I Know What I Saw

‘Eaten?’ Seb says without looking up. He is in a soft, pale blue crew-neck. Just the sight of him on the sofa gives me comfort.

I shake my head. The time, blinking at me from the stereo equipment, says 21:10. As soon as the hour registers in my brain, my stomach begins churning. ‘No, I’m okay.’

He looks at me with a half-smile and taps at his mobile.

‘The local Chinese. They’re usually pretty quick,’ he says. ‘Am I remembering this properly? You like Chinese food? Or you did, back then, I mean.’

In that phrase, I am transported. Chinese food every Friday night – me and Grace. That had become our ritual, a way of creating a line of tradition to give our relationship the appearance of longevity.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Well remembered. Mabel’s idea,’ I say to Seb, who is scrolling through his phone.

‘Mabel?’ he says, looking up before remembering again. ‘Grace. That’s right. You called her Mabel.’

The fire snaps in the grate and a pocket of steam hisses from a shifting log.

‘What was that all about anyway? Mabel?’

It was months after having met her that she told me that Grace wasn’t really her name. Not her real name, but her middle name.

‘Hate my first name. Why would they give me Grace as a middle name and such an awful first name?’ she’d said.

I can’t now remember what I said in reply. The details about where we were or what we were doing elude me. In my created memory of it, we were walking somewhere beautiful, kicking autumn leaves into a slip of wind. I would have told her it wasn’t such a bad name, but now that I’m made to think about it, I can’t pull it out of my memory. It’s there on the threshold, waiting to be carried over, but I can’t quite grasp her name. How stupid of me. Is this the sleep or the kick in the head?

I called her Mabel, which wasn’t her name. It was supposed to be sweet, but she complained that it made her sound like an old dame.

Seb is perched at the edge of his seat, looking at me. Waiting. Interested.

‘Ma belle,’ I say. ‘It was supposed to be ma belle but then it just became Mabel.’

‘Ha,’ he says, then laughing softly, ‘That’s right! I remember now. She hated it.’

‘She did,’ I say.

There was something else to it too, but I can’t remember now what that was. Some clever thing about it. Maybe, some Maupassant, knowing how I am, something literary like that.

Though Seb was the literary one. Somehow, he seemed to have read everything, heard every piece of music, seen every play.

‘Do you remember that friend you had? Sri Lankan guy?’ I say, snatching it out of the past.

‘Thamba? Was he called Thamba?’

‘That’s him. And do you remember how he thought he knew everything?’ I say, smiling at the thought of it.

‘Oh, yes! The record shop. I picked up some Beethoven. And that’s when he said it.’

I lean against the chair and shut my eyes to savour the sweetness of it before releasing it.

‘It’s not even Beethoven who’s playing on it.’

We sink into silence. I sink into Grace.

‘Grace liked him though.’

‘Grace liked everyone,’ he says, smiling. ‘Xand, I’m sorry about, you know,’ he says slowly, feeling his way. ‘What happened, I mean. I should have been there.’

I wave his apology away with a smile. ‘I know, Seb. But I didn’t need you to be there. I was okay. People go through break-ups, separations.’

‘But you went through more than most people. With the – bereavement.’

I stop him with my palm out. Not Rory, I can’t talk about him. All those wheels have turned and ground what they needed to grind.

‘I can’t pretend none of it happened. But time moves in one direction, Seb. I can’t think about this now. It doesn’t serve anything.’

He nods sadly.

‘You know we went looking for you a couple of weeks after the funeral. A bunch of us. You’d been spotted up near the Horniman.’

This news takes me by surprise.

‘Why?’ I say.

‘Because you went missing, Xander. We were worried,’ he says and even now, what must be thirty years on, his brow softens in concern.

‘I didn’t go missing,’ I say. ‘I just decided I needed a break.’

‘A break? You became homeless. No, not home-less. You became a homeless person.’

The criticism lying in those words is given life so that I can’t ignore it.

‘I didn’t become a homeless person, you judgemental—’ I bring myself up short. There is anger swelling that I have to keep from flowing over.

‘I left my house,’ I say calmly. ‘I left some bricks and mortar. That’s all. I didn’t need it. Or any of the stuff,’ I add, looking around.

‘But you need it now, don’t you?’ he says. His tone isn’t unpleasant. It’s enquiring. Soft. But my hackles are up.

‘Really?’ I say. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea after all.’ I get up. Before I have made it fully to my feet, I feel his hand on my arm.

‘No. I didn’t mean that,’ he says, looking up at me. ‘I just meant. If anything, I meant to say that I was sorry. And you should stay here. As long as you need to. And I know you’ll be wondering about the Bens,’ he continues.