Madeleine John - The Essence of the Thing

Ah, Jonathan.

‘Well, it all looks pretty straightforward,’ he said. He was sitting on the sofa – the sofa that had been, the old wreck with its faded linen slipcover, when Nicola had been the sole inhabitant of this second-floor flat – reading through the letter from the new landlords, a property company with a Mayfair address. It had arrived in that morning’s post; she’d read it walking up the street to the tube: horrible. She’d telephoned Jonathan at work and asked him to come round that evening and take a butcher’s.

They’d been walking out for slightly less than a year: it seemed to be going quite beautifully: except for that edge of anxiety or even of fear – ‘can it last? are we actually – shall we – do you really love me ?’ – never articulated but always there, like a drone note which was silenced only during the act of love itself. But they lived, she lived, in hope, because it seemed, it just absolutely seemed to be the right, and just possibly, in so far as anything might be, the perfect thing: Jonathan and Nicola. A nice couple. Nicola and Jonathan – a couple: better off in every significant way together than alone: a couple, with their own jokes, their own memories, and their own impregnable psychic space. ‘You couldn’t pop round tonight could you? Just quickly?’ ‘Of course. No problem. Shall I bring something to eat?’ ‘No, it’s alright. I think there’s some food …’ ‘Well, we can always go out. I’ll see you about sevenish.’

He’d arrived with some flowers for her, and a bottle of wine. ‘Jonathan, you are nice.’ ‘Am I? Am I? Come here.’ The dark blue smell of English serge: nothing else like it. Then the smell of Jonathan. Nothing else … ‘Now, where’s this letter of yours?’

Jonathan sitting on the old sofa, glass of wine in one hand, the letter in the other. ‘Well, it all looks pretty straightforward.’ ‘I hoped it wasn’t.’ ‘How do you mean?’ ‘I hoped there was a loophole.’ ‘No; you see …’ ‘So—’ while she was chopping something, or peeling something, getting their dinner together; he had come into the kitchen, he was leaning against a workbench, watching her; she stopped what she was doing. She stared down at the chopping board. ‘So … I don’t really have any choice.’ She felt completely hollow. It was a disaster. She was so perfectly happy, here. There was a view from the bedroom window of the communal gardens; you could hear children playing, shrieking, sometimes, with the joy that only children know. She picked up the vegetable knife again and stared at it as if ignorant of its function. ‘I’m going to have to find somewhere else to live.’ Slowly. The horror of it.

‘You could buy the leasehold. It’d be a steal: as the sitting tenant you’d get something like a one-third reduction in the market price.’

‘I know . I can’t afford it even then. I’ve been doing the arithmetic all day. You know what I earn – it’s just not possible.’

He thought for a moment. ‘I suppose you’re right,’ he said. ‘Well – look, what about getting on with the dinner, eh? I’m starving: I could get dangerous if we don’t eat soon. Here, have some more of this.’ He refilled her glass. ‘Can I do anything?’ ‘It’s okay. Alright. I’m nearly there.’ Carry on; be brave.

After they’d sat down and begun to eat, he looked across at her. ‘There is one other solution,’ he said. She’d thought of it too, of course. She was almost sick, now, with apprehension, hoping almost to the point of panic that he might say what she yearned to hear, fearful almost to certainty that he wouldn’t. ‘What could that be?’ She was wide-eyed with feigned innocence. What could that possibly be?

‘I seem to be spending most of my free time here as it is, these days,’ he said, in the tone of one making the most casual of remarks. ‘Crawford Street’s becoming simply a place where I keep my clothes.’ Jonathan had a murky little flat in a Georgian house in Crawford Street, WI. He ate another mouthful. ‘This is very good,’ he said. ‘You were saying.’ ‘Oh, yes. Well. I mean, it does seem an awful pity to let this place go.’ Another mouthful. ‘We’ve been happy here, haven’t we?’ She said nothing; she was too fearful, too overwhelmed with fear and terror and burgeoning hope. He looked up from his food, still holding his fork. ‘Haven’t we?’ he repeated: and she saw anxiety, even fear, in his eyes too. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, we have. That is, I know I have. If you have too.’ She was still terrified of what he might or might not say. ‘Come here,’ he said. ‘You’re too far away’ She got up and went to him, and he pulled her down on to his knee. He held her in his arms for a moment and then looked up at her. ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that we might manage to make a go of living here together? All the time? Are you game for that?’

She smiled, she could not for the moment speak. She buried her face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. ‘Well?’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

Michael Gatling (very distantly related to the inventor of the gun) had just returned from taking his daughter Nicola to the station for the London train. His wife Elinor was still washing up the tea things.

‘I don’t know why he doesn’t have done, and marry her,’ he said, getting out the sherry. ‘I suppose he will, in due course,’ said Elinor, rattle, rattle. ‘He’s just running a little trial.’ ‘Bloody cheek,’ said Michael. ‘The trial’s on the other foot, as far as I’m concerned. The nerve of these chaps.’

‘Still,’ said Elinor, ‘at least she’ll be able to keep the flat. Such a very charming place. It’s a pity we couldn’t help her more.’

‘Tush,’ said Michael. ‘I’m only a poor civil servant. She hardly expected anything at all, she’s more than grateful for the five thou’. So she should be.’

‘Ah, my baby. My last child. How sad it all is, somehow.’

‘Honestly, Nellie, you do talk some awful rot. It’s fathers who are meant to be sentimental, not mothers. Here, stop washing up and drink this.’ He handed her a glass of amontillado. She sat down. She was frowning slightly. ‘I do hope they’ll be happy,’ she said. ‘We must look out something for a housewarming present, once it’s all settled.’

‘Never mind that,’ said Michael. ‘Wait until it’s time for a wedding present.’ ‘Just something very small,’ said Elinor. ‘I might go into Brighton this week and have a poke around the junk shops.’ ‘Alright,’ said Michael. ‘But something truly small. They might feel we’re putting the pressure on, otherwise.’

‘Oh, but we wouldn’t dream of doing that,’ said Elinor. ‘Would we?’ ‘Not us,’ said Michael. ‘Not card-carrying moderns like us. Nevertheless , I don’t know why he doesn’t have done, and marry her.’

Nicola, travelling back to London in a second-class compartment on the Brighton – Victoria line, was almost delirious with happiness. It had all happened so fast – just a few days ago she had been holding that appalling letter in her hand, her heart beating with fear and dismay: now with a turn of the kaleidoscope all the pieces of her life had been rearranged into a different and more beautiful pattern. Jonathan and she were going jointly to purchase the leasehold of the Notting Hill flat; they would own a half share each, because her total contribution to the cost would take into consideration the discount due to her as the sitting tenant. Her parents having so magnificently chipped in with £5,000 she should be able quite easily to borrow the remainder of her share from the bank: you could almost hear the click as everything fell into place.