Perfectly Ordinary People(47)

Gosh, that must have been a relief, wasn’t it?

It actually wasn’t. Neither of us felt relieved. Of course, it was awful being locked in that cabin with no sunshine and nothing to do and the smelly poo bucket in the corner. But by then we’d got used to it. We’d come to feel safe. We even imagined staying there for months and then one day someone breaking down the door and it turning out to be an Allied soldier telling us the war was over. So no, we didn’t feel relieved. We felt petrified that we had to leave. And of course, there was no one to ask about where we were going and what was going to happen next.

I’m just wondering something . . . The man, the carpenter man who helped you. Was it for money? You said your father paid him.

No, I don’t think so. I think that was just what he did, getting people over the border. I think the money – and it really wasn’t that much – was just to help feed us, and his family and . . . I don’t know, incidental costs. There were perhaps people he had to bribe. That’s how things worked during the war. He gave Dad some petrol, too, so it might have been something to do with that.

And did he ever ask you why you were running away? Did he ever ask why they’d hurt Pierre? Do you think he cared who he helped?

Well, he almost asked us. Didn’t I tell you that bit?

No, I don’t think you did.

Yes, that first day, when he let us into the cabin, he said we wouldn’t be able to leave until Pierre could walk properly. He said it was a long walk, and we needed to be fit. And then he asked Pierre what he’d done to ‘piss off the Krauts’. I don’t know what Pierre was going to tell him – he definitely wouldn’t have risked telling him the truth. But before Pierre could even reply, he said, ‘Don’t tell me. It’s better I don’t know. You pissed them off, that’s all I need to know. And anyone who pisses off the Krauts is a friend.’

I’m afraid my tape is about to run out again. What do you want to do? Carry on, or do you want to call it a day? I could always come back tomorrow.

I am feeling a bit exhausted . . . It’s all getting more emotional than I thought it would be. Perhaps we can carry on tomorrow? Oh, isn’t tomorrow Sunday? Yes? Could we continue on Monday then? Would that work for you?

Sure, Monday’s fine. Same time?

Yes. Or perhaps even a bit earlier? But I am worried: isn’t this too long? It’s going to be a book at this rate, not a few pages in a magazine.

Yes. Yes, I think it might be pretty big . . . we’ll see. We can talk about how to edit it down or whatever once it’s done. I’m just thrilled to be able to hear it from you first-hand like this.





Ruth. Part Three.

It took a considerable amount of the kind of repetitive, discreet, low-level nagging that, because of various jobs I have held, I happen to be particularly good at, but finally, in May, Dad gave me Grandpa Chris’s address. He couldn’t find the phone number, he said, which, knowing Dad’s filing system, had about a fifty per cent chance of being true. But I didn’t mind – with the name and the address I figured I’d be able to get hold of the phone number with no problem.

I was wrong about that, though. Even Freida, our multilingual Swedish secretary at Impressionable, couldn’t track down Grandpa Chris’s phone number so, instead, I sent him a card with a folded letter inside telling him a little about my life and saying I felt I’d rather missed out on my grandparents. I closed by saying I’d love to come and visit him one day, and, feeling hopeful, I included my phone number and email address.

A week later I received a low-tech reply in the form of a postcard. The image on the card was of the bay of Arcachon, a photo that looked as if it hadn’t been renewed since the 1960s. He said, in the limited space offered by the postcard, that he was thrilled to hear from me, and I was welcome anytime. Sadly he didn’t add his phone number, so I wrote back again specifically requesting it and suggesting that perhaps I could visit with my boyfriend in September, which was the next time I knew we both had holidays booked. This time no immediate reply was forthcoming, which I optimistically decided meant ‘I’m thinking about it.’

In the meantime, life continued. I visited my parents every other weekend, generally without Dan, who almost always seemed to be working.

At Impressionable our author manager had finally been replaced (the original one having never returned after maternity leave, joining one of our larger competitors instead). Her replacement started just as the buzz around Ellie Day began to fade, so I’d basically returned to the now-teetering slush pile, working my way through dreadful manuscripts, hoping upon hope to stumble upon the next Ellie Day.

This meant that I had more free time than before in which to notice my sweetheart’s absence, which is why, that terrible day in Chinatown, I attempted to bring up the subject of our living arrangements.

It was a rainy Sunday in July and the streets were unusually quiet. In my defence, I was premenstrual. I’m not sure what Dan’s excuse was but in my humble opinion he needs one too.

‘So I’ve a question for you, sexy boy,’ I said, forking a prawn dim sum to my lips. Unlike Dan, who’s an expert, I’ve never been able to get anywhere with chopsticks.

‘Oh,’ Dan said. ‘Sounds serious.’

‘Not really. It’s just, do you think we see enough of each other?’