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Authors: Kevin Brophy
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hejust felt worn and disenchanted. Not to mention how enchanted he was by the voice and face and nearness of Rosa Rossman.
‘OK,’ he said to her, ‘let’s do it.’
Her look was unsmiling but the dark eyes were warm.
‘It will also give me the chance to hear more about you, Patrick, about your life and how you came here.’
Miller nodded. In his heart he knew he couldn’t tell her
all
of it.
Nine
December 1979
Putney
London
He knew she’d beat school, that he would get only her answering machine.
Patrick Miller had known that for the past week but that hadn’t stopped him phoning every day, twice, three times, sometimes he lost count, just wanting to hear her voice:
This is Sophie, I’m not here but do please leave a message for me. Byeeee
.
In his mind he could see the phone, white, on the small desk where she marked school essays in the corner of her sitting room. He could see himself sitting on the sofa she’d bought in an Oxfam shop, newspapers littering the space around him, waiting for her to finish, to share a glass of wine with him, talk to him, go to bed with him . . .
It wouldn’t change anything, listening to her voice, the trilled goodbye, the hint of laughter in her voice. He could almost taste her voice, the way he’d tasted her lips, her breasts.
He dialled anyway. She’d said it was over, his
obsessions
were too much for her, too intense for a schoolteacher who just wanted an
ordinary
life. She’d had enough of his rants about Thatcher, about the destruction of society, about the virtues of a socialist system.
He’d pleaded, told her he’d change.
Sophie had said she didn’t want him to change. He was what he was. She admired his commitment, his idealism. She just couldn’t live with it. She’d asked for her key back.
He’d always kept his bedsit in Putney, never moved in completely to her flat in West Ken. Putney was where he wrote, kept his papers, filed his cuttings.
Until Sophiedumped him, he’d never realized how small the bedsit was, how cell-like. From the high window you could see the buses on the Broadway, red galleons of life cruising past while you loitered, marooned amid your sea of papers and books and jottings, the phone in your hand, pressed to your ear, waiting for her voice.
‘Hello.’ Not Sophie’s message, a strange voice. A man’s voice.
Miller almost threw the phone to the floor, as though his ear had been stung. He stared at the phone.
A wrong number. Dial again. Carefully this time, reciting the numbers to himself as he dialled.
It rang only once.
‘Hello.’ The same male voice. ‘Who is this?’
This time Miller cradled the phone in the rest with care. Someone else has the key now. His heart seemed to be pounding its way out through his chest. He felt he couldn’t get his breath.
And his own phone was ringing.
Miller stared at it, let it ring, picked it up gingerly.
A woman was sobbing on the line.
‘Sophie?’ Hoping against all hope that she was weeping for him.
‘Patrick! Oh, Patrick . . .’ More sobbing, hysteria in the voice, in his ear.
Not now, Mum. Not now, I’m trying to stay alive myself.
Miller said, ‘What’s up, Mum? You OK?’
‘Patrick, Patrick,it’s the lies they’re telling me, the hateful letters – and somebody phoned me yesterday—’
His mother broke off. In a way, he was used to her crying jags. He waited for her to finish, wondering about the new holder of the key to Sophie’s flat. Anything to keep his mind off the big house on leafy Compton Avenue in Wolverhampton: the big house where his mother alternated between bouts of depression and frenetic attacks of housekeeping.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’
Sniffles. Snuffling. Gulped breath.
Miller hoped this wasn’t going to be one of his mother’s marathon phone sessions.
Who is this?
But Sophie must at least have mentioned his existence to the new key-holder. Or maybe not.
His mother’s snuffling sounded as if it were running out of
‘OK,’ he said to her, ‘let’s do it.’
Her look was unsmiling but the dark eyes were warm.
‘It will also give me the chance to hear more about you, Patrick, about your life and how you came here.’
Miller nodded. In his heart he knew he couldn’t tell her
all
of it.
Nine
December 1979
Putney
London
He knew she’d beat school, that he would get only her answering machine.
Patrick Miller had known that for the past week but that hadn’t stopped him phoning every day, twice, three times, sometimes he lost count, just wanting to hear her voice:
This is Sophie, I’m not here but do please leave a message for me. Byeeee
.
In his mind he could see the phone, white, on the small desk where she marked school essays in the corner of her sitting room. He could see himself sitting on the sofa she’d bought in an Oxfam shop, newspapers littering the space around him, waiting for her to finish, to share a glass of wine with him, talk to him, go to bed with him . . .
It wouldn’t change anything, listening to her voice, the trilled goodbye, the hint of laughter in her voice. He could almost taste her voice, the way he’d tasted her lips, her breasts.
He dialled anyway. She’d said it was over, his
obsessions
were too much for her, too intense for a schoolteacher who just wanted an
ordinary
life. She’d had enough of his rants about Thatcher, about the destruction of society, about the virtues of a socialist system.
He’d pleaded, told her he’d change.
Sophie had said she didn’t want him to change. He was what he was. She admired his commitment, his idealism. She just couldn’t live with it. She’d asked for her key back.
He’d always kept his bedsit in Putney, never moved in completely to her flat in West Ken. Putney was where he wrote, kept his papers, filed his cuttings.
Until Sophiedumped him, he’d never realized how small the bedsit was, how cell-like. From the high window you could see the buses on the Broadway, red galleons of life cruising past while you loitered, marooned amid your sea of papers and books and jottings, the phone in your hand, pressed to your ear, waiting for her voice.
‘Hello.’ Not Sophie’s message, a strange voice. A man’s voice.
Miller almost threw the phone to the floor, as though his ear had been stung. He stared at the phone.
A wrong number. Dial again. Carefully this time, reciting the numbers to himself as he dialled.
It rang only once.
‘Hello.’ The same male voice. ‘Who is this?’
This time Miller cradled the phone in the rest with care. Someone else has the key now. His heart seemed to be pounding its way out through his chest. He felt he couldn’t get his breath.
And his own phone was ringing.
Miller stared at it, let it ring, picked it up gingerly.
A woman was sobbing on the line.
‘Sophie?’ Hoping against all hope that she was weeping for him.
‘Patrick! Oh, Patrick . . .’ More sobbing, hysteria in the voice, in his ear.
Not now, Mum. Not now, I’m trying to stay alive myself.
Miller said, ‘What’s up, Mum? You OK?’
‘Patrick, Patrick,it’s the lies they’re telling me, the hateful letters – and somebody phoned me yesterday—’
His mother broke off. In a way, he was used to her crying jags. He waited for her to finish, wondering about the new holder of the key to Sophie’s flat. Anything to keep his mind off the big house on leafy Compton Avenue in Wolverhampton: the big house where his mother alternated between bouts of depression and frenetic attacks of housekeeping.
‘What’s wrong, Mum?’
Sniffles. Snuffling. Gulped breath.
Miller hoped this wasn’t going to be one of his mother’s marathon phone sessions.
Who is this?
But Sophie must at least have mentioned his existence to the new key-holder. Or maybe not.
His mother’s snuffling sounded as if it were running out of
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