The Trouble with Henry and Zoe (27 page)

‘Oh.’

‘Right.’

‘Where?’

‘When?’

‘All over,’ I say. ‘September?’ as if asking if this is acceptable.

‘Zoe,’ says my mother, ‘I think that’s . . . wonderful. Just wonderful.’

Dad nods along, although the soppy old fool seems to have a tear in his eye. ‘And er . . . are you going?’ he says to Henry. ‘Travelling?’

Henry shakes his head. ‘No, I’m . . .’

‘A friend,’ I say. ‘Henry’s a . . . he’s a friend.’

Mum looks at the scattered cushions in front of the fire, to Henry and then back to me. She nods, smiles. ‘I’m glad for you,’ she says, and now she’s crying too. She
wipes at her eye and winces.

‘Are you okay?’ Dad asks, a little alarmed.

Mum nods. ‘Fine.’

‘Mum? Dad? Am I . . . am I missing something?’

Over the course of an hour, we have learned that Zoe’s mother is suffering from uveitis – it can be cured, or it can cause blindness and in Julie Goldman’s
case it is uncertain which is the more likely. She was diagnosed about six months ago, but opted to keep the news from her recently bereaved daughter – at least until it became clear exactly
what the news was. Zoe’s parents have been waiting for the right opportunity to talk to Zoe, and while tonight was not the scenario they had been waiting for, it all came out around the
kitchen table. The business about cutting their holiday short for a meeting was a half truth. There is a chance that Julie’s condition is a symptom of a ‘broader pathology’, and
they have an appointment with a neurologist to run a series of tests for multiple sclerosis. The appointment isn’t until Tuesday; however, after five days in relentless sunshine, Mrs
Goldman’s eyes were causing her so much pain she couldn’t bear to leave the hotel, so they caught the first available flight home.

‘The red eye,’ Mrs Goldman joked, and it’s clear where Zoe got her sense of humour.

She is worried, confused, upset, conflicted.

‘I shouldn’t go,’ Zoe says.

We are once again in bed. Goodnight hugs and kisses on the stairs, but without the awkward discussion of where I (Zoe’s ‘friend’) will be sleeping. A bit late for that in every
sense of the expression.

‘It might clear up.’

‘Or it might not. Or it might clear up then come back, you heard what they said.’

‘You’ve bought your ticket, though.’

Zoe shakes her head as if irritated by me rather than the facts. ‘What if she goes blind? What if it’s MS and she ends up in a wheelchair? What then, Henry? Honestly, sometimes I
wonder if you won’t be glad to see the back of me.’

‘Why would you say that?’

‘Why wouldn’t I? I mean, seriously, why wouldn’t I say that?’

‘Because it’s not true, Zoe. It couldn’t be further from the truth.’

‘Well, I’m not a . . . you know . . .’

‘Mind reader?’

Zoe laughs. I take hold of her hand, put my arm around her shoulder.

‘Did I tell you about my dad’s accident?’

Zoe shakes her head.

‘Broke both wrists, a rib and collapsed a lung.’

Zoe sits up, wipes her eyes. ‘Fighting?’

I laugh. ‘Loading stolen beer kegs into the cellar at night after too much whisky.’

‘No!’

‘He went in first; did his wrists. Then the barrels followed him down and took care of the rest.’

‘Fuck!’

‘Yeah,
fuck
. Both bones on this wrist’ – indicating my left – ‘came through the skin. This one . . . was really nasty.’

‘What, and bones through the damn skin isn’t?’

‘He had a cage on his wrist for about two months; metal rods through his skin – about half a dozen of them – holding the bone together.’ Zoe makes a barfing sound.
‘Precisely. And . . . well, there’s a lot you can’t do for yourself with two broken wrists. Couldn’t feed himself, wash, shave . . . you get the picture.’

Zoe nods grimly, her nose wrinkled as if at a bad smell. ‘But he’s okay now?’

‘Yeah, fit as a bull. My point is, and I’ve never told anyone this, when it happened I’d just been offered a job in Australia.’

‘What?’

‘Yeah, hadn’t told anyone because I’d only just had the offer; the plan was to head out within about four weeks.’

‘And then . . .’

‘And then Dad got himself smashed up. They couldn’t afford extra staff, and Dad’s a danger to himself, so . . .’

‘You didn’t go?’

I shake my head. ‘Deferred it for a month, and then he got an infection in his lung that nearly did him in. That took six months to clear up, by which time . . . well, the world moves on,
doesn’t it.’

‘So you agree with me. You think I should stay?’

‘I’d love you to stay. But . . . I think you should go.’

‘But what about your dad? You said your dad nearly . . .’

‘I was working and living in Sheffield, coming home and helping out at the weekends. When he collapsed, it wasn’t me who found him. It was . . . someone else.’

Zoe stares at me while she takes this in. ‘Her?’

‘April, yes. Saved his life.’

‘Oh my God, that’s . . .’ Zoe shakes her head, as if trying to shake off a cobweb.

‘Your mum isn’t terminal,’ I say.

‘But she could go blind. End up in a wheelchair.’

‘Whether you’re here or not. And if something drastic did happen . . . well, you’d be as much use in London as you would in Thailand. Unless you’re planning on moving
back down here. And I don’t . . . well, it’s not for me to say.’

‘Do you regret not going to Australia?’

‘Honestly, I don’t know. But, listen, if you do go . . . and I hope you do . . . I’ll miss you.’

I’ll miss you a lot.

One of Mum’s symptoms is fatigue; one of mine is an overactive mind. Henry and I are out of bed before my parents, and after we’ve cleaned the kitchen we take a
long and mostly silent walk along the beach. It’s shiveringly cold, but no less beautiful for it. You could do a lot worse than wake up to this every day.

When we get back to the house, Dad’s frying sausages.

‘Morning,’ he says. ‘Again. Hungry?’

‘Ravenous,’ says Henry. ‘Can I help?’

‘You can lay the table,’ Dad says. And my dirty mind whispers:
After all, you’ve already laid my daughter.

‘Mum up?’

‘Sleeping in. We thought, if you have time, we could go for Sunday lunch before you head back.’

‘Be nice,’ I say, ‘thank you.’

‘Working tomorrow?’ Dad asks, but the question is directed at Henry.

‘Yup, got a pretty full list,’ he says, picking up on my facial signals and keeping it simple. Me travelling is one thing, having a ‘friend’ is another, but a
hairdressing dentist is a step too far for the time being.

‘Jolly good. Scrambled okay?’

‘Scrambled is fine,’ Henry answers. ‘Perfect, thank you.’

‘Dad. I’ve been thinking.’

‘Thinking what, Poppet?’

Poppet?
Henry mouths, smiling.

‘I’m not going travelling,’ I say.

I can’t see Dad’s reaction – his back is turned as he cracks eggs into a bowl – but Henry’s smile slides from his face.

‘Nonsense,’ says Dad.

‘But I’ve —’

‘Zozo, darling, your mother knew this would come up. And she’s quite firm on the matter. If you don’t get on that plane, we’re changing the locks.’

‘I just think th—’

‘I assume you’ll be going to Australia?’

‘I haven’t really . . . yes, I suppose so.’

‘Good. Your mum’s always wanted to see the Sydney Harbour Bridge. We’ll meet you there, if that’s okay. Sometime in their winter, ideally.’

‘But what about her eyes? The sun?’

‘Well, Poppet, it’s a long way off. A lot can happen. Shall we be naughty and fry some bread?’

Henry looks at me:
Well
?

‘Sure,’ I say, ‘why not?’

In the last two days we must have spent twelve hours on the train. It’s a long way for a walk on the beach, and my head is rattling with all manner of conflicting
hard-edged thoughts. Like a tumble dryer full of sand and pebbles. Yet despite it all, I feel somehow lighter.

Henry prepares a bolognaise while I use the shower. And then, while he takes his turn under the hot water, I put the spaghetti on to boil and fiddle with a half-completed jigsaw of a vast zebra
herd.

My eyes are beginning to cross when there is a knock on Henry’s door. I have a towel turbaned around my head and I’m wearing nothing more than a pair of pants and one of
Henry’s t-shirts, so I sit very still and hold my breath. The knock comes again, this time accompanied by a small voice:

‘Hello? Henry, love?’

The voice is thin and frail, so I throw caution to the wind and open the door by a few centimetres.

‘Oh, hello, love. Zoe, is it?’

‘Er, that’s right.’ The woman is small and unarmed, so I open the door fully. ‘Henry’s in the shower, can I help?’

‘Moved in, have you? Henry didn’t say anything about anyone moving in. I mean, I suppose it’s okay, so long as there’s not too much . . . noise.’

‘Sorry, were we disturbing you?’

‘I’m the landlady, love. Dorothy. Call me Dot.’

‘Right, Dot. No, I’m not moving in, I’m just a . . . friend.’

Dot takes in my towelled hair, bare legs, Henry’s t-shirt, and I’m acutely aware that I’m not wearing a bra.

‘It’s just that, well . . .’ Dot holds out a pink envelope. ‘You’ve got post, love.’

‘Oh, thank you.’

‘See,’ Dot says, indicating my name, connected to Henry’s by means of an elaborate ampersand. ‘Henry
and
Zoe.’

‘I’ll give it to him,’ I say.

‘Aye, well. Say hello to him from me. Tell him I’ll see him Tuesday,’ she says, touching her hair.

Henry has no hair to speak of, but he still takes twice as long as me in the shower. It’s gone ten o’clock by the time he’s finished, which is really too late to be eating a
heavy meal, but luckily I’ve had the foresight to burn the pasta.

‘You’re a dark horse,’ I tell him.

Henry inspects his naked torso, and his clean white boxer shorts for clues. ‘Excuse me?’

‘I met your landlady.’

‘Dot?’

‘Dot.’

‘Is everything okay?’

‘She thought I’d moved in.’

Henry laughs. ‘She’s a sweetheart.’

‘Nice hair, too.’

‘Well, she has a nice hairdresser,’ Henry says, kissing my forehead and sitting down beside me at the bay window. ‘No spag?’

‘It’s a bit late,’ I tell him.

Henry nods –
fair enough
– and takes a forkful of bolognaise.

‘And there was me thinking I was your dirty secret.’

‘Right, you’ve properly lost me now, what are you getting at?’

I nod at the torn envelope and the card, standing on top of the half-made herd of zebras. Printed on the homemade card are two red champagne flutes beneath the words
40 Bloody Years
.

‘What’s that?’ says Henry, pointing his fork at the card as if it were written in blood.

‘Sorry, probably shouldn’t have opened it, but it was addressed to
us
.’

‘
Us?
’

‘It’s an invite,’ I tell him, ever so bright and perky. ‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘Tell you . . . what?’

‘God, you’re such a tease.’

Henry picks up the card, opens it, reads aloud: ‘Dear Henry and Zoe, can’t wait to see you . . . both. Wear something red. Kiss kiss kiss. Love Mum and Dad . . .’

‘. . . Sheila and Clive.’

Henry’s lips move silently as he rereads the card.

‘Honestly, Henry, you are such a dark horse.’

‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Runs in the family.’

It seems that the Universe is not satisfied unless at least one woman within a five-foot radius of Henry Smith is crying at any one time. Jenny has been leaking tears for the
last thirty minutes, clutching a handkerchief in one hand and a small mirror in the other. Although how she can see anything through all these tears is a mystery.

It’s taken less than two hours to fit her new smile, but it’s been a long build up to this moment. Working from the second molars to the central incisors, alternating from the top
row to the bottom, a jigsaw in twenty-eight white pieces. Except there’s no guarantee all the pieces will fit until you’ve inserted the last one. They fit. They look, even if I do say
so myself, beautiful.

‘
Doh je, doh je
, Henry.’

‘
Mh sai haa hei
,’ I say. You’re welcome.

The Cantonese characters for ‘thank you’ comprise a neat, almost tessellating arrangement of hard edges and sharp crescents that belie the soft grateful syllables –
doh
je
.

In between bouts of crying and close examination of her new supernaturally white teeth, Jenny presented me with a small scroll, bound in purple ribbon. I look again at her gnarled arthritic
fingers, and marvel at how something so painful and ugly could have produced this precise and elegant calligraphy.

There are two ways of saying ‘thank you’ in Cantonese, Jenny explained; one for a service, another for a gift. ‘
Doh je
, gift,’ she said. ‘This’ –
showing me her teeth – ‘gift.’

I thought about telling her that, actually, she still owed me a couple of thousand pounds, but it would only trivialize her sentiment.

‘Can smile when scatter ashes now,’ says Jenny, making sure to maintain the flow of salt water down her cheeks.

After an emotional couple of weeks, I haven’t seen Zoe cry since we left Cornwall. We have continued to see each other every night, squeezing the days and nights until our allotted time
runs out. But who knows when that will be. Zoe isn’t due to travel until mid-September, but we have the small matter of my parents’ wedding anniversary to get through first. Zoe is as
excited as a kitten in a wool shop at the prospect of meeting my parents, although I have no idea why. I’ve certainly never said anything nice about them. She is nervous, too. She knows April
will be there (an early labour notwithstanding, and God knows I’m praying for one), plus Brian, and various others who don’t hold me in the highest regard. I have taken every
opportunity to insist it will be a lousy party with a high possibility of flung glassware, but Zoe receives this information as another expression of my dry sense of humour. I have tried explaining
that I don’t have one, which Zoe takes as further proof of concept.