Part 1: The Early Years
Family reunions are odd things, I never get why people do them, they force themselves to recognise the fact that you have all but neglected at least one side of your family for over a decade, or else there would be no need for the reunion. The handshakes, the champagne being spilled, the nervous laughter are all painful to witness as old stories are retold in front of crowd that you think won't judge you, but you'd be wrong. The uncles and aunties that have known you since you were small, so maybe they will turn a blind eye to the drunken tales of college and the times you crashed your dad's car, but the newborn in-laws, fresh from their other family, unused to the sordid legends of the Collin's family are free to make their own judgments. The grimaces they strain to hide as they sit there, putting away more Pinot Grigio than one would have dared thought possible. This is your family reunion, the well-planned, meticulously arranged occasion that will only end up having you ostracized from your relatives for the next twenty years. I hate to be cynical but it's the truth. The only things that I find are ever vaguely good about these occasions are the refreshments. How would I survive them otherwise? Last time I visited some cousins in Nottingham I woke up the next morning wishing I had drunk a pint of water the previous night. I had found myself earlier in the night lying next to a Portuguese export named Pablo; that was all I ever learnt about him, except I'm sure I should remember more. Fortunately for me, Sylvia and Ernest never quite get round to asking me how I enjoyed the evening and are usually far too wrapped up in their own bubble of self-approval of having written many emails and home addresses down so that they can contact their new acquaintances and send a festive greeting once in a while. One occasion that springs to mind in the list of excruciating family gatherings was the marriage between Peggy Cemberley, Sylvia's niece, and Harris Kloet. He was a handsome man of about six foot tall, Dutch by origin but lived in Paris for fourteen years of his life before moving to Toronto, where he met Peggy. They had attended the Toronto School of Art together and were both desperately unsuccessful in their attempts at becoming acclaimed artists. In fact the height of Peggy's art career happened to be in the New York Times where she was heralded the most 'untalented artist of the century'. Toronto kicked them out and they woefully returned to Paris, where upon their arrival they decided to marry. I found the speech that taught me these details a moving story about failure but the underlying theme of hope and success were very educational. The painful thing about this occasion was the forced awkwardness between Celimène, Ernest's sister, and her husband Cuba. They had recently returned from a two month cruise around the Caribbean, swimming with dolphins, snorkeling, enjoying the sun and relaxing, as recommended by their marriage counselor but only to return on the brink of divorce. After the ceremony, Celimène was seen spitting in Cuba's drinks and trying hopelessly to break his BlackBerry. Soon after this the couple was asked to leave as they had thrown a full-scale argument in the middle of the dance floor, unashamedly swearing and cursing in front of the audience that had gathered.
So on this day, October 11th, I was sitting in my room, writing one of my many comments or memoirs, I like to call them that more than diary entries; it’s a more accurate definition. Anyway so I was writing this reflective prose when Sylvia knocked; I could tell it was Sylvia not any of the others because of the unobtrusive knock that could barely be heard and the small sigh that followed. I dragged my pen from the paper and sat up. She hardly ever came near my room, a vote of independence that I had won and the other’s had not. I whispered a low ‘Come in’, which of course she heard. She wandered in, her face a picture of untroubled bliss, one I wished I could replicate or even have the pleasure of truly enjoying. She sat on the edge of my bed, careful not to disturb the piles of paper and clothes that covered the flowery bedspread. That’s something Sylvia liked about my bedroom, it was light and airy, with floral upholstery and white painted wooden desk and in the corner. It seemed like something from a Laura Ashley catalogue, inspired by the quaint designs. Sylvia seemed at peace when she lightly picked up a notepad that contained lots of little notes from when I first moved to Elmtree Grove. She smiled as she read the infantile script and the cross rubbings out. Her light voice tinkled in my room and I watched her with amusement. Finally she looked up at me, a glint in her emerald eyes. She looked at me intently for a while, Sylvia often does that, looks at you intensely without meaning anything like staring you out, just wanting to get a real look at you. So I sat there, playing with my new fountain pen, enjoying the feel of the cool metal against me when she just comes out and says it.
“Maple, the family are coming round later, I thought I might tell you.” She paused, rearranging herself on my bed. “You don’t have to do anything, but we are having all cousins round, for a few drinks and some food. You can stay up here if you like, but I think…” She stopped, thinking of a decent reason why I should come and socialize with-
“It would be a nice evening if you joined us. Stanley will be back tonight.” And she finished there, not caring to go on. That’s what I like about Sylvia, she never goes on too long, she just leaves it where she feels appropriate and usually ends up getting just what she wants.
“What are you writing, honey?” She peered over my shoulder at the illegible writing. When I write my comments I usually purposely do so as illegibly as possible to that no one except myself can read it. “I’ll see you later Syrup.” I got out of my chair and lay across the papers on my bed, they were more uncomfortable than I had anticipated but I decided to hold it out. There was nothing worse than moving when you really didn’t feel like moving. I watched the clouds on my ceiling, trying to decipher new shapes on the patterns from the same clouds that had been there since I was too young to remember. They were big and fluffy the clouds, quite picturesque, looming brilliantly over my head, protecting my thoughts with their soft fleecy cover. Soon I had slipped into a relaxed slumber, the cool evening air providing my room with the perfect temperature. My dreams were surprisingly carefree. I dreamt of myself sailing on the pacific accompanied by tropical birds that lived on the top of a volcano and were leading me to safety. When I woke up I tried to think about it, what the birds meant but the dream was slipping away so quickly I didn’t have an opportunity to really analyze it. I liked to analyze my dreams; it made me feel as if they were more realistic, as opposed to far-fetched hopes of nothing.
I heard the bell ring once and then twice. It was only five o’clock but already people were arriving. I saw Sylvia swoop down to the front door, her white cardigan and cream dress reflecting the light and illuminating her skin beautifully. She let out a small cry of joy as she opened the door and pressed herself into an embrace with her son, Stanley. Ernie sidled past the couple shaking off his umbrella and propping it up against the mahogany stand. Ruffling his wet hair in the mirror he turned and called up to me. His voice was low and musical. The soft peals of his words thrown freely around. Unlike his brother Lyall, whose voice was dark and sonorous, Ernie liked to keep things at the height of joviality.
“Maple!” He sang, still admiring his reflection. I skipped downstairs and stared at Stanley. He was not as I remembered him. For one he was tall, long limbs stretching out to me and had this smile that stopped traffic. His dark blond hair, cut to the perfect length, the eyes that sparkled, as wild as Sylvia’s. Out of all the Collins’ Stanley was my favourite, he had always made me feel the most part of the family, not that the others hadn’t, he just went all the extra lengths, and I would always love him for it. He was wearing a dark suit, single breasted that perfectly complimented his lean physique.
“If it isn’t little Syrup.” I knew he was only teasing me because I wasn’t small anymore. When I had arrived here I was though. I was as small as Rosalyn who’s three years my junior. Now I was taller than Norma, who is older than me. I smiled bashfully at him, forgetting where I was. He locked me in a full embrace, nearly winding me but I didn’t care, I had missed him. He smelled different, sort of more mature and worldly but he was still my Stanley. Soon the other three were racing down the stairs yelling and whistling, pleased to see their brother again but I could tell Stanley was most pleased to see me. I wished and I wished that anyway. And before I had a chance to check how genuine his whoops of delight were for the others I raced upstairs, I needed to write.
I remember when I first came to the Collins’, a small child of four, dainty and dark-haired, with fierce eyes that made me seem more stubborn and childish than I was. Sylvia had picked me up from the station in her green golf. I remember this clearly. I had never been in a car before, not once. I had been on boats and buses and trains, in aeroplanes, even a helicopter but never a car. The smell of the hot leather baking in the sun choked me, and I had my first experience of carsickness. Sylvia pulled the window open for me and gave me a strong mint to suck. I can still taste the intense minty flavour overwhelming my mouth so that I forgot about the nausea. The journey to their house wasn’t long. Cars whizzed past me, horns beeped and traffic lights magically changed colours in front of me. I marveled at this all, pleased to be far away from home, where nothing but grief seemed to grow, parasitic by nature, draining all life from everything around it. I thought I would miss my life, but then I remembered there wasn’t much to miss. There was nothing there to hold me or offer me, no hope of anything better except a ticket out. That’s where Sylvia came in. Her and Ernest provided me with a home and a family, something I would never have had in the same way had it not been for them.
I heaved my trunk from underneath my bed and blew off the dust. I was about to open it when I heard a yell from the terrace. There would be no peace this evening.
The sun was setting, pouring a pinkish glow over the garden, colouring the plants and shrubbery with beautiful hues. The rain had left the air slightly damp but had somehow enhanced the colours of nature. I gasped as I caught my first glimpse of its beauty. I was a sucker for all things beautiful. The sun threw bright light across the garden, revealing all its glory in the balmy autumn air.
I tried not to look at him, to appear nonchalant, unconcerned. I rested my hands across the rails at the edge of the terrace and let the cool feeling of it soothe me. I shut my eyes for a moment and felt the stillness of his body next to me. He was breathing lightly, apparently happy to abide by my rules of tranquility. I heard him take a sip of something, the liquid traveling fluidly from its source. I didn’t dare open my eyes yet, not yet prepared for the sight that would grace my eyes. When did he become such a spectacle of magnificence? Everything he did was graceful and charming. I forced my mind back to the days when he was like my older brother, playful and cheeky, always daring and taunting but with the mischievous edge of childhood. I was warmed by those thoughts, drifting away to the safety of memories. However I stopped and opened my eyes. There was Stanley. My, oh my. I nearly wept with desire. His eyes shone fiendishly, glistening with mischief and I laughed, a full, irresponsible laugh, freeing me of all duties.
“How are you little Syrup?” He offered me the glass of white wine, holding the glass as I drank.
“You could always hold your drink.” He said these words with a seductive whisper, lowering his voice, murmuring it into my ear. “It’s beautiful isn’t it?” He turned me to the sunset; I was still speechless. His hand rested on the small of my back, a harmless gesture that if witnessed could mean nothing more than friendship, but I couldn’t help think of more. The warmth of his hand burnt through my dress, the feel of his touch setting off fireworks inside of me that I did not know how much more I could contain. We watched the sun set for what felt like the most blissful hour of my life, though I think it was much shorter than that. Soon after I heard the ring of the bell in the distance and the flow of excited voices. I was about to turn to go when Stanley pulled me towards him, resting his chin on my head. I wasn’t quite sure what happened next, frozen with euphoria and the soft sweet scent of him. I just remember the words that fell smoothly from his lips.
I’ve missed you.
All thirty-four members of the Collins and Ulfssons arrived frighteningly punctually to enjoy the evening of frivolity with their relatives and in-laws. Sylvia, after the last occasion, had carefully arranged not to have any formal speech making ceremony so that everyone could just appreciate the informal activities of chat and conversation. First to arrive were Sylvia’s sister’s family. Lavinia and Cecil had been childhood sweethearts much to Cecil’s parents dismay, however they fought through the prejudices that surrounded their young marriage and had Peggy at the tender age of twenty-four. Peggy came with her husband, Harris, followed by her siblings Quentin, a medicine undergraduate, Adolfine and Arabella, who were my age, and startlingly alluring. Lionel, who was fourteen and seemed to be interested in nothing but art and design came hand in hand with Humphrey, eleven who had been influenced by his father’s rustic ideals and carpentry. I had made it down to meet and greet the first batch of arrivals, already exhausted by the end but I did not have a chance to catch my breath before Celimène and Cuba had waltzed through the door, returning from another cruise, which they claimed ‘saved their relationship’. Celimène was Ernest’s rather wayward sister who took it upon herself to do anything out of the ordinary. She met Cuba while attending Tai Chi classes in an Indonesian resort on her gap year. She was pregnant by the end of the holiday and married by her third trimester. With her came Aimo, her first son, happily married unlike his wild parents and with his daughter Jaelis and wife Savannah. Marcel, seventeen, and Sophronie-Sorel, twelve, Aimo’s younger siblings trailed behind, wearing the most hideous of grimaces. Unfortunately this was not the climax, we still had two more families to go. Ralph, Celimène’s twin brother came with his wife Fenella and four children, Tessa, fourteen, Darryl, eleven and Lillie and Henry, seven. Ralph and Fenella were the most orthodox of the Collins, living a simple suburban life, sending their children to the corresponding schools and taking conventional holidays to the Cornish coast or Southern France. They were sweet but in a dull, unimaginative way. Finally, ritually late came Lyall and Luella. Lyall was Ernie’s oldest brother, a dark, stony-faced man with a deep rumbling voice but of surprisingly good humour. Luella was a round woman who always wore heavy pendants than rested on her ample bosoms. Their children, Jarvis, Emil and Zaharah were all fantastically intelligent with a great interest in everything, they read everything from Dickens to Chaucer but were never the slightest bit snobby or superior. I was relieved to be free of the duties of introductions and catch-ups and went to the kitchen. In there I found Sylvia pouring herself a small glass of wine and stirring a large pan. She had set out a large tray of nibbles with delicate decorations. She turned to me when I walked in, a smile embedded on her face.
“Oh Maple, honey!” She watched as I made my way to the breakfast bar. “You know how pleased I am when you join us,” She stirred a little more. “I’m delighted. Have you seen many people yet?” I stifled a laugh.
“Yes, I’ve said hello to everyone. I helped Stanley meet and greet.”
“Wonderful.” There was a long silence as though Sylvia was trying to figure out a detailed pattern in the soup. I stayed still, quite happy seeking refuge in the quiet of the kitchen.
“You know, Stanley’s-”
“Maple! Come say hi will you!”
Ernest was trying to reintroduce to me to Jarvis, who I was already quite familiarly acquainted with.
“It’s Jarvis! You remember him don’t you?” Ernie’s enthusiasm was suffocating but I pulled through.
“Yeah, Jarvis. How about I show you the garden?”
“The garden that’s great!” chimed Ernie, already running off to match up some more cousins. I was pleased to get away from the rabble of the party, walking in silence with Jarvis. I knew him quite well, we spoke often as they didn’t live very far and sometimes I saw him when I met up with Marcel. He was quiet, although attractively so. A year younger than I, he hadn’t quite peaked in maturity. He was still a wiry sixteen-year-old boy, experimenting with the likes of girls but much more bound by his books. I found this attribute amusing and appealing; it made him more sensible, more mature. He wasn’t the stereotypical youth, constantly spouting crude jokes about women or the commonly thought of bookworm who wore nerdy glasses and spoke Klingon.
“Haven’t seen you in a while Joanie. You been around much?”
Our conversation flowed with the ease of old friends, occasionally making each other laugh. The sweet perfume of the garden would catch me every now again and remind of the company I was missing. Eventually Jarvis told me he was cold and fancied a plate of the food he could smell. I mumbled something in agreement but sat outside for a while. Immediately I regretted my decision, I hated doing that to myself, making myself an outsider when I wasn’t. The darkness of the garden swamped me and I couldn’t help but think of my mother, something I had vowed long ago that I would never do, but the vivid, suppressed memories came flooding back, filling my mind with lucid detail that I couldn’t escape. I curled up my knees to my chest and surrendered to the memories.
“Where have you been? Where are you? I want you to come back. Sing me a song, baby. Where’s my baby? WHERE’S MY BABY?” She sang to herself every now and again reaching that catatonic state of screaming. Her feet were black with dirt, her eyes wild with confusion, her hair a nest of madness. She rocked, clutching her knees with panic, staring blankly at the floor. Joanie sat next to her, lending a soothing hand to the woman. Stroking her hair and her back, ignoring the wild cries that rang through the house. The child’s hand was no bigger than a Satsuma but it calmed the woman as she wept into her sleeve.
“My baby, my baby, where’s my baby?” The woman continued her moaning until silence fell upon the house. After a while a baby could be heard whimpering in the corner.
“MY BABY, MY BABY.” Screamed the woman; unstoppable, pursuing her haunting cries until you could not even hear your own thoughts. The baby’s cries had faded into the shouts of the woman, unheard against the raw noise. The child, silent and patient continued to stroke the woman, humming a soft tune to herself. The house rocked with the pain of the woman, with the anguish and distress of the family. The soft crunch of gravel was inaudible amongst the screams, the light tap on the doorframe went unnoticed and the creak of the door was absorbed as soon as the sound was made. A short, round woman stood in the doorframe. Her glasses sat on the end of her noise, balanced precariously on its bridge. Her eyes seemed to quickly assess the mayhem of the sobbing woman, the wailing baby and the uncomplaining child. She breathed deeply, not quite a sigh, fearing that would be impolite, but enough to brace herself against the case ahead. She crept across the floorboards and held her hand out to the child, looking right into her eyes, brimming with compassion and whispered:
“It’s okay Joanie.”
The music from inside lulled me inwards; appreciating the beat of the rhythm as it harshly hit me each time, like a loud clap heard from a distance. The bass ran through my body, making it shake and move with the music. I sat down near Adolfine who was eating a bowl of soup. I gulped down my third glass of wine and stared hazily at the dancers. They all seemed to be having such a great time of it all, just swaying their hips and laughing merrily with each other. Ernie seemed to be offering some more beverages around and stopped by Adolfine and I, grinning heartily, cheeks flushed with the Scotch I had seen him just down.
“Anymore for the ladies?” Adolfine stared at me, holding me fixatedly with her dazzling blue eyes.
“Yes, we’ll both have another glass.” She gestured to the side table and Ernie obligingly put them down before disappearing amongst the throng of guests.
“You seem drunk.” It was a statement rather than an accusation but I could feel the coldness flying off it.
“I am.”
“Oh.”
“You see I can’t stand things like this, where everyone has to sit back and be merry, shoving their radiant offspring in each other’s faces, comparing grades at school and who has most recently been made captain of their form. I can’t stand the phony hello’s and smiles, the way everyone pretends to love each other so much because they are all family and that they wish they all lived so much closer so they could see each other every day but really they are lying, lying through their perfect bloody teeth.” I stopped and paused for breath. Adolfine took a long sip from her glass, so graceful in her drinking rather than my slovenly attempt at dignified company.
“I agree.” She replied, watching her sister dance with the elegance of a professional.
“You do? You do, of course.”
“Of course.” Of course.
Another glass of wine later I was hanging over the edge of the terrace hoping that the cold air rushing into my lungs and onto my face would stop me feeling so awful. I felt like shit. Everything was shit. I was at a family reunion of a family that wasn’t mine, except they were mine; they were the only family I had. We were a group consisting of parents and children living in one household, that was family and that’s what I had, not that I deserved it. I felt nauseous and was beginning to regret the ease with which I had earlier put away so many glasses of wine. It was the common ending for me of any social occasion. Drunk, alone and desperately depressed. The moon shone with unadulterated brilliance, hung high in the sky, spilling rays of purity down on the world below, except every single one of the millions of rays managed to miss me, I was standing in total darkness. I could feel it creeping up on me from every corner until I was swamped by it and it had its tight hold around me heart, squeezing out all the happiness.
“Oh Syrup, baby it’s okay.”
I woke in the morning to find a note propped up by the side of my bed, written on it in untidy scrawl were the words ‘It’s our secret.’ I wasn’t one for keeping secrets usually but in this case I appreciated the discretion, one that would certainly save me from Ernest’s awkward attitudes to teenage drinking when he was sober. It seemed unlikely that Sylvia would say anything to me, I had no idea what time I had retired to my room, but it seemed decently late enough so that I hadn’t appeared to make a conspicuous exit.
The curtains had been left open, the light fell on my bed exposing me the harsh winter light. Things had changed, I could tell. Yesterday I was basking in the balmy light of autumn and today my uneasy slumber had been interrupted by the lurid wintry light. I sighed and pulled the covers over my head not willing to lure myself out of the cosy abode. There was nothing that could pull me from my bed. Nothing.
“He had to leave early this morning. He’ll be back by the end of the week, I think.” Sylvia poured a cup of coffee and shoved it in my direction. “Then he’s off again.” She spoke the words mournfully, as if eventually she would have to give her final goodbye to her son, a man now, one that has his own responsibilities and goals. I watched her as she washed the dishes in the sink. That was another thing about Sylvia, she never rushed anything, everything was purposeful, meaningful and steady. Paced. I enjoyed that about her company, sinking into the relaxed freedom of her presence so when Jal raced in I was caught quite unaware. Jal was eleven and in his last year of secondary school. He loved anything and everything to do with football and could recite his Arsenal annual off by heart. He had this infectious smile and demeanour that immediately raised the spirits of anyone in a room. Today he was wearing his red Arsenal football shirt and khaki shorts. His eyes flicked around the room in search of Ernest, sighing he approached Sylvia.
“Where’s Stan?” Jal was the only one to call Stanley, Stan. “Said ‘e’d play football with me later.” Sylvia was still looking at the dishes, washing each plate individually when she replied slowly. Jal retreated into the garden yelling for Ernie. I watched his small legs race off into the distance, full of youthful athleticism, filling me with such nostalgia for a time when games were all we cared about. I could see Norma, Stanley and I on the beach filling bucket after bucket with sand and hosting endless banquets with the stones and the sea as our guests. I followed Jal into the garden after a while, suddenly hit by a wave of alcohol, the stench was impossible. I imagined Ernie had taken the men outside for some ‘serious drinking’ as he had so often liked to call it. The garden was still neat though, the smell of brandy soaked into the grass. I wandered down to the end and sat on the patio, surrounded by the fragrance of honeysuckle and lilac. I rest my head on the wooden seat, pleased at some peace. Hangovers did me no good, but I couldn’t help it. It was the only way to rid myself of the pain. I couldn’t bear it when everyone there was so happy and content with their family. It had to be a pretence, how could they possibly be that happy? Sylvia understood sometimes, though it hurt her when I would spurn her relatives and hide in my room amongst piles of notepads filled with angry and hateful words. I wrote something down last night before I went to bed, something about Stanley. I don’t know if he read it when he came in. I hope not.
Then the most unusual thing happened. I was sitting on the swing-seat at the back of the garden, nursing my hangover when Adolfine strolled over and sat next to me. She didn’t say anything for a long while. I didn’t know she was still here, I mean I didn’t know she had stayed the night. I had assumed all her lot had gone home last night. Lavinia doesn’t drink. She was staring ahead of her, pensive, held in her thoughts. I could tell this because her face wasn’t passive like when someone is just being quiet, it was intent as though she was really thinking some things away in her head. Her blonde hair was flapping about her face like crazy, real mad. It was distracting me, the highlights whipping about kept getting caught in my peripheral vision. After some time I spoke, unable to be bound by the silence much longer.
“Did you sleep well?”
“Huh?”
“I mean was you’re bed comfortable?”
“My bed is always comfortable.” She looked at me, puzzled.
“Oh, sorry, I thought you had stayed the night.”
“Oh, no.” She stopped speaking again. I contemplated this. She had come all the way here from the other side of London to sit here in silence with me. Interesting.
“What you said last night,” She stopped and prepared to continue. “I know what you mean. I think sometimes things are so forced that they become such a farce. No one really knows who likes who really because they are all just trying to be nice to each other. Keeping up appearances and such. Family isn’t like that though. Sometimes you are stuck with people you don’t like and whose opinions seem to entirely contradict your own, but you love them anyhow. That’s what makes family things different you see, we are bound by unconditional love, so you can make a fool out of yourself, but they will still love you, they might just like you less.” She stopped talking and looked at the ground. I think she was trying to tell me something. Something along the lines of even though I can be a snotty cow to you sometimes and act all high-and-mighty you still can be friend and forgive me, because we are family.
“I guess you’re right.”
When I arrived at the Collins’ they told me I was as sweet as syrup. I liked that, being as sweet as syrup. No one had ever called me something like that before. That’s when I became Maple Syrup. They Collins’ never call me Joanie, which is my real name, they call me Maple or Syrup. Sweet as syrup. Maple is my middle name though so I suppose that’s where they got their inspiration from. I guess it gave it me my own part in their family, a little section of my own and proof that I was special. I didn’t ever have an outsider phase with them I was always part of the family. Some kids say that when they get a new family they feel different. I never had that with the Collins’. Maybe it’s because they didn’t adopt me, just permanently residing with them with no other family and I just was part of their family but not actually. I liked that. That I still held my own. Their cousins became my cousins but Rosalyn, Norma, Jal and Stanley were always more like honorary siblings, not quite real but more like really good friends than blood relatives. Sylvia always said that if I wanted them to adopt me properly they would, but I said it was fine. I knew they were mine enough; they didn’t need to prove it. Their life became my life and I was happy to be part of it. The ease with which I forgot my old life was astonishing, I was both pleased and relieved to have this new opportunity, untroubled by the life I left behind, that was until recently. Recently I have these black moments where I’m trying to stop the memories, trying to push them down and away but they rise up until all I can do is let them come back. I don’t want to, I try to escape it but they just push over me. I keep seeing my mother. I keep seeing the baby, I don’t even know his name, but I think he was my brother. I don’t want to know these things or remember them, they aren’t part of my life. I keep seeing that same moment when the woman tells me “It’s okay Joanie.” I know it’s okay, I don’t need her to tell me, I know it. But they keep pushing themselves on me, forcing me to relive these moments that I had taken so long to remove from my life. Oh I’ve never wanted to remember them, why do I have to remember them now? Why, oh why?
Sylvia wiped her filthy hands on her apron. She was about to pick up the phone. I watched her. I was waiting now, there was no doubt I was waiting for him to come back. There was no point in me lying to myself about it. I was desperate for his return. She smiled at me from across the living room, curling her long fingers around the telephone wire as she spoke, her voice falling from low to high in the same sentence. The undulations of her voice mesmerized me and I listened peacefully, trying to collect my thoughts before his return. Ernie sauntered in holding his paper. He claimed he was popping out to collect Norma from her concert at school. Norma was a fantastic musician. She played the trombone, viola, piano, flute and guitar all extremely well. Frequently she would enchant us with pieces she composed herself or little melodies she heard around and would recite from memory. I admired her talent and was bewitched every time she played something that spoke of love or mystery. I loved hearing her do her piano solos. They were like nothing I had ever heard. The soft ballads she would play on the guitar when she was younger that would soothe my yearning heart now are replaced by more upbeat songs that reflect her emotions.
Ernie disappeared off, but I didn’t hear the door shut. I got up to go and close it when I saw him. He didn’t look much different this time but I was still taken aback. He smiled at me, still full of mischief.
“Hello.”
“Hi.” I stammered in reply, I wanted to flee away from him, after all this waiting I no longer wanted to be within fifty feet of him. He asked me where everyone was and I told him. Jal was out with Aaron, a football companion. Rosalyn was still in Cardiff on a school trip, Norma was at a concert that Ernie was now attending and Sylvia was on the phone to someone in the living room. He smiled again. The he stopped and walked into the living room. I raced away from him and hurried onto the terrace, he would know where I was but at the same time I felt like I was escaping him. I was sure he knew that I couldn’t continue like this. I knew now for sure, I was completely and irrevocably in love with Stanley Collins. He could find me quite easily, but I wasn’t truly trying to escape him, I was running away from his intoxicating presence. It made me feel drunk with desire and excitement. I couldn’t talk or breathe or simply behave properly when he was around. He was like the force that held me down, my gravity, the one that kept me rooted and no matter where I went he was still holding me, but in the end I was thankful, because I would always come back quite happily.
He didn’t come up for a long time. I think he was talking to Sylvia. She was always pleased to see him. It must be hard for her, knowing that this is only the first time that she would have to say goodbye to children, there would be many more farewells to come. When he did come however he was holding two glasses. I prayed to myself that they were non-alcoholic, I was still scarred by the pungent smell of Wolf Blass Black Label still stuck in my throat. He put the lemonade on the edge of my chair and sat down next to me. I took sip, it was cool a refreshing. I thanked him with as few words a possible, still doubting my ability to act sensibly.
“There’s been something I have been meaning to say to you for a long, long time Maple, a very long time.” He sounded poetic, so simple with his prose that it held such beauty in mind. The words swam around until they had filled up my mind and I couldn’t think about them anymore. He’d stopped speaking and was looking out onto the garden. I was utterly speechless. I could have only hoped for a moment as perfect as this in all my days, yet there I sat, next to the love of my life, drinking cool lemonade on an October evening. Perhaps the weather could have been better but it almost seemed irrelevant after that.
“I don’t know if you know it Maple, I seemed to have known it a lot longer than I thought. I hope now is the right time to tell you, to let you know how I feel.” He stopped again, as if saying the words that he so desperately wanted to tell me were the hardest possible thing he could do. Then he looked at me, disappointingly indirectly, I wanted to feel his gaze on my face.
“I love you.” I looked at him and a tear rolled off his warm cheek and onto his trousers. He turned and wouldn’t look at me but just stared ahead, fighting back the urge to cry more. “I love you so much that it hurts me more than you know. Every time I see you I think of how much I love you- ” He stopped and gulped, pausing for an agonizing moment. “I know it may be too much to ask, but I thought that I would tell you anyway, because in case this is it, in case I can’t do this anymore, I mean be in love with you and you not love me back, in case I can’t do that, I just want you to know why.” He rushed as he spoke, terrified of the truths he told. His declaration of love for me.
Part 2: All things fall apart
“But we haven’t seen you in such a long time Syrup. It’s been forever!” Sylvia moaned on the phone to me, pleading with me relentlessly, I could tell she wasn’t going to give up very easily, if at all. “You are coming, and that’s final. You are not rejecting me again! I’m cooking your favourite, and Ernie is starting to wonder if he’ll ever see you again!” I sighed and answered affirmatively to her request, putting the phone down reluctantly, hoping that I might be ‘ill’ on the day of this gathering. I avoid family occasions like the plague, they give me the most horrendous indigestion, the atmosphere is always so fabricated that is makes me gag. It was true that it had been a long time since I had last seen Sylvia and the family, I think I was perhaps mid-fling with Gabriel Rodney, a colleague from Central Bank Communications. I say fling because it was so short-lived, immature and light-hearted, lacking the real gravity of a sincere relationship, but despite that he had proved the perfect partner to the Collins’ Christmas party. Well that was nearly two years ago now, Gabriel Rodney is far removed from my mind as are most things.
It was early evening, the best time for me to write. I love the colours of dusk, the dimming of the sun, I find it impossibly romantic and stirring. The words flow with a rewarding ease when I sit at my large, imposing desk that fills my study. The paper is clean, white but strangely welcoming as the fluid ink rolls smoothly over it. When I am finished I sit back and let whatever kind of light it is fall on my face, basking in its heat or coolness. Often the flat is silent at this point, footsteps may be heard padding in and out of the kitchen or most frequently the emptiness and stillness compliments the reflective atmosphere.
I watched a bird nibble at a piece of rubbish on my windowsill, guiltily I opened the window and tried to remove the rubbish, feeling I could be potentially responsible of the death of another innocent inner-city blackbird through the consumption of some packaging carelessly left on the windowsill. The blackbird seemed confused by my pathetic attempts of clearing up my country and flitted off casually. I sat there again, admiring the evening. I was nostalgic for something, what it was I was unsure. I thought perhaps it was to do with the coming family gathering and the memories that would undoubtedly present themselves at such an occasion. I was remembering my second most recent visit to the Collins’; it was on my 20th birthday, a year before the Christmas party. I spent the evening with them, graciously receiving presents and drinking my way through all kinds of expensive wine, under the pretence that I had finally developed a palette that was able to distinguish between the cheap and trashy wines and the ones that Ernie stowed away for such times as these. After the party had finished I had crawled upstairs and had buried my face in my sheets, letting the tears flow, soaking my pillow until I fell asleep simply of exhaustion. There hasn’t been a time there when I haven’t cried.
Lars was my life. He was beautiful whatever he was. He had dark hair, always cut so perfectly that complimented his splendid, dazzling features. I felt that I unjustly acquired such a prized possession since he was far too beautiful to be with me. That’s not what he told me though, he loved to tell me how beautiful I was, always whispering sweet nothings in my ear, tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear, holding my gaze with the fierce intensity of love; his eyes brimming with passion. It was wonderful. It was so utterly wonderful. My first memory of him was sitting at London Bridge station and I had eight minutes to wait, it seemed like an eternity. Then Lars sat next to me, all of a sudden I knew there was never going to be enough time in the world for me and him. It wasn’t love at first sight at all, because it took me a long time to love him. It’s so strange with Lars, everything always seems to be fine, except the secrecy, I hate the secrecy. I’m constantly holding back my past and he’s always trying to get in. It’s the only thing we ever argue about, I seem he says, to be holding up this thick lead barrier that he finds impossible to penetrate but he can’t bare to give up because he loves me so much. He tells me that it’s killing him to continue because it keeps making him weaker, but he just can’t stop. I tell him one day, one day I will tell him, but now’s just not right, then he weeps and weeps and tells me that one day it will be too late. Whenever this happens he always goes out after, often he will stay with a friend and I imagine him telling them the story with a voice breaking with grief. I can see him hunched over, bearing the burden of my secrets and worry. Then I see him surrendering to the arms of another woman, curled up in the soft bosomy breast of a kind and open creature, just like him. Then I weep. I cry and cry until the morning comes and I wait for him to come home.
“Joanie? Joanie? Are you up there? I’m home! I’m going to make something for supper…” He paused and I heard him hanging up his coat. “Any requests darling?”
“Salmon, please.” He smiled at me when I walked into the kitchen, his lean figure was bent over the chopping board already, pulling an onion out of a vegetable basket on the countertop.
“You look sleepy.” He commented, wiping his hands on the back of his apron.\
“I am. Sylvia called.” He tensed. His whole body went rigid and he sped the cutting of the onions. He was crying from the juice of the onions and the image just looked comically frantic. “We’re not busy next weekend are we? It’s just that-”
“Are you sure?”
“I didn’t finish my sentence.”
“Joanie, I’m no fool, you didn’t need to.” He stopped cutting and rested the knife on the counter, leaning on the wooden surface with his hands, looking at me with his head slightly tilted, as if trying to figure me out. “If you want to go, and you are sure you are, then we are completely free, however…”
“Okay, I’ll confirm with Sylvia then, I’m sure she’d love to meet you.” Smiling he replied:
“As would I her.”
Lars is what really finished me and Gabriel. Gabriel was great at filling the gap between relationships but once Lars came along, it was a no-brainer, plus he was apparently about to tell me that he was moving to Houston to live with his long-term overseas girlfriend Annabel. All I can say is that was the first I had heard of this ‘long-term girlfriend’. Lars was such a change for me, a breath of clean fresh air, and a step forward away from my immature and careless living. Within six months we were flat-mates and after a year I suppose I fell in love with him. It took me a long time, Lars said he loved me from the beginning, from the moment he saw me in my green gloves on platform 12 at London Bridge.
The car journey to the Collins’ was ominously silent. Lars was dressed in a dark green shirt and darker still pullover with a black wash pair of jeans. He managed to pull off the smart-casual look frighteningly well. I was sitting there awkwardly in a floral dress, hoping that the flowers would mask my depression. The radio played the entire forty-five minutes to Elmtree Grove, filling the space conversation would have taken. I felt guilty for putting Lars in this situation, having to deal with my mood and the coming onslaught, for making him think that the Collins’ household would be some raging inferno that one could only wish to escape, whereas it was much the contrary. Any normal person would be delighted by the genuine generosity and pleasure expressed to visitors and the almost excessive but still not suffocating hospitality of all Collins’ family members.
Lars pulled up directly in front of the house; its large double-fronted presence asserting it’s unprecedented grandeur on the street, sitting there like a figure to be admired and respected like the family who dwelled within its proud walls.
“So this is it?” Lars whispered in my ears. I could feel his smile on his lips as they touched my lobe. It was like a kiss, I could feel his heat linger on my skin suddenly filling me with energy and hope, ready for the battle.
He knocked three times and retreated slightly down the steps. I saw a shadow approaching from behind the glass of the door until it was Sylvia standing before us, Ernie standing shyly to her left.
“Well come in then! Goodness me you’d think we were strangers! Hello Lars darling, how are you?” Sylvia ushered us towards her, her melodious voice slowly coarsening with age, but still maintaining the delicate, irresistible lull of her youth. Ernie spoke to me slowly, seeming to be aggrieved by something, distracted by disappointment. I later found out this was due to the failure of his gravy. Lars held my hand as we walked into the living room, just strong enough to make sure I wouldn’t flee.
“OH MAPLE!” Norma jumped from her seat and ran to me, flinging her arms around my shoulders and squeezing me tight into her embrace. Norma was twenty-five now, and a successful model, photographer, musician and teacher. At the moment she explained that she was arranging plans for a film she wanted to do in Indonesia written by a friend of hers, but her children were still quite young to be taken out so far. Unfortunately the kids’ father was no longer around and Norma managed her life as a single mum to her twins, a common occurrence in the Ulfsson Collins dynasty, Luc and Amelié who were only eighteen months. Jal wasn’t around, at seventeen he had better things to do than see relatives who didn’t care to come and see him more often. In fact he was apparently in Iceland doing a geographical tour. Rosalyn unusually was around, she was just preparing to go to university at Exeter after having taken a two year break from educations. She was pretty sight as always, her face was doll like, so perfectly created and she had the same tinkling voice as Sylvia, so innocently alluring. Norma stood beaming next to me for a good while before she offered both Lars and I a drink, and I comfortably settled into the bliss of a carefree afternoon.
