I had no answer ready. All I knew was that my head felt light, my eyes were sore and my back, arm, and now my knees, ached. So, I said the only thing that came to me. Nothing else seemed appropriate. I said it because I felt slightly absurd kneeling and half lying there. My knee joints were crumpled, my back bent double and my hand was inside hers. Whether, too, it was a symptom of the hangover, I am not sure, either. Perhaps it was the seven o’clock news headlines that had just started on the radio but, more than anything it was because, in my mind, I was still hearing the pips and watching the radar screen. It was the only reply that came to me. “Bandits my love. Need to scramble,” I said.
Sarah’s eyes were looking at me, unsure, and the look on her face changed. And then she spoke the three words I had wanted to hear her say for weeks. “Well I never,” she whispered. And her strength was still enough for her to continue. “Dreaming,” she said.
I raised my aching head. “Oh no, I saw them on the radar,” I said.
The greyish blue blur of her eyes stared blankly at me. It was clear she did not understand, so I just looked deep into them as best I could.
I love Sarah’s eyes. I love the questions they ask. I love their scepticism, their doubt and their playful mocking. I love their sincerity, their innocence and their uncertainty. But, most of all I loved their familiarity so I smiled at her and kissed her cool cheek and wiped my own wet one with my hand.
“But,” I said, “you know the real problem?” I paused. “I can’t get up.”
And then I wanted to laugh and to cry all at the same time and for Sarah to join in and laugh as well. I looked down at her, willing her to join me, but as so often, her sense of humour, like her sense of touch, seemed to have gone. I waited a moment and tried again. “I think I’ve broken both my legs and probably my back.”
Still she didn’t laugh so I struggled to stand up, holding my back. That was when she spoke, but it was no longer a whisper. “Whisky,” she said.
How, in God’s name, I wondered, did she know that? Could she smell it on my breath? I breathed into my hand and smelt it but, to me, there was nothing except a sour dryness and, anyway, it was several hours since the last glassful.
Had she heard me downstairs? Perhaps I had talked in my sleep. Perhaps I had laughed or even cried, or perhaps she’d heard the chinking of the bottle against the glass. Perhaps she merely saw me lose my balance as I tried to stand. I even wondered if she had crept downstairs and watched me draining the bottle me but the notion was absurd. “Nonsense,” I said, “Just a tipple before I came to bed.”
“Did you come to bed, dear?” she said, and I was shocked at that, too. The blue eyes that I could barely see were probably mocking me now as I tried to straighten my back, arching it, checking the functioning and trying to bend it back into shape. I couldn’t resist it. I knelt down again and whispered with my lips pressed directly to her ear.
“How, on earth, do you know what I do, Mrs Thomas?”
“Oh, I know everything Mr Thomas,” she replied. “Anyway, you didn’t kiss me.”
So, I kissed her again and sat down on the bed, felt for her hand in the warmth of the sheet and held it. But her hand moved as though she wanted to disentangle it and the moment, that I wanted to last for ever, was over. So, I went to the window and peered out from behind the curtain.
Daylight was still failing to make any impact on night.
I wiped the condensation from the glass and looked out to where the street light continued to do its dismal best. The road looked wet and our small, overgrown lawn with its scattering of decaying, wet leaves that had fallen a month ago, looked muddy. But the cherry tree was bathed in an unnatural orange glow from the street light. It was swaying in a cold wind that swept down the street. A car drove slowly past, its tyres hissing in the wetness and its headlights reflecting off the road. Then I turned around again to look back at Sarah.
She was looking the other way, to the side where I had been kneeling. Then I watched her move, quite sharply as though something was digging into her back. She made a sound like a short cry and her head turned to face me. Her eyes opened and I moved quickly over to the bed. Her face had crumpled as though she was in pain. “What is it?” I asked her but she only groaned. “What is it, my love?”
Tiny beads of sweat were forming on her forehead but it was still cold to touch. I had seen it before and thought it might be pain but I was certain the spasm would disappear as soon as it appeared. Sarah felt the pain but I felt the powerlessness to help.
But I knew there were other problems. She wasn’t eating properly. That was why she looked so small and thin. But still she refused to go to hospital. “What can they do?” she would say. “How will you manage?”
Those were her reasons and I did not argue.
But, now, in the dim light, I could see she looked frightened and that frightened me. I sat on the bed, my hand resting on her cold, damp forehead. The spasm had gone but her eyes were shut and she was still frowning. I held her hand and squeezed it but she remained with her eyes closed.
I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to say and to do so much – but what?
“Robert and Anne are coming,” I said, but as soon as I had said it, I realized it sounded as if I was admitting that time was running out. “I phoned him,” I said, but her eyes still remained shut and I was not sure if she had heard or was even listening. It was as though she was again cutting herself off from me.
That was one of the worst things. It was as though she was not interested in seeing or hearing. Sometimes she was still quite sharp. Her accusation of just minutes before that I might have been drinking was shrewd. I found it all so depressing. It had been like that for months now although I felt the trend seemed to be towards losing interest in what was going on.
I tried again. “Robert said they’d fly over for Christmas.” There was still no reply and her eyes stayed shut. “Sarah, my love?” I spoke loudly and then again, even more loudly out of frustration. “Sarah, my love.” I squeezed her hand and moved my face close to hers. “You want to see Robert – and Anne?” I asked.
I then tried to whisper, but still she did not respond. I was desperate to find things to keep her interested.
And then, something happened that I will never forget. Another spasm came and she groaned loudly. “Help me,” she said but still her eyes were shut. I held her hand, firmly, unsure now of what to do or say. I felt totally helpless. “Help me,” she said again, her voice fainter and coming through almost closed lips.
I was so close that I was touching her lips with my own. I was desperate to kiss her, talk to her, help her. I was racked with anguish, uncertainty and panic about what to do. “Sarah, my love. I’m here. Everything’s alright.”
She took a deep breath, coughed weakly and then relaxed into the pillow again and all I could do was wait and watch as her head sank onto the pillow and fell to one side. Then her breathing stopped.
It was only for a few seconds but, just as I was beginning to panic, it started again with a sudden gasp and a fluid sound from her chest. I clung to her hand, desperately looking at her, my other hand gently pushing cold, damp strands of hair from her forehead.
I sat there for what seemed like an eternity, unable to move as I watched the blanket across her chest rise and fall, irregularly and just perceptibly. Occasionally I moved my position just to counter the numbness in my own legs. My mouth was now seriously dry, my head still throbbed and I was desperately in need of a cup of tea but I just could not leave her even to go down to the kitchen. I thought about telephoning the clinic but was concerned that, if I did, decisions about what to do would be taken out of my hands and Sarah had been saying for months that she did not want to leave home – ever. “It’s safer here,” she would say.
She had made me promise not to leave her or allow her to be moved to hospital and I had agreed. I agreed because I wanted to do what she wanted but neither did I want her to go into hospital with its lack of privacy and even more depressing undertones. If there was to be some quality of life, better that it should meet both our wishes. Then, at other times, I doubted that wisdom.
Finally, as her breathing became deeper and more regular and she seemed more comfortable, I took my hand away and crept downstairs for my tea.
But she had, once more, said the words that constantly went around and around in my head. “I know everything, Mr Thomas.”
How much did she know? Did she know everything about the life I had always tried to keep secret?
By midday both the nurse and doctor had called and Sarah had been awake while they were there. To me she seemed better though very tired. After they went, I made her another cup of tea.
The nurse had washed her and also took an advanced order for a ‘Meals on Wheels Christmas Lunch Special’. “It’s very good, Mr Thomas. Nice big dinner of turkey, stuffing, all the trimmings and you get a pudding as well with custard.”
I said to her, “For God’s sake, it’s still November.”
“Better early than never, Mr Thomas.”
“So how often will they be serving the Special between now and Christmas?” I asked.
“Now don’t start on me, Mr Thomas. After a week, I’m beginning to know you only too well. Try looking forward to it.”
I was surely tempted to remind whatever her name was that Marmite on toast with a few glasses of Bell’s as pudding was also nice. I also felt like telling her that after eighty-six Christmas lunches could they perhaps try using some imagination and invent something different. Instead, I said: “Thanks. I’ll look forward to it. If I don’t finish it, you can have what’s left.”
Three days later, things changed.
Sarah seemed to be asleep, her mouth, as ever, just slightly open and the wisps of grey hair just falling across her forehead. As usual, I brushed them to one side and kissed her cheek. It was even cooler than normal, but the bedroom, too felt cold as though I might have left the window open. I checked, pulled the curtain and briefly looked outside.
The wind had dropped and the cherry tree hung motionless. The road glistened with wetness as usual but whether it was rain or frost, I couldn’t tell. But, as expected, the window was shut so I drew the curtains again and returned to the bedside, kneeled down, brushed Sarah’s cool cheek with my fingers again and gently pulled back the blanket to search for her hand to wake her.
This was also nothing unusual.
I had been doing exactly that for weeks and always it was the same routine. I would leave the landing light on, creep in, check if she was awake, brush her cheek with my hand, then with my lips, then go to the window. Sometimes I would gently brush her hair back and comb it gently. Sometimes she would stir a little, perhaps murmur something. Then I would kneel, then feel for her hand beneath the blanket, hold it and squeeze it a little and then stay for as long as my knees and back held out.
Tonight, was different. What I felt beneath the blanket shocked me.
I felt the blood drain from my veins because her arm was as cool as her face. My own, warm, hand felt its way down her arm to her hand. Her hand, too, was cold and it had bent inwards in an odd way. My own hand stopped for a moment near her wrist and I moved my left hand to touch her face that was so close to mine.
I reached for her fingers. They, too, were cold. They felt hard and seemed to open again involuntarily. In a sudden rush of horror, I released my own hand and held her face again, this time with both hands. Then I cupped it in my hands but more firmly than usual. I pressed my hand onto her cold forehead and all around her face, around her ears, across her head, around her neck and then across her cheeks again. I moved her hair back and tugged at it very slightly and then bent to kiss her fully on her cold lips. But she did not move or respond.
I kissed her again and held her cheeks, trembling, feeling reluctantly but desperately for a pulse in her neck. But the trembling turned to shaking and I found I was holding all of her small head in my hands. I was shaking it, trembling all the time, pulling, caressing, pulling again and then tried desperately to pull her up from where she lay. I then collapsed and I fell onto the pillow beside her, tears pouring from my eyes.
Twenty-four hours later, I was alone again for the first time since I had discovered Sarah. I had spent the whole time barely knowing where I was or what I was doing. After a full two hours lying in the bedroom alongside Sarah, I had finally managed to telephone the doctor and then sank into a trancelike state of utter devastation, not knowing what I was thinking or doing.
Drained by a grief that I never fully understood was possible, I know I cried like a baby for what must have been hours. A doctor, a nurse, an ambulance and some other people whom I cannot remember ever having met before arrived at various times between midnight and the late morning. The doctor called again in the afternoon offering what help he could, but my body and mind were too numb and weakened by fatigue and utter desolation to understand what was being said to me.
All I remembered was the doctor offering to help if I wanted to go anywhere or if there was anyone else who needed to know urgently. Robert had been the only name I could think of, and the doctor had made the telephone call to Los Angeles for me, handing the phone over for me to speak to Robert for just a few moments.
All I can remember saying to Robert was how desperately sorry I was that I had been downstairs and not with her at the time she passed away and that this would stay with me for the rest of my life. I didn’t tell him that words would also stay with me for the rest of my life. “I know everything, Mr Thomas.”
Robert and Anne arrived from Los Angeles.
While Robert and I sat in chairs by the table opposite one another, Anne busied herself tidying the sitting room and preparing the first proper meal that had been cooked there for months. Robert and I mostly sat in silence, passing clutter towards Anne and moving our feet to allow her to clear underneath but that day and the evening that followed is only a vague memory and I must have eventually fallen asleep in the chair.
I woke up before daylight next morning, crying and sobbing like a baby but trying desperately to control myself in case Robert and Anne heard. My cheeks were wet but my mouth was dry and my bladder felt ready to burst. But I sat, unable to move as reality kept washing over me.
I slowly recovered some sense of order and, as all seemed quiet upstairs where Robert and Anne were, I assumed, still asleep I went to the bathroom and then to sit in the kitchen for a while. I drank a glass of cold water as I waited for the kettle to boil. Then, before it had boiled, I got up, washed in the kitchen sink, shaved as best as I could manage with a blunt razor on three days of growth and made myself a pot of tea. The shave wasn’t good as my hands were shaking, so I stuck patches of tissue on to absorb the blood. As I carried the tray to the sitting room, the stairs creaked.
It was the sound of someone stepping on the top step but I had not heard it for a long time. That was how it used to be when Sarah came down in the morning but it was Robert’s cough that stopped the tears from running too far down my sore face. I wiped them away just before he appeared and we sat at the table and talked.
“Why didn’t you tell us, Dad? Anne and I could have come over long ago to help.”
“No need, Rob. Your mother didn’t want it. No need to fuss was one of her favourite sayings. What will be will be and I don’t want to be a burden were others. You must remember what she was like.”
“But was she up to making a decision, Dad?”
“It was what she wanted, Rob. I tried. I suggested we invite you for Christmas but she didn’t seem bothered and she hasn’t made it anyway. Fact is she barely knew what day, week or month it was for a long time.”
“But that’s terrible, Dad. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because we agreed to stick it out here, just the two of us, depending on one another and not reliant on others for as long as possible, that’s why.”
Robert fell silent, sipping tea, as though admonished.
“And you know what, Rob? It was the right thing to do. I have no regrets. What could you have done? Worried? What good is that? Remember her as she was, Rob. It has not been a good year but at least we’ve been together and I would not have wanted it any other way. It was our decision, your mother’s and mine. But it’s not been easy I can tell you. I just wish I had been with her when she passed away.”
I stopped, pulled off one of the bloody paper patches on my chin and dropped it on the floor. Tears were not far away and I swallowed hard, forcing myself to keep going. “But I have other regrets. I’ve sat here for too many hours over the last year or so pondering on the past. I’ve even been drinking a bit as well.”
Robert interrupted me. “We noticed. Anne found dozens of empty glasses and bottles. You’re OK just now though aren’t you Dad? There’s nothing wrong with you, is there?”
I stared into my empty cup. “I’m OK I suppose. I dream too much. I think too much. I sit around too much. I go over the past too much. I don’t sleep much. I don’t eat much. I read the foreign sections of the paper too thoroughly. I go to the shop once a day. The nurse comes. I look out of the window. I scribble a lot in a notebook. I watch TV with the sound turned off because it’s absolute shit. I listen to similar shit on the radio.”
I looked up at my son and our eyes met for perhaps the first time in years. “Thanks for coming, Robert.” With that, I have to admit I choked on what felt like a hard lump and tears formed once more. They welled up, overflowed and ran down my cheeks.
And then Robert stood with bulging eyes and his face in a strangely contorted face and put an arm around my neck and his head on my shoulder. Seconds later, though, the top stair creaked again. We both heard it so Robert sat down, wiped his nose with his hand and had just picked up the two empty cups ready to go to the kitchen when Anne walked in wearing a dressing gown.
We both looked at her knowing our eyes were red. It was Anne who spoke. “So, did sleep do you some good?”
I had forgotten Anne’s American accent. Somehow, I hadn’t noticed it the night before. “Thank you,” I said.
“Could you take a little breakfast? Need to eat you know. You’ve not been taking care of yourself.”
For some reason, I felt hungry and it surprised me. “Yes,” I said.
“So, what do we normally have?”
I wanted to say I normally have a hangover but thought better of it. Instead, I said, “Normally we have nothing.”
Anne looked at me over the top of her glasses just like my mother used to. “You see, Rob, your father needs looking after.”
Anne was trying to be kind but Robert sensed something out of order with what she said and the way she said it. “Dad’s OK, Anne. He’s doing fantastic. Why don’t you go to the store – buy some eggs or something.”
Robert’s American way with words, too, suddenly became apparent and I realised how sensitive I still was to intonation and accent. It produced a sudden flashback to another accent that I had recently heard in a nightmare. “Jordanian,” I said aloud, completely forgetting I had company.
“Pardon me?” Anne said, pouring herself a cup of tea.
“Jordanian,” I repeated. “Leila was Jordanian. Fried egg on toast would be nice.”
The rest of the day passed.
We talked about funeral arrangements, the house, the garden and what I might do with myself when they returned to California. The doctor and nurse called and sat talking with Anne and Robert while I excused myself in the bathroom. The evening passed, another large dinner of steak and mashed potatoes was prepared and eaten, leaving me with an uncomfortable reminder of what indigestion felt like. I asked Robert if he’d like to share a glass of whisky after the meal but, seeing Anne’s look, withdrew the suggestion by admitting I felt unusually bloated.
The following morning, Robert came downstairs to find me again drinking tea at the table. It was six thirty. “So, what’s with all the paper and notes, Dad?”
He was looking at the back of the table by the window where Anne had neatly piled the clutter spread across the table.
“I was sorting a few things out,” I said. “Old papers. There’s another box upstairs that I’ve not looked at for thirty years.”
Robert leaned over and picked up a bundle. “Old newspaper cuttings. Nineteen seventy-two. IRA. Hijacks. London bombings. What’s all this, Dad?”
“Old records, cuttings, that sort of thing.”
“You were out there, weren’t you, Dad? Middle East and other places.”
“Yes.”
“Mum never talked about what you did, you know. And you never said anything, either.”
“No.”
“Business wasn’t it, Dad? Export or something.”
“Yes.”
Robert was flipping through another small bundle. “What’s this all about, Dad?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“And this? An old invoice. Thomas Import Export Limited.” He stopped to turn something over in his hand. “Rifles, ammunition?”
“Put it back, Robert, it gives me nightmares.”
“Is this what you did?”
“Only sometimes.”
Robert put the pile down and looked towards me. “You always were a bit of a mystery, Dad,” and he leaned over to pick up another pile.
“Leave it, son.”
Robert looked at me sharply but then held up another bundle of papers, his eyes gleaming. “But what did you do, Dad? Mum said something once. I asked her where you were because I hadn’t seen you for weeks. It was years ago. I may have been about twelve.”
“What did your mother say?”
“She said you were up to your old tricks again. I thought it sounded funny. You know Mum and her sayings, Dad. She was well known for them, wasn’t she? She had lots of others like that. He’s out, playing with fire again. That was a common expression. We always joked about her way with words, didn’t we? So, I asked her what she meant. She said you’d probably been – what was it? – operating incognito again – that was it.
“I always remembered those words exactly. I’d never heard the word incognito before. I asked her what it meant. ‘Ssh,’ she said, ‘Your father’s work is secret. Mustn’t talk about it. He doesn’t like that.’ Then she said you were probably running around doing dirty work for others. She seemed cross if I remember. An off day I suppose. I ignored it. But she went on a bit that night.”
Robert was absentmindedly trying to read a small square cut from an old newspaper but I found myself staring at him. “What do you mean, she went on a bit?”
“It was many years ago. But it wasn’t the first time. She often grumbled about what you were up to. For God’s sake, Dad, you even missed Christmas once or twice. Mum was really upset. She used to sit by the fire. You remember the one in the house in Croydon? Mum used to read a lot in those days. She took books from the public library. Sometimes she would put her book down and look at the clock. I remember. I might have been doing homework. She worried a lot, Dad. She didn’t always show it. When you were home, she was fine. But she worried about where you were, when you were coming home, what you were doing. The office would phone sometimes.”
“The office?”
“Yes – sometimes.”
“What office?” It was a ridiculous comment but I was imagining Donaldson’s Regent Street office.
“The Croydon office of course. The old woman who ran your office. Miss Collins, was it?”
“You knew about Beatie? She wasn’t that old.”
“We knew her as Miss Collins. She sometimes phoned when you were away. Except once.”
“Except once?”
“Yes, I remember quite clearly. It was one evening when I was doing my homework. A man called. It was a funny conversation. He asked to speak to Mum – Mrs Thomas he called her. I said Mum was out and could I help. He asked me to give her a message. I said OK, no problem. Then he said, ‘Tell her that Mr Reynolds is in Libya.’ I told him to hang on while I wrote it down just like Mum had told me to if someone called. ‘Tell her Mr Reynolds is in Libya,’ he said.”
I was sitting bolt upright, listening intently, my eyes unable to blink. “Mr Reynolds? What else did he say?”
“It was a long time ago, Dad. But it was as though Mum would understand because she knew Mr Reynolds as a friend or a business colleague of yours. Is that right, Dad? Was he? And, oh yes, something else. He also said to tell her that Libya was a red line. That’s it – a red line.”
Hitherto unconnected chunks of the jigsaw suddenly, clicked together. Even as Robert sat there talking idly and picking up odd pieces of old newspaper from the pile on the table, I could hear Sarah’s voice: “I know everything, Mr Thomas.”
What was also clear was that Sarah was expected to know what a red line was. And there was only one person who used that expression – Donaldson. Donaldson used it to describe a place where I was likely to be followed or somehow tracked. God, himself, would need to intervene if I ever stepped over the red line. The red line was like the one on a pressure gage. Cross it and there would be an almighty explosion. The red line was Donaldson’s boiling point.
“Don’t fuck up, old chap. You know it’s not in anyone’s interest. Think family, old chap, think pension, think security, think common sense and think bloody straight for once. Let’s not mess up. I know, let’s give this one red line status, shall we? There, that’ll show you why you can’t fuck this one up.”
My mind was in overdrive again. I already knew that Sarah had known Beatie, at least via the occasional phone call. But Donaldson? And Sarah, it seemed, had also known something about Reynolds and that I travelled abroad as Reynolds as well as Thomas, which was why she had used the expression incognito to Robert.
“I know everything, Mr Thomas.”
I pushed myself up from the chair, walked to the cupboard, brought out a fresh bottle of whisky and two glasses and sat down beside Robert again. “Dad, it’s not yet seven thirty.”
“I know.”
I broke the bottle seal and unscrewed the cap as Robert watched. The process was performed quickly and efficiently. It was followed by a quick inversion of both glasses, first holding them against the ceiling light to check for dregs from previous use and within seconds both glasses were full of neat whisky. A moment later mine was empty.
“My God, Dad. I’ve never seen that before. I can’t do that. Not at seven thirty in the morning, anyway. I hope Anne isn’t coming down.” Robert took a small sip, swallowed, then coughed as his throat burned and his eyes ran. “Bit early for me, Dad.”
I, though, was already pouring myself another.
“Life’s a bloody sod, Robert, I said. “I wish I’d talked to your mother more now. God knows we’ve had enough time over the years but I’d been trying to forget everything you see. Once I realized your mother had no interest in moving away from here, I went into a type of mental limbo. I tried to persuade her to pack our bags and go abroad but it was pointless. God knows why we stayed in this house, in this place, for so long. But your mother liked it here. She liked the familiarity and the domesticity. She liked having me around. I know I’d spent too much time away from home – far too much – but we could have been together, somewhere else – anywhere other than here.”
“Perhaps she was frightened of strange places, Dad.”
“No,” I said, reality dawning, “I think she was frightened of strange people.”
“You’re depressed, Dad. Why don’t you come over to the States after the funeral? See a bit of the world again if you miss it so much?”
“Perhaps. We’ll see.”
“But what else is eating you, Dad? There’s something else besides Mum isn’t there? What’s all the stuff lying around here,” Robert waved a hand at the boxes and piles of paper.
“Another mistake, I suppose,” I said. “Old and dusty boxes should be left to gather more dust not opened up, peered into and sorted through. It has not exactly been a therapeutic pastime. It’s what gives me the nightmares, Rob. Then there is the growing feeling, gnawing away at me, that your mother knew far more about the past than she ever let on. You’ve just proved it.
“But I’ve never been one to chat endlessly about this and that. I always felt some things were best kept to oneself.
“I’ve also been wondering about my old sense of patriotism and wondering whether it has now worn off. Some things were so complicated and I didn’t ask enough questions. With your mother I struggled to know where to start. I was always waiting for the right time but the right time never came.
“I’ve also struggled with my conscience. How can you explain willing complicity in doing things that, under different circumstances or on reflection many years later, you consider wrong? I have, you see, done things which I can barely believe I had in me to do. Feelings of duty and responsibility do strange things to a man. Ask a soldier. Ask a politician.
“Then, just as I started to think I might be coming to terms with it all and that it was time to explain, your mother got ill and seemed to disappear into a sort of shell from which she never eme