cried. Not about
them
—I just found myself thinking about her watering them, and putting that fertilizer stuff on them, and, you know, not her feelings about the sodding plants—she didn’t really have any, as I said—but her
time
, her
being there
, her
life …
I’ll tell you another thing. After she’s gone to work, the first thing I do is take out my diary and write down everything she’s got on. Shoes, tights, dress, bra, knickers, raincoat, hair-grip, rings. What colour. Everything. Often it’s the same, of course, but I still write it down. And then occasionally, throughout the day, I take out my diary and look it up. I don’t try and memorize what she’s looking like—that’d be cheating. I get out my diary—sometimes when I’m teaching and pretend to be thinking about essay titles or something—and I sit there, sort of dressing her. It’s very … nice.
‘I’ll tell you another thing. I always clear the table after dinner. I go through to the kitchen, and I scrape my plate off into the kitchen bin, and then I suddenly find myself eating whatever she’s left on hers. Often, you know, it isn’t anything particularly nice—bits of fat and discoloured vegetables and sausage gristle—but I just scoff it. And then I go back and sit down opposite her, and I find myself thinking about our stomachs, about how whatever I’ve just eaten might easily have been inside her, but’s inside me instead. I think, what an odd moment it must have been for that food,when the knife came down and the fork pushed it this way rather than that, and instead of lying inside you it’s lying inside me. And that sort of makes me feel closer to Ann.
‘And I’ll tell you another thing. Sometimes, she gets up in the night and has a pee, and it’s dark and she’s half asleep and she somehow—God knows how she does it, but she does—she misses the bowl with the piece of paper she dries herself with. And I’ll go in there in the morning and find it lying on the floor. And—it’s not knicker-sniffing or anything like that—I sort of look at it and I feel … soft. It’s like one of those paper flowers that bad comedians wear in their buttonholes. It seems pretty, and colourful, and decorative. I could almost wear it in
my
buttonhole. I pick it up and shove it back in the bowl, but I feel sentimental afterwards.’
There was a silence. The two friends looked across at each other. Jack sensed a belligerence in Graham; the confession somehow managed to be aggressive. Perhaps too there was a touch of self-satisfaction about the recital. Jack felt almost embarrassed—so rare an occurrence that he began reflecting on his own internal condition rather than Graham’s. Suddenly he became aware that his friend had stood up.
‘Well, thanks, Jack.’
‘Glad to be of any. If I was. Next time you need to give the old psychocouch a pounding just give me a buzz.’
‘Yes I will. Thanks again.’
The front door was shut. Each had gone about five yards, in opposite directions, when they both paused. Jack paused while he gave a little pivot, a sort of fly-half’s side-step in the middle of the hall. He farted, not very noisily, and commented to himself,
‘Gone With the Wind.’
Outside, Graham paused, sniffed the dusty privet and the overflowing dustbins, and made a decision. If he cut out going to the good butcher, and did all his shopping at the supermarket, he could slip into
The Good Times
on his way home and catch Ann committing adultery again.
FOUR
Sansepolcro, Poggibonsi
And then it began to spread.
One evening in late March they were sitting over a map of Italy and discussing their holiday. Side by side on the bench at the kitchen table: Graham had an arm loosely dangled round Ann’s shoulder. It was a comforting, marital arm, a tranquil parody of Jack’s urgent, front-row forward’s limb. Just looking at a map despatched Graham’s mind on suave imaginings; he remembered how holidays made each old,
them
—I just found myself thinking about her watering them, and putting that fertilizer stuff on them, and, you know, not her feelings about the sodding plants—she didn’t really have any, as I said—but her
time
, her
being there
, her
life …
I’ll tell you another thing. After she’s gone to work, the first thing I do is take out my diary and write down everything she’s got on. Shoes, tights, dress, bra, knickers, raincoat, hair-grip, rings. What colour. Everything. Often it’s the same, of course, but I still write it down. And then occasionally, throughout the day, I take out my diary and look it up. I don’t try and memorize what she’s looking like—that’d be cheating. I get out my diary—sometimes when I’m teaching and pretend to be thinking about essay titles or something—and I sit there, sort of dressing her. It’s very … nice.
‘I’ll tell you another thing. I always clear the table after dinner. I go through to the kitchen, and I scrape my plate off into the kitchen bin, and then I suddenly find myself eating whatever she’s left on hers. Often, you know, it isn’t anything particularly nice—bits of fat and discoloured vegetables and sausage gristle—but I just scoff it. And then I go back and sit down opposite her, and I find myself thinking about our stomachs, about how whatever I’ve just eaten might easily have been inside her, but’s inside me instead. I think, what an odd moment it must have been for that food,when the knife came down and the fork pushed it this way rather than that, and instead of lying inside you it’s lying inside me. And that sort of makes me feel closer to Ann.
‘And I’ll tell you another thing. Sometimes, she gets up in the night and has a pee, and it’s dark and she’s half asleep and she somehow—God knows how she does it, but she does—she misses the bowl with the piece of paper she dries herself with. And I’ll go in there in the morning and find it lying on the floor. And—it’s not knicker-sniffing or anything like that—I sort of look at it and I feel … soft. It’s like one of those paper flowers that bad comedians wear in their buttonholes. It seems pretty, and colourful, and decorative. I could almost wear it in
my
buttonhole. I pick it up and shove it back in the bowl, but I feel sentimental afterwards.’
There was a silence. The two friends looked across at each other. Jack sensed a belligerence in Graham; the confession somehow managed to be aggressive. Perhaps too there was a touch of self-satisfaction about the recital. Jack felt almost embarrassed—so rare an occurrence that he began reflecting on his own internal condition rather than Graham’s. Suddenly he became aware that his friend had stood up.
‘Well, thanks, Jack.’
‘Glad to be of any. If I was. Next time you need to give the old psychocouch a pounding just give me a buzz.’
‘Yes I will. Thanks again.’
The front door was shut. Each had gone about five yards, in opposite directions, when they both paused. Jack paused while he gave a little pivot, a sort of fly-half’s side-step in the middle of the hall. He farted, not very noisily, and commented to himself,
‘Gone With the Wind.’
Outside, Graham paused, sniffed the dusty privet and the overflowing dustbins, and made a decision. If he cut out going to the good butcher, and did all his shopping at the supermarket, he could slip into
The Good Times
on his way home and catch Ann committing adultery again.
FOUR
Sansepolcro, Poggibonsi
And then it began to spread.
One evening in late March they were sitting over a map of Italy and discussing their holiday. Side by side on the bench at the kitchen table: Graham had an arm loosely dangled round Ann’s shoulder. It was a comforting, marital arm, a tranquil parody of Jack’s urgent, front-row forward’s limb. Just looking at a map despatched Graham’s mind on suave imaginings; he remembered how holidays made each old,
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