Sweet Sorrow(108)

‘That’s fine.’

‘No, I wasn’t very kind – I’d had Polly shouting at me, then Mum and Dad. Even Bernard gave me a harsh look. If I’d known what had happened – but I thought you’d just run off and left me.’

‘I wouldn’t do that.’

‘I know! I should have listened—’

‘It’s fine.’

‘Charlie, you have to stop saying things are fine when they’re not fine. It doesn’t help anyone.’

We walked on. After a while she took my hand.

‘Nothing’s changed. Not for me.’

‘No, me neither.’

‘So come back?’

‘I’m sorry, I can’t. I’m not fit for company.’

‘It’s not a company, it’s a co-operative!’ A little further. ‘Can I ask, why not?’

I shrugged. ‘Bit blue, I suppose.’

‘And is staying home the answer?’

‘No, but neither is coming back.’

‘Maybe not. Unless it is.’

‘Is it really a disaster?’ I asked.

‘Technical issues. Your going hasn’t helped. Think about it, will you?’ We were back at Miles’ car now, the company jostling for the best seats. ‘I miss you. We all miss you.’

‘I don’t,’ said Helen.

‘Everyone except Helen misses you.’

‘The call’s at nine tomorrow,’ said George. ‘Fight rehearsal. In case you change your mind.’

‘No pressure,’ said Lucy.

‘Some pressure,’ said Alex.

‘I’m in the front,’ said Helen. ‘You’re dropping me home, yes?’

‘Me too,’ said Colin.

‘And me please, Miles,’ said Lucy.

‘I’m not a mini-cab,’ said Miles.

Finally, only Alex and Fran were left. ‘What a lousy intervention that was,’ he said, embracing me then folding himself into the car. ‘See you tomorrow, Mr Algarve.’

Miles turned the key in the ignition and Bob Marley’s ‘Three Little Birds’ began to play, and while they bickered and groaned and crammed themselves into every corner, Fran kissed me – ‘Tomorrow. Please?’ – and then clambered across their laps.

I watched the laborious three-point turn, the car low on its axles, and waited for them to drive away. Turning back to the house, I saw Dad in the window. I went inside and closed the door.





Canada, Malaga, Rimini, Brindisi


Mum’s shopping bike was not made for hills like this, with its pram wheels and its three gears, each the same, the rattling basket and mudguards threatening to fall off with each turn of the pedals. On the shaded lane that led up to Fawley Manor, it felt like a treadmill, all effort, no discernible forward movement. Arriving late, I dumped the thing behind a marquee that I’d not seen before – a refreshment tent – and followed the sound of shouts and cries, crossing the courtyard and coming out between two great scaffolding structures, raked seating straight out of a high-school movie. I stopped in my tracks.

In the three days since I’d been here, a small town had appeared, baked to a dusty white by the Italian sun, twisted and tumbling down. The great green lawn had disappeared beneath some rough, pale crumpled surface like the chalky fabric used to make a plaster cast, and on the street, a brawl was taking place with swords, real swords, flashing through the air as the combatants kicked up the dust, watched from above by the rest of the company, all in motion, shouting and stomping. On the walkway, Sam and Grace, our musicians, were thrashing away at snare drum and electrified mandolin. ‘A plague a’ both your houses!’ shouted Alex, laughing bitterly at the stage blood dripping from his hands. ‘They have made worms’ meat of me!’ and I could see the space on stage where I really ought to be.

‘Charlie! Oi, Charlie, up here!’ From the top row of the seating unit, Helen beamed down, then Chris and Chris, thumbs up.

‘Shhhh!’ said Alina, turning and seeing me. ‘Well, hello stranger!’

‘Charlie!’ shouted Ivor. ‘Charlie, my boy!’ On stage the action fell apart, and Alex started clapping with his bloody hands, then George, then the whole company, and then Polly was behind me – ‘I knew it, I knew you’d come back. Didn’t I say?’ and Fran, laughing, and Ivor, bounding up. ‘The prodigal returns. Charlie Lewis,’ he said, pumping me by the hand, ‘we’re all very pleased. Now, let’s get you into costume.’

I fell back into it, the corny, self-conscious melodrama of putting on a play, all tantrums and surmountable disasters, ‘I can’t do this part’ and ‘the costume’s no good’ and ‘we’ll never be ready in time’. We worked long, long hours, and each hour brought with it another crisis, another explosion. Miles dared to give Alex notes and Alex gave notes back with added venom, and Lucy got carried away in the fight and poked Colin in the ear with her sword, and Polly kept forgetting her lines and Keith kept sneaking off to phone his wife and coming back in tears. Pulleys jammed and props disappeared and a sudden summer wind blew up, tugging at the sheets like sails, causing the scaffolding to sway alarmingly, and George thought he might have flu until Alina forbade it, and the performances were alternately too quiet, too loud, too fast, too slow, too big, too small, and in the gaps in between the crises and explosions we’d loll around, play cards or games of catch, work on our Italian tans, gossip and praise each other, sometimes sincerely, sometimes not. When she could, Fran would come and find me and sometimes we’d find a private place to kiss and talk – really talk – until it was almost like before. Despite the melodrama playing out in rehearsals, things were calmer between us now, the relief that follows a confession I suppose, and we felt so much older and wiser than the children we’d been five days before.