10

“Mum,”

“Mark, hi, how are things?”

“Uh, not too bad, I guess,”

“How are the girls?”

“They’re fine. Look, I have a big favour to ask, I mean, I don’t want to put upon you, but could you maybe look after the girls for a few days, three or four? I’ve, uh, I’ve got to go on a business trip thing.”

“When?”

“The day after tomorrow. I know it’s short notice, and I really don’t like to put upon you, but it’s important.” I felt bad about lying to my mother. Well, it was important, but the business trip bit was a lie.

“Well, it is short notice, but I understand. Okay, I’ll look after them.”

“Thank you, Mum,” I said, “I wouldn’t ask unless it was important.”

“I know, Mark.”

Thursday evening. The three of us were in the car. Gemma sat in the back seat, leaning against the window, silent and moody. I saw her sad face in the rear view mirror reflected on the glass, her eye still bruised. I thought she might appreciate getting away from me for a little while, but she had protested at first, and asked that I let her stay at home on her own; she would be alright. I told her to pack some stuff for the few days.

Lucy had been more obedient than Gemma in the packing, and I knew she liked her grandmother. Though as I sat on her bed, watching her pack, telling her what to bring, I wondered if I should be doing this; removing my children for my own convenience. But then, maybe they were better off away from me.

No one said anything, and instead the radio supplied the conversation. Soon I pulled the car into my mother’s drive. The gravel crunched under the car wheels and we got out. I went round the back and opened the boot, pulled out Lucy’s Barbie rucksack and Gemma’s hold-all.

“Now you be good girls for Grandma,” I said as we walked towards the front door, “she’s doing me a big favour.” My voice sounded hollow, I thought, even to myself.

“Where is it you’re going, Dad?” Gemma asked.

“On a business trip.”

“I mean where, location.”

“Oh, um, London,” I said, it being the first place that came to mind.

“Couldn’t we come too?” asked Lucy.

“You have school, and besides, I’ll be too busy to look after you, that’s why you’re staying with Grandma.”

When my mother answered the door and invited us in, I stayed only for a cup of tea and a little conversation, for politeness’ sake. Then I left. Before leaving I hugged Lucy and told both the girls that I loved them. Lucy said it cheerily back and told me that she would miss me. Gemma just said,

“Are you…” and then stopped.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she said. As she turned away I noticed a fragility in her slim frame.

I drove home.

Once I had opened the door, I inhaled deeply, as if waking from a deep sleep. I imagined for a moment that I could smell everyone that had ever been in that room, as if they were there now as ghosts in the little dust motes that floated and eddied around the air. I exhaled slowly, then breathed in again, breathed in the remnants of the ghosts, of Angela, of her perfume, of Lucy, her innocence, the shampoo in her hair, of Gemma, her complicated, hormonal teenage scent, of that boy she brought in that time a few weeks ago, of Rachel too, of her beauty, her life, her skin, and even of myself, of Mark, a man now wanting to no longer exist as a ghost, but wanting to seize back life, and be free of the ghosts.

Beyond this thin veil of floating memories, the house was empty, a hollow shell again, as it had been after Rachel. For a second, I held my keys over the glass dish by the door, then I let them drop by slowly releasing my fingers until the last resistance from the plastic fobs slipped away. The sound as they landed was loud in the silent house. Then I untied my shoes and put my slippers on. I stood up and wondered what to do now.

In the end I cleaned every room in the house over the next two days, meticulously going over every surface with a duster, vacuuming every carpet, straightening everything out. Not that I really know why, but it seemed to help somehow. Gemma’s room was the last I went into; the room I was usually restricted from accessing. It was messy, as usual; lived in. But I did not feel compelled to clean this one, I just looked around.

On the desk stood her computer, an old CRT monitor with dust on top. A few small items were scattered around the desk as well: pens, pencils, a little cat ornament that had been Rachel’s, a pair of glass dolphins jumping through a glass wave, and a couple of small stuffed animals. A desk lamp stood there as well, but it did not work when I flicked the switched; the bulb had gone.

I briefly considered turning on the computer, seeing what she got up to on there, but resisted, knowing that I was already trespassing too much. I went over and sat on the bed, stared out the window. The sun was setting now, casting long shadows over the room. I lay down onto the bed, sinking into the slept-in sheets. Lying on my side I could smell the fabric conditioner on the cotton, mixed with the scent of Gemma.

Twenty years ago, it would have been my ambition to get into a teenage girl’s bed, but now the experience felt tainted and I again felt like a ghost, existing in my own separate world while everyone else existed in another. Had I been in here on Tuesday, conscious or not? Had I attacked Gemma? The questions flowed through my head like a tidal sea as I stared at Gemma’s partially open wardrobe, its pine frame being highlighted in the orange sun.

I must have fallen asleep like that, my head on Gemma’s pillow, my knees tucked up in my arms, because I was not aware again until it was completely dark. Of course I could have had another attack and actually lain there perfectly conscious for the whole time.

I fumbled in the darkness for Gemma’s bedside light. It instantly cast both light and shadow over the room. I lifted my watch up to my face. It told me it was four-thirty a.m. Moving my head slightly I realised that the pillow, and my eyes were both a little damp. I rubbed the stickiness from them, then I sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed my face. The beard that had started to grow made my chin and my cheeks feel rough.

I yawned then, and stretched, and felt completely unrested, but I also knew that I would not get back to sleep so I stood up, a little too quickly perhaps, for I felt a little dizzy for a minute or so. Then I went downstairs and put on the coffee machine. I felt like I needed to do something today, I just did not know what. I went into the front room and put on the television while I decided what to do. For some reason I flicked to Cartoon Network and began to watch that. At this time of morning they always seemed to show the old cartoons, and right then Danger Mouse was on. I used to watch that show when I was a kid.

I watched to the end of the episode that was part way through when I turned it on, and then watched another one after. It made me smile, sat there in yesterday’s clothes, unshaven and watching cartoons from my youth. And that was when I decided that I would go to Brighton. I went back upstairs almost immediately after deciding to act on this impulse and packed a few clothes into my bag.

By 7 a.m. I was on the road to Brighton. The roads were clear and the sun was shining; it would be a great day. After about three quarters of an hour I stopped at a petrol station to refuel. Stepping out the car I felt a sea-breeze on my skin, and thought I could smell the salt-water, the fish and chips, the grassy dunes, over the petroleum smell that lingered in the air.

Inside the petrol station, when I was paying for the petrol, I glanced at the cigarettes behind the girl that was serving me. On an impulse I said,

“And ten Lucky Strikes, please.” The girl handed me the little red and white packet and I paid and left. Just another twenty minutes to Brighton.

It was just as I remembered it, almost. The sea was there of course, eternally, and the beach had not changed, nor the iconic pier. The arcades were still there, though they seemed to have become louder, brighter, more obnoxious. And everything seemed to have been coated in a plastic sheen, rather than the peeling wooden displays I remembered from my youth. But it was still the place where I had formed so many fond memories of summer.

I pulled up in a car park over looking the beach and got out. As soon as I got out I opened the cigarette pack and lit one up. Lucky Strike used to be my brand, but it was years since I had smoked. I had not even wanted one in years, and I suppose I did not really need one now, but it was an impulse decision that I stood by, in the same way that coming here had been an impulse decision.

I inhaled, perhaps a little too deeply, and coughed a little, but beyond the temporary discomfort of the cough came that once familiar little rush that filled my lungs and spread outwards. It really had been a long time.

By this time it was eight o’ clock; still early, too early for all but the early morning jogger, or even the early morning swimmer who felt compelled to brave the cold water at this time of morning, before anyone else got a chance. It would be a fine day though, and a Saturday too, so soon all the beaches would be crowded. But for now I had the beaches to myself. I took advantage of this privilege by stepping out onto the beach and walking along it.

The stones and pebbles crunched under my feet as I walked along, and the sound made me think of the gravel outside my mother’s house, of my children inside, safe and protected by the woman that brought me up. And I knew they were safe with her, for she had brought me up single-handedly, after my father died of cancer when I was four. Though I was never old enough to really get to know my father, I always felt that I would have chosen to have been brought up by my mother rather than my father.

I must have walked at least a mile or so down the beach, for I reached, after a while, the Brighton Marina village. I spent a while here looking at the boats, at the way some were kept immaculately, shiny and white with a plastic veneer as if they had just come out of a cellophane wrapper, while others had been left, neglected, and the algae had built up in layers along the underside of the boat, turning them a decaying green.

I am not really sure how I spent most of that day; it seemed to drift by, blurred like a dream. Most of it I spent walking, up and down streets, wherever I felt like going. Around one I stopped for lunch at a pub with windows facing the sea. I had a steak there, with chips and peas and an obligatory slightly limp salad on the side: a real pub lunch.

I ate that meal voraciously, as if I had not eaten for days, devouring the whole lot until I was satisfied. I realised after I finished that all I had had that day before the meal was a cigarette. After I was finished I went outside and had another Lucky Strike. It was good, satisfying, though not as much so as the meal I had just eaten. And then I began to walk again.

It was like I was looking for something, somewhere, but I know not what. I was thinking all this time as well, perhaps that is why I cannot fix definitely in my mind the details of everything I saw, everywhere I went, beyond the image of the crowds of people that surged around me; holidaymakers perusing the shops, teenagers killing time on the streets, and the people that lived in the city, going to work, to shops, and about their daily business.

The subjects of my thoughts were mostly Gemma, though Angela crept in every now and then. I was still wondering about Gemma’s black eye, about what I had done to her. I should have asked before I left, but I could not face it. And so now I would have to ask when I saw her again, get everything in the open. Maybe she would even forgive me and love me again.

As for Angela, I wondered about what I could do about her, should I want to pursue her, and if she was worth pursuing, or just a lost cause. Maybe she hated me now too. But then maybe it had just been the shock of finding someone neither of us expected in my house. Maybe I should call her. Maybe I should wait and see if she called me. But she was nice, and she had seemed fairly keen, especially on that date. And I really needed someone, especially now that the prospect of being with someone had rekindled within me my old repressed desires.

When I got back, I decided, when I got back, I would sort everything out.

Somehow, I managed to just wander until the evening, by which time I had returned most of the way back to the car, and was hungry again. I went to the nearest fish and chip bar, and then sat facing the sea eating fish and chips, real fish and chips, from the ocean in front of me. I closed my eyes putting a chunk of fish onto my tongue and I was nine again, my mother sat beside me and my sister on her other side, all of us eating fish and chips staring out to the sea we had spent the day beside and within.

But that was just one facet of the memory the taste, the experience, was bringing back to my consciousness, for the summers I spent here were not single memories but a feeling, a complex tapestry of multiple experiences, layered upon one another, and in their too was Rachel, leaning against my shoulder as we ate fish and chips and sat on this very beach, watching the sun set.

When I had finished eating the little bundle wrapped in plain white paper, I continued to sit there, silent, watching the last few families leave the beach. As the sun began to set, the only remaining occupants of the beach were a few couples, sat together watching the big orange ball of gas disappear over the horizon. I lit another cigarette, my eighth of the day, and wondered if they were as happy as Rachel and I had been.

When the sun had disappeared completely I stood up. A cold wind swept through my hair, over my neck; it was the sea-breeze I imagined I could feel from my bedroom window. The Lucky Strike pack was in my hand, two cigarettes remaining in it. I clenched my fingers and the packet slowly crumpled into my palm, then I turned away and walked back to the car, tossing the broken cigarettes and crushed red and white pack into a bin as I passed. It was time to go home.

Read Part Eleven