He waited a while, and caught his reflection in the window. Pale cheeks, their hollows accentuated by the artificial shadows of the plate glass. Monochromatic eyes, and calmly crossed hands.
He watched the reflection of a man over his shoulder sifting through the morning papers.
A waitress brought him his coffee. She had slim white hands, folded like a birds wings round the small white cup He tilted his head and smiled briefly.
Thanks.
A spray of salt had been cast across the table. He looked at it for a moment, then wiped it off with his thumb.
He looked at his thumb and the small grains that were left between the ridges of skin. He looked at the whorls of his thumb, turning it this way and that, then raised it to his lips and pressed the salt into the skin.
The door to his right opened, and she walked in. He tensed involuntarily, and shifted his weight on the chic cane chair to face her. She smiled at him, like a thin ray of sunlight breaking through a rank of nimbus, and then it was gone.
Hello, John.
Susan. Hi.
He half-rose, and felt an impulse to shake her hand. He stifled it.
She sat opposite him, and her eyes quickly fell. Without raising them from the menu – laminated, smeared with the sebum of fingers and stained with tea and coffee drips - she parted her lips to speak.
How have you been?
His cup was raised to his lips. He concentrated on the slow movement of the heat currents as the coffee coiled and uncoiled in his cup. He realized she had spoken.
Hm. Sorry.
I said, how have you been? How are you?
Good. Good. Thanks. Yourself.
Oh, fine. Fine. Just got back from Waitrose. Took a little longer than expected I’m afraid. Car’s double-parked - a micro-glance to her watch - I’d better make this quick.
Waitrose. How we all change.
She laughed quickly, but there was a coolness spun through it. She breathed out, and even here, inside, there was a faint mist.
She looked up and past him. She rested her chin on her palm, with her elbow propped upon the table, her eyes seemingly scanning the chalk board above the bar for specials and prices.
How’s Lydia?
He straightened his back. Lydia. He breathed out, and words followed them quickly.
How could she possibly be any different from when you saw her yesterday? Her hair has grown slightly, I imagine she’s less stressed then she was at...
He checked his watch. Probably around six o’clock, he conceded.
How have you been?
His cup was raised to his lips. He concentrated on the slow movement of the heat currents as the coffee coiled and uncoiled in his cup. He realized she had spoken.
Hm. Sorry.
I said, how have you been? How are you?
Good. Good. Thanks. Yourself.
Oh, fine. Fine. Just got back from Waitrose. Took a little longer than expected I’m afraid. Car’s double-parked - a micro-glance to her watch - I’d better make this quick.
Waitrose. How we all change.
She laughed quickly, but there was a coolness spun through it. She breathed out, and even here, inside, there was a faint mist.
She looked up and past him. She rested her chin on her palm, with her elbow propped upon the table, her eyes seemingly scanning the chalk board above the bar for specials and prices.
How’s Lydia?
He straightened his back. Lydia. He breathed out, and words followed them quickly.
How could she possibly be any different from when you saw her yesterday? Her hair has grown slightly, I imagine she’s less stressed then she was at...
He checked his watch. Probably around six o’clock, he conceded.
... Sixish yesterday, considering that it’s the weekend and she had her art class last night, which you knew anyway. She’s gone to Bristol today, but I imagine she told you.
There’s no need to get angry.
I’m not angry.
No need to snap then.
I didn’t snap.
She looked downwards again, and her eyes were still. She raised the index finger of her right hand to order, and leaned her head to one side.
The waitress took her order, then withdrew.
Susan smiled brightly.
There’s no need to get angry.
I’m not angry.
No need to snap then.
I didn’t snap.
She looked downwards again, and her eyes were still. She raised the index finger of her right hand to order, and leaned her head to one side.
The waitress took her order, then withdrew.
Susan smiled brightly.
So. Bristol.
Yes. Oh, her sister lives there. Her and her husband have just moved house, so she’s gone to have a snoop around.
Yes. Oh, her sister lives there. Her and her husband have just moved house, so she’s gone to have a snoop around.
Oh, I see. She looked well yesterday anyway. She’s enjoying her art class I take it?
The waitress returned with a cup of espresso. Vapour danced from the cup and joined the clouds of steam in the room. He sighed.
You know she is. And yes, I believe it was aboriginal art last night. Pointillist. Aranda drawings of armadillos and dugongs and fucking ostriches and so on. She says it calms her down. She’s become quite – he waved his hand dismissively - spiritual.
Oh, dear. I can’t imagine you approve of that much.
And he laughed. It was a small laugh, pointed skywards. It felt good.
No, not particularly. But she has her interests and that’s fine with me.
She smiled gently across the table at him. Their eyes met briefly.
You don’t even get ostriches in Australia, John, much less fucking ones.
That smile again, this time angled towards the door. But he felt its warmth.
No, I suppose not.
They sipped their coffee. The coffee machine coughed behind his back.
How’s James.
Hmm?
James. How is he.
Oh, good. Very good. Bought a new car on the weekend.
BMW?
And she laughed. All the frost was gone from it.
Oh, you think he’s a BMW man, do you? Well, you’re wrong – it’s a Lexus. Hybrid.
I bet it is.
She rolled her eyes and tried not to smile. She failed in that, at least. His bones stiffened and his face flushed.
The waitress returned with a cup of espresso. Vapour danced from the cup and joined the clouds of steam in the room. He sighed.
You know she is. And yes, I believe it was aboriginal art last night. Pointillist. Aranda drawings of armadillos and dugongs and fucking ostriches and so on. She says it calms her down. She’s become quite – he waved his hand dismissively - spiritual.
Oh, dear. I can’t imagine you approve of that much.
And he laughed. It was a small laugh, pointed skywards. It felt good.
No, not particularly. But she has her interests and that’s fine with me.
She smiled gently across the table at him. Their eyes met briefly.
You don’t even get ostriches in Australia, John, much less fucking ones.
That smile again, this time angled towards the door. But he felt its warmth.
No, I suppose not.
They sipped their coffee. The coffee machine coughed behind his back.
How’s James.
Hmm?
James. How is he.
Oh, good. Very good. Bought a new car on the weekend.
BMW?
And she laughed. All the frost was gone from it.
Oh, you think he’s a BMW man, do you? Well, you’re wrong – it’s a Lexus. Hybrid.
I bet it is.
She rolled her eyes and tried not to smile. She failed in that, at least. His bones stiffened and his face flushed.
Paid up front? He doesn’t look like a man who does instalments.
If you must know, yes.
She crossed her arms, and peered down at her right elbow, her head nestled into her shoulder again like a bird. She took hold of her cup and raised it to her lips.
How thin her fingers are. She drinks so little now. Fast little swallows, head tilted back. Like a bird.
She eats like a bird too. A little less every day.
She looked up.
You don’t look well, John.
Kind of you to say so.
I - know you’ve been there. The nurses told me. Every day, they say.
‘They’ did, did they?
Yes.
She glanced down at the menu again. There was a line drawn long ago, and it had grown so faint it had almost ceased to be visible. Perhaps it didn’t need to be. His breath tightened.
You’re very brave, you know.
No, he told himself. I’m not. I do go there every day, it’s true. But thank God for nurses’ lack of detail. ‘Every day’ isn’t quite right.
She pushed one arm across the table, and left her hand neutral in the centre. He could hold it, if he wanted to.
You don’t have to do this alone.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop.
I’m just saying –
No, you’re not, he told himself. You’re trying to make yourself feel better and that’s fine, because you’re brave. I don’t go to the hospital every day, I go there every night, and I sit outside her room under a bare bulb on a blue plastic chair and I listen to the cleaners use the floor-waxing machine and I scud my heels on the PVC floor and drag them back and forth to make little squeaking noises and little black lines on the floor and I read all the notices and sometimes I fall asleep when the janitors have gone and when I forget who I am. I am not brave. I’m a coward. I am scared. And I can’t tell you.
He cut her off.
- I understand, and it’s fine. I’m fine.
She studied his face, the blue of her eyes impassive over his jaw-line.
He turned away and crossed his legs. She opened her lips slightly, the shut them again. The unformed words retreated. She coughed quietly, and spoke.
John... you should go and see her. This afternoon. It’s getting late.
Why.
Why? Because. Because you - have to – make – time for her now. She needs her father.
With her faltering words, he shut his eyes. The fuck did she know about needing her father. She would have seen her father sitting opposite, more grey and corpselike than his daughter, wringing his hands through the night on the blue plastic chair that had become his second home. She wouldn't have seen her mother much, who visited once in the evening and seemed to have already let go.
Yes.
She glanced down at the menu again. There was a line drawn long ago, and it had grown so faint it had almost ceased to be visible. Perhaps it didn’t need to be. His breath tightened.
You’re very brave, you know.
No, he told himself. I’m not. I do go there every day, it’s true. But thank God for nurses’ lack of detail. ‘Every day’ isn’t quite right.
She pushed one arm across the table, and left her hand neutral in the centre. He could hold it, if he wanted to.
You don’t have to do this alone.
Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop.
I’m just saying –
No, you’re not, he told himself. You’re trying to make yourself feel better and that’s fine, because you’re brave. I don’t go to the hospital every day, I go there every night, and I sit outside her room under a bare bulb on a blue plastic chair and I listen to the cleaners use the floor-waxing machine and I scud my heels on the PVC floor and drag them back and forth to make little squeaking noises and little black lines on the floor and I read all the notices and sometimes I fall asleep when the janitors have gone and when I forget who I am. I am not brave. I’m a coward. I am scared. And I can’t tell you.
He cut her off.
- I understand, and it’s fine. I’m fine.
She studied his face, the blue of her eyes impassive over his jaw-line.
He turned away and crossed his legs. She opened her lips slightly, the shut them again. The unformed words retreated. She coughed quietly, and spoke.
John... you should go and see her. This afternoon. It’s getting late.
Why.
Why? Because. Because you - have to – make – time for her now. She needs her father.
With her faltering words, he shut his eyes. The fuck did she know about needing her father. She would have seen her father sitting opposite, more grey and corpselike than his daughter, wringing his hands through the night on the blue plastic chair that had become his second home. She wouldn't have seen her mother much, who visited once in the evening and seemed to have already let go.
When he opened them her hand was clasped round his outstretched arm. He hadn’t felt her touch at all.
I don’t suppose anyone’s come forward –
- No. Incompatible. All of them. The day is late.
He said nothing.
The Day Is Late. An odd turn of phrase. The words burrowed into his head.
Tears crushed the space behind his eyelids.
When he opened his eyes her arm had gone, and she had retreated back into her nest-shape, her head canted downwards like a dove. He couldn’t see her eyes. And there was a reason for that.
He opened his mouth to speak, and when he spoke, the words fell out. And they hurt.
She has time. She’s too young. She’ll pull through.
No, John. She won’t. Leukaemia doesn’t take sides. Not even for my daughter.
The day is not gone. Not yet. Not yet.
She said nothing.
He looked down and coiled and uncoiled and coiled and uncoiled his hands and made the nails bite into the palm.
She stood up. She finished her espresso – now quite cool – and placed a hand on his shoulder and left it there. He nuzzled his head against it like an animal. He felt the cool of her nails under his cheek. He pressed down harder, and his closed eyes pressed down with him.
He felt her hand leave his shoulder, heard the rustle of change in her handbag, and then felt the air move as she stepped back. He opened his eyes. She was looking straight at him, and saw affection and pathos and deep, sounding wells of sadness in the cornflower blue of her irises. But worse, buried in the blue of her eyes and the skin of her brow was the framing of pity.
Be brave, John.
I don’t suppose anyone’s come forward –
- No. Incompatible. All of them. The day is late.
He said nothing.
The Day Is Late. An odd turn of phrase. The words burrowed into his head.
Tears crushed the space behind his eyelids.
When he opened his eyes her arm had gone, and she had retreated back into her nest-shape, her head canted downwards like a dove. He couldn’t see her eyes. And there was a reason for that.
He opened his mouth to speak, and when he spoke, the words fell out. And they hurt.
She has time. She’s too young. She’ll pull through.
No, John. She won’t. Leukaemia doesn’t take sides. Not even for my daughter.
The day is not gone. Not yet. Not yet.
She said nothing.
He looked down and coiled and uncoiled and coiled and uncoiled his hands and made the nails bite into the palm.
She stood up. She finished her espresso – now quite cool – and placed a hand on his shoulder and left it there. He nuzzled his head against it like an animal. He felt the cool of her nails under his cheek. He pressed down harder, and his closed eyes pressed down with him.
He felt her hand leave his shoulder, heard the rustle of change in her handbag, and then felt the air move as she stepped back. He opened his eyes. She was looking straight at him, and saw affection and pathos and deep, sounding wells of sadness in the cornflower blue of her irises. But worse, buried in the blue of her eyes and the skin of her brow was the framing of pity.
Be brave, John.
He remained silent. She clutched her bag, looking terribly vulnerable suddenly, and turned to the door. A man bustled in, and held the door open for her. She smiled at the man briefly, and walked forward.
Susan.
Susan.
She turned.
Yes?
Forget it.
A pause, a gentle sway to the side and a quick smile as someone walks through the door. She turns back to him and redistributes the weight of her bag across her thin shoulders.
See you soon, John.
Yes. Right.
Goodbye, John.
Goodbye Susan.
When she had gone, he sat very still and half closed his eyes.
Pale light lit up the blind world.
And now the sugar wrappers and salt pot, the cars and their exhausts, the people and their breaths, the clicking buggies across the flagstones and the smooth hiss of the bicycles, the bin lids blowing in the wind and the running clouds were nothing more than a quiet shadow play.
He left a handful of change next to the salt pot, and we walked out.
Goodbye Susan.
When she had gone, he sat very still and half closed his eyes.
Pale light lit up the blind world.
And now the sugar wrappers and salt pot, the cars and their exhausts, the people and their breaths, the clicking buggies across the flagstones and the smooth hiss of the bicycles, the bin lids blowing in the wind and the running clouds were nothing more than a quiet shadow play.
He left a handful of change next to the salt pot, and we walked out.
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