Anjali Joseph - The Living

You could hear birds singing. It sounded like water from a tap. I walked through the first part of the cemetery. It’s not so nice, all black and grey stones, 1991 2003 Derek Smyth beloved husband of etc. Dad’s funeral. There’s something terrible, something false about new headstones. The grass was damp and those steel flower holders on the graves looked dirty and wet. I got my breath back and walked through that leafy tunnel and the other bits of the older graveyard. The private tombs, some falling down. The older stone looked prettier, spotted like the backs of Gran’s hands. I went all the way to the little chapel with the pointy roof and the trees round it, then I came back.

On the way home through the park and down the hill I felt different, older, stranger. I tried to think about how I was running, lift my feet, but my legs were tired especially above the ankles. One hip started hurting for fuck’s sake and even my arms no idea why it’s not like I’d been running on my hands though the idea made me smile and I put on a spurt down the hill lifted my knees higher faster like we used to in track and got all the way to the main road and our street. Someone in a blue hoodie and jeans turned near the door. Mum? he said. I only stopped when I was on the garden path.

What the fuck are you doing?

Exercising, I said.

You what? But he grinned. I’m so hungover, he said.

Just open the door, I said. I’d lost my flight. I felt heavy. I was thinking about the wood again when I went to the kitchen to get some water. I had to put on the light, it was getting late. The wood felt like a place you could get beaten up or raped even. Something about it. Maybe all old woods are like that. People walk through on their way out all the time, girls too. I’ve seen them dressed up, small skirt high heels taking the short cut even at night. I wouldn’t do it. The wood’s different after dark, magic. All the soft hidden places become strange.

John and I started seeing each other, which didn’t mean shagging. Just seeing each other. It’s a funny thing to say, isn’t it? We’d been seeing each other every day for years. Then we started spending time together after that night, Jason’s party. At first I didn’t think about it. He was just someone I’d known forever and we liked each other’s company. His family’s from Sheringham way. He spoke with that little lift in his voice. He made a certain face when he smiled. He raised an eyebrow. He was easy-going, a person who wouldn’t snap, or disappear. I didn’t feel mad excitement about him. I just knew he was there. I knew all his clothes: the Hot Tuna t-shirt, the Diesel jeans, the Carhartt jeans, the old suede Converse trainers, the Vans. Clothes the skaters used to wear in school. They still seemed nice, but funny as well. He’d manage things in his own quiet way. He’d buy the first drink. If we went to the cinema he’d be waiting with the tickets. He’d shrug and say he got there early. He’d be on time. I’d be late. He’d be relaxed. Sometimes I’d catch him looking. Then he’d just smile.

I started taking it for granted. I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to think about anyone that way, feel that if they weren’t there I wouldn’t be happy. I’d started, not to be happy, but not to think about being unhappy.

Are you going out with John? Jason asked. Friday, September: one of those long, golden days that are even more beautiful than summer. The evening had turned to rain, and the windows gone smeary. I saw a couple of people hurrying past. Jason was going out with Chloe, his new girlfriend. She seems nice, the two times I’ve seen her. He hasn’t brought her round or anything, not to meet me, I mean. She looks sweet, under the make-up.

We’re meeting up, yeah, I told him. Going out with sounded a bit specific.

My son grinned.

What, I said.

He’s sweet on you, he said.

Since when do you say things like sweet on you, Jason? I asked. You sound like my granddad.

He grinned again. Sweet like sugar, he sang. I tried to clip him round the ear, but he dodged it.

Coming for a smoke? It was John, smiling at me, just after the bell for morning break.

Er — nah, I said. You go on.

I saw his smile fade. Something was starting to bother me. For example, his Boxfresh t-shirt. It must have been cool twenty years ago. Why are you still wearing that t-shirt? I wanted to say. Why are you so easy-going? I sulked near the closing section pretending to read the paper till break was over. John smiled at me from the coffee machine at lunchtime, but I stared into my book, which I wasn’t reading.

When I was walking back to my table at the end of lunch I could feel John looking. I stared ahead and kept going. Tom came over later, during afternoon break. All right, lass? he said. Cutting down?

Eh?

Not smoking so much?

I swallowed. I heard it’s bad for you, I said.

He smiled. Who knew?

I know, I said.

When we were walking out, John smiled at me, and said, See you tomorrow. It was like he was showing me that he understood I was in a bad mood, and he wasn’t angry, but would leave me alone. Or perhaps he didn’t get anything. I smoked on the way home and felt edgy. My throat was dry. I’m tanning myself, I thought. On the inside. Ugh. I thought about John, and the t-shirt, and the fact that his neck was probably too hairy, and his hair was thinning. Who asked him to like me? I couldn’t be responsible for him.

This is what you’re like, I thought. You can fall for someone if they pay you some attention then act shifty. You just can’t deal with it if they stick around.

The wind was cold on my face as I climbed the hill. But, but, I argued, it’s the wrong people that stick around, that’s the trouble.

I’d never had the chance to get sick of Damian. I still thought about him, imagined him in his car, with a stack of clean shirts in the boot, and his boxes of books, and the other things he kept neat, in order, so he could live his life in that way he has. He just stops off with whoever he’s seeing, he gets love like a cat gets food, here and there. The world provides.

Why couldn’t I be like that? Driving around, able to live on whatever comes up. I turned on to our road, and the fat grey cat from the end of the street beetled past, a dark shape on short legs. I saw the gate of our house. Even cats have homes, I thought: at least, the happy ones do. Damian must have someone, somewhere, at least one. A wife, some little Damians, boys or girls. Someone who washes and irons his shirts, reminds him to get enough sleep, smoke less. Someone to spend bank holidays with.

I got to the gate. The front garden looked fucked. I needed to do something to it, or nag Jason to. I picked up a couple of the crisp packets people always throw in when they’re passing. It was easier for me to spend time in my mind with Damian, I thought, as I got to the door and opened it — to tell him things, the kinds of things I thought about all day, the little things that happened, that I’d never actually told him and which he’d given no sign of wanting to listen to — than to think about John, admit the possibility of John. But John was easy to have around as things were. I didn’t have to improve myself for him, even if he did wear that old t-shirt and have a hairy neck. I didn’t care what he thought of me, or I didn’t worry. We had a laugh. From the door, taking off my jacket, I caught sight of the sofa in the living room, with a magazine and a couple of DVDs on it, Jason’s shoes on the floor, flung anyhow. For a moment I thought I saw a man there, the man to whom the shoes belonged. It was just a second, a trick of the eye. I shut the front door.