The Day Tripper, page 32
I nod, a rare perfect memory.
She leans close. “Was thinking maybe I’d like this song for, you know...”
“You have a merry Christmas, Mum,” I whisper, a tear escaping unchecked. “A discussion for another day.”
Just like that, I know that Dr. Defrates was right. There are things over which we have no control—most things, in fact. Mum is dying. Just as she always was. Next August, we’ll say goodbye to her. Up till now, I’ve not been able to shake Dad’s accusations: that the stress I caused made her ill, killed her. No logic could stop the guilt eating me. But I’ve lived a different life, and her fate remains.
My phone bleats in my pocket. A text from Holly:
UPSTAIRS XXX
There was a time when I’d assume such a message was an invitation to sneak off for a bunk-up. A second later, another:
I’M IN THE LOO! XXX
I roll my knuckles against the door. She opens it a crack, checks the landing.
“No one else is up here,” I tell her.
Holly grins and ushers me in. She sits on the closed lid of the toilet, hunched and childlike.
“What’s the matter?” I ask. “If you’ve done a massive shit and can’t flush the bastard...”
“Shut up, you twat.” She grins. There’s color back in her cheeks now, in abundance. She stares at my face. “You been crying, baby?”
“No. Well, maybe a tiny bit. Tell you later.”
“Sure.” She wipes her face with a tissue.
“Have you been crying?”
She smiles, brighter than ever. “Yup. You bet.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Alex,” she says, passing me a white plastic stick from its hiding place behind the toilet. She’s shaking as she hands it over.
I’ve never handled a pregnancy test before, but even I know what two blue lines means.
“Just when you’ve accepted it’ll never ever happen,” Holly says. Her face tells me everything: the years of trying and failing and soul-searching and giving up and the one-last-trying and the pain that have led us to this point.
“Fuck,” I say. “Jesus Christ.”
“You do still want this?” she asks.
“More than anything in the universe.”
She nods, like she knew that would be my answer. “I just thought, maybe...when I was feeling all rough. And I wasn’t expecting it to actually be...you know.” She gulps in some air. “And then, like, pow!”
I rub her shoulders. “Nice deep breaths, yeah?”
“You don’t think we’re maybe...past it?”
“Nope. Do you?”
She shakes her head. “Never felt younger.”
“I love you,” I tell her, kneeling level with her, our wet faces touching.
“I know it’s a long road,” she says. “Lots of things might not be okay...”
“Stop it,” I whisper. “It’s gonna be fine.”
“It just feels...different this time, you know?”
“Course it is.” Her cheeks are boiling against my palms. “How long, you think?”
“Dunno. Head’s a mess. Could be eight weeks already.”
I do the maths: all being well, about the same time as Mum...
We hold each other tight. I cry for who is to come, and for who we are bound to lose.
This life gives, and it takes away. In balance. Love undying.
MAY 25, 2023 | AGE 47
Miracle
It’s a warm evening, and the small bookshop is packed out. The place smells wonderfully of printed words and Pringles.
“Beer?” a well-spoken young man asks me. “Warm white wine maybe?”
“Thanks, but I don’t drink, actually.”
“Are you sure? It is free.”
“No. I’m fine.” I don’t mean to snap.
Dr. Defrates stands at the front like a proud parent. He’s dressed for the launch of his book the same way as every other time I’ve seen him: worn cords, Hush Puppies, overlong tie that rises and falls with his belly. In front of him, several hundred hardback books ready to sign, dedicate and sell. Out of Time: Tales of Disorderly Lives, it is titled.
He and I are both on half-term. Not that I’ve had anything close to a relaxed day. It has apparently fallen to me to ready my parents’ house for sale now Dad’s in a care home. On my last visit to 2023, I was squatting there, much to Ross’s fury, but I have no such need now. Holly’s with her own folks, down at the coast for a few days. She and our child. Just thinking those words gives me butterflies. They are due back this evening. At our home this morning, I couldn’t possibly ignore the toys about the place and cute little bed, the mini toothbrush and hedgehog flannel. But I left in a hurry, forbade myself to look at the pictures on the walls. I want our first meeting to be in person.
“All right, sir!” says a familiar voice. “How’s it hanging, old cuz?” A man stands in front of me, arms stretched out wide. He’s late twenties, effortlessly sharp, million-watt smile.
“Jazz? Jazz! Bloody hell, man!”
“Told you I’d come,” he says, hugging me tight. He smells divine. “Gotta make time for the best teacher a brother ever had.”
“What you doing with yourself?” I ask, scarcely able to believe this voice is coming from this impressive man.
“Still a City banker wanker, I’m afraid. I’ll jack it in one of these days, I promise. Get on with changing the world like you always said I would.”
I look at his shoes, at his big watch. He glows with a cheeky pride. “Nah, man. Keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” I tell him.
“Remember Ty?” Jazz asks.
Jazz’s boyfriend steps forward, and our handshake graduates into a hug.
“You look incredible together,” I say, shaking my head in disbelief.
“Nearly nine years,” Ty says. “Since that crazy prom boat.”
I laugh along, remember that in their memory of events, I was doubtless on that boat. We talk about school and their careers that are flying, and I hold back the tears when they tell me an invitation is in the post for their wedding.
Dr. Defrates’s literary agent, Harry, introduces himself to us. He’s a young beanpole of a man who is simultaneously shy and charming, as though he’s constantly apologizing for the twinkle in his own eye. I ask him how well he thinks the book will sell.
“He’s a fascinating man,” Harry says.
“He’s that all right.”
“It’s so interesting, this gray area he writes about. Not fiction, not quite fact either. It’s up to the reader to decide what to make of his work.”
“Interesting,” I say. “You don’t think everything is necessarily...true?”
“I can’t wait to see how the public receive it,” Harry replies, dodging the question.
A hush falls as Dr. Defrates gives a reading: an excerpt from the story he told me about Frank McVie—the American who became obscenely wealthy but lost his mind and invited a psychiatrist to live with him.
Afterward, the cash register rings and the books fly as quick as Defrates can sign them.
“Make it to Holly,” I tell him, as he produces a copy which he insists is a gift.
When the party’s done, he and I walk together through lanes of shops. The evening is still warm and light. Holly texts and says she’s twenty minutes away; she suggests we meet for hot chocolates.
“Glad of this,” I say, clutching the book in its paper bag to my chest. “Need to put my dear wife in the picture, I feel. This should help.”
“Happy to be of service,” Dr. Defrates says. He’s bowling along in the way he always has, chin leading.
“So you’ve worked out all the answers, then?”
“Gosh, no. It’s a collection of the case studies I’ve done. Some theories about the whys and wherefores. More questions than answers. I wish to start a conversation, lift the lid on it. That’s all.”
“Am I in there?”
“Do you want to be?”
“Not sure.”
“I’ve not mentioned you by name. You’re entitled to your anonymity. But you’ve been invaluable.”
“You too, mate. Christ, just a bit.”
Our pace slows as we reach the river. We turn left, head west along the bank into the setting sun. “Ah, the beauty,” he mumbles.
“So why publish now?” I ask. “No more to discover?”
“What a thing for a science teacher to suggest.” He laughs. “Most certainly not, young man.”
“Not so young today.”
“I have shared my findings with the world, Alex, for much more practical reasons.”
“Go on.”
“Because I am so very nearly out of time myself.”
“How so?”
“You and I, regardless of the order in which they come, live each day of our life once. We are just like everyone else in that regard.” His pace slows, and we meander close to the water’s edge. “My first injury, the beginning of my atemporal consciousness, occurred when I was thirty. November 1990. The latest days I’ve seen are 2028.”
“Ages away.”
“Not for me, Alex. Since my injury, I’ve experienced something close to fourteen thousand days, give or take. Thirty-eight years, cumulatively, to put it another way.”
“Shit.”
“I can’t be precise,” he tells me, “but my number’s nearly up. One of these days, I’m going to awake and it will be my last day.”
“Is that...unavoidable?”
Dr. Defrates shrugs his shoulders and picks up the pace again.
“You told me how my second injury happens in 2024,” I say. “That I’ll be going into the Thames at the same spot as before. That’s next year.”
“Ah, but you’ve got so many days left, haven’t you? Hardly experienced any at all, really.”
There’s a bloom of excitement in my gut. So much life to live. “Does feel like I’ve been at it ages already.”
“Wait till you’re where I am,” he says. “Whilst your end day is next year, it is, for you, thousands and thousands of days away.”
“I guess. So you don’t think we can beat it? Live on beyond the date of our second traumatic injury?”
“It’s a mystery I’ll be uncovering soon enough,” he replies, smirking at his own wit.
I wander into his path and force him to stop. “So in the four years between my end day and yours, 2024 to 2028, have you not seen me? Have you checked what happened to me? Surely that would give you your answer.”
He shakes his head, that same self-assured expression that always made me wary. “It’s inconclusive.” A long stride, on the move again.
“What does that mean?”
“Read the book, Alex. I propose some theories.”
It feels heavy in my hands all of a sudden. “Maybe I’ll skip that bit. I don’t know. Do I want to know?”
“It’s the mysteries that make life exciting,” Defrates says.
“Yeah. Maybe.”
We reach the familiar concourse. A guitarist with a loop pedal plays, on the very spot where Jazz’s memorial once stood. I bung the guy a twenty-pound note as we pass. The fire-and-brimstone preacher clearly has no idea who I am, but he tells me Jesus loves me all the same. The artisanal chocolatier has sprouted some tables outside where kids and parents drink from glasses piled high with cream and marshmallows.
“Look at us,” I say to Dr. Defrates. “Both bloody teachers. How did that happen?”
He’s unusually serious. “There’s a better use of this life?”
“I don’t think so, not for me. Were you always a teacher?” I ask. “Before the atemporal business? Before your first accident?”
He surveys the river—a lake of lava in the setting sun. “My life was a mess,” he says. “I was thirty. Ruined marriage. Drink, cocaine, opiates, you name it. Career wrecked.”
“You’ve never said.”
“Why would I? I had the chance to start again, and I took it.”
“It wasn’t an accident, was it?”
Dr. Defrates smiles. “Me, headbutting a train? No, Alex, no accident.”
“I’m glad you survived.”
“So am I! This—our predicament—you could see it as a curse, forced to live life out of order, never knowing what comes next, what matters and what doesn’t. But it can be a very fine gift as well. In the right hands...”
“Yeah, maybe I’m seeing that.”
He looks around the concourse, and a grin spreads across his face. “Here they are, young man, that lovely wife and daughter of yours.”
I fizz with nerves, look at my feet. “Daughter? We had a girl?” My nose tingles and it’s all I can do not to burst into tears.
“Oh, my!” Dr. Defrates says, grabbing my shoulder. “Oh, what a thing! This is the first time? You’ve not met her yet?”
I shake my head.
“This is too perfect. You do know you have a daughter.”
“A child, sure. No more than that.” I’m shaking.
“It’s okay to look, Alex.”
I do as I’m told. Mother and child, hand in hand, a perfect silhouette.
“What’s...her name?” I ask him.
“Peggy Sue, would you believe?”
“You’re kidding me. Wow! Peggy Sue. That’s so...cool.”
“I must be getting on,” he says. “This is all yours. Be sure to enjoy it.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
“Likewise.”
“I’ll see you around, I’m sure.”
He pats my back.
I can see their faces now. She is Holly in exquisite miniature. She breaks free of her mother’s hand. Makes a run for me.
“I don’t deserve this,” I tell Dr. Defrates. “No way do I deserve this.”
“Stop attacking yourself,” he says, a man tiring of me. “When will you see it? How that’s precisely what’s caused you so much of your trouble.”
“You think?”
He turns on his heel. “So long, Alex,” he says, walking briskly away, too decent to impose.
I crouch, hold my arms out wide.
She crashes into me full pelt, nearly sends my trembling frame clean over.
“Daddy!” she shouts. We hug each other tight. She’s so tiny. How can a fully functioning human be so small? Little hot arms, strong enough that they’re half strangling me.
I hold her at arm’s length. She has Holly’s crazy hair, her ever-fascinated hazel eyes. She wears a tracksuit covered with planets, and still-sandy jelly shoes. Already she’s jabbering at a hundred miles per hour, about all the things they’ve been up to in the two days they’ve been away.
I give Holly a kiss. Sunscreen and sea salt.
Our little girl stands between us, and we take a hand each. We walk toward the chocolate shop. I’m struck by a yearning to know every last thing about her.
I shoot a glance over my shoulder. The river is dark as the coming night. Someday, I’ll have to start worrying about the likelihood of my life ending here. But right now, I’m ready for it to begin.
EPILOGUE
“Are you okay?” whispers the vicar. She gives a bright-eyed chuckle.
“Never been better,” I reply through a grin I couldn’t lose even if I wanted to.
It’s gone five, and the stained glass windows have turned to black. The church flickers in the light of a thousand candles.
“It’s starting to snow, would you believe it?” Dad says gleefully from the pew behind where I stand. He winks at me. “You’re a jammy swine, my boy!”
My best man, Paul, or Dr. Defrates to some, sniggers at my side. “What are the chances?” he says. “The man plans a winter wedding and the snow arrives right on cue.”
“What are the chances...” I whisper back.
We smirk at each other. He’s dressed in a sharp tweed suit which is an inch-perfect fit. Hired, obviously.
There are about fifty guests here. My brother and my good friend Loz are on ushering duty, seating the last to arrive who sweep snow from overcoat shoulders and shoot well-wishing looks my way. Behind Mum and Dad sits Aunty Liv; she’s already dabbing at a tear, much to Uncle Brian’s amusement. I’m delighted they’ve come.
“It is time,” the vicar says, squeezing my wrist.
My heart leaps.
The doors at the rear of the church clank open.
A rustle as best clothes turn rearward.
Beneath the great arch, Holly and her father. The snow swirls and squalls behind them.
Her father smiles at me. He takes a step forward, a patent Beatle boot pointing my way.
My and Holly’s eyes meet. A half smile apiece, as nervous and as electric as the very first time we saw each other, all those years ago in the Blue Moon.
I knew I couldn’t trust myself not to cry. They come fast, the proudest tears I’ve ever shed.
That familiar pitter-pattering intro plays through the church: Buddy Holly’s “Everyday.”
It is time.
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you—
To my agent and friend Harry Illingworth, without whose passionate advocacy this book would not exist.
To Helen Edwards, for keeping the faith and finding the perfect home for The Day Tripper.
To Meredith Clark, editor extraordinaire and force of nature, and to all those brilliant people at MIRA.
To my brothers, Will and Sam, who respond to my constant requests for advice in good humor and continue to provide invaluable feedback on everything I write.
To my wife. As unpredictable and disorderly as life may be, when we face it together with the right person, we can do anything. Really, that’s what the previous few hundred pages have been about. Thank you for everything, Vikki. The last words of this book belong to you.
