ordered online.