Chapter 27 #2
I dig my hands in my pockets and begin walking, following the shape. I repeat the journey five times from north to south, south to north.
‘And? Tell me, what letter?’
‘M.’
‘No. Not even close. Try again.’
I sigh but give it another go. He gives me another sweet, tells me to concentrate on the cooling temperature, the colour of the leaves, the sound of my feet hitting the ground, the feel of the fabric beneath my boot. But all I see and think about is her.
‘Still M,’ I say. His busy eyebrows furrow. His arms fold and I can see he’s trying to work out why I can’t find the right letter.
‘I think… I think it’s the lemon. It, well’ – I look to the sky, to the white clouds sliding past – ‘it reminds me of someone.’ The sherbet fizzes on my tongue and suddenly I’m back in Flicks, Maggie tucking her hair behind her ear, and flashing a grin at me.
‘Oh?’ he says, eyes sparking with excitement. ‘Who?’
‘A woman,’ I say in a breath. ‘She smells like lemons.’
‘Righto. Your girlfriend?’
‘Um, no. She never was, not really.’ His face softens before he asks me her name.
‘Ah that explains it!’ He claps his hands, rubs them together and goes about manoeuvring the blue river. ‘Try again.’
I do and I know in my stomach, that it’s M. That the letter M tastes like lemon, and fresh air, blue skies, and it feels like happiness.
‘M,’ I say with a smile.
‘M.’ He grins.
We make our way back upstairs, another sheet placed in front of me, and this time, when he asks me to circle every ‘m’. I get most of them correct.
I crick my neck from side to side as he files the sheet away.
‘That’s it for the reading for now. Over the next few weeks we’re going to move on to more two-letter graphemes. I’ve got some nice tricks up my sleeves for those!’ He stops, narrowing his eyes in concentration. ‘You don’t have a heart condition or a pacemaker, do you?’
‘What? No.’
‘Excellent, excellent.’
‘Dare I ask why?’
‘Just a little idea I had – you know those buzzers that clowns use?’
‘You want to electrocute me?’
‘No!’
‘Phew.’
‘It’s a little static shock, that’s all.’
I have no idea if he’s joking or is actually serious. He shuffles the file of papers away and lands a blank piece of lined paper in front of me.
‘Now… I want you to write a letter.’
I frown. I’m exhausted but I take the pen and paper. ‘What do you want me to write?’
‘What do you want to write? Go with the first thing that pops into your head.’
Maggie’s face as she said goodbye. He must see something cross my face because his voice softens. ‘I’m not going to read it, Jack, it’s just for you. Think of the exercises we’ve been doing and let me know if the process has changed. It’s to stretch that link between reading and writing.’
The pen hits the paper, my hands forming letters and punctuation. I know when to move to a new paragraph, when to leave a space.
‘Dear Ma—’ I stop, look up. ‘I taste lemon.’
He nods, a slow smile popping a dimple beneath his beard, then moves away to the back of the room.
Dear Maggie,
My hand stills. This feels too big. Simply writing her name is making me admit that I’m not ready to let her go. If and this is a big if, she was telling the truth… how would she be feeling about the way I left things?
I have no idea if any of this will make sense on the page, but I’m hoping that Dr Levin is right and that all of these words are somehow buried deep inside my cortex.
I look over to the window, a siren going off in the distance. My senses jolt, the scar at the back of my head pulses. The words on the page are meaningless when I look back at them. The taste of lemon has gone. I rub my forehead, another headache beginning to form.
‘That’ll do for today.’
‘I haven’t finished…’ I can hear the frustration in my voice.
‘You can finish it on your own. It’s lunchtime.’
‘Oh. OK.’ I fold the paper.
‘Same time?’
‘Um. Yeah. I’ll be here.’ I pull on my coat and head towards the door.
‘Jack?’
‘Hmmm?’ I zip up my coat.
‘Whoever Maggie is? Tell her you miss her. Life is too short and you never know when it can be taken away from you.’
I hesitate, my eyes following his to the wedding photo on the wall. I hadn’t noticed that since visiting here, there has been no sign of a Mrs Levin.
‘Thanks. I’ll’ – I clear my throat – ‘see you next week?’
I close the door and head back to the car.
Maybe it doesn’t matter if it’s not real. The way I feel about her is.
And that might be enough.
* * *
The sea air whips around me as I sit across the road from Flicks.
I’m working up the courage to go inside.
Levin’s words feel less convincing right now.
I’m like Julia Roberts: I am just a man, sitting outside a cinema, waiting to ask a girl to, well, not love me, exactly, but give me another chance. To listen. To try to understand.
I check my watch. I’ve waited until the film will have started. Right now she will be eating popcorn and staring at the screen. I get up, the sky now dark above me. I take a moment, run a hand through my hair and step inside.
Romy looks up from inside the booth wearing cat’s-eyes glasses. She blows a pink bubble, scratches her head with the tip of a fountain pen, her pencil-thin eyebrows raised as I make my approach. Her expression is curious but not confrontational. I wonder what, if anything, Maggie has told her.
‘Hi.’
‘Well, if it isn’t the infamous Jack Chadwick,’ she says, arms folded.
‘I wondered if you could give this to Maggie?’
Romy leans back, her chair swinging from left to right. She moves forwards, mouth closer to the perforated glass. ‘She’s inside,’ she explains through peach-glossed lips.
‘I’m not here to interrupt her evening; I wanted her to have this.’
I look down at the cash slot, take out the letter.
She eyeballs me, long fluorescent fingernails reach out to take the envelope. I hold it tightly for a moment. ‘It’s… quite private.’
‘I’m not going to open it or send it to the local rag to print, Jack.’ My shoulders drop a touch. ‘Shall I say who it’s from?’ she asks, all eyebrow arches and corrugated forehead.
‘She’ll know.’
‘I’ll see she gets it.’ I nod my thanks and exit the building.
I follow my feet through the town, hands dug deep into my pockets. OK, Levin… let’s see if you are as good as they say you are.