Tin Man(41)

Who were we, Ellis, me and Annie? I’ve tried to explain us many times but I’ve always failed. We were everything and then we broke. But I broke us. I know that. After Mabel’s death, I never came back.

Dusk is falling. Too many cyclists on the towpath for me to relax. I’m cold and I want to go back to Mrs Green and my room. The lights of Folly Bridge suddenly look beautiful and welcoming.

I’ve slept well and have woken up brave and ready. I need to see them now, I know I do. Mrs Green is pleased that I’ve finished her full English breakfast for the first time this week. My cough has eased, just a slight clearing of the throat. From the hallway, I ring in and check my answer-machine. No new messages from the estate agent, London is leaving me in peace. Mrs Green is happy for me to stay with her for a few more days. As long as you want, Michael, she says, you’re no trouble at all. And her eyes dart to one of the regular guests, a salesman who’s just arrived down from Birmingham. She hands me an orange juice before I go out. Freshly squeezed, she tells me, proud of its pedigree.

I set out in autumn sunshine. Through Christ Church meadow to the High Street, a slow amble down to Magdalen Bridge, and The Plain. As I get close to St Clement’s, all I can think about is seeing her again, Ms Annie Actually, and anxiety begins to overwhelm me, and in my head I’m trying to control how it’s going to be, what I’m going to say, how she’ll respond, a smile perhaps, maybe we’ll fall into each other’s arms and I’ll apologise – I don’t know – but I run through various scenarios by the time I reach her bookshop. I stand to the side and surreptitiously peek through the books in the window to the space inside. I see no one. I open the door. A bell rings. Mabel had a bell above her shop door, too.

I’ll be with you in a minute! she shouts from the back. Oh, her voice.

There’s a cappuccino left steaming on the desk next to a biographical study of Albert Camus, 1913–1960. I drink it. Strong and sugary, nothing changes. I drink some more and look around. Fiction R–Z is housed in a beautiful tall oak shelf. There’s an armchair in an alcove over to the side. She’s putting music on. Chet Baker. Nice one, Annie.

Coming! she shouts. Oh, her voice.

And there she is. Comes out from behind the bookshelf and her blond hair is tied up and falls down by her cheeks and she wears dungarees over a jumper, and she stops. Her hand on her forehead.

I open my arms out wide and say, O Captain, my Captain!

She says nothing. I put down her coffee. Chet Baker is doing his best to create a mood of love.

You fucking bastard, she says.

I’m an idiot.

And now she smiles. And now she’s in my arms.

You smell like you, she says.

And what smell’s that? I say.

Betrayal.

I look after the shop as she goes next door to buy me a double macchiato. I sell a copy of A Year in Provence and, as soon as she comes back, I tell her excitedly that I did.

Here, she says. Commission, as she gives me the coffee and kisses me on the head.

Dora used to do that to me all the time, I say.

Then it’s true, she says. He married his mother.

I open my mouth to say something but she says, Don’t speak to me, I just want to look at you. I wouldn’t trust anything you said, anyway. She points to my beard. This I like, she says.

We drink our coffees.

We drink one another in. She sighs. She rests her chin in her hands. Her eyes on my beard. Her eyes on my body. Her eyes on my eyes.

You’re back, she says. You are, aren’t you? For good?

I am.

I’m back, I say.

D’you know – I’ve got vongole for tonight.

I love vongole.

I’ll make it stretch three ways. We have wine— – I can bring more.

And I’ve got spinach to have on the side.

My favourite.

It is, isn’t it? she says.

It’s as if you knew, I say.

The bell rings as the shop door opens.

Sorry, says an older woman. Am I interrupting?

Not at all, Rose. Come on in. What are you after?

I have a list.

Tell me.

Amongst Women. Buddha of Suburbia and that Ingrid Seward’s book about Diana.

A good list, says Annie.

So what shall I buy first? says Rose.

Let me confer with my assistant, says Annie. Mikey?

In that order, I say.

I agree, she says.

Amongst Women then, please, says Rose.

Annie closes up the shop for the rest of the day. On the pavement outside, I say, Does he hate me?

No, she says. He could never.

We walk hand in hand along Cowley Road and I say this place has changed and she asks me how. I don’t know, I say, I just know it has. Maybe it’s you, she says. Maybe it is, I say. I’m sure it is, I say. Maybe you’ve seen too much of the world, she says. Maybe it all just feels too small?

No. It’s not small, I say. It’s perfect.

Outside Mabel’s old shop, we stop.

January 1963. It’s snowing heavily and I’m sitting in the back of Mr Khan’s minicab as it crawls along this road. The wipers are battling. He’s never seen snow before and he’s driving slowly, big eyes full of wonder. There’s a rag-and-bone cart in front of us and the horse stops and shits, and Mr Khan gets out of the car with a shovel and scrapes the dung into a plastic bag.