Mutton, page 19
The storm has abated and the night is beautifully clear, if freezing. Thanks to my trusty torch app, I find a likely spot – though frankly the isolation and solitude are such that I could pee anywhere, which is freedom of a kind, I suppose. But I wish I had asked about what to do with the loo paper. I can’t just leave it there, but I don’t really want to put it in my pocket either. Suddenly the solution strikes me, with the sort of clarity that descends after two tumblers of whisky and claret with dinner: I must bury the loo paper. I do up my trousers and remember I have no shovel, but never mind: I am at one with the land. I need no tools. Gaia provides, as does the body.
And so it comes to pass that I am digging the cold earth with my hands just as Jim appears out of nowhere, wheeling his quad bike. I am crouched, and very clearly – thanks to the beams of his lights – in the act of burying loo paper.
‘I’m just doing my night run,’ he says, not batting an eyelid. ‘I drive round checking everything’s as it should be.’
I pull myself up, my hands filthy with soil.
‘Bernard’s asked us to stay over,’ I say, ‘so I think we’re going to do that.’
‘Right you are,’ says Jim.
‘It’s really kind of you to come over,’ I tell him. ‘I’m grateful. Also, I was burying wee-paper, not poo-paper.’
‘Good to know,’ says Jim with no discernible change of facial expression. ‘There’s a chemical toilet round the back, for future reference.’
‘But Bernard said …’
‘Bernard’s ways are the ways of the land,’ Jim says with what might be a wink. ‘Well, goodnight. I’ll drop by again in the morning with news of the ferry. It’s clearing up – I think you’ll be fine. Assuming you’re going back tomorrow?’
‘I am,’ I tell him. ‘We both are.’
Bernard and Gaby have the demeanour of two children caught doing something they shouldn’t when I come back into the bothy – the air of two people who’ve only pulled apart seconds before. I smile at them and then disappear behind the curtain to wash my hands and put on my pyjamas, and head straight for the sofa when I re-emerge.
‘Pelts!’ Bernard cries. ‘You need pelts, Clara. Heat-giving skins from the beasts of the sea.’
‘I have this blanket,’ I say, ‘and it’s still warm from the fire. I can always stick my parka on if I get cold.’
But Bernard is insistent, and crashes over with a pair of ‘pelts’, which smell funny and slightly creep me out. I must go to sleep.
‘Goodnight,’ I say, closing my eyes.
I feel exhausted, full from the dinner and warm from the fire, and tired from thinking about Sky’s pregnancy for three days. For a little while I can hear snatches of conversation about sieges and quests and Horno, and the bloody Amphiboles, interspersed with cries of wonder and delight from Bernard and excited whispers from Gaby. But these soon grow distant, and I fall fast asleep.
Having slept surprisingly deeply, I am awoken by the smell of bacon frying. The sun is shining weakly in through the bothy’s windows, and all seems well with the world. Bernard and Gaby don’t appear to have gone to bed at all, judging by the number of coffee mugs scattered about the kitchen table. The drifts of paper have propagated in Lapidosan style: I can’t actually see the surface of the table, which is entirely covered in scrawled and scribbled notes.
‘Good morning, dear Clara,’ Bernard booms.
‘Morning!’ Gaby trills.
‘Have you not gone to bed?’ I ask.
‘Heh,’ says Gaby, which I call ambiguous.
‘Bed can wait,’ says Bernard. ‘I feel absolutely elated. Gabbro here turns out to be the solution! She is my muse. Well – no. She is far more.’
‘I’m so pleased I was able to be useful,’ says Gaby modestly. ‘I loved talking to you about it.’
‘Oh, so much more than useful,’ says Bernard. ‘I’ve been stuck for a year. A year! And you’ve unstuck me in one night. It’s not just that, though,’ he says, turning to me. ‘It’s that her input is so inventive, so creative. So intuitive. She is absolutely steeped in the ways and mores of Lapidosa … Our coming together, our union, has been nothing short of a miracle.’
‘I invented a new character,’ Gaby says proudly but in a quiet voice. She looks slightly shell-shocked by the admission. ‘She’s called Mica. She hooks up with Calcite …’
‘Son of Horno, who has reached manhood,’ I say, almost as a reflex.
‘Mica, like Gabbro, is the solution,’ says Bernard. ‘And so I would like to propose …’
‘Steady on,’ I say. ‘You’ve only just met.’
Nobody laughs at this, oddly.
‘I would like,’ says Bernard, ‘to propose a collaboration.’
‘How do you mean?’ says Gaby.
‘I would like you, Gabbro – O wondrous wench, O wisest maid – henceforth to write the Chronicles with me. To be my co-author. It is,’ he says, raising his hand as Gaby’s mouth opens into an ‘O’ of astonishment, ‘not only the very least I can do, but what I’d like. What I’d love. It would renew me, and my work. It would be like drinking from a fountain of youth.’
‘Like the one at Gneiss,’ Gaby says robotically.
‘Oh my God,’ I say. ‘That’s so cool.’
Gaby is still looking post-traumatically stressed.
‘I don’t know what to say,’ she says. She is pop-eyed and has gone very pale.
‘Say yes, Gabbro,’ says Bernard. ‘Say yes!’
‘I … I’m not a writer,’ Gaby says. ‘And that’s the least of it.’
‘I’m a writer,’ says Bernard. ‘The writing isn’t the issue. The plot, the characters, the ingenuity of the storyline – those are the real concerns. And you have displayed a rare genius.’
‘God,’ says Gaby. ‘M’nork.’
‘M’nork be praised!’ says Bernard. ‘Please, dear, dearest Gabbro – please say you will. Or at least that you’ll consider it.’
‘Yes,’ says Gabbro. ‘I will consider it.’ She stares rather wildly around the room. ‘Really, Bernard – I’m so touched and so pleased and so proud and so, so … Oh man, I don’t even know the words. I was so unhappy … Sorry, I shouldn’t say this. But what the hell. I was so unhappy a year ago, and now …’
‘Here,’ I say, passing her a wad of loo roll. ‘Blow.’
‘Whuu,’ says Gaby, crying. ‘Whii, whii.’
‘The world is beautiful,’ says Bernard. ‘And now, bacon. And eggs. And the finest black pudding known to man. And coffee, for the womenfolk are athirst.’
After a glorious early-morning walk, and a ferry, and two trains, and a taxi, we are back in London. (Travel really amazes me – this is another thing that’s come with age. When I was young, I’d think nothing of hopping on a plane and arriving in a whole new country seven hours later. Now, the idea that I woke up in an impossibly remote bothy – I didn’t know what a bothy was until yesterday – and am now sitting in my kitchen absolutely blows my mind.)
Gaby is still in a state of shock, but never mind that now. Sky seems relieved that her dad knows and isn’t angry. I tell her that her father is unblocked, that he’s now writing up a storm, that he wanted to come back with us but that we persuaded him that staying for a bit longer wouldn’t hurt if it meant that he could finish his book. I explain that he will call her tonight – any minute now, in fact – from the house of the neighbour who has a phone.
‘He really wasn’t crosss with me? Not even a little bit?’ she asks.
‘No. He was shocked, naturally. But then he was moved. In fact, he was pleased. He said that your mum …’
‘Was seventeen too, yes,’ says Sky. ‘Anyway, how is he?’
‘He’s asked Gaby to collaborate with him on Men of Granite,’ I say. ‘Which is why she can’t speak at the moment. She’s barely said a word all day.’
‘That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard,’ Sky said, going over to hug her.
‘What?’ says Gaby. ‘Yes. No. Thanks. Sorry, I’m thinking. I’m really pleased that your dad is OK with the baby, Sky.’
‘God, so am I,’ says Sky.
‘So am I,’ says Jack.
‘So am I,’ I say.
The phone starts ringing. ‘That’ll be him,’ I say. ‘Take it upstairs. We don’t all need to sit here listening.’
‘Come on, Jack,’ says Sky, grabbing the receiver. ‘Let’s go to our room. Hello, Daddy,’ she says into the receiver, and bursts into tears.
‘What are you going to do?’ I ask Gaby an hour later. We’ve opened a bottle of wine and are still at the kitchen table. ‘You must be so pleased. It’s amazing, right?’
‘I can’t put it into words,’ says Gaby.
‘Try. You’ve been practically mute all day.’
Gaby takes a deep sip of red wine, and then another.
‘I am rethinking my entire life,’ she says. ‘I have been since breakfast time this morning. Well, late last night, if I’m being honest. I felt very … connected … from the moment we arrived.’
‘I noticed,’ I say. ‘It was mutual.’
‘OK, so tell me just this one thing,’ says Gaby. ‘I know you think it’s all hilarious, but you do realize what a big deal he is, yes? What a big deal the books are?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Eighteen months at number one kind of thing. I read the papers.’
‘Right,’ says Gaby. ‘And this is going to sound really lame, but if I say yes – if I agree to’ – and here she laughs shrilly – ‘co-author his books …’
‘Yes?’ I say. ‘What?’
‘Does that make me, like, Yoko Ono? Will the fans come at me with pitchforks?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. ‘Gaby! For God’s sake. Is that what’s been worrying you?’
‘Well, one of the things,’ Gaby says, sounding so small-voiced that I stand up to go and give her a hug.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘You really don’t think so?’
‘No. All the fans care about is the books, and it sounds to me like you and Bernard are two halves of the same brain when it comes to the books. So, no. It’s not like you’re going to force him to introduce talking pigs.’
‘Hahaha! Oh, Clara! Of course not, no,’ says Gaby, as if I’d suggested something absolutely insane. ‘Hahaha,’ she laughs again.
I don’t see why talking pigs should be any odder than hornèd men or babies with tails.
‘Haha. Let’s not be absurd,’ I say.
‘No,’ says Gaby. ‘Let’s not. Anyway. That’s good to hear. But then of course there’s all the other stuff.’
‘Drink up,’ I say. ‘I get the feeling this is a two-bottle job.’
‘Right,’ says Gaby. ‘Well, the first thing is – obviously – that I, I, I … I don’t think I can see Ben any more.’
‘OK,’ I say. ‘He’s very nice. But he is twenty-nine.’
‘And I am forty-nine,’ says Gaby. She has not explicitly stated her age since she arrived. ‘For another fortnight.’
‘Yes. And I am forty-six.’
We catch each other’s eye and smile.
‘We’re in our prime,’ I say.
‘You’re going to be a GILF,’ Gaby says. ‘Or is it NILF?’
‘Don’t,’ I say. ‘I can’t quite compute that part yet. Stay on topic, please.’
‘I just … I really like Bernard,’ she says, with some desperation.
‘I know. And he really likes you. I’m a romantic. I believe completely in the coup de foudre. Which is exactly what happened. I saw it with my own eyes.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘One hundred per cent yes,’ I say, like an X Factor judge.
Gaby beams at this, then shakes her head and carries on.
‘OK, so then: problem number two. Say we get together.’ She flushes at the idea, and again smiles to herself with pleasure.
‘Yes?’
‘So we’re together – I mean, God and M’nork willing, I don’t want to jinx anything, this is just wishful thinking. But say. Assume. And then we work together too. And one day something goes wrong.’
‘Like what?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Something. Either in our … personal relationship or in our professional relationship. Then what, Clara? It all goes to fuck, right?’
‘This is not a way to think,’ I say indignantly. ‘This is the opposite of a way to think. Why are you Voice of Dooming yourself, like a freak?’
‘Because I’m not you. I was married to the same person for nine years.’
‘Yes, I’ve been married too. So?’
‘So I come to London and I think I like the idea of having boyfriends that aren’t serious. The novelty of it. I mean, until Ben I hadn’t shagged anyone other than Ham for a decade and a half.’
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Your point is?’
‘My point is that actually I don’t like having boyfriends that aren’t serious. I liked Ben, obviously, and I fancied him well enough, but – it made me feel anxious. Xanax has become my friend, put it that way.’
‘That’s because you were pretending to be thirty-four,’ I say. ‘It would take its toll on anyone.’
‘No,’ Gaby says. ‘It’s because I was unhappy and I didn’t love him and I thought it would be fun, and it wasn’t as much fun as I wanted it to be. It was fun, but not the right kind of fun. It wasn’t the kind of fun that made me feel good about myself. Or the right kind of love. It was no kind of love, really.’
‘You should have said that you were unhappy. When you arrived, I mean. I had no idea. In another life you could be an actress.’
‘I want to be with someone who I love, and who loves me,’ says Gaby. ‘I want to be able to reference Bagpuss or Mind Your Language or Space Dust or, God, David Bowie on Top of the Pops and not be met with this … this blank wall of incomprehension. Plus then the wriggling out, the deception, the claiming I saw it on YouTube, because of course I was barely born at the time.’
‘I understand,’ I say. ‘Who wouldn’t want that?’
‘And the drugs, you know. I mean, I’m all for them, every now and then. We’re from that generation, aren’t we? But, like, maybe twice a year. Not every sodding night. Do you remember when I took ketamine? I thought I was going to die.’
‘I so wish you’d said,’ I say, refilling our glasses. ‘I honestly had no idea.’
‘And while I’m at it,’ says Gaby, ‘I would have loved to have children. Loved. It makes me really sad that I couldn’t. Four rounds of IVF, you know, but nothing happened. I mean, it’s not the be-all and end-all. I’m over it. It’s fine. But I’m sick of pretending – to myself, as much as to anyone else – that it was some kind of choice, and that making that choice means I have some kind of duty to behave in a certain way. Carefree. Up-for-it. Wholly without responsibilities. I mean, fuck’s sake.’
‘It’s OK,’ I say. I feel a bit like crying, so I add, ‘Take mine, if you like. Or have a part share. The children, the responsibilities, the whole shebang.’
‘God,’ says Gaby. ‘All this stuff. We all have so much stuff.’
‘Do you want to know what I think?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘I’m with Bernard. Life is beautiful. And sad and dark and complex too, obviously. But mostly beautiful. I believe in love.’
‘Oh, Clara. We all believe in love.’
‘I’m talking about men, specifically. About relationships. What I’m saying is, I don’t think it matters if you’re with somebody for two weeks or twenty years, if you love them. I mean, it’s everything. It’s the world, for that fortnight or those two decades. That’s not a thing you piss on.’
‘I’m not pissing on it!’
‘You are, though. You’re saying, what if it goes wrong? What if we have a disagreement about those beak-thingies …’
‘Beakstrels.’
‘What if we have a disagreement about Beakstrels, what if he doesn’t like my kids …’
‘I don’t have any kids,’ says Gaby. ‘Duh.’
‘But you know what I mean.’
‘Yes, I know what you mean,’ she sighs. ‘Sorry, you were saying? I interrupted.’
‘Oh yes. Don’t piss on it, I was saying. Don’t piss on anything, but most of all don’t piss on love. Especially at our age. You’re unbelievably fortunate. You’ve met Bernard. You’re forty-nine. He’s, what, early fifties? Be happy. Don’t sit there making lists of all the things that could go wrong.’
‘I don’t want to piss on love,’ Gaby says dolefully.
‘Well, then. Don’t.’
‘You’re right,’ says Gaby thoughtfully. ‘Though, easier said than done. I’m a naturally anxious person.’
‘It’s hard to be anxious when you’re really happy. Because you’re really, wildly, totally in love with someone who is wildly in love with you.’
‘And with whom you’ll have great sex,’ muses Gaby.
‘Absolutely,’ I say. ‘With someone with whom you’ll have mind-blowing sex. All the time.’
‘God, I bet Bernard’s going to be amazing,’ says Gaby, to which there is really no reply.
‘Mm,’ I say.
‘I’m going to say yes,’ Gaby says. ‘Yes to Bernard, yes to books, yes to love. Yes! I am!’
‘You fucking rock, Gaby,’ I tell her as we clink glasses. ‘Everything is going to be fine.’
‘He left me, you know,’ Gaby says, almost as an afterthought. ‘Ham. He left me for his twenty-six-year-old assistant, like in a miniseries. That was when I upped the work for a bit. Before that I was happy with’ – she laughs – ‘my massive facelift.’
‘Don’t knock the work,’ I say. ‘This isn’t supposed to be some sort of Damascene conversion. The work is great and the work has served you well. I mean, look at you!’
‘I would still have found Bernard without all this,’ says Gaby with feeling.
‘Yeah, maybe. The books, sure. The rest – who knows? Yes, probably, but I guess we’ll never know. Look, I get that you were unhappy, and I get that it must have been horrible, and I get that having more and more cosmetic surgery, exercising more frantically, dieting more bizarrely are not healthy. But you look great. And now you feel great. So let’s not get too sackcloth and ashes about it.’
