James Hannah - The A to Z of You and Me

We carefully lay out the blanket on a clean patch of ground — the blanket now happily being used for what you intended — and you sit. I sit down behind you and thread my arms around your middle, rest my chin on your shoulder.

‘Whoever first used the word “rolling” about hills knew exactly what they were talking about,’ you say. ‘These hills really roll.’

‘They’re exactly the right size and roundness.’

‘And millions of colours. Really like a picturebook green, and then if you look at it long enough you start to see all the yellows and browns coming through. Purple skirting the bottoms.’

‘Could you make a blanket out of those colours?’

‘Nature’s got that one covered,’ you say.

You pull out an apple and bite into it. I lift my head from your shoulder and you let me take a bite too.

‘So,’ I say, ‘I’ve been invited to join the garden design course.’

‘Ah really? Well done! I think you’ll be great at it,’ you say. Then: ‘You’re going to be sick through nerves again, aren’t you?’

‘Can’t wait.’

‘No, I think you’re going to get in there, and you’re totally going to blossom.’

You back into me for a tight cuddle, and draw my arms tighter around you.

‘This feels so good,’ you say.

‘Yeah.’

‘It doesn’t feel like living day by day any more. Not to me. Does it to you?’

‘No — no, it feels — just right.’

You draw in a deep breath and exhale languorously.

‘Do you think, when you die–

‘OK — nice—’

‘—that the ash when you get cremated is the same ash people use on their gardens?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Aren’t you supposed to know things like that if you’re going to do a garden design course?’

‘I don’t know. Probably.’

I laugh.

‘What?’

‘Why do you always take us to the darkest places?’

‘Do I? I think nursing might have broken my darkness filter.’

‘So, when you’re a nurse, do you get immune to people dying?’

You chew thoughtfully for a moment.

‘No,’ you say, ‘not immune. If you know you’ve done the best in your power to help this person, then — well, the alternative is that you weren’t there and you didn’t help.’

‘I suppose.’

‘You have a job to do, to help them, and you just have to do your best. Sometimes I almost think it’s quite a selfish thing to do — the better job you do, the more self-respect you can have. I tried explaining that to one of the women on my course, and she looked at me like I was gone out.’

You examine the apple to select the next best bite.

‘I get that.’

‘I always think it’s worse when you see the family. You can’t do a lot for them. There’s no time. And you can’t really prescribe to take away people’s grief.’

‘Not properly, no.’

‘And you see little kids, like the doctors and nurses might have looked at you when your dad died, and you think — there’s a lot of loving that person needs, right there.’

You fling the apple core down the valley; watch it catch now and nestle in the bracken.

Crickle crackle.

‘Well that’s one way of deciding where you want to place your apple tree,’ I say.

You grin at me, and give me an appley kiss, smack on the lips, and we lie down on the blanket, huddle in close.

‘If I was ash,’ you say, your voice washed out as you talk into the air, ‘I’d like to be sprinkled under a fruit tree. Or if it’s the wrong kind of ash, I’d like to be buried under a fruit tree. Worm food.’

‘Yeah?’ My voice bassy and loud in my ears.

‘Because then the nutrients from me would go to swelling the fruit. And then maybe the birds would peck at the fruit and get the energy to fly — so the same energy that is making me say these words now would be used to help the bird fly. I’d literally be flying.’

‘Yeah — yeah.’

‘And that to me is truly comforting. Seeing myself, launching off from this hill, and diving down there into the sky, down there in the valley. Deep down, and up around. Everywhere.’

You hold your hands up to the sky, cross them, palms downward, pressing your thumbs together to make a bird. A fluttering bird.

I take my right hand, press it to your left, thumb to thumb.

A bird. A fluttering bird.

Hold our hands against the sky.

Fluttering, fluttering in the blue.

At that moment, I hear the signature squiggles of birdsong in the distance, and a brief flutter of wings, and a look of childlike delight crosses your face.

Rib

MAL HOLDS UP a sticky spare rib and turns it about, before greedily stripping off the meat with his teeth.

‘Mal,’ says Laura in a warning tone.

‘What?’

‘That’s probably not very nice for a vegetarian to have to put up with.’

Mal looks up at you and grins, dropping the bone on his plate and licking his fingers noisily. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’

You shrug, and continue with your risotto.

I knew this was a bad idea. All I’ve done is sit here and hope that Mal behaves himself. But he’s in one of his petulant, contrary moods. Careful piloting required.

The look you gave me when he blatantly whipped the reserved sign off the table pretty much set the tone for the evening. You’re only here reluctantly anyway, and so now I have half an eye on you and whether you’re having an OK time. Now we’re all just tense that we’re about to be found out. All of us except Mal.

‘Have you taken your shot?’ you ask me suddenly.

‘Mm? Yeah,’ I say, and show you my insulin pouch as proof.

‘That’s probably enough potassium for a while though, isn’t it?’ you say, pointing at the amount of tomato on my bouillabaisse.

Mal can’t help but give me a look. An under-the-thumb kind of look.

‘Are you sure you don’t want a spare rib, fella?’

‘Probably not a good idea, cheers. Not too good for me.’

‘Ah, whoever ate anything because it was good for them, eh?’

I hear you sigh beside me, and I pray that you keep it all in. Your head’s down now and I can tell you’re concentrating on getting through this.

‘Do ribs freak you out then?’ asks Mal.

You pause and contemplate a while, and I try to catch your eye to remind you of why we’re here. Building bridges, remember? For a sustainable and friendly future? But you won’t look at me.

‘Not particularly.’

‘How’s the chicken?’ I ask Laura.

‘Bit dry,’ she says, graphically.

Makes me feel faintly queasy, so I get on with what I’m eating. We can make it through to coffee if no one says anything too–

‘Did Ivo tell you our news?’ you say.

‘No …’ says Laura, looking up all interested.

‘It’s not that ,’ I say.

‘No, we’re looking at getting a place together,’ you say. ‘My contract’s up in three months, and you’re technically at your mum’s still, aren’t you?’

Mal drops a rib to his plate, and looks at me, frowning deeply.

‘Well — what about our flat, man?’

‘What flat?’

‘I’ve got a place lined up for us, we said we’d — ah, Jesus.’

‘Sorry — I didn’t — I didn’t know you were going to go ahead and do anything.’

‘I’ve put two hundred down on that, man. Two hundred you’ve lost me.’

‘Anyway,’ I say. ‘I didn’t think — that was going anywhere.’

‘Yeah, well.’

We fall to an awkward silence, save the percussion of cutlery on crockery; even the people at other tables don’t seem to have much noise to make.