Thomas Maloney - Learning to Die

The bell jangles as he shuts the door and turns the sign to OPEN. He inhales the cool, page-fragrant air. Upstart Books, of which he is now the manager and Brenda the proprietor following its fortuitous selling-up by his ailing employer — and a little help from Mike — occupies one of the prize spots on the main street in Wigtown on the Galloway coast. James is gradually honing the stock towards irresistibility (he is ruthless and well-practised when it comes to disposing of verbal trash). They have a permit to sell coffee and, after much trial and gull-fodder error, have learned to bake passable cakes. Simple website: up and running; Twitter followers: forty-six; upstairs flat: draughty but spacious.

His relationship with Brenda is an adventure in itself. During the summer, while paperwork was delaying the shop’s reopening, they walked two hundred miles up the wild northwest coast of Scotland in nine days. He has never felt fitter or more exhausted. Brenda loves the shop. Her new boss on the Galloway estate has taken all his management courses and treats mental health issues sympathetically.

Last night, as James watched his old university magazine burn in the bedroom fireplace (while Brenda was showering off the residue of her own demolition work), he wondered whether any other copies survived, eleven years on, or if anyone would still remember his poem. Every hour … That clock still runs, perhaps. Meanwhile he and Brenda lean against each other like a couple of damaged spruces, in mutual gratitude and love.

Mike Vickers awaits the seven twenty-two, toes of his brogues on the yellow line, staring across the tracks at the near-deserted platform opposite. During his garden leave he rented a flat in Maidenhead, in between Reading and London. Dan and Natalie didn’t ask why: they understand. He still uses the Paddington flat occasionally, as does his mother, when she’s in town.

He persuaded Mij to follow him across to Crispin’s new firm, and the soft-spoken, fridge-chested developer has become his boss in the small Soho office. He’s learning a new programming language, building a sexy interface for the traders (Crispin’s adjective) while Mij makes the thing actually work. The fund has only a handful of investors so far; there is no magic show — just Crispin and the other portfolio managers calmly presenting their evidence, explaining exactly what the various strategies do and what they don’t do. Fees are low. The office mood is calm and focused. Pay cuts are the norm for new hires, and nobody, as far as Mike can tell, is rushing out to buy tapestries. He’s an essential, competent cog, and it feels good.

In a few seconds, the fast train will hurtle through with a furious wallop of air and sound. Presumably death comes like that sometimes — the only warning an ominous humming of rails. Not always like the Grimpen Mire. Mike takes a deep breath.

Wham . In the blur of rushing train windows he sees his own crisp, sunlit reflection, not alone but standing in the midst of a multitudinous army of commuters. No superstar, high achiever or Rocket Jesus, not top of the class, but a minion, an underling, getting on with it. Some of these solemn-faced, drab-suited worker-bees may indeed be brain surgeons, or social workers, or brilliant, inspiring teachers. The admired. Others are facilitators like him: agents of this or that, telemarketers, baristas, project managers. If nobody facilitated, if nobody tinkered and sold things, the brain surgeons among us would have nothing to buy.

Onward, proud and peaceful commuter troops! Yours is a just and noble cause. Specialise, negotiate, delegate, innovate! Stand tall and facilitate! Help out here and there. Politely disregard the naysayers, the ideologues, the hypocrites. Keep the ball of prosperity rolling. Pay your taxes. Be a good friend.

Find a girl, settle down.

Mike Vickers, do your best! I promise to do my best.

As Brenda Vickers taps the trig, she notices that the stone balanced on top is weighing down a piece of paper — a photograph. She tugs it loose, glances — a grinning, grey-haired man with walking poles. A dead man. She thinks of her grandfather. Of Mrs McCready, too. Stuffs the photo in her pocket. Sorry, but not up here. Let the wind say his name instead.

A two-minute breather. She’s learning to love this arse-end of Scotland. She was afraid she might feel hemmed in, with Glasgow sat sprawled between her and the Highlands like a vindictive troll, but these broad-shouldered, forest-skirted hills are a revelation: an unshowy, neglected, bleak Brenda-heaven. This fifteen-mile circuit is worth it just for the names: Murder Hole, Rig of the Jarkness, Loch of the Dungeon, Range of the Awful Hand. Sounds like a dinner party.

The Wigtown shop seemed to offer a new start — cold sweats and arcs of blood behind her. Last week’s debacle with James’ ex proved otherwise. Ah, well. James himself, at least, has come up trumps. He really was in love with her — Brenda — all along. The circumstances of their reconciliation — that letter sent by his little devotee, whom she later met over parkin and milkshakes — gives her a warm, cosy, sheltered-from-the-wind feeling. Maybe everything really does happen for a reason. She wouldn’t suggest that to James, of course — they try to avoid both laughing at each other and giving cause. There are frequent lapses, but that’s okay. They’re on the same side.

Brenda has heard that from this highest hill in the range you can sometimes see Snowdon, a hundred and forty miles to the south — the country’s longest direct sightline. The air is clear today, an ozone-tinted void, but not clear enough: she’ll have to make do with the Isle of Man, the Irish mainland and the peaks of Arran, each fifty miles away or more, etched along the shining, circling scythe of the sea.

Natalie blends the soup in short, weary bursts, keeping one eye on the baby monitor that will flash if Dan coughs or presses his call button. Carrot and ginger — his favourite. Chilblains on her fingers, knuckles that bleed from the slightest knock, a split on the tip of her thumb. Marks of her trade. And yes — a baby monitor, recommended by the nurse.

She worked part time until Dan’s first serious choking incident. When she explained her working hours to a supplier with whom she was arranging a meeting, the guy assumed she was ‘another one of these super-mums.’ It happened a few times, but she remembers that occasion because it was just about when their baby would have been born. Their one miraculous chance. She’s never started the pill again, and nothing’s happened. Teasing, irregular periods; half a dozen negative tests in the dustbin of her life. Dan says it’s probably him — still likes to imagine her carting about some other guy’s child after he’s gone. But Natalie has always known she wasn’t built for babies.

As she pours the last blenderful straight into a bowl for them to share, the monitor sings out, lights flashing. She picks up the bowl, spoon, napkin, and walks promptly but calmly down the hall to their room.

Dan’s eyes are already fixed on the door as she enters. Breathing , he taps. She leans close, can hear and feel his shallow, laboured breaths.

‘You need the puffer?’ His thumb twitches assent. She switches on the machine, fiddles with the settings, untangles the tubes, carefully fits the bands over his head and adjusts the seal around his nose and mouth. It works by giving the air an extra push each time he breathes in. She holds his hand. After a minute or so, says, ‘Better?’

The thumb twitches. It begins slowly picking out letters on his keypad.

Natalie — a pause, in which the puffer wheezes softly, then he adds, my love — another pause — I think we are nearly there.