Read by Jennifer Tan
The road is long, and curves close to the shoreline, rather like a ribbon edging at the hem of a dress. On the left, if you are driving towards the house, there is little to see except an expanse of dry brush, a kind of exhausted vegetation, spindly and as brittle as kindling. To the right, the ocean drops away in an endless falling, plummeting eternally, containing nothing and everything, the sea bearing all our memories.
This is your sea. Where you skimmed and surfed as a boy. Dived from your father’s boat, stealthy and slick, almost unhuman, down, down towards the lobster creels, a lungful of air to sustain you, your slender boyish hands reaching in to claim the catch, the lobster’s large claws a bluff; later you might say ‘Don’t be scared, they’re all show and no bite’ before chasing a girl with one, perhaps. But in the deep you’d kick and thrust back to the surface, a lobster in each hand, watching out for the sharks that were seen circling in the area, before pulling yourself into the boat and flicking the water from your thin dark hair.
This is the road that you see, my dear, as you drive home from work. Leaving the office- now you’re not working for such a large company, earlier than usual. You’ve downsized, simplified life a little, stopped travelling so much, taken a pay cut. But you are happier. You sit forward in your seat, looking ahead, the road unchanging, but getting darker. You switch your headlights on. You think of your father, drinking beer with him on his boat, looking out across the water, fishing, both rods dipping and nodding in agreement, a silent conversation accompanied by the sounds of you both slurping from your tins. You remember him driving you all home late at night – you, your mother, your brother and sisters. You were the youngest, and would pretend to be asleep on the backseat so that your father would carry you up to your bed, you savouring the brief warmth of his arms, his large hand stroking your hair. You cried at his funeral, your mother quiet in the front pew, but you were grown up by then, married with children of your own.
The road eases you towards home. The land appears flat, pale in the assembling darkness, but ahead you sense a rising, a small summit. Behind the rise, you will be just moments from home. You hold the steering wheel lightly, with only one hand, and slow down just a little. You drink coffee from a paper cup, it’s cold by now, but that doesn’t matter. Perhaps it’s the light, the sky deepening to an ink blue, like her eyes, like the writing in her letters, but you think of her, briefly, fondly. Though you try not to think of her so often, it would be wrong and you made your choice. You remember your father’s only piece of advice, ‘Life is all about choices, Son. Make the right ones.’
Perhaps you’re going home to a party, maybe your eldest daughter’s engagement celebration. All the family will be there, your brother and sisters, their husbands and wives, children, grandchildren, friends. You see the lights of the house ahead, single storey like most of the houses here; it spreads flat over your land like an open hand, welcoming and honest. The home your wife made for you, warm and binding. You turn the corner and into the drive, past the green lawn and the stutter of the sprinkler system. The brick drive smooth under the car. You park next to the other cars, and sit for a moment, you see them inside, black silhouettes behind the curtains, shadow puppets, inhabiting myths.
You are greeted at the door, smiles and kisses. You are home; a drink is pressed into your hand. Maybe it’s at this point that you shake your soon to be son-in-law’s hand and kiss your daughter. You propose a toast; the party relaxes now that you’ve arrived. You haven’t time to change; you stand and chat, still dressed in your travel-creased trousers. I imagine you as you move around the room, talking and laughing. You greet your brother’s second wife, who feels less somehow, not family, an impostor; you’ve never approved of divorce. Always wondered why your brother didn’t stick out his first marriage. You admitted you felt baffled when he said he wasn’t happy, wasn’t in love anymore, as if he expected happiness and being in love to be a permanent state. ‘Marriage isn’t about being in love or happiness,’ you said to me once, a long time ago, ‘Marriage is an edifice, a responsibility to maintain.’ You got married young, to a protestant girl, though she converted for you.
It’s getting late, people begin to leave or go to bed. You miss someone, but you aren’t sure whom. You stand with your wife, arm in arm, waving goodbye to your guests. You are proud, of what you have, what you’ve achieved, what you managed to rescue. Back in the house, you pour yourself another drink as your wife turns off the lights. You stand at the back door and she asks you what you are thinking about, her hand on your shoulder, as you look out over the darkened garden, perhaps you’re thinking about the sun rising on the other side of the world, about those who are waking now, people you knew once, a long time ago, far away.
I’ve never been of course, not to the house, or even the country, I’ve never driven those roads, or seen you where you belong but it’s how I imagine you now, home and happy and sometimes, remembering her.
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Now, Possibly by Heidi James was read by Jennifer Tan at the Liars' League Here & Now event on Tuesday 10 August 2010 at The Phoenix, Cavendish Sq., London
Heidi James’s novella The Mesmerist's Daughter (published by Apis Books) was launched in July 2007. Her novel Carbon was published by Blatt in October 2009. Her essays and short stories have appeared in various publications and anthologies including Dazed and Confused, Another Magazine, The Independent, 3:AM London, New York, Paris, Pulp.net etc. She lectures at Kingston University.
Jennifer Tan trained at The Oxford School of Drama. Theatre includes A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Pillars of the Community, Plasticine and After the Dance (OSD), The Caucasian Chalk Circle (Shared Experience), Cinderella (Lyric Hammersmith) and Carless Talk (Momo Theatre). Voiceover work includes Smokescreen, an online educational game for Channel 4.
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