Cassette #22
Hello beautiful.
It’s Saturday morning, and you and April have just left. You were both so beautiful today, and I tried to tell you that, but you both just rolled your eyes and looked embarrassed. Neither of you ever could take a compliment. But you were sitting holding my hand and at one point the sun came out and it looked as if you had a halo. So, know that I wasn’t joking. You both really did look quite stunning.
It hardly seems fair on a day when I love you so much to drag you back to 1995, your horrible year with April, but I’m afraid that’s the next photo I picked out and if I don’t do them in order I’m worried I’ll end up in a right old mess.
So here goes: things got so bad between you two that I used to daydream that I’d have to leave you, just to keep you and April from each other’s throats. Sometimes I used to come home and worry that one of you might have stabbed the other.
It didn’t last, thank God, and by the time she hit thirteen you’d both got over yourselves (and each other) and everything was peaceful and lovely again. But for a while, back then, it felt a bit like a war zone. It really did.
I knew what it was about, of course. It was all to do with you worrying about who April’s father was, and that all started because that stupid secretary from your workplace bumped into us and commented that April didn’t look anything like you. It was just a couple of days before her 12th birthday and, from that point on, you just never stopped sniping at each other.
I did my best to placate everyone, but I don’t think I was very good at playing go-between. Because, while I could understand April behaving like a twelve-year-old schoolgirl, I really did think that you should know better and I really did just want to shout at you to grow up.
I tried to talk to you about it all – I must have asked you what was wrong a hundred times. I wanted you to name it, you see, so that we could get it out in the open, so that we could finally discuss the whole thing. But until you did, I dared not mention it myself, because I was never quite one hundred percent sure that you knew. And as far as bringing things out into the open was concerned, you were never any help at all. All you ever did was insist that nothing was wrong, that everything was fine. You always reverted to being such a blokey bloke whenever the subject was our daughter.
About four years ago, a woman at work mentioned a friend of hers who’d had a paternity test done, and I realised that putting the whole subject to bed had become not only possible, but relatively inexpensive. So I paid a few hundred pounds and got one done. You may remember being quite surprised when I suddenly attacked your feet with the toenail clippers one morning…
I cried when the results came back. Because April is yours, after all. And as soon as I saw those results, I knew that it had been obvious all along, even though I had wasted years and years worrying about it.
Had it not been the case, had Phil been the father, I’m pretty sure I would have never mentioned the subject again. But it’s done, honey, and it’s all OK. Nature or nurture, everything that April ever becomes is directly down to us! In fact, if you ever find that second box of photos, you’ll probably find the test results stuffed down the bottom.
Now, I know that you’ve probably thought about it a thousand times and I know that you’ve decided, or convinced yourself, that it doesn’t matter one way or the other. You love each other so much, why should it matter, right?
But I want to thank you from the bottom of my heart, all the same, for being so God-damned classy about the whole thing, for never mentioning it once. For there were plenty of times when I was being unreasonable and when you needed ammunition to get your own back; there were lots of times when you could so easily have thrown that back in my face. So thank you, honey, for not doing that.
God! I just realised that with you listening to these over such a long period, you’ll have to worry about this whole DNA thing for weeks on end. So, now I’m going to have to go back through the tapes and find the “Phil” one and erase it or record an addendum or something. Note to self: do not forget!
• • •
Emily, the estate agent – young, professional, pretty, albeit with somewhat severe features – talks constantly as they make their way from the car park to the third floor.
She tells Sean random facts about Cantabrigian Rise, most of which he knows already and some of which he knows to be patently untrue.
He had fully intended to come clean about his relationship to the building, but quickly realises that it’s much more fun to say nothing, effectively giving her enough rope to hang herself.
“The roof is completely covered in photovoltaic panels,” she is saying as they reach the top floor, “which means that the electricity bills are almost zero for these units.”
“Photovoltaic, huh?” Sean says, doing his best to suppress a wry smile. “Not just a solar hot water system then?”
He sees Emily’s confidence splutter momentarily; he sees the shadow sweep across her features. “Um?” she says, then, “No, no, the proper, um, photovoltaic ones. Which heat the water too, so that’s one less thing to worry about, obviously.”
“Obviously,” Sean repeats.
They have reached the bright orange door of unit 3F. “Here we are,” she says, sliding the key in the lock and pushing the door open.
Sean starts to frown even as he steps over the doormat. Because the floor-plan, he can see, has been modified. The apartment-width wall which originally divided the living space into living room at the front and bedrooms at the back has been removed and replaced by a long wall running from the front window to the rear wall.
“Now, this unit is quite unique, as it happens,” Emily continues, “because the rooms run front to back so that they get both morning and evening light.”
“At the cost of making them very long and thin and removing the utility of the retracting front picture window,” Sean points out, savagely.
“Yes, well, you can still open the one on the lounge side,” Emily explains.
“Well, thank God for that,” Sean comments, extrapolating, as he penetrates further into the apartment, that the original kitchen must also have been removed. He wonders, briefly, if his heart is strong enough to acknowledge such destruction, then braces himself and steps through the dividing wall. He breathes in sharply as he takes in the utterly standard oak-fronted kitchen units in the narrow galley-kitchen they have created on the other side.
“These are all brand new,” Emily says, running her finger across the worktop, “so that’s lovely for you.’
“Yes,” Sean says, flatly. “Lovely.” He’s already attempting to tot up in his mind how much it would cost to put the walls back where they belong and restore the original kitchen units. He’s not sure the workshop, out in Fen Ditton, even exists anymore. “So, on price,” he says, “how much room for manoeuvre is there?”
Emily looks at, or more specifically, pretends to look at, a sheet of paper in her ring binder. “I’m afraid the answer to that one is none at all,” she replies. “It’s only been listed for three weeks and we’ve already had more than ten offers, all of which have been refused. It’s a seller’s market, I’m afraid. People sometimes offer more than the asking price to secure unique properties such as this one. I’m not sure how well you know Cambridge, but these river front properties are few and far between.”
“Right,” Sean says, “then I’m sorry to have wasted your time.” It has suddenly become urgent for him to leave this building. Because more and more modifications that have been done are popping into his consciousness the more time he spends here, and not one of them is, to his eyes, an improvement. “My budget is more in the five-fifty bracket,” he adds, starting to move towards the front door.
“Ah,” Emily says. “Then unless one of the one bed units comes onto the market – which is frankly a once a decade kind of event…”
“There are two bedrooms here?” Sean asks, just for fun.
“Oh, no… No, they’ve been knocked into one. As you can see. But this was a two bedroom, originally. Which it’s why it’s ninety square meters. The one bed units are nearly all seventy square meters.”
“Sixty six,” Sean says.
Emily glances at him and half frowns, half smiles as she says, “Yes. That’s right. Sixty-six.”
When Sean gets home, he makes a mug of coffee before heading out to the back garden. He sits in the tatty old deck chair and looks back at the house.
It’s probably for the best, he thinks with a sigh. He’s not, if he’s being honest with himself, ready to move at all. It would feel like a kind of infidelity towards Catherine, a sort of treason towards April who still, after all, has her bedroom upstairs.
Pages, the universe seems to be whispering, cannot be turned this quickly. If only they could.
He glances up at the top rear window and pictures little April peering out. A memory surfaces of one sultry summer afternoon when he had fallen asleep on a sun-lounger only to be woken by the unexpected sensation of raindrops. April and Catherine, hysterical with laughter, had been squirting a water pistol at him from April’s upstairs bedroom.
Now April is going to be a mother in her own right and Catherine has ceased, quite simply, to exist. And yet this still does not feel like a collection of bricks and mortar to be quoted and traded. It still feels like home. And not just his home. Their home.
Sean covers his mouth with one hand and exhales sharply. He has a lump in his throat and his vision is blurring. “God, this is hard,” he mutters, as an unexpected convulsion of grief rises from deep within his chest and sweeps, like a wave, through his body. He swipes at the corners of his eyes. “Jesus,” he says.
Cantabrigian Rise continues to play upon his mind and he finds himself sketching the modified floor plan and the original. He finds himself mentally listing costs and delays and the names of potential contractors who might owe him a favour. He dreams of restoring 3F to its former glory. But he knows that it’s nothing more than a daydream. The place is too expensive even before factoring in all of the renovations.
Yet, despite all of his rationalisations, the idea is still floating around on Sunday afternoon as he pulls the shoe box from the kitchen cabinet.
“What do you think?” he asks the box, as if it might somehow reply. He lifts the lid. He waits. He listens. The air inside imparts no wisdom.
But then, just as he reaches for the next envelope, he thinks, “Wait. When the time is right, you’ll know it. When the time is right you won’t have to force anything. So wait.”
It’s something Catherine could have said. In fact these are the exact words that Catherine would have said. And in some strange way, it suddenly doesn’t seem to matter whether Catherine still exists, in heaven, or in the ether, or merely as a well known, much loved construct inside Sean’s own mind.
It’s not something that he could easily explain, more of a feeling, really, but in that instant, they amount to the same thing. In that instant whether Catherine exists or doesn’t exist outside of Sean is immaterial, because it seems to him that all we ever see of each other is the representation we hold inside our own minds. And Catherine does still exist inside Sean’s mind. He still knows her favourite flavour of ice cream and he still knows that she doesn’t like his carrot soup, and he can still hear her saying, as if she was here beside him looking at the box, thinking about his dilemma, “Wait. When the time is right, you’ll know it, Sean. So wait.”