Джулиан Барнс - The Only Story

‘You’re sure?’

‘I put a mark on the bottle.’

‘How long’s this been going on?’

‘A few weeks. Maybe months?’

‘ Months? Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Wanted to make sure. And she changed her tactics.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, at some point she must have noticed that there was a mark on the bottle. She’d have her nip or glug or however much it was, and then fill the bottle back up to the mark with water.’

‘That’s clever.’

‘No, it’s standard. Banal, even. My dad used to do that when my mum was trying to get him to stop.’

‘Oh.’ I was disappointed. I wanted Susan always to be as entirely original as she still appeared to me.

‘So I did the logical thing. I stopped drinking from the bottle myself. She’d come up, have a swig, fill up to the pencil mark with water. I let it run and run, until I could see the colour of the whisky fading. Eventually, to confirm it, I had a glass myself. One part whisky to about fifteen of water would be my guess.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Yes, fuck.’

‘I’ll have a word with her,’ I promised.

But I didn’t. Was it cowardice, the hope that some alternative explanation might present itself, or a weary refusal to admit my own suspicions?

‘And in the meantime, I’ll keep my booze on top of the wardrobe.’

‘Good plan.’

It was a good plan, until the day when Eric said quietly,

‘She’s learnt to climb up to the top of the wardrobe.’

He made it sound like a kind of monkey trick rather than a normal piece of behaviour involving a chair. But that’s how it felt to me too.

You notice there are times when she seems, not squiffy, but out of focus. Not bleary of face, but bleary of mind. Then, by chance, you notice her swallowing a pill.

‘Headache?’

‘No,’ she replies. She is in one of those moods – lucid, unself-pitying, yet somehow beaten-down – which bend your heart painfully. She comes and sits on the edge of the bed.

‘I went to the doctor. I explained what had happened. I explained that I’d been feeling depressed. He gave me some cheering-up pills.’

‘I’m sorry you need them. I must be letting you down.’

‘It’s not you, Paul. And it’s not fair on you either. But I think if I can get through the… adjustment, then it’ll get better.’

‘Did you tell him you were drinking a bit too much?’

‘He didn’t ask about that.’

‘That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have told him.’

‘We’re not going to quarrel about this, are we?’

‘No. We’re not going to quarrel. Ever.’

‘Then it’ll all come out right. You’ll see.’

Thinking about this conversation later, you begin to understand – for the first time, really – that she has more to lose than you. Much more. You are leaving behind a past, much of which you are happy to let go. You believed, and still believe as deeply, that love is the only thing that counts; that it makes up for everything; that if you and she get it right, everything will fall into place. You realize that what she has left behind – even her relationship with Gordon Macleod – is more complicated than you had assumed. You thought chunks could be cleanly amputated from a life without pain or complication. You realize that, if she had seemed isolated in the Village when you first met her, you have made her more isolated by taking her away.

All this means that you must redouble your commitment to her. You must get through this tricky patch, and then things will become clearer, better. She believes that, and so you must believe it too.

You take the back route as you approach the Village, to avoid passing your parents’ house.

‘Where’s Susan?’ are Joan’s first words as she opens the door.

‘I’ve come by myself.’

‘Does she know?’

You like the way Joan always gets straight to the point. You quite enjoy having cold water dashed in your face before sitting down with a streaky tumbler full of room-temperature gin.

‘No.’

‘Then it must be serious. I’ll shut the little yappers up.’

You sink into a dog-scented armchair and a drink is put next to you. As you are gathering your thoughts, Joan gets in first.

‘Point One. I’m not a go-between. Whatever you say stays in this room and it doesn’t get leaked back. Point Two. I’m not a shrink, I’m not some kind of advice centre, I don’t even much like listening to other people’s woes. I tend to think they should get on with it, stop moaning, roll up their sleeves and all of that. Point Three. I’m just an old soak whose life hasn’t worked out and who lives alone with her dogs. So I’m not an authority on anything. Not even crosswords, as you once pointed out.’

‘But you love Susan.’

‘Course I do. How is the dear girl?’

‘She’s drinking too much.’

‘How much is “too much”?’

‘In her case, anything at all.’

‘You may be right.’

‘And she’s on anti-depressants.’

‘Well, we’ve all been there ,’ says Joan. ‘Doctors hand them out like Smarties. Especially to women of a certain age. Do they do any good?’

‘I can’t tell. They just make her woozy. But a different kind of woozy from what the drink does.’

‘Yes, I remember that too.’

‘So?’

‘So what?’

‘So what should I do?’

‘Paul, dear, I’ve just told you I don’t give advice. I took my own advice for so many years and look where it got me. So I don’t do that any more.’

You nod. You aren’t too surprised either.

‘The only advice I’d give you…’

‘Yes?’

‘…is have a swig of what’s at your elbow.’

You obey.

‘OK,’ you say. ‘No advice. But… I don’t know, is there something that I ought to know and don’t? Something you can tell me about Susan, or about Susan and me, that would help?’

‘All I can say is that if everything goes belly-up and pear-shaped, you’ll probably get over it and she probably won’t.’

You are shocked.

‘That’s not a very kind thing to say.’

‘I don’t do kind, Paul. Truth isn’t kind. You’ll find that out soon enough as life kicks in.’

‘It feels as if it’s kicked in pretty hard already.’

‘That may be all to the fucking good.’ Your face must look as if it’s just taken a slap. ‘Come on, Paul, you didn’t come all the way down here so that I’d give you a hug and tell you there are fairies at the bottom of the garden.’

‘True. Just tell me your thoughts on this. Susan goes back to see Macleod every so often. Probably more than she says.’

‘Does that trouble you?’

‘Mainly in the sense that if he ever lays a finger on her again, I’m going to have to kill him.’

She laughs. ‘Oh, I do so miss the melodrama of being young.’

‘Don’t patronise me, Joan.’

‘I’m not patronising you, Paul. Of course you’d do no such thing. But I admire you for the thought.’

You wonder if she is being satirical. But Joan doesn’t do satire.

‘Why don’t you think I would?’

‘Because the last murder in the Village was probably committed by someone wearing woad.’

You laugh, and take another sip of gin. ‘I’m worried,’ you say. ‘I’m worried that I shan’t be able to save her.’

She doesn’t reply, and this annoys you.

‘So what do you think about that ?’ you demand.

‘I told you I’m not a fucking oracle. You might as well read your horoscope in the Advertiser & Gazette. I said when you ran away together, you’ve got guts, the pair of you. You’ve got guts, and you’ve got love. If that isn’t good enough for life, then life isn’t good enough for you.’