If Nobody Speaks of Remarkable Things

I stood there looking at it, hypnotised, I left the front door open and the lights off and I looked at the small green light, blinking in the dark.

I wondered if my mother had called, if she’d had time to think and wanted to say now that she wasn’t angry or upset, that she was glad I had told her and could she maybe come and visit soon?

I wondered if it was my dad, telling me to be okay, saying that my mother felt these things but found it hard to say them, saying she loves you as much as I do you know.

And I watched the light, on, off, on, off, like a persistent knocking at a closed door, I stood closer but somehow I couldn’t press the button marked listen.

I had a sudden idea that my parents had called some people in Scotland, had somehow tracked down the boy who worked at the place where they’d held the wake, had given him my number and told him to call me.

I imagined his rich voice, made thin and brittle by the wires and the machine, bursting suddenly into my flat, saying something like hello well it’s been a wee while hasn’t it how are you.

I wondered what that sound would do to me, if I would recoil or rise up, if whether inside me, somewhere beneath my heart, something would flutter and jerk in recognition.

I remembered the words I had said to Michael, and I wondered if I could say them again, in response, if I could say I’m sorry but it was just a thing that happened, it wasn’t anything, it was just a thing.

And then I looked at the small green light and I thought of Michael’s brother, and I imagined his quiet voice hesitating out of the machine.

I imagined Michael having been in touch with him, saying I’ve met her, telling him that I’d said I’d like to meet him one day.

I imagined him by a public telephone, somewhere on the other side of the world, pacing around it, reaching and withdrawing his hand like an uncertain chess player.

I wondered what he would say, I wondered what I would say if he called again and I spoke to him.

I thought maybe I would ask him about the pictures Michael showed me, the things he’d collected and hoarded, I could ask him why he had them all, if they meant anything.

And I thought I could ask him about the broken figure, what it was, where it had come from, how it had got broken, I thought these would be things we could talk about.

And, of course, I wanted to talk to him about that afternoon, that moment, I wanted to share the remembering of it, I thought somehow he wouldn’t be someone who would say actually can we talk about something else now.

I pressed the button, and the machine said you have one messages, first message, and I listened.

There was a pause, the tiny half-kiss sound of someone opening their mouth to speak, the hard jolt of a phone being put down.

I listened to it a few times, listening for clues, guessing, rationalising.

It was a wrong number, a mistake.

Or it was Sarah, wondering whether to come round, she was just passing, it didn’t seem worth leaving a message.

That pause, short and huge, not even the sound of breathing, no background noise, no movement in the room.

And that half-kiss, the lips parting, no sound passing through them, no air passing through them, just the opening of the mouth and the clatter of the closed phone.

It was nothing, it wasn’t anyone, it was just kids, bored, phoning numbers at random, this was how I made it okay, it was just one of those things.

But I had wanted it to be him, this barely known neighbour calling from some other country, saying something like, my brother said, I wondered, I could come back soon, if you like.

It’s not that I want him, I don’t picture myself lying in bed beside him, I wasn’t listening to that sound and hoping to taste it, I just, I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to know, I wanted to say thankyou and sorry.

But it was not him, it was no one, and I went to bed and thought about the people I know and the people I don’t know and all the people in between, and it took me a long time to sleep.

Chapter 29

The man with the scarred hands eases out of his doorway, he sits down on the step and leans back against the damp doorframe, he is looking at the dark shine of the tarmac and he is thinking about the shine of his wife’s hair.

He is trying not to, it is difficult.

He remembers a time, in the early months soon after they were married and they had very little money, and his wife allowed him to cut her hair.