Liam was in the process of setting the table in what they rather grandly referred to as the dining room. In truth, the house was little more than an extended two-up two-down, part of a network of terraced streets built at the turn of the nineteenth century for workers at the local mill. Some previous owner had knocked through the two downstairs reception rooms to create a more spacious living-cum-dining room, and they’d set up their Ikea dining table in the rear space, with a view over the tiny garden.
‘Breakfast,’ Liam said. ‘Full English. Well, bacon, egg and sausage. Upmarket sausage, though. None of your girly rubbish.’
‘Blimey,’ she said. ‘Beats my usual takeaway skinny latte.’
‘We can offer coffee, too, madam. Even a skinny latte, if you want it.’ She’d bought him a moderately upscale espresso machine for his last birthday, when she’d been feeling mildly flush after her promotion.
‘You’re spoiling me.’
He paused, halfway into the kitchen, as if this thought hadn’t previously occurred to him. ‘Well, I haven’t had the chance recently. Thought we should make the most of it.’
‘Fine by me.’ She sat herself at the table in the manner of one about to embark on a fine-dining experience and watched him as he brought in the food and coffees. He was looking a little better, she thought, although it was always difficult to be sure. The last time she’d seen him, a month or so before, she’d thought he was having more difficulty with his mobility. Now, he was moving about in a more sprightly way, although she could tell that he was stabilizing himself against the furniture and doorframes with practised skill. He looked more cheerful, too, as if he were simply pleased to see her. As if, she added to herself, she wouldn’t be off again in another forty-eight hours.
The breakfast was fine, even if, as Liam kept pointing out apologetically, the eggs were overdone and the bacon on the cold side. The best thing, though, was the atmosphere, the sense of relaxation and calm between them. This was like it used to be, she thought. When they first met, when they’d first started living together. When they’d been content just to be in each other’s company, not necessarily saying or doing anything much. She’d almost forgotten that it could be like this.
Once they’d eaten, she showered and dressed, and then followed Liam through into what had originally been the house’s second bedroom, but which had long been adopted by Liam as his studio.
‘Couple of new ones,’ he said. ‘Did them while you were away.’
She’d never doubted that Liam had real talent. She knew nothing much about art herself but she’d heard others, who knew what they were talking about, praising Liam’s work to the skies. At least one of his lecturers at art college had been convinced that Liam would be the next big thing, and had done his utmost to promote his work. But, so far at least, it just hadn’t happened. It wasn’t so surprising, he kept telling her. Talent – even if he really did have it, which Liam himself seemed to doubt – was only part of the equation. The rest was a mix of luck, confidence and a knack for unabashed self-promotion. None of those qualities, she was forced to concede, had been noticeably evident in Liam’s life to date.
For her own part, while she had no idea of the commercial value of Liam’s work, she did think it was rather good. Once or twice, he tried to explain to her why he painted the way he did, who his influences were, but all that sailed immediately over her head. What she liked was the semi-abstract quality, the sense that you could almost pin down what he was depicting, but then somehow it slipped away. You were left with a wonderful melange of colours that always threatened to cohere into something recognizable before once again melting back into uncertainty.
The new paintings were, as far as she could judge, at least the equal of anything he’d painted previously. She could see no sign that his talents were waning or – perhaps more pertinently – that the illness was having any adverse effect on his abilities. Though that didn’t necessarily mean very much. She had no idea how much effort it might have cost him to paint the new pictures, whether he was finding the task harder than before.
‘Beautiful,’ she said, gazing at the pictures. She had the sense that she ought to say something more profound. ‘Really beautiful,’ she added.
‘They’re OK,’ he conceded. ‘Not my best. But not bad. It’s not quite gone yet.’
She had the sense that he was trying to provoke some response with the last comment, but was determined to resist the bait. ‘I won’t ask what they’re about,’ she said instead.
He shrugged. ‘That one’s about eighty centimetres by sixty. The other’s a bit bigger.’
‘Ho, ho. Are they finished?’
‘More or less. Or at least I’ve got to the point where I should abandon them. I keep making minor tweaks, but I’ll probably end up ruining them.’
‘Leave them, then.’
She looked up and peered out of the window at the patchwork of narrow gardens that stretched between the two rows of terraces. It was a perfect autumn day – a clear blue sky, no wind. One of those days when South London could look almost enticing.
‘Let’s go out,’ she suggested. ‘Up to the Common, maybe.’
So they did. They drove Liam’s adapted Corsa – one of the few benefits of his illness had been that he’d qualified for the mobility allowance that paid the monthly rental – and parked up on the edge of Wimbledon Common. They spent the morning walking among the trees, enjoying the dappled sunlight, kicking the piles of newly fallen leaves. Like it used to be, she thought again. With no need to speak, no reason to bicker. No sense of doing anything much, except enjoying the moment, sharing the day. Enjoying each other.
It had been a perfect day, she thought later. Liam had seemed almost his old self, not quite able to skip among the leaves, but certainly stomping amiably behind her, half-resting on his stick, looking pleased to be there. They’d thought about stopping for lunch at one of the pubs on the Common – The Hand in Hand or The Billet, maybe – but everywhere was packed on what might well be the last fine weekend of the year. So, instead, they drove back home, and then took a walk through into the Abbey Mills, a cluster of old shops and craft stalls tucked around the River Wandle just behind their house.
It could be a bit naff, Marie thought, but it was ideal for a day like today. They could wander around, gaze at assorted trinkets they were never likely to buy, grab a pint in the pub, have an early supper in one of the restaurants.
With the sun setting over the pylons and industrial estates to the west, they sat outside the pub, sipping their beers and watching the endless flow of the narrow Wandle.
‘Been a good day,’ she said.
He took a swallow of his pint and nodded. ‘One of the best. For a while, anyway. Mind you, I’m knackered.’
She looked at him. Now he’d said it, he did look tired. Maybe she’d pushed him too far. She kept having to remind herself that he was ill, that he wasn’t the person he’d once been. Looking at him now, she could see that his hand was shaking, that he was struggling even to hold his glass steady.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just tired, that’s all.’
‘They’re good, you know. Your new pictures.’
‘My . . .’ He looked baffled, suddenly, as if she’d raised an issue that was too complicated for his understanding. ‘What?’
‘You sure you’re OK, Liam? We can head back now if you like.’
‘I . . .’
The change had come over him abruptly, the smiles of a few moments earlier wiped from his face. Now, he looked frightened, as if he’d suddenly stepped into some unfamiliar territory. He peered down at his glass as if wondering what it was. Then he looked back up at her, blinking, his expression returning to something closer to his usual self.
‘Christ, sorry. Just felt – I don’t know – dizzy or something. No, not dizzy exactly. More a bit . . . well, lost . . .’ His voice trailed off, as if he didn’t quite know what he was saying. Or more, she thought, as if he didn’t want to be saying it.
She hesitated, wanting to tell him yet again that he should go back and see the neurologist. But she knew that she’d just provoke another row, and that was the last thing she wanted at the end of a day like today. She felt already as if what had just happened – whatever it was – had cast an unexpected shadow.
‘Shall we get home?’ she said.
