James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

‘You OK, gorgeous boy?’ you ask, linking your arm in mine.

‘Yeah,’ I say, trying to walk less like a frozen robot. And yeah, I am.

You look at me fondly, and say, ‘This is all a terrible waste of time and effort, you do know that, don’t you?’

‘You reckon?’

‘I don’t know why you tolerate me. It’s sixteen below zero.’

‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed.’

You laugh. ‘And you’re tying hearts to trees and lampposts to please a whole lot of people you’ve never met.’

‘Well, I think, if I ignore the cold and the earliness, it’s — probably what I’d choose to be doing? If I had the imagination.’

‘Ah, you do! I’d never thought of putting anything up on King’s Walk. I think it’s a tremendous idea. Very creative.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. And I love how kind you are about it, and really patient with my silly ideas. I don’t know too many men who’d put up with that.’

So simple, to nudge me with a little appreciation, but I can actually feel my heart growing warmer as you say this. Even at sixteen below zero. It’s my mini furnace. Yes, yes, yes: it’s agonizingly cold. And yes, yes, I’d much, much rather be in bed.

But I’d much, much, much rather you had someone to do this with.

And I’ll be pleased it was me.

‘Well,’ I say, ‘what else was I going to do with these redundant early hours? More meaningless sleep? Come on.’

God, I’m so easily manipulated.

We’ve stopped where the path curves back on itself as the town drops away spectacularly into the valley, and the river wriggles off into the distance. The usual breath of traffic has yet to start up, and so far only one or two chimney pots are beginning to spill their early morning smoke. I hand you the jute bag and launch myself at the lowest bough of the target tree, hoist myself up on to it.

‘Careful!’ you call. ‘It’ll be frosty.’

‘I used to do this all the time when I was a kid.’ I successfully cover up my mild surprise at how much effort it takes to get me up there today. It’s been a few years. ‘Pass me up a bunch.’

You pass me up ten hearts, and I bite off my gloves before starting to tie them among the twigs.

‘Lovely,’ you say, directing me from place to place. ‘They’re going to look amazing here.’

‘Here you go,’ I say, and I inchworm my way along the next bough up, which stretches out over the speared iron railings and hangs over the section where the land tumbles away down to the road below. ‘I’ll put one here, and no one will know how on earth it got so far out over the road.’

‘Careful,’ you say. ‘If you kill yourself over a yarnbomb, I’m going to feel bad.’

Just as I find myself a prime spot for tying, I recognize my fingertips starting to tingle, and I realize my limbs have drained of all energy. I’m feeling properly wobbly. Insulin wobbly.

Hypo time. Shit.

I take a quick glance back along the distance I’ve travelled, make a quick calculation about how to get back, but — not easy. I’d better just— the uncertainty in my body is transferred into the bough, which I’m sure is shivering beneath me. My mind flits through its tick-boxes, and of course: early morning, no breakfast. I look down at you and smile confidently, but your look of concern is not diluted.

‘Are you OK?’

‘Yep, yeah,’ I say. I could black out here. I need to get back. If I blacked out I’d drop like a stone and tumble down to the road fifty feet below. I edge back a bit, with the pretence of looking for a better place. Edge back, edge back.

My fingertips are fumbling the fraying thread as I try to tie a simple bow, and it keeps misbehaving — if there’s any … thing that makes me believe in a God it’s the way … fucking inanimate objects … behave when you really — real — what?

There’s a sudden deep thick silence, and gravity shifts and sweeps around me, until I’m punched solidly in the lower-third back of my body, with a hump and crackle from the pavement, and all I know is my head is in the gutter with all the leaf mould and bird shit and dried-up Friday-night piss, probably.

And there’s you, looking down on me.

‘Oh my God, are you all right?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ I say, scrambling to my feet and trying to ride out the dizziness.

‘Stop, sit down a bit. You really banged your arm. Come and sit on this bench.’

I consent to sit.

‘Sorry,’ I say, ‘my fingers froze and I lost my grip.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ you say, mortified. ‘Have you got any pain? How’s your arm?’

‘Fine, fine. No damage done. Look,’ I say, pointing up at the tree. ‘Looks good?’

‘It looks fantastic,’ you say, squeezing my arm and inadvertently hurting it. ‘In the morning everyone in town’s going to see these little hearts dangling all over the place, and think, What kind of mad person would be bothered to put those out there?’ You look at my face for the laugh, but you can see something’s wrong. ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

‘Yeah, yeah. I just need some food.’

‘Let’s be getting back. I’ve got some biscuits in my pocket here. Have a couple of those.’

‘What are you doing carrying biscuits around with you?’ I say, tearing into the packet.

‘Oh, I don’t know. I imagined I’d probably need them one day. Come on then, let’s go home and get those pancakes sorted.’

We stroll arm in aching arm back along King’s Walk as the town is flushed through with the onset of morning, and my heart is pounding, and I’m resisting the dizziness with all my might.

I only have to get back to yours. That’s not far, down into the valley and over the bridge, but then uphill and into the terraces.

But no, no. Not too far.

What’s—? What’s the time?

It’s light. Afternoon light.

They must have left me to sleep through the day.

I was awake all night.

I look up and I’m surprised to see, crackling at the doorway to my room, loaded with blowsy colourful flowers, Amber.

‘Oh, hello!’

‘Hiya.’ She gives me a weary smile. ‘She’s gone.’

‘Amber, I’m so sorry.’

‘She went last night.’

‘Come in, come in.’

‘We’ve just come to collect a few of her things. Hospital bag and nightie, slippers. We’re going to take them home and — I don’t know, wash them or something.’

She looks up at me and smiles.

‘How are you?’

‘I’m — I’m doing OK at the moment, thanks. It’s a relief mostly, I think. She’s — she did so well. I’m so proud of her.’

I nod, smile.

She looks down in her lap, and seems to see what she’s carrying. ‘I brought you some flowers.’

‘Ah man, how have you found time to do that?’

‘I wanted to go and have a look at some flowers for Mum, and I thought you’d like some to brighten up your day.’

‘Ah wow, they’re lovely.’ She hands me the wrap of about twenty stems. ‘Man, just amazing. Ranunculus, absolutely my favourite — how did you know?’

‘You said you used to work at the garden centre up by the junction.’

‘Are these from there?’ I turn the tag over and see the familiar old logo.

‘I went out there this morning and mentioned you, and they said they thought you’d like these best.’

I’m stunned.

‘I know you don’t want many visitors, so you can’t get many flowers or anything. So I wanted to let you know I’ve been thinking about you, and I’m really — like — really thankful to you. And all the people you used to work with are thinking of you as well.’

I catch my breath, rattle, and there’s nothing else I can say.