Jam (26 page)

‘Manage it?'

‘Sorry. That doesn't sound very romantic.' She paused. ‘I miss you.'

‘Perhaps you're right,' he said. ‘Cold turkey is the only way.'

There was a pause.

‘You're sure about this? There'll be no going back.'

‘I . . . there just isn't any other way.'

‘This is so sad.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Don't be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. In fact, you did too much that was right.'

‘I'm sorry it has to end like this,' said Max. ‘It feels so unnatural. It's so cruel how love singled us out like this. It just feels so . . . right. But it's not. It's wrong. Or is it? Oh God, I don't know. I'm sorry.'

‘Don't apologise,' she said. ‘It's just . . . this is the way the universe is.'

‘You're right,' said Max. ‘I think you're right.' Another pause. ‘Well, goodbye, then,' he said, his voice sounding, he thought, like the voice of a child.

The line went dead.

Max stood still for a moment, then sat heavily on a tree stump. He pressed his fists to his eyes. What had he done? What had he done? This had been the most beautiful thing that had happened to him. And now he had ended it? Just as it was entering its prime? For the sake of what – duty? Some vow he had
made years ago, on the basis of a relic of a relationship? Was this what it meant to be alive? To deny oneself happiness for the sake of an echo of a promise, that was made in such a different time? Did he not owe it to himself, to Ursula, to be honest and acknowledge that happiness lay elsewhere? That they were millstones round each other's necks?

Why had he been so narrow in his thinking? Were there not so many other possibilities? That he was in love with both women, but in different ways? That the force of lust actually belied a deeper truth of love? That for a man to be fully satisfied with his wife, he must also have the indulgence of a mistress? That for a wife to be fully attended to by her husband, he must have the indulgence of a mistress? The possibility of leaving Ursula for Nicole? The chance that this encounter with Nicole had represented a forking path; that if he were to part ways with Ursula, although profoundly painful and traumatic, they would both end up with better lives in the end?

But what about Carly?

At the touch of his thick thumb, the phone lit up. He scrolled down to Nicole's number. In his mind's eye he could see a vision of an ocean-going boat moving slowly away from the shore; the gap was narrow enough to be leaped, but it was widening all the time. His thumb hovered above the call button. It lowered towards it, but did not make contact. Then, just as he was screwing up his courage, and his eyes, and readying himself to throw caution to the winds, to try to reclaim what he had lost, his phone buzzed in his hand. A text message. He opened it. From Nicole. No text, just a picture; her in her underwear, a half-smile playing across her lips, hair tousled sexily from sleep, sitting on the side of a bath. And he knew.

Methodically, he deleted first her picture; then her messages; then her contact number (which he had saved under ‘Nick'). At the press of a button, the phone went dark.

He closed his eyes, turned his face into the breeze. For a long time he sat like this, as the ocean-going ship moved off into the
waters, further, further. Almost out of sight. Out of sight. My heart is down, my head is turning around, I had to leave a little girl in Kingston town. Now there was only himself; his body; the feeling of the breeze on his skin; the trees around him like sarcophagi; the night. How simple life really was, and how complicated desire made it. He felt, suddenly, like a boy again, as if the gift of innocence had been returned to him. For the first time in a long time, he wanted to buy Ursula some extravagant present, to take her away for a long weekend to the most expensive hotel he could find. He wanted to be near her. He wanted to take her in his arms, whisper how much he really loved her, make love to her. He got to his feet, vertiginous at the narrowness of his escape. The future rose up before him.

When Max emerged from the copse, he saw that the fog had cleared. Below him the traffic jam stretched, coiled, vanished. He could see people running about on the opposite side of the road. He could see lorries, vans, a bewildering variety of cars. His eyes, however, came to rest on one vehicle. Unremarkable to most, remarkable to him. I am a lucky man, he thought.

The visitor

Harold, at the wheel of his camper van, had lost his concentration again. He had already abandoned his reading, changed into his pyjamas and attempted to sleep on the sofa in the back; but he couldn't sleep, not like this. So he had put on his dressing gown and gone back to the driver's seat to resume his study, but it was three o'clock, he was tired and couldn't concentrate. What else to do? Both sleep and study were closed to him. Frustrated, he ballooned his bearded cheeks. There was a quotation, he thought, wasn't there? (There usually was.) Something about how discipline is nothing more than remembering what you want. He had a head like a sieve these days, particularly when it came to little bits of trivia like this. That was the ageing process, he supposed; it robbed one of one's capacities, beginning from the outer reaches and creeping gradually to the core, but offered in exchange the gift of contentment (albeit which usually preceded, in one's ultimate dotage, silliness. If not something worse). Young people, he thought, had no access to true contentment, for in that fiery period of one's life, which lasts perhaps until the age of forty, it is necessary to strive after various goals. Thereafter, whatever the levels of one's achievement, one begins to take one's foot off the accelerator and enjoy what one has. And one has other things to deal with at that time, anyway. The paying back of mortgages. The breakdown of relationships. The old age and death of parents. (That final, horrible event drives home the fact that the family tree is being gradually pollarded, and that oneself is now ripe for the plucking at the top. Is it possible to be termed accurately an orphan at the age of sixty-three?)

But now, lacking discipline, he had nodded off again. He awoke and looked, bewilderedly, about him. The camper van. Ah yes, the traffic jam. Still hasn't moved! His paper was lying curled in the shadows of the footwell. He took a minute to allow his consciousness to right itself. Waking up, he had often thought, should be like getting out of the bath. It should be done slowly and gradually so as not to shock the system. His body felt profoundly limp, as if only part of him had awoken. He moved his arms, made a few gentle attempts to brush some stray crumbs of Mr Kipling's cake from his stomach. For a moment he felt lighter than air. Then the old solidity seeped back. This wasn't just about three o'clock in the morning. These days he could never tell when he was going to nod off.

It was then that Harold noticed a ghostly figure outside the window. He gave a start, peered closer. It had one hand raised in greeting, like the drawings that Man sent into space for the benefit of aliens in the Seventies. But this was no man. It was clear, even in this light – and even with the fog's misty tentacles at the van window – that this was a woman.

With some effort he wound the window down, rubbing his eyes.

‘Sorry,' said Hsiao May from the cold, from the darkness. ‘I saw you were still up and I thought, well, you know. If we both can't sleep.'

‘Aye, right enough,' said Harold, blinking with recognition. ‘Come in. I'm so glad, I'm so glad. Let's have a cup of tea. Round the back. I'll let you in.'

She hoisted her cool bag over her shoulder and made her way round the old-fashioned lozenge of goodness. So far, so good, she thought; she was feeling tired, and rather tense, and was finding eye contact awkward, but that was only to be expected, and on the scale of things her anxiety levels were negligible. Once she got into the vehicle, she thought, she'd be OK. This camper van seemed to speak to her of everything that was
wholesome in life. Hers was an existence in which affairs of the intellect overshadowed this world and all its pleasures. So, when she came across something like this – something so impractical, so joyful, whose sole purpose was to create a little simple happiness – she was charmed.

Through the back windows she could see Harold silhouetted against the desolate motorway, listing awkwardly as he clambered between the seats and neatened his dressing gown. She smiled. He sat heavily on one of the sofas and shunted along sideways, puffing like a steam train, stimulating in her an overwhelming affection for him, this man she knew only in passing. The fact that he would put himself in the position of such interminable awkwardness, such downright impracticality, for the sake of pootling around the country at fifty miles per hour in a charming old, clanking old, cramped old machine! Straining, he reached over and opened the door.

Inside, the atmosphere was highly private and personal; everything was laid out precisely, everything was in its place. And, Hsiao May noticed, a great deal of thought had been put in to ensuring that nothing would fall over when the camper van went round corners. She put her cool bag carefully on the sofa and sat down. It was bobbled, springy, spongy. Harold busied himself with the preparations for tea, glancing back at her occasionally, holding his head at an angle as if it were horribly stiff, talking over his shoulder.

‘What's in the bag?' he asked. ‘Did you come bearing gifts?'

‘Diet Coke mainly,' Hsiao May replied. ‘But there are some snacks as well, yes.'

‘Oh goody. What've you got?'

‘Let's have some tea first. Then we'll see.'

‘It all sounds very mysterious.'

‘It is very mysterious. But it will be worth the wait.'

‘My dear, I . . . I'm so ashamed to admit this, but I'm finding this happening more and more these days. Would you mind just reminding me of your name?'

‘Please don't worry. Happens to me all the time. It's Hsiao May.'

‘Of course, of course. I'm getting so scatty these days. It doesn't really happen at your age, does it?'

‘It's so amazing that you can make tea in here. It's the perfect traffic jam vehicle.'

‘Aye, the old girl's not bad. Not bad at all.'

‘Can you cook? Is there a stove? A fridge?'

‘Oh yes. One could live one's entire life in this tin can.'

‘Is there a bed?'

‘Of course. One couldn't live without a bed.'

‘Do you ever sleep in here?'

‘All the time. But don't worry, it's very tidy. The bed folds away. It's in character as a sofa at the moment.'

‘Sorry, I'm just really fascinated by . . . I've never been in a camper van before. It's just so wonderfully practical.'

‘That's a matter of opinion. But it's certainly fun.'

‘Don't those flowers fall over?'

‘No, they're screwed down.'

‘Screwed down?'

‘Yes. Don't worry, I've done it very subtly. At least, as subtly as I possibly could.'

The sound of water gushing into the kettle gave them both an opportunity to collect their thoughts. How peaceful it was in this van, thought Hsiao May. The littlest sounds complimenting the quietude so perfectly. It reminded her of something from her childhood, something she could not quite pin down.

‘So,' said Harold as they waited for the tea to boil. ‘What brings you to this neck of the woods?'

‘I'm going to stay with my sister,' Hsiao May replied. ‘I'm flying to America tomorrow.'

‘Really? How exciting. Business or pleasure?'

‘Business. Pleasure. Well, both actually. I'm attending a conference.'

‘I like that. Let me guess. Insects?'

‘Good guess.'

‘It was elementary, my dear Watson.'

‘What about you?'

‘Me? I've just been for a wee bumble down to Cornwall and back. Taking a circuitous route, you know, for the long weekend. I find it therapeutic.'

‘I think that's lovely.'

‘It is. Very soothing.'

‘And you're English?'

‘English? I'm sorry?'

‘Your discipline.'

‘Oh no, I'm a historian.'

‘Which period?'

‘Modern history. Britain and Europe mainly.'

‘I study grasshoppers.'

That was an awkward segue, she thought.

‘Is that so?' he said. ‘How fascinating.'

‘Do you think so?'

‘Absolutely I do. I've always, ever since I was a boy, found insects utterly fascinating.'

Her heart warmed. ‘Me too,' she said. ‘I think all children are fascinated by insects. Digging them up, creating farms and colonies, pulling the wings off, eating them. But somewhere along the line we get conditioned out of it. Like drawing.'

‘There's not enough wonder in the world any more, is there?'

‘There is. But not enough people are interested in it.'

‘Aye, you're right there.'

The kettle started to boil.

‘Odd, isn't it?' said Harold. ‘Making tea at three in the morning on the M25.'

‘Yes, very odd. It's quite eerie too. All these cars. I'm very glad of the company.'

‘Me too.'

The kettle whistled now, and Harold allowed it get good and loud before removing it from the flame. Then, slowly,
deliberately, he went through the process: mugs, teabags, brew, brew, teaspoon, squeeze and hoist, dump, milk, unscrew, little dash, little dash, lid back on, stir, stir.

‘Sugar?'

‘Thank you, no.'

‘You're sure?'

‘No thanks.'

Stir again, a piece of kitchen roll – rip – mop up the drops, align the handles, steam, a little smile.

‘There,' he said, ‘we're ready.'

He handed a mug carefully to Hsiao May.

‘That was very . . . focused.'

‘What was?'