Chapter 16 #6
Nora’s conscience stutters, at this last part; she feels as if she’d been on a ship heading for an iceberg, hoping it would turn, come on, turn, but then her mother had to say that and she is hurting, at Robin’s sad eyes; hurting, that Bren is hurting, too; hurting that she has done nothing wrong, on paper, and yet the two people she cares about most are at this table, unable to look at her, while her mother is citing love in front of Josie, when Nora knows – she knows –
People you love? Bren repeats. Or people, he says, looking at Nora, who just happen to be here?
Brenavin, get off your high –
No, seriously, Bren says. I’ve been gone twelve years, this summer, right?
And I’d like you to make a list, for me, all of you – he swivels to Freya and Josie – about what it is that you love, around here.
Not what’s easy, or convenient. What takes your breath away, or sets your world on fire.
Doesn’t have to be a person, even. Tell me what it is that’s winning for you, here, in this garden with your damn salad plates and your banged-up cars in the driveway and magnets from places you’ve never even seen, stuck to the fridge, while you’re too scared to do anything else?
And Nora has opened her mouth to argue, but it is Robin who gets there first.
I think you should take a breath, my friend, he says.
Bren looks at him over the Pimm’s jug. There is a measured moment where Robin looks back, unruffled. The three women, looking at them look.
Sweetheart, Josie says, in the end, but Bren says he just – needs a minute – gets up and goes inside, leaving the four of them at the table. A bee drifts near to the dipping oil, then away again. Josie presses her napkin to her mouth.
I’m so sorry, she says.
What are you sorry for, Freya demands. We’ve not even told him what we’re here for and already he’s all riled up.
He’s right to be upset, Josie says. I am appalling at remembering certain things. It must be the pills.
Or the menopause, Freya says.
I can never keep up with where he is, Josie goes on. I don’t really understand what he does for a living, either. He uses all these words, all these terms that I can’t … quite keep in my brain. I do try.
Course you do, Freya says.
He’s always been so passionate, Josie says. That’s his dad in him. Not me.
Not all passion has to be fire and fantasy, Freya says, standing to scrape the remaining salad onto Robin’s plate. Something to take your breath away, did he say? We’re not any less interesting because we’re not scaling glaciers or naked camping with strangers.
Naked camping? Josie says, startled.
You know, without toilets or electricity.
Wild camping, Nora corrects her.
She rather hopes this might prompt some humour from Robin, but he is picking at his salad leaves, not looking at any of them.
Freya’s right, he says. About passion.
Still not glancing up from his plate.
It was Elliott Erwitt, he says, who said that photography is about finding something interesting in an ordinary place. That it’s little to do with the things you see, and everything to do with how you see them.
Oh, Josie says. That’s beautiful.
I always thought so, Robin says. But it doesn’t have to relate to photography. Or travelling the world. It just has to relate to that little bit of life you’ve made for yourself.
He lifts his eyes to Nora’s when he says this.
So tell me about seabirds, he says to Josie, already looking back down at his food. I couldn’t tell the difference between a goose and a gull, personally.
Josie chuckles, and it is that interaction, more than anything that has come before, that swells a lump in Nora’s throat.
Makes her want to help Josie, here, and be more Robin; lead with generosity, and kindness.
So she steadies herself. Knowing, despite her own anger at the scene he’d just made – anger at herself, too, for triggering it – she is the only one who can appease things, here, and bring Bren back to the table.
I’ll check on the lamb, she says, as Josie starts telling Robin about guillemots.
Freya passes her the cleared plates, and Nora heads back to the kitchen, half expecting the room to be empty but no, there he is, bent double, black shirt and red hair and breathing out with both hands on the countertop.
She thinks, for a horrid jolt of a second, that he’s crying, but his eyes, when he looks up at her, are as cold and clear as before.
What was that, she asks him.
A mistake, he says. Which throws her.
Okay, she says. Then go and make up for it.
I can’t, he says, as she puts the plates down on the side. I can’t do this, Nora. It’s why I left. She drives me insane. I love her, I do, but I can’t sit here talking about cartoons and grilled peaches that aren’t even in the fucking salad.
Your mum didn’t say that, Nora says. Mine did.
Because she barely says anything! She doesn’t ask or know anything, or want to know anything about me!
Ever! She never did, even when I was a kid!
All her energy goes into taking her pills, doing the laundry, having her toast on Saturdays and her casserole on Sundays and being bored of her own little life that’s killing me, Nora, with every second that I stay.
Do you hear yourself?
But that’s how it feels! Being here, it’s like there’s no air!
It’s why I can’t talk to my own mother, Nora, because I’ve tried!
I’ve really fucking tried! But all the things I’ve done, all the things I do, to live the life he – the one he said I should – I’ve done it!
And she doesn’t even care! Just like you, Nora.
You used to care. You used to want more, as well.
But you’re the same, you’re all the same, and I’m alone, again, I’m alone because you chose him.
And Nora is the one crying, now, but it isn’t her, she realises, who has caused this; something has dawned on her, as he raves.
Because whatever they had is broken, she broke it, or he broke it, long ago, she’s not sure; but actually, that isn’t what truly hurts.
What’s causing him this deep-rooted pain.
Do you really think that’s what’s wrong here, Bren, she asks, through her tears. What I don’t want? Have you ever thought that maybe, it’s what you’re missing?
He looks at her, uncomprehending, emotion in his eyes, too, at the sight of hers, but she keeps going.
I think you move constantly, reaching for this idea of more, she says, new places and experiences, hoping something will fill this hole inside you, Bren. And I can’t fill it, either, even though you think, right now, that I can. Simply because – and you said it yourself – I just happen to be here.
Don’t do this, Bren says. Don’t make this about him, when it’s about us, Nora.
But you can’t even say his name! Nora says. You can’t even say Dad!
That has nothing to do with this, he blasts. I bought us two fucking tickets to New Zealand, okay?
What?
I bought us two tickets because we should be together, Nora! We’ve just been waiting, for too long, and wondering what could have been!
But that’s the thing, Bren! Nora cries, and she actually stamps her foot – that’s the point of it all!
Making decisions and seeing them through, means there will always be should-haves, or might-have-beens, but that’s okay.
That’s just human. That’s the real stuff of living.
It doesn’t mean anything is wrong, and her tears are rolling out of her now, desperate for him to hear her, to see it.
Nora, he says, reaching a hand out, towards her tears.
No, Nora says, stepping back. I am okay, here, Bren! You’re the one who’s lost. You’re more lost than any of us.
Bren lowers his hand to his side. Watching her.
This isn’t about me, he says, is it.
The cat waves. The oven whirs.
Oh, Bren, Nora murmurs. It’s always about you.
And right as she says it there is another noise, footsteps broaching from outside, and Robin walks in carrying the empty bread basket, his mouth set as he looks at them, and the pair of them look right back.
Always about him, is it, he says. Placing the basket on the kitchen side.
A beat of confusion. Of quiet.
Not like that, Nora says.
No? Robin says. Seems I’ve interrupted quite the moment between you two.
There was no moment, Nora says. We were just –
She breaks off, but her hesitation only seems to exacerbate what Robin thinks is happening, here.
I’ll leave you to it, he says. To … whatever this is.
It isn’t anything, Nora says, and she looks at Bren for backup, but he just folds his arms, says no?
No! says Nora, but Robin is already pushing past Bren who makes no effort to block his way. Nora follows him, her tears halted, wind chimes clanging as he pulls open the porch door; he struggles with it, again, like he can’t work out where the handle is.
I just meant he’s selfish, Robin, Nora says. I meant he makes everything about him. Not that my everything, is about him.
But he ignores her. They can see the bus pulling up beside the green through the porch windows; good timing, he says, and she says Robin, this is ridiculous.
I agree, he says. This whole thing.
What d’you –
This! he explodes, with a force that frightens her. Him! Showing up, the night of our engagement party! You, insisting it’s fine, just friendship, but retreating from me! No venue. No date. No explanation.
Robin –
Disappearing, for hours on end. Not telling me what’s on your mind. And we don’t do that, Nora. That’s not us.
I’ve been working! she says. I’ve been –
And I’ve been giving you space, he says, but it seems that was a really bad idea.
It wasn’t, Nora says. Robin, please, listen to me.
Why should I? When nine years of that hasn’t got us anywhere? I thought we were it, Nora. But even wanting more turned out to be some kind of giant conspiracy, against you, when all I wanted was to give us a wedding that made you feel as special as you – as you make –
He is talking over her as she tries to talk back. That anger she saw in him, that Sunday with the storm, descending again, taking hold.
I’ve spent years, Robin rants, thinking it’s fine. No wedding, no ring, no problem! Telling Goose I’m not worried when Bren rocks up, because that’s who I am, Nora! Good old, jovial Robin! The well-meaning, laughable nice guy! Fine to string him along, no harm done!
There’s no stringing along –
Isn’t there? Because I’m a patient guy and I may not be a sad, solitary nomad with a damaged soul but I do see things, Nora. I see the way he looks at you. And I see you stalling, because of it.
But I’m not, Nora says. I’ll show you. Please, Robin, she says, as he pulls open the porch door. Don’t make this a thing.
But it is a thing, Robin says, as he steps outside. I’m not the one who doesn’t know what I want and isn’t brave enough to admit it.
I do know, though!
I’ve got a blinding headache, Robin says. I’ve got to go.
Then I’ll come with you. I’ll –
No, Nora. I need some space.
She reaches for his sleeve, but he says no again, in a voice so angry, so unlike him, she backs off. I’ve got to go, he repeats. I don’t recognise you, Nora.
And this breaks her right open, and she has to go after him, has to ask him something, her stupid, surprise plan be damned, but as she steps out of the porch three things happen at once: Bren grabs her sleeve, this time, saying Nora, don’t; she spins round so fast that her elbow cracks hard into his nose; and a song they both know, both avoid, begins to float through from the garden, and it is confusing, it is a blur of three, four, five seconds, but when she turns to look back, Robin is gone; the bus already pulling away.