strange and floating, like the face of a woman I wonder if I really knew) when she said to me, “I can’t stay with you now, George. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Her eyes more judging than the eyes of any judge I’ve seen in court.
“I can’t be your wife any more . . .”
And I still remember the feeling—until then I hadn’t had it, even if the ground had been opening up—of falling. Just falling, in the way you fall when you know there’s nothing to land on, endlessly falling, the way people must fall in outer space.
I still have dreams of falling, like I used to have then. Everyone’s supposed to have dreams of falling. What dreams does Sarah still have?
Falling. Off the edge, off the cliff of life. But in my dreams, though I fell, I could always see, above me, the point I’d fallen from, as if I wasn’t just falling but always feeling that first sick rush. And there, at the top of the cliff, looking down, would be Dyson, laughing at me. Laughing himself sick. Laughing his fucking head off. He hadn’t even had to push.
And sometimes Dyson would turn into Rachel, who was never laughing at all.
But Helen came home, to visit me, when Rachel was gone, when I was alone in the house—till we sorted out who got what. Before I migrated to Wimbledon. Alone with no job. Helen came just to see if I was all right, to make sure I was looking after myself. She’d look at me and then glance round at the place as if for signs of cracks in the walls.
The strangest thing. This renegade daughter of mine, who used not to waste a chance to make me wince. Now she was turning into the sweet little (but drop the “little”) half-mother of a daughter she’d never been. She’d even toned down the clothes, the hair. She’d finished college by then and had some kind of design job. She was twenty now. Not little at all.
When she left I’d stand at the door (the neighbours, of course, knew: there’d been some changes at number three) and watch her get into the old Renault she’d bought and throw it into gear and give a last wave, and I’d think the obvious and simple thought: she’s a woman now, her own life. But she cares about mine.
I’d watch her tail lights disappear, then turn to go in. Autumn nights, shivery and raw. Smoke in the air. “You don’t see things.” The neighbours knew I was a detective (and who really wants one of them up their street?)—though not any more. So now they were snooping on me.
The feeling of being alone again in the house. Like water flooding into a ship.
She’d even cook meals for me—pretty good meals—as if I never ate. (I drank—she noticed that.) That old wisdom in times of trouble: you’ve got to eat. This was my daughter, Helen. And that’s how it began. My own cooking, my own mugging up on food. (Art too, but food mainly.) Something else they don’t teach you in the Force.
I learnt to cook. First simple stuff, under Helen’s eye (and where did she learn?), and then by myself, in the long empty hours, with the aid and the company of recipe books. Bright cheery photos of food. I decided I had a knack. I moved on to quite challenging stuff.
But, frankly, it kept my life from falling apart. The way a whole day can hinge round a meal. And it was all to please Helen. To prove to her I was really looking after myself.
That’s how the routine began. Helen would turn up one evening a week and I’d cook a meal for her. Three courses, the full works. And I’d set a table nicely: candles, napkins, wine glasses. She was my sole guest—and guinea-pig and judge. But the fact is I impressed her. I out-classed my teacher. She’d even dress up a bit. We’d eat and talk and drink wine.
The best day of the week—the days Helen came. Days that hinged round meals and weeks that hinged round Helen’s visits. I didn’t sleep so much then—that was the time. Though when I did, I dreamt. I fell. Days and nights of being awake at all hours, ready to do a job that
Her eyes more judging than the eyes of any judge I’ve seen in court.
“I can’t be your wife any more . . .”
And I still remember the feeling—until then I hadn’t had it, even if the ground had been opening up—of falling. Just falling, in the way you fall when you know there’s nothing to land on, endlessly falling, the way people must fall in outer space.
I still have dreams of falling, like I used to have then. Everyone’s supposed to have dreams of falling. What dreams does Sarah still have?
Falling. Off the edge, off the cliff of life. But in my dreams, though I fell, I could always see, above me, the point I’d fallen from, as if I wasn’t just falling but always feeling that first sick rush. And there, at the top of the cliff, looking down, would be Dyson, laughing at me. Laughing himself sick. Laughing his fucking head off. He hadn’t even had to push.
And sometimes Dyson would turn into Rachel, who was never laughing at all.
But Helen came home, to visit me, when Rachel was gone, when I was alone in the house—till we sorted out who got what. Before I migrated to Wimbledon. Alone with no job. Helen came just to see if I was all right, to make sure I was looking after myself. She’d look at me and then glance round at the place as if for signs of cracks in the walls.
The strangest thing. This renegade daughter of mine, who used not to waste a chance to make me wince. Now she was turning into the sweet little (but drop the “little”) half-mother of a daughter she’d never been. She’d even toned down the clothes, the hair. She’d finished college by then and had some kind of design job. She was twenty now. Not little at all.
When she left I’d stand at the door (the neighbours, of course, knew: there’d been some changes at number three) and watch her get into the old Renault she’d bought and throw it into gear and give a last wave, and I’d think the obvious and simple thought: she’s a woman now, her own life. But she cares about mine.
I’d watch her tail lights disappear, then turn to go in. Autumn nights, shivery and raw. Smoke in the air. “You don’t see things.” The neighbours knew I was a detective (and who really wants one of them up their street?)—though not any more. So now they were snooping on me.
The feeling of being alone again in the house. Like water flooding into a ship.
She’d even cook meals for me—pretty good meals—as if I never ate. (I drank—she noticed that.) That old wisdom in times of trouble: you’ve got to eat. This was my daughter, Helen. And that’s how it began. My own cooking, my own mugging up on food. (Art too, but food mainly.) Something else they don’t teach you in the Force.
I learnt to cook. First simple stuff, under Helen’s eye (and where did she learn?), and then by myself, in the long empty hours, with the aid and the company of recipe books. Bright cheery photos of food. I decided I had a knack. I moved on to quite challenging stuff.
But, frankly, it kept my life from falling apart. The way a whole day can hinge round a meal. And it was all to please Helen. To prove to her I was really looking after myself.
That’s how the routine began. Helen would turn up one evening a week and I’d cook a meal for her. Three courses, the full works. And I’d set a table nicely: candles, napkins, wine glasses. She was my sole guest—and guinea-pig and judge. But the fact is I impressed her. I out-classed my teacher. She’d even dress up a bit. We’d eat and talk and drink wine.
The best day of the week—the days Helen came. Days that hinged round meals and weeks that hinged round Helen’s visits. I didn’t sleep so much then—that was the time. Though when I did, I dreamt. I fell. Days and nights of being awake at all hours, ready to do a job that
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