Luke Williams - The Echo Chamber

‘Dear Marat,’ he said, ‘you of all people will understand the enormity of my loss.’ I lowered my head. I wanted him to release my hand, but he gripped harder. He was waiting for me to say something.

‘Indeed …’ I began. I could think of nothing else to say.

Suddenly Mr Rafferty shook his hand from mine and levered himself to a sitting position. ‘We were married only five years.’ He took a plastic tumbler filled with water and emptied it into his mouth. ‘Tell me,’ he gazed solemnly into my eyes. ‘How will you remember her?’

I reached for the tumbler and filled it with water. Mr Rafferty emptied it again. There was a pause.

‘Don’t be shy, Marat.’ I didn’t say anything. He had a fleck of paper tissue stuck to his cheek. ‘You are reluctant to talk about Cécile.’ His eyes softened. ‘You think I ought to put my mind to other things. Yet for the time being, I must reminisce. Tell me,’ once again he had taken my hand in his, ‘how will you remember her?’ I looked up at the ceiling and cleared my throat.

‘Her … happy gaze.’ Mr Rafferty furrowed his brow. His tongue darted over his lower lip. Then he looked at me, astonished. ‘How right you are! It was her eyes that first attracted me.’ His own eyes were blurred with tears. ‘Let us tell happy stories.’

I searched in my mind, but I could think of nothing to say.

‘I never was much of a storyteller,’ I said.

‘What’s come over you? I may be in mourning, but you mustn’t treat me like a child!’

‘Very well,’ I said, ‘let me see.’ I filled the tumbler and took a large sip. I sat down and declared in a loud voice, ‘There was a young man lost in a desert sandstorm …’

‘I want to hear about Cécile .’

I stood. Mr Rafferty had begun to nod his head, waiting for me to speak, as though my words would stay his grief. Suddenly I wanted to leave his bedside. I had read about a gorilla at Edinburgh Zoo. A child had fallen into her enclosure, and had died from the impact. And yet for several minutes, until the zoo keeper arrived, the gorilla had cradled the child in her arms. I didn’t move. Mr Rafferty must have sensed my uneasiness because he looked at the floor. He had been leaning against the metal bedstead, which had made a raw impression on his cheek. After a while he said, ‘Nothing will cure my grief.’

‘You’ve your work to be getting on with.’

‘I’m distraught.’

‘Your melancholy will pass.’

He didn’t seem to hear me. ‘When the doctor broke the news of her illness,’ he said, ‘I would not believe him … although Cécile knew. The afternoon we found out how advanced the malady was, we came here, to this sitting room, and we cried together.’ Mr Rafferty closed his eyes and disappeared beneath the duvet. We were quiet for several minutes.

‘Monsieur Breguet!’ I said. ‘Would you care for a walk?’

‘Why not?’ He was covered by the duvet. ‘I will only sink further if I remain in this house that was yesterday brightened by Cécile’s happy gaze.’ I grabbed his swimming bag. He rose unsteadily and rubbed his eyes, which were circled with red.

Outside it was clear and cold and buildings stood out keenly against the sky. Unseen, through the sharp light, birds flitted and sang. We set off down Mankind Street. Mr Rafferty wore a long overcoat whose pockets sounded with loose change. Soft, squat, clock-faced, with busy hands, he shuffled over the paving stones. It took all my strength to guide him in a straight line. Soon we turned on to Morningside Road, with its row of shops and wide heath, and he became fearful of the cars. He tried to run off, but I managed to keep hold of him. We approached a homeless person with a bandaged face. Mr Rafferty came to a stop, produced a fistful of coins and placed them in her upturned cap. ‘Alms for your plight,’ he said. I wrapped my arm around his arm. We set off again, beneath the cloudless sky. At the Dominion we turned right and proceeded along Terrace Grange. To our backs rose Blackford Hill. Now he had begun to walk with confidence, and I thought he had forgotten Breguet. Of course I was relieved, for I was able to guide him without strain. Yet if I let go of his arm I knew he might begin to follow the cats, one of his favourite diversions. We proceeded down past the cemetery. Once or twice I attempted to start a conversation, but he didn’t answer. We stopped beside a tramp sitting on an applecrate. Beside him lay his mongrel. Mr Rafferty sought the beggar’s blessing and threw coins into his hat. We walked on. I intended to take him swimming, and now I suggested it. Mr Rafferty stopped, recoiled, thrust fists into his pockets. But I know how much he loves the water. Again I suggested it. He shook his head. People were beginning to stare. I had an idea; I told him I would throw coins, that I would let them sink to the bottom of the pool, and that he could dive for them. He changed his mind, as I knew he would. The attendant at Warrender Baths knows us, and, since the men’s changing room was empty, she allowed me to help him into his kit. We entered the swimming area, myself in my swimming suit, he in his large trunks and yellow goggles.

Immediately, in the open hall, I noticed a shift in the atmosphere. Every movement — the sweep of swimmers’ arms, the nodding cork-lined rope, the attendant swaying on his high perch — seemed precise, lazy, stretched out, and every sound reverberated in the high space and dampness of the air. Mr Rafferty stepped down into the water. I stood to the side and wet my toes. Only a few bathers occupied the baths, all of them swimming lengths, and each, strangely, practising the back crawl. A trio of toddlers flapped their orange-banded arms. I stood listening to their cries — echoing — and the extractor fan — a low hum. Then, mid-pool, I dropped six penny-coins. Mr Rafferty swam back and forth for a few minutes, then sank below the surface. A few seconds later his head appeared, and his chest and arms; he was clutching a coin. I stepped down into the pool. Mr Rafferty glided to the edge and was beside me. His eyes shone. I swam for a while, then dived. I found a coin he had overlooked. Above me, I caught a flash of yellow from Mr Rafferty’s goggles then heard a swifter resonance and saw bubbles rising from his mouth. I myself surfaced. Now he was standing. He pointed upwards. ‘Look,’ he said. The roof of Warrender Baths is made of glass, and the panes are framed by a domed latticework of iron. The building was enveloped in a blue haze, as if it were open to the air. And occasionally, as at that moment, a shaft of sunlight would stream through the glass and splinter on the water.

In the foyer everything seemed dark and sapped of colour. I bought Mr Rafferty a chocolate bar. I myself had a cup of tomato soup. Outside, I was surprised to find that it was still light. It was like coming out from watching a matinee performance. Mr Rafferty walked in silence, eating his chocolate bar and making a mess of his upper lip. I had forgotten to dry my hair and the cold air gnawed my scalp. We crossed the road on to the Meadows, over the humpy grass. By Jawbone Walk we sat on a bench. A fine rain had begun to fall. It made no sound. Mr Rafferty had sucked off the chocolate and was crunching the biscuit centre. It was some time before he spoke. ‘Barbets have downed,’ he said. I smiled in answer. There was a group of children in the distance; they were kicking a ball. ‘What was Mother’s star sign?’ I said. He didn’t seem to hear me. His eyes followed the movement of the ball. At that moment I wanted to throw my arms around him, although I knew it was impossible, because he doesn’t like to be held. Without turning his gaze, he said, ‘Who are you?’ I didn’t answer. We were quiet for a while. I looked across the Meadows, whose grass was silvered with rain. A little later I took him back to the institution.