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Authors: Jonathan Coe
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to put the towel-rail up against it, but Robert, being a new resident, had not discovered this yet. That was how she came to burst in upon him unexpectedly, without even knocking.
It all happened in a rush. Sarah screamed in shock and mortification but Robert screamed in agony, for he was in the middle of shaving his left ankle, with his leg raised high in the air. When the door crashed open his hand had slippedand the twin blades of his razor gouged deeply into the leg, twice, at right angles, leaving a double scar that would stay with him for the rest of his life, like French quotation marks. And this time the blood came in more than a trickle: it jetted out and flooded the bath-water, turning it strawberry-pink in what seemed to be no time at all. Sarah stared at him, appalled, transfixed, and for a moment he thought that she was even going to rush to his help; but he managed to forestall this by shouting: ‘It’s all right! It’s all right! I was shaving, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry, I – I’ll come back when you’ve finished.’
She made for the doorway but paused when she got there. She was shielding her eyes and looking away. ‘Are you O K ? I mean, do you need any help? There’s a First Aid box in the cabinet.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be fine. Just – just leave me to it, will you?’
She stepped out of the room, but paused again in the corridor. ‘I thought you would have gone home,’ she said, quickly, enigmatically, and then disappeared.
Robert did not waste any time pondering the meaning of this remark. He climbed out of the bath and staunched the flow of blood from his ankle with toilet paper, then bandaged it tightly. He was dripping wet and very cold. He dried himself with his small, threadbare towel, and limped back to his bedroom.
Sarah came to find him a few minutes later, just as he had finished dressing. She had washed her hair and combed it out, but not dried it, and it looked darker than he remembered from the night before, mousey even. For some reason he was touched by this: or perhaps he was already approaching that vulnerable condition of the heart where even the smallest and most mundane details take on a luminous, transfiguring quality. Whatever the cause, he felt his chest tighten as she sat down on the bed opposite his desk, and found himself, for a moment, completely incapable of speech. Even breathing was difficult at first.
‘Is it still hurting?’ she asked.
‘Oh… just a bit. It’ll be fine.’ He hoped she wasn’t going to ask him why he had been shaving his legs in the first place.
‘I didn’t mean to… well, I’m sorry if I disturbed you. People usually put the towel-rail up against the door, you see.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, that’s what I’ll do, then: next time.’
Sarah nodded. This was not proceeding at all as she had hoped. She wondered how they were possibly going to reestablish the easy, trusting atmosphere of last night’s conversation.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I just came to see that you were OK, really. You know, you looked pretty… upset last night, and I wanted to know that you were coping.’
‘Coping?’
‘Well, yes: it must be very hard for you.’
He summoned the courage to look at her now, pricked by curiosity at the note of genuine, tremulous concern in her voice. What was going on here, exactly? Did she really think he was the kind of man to be laid flat out with grief for days over the death of a cat? Did he appear that pathetic? Unable to tell, from her question, whether she was patronizing him or simply making fun, he said guardedly:
‘Oh, you know, it’s not such a big deal, really. I’ll get over it.’
How very male, Sarah thought, to be putting on this bluff display of resilience. Did men really believe that they weren’t allowed to show their feelings, even when discussing the death of someone close to them – almost as close, in this case, as it was possible to be? She saw how tense and anxious he was in her
It all happened in a rush. Sarah screamed in shock and mortification but Robert screamed in agony, for he was in the middle of shaving his left ankle, with his leg raised high in the air. When the door crashed open his hand had slippedand the twin blades of his razor gouged deeply into the leg, twice, at right angles, leaving a double scar that would stay with him for the rest of his life, like French quotation marks. And this time the blood came in more than a trickle: it jetted out and flooded the bath-water, turning it strawberry-pink in what seemed to be no time at all. Sarah stared at him, appalled, transfixed, and for a moment he thought that she was even going to rush to his help; but he managed to forestall this by shouting: ‘It’s all right! It’s all right! I was shaving, that’s all.’
‘I’m sorry, I – I’ll come back when you’ve finished.’
She made for the doorway but paused when she got there. She was shielding her eyes and looking away. ‘Are you O K ? I mean, do you need any help? There’s a First Aid box in the cabinet.’
‘Thanks. I’ll be fine. Just – just leave me to it, will you?’
She stepped out of the room, but paused again in the corridor. ‘I thought you would have gone home,’ she said, quickly, enigmatically, and then disappeared.
Robert did not waste any time pondering the meaning of this remark. He climbed out of the bath and staunched the flow of blood from his ankle with toilet paper, then bandaged it tightly. He was dripping wet and very cold. He dried himself with his small, threadbare towel, and limped back to his bedroom.
Sarah came to find him a few minutes later, just as he had finished dressing. She had washed her hair and combed it out, but not dried it, and it looked darker than he remembered from the night before, mousey even. For some reason he was touched by this: or perhaps he was already approaching that vulnerable condition of the heart where even the smallest and most mundane details take on a luminous, transfiguring quality. Whatever the cause, he felt his chest tighten as she sat down on the bed opposite his desk, and found himself, for a moment, completely incapable of speech. Even breathing was difficult at first.
‘Is it still hurting?’ she asked.
‘Oh… just a bit. It’ll be fine.’ He hoped she wasn’t going to ask him why he had been shaving his legs in the first place.
‘I didn’t mean to… well, I’m sorry if I disturbed you. People usually put the towel-rail up against the door, you see.’
‘Oh. Right. Well, that’s what I’ll do, then: next time.’
Sarah nodded. This was not proceeding at all as she had hoped. She wondered how they were possibly going to reestablish the easy, trusting atmosphere of last night’s conversation.
‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘I just came to see that you were OK, really. You know, you looked pretty… upset last night, and I wanted to know that you were coping.’
‘Coping?’
‘Well, yes: it must be very hard for you.’
He summoned the courage to look at her now, pricked by curiosity at the note of genuine, tremulous concern in her voice. What was going on here, exactly? Did she really think he was the kind of man to be laid flat out with grief for days over the death of a cat? Did he appear that pathetic? Unable to tell, from her question, whether she was patronizing him or simply making fun, he said guardedly:
‘Oh, you know, it’s not such a big deal, really. I’ll get over it.’
How very male, Sarah thought, to be putting on this bluff display of resilience. Did men really believe that they weren’t allowed to show their feelings, even when discussing the death of someone close to them – almost as close, in this case, as it was possible to be? She saw how tense and anxious he was in her
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