Slack-Tide, page 17
He took me to the corner of the street. There, I said he should take the turning for his apartment after all, and I’d be fine; the rain had held off, there was no need. Before he could try to change my mind, I’d reached up and kissed him, then I was running across the road as the lights changed and I’d slipped into a group of people and was gone.
Walking home at the other end, I was caught in a downpour. I was ill for a week, and the whole thing with Robert felt worse, not better. Then there was a phone call, which eased things.
He talked about Chapman’s at first, and joked that he was reading it metaphorically now.
‘Every one of those goddam seafaring rules! I feel like I’m going crazy. It’s all your fault. There was one on tides yesterday, “The most dramatic tides are the ones where the tides from opposite bays collide in the middle.” Oh boy. I’m just trying to nail this trip but I keep hearing your voice.’
Then he told me he’d finished Train Dreams, for the second time. He felt that he was at a point in his own life that was not so dissimilar to Grainier’s.
‘How so?’ I asked.
‘If I die tomorrow, someone would have to find me in my cabin. I’d lie there for weeks in the snow. But that’s OK, you know.’
‘No it’s not. How can you say that?’
‘It is, though. I’ve done what I was here for. I’ve passed on my DNA. I’ve made myself again, and I’ve learned some things too, getting older.’
I was crying, but silently. ‘Like what, Robert? Tell me what you’ve learned.’
‘No sudden movements.’ He cracked a laugh and I could see his smile as he said it. I imagined him lying back on his bed, with his and Lena’s dog-marked soft cotton throw, and the afternoon light through the slatted blinds. ‘And paper, for recycling.’
‘What about it?’ I laughed a little too, then straight away I cried again.
‘If you fold it before you throw it, you can get more in the bag. Don’t screw up your paper.’
‘I won’t.’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
‘You know, honey, I really needed you. I needed to roll in your human scent to be able to be human again.’
‘It still hurts, Robert.’
‘It’ll stop,’ he said.
‘How?’
‘It will just happen. One day, you’ll suddenly be aware of the absence of a feeling. You’ll realise you haven’t thought of it for months.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it, honey. And you know what else? I read a thing the other day which might interest you.’
‘Tell me.’
‘It was an article in the New York Times. Says you only need three things for happiness. Wanna hear’em?’
‘Shoot.’
‘One, you need something to do. Two, you need someone to love. And three, you need something to look forward to.’
I only half heard what he was telling me then: that Woods Hole was the thing he was looking forward to most; that there might be some trouble with the insurers, who weren’t keen on his final destination, on account of the currents which might or might not pull them onto the rocks. Then the line was bad, suddenly, and I couldn’t hear him at all. I walked around my flat, looking for a signal. There was usually one in the corner of the attic bedroom, even if it was down everywhere else. Standing on my bed, I stared through the skylight at the lights from Shoreditch, then I stared at my phone, and switched it off.
In the morning, I thought of trying again. When I switched it on there were two messages: one from Magali seeing if I wanted company that night, and if so, they could do with my help at the bar, and by the way, did I know how to make cosmopolitans? The second was from Susie: would I like a weekend away at the end of the month, just her and me? Ben was taking Tom camping, so she had some time on her hands. And if I was free that afternoon, Tom had asked if he could learn to fly a kite. Did I know, because she had absolutely no idea.
I sat at my table and watched the Bethnal Green Road wake up. The boy at the fruit stall was unloading a van. First, there were boxes of pomegranates, then big yellow pomelos and watermelons. The boy looked up. When he waved, I waved back.
That’s what I’ll do, I decided. I will put on my clothes, then I will go out to get a newspaper. On the way back, I will buy myself a pomegranate. I will take out the seeds, and eat them slowly. Then I will phone Susie to ask where we’ll meet, and I’ll go to the library for a book on how to fly a kite.
In the evening, I will find a recipe for cosmopolitans, then I will take a long bath and wash my hair. I will choose a dress to wear to the club, and I will call Magali, to say I’m on my way.
I will pick myself up, and I will begin again.
Acknowledgements
I am grateful to the Society of Authors Authors’ Foundation for their generous grant in the summer of 2017, which allowed me to finish this book. Thank you to my mother, Pamela, for giving me the gift which meant I could start it. My heartfelt thanks to Anna Webber and Seren Adams for working with me on the whole of it, from its conception. Thank you, too, to Sarah Addenbrooke, Paul Anderson, Melaina Barnes, Dee Byrne, Beth Coates, James Dingle, Florence Dollé, Ana Fletcher, Kathy Fry, Maddy Hartley, Sara Hemming, Paula Johnson, Darian Leader, Rachel McGill, Vanessa Milton, Caroline Pelletier, Charles Peyton, Rebecca Peyton, Joe Pickering, Magali Ponroy, Tim Pozzi, Adrian Smith, Nicola Solomon, Jethro Soutar, Mark Vanhoenacker, Daisy Watt, and Robert Worley. I’m very grateful to Julia Connolly for having made the book so beautiful.
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Copyright © Elanor Dymott 2019
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Elanor Dymott has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
First published by Jonathan Cape in 2019
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Elanor Dymott, Slack-Tide
