Helen Cox - Starlight in New York

‘Not at all. I love dogs. In fact, I’m quite suspicious of people who don’t.’ I smiled at him before returning my attentions to the mutt.

‘I hear ya.’ At this, the man started singing again. I nodded my head in time and he noticed my approval.

‘That’s a good song,’ he said, still tapping one foot to the rhythm floating around in his head.

I nodded, patting the dog. ‘It is. It’s Wilson Pickett, isn’t it? Or were you singing the Tina Turner version?’

‘Right first time.’ He looked surprised and then a little closer at me. ‘You’re a bit young to know ’bout Wilson Pickett, ain’t you?’

‘Ha. Well, I’m not that young but thank you,’ I said, a touch of shyness creeping in at the compliment.

‘You can’t be older than thirty.’ He stared harder, trying to gauge my age.

‘I’m thirty-three.’ I gave him a flimsy smile. ‘But my Dad liked those songs. They were a big part of my childhood.’

‘Your Dad has good taste.’ The man gave a weighty nod, and pressed his lips together.

‘I always thought so,’ I said. ‘At least when it came to music.’

The man chuckled. ‘Well, daughters and fathers need only see eye to eye on the things that matter, and to my mind music comes somewhere near the top of that list.’

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I said, stroking the dog’s ears and massaging his neck under the collar. ‘It’s of little relevance now though, Dad died when I was eleven.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and gave me a look I’d seen a hundred times from a hundred different people. Nobody knows how to deal with the topic of mortality. The old man’s tack was to sidestep the subject: ‘You got kids yourself?’

‘No.’ My gaze drifted out to sea and I locked my expression in a state of indifference which I could only hope looked casual. It was the threat of bearing a child, his child, that’d created this whole predicament.

‘Well, you got time for that yet.’

‘Mmm. Relationships are…they’re complex.’ I shrugged. Complex. Is there anything so complex about doing everything you’re told? That was always Mrs Delaney’s method. ‘How about you? Do you have family?’

‘Three girls, but they’re pretty much grown up. There’s just me and the wife now. Lived in Brooklyn our whole lives and not really been much further than Coney.’ He fumbled in his wallet and produced a picture. Three little girls grinned back at me, stood in a row according to height like real-life Russian dolls. Behind them stood their mother. She had her arms draped around the kids and wore what I’m sure had once been a vibrant red dress. The photo had faded however, making it more of a soft rose colour.

‘They’re beautiful. All that time together.’ I forced my mouth to turn up at the corners.

‘Yes. I’m a lucky man, it’s true. Didn’t always feel like it; raising three women ain’t what you call inexpensive. But I’ve always tried to remember how fortunate I am at the end of the day.’ He looked over at me. ‘You got family back home?’

‘Just my mother. Back in England. I write to her when I can but it’s a long way to go and visit all the time.’ I thought about how long it’d been since I’d written Mum a letter and dipped my head in shame once I’d done the sums. God. Poor Mum. Back in England by herself. I meant to write more often but sometimes it was hard. So hard to remember, everything.

‘Yep. Sure is a long distance to put between yourself and home.’ The man gazed out at the view in front of him.

‘I suppose it is.’ I looked at the ground. If only he knew that in so many respects it didn’t feel far enough away from all that had happened. That sometimes the smell of tea brewing at the diner or the twinkling of the city lights at night made it seem like I was back there again. Back in London, living with the ghost of the man and wife I never talked about.

‘Do you miss it?’

‘What? Who?’ My breath quickened.

‘Home…’ My companion raised the eyebrow nearest me but didn’t look in my direction.

‘Oh, yes. Sometimes but it’s…it’s…’

‘Let me guess: it’s complicated,’ he said.

‘You could say that.’

‘Hmmm.’ The man joined me in stroking the dog, who was revelling in the extra affection. Pawing at our knees for more whenever we paused for thought. ‘Well, I don’t know you of course. And you can tell me to mind my business. But if you’ll let me, can I tell you something?’

‘Please, do.’ At a guess all the Zoltar machine would tell me was that I’d meet a tall, handsome stranger. As I’d already had that encounter yesterday I wasn’t willing to count that as a psychic prediction. If this old man had any advice on stepping out from the shadowland I’d been living in, it was prudent to at least hear him out.

‘When you get older, old as me, which you will do one day, what you appreciate more than anything else is time with the people you love.’ He looked out over the water. His voice deepened. ‘You see, it’s not like when you’re a kid, when you’ve got an eternity stretching out before you. Time is limited. You know you’ve only got so many more times to see the people who mean the world to you.’ I took a deep breath. Time was limited. But in moments of suffering time was elastic. In the company of Mr Delaney, seven years seemed like seventy.

‘What if…’ I couldn’t believe what I was about to say. Somehow, the man’s lack of connection with my life made it easier. ‘What if you’re frightened?’ The dog, sensing my distress, nuzzled his head into my leg.

‘Frightened of what?’

‘That someone will hurt you. I mean, really hurt you …’ I trailed off not knowing what else to say without saying too much.

‘Well –’ the man rubbed his stubbly beard ‘– in my experience there’s nothing scarier in this world than being all alone.’

I stared at my feet. Was that true? Was being lonely worse than an iron hand clamped around your neck? Worse than his body, greased with last night’s sweat, slithering against yours?

‘I don’t know,’ I said, answering my own questions out loud.

‘Listen. I don’t pretend to know everything, although I’m sure my daughters would tell you otherwise, but I do know this: if you close yourself off to people, take yourself out of their equation, it’s true they can’t hurt you,’ he hesitated, weighing up if he should say what he was about to say next, ‘but they can’t love you either. Not if you won’t let them.’ We both took a deep breath of the salt air which was fresher at the end of the pier.

A familiar twinge strained in my chest. The force of everything I held back every day rammed against my ribcage, clawing through my membrane. Trying to break through. Keen to shake the feeling that I was acting out some grisly, cut scene from a David Cronenberg movie, I closed my eyes and took another deep breath, exhaling in the hope of relieving tension.

It didn’t work.

I wanted to tell this man more but dared not. What could he say, anyway? About that woman. Mrs Delaney, that spineless, friendless tramp who learnt how to nod too often. His whore.