Hamish and Kate Page 17

‘He’s not here. He’s busy.’ Helen was impervious to any appeal.

  Kate gave up in exasperation.

  ‘All right. Have it your way. Will you please, at least, tell him I called? And that I’ve written him a letter?’

  ‘OK,’ Helen said. ‘I’ll tell him you called.’

  She hung up on Kate.

  Euan had been in the shower. Helen’s terse conversation had not been from annoyance only. She had not wanted Michael or Euan to overhear her telephone conversation.

  The next morning she told Euan that Kate had called to tell him that she was back with her husband. Euan did not believe her. Helen then told him that Kate had said she was pregnant and that her husband was the father.

  Euan had not told anyone of the contents of Clare’s letter.

  Chapter 25

  Euan immediately left for Heathrow when Helen told him of the missed call from Kate. He waited for hours until he could get a flight to Boston. He had had enough of attempted communication, he took action, which was unlike him. He had to hear Kate say that she was pregnant with Hamish’s child.

  Euan’s anxiety overwhelmed him on the flight. He tried to design a scenario that had caused Kate to so quickly change her mind. Perhaps he had left a little prematurely, he accepted, but he honestly believed she had agreed to follow him to the UK. He remembered conversations, he recalled altered meanings. Perhaps she had been saying no all the time but he had not listened. He became frantic with powerlessness, he felt trapped and claustrophobic in the aeroplane.

  Euan’s problem was difficult. He could not live in the USA again. Going back was not an option, the Woods Hole people would not rehire him. He had to convince her to, again, leave Hamish. Pregnant or not, he wanted Kate with him.

  He had decided his course of action by halfway and for the rest of the journey be anxiously checked and re-checked the remaining flight time. Delay was unbearable.

  He hired a car and drove directly to Pocasset. Her car was in the driveway. He sighed with relief. He knocked on the door but there was no answer. He went around the back, retrieved the spare key, and went inside. There as no one there. He went upstairs and stared out of the window. He sat on the bed.

  He would wait, he decided. He would stay there for as long as it took.

  However, his anxiety got the better of him. She might be just out walking, perhaps down at the Landing, he thought. He decided to go quickly and check. He took the hire car the sort distance to the end of Barlow’s Landing Road and parked. There was no-one in sight. He walked to the end of the Landing, he could not resist once more standing with his toes over the end. It may be the last time he would ever do that, he thought.

  He waited a few minutes and then went back to his car to return to Kate’s home and wait. He was smiling as if a checkmate was inevitable and was simply a case of a few, predetermined moves.

  As he drove back along Barlow’s Landing Road, another car came from the opposite direction and turned into Kate’s driveway. It was Hamish’s car. Euan pulled over, he did not want to meet Hamish.

  Kate emerged from the passenger side door. She looked wonderful, radiant. Hamish rushed around from the driver’s side and helped her. She smiled at him and laughed at something he said.

  ‘Just go Hamish,’ Euan whispered, his fingers stiffly grasped the steering wheel.

  But Hamish did not go. He put one arm around Kate’s shoulder and she put an arm around his waist and they had a quick embrace. Hamish retrieved packages from the backseat and Kate walked to the front door and unlocked it. She went inside, leaving the door open for Hamish. He shut it behind him, fumbling with the difficulty of also carrying packages.

  Hamish was just helping with some shopping, Euan reasoned. He waited for twenty minutes but Hamish did not return to his car. He waited another twenty minutes, then another.

  He saw Kate walk in front of the upstairs bedroom window. He noticed the outside thermometer and for a moment forgot his anxiety and wondered what the reading was. He then saw Kate smile and turn to speak. There was someone close to her, in her bedroom. It had to be Hamish.

  Euan’s resolve melted. Kate was pregnant. And she was happy with Hamish. Who was he to take the child away from its father, even if her pregnancy had been a mistake, a result of a misguided need for affection because of Euan’s absence. Kate’s silence was poignant, he thought. She was telling him everything by saying nothing. Still, he waited outside the house for another hour.

  He could not extricate himself from the hire car. He could not stride across the street and down the sidewalk. He could not throw open the front door and demand an explanation from Hamish and Kate. He sat, weakly waiting for someone else to act. His fear of embarrassment was who he was, an integral part of him, as much as any character attribute or physical component.

  He waited for yet another hour. He waited until after dark and the lights had been turned on and the curtains drawn.

  Hamish did not emerge.

  Euan drove back to Logan airport but it was too late for a flight to London. He sat in a hard backed seat at the starkly-lit airport throughout the night, revelling in his discomfort.

  He resolved, during his sleepless vigil, to make do with second best.

  Kate’s letter to Euan was not lost. It was not discarded, unopened, with other band correspondence. Kate’s letter was netted by the band’s mail filter. Helen opened, read and discarded Kate’s letter to Euan.

  Helen responded with a note to Kate. She commiserated with Kate but added that it would be better, for all concerned, if Kate resumed a permanent relationship with her husband. She wished Kate the best for her future life. She wrote that all further communication would cease.

  She forged an acceptable replica of Euan’s hand-writing.

  Chapter 26

  Euan lost interest, in everything. His depression consumed him. It returned with an intensity greater than his affliction after the death of Joan. It lasted for a month before he recovered sufficiently to even look after himself. Helen had been a constant, although not always welcome, companion.

  Euan spent a further twelve, listless, months in London. Every day, in all weather, he wandered aimlessly around Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens. Often Helen would search for him around dusk, calling his name until she found him silently sitting, staring at nothing. Sometimes he sat on a bench, or in the open but often he sat cross-legged under the shelter of a tree. She believed he would have remained there indefinitely if she did not retrieve him. He rarely played with the band.

  It was decided that he should go home.

  There was one final airport farewell for Euan, the other one of his worst two. The first was at Auckland Airport when Kate left, the last was at Heathrow with Kate absent. He was catching a flight back to New Zealand. He halted at the threshold, where the automatic doors were open for him. He set down his luggage and turned to look behind, as if his past life was closely following. He sighed, it was to be the final act in the long saga, he knew that.

  ‘Come on, Euan,’ his companion called impatiently. ‘We’re going to miss our flight.’

  Euan heard but ignored the hurry-up. He waited as if at that last moment he would be rescued, a solution would present itself. But there was nothing but the to and fro of hurrying passengers. Some expressed their annoyance at the young man standing in the thoroughfare.

  He turned to see his companion’s arm waving, urging him to follow. He reluctantly did.

  He looked over his shoulder, one last time, as he picked up his luggage, and shuddered at the meaningless, forgotten life that lay before him.

  He whispered two words.

  ‘Goodbye Kate.’

  Chapter 27

  Postscript

  Forty years passed.

  Euan’s research workload had reduced and he was disinclined to immerse himself in administration. With time on his hands he indulged in memory. He wrote a novel, based on his younger life in New Zealand and the USA.

  He found an interest
ed publisher, which surprised him. He had written his novel for an audience of one. While the book was not a great financial success it sold sufficient international copies to justify a small scale promotional tour of the USA.

  His first stop was a week in New York City doing discussion groups, readings and book signings, mostly at small independent book sellers. Upon arrival in New York City, Euan was assigned Ben, a junior at his publishers. Euan was his first, full responsibility, author. Ben was young, about Euan’s age in his book, and enthusiastic but a bit out of his league. Euan had the saddening recollection of Helen as Ben chaperoned him around the city. Like Helen, decades before, Ben should have been doing better for himself.

  Euan’s work days began, after a hotel breakfast on his own, when he was met by Ben in the hotel lobby.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Ben smiled and asked when he found Euan reading a newspaper.

  Euan nodded and folded the paper. He stood and looked at the enthusiastic Ben as a wave of sadness came over him. Euan was a small step on Ben’s ladder to promotion. By doing his job well, with a minuscule budget and little spare time, Ben could impress his superiors and, one day, be given the role of supporting an author of thrillers who sold millions. That striving for more, whenever Euan saw it in others, filled him with his own regret.

  Ben led Euan outside to a waiting taxi. They both got into the back.

  ‘At least your book isn’t too long,’ Ben said as the taxi drove off and then stopped in traffic. ‘We’ve found readers like the enjoyment of finishing a book as much as the reading of it. It’s like they’ve accomplished something. The perfect book,’ Ben said attempting to add authority to his voice, ‘from a marketing perspective, I mean, as well as being well written, also has to be the right length. Not too long, so readers can repeat the enjoyment of finishing the book by buying another but still long enough that readers feel they’re getting enough book for their money.’ Ben laughed. ‘I mean, actual weight in their hands. It’s a juggling act and that’s why we stuff around so much with typeface. Yours is about the perfect length, with a larger typeface. So, it has that, at least, going for it. For an archaic, paper-based book, I mean. I keep away from those things myself, unless I really have to read paper. For work, that is.’

  ‘Thanks for that, Ben,’ Euan said without enthusiasm, trying to halt Ben’s monologue. Ben thought little of the contents of Euan’s novel, but Euan didn’t mind. He didn’t think much of it either. It was too personal, too close. He laughed off questions about the extent of autobiographical content, knowing the book contained little invention.

  Ben had not finished.

  ‘The story itself, and the main character of yours, well, I felt like grabbing his throat and shaking him to his senses.’ Ben acted out the throttling of Euan’s main character. Euan could only agree.

  The taxi moved forward from time to time.

  ‘To be honest,’ Ben said, forewarning Euan, ‘And people from your country like being honest don’t they?’

  Euan nodded.

  ‘It’s not the kind of book,’ Ben said, ‘that I would normally finish. I mean, if it wasn’t part of my job and it wasn’t the perfect length.’ Ben laughed at his own joke. ‘But, afterwards, I felt like I had enjoyed reading it although I hadn’t while I was reading it. Strange feeling. But,’ he added quickly, getting carried away with his marketing advice, ‘it’s exactly what we want people to do. Then they’ll buy another one.’

  Ben waited for a moment and then asked Euan, ‘Are you writing another one?’

  ‘Nope,’ Euan said.

  ‘Pity. Most revenue comes from books after successful ones. You know, follow up business.’

  ‘I didn’t write for the money Ben,’ Euan said.

  ‘No. No-one ever does. It’s a crap business really,’ Ben said. ‘I mean for authors. So, do you have a pension or something do you? Savings?’

  ‘Yes, I have all that. Also, I wrote some music forty years ago. There’s a little revenue from that still.’

  ‘Music, eh? You were a musician? Were you any good?’

  ‘Not really. Just wrote a song people liked.’

  ‘What’s it called. Would I know it?’

  ‘You wouldn’t know it. It’s used as background music sometimes. Documentaries mainly. It was called Clare’s song.’

  Ben was silent as he thought for a moment. ‘You know, Euan,’ he said. ‘If there was a little more musical content, if your main character was a semi-famous musician perhaps. That could add quite a bit. To sales I mean.’

  Euan laughed. ‘You mean I should do a Version 2? Like software?’

  ‘Why not? Times are changing,’ Ben said. ‘Get people to again buy the book. Just altered, but still with a similar but not too similar story-line.’

  Ben was silent for a long time, which suited Euan, as he thought of his new idea to alter the publishing world. Fewer unique books published, meant fewer authors to worry about, but successful books re-written and re-sold.

  ‘If you’re not writing another one Euan,’ Ben emerged from his cogitative silence. ‘Would you be interested in re-doing this one? I mean, if we sell enough copies.’ Ben gave a little nervous laugh. He knew Australians and New Zealanders were self-deprecating but was never quite sure how far to take it.

  ‘No worries,’ Euan replied. He did not want further discussion, he wanted to look out the window in silence. ‘I’ve only got one story anyway. That’s all I wanted to say. Well,’ Euan though for a moment and smiled to himself. ‘Maybe that’s two stories now.’

  ‘I don’t understand the title,’ Ben asked. ‘Shouldn’t it be called something like Euan and Kate and Clare and Helen.’ Ben smiled. ‘A bit ungainly perhaps,’ he chuckled.

  Euan smiled. He ostentatiously peered out of the side window of the taxi and strained his neck trying to see the sky above the New York buildings. He failed.

  ‘It’s all about Kate ‘though, isn’t it,’ Euan turned back to Ben who had waited patiently for Euan’s answer. ‘And Hamish got her in the end. He got her twice.’

  There was a long silence. Ben tried to break it with some idle chat.

  ‘Do you have any kids?’ Ben asked.

  ‘No,’ Euan said. He sounded disappointed. ‘Helen never wanted any. But,’ he added. ‘I think deep down she did want children, she just couldn’t trust me. Not completely.’ Euan laughed, it was a short, gasping sound. ‘I think she always half-expected me to run away again. Chasing dreams.’

  ‘That’s the same Helen as in the book right? What did she think about it? Did she read it?’ Ben asked.

  ‘She read it,’ Euan said quietly. He waited. ‘It did not go well.’ Euan turned away from Ben and stared intently out of the taxi’s window. He shuddered as he remembered Helen’s reaction to the last paragraphs of the book. He did not want to talk to Ben anymore.

  Ben, however, continued to chatter.

  ‘Have you been back to any of the places in your book?’

  Euan did not take his eyes off the upper floors of the skyscrapers.

  ‘Yes,’ was all he said.

  Before coming to New York, Euan had flown to Boston and hired a car to drive the four hours or so to his reserved hotel in New York City. However, he planned a detour. He was surprised how easily he found the way to Pocasset, even after forty years. He drove to the end of Barlow’s Landing Road and parked the hire car. He walked out to the end of the Landing, the weather was cool but the bay was filled with liquid water. He went right to the end and stood, with his toes hanging over the edge, looking out to where he and Kate had walked that first night in Pocasset.

  He wandered back to the car. He glanced to where the coast road began and remembered his joy of running. He thought, momentarily, that he might finally drive to the end and see where the road came out. But he didn’t really want to. Some things are best left never discovered, it allowed for dreams.

  He opened the car door, thought for a moment and smiled. He shut the door and re-locked the car.
He put his hands in the pockets of his coat, huddled his shoulders and walked along Barlow’s Landing Road.

  He halted before the house he had lived in with Kate. It was familiar but had been renovated.

  ‘It’s probably totally changed inside too,’ he thought. He was glad he did not have access to the altered interior to destroy his memory. He had thought often in the last forty years of returning to that place and he was disappointed, now that he was there. There should be more to signify its importance, he thought. He gazed up and down the road, his nostalgia no more than a stretch of ordinary seconds for others. The house in Barlow’s Landing Road was only a place. It had been lived in by many people, possibly families had grown up there, he thought. The importance of that place to him was unknown to others. And, he thought, uninteresting as well. Other people’s intense lives are, at best, mildly entertaining stories.

  He could not stand there indefinitely. His reveries became maudlin, his nostalgia was no longer pleasant, it changed into a painful, searing regret. The house was nothing without Kate and it was forty years too late. He wondered, had wondered for years, what had happened to her but, like not investigating the coastal road, he had withheld his search. He was worried about discovering an obituary notice, or finding she had lived a happy life and had utterly forgotten him.

  Euan wandered back to his hire car. He drove to Falmouth and slowed as he passed the entrance to the house where he had lived. He did not stop. He drove on to Woods Hole and parked at the ferry terminal. He looked along Water Street but it did not have the nostalgic pull of Pocasset. He got back into his car and did not stop until he surrendered his keys to hotel valet parking in New York City.

  ‘We’re just about there,’ Ben said. ‘This traffic has been bad, hasn’t it?’

  He asked the driver to pull over, they would walk from there. He paid while Euan stood on the sidewalk and watched him. Ben was organised, he was ready to make sure everything under his control ran smoothly until he deposited Euan back at his hotel and then forgot him.