Samantha Harvey - The Wilderness

He had never travelled the moors in a car before. Their blackness was unforgiving through a car window, without the fresh air to take the edge off it, with the flowers too small to see. He understood Helen's fear, and conversely her enchantment at the interruption Rook's house provided. She stared from the window as the scenery passed.

“Is that a kestrel?” she asked.

“No,” he replied. “It's a buzzard. I mean it, they're very different.”

Then, farther along, The Sun Rises appeared. He was genuinely taken aback. He had forgotten about it. If nothing else, life in London offered enough pubs and bars to never have to consider one solitary pub in the middle of some moors two hundred miles distant. And yet he had been here so many times; Sara had cooked her Jewish food here back when she still did such things. They had drunk — he was underage, nobody on earth cared. Sara had decorated the toilets with paintings of mermaids and slogans in German: MAN IST WAS MAN ISST. You are what you eat. It was one of the few German phrases he knew. Rook had sat at the bar with a rope of sunlight falling around his neck, eating mussels, too drunk to speak, eyeing Sara with an unreadable expression. Love, possibly. Lust, or pity, or just drunkenness. Sara had lost all her relatives, her parents included, in the war. She was unsure of herself, wondering how to cook all the potatoes they had — as Jewish latkes or as English mash. Deciding who to be, where her allegiance lay. The Sun Rises had been a small pocket of belonging and energy in a sluggish time. How could he have cast it so easily from his mind? How strange, then, was memory — that a whole interval of one's life could be blotted out like the sun behind the moon, and then emerge again so intact!

In front of the pub he saw a woman. He knew immediately that it was Eleanor. She wore a turquoise dress patterned with blue flowers that fit her little better than a curtain; she wore a pair of Wellington boots. She seemed, as far as he could see, to be watering the bedding plants at the front of the pub although it had rained the previous night.

He sounded the horn and waved. For a time she looked up bemused, then waved back, then made gestures of annoyance that he had not stopped. There'll be plenty of time, he thought. He said it aloud to his wife. “There'll be plenty of time to meet Eleanor.”

“The e is missing,” Helen said, pointing back at the sign that swung above the door. It read, on the background of a faded hilly landscape, THE SUN RIS S. “It needs painting back on, somebody should do that.”

He smiled, watching Eleanor shrink in the rearview mirror. They struck their way across the moors, past field upon field of beetroot and potatoes, and at last reached the new tarmac corridor of the M1, his foot pressed onto the accelerator, and Helen fast asleep. They got home late, went to bed, got up, he went to work. When he left Helen was reading her Bible at the kitchen table, her head dipped deeply, turning her wedding ring round and round her finger. That afternoon he handed in his notice. A month later they were packing their three cases and trying them out this way and that until they fit in the back of the Mini.

Driving to work, he falls into the illusion for a moment that he is still in that Mini; the car shrinks to oblige the mistake. He misjudges the position of the gear stick in the thought that it is far closer to his leg, and his head and shoulders are stooped as they always used to be under the Mini's low roof. What frightens him is this — the way objects rush and trip over themselves to support his confusion. He looks around his car and tries to remember what make it is; he cannot. He opens the window to feel what month it is. It isn't a month. There aren't months. There are just happenings, a lack of signposts. Why this e ? Why this missing e ? He laughs at himself. The brain stores billions of memories and some are obvious, of course — it is obvious that he will remember his honeymoon and his suitcases and his pilgrimage (this is how he thinks of it now), his pilgrimage back home. And Henry. Granted, some of the details are imagined or inflated or borrowed from other times, but the essence, as part of the story of himself, is undeniably right. But the missing e ? It is with a struggle that he remembers what he did this morning, or how long ago it was that Helen died, and yet he recalls her saying those words: The e is missing. It needs painting back on, somebody should do that.

He pulls up at the side of the road, lifts his glasses, and rubs his eyes. He has been doing this journey to and from work every day for thirty-five years. He pores over the map.

One day he arrived home from work, it was a Tuesday or a Wednesday, or a Monday. Helen was in the kitchen carving through salmon fillets while oblongs of sunlight fell in on her hands.

“They're old.” She put the knife down and spread her fingers. “Are they really my hands?”

He stood by her side, picked up the knife, and folded her fingers around the handle. He kissed her neck, a neutral and warm contact but nothing more, and she tucked her hair behind her ear.

In response to these worries that she was getting old there was nothing more to say; he had said it all. You're beautiful, he had previously ventured (and meant it, she was more beautiful now, in the details, in the stories of the lines, than before). She had shaken her head and simply disagreed. We all get old, he had tried: to no avail. Me faster than most, she had replied. He had shaken his head, she had shaken hers back. Once or twice he had offered, Helen, you're not getting old, and they had ended up smiling ruefully at the whiteness of the lie.

“It's like being injured,” she said, and rested the knife blade on the salmon. “Suddenly I feel injured by the years, like I've been in a car crash.”

“What is this, Helen? You have to stop. You're fifty-three, it's not old.”

“I had a dream that you were leaning over a very beautiful Bible, here at the table. What does this mean, Jake?” She cut through the flesh once and then again. “That you're going to find God?” She laughed. “At last, you're going to find God! And why would you do that?”

The expression she turned to him was unbearably sweet. Disarmed, he shrugged at it.

“I doubt I will, I'm not looking for him. The dream means something else, or nothing. It means you want me to find God. It means I need to, it means anything, nothing.”

She merely shook her head at him.

“I think it means, Jake, that I am not going to be here for very long. You'll be alone — you see, God finds those who are alone and in need.”

“And where are you going?” he asked, feeling querulous. He turned to take a plum from the fruit bowl on the kitchen table and Helen stole it from his hand as he was about to bite it. She sliced the plum in half and scooped out the stone, then passed half back to him.

“Look at this,” she said with a sudden childlike smile, and laid the salmon and the plum side by side. “One is fruit, one is fish, but the flesh is so similar. This is where I see God, in these — in these consistencies between things.”

Discarding his half of fruit on the table he took the knife from her and held it close to her face. He had not wanted half a plum, he had wanted a whole one; he had not wanted it cut neatly, de-stoned. Certainly he had not wanted to hear her prophesise her own death, and moreover he had not, at the point where he saw her prophesy play before his mind in a stilted and sickening delivery of images, wanted to talk about the artistry of God in lieu, yet again, of a real topic of conversation.