The man in the car.
The man outside had slept in his car overnight, and was still there yesterday morning. He’s got a Lexus, so I’ve only so much sympathy. He probably slept better than I did.
I decided over breakfast that this was not normal and spent a good two hours of Sunday morning staring at him from the window.
Cobber came over, with more food from his mother. He said his parents could take me to Tesco and get the house stocked up if I wanted. Their awareness of my need for food, in terms of responsibility and routine rather than hunger – as though the house needs the food more than I do – this is almost the oddest turn-around of the last few days: Cobber’s parents have never said more than goodbye-hello to me in the seven years I’ve known him. He agreed that the man parked outside wasn't normal at all. We watched TV, didn’t drink this time, didn’t say much.
About five, after Cobber left, the man got out of his car and came up to the house. I suppose he’s forty, he’s pretty big – tall, and like a body builder who’s let it all go to fat. Most of his face is a beard, but blue, bloodshot eyes are buried in the all the curls of black hair. The suit he’s wearing is creased from the nights he’s slept in it – and he smells, of BO and meat.
He said: “I was looking for Edward Fold, but I gather I’m too late. I’m very sorry.”
His name is Norman Salway, and he found my father’s name in his wife’s address book. He says he doesn’t know what happened to his wife. I think he does.
What he said was “My wife – she’s… I don’t know what happened to her.” Which is not the same thing as “my wife is missing.”
We talked for a couple of minutes – I kept him on the doorstep, asked him a few questions. He’s never heard of you. I asked him why he waited so long outside and he looked as though he was going to cry. I almost shut the door in his face. He said he wanted to go home but he couldn’t: he had to find out why he’d come here. I couldn’t help him, and he walked away, a bit of a shambles.
Before he got to the road I called him back and asked why he chose my father. “There must have been more names than his in a whole address book. Why single out that one name?”
Because it wasn’t there before. It’s at the top of the page, just above her sisters’ names – so he’s seen the page a hundred times. It was never there before – nor was there even a gap where it could be written in later. All the handwritten entries have moved down one place to make room.
He showed me the book with, “Have you ever known anything like it,” as though the words were materialising before our eyes.
I invited him into the house and took him to the study.
We sat there all through the night, talking about what it might mean until we ran out of fantasies, and then we just sat there in silence, like the only two passengers on the wrong bus out of town – sober but baffled, and worried they might never get home again.
I decided over breakfast that this was not normal and spent a good two hours of Sunday morning staring at him from the window.
Cobber came over, with more food from his mother. He said his parents could take me to Tesco and get the house stocked up if I wanted. Their awareness of my need for food, in terms of responsibility and routine rather than hunger – as though the house needs the food more than I do – this is almost the oddest turn-around of the last few days: Cobber’s parents have never said more than goodbye-hello to me in the seven years I’ve known him. He agreed that the man parked outside wasn't normal at all. We watched TV, didn’t drink this time, didn’t say much.
About five, after Cobber left, the man got out of his car and came up to the house. I suppose he’s forty, he’s pretty big – tall, and like a body builder who’s let it all go to fat. Most of his face is a beard, but blue, bloodshot eyes are buried in the all the curls of black hair. The suit he’s wearing is creased from the nights he’s slept in it – and he smells, of BO and meat.
He said: “I was looking for Edward Fold, but I gather I’m too late. I’m very sorry.”
His name is Norman Salway, and he found my father’s name in his wife’s address book. He says he doesn’t know what happened to his wife. I think he does.
What he said was “My wife – she’s… I don’t know what happened to her.” Which is not the same thing as “my wife is missing.”
We talked for a couple of minutes – I kept him on the doorstep, asked him a few questions. He’s never heard of you. I asked him why he waited so long outside and he looked as though he was going to cry. I almost shut the door in his face. He said he wanted to go home but he couldn’t: he had to find out why he’d come here. I couldn’t help him, and he walked away, a bit of a shambles.
Before he got to the road I called him back and asked why he chose my father. “There must have been more names than his in a whole address book. Why single out that one name?”
Because it wasn’t there before. It’s at the top of the page, just above her sisters’ names – so he’s seen the page a hundred times. It was never there before – nor was there even a gap where it could be written in later. All the handwritten entries have moved down one place to make room.
He showed me the book with, “Have you ever known anything like it,” as though the words were materialising before our eyes.
I invited him into the house and took him to the study.
We sat there all through the night, talking about what it might mean until we ran out of fantasies, and then we just sat there in silence, like the only two passengers on the wrong bus out of town – sober but baffled, and worried they might never get home again.
posted by The son of Edward Fold at 11:55 pm
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