This Isn't the Sort of Thing That Happens to Someone Like You

The sun was out for a minute, and the sea was shining, but there was another shower coming in. I started filling the mop bucket, and turned a couple of chairs over. She started getting all her bags together. She shook her head a few times, as if she was annoyed with something.

‘Listen to me going on,’ she said. The way she says it, it sounds like that’s really what she means. What she wants. But I had things to be getting on with.

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Gainsborough

She wouldn’t tell Patricia. She’d decided that before even saying goodbye, before she’d stood there and listened to his footsteps crunch away through the gravel. What was there to tell anyway. It was only talking.

And he’d approached her first. When they were standing in the reception room, holding their information leaflets and waiting for the tour of the Imperial Palace to begin. You’re English right, he’d said, and she’d nodded, and he’d asked if they might swap cameras for the morning, for the duration of the tour. Which she hadn’t understood straight away. He wanted his picture taken, he’d explained, with his camera, and he wanted to return the favour. Which was no sort of favour at all because she didn’t like being in her own holiday photos. She knew what she looked like.

It’ll save us swapping back and forth every time, he’d said.

It had seemed rude to say no, once he’d asked. And there had been other people standing there, other people he could have asked, but he’d asked her. Which was something.

He was in Japan for three weeks, he’d told her. Tokyo, Kyoto, Osaka. The whole shebang. Spending his army pension, because he figured what the hey it’s just sitting there and he happened to have this time on his hands. He was between jobs, he said, smiling in a way which was surprising for such a big man. Boyish was the word she thought of, although she didn’t think he was any younger than her. Ex-US Army Engineers, so he’d seen a few countries in his time but had never been to Japan, always wanted to. Been working in a repair shop the last few years, welding, but the work had dried up. Living in Duluth, Minnesota, which when you figured all the countries he’d been through it was funny how it wasn’t a million miles from where he’d started out. Good place to be, and it was handy for where his kids lived now.

He’d told her all this before the tour had even started, and in return she’d told him that she was a school secretary from Gainsborough, Lincolnshire – like the artist, she’d said, although it’s no oil painting, and she’d been surprised when he laughed – and that she was only here for a week. He’d done more of the talking, it was fair to say.

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sp; And when they’d introduced themselves, just as the tour began, he’d held out his hand for her to shake. Which she hadn’t been expecting. He had a very large hand. He was really quite a large man, he looked sort of like a rugby player or something and she could see even from where she was standing that none of it was fat. Shaking hands with him had made her feel sort of petite. Which she certainly wasn’t used to.

Wade, he’d said. Elizabeth, she’d replied.

That room though. If they were going to have that many people waiting in there for the tours to begin, they should have had a fan or something. Air-conditioning. It was too hot, really. Close.

He’d asked her to take the first picture almost immediately, as the group was walking across the great expanse of white gravel, the crunch of their footsteps swallowed up by the hot, still air. He’d been asking where else she was visiting while she was here, if she’d been out of Kyoto at all, and she’d said yes, there were day trips organised as part of the package she was on: to Nara, Himeji, Hiroshima. She’d felt awkward mentioning Hiroshima, as if he might have felt some kind of association. Oh yeah, he’d said, I went to Hiroshima, day before last. That was something else. Awesome. And he’d made this long, loud sigh, as if he was trying to clear stale air from his lungs. Not really a fun trip, but you kind of have to, he’d said, looking at her. Waiting for her agreement, which she’d happily given, nodding and saying oh absolutely I think so. Which was when he’d looked round at the first of the palace buildings and suggested getting a picture right there, standing and framing himself against it while she lifted his camera to her face.

And if she does tell someone about this when she gets home, not Patricia but someone at least, she’ll say that this was when she first noticed, properly, what he looked like. There was the moustache, of course, and the sheer solid size of the man. But there was something else, something soft and quiet in his face and his eyes, something that contrasted with his loud talk and his oversized hands. It was nice, looking at him like that through the viewfinder.

They’d changed places then, as the rest of the group moved away, and she’d felt her already flushed face colour further as he’d looked at her through her camera, and wished she’d been wearing a different outfit. Something cooler. Something less pink. And something other than that pair of trousers. Patricia had told her before that they didn’t work – they don’t do anything to help with your size is all I’m saying, she’d said, the only time Elizabeth had worn them in the office – but she’d got up in a hurry that morning and they were the first thing that had come to hand, and the whole outfit had looked nice in the air-conditioned hotel room, had looked cool and elegant and English-roseish. But now, standing for a picture she didn’t want taken anyway, she just felt hot, and pink, and fat. And so why did she even think he might have been interested. She wasn’t seventeen any more. Not by a long way.

The tour guide had already started by the time they’d caught up with the rest of the group. His Imperial Majesty would arrive from long journey in ox-drawn carriage, she was saying, pronouncing ox-der-awn-car-riage very precisely, as if it was essential that they understood. She described the entrance building behind her, with its low flight of steps and receding series of empty rooms lined with painted silk screens and tatami-mat floors.

She’d felt Wade nudging her. How d’you find life in Gainsborrow? he’d whispered. She’d been a bit embarrassed that he was talking while the guide was talking, but still.

It’s Gainsborough, she’d whispered back, and he’d put his hand over his mouth and made an apologetic face, which was nice that he thought it was important. Sorry, he’d whispered; how’s life in Gains-bor-ough, splitting the word up the way the tour guide had done with ox-drawn carriage, which was maybe a bit mean but very funny as well the way he did it, and so then it had been her turn to put her hand over her mouth, to hide her laughter. It’s not bad, she’d said, it’s not the centre of the universe but it’s a nice place to live. He’d held up his hands when she’d said that. Hey, he’d whispered, we can’t all live in the centre of the universe, can we? It’d be a bit crowded if we did; and that had made her laugh again, and this time one or two people had turned around to look.

They’d clicked very quickly, that was the thing. That was something else that was new.

So, the guide had said then; please now to the Oi-ke-ni-wa Garden. And everyone had turned and followed her across the gravel, except that by some silent agreement Wade and Elizabeth had waited and lagged a short way behind.

Wade and Elizabeth. It had a ring to it, but what was she thinking.

She’d asked him if he liked living in Minnesota, and he’d said, sure it was fine, it was home, and he’d mentioned again that it was good to be near to his kids. He’d asked her if she enjoyed being a school secretary, and she’d said she supposed there were worse jobs she could be doing. He’d laughed, and said that was true enough, and she’d asked about his children. You mentioned your children were nearby, she’d said: are they at university or something? Surprising herself even as she said it, because she didn’t always find small talk easy but this time she had. Which had made her think.

He’d looked at her, and she’d realised straight away that she’d missed the point. No, he’d said, they’re too young for that just yet. They’re living with their mother.

She could have died. Right there. Really.

Oh, she’d said. I’m sorry. I didn’t think.

No, it’s okay, he’d said. It was a while ago now. These things happen, you know how it is. He’d made a face, a sort of knowing frown, as if to say I’d rather not go into details but I’m sure you can guess. She wasn’t sure that she could. The thing kind of got out of hand in the end, he’d said. The moment had kind of passed. She nodded slowly, in a way which she hoped looked like sympathetic recognition. You got children? he asked.

No, she said, no I haven’t.

He looked like he was waiting for her to add something, but she didn’t. Because what would she have said. Because what else was there to say.