It’s Never Too Late by Tim Love

With most first dates, I knew within seconds that we wouldn’t meet again. I didn’t feel that with Janet. Except for a few wrinkles, she could have been years younger than me. Maybe her eyes were too far apart and her mouth too narrow, but when she smiled all her features worked together. That said, getting her to smile was a challenge. We exchanged questions about each other, learning nothing more than in our online profiles. I couldn’t help studying her again as she walked to the toilet – her bright floral dress showed off her figure (was she rolling her hips?)  and her long hair was jet-black. Waiting for her to come back, I decided to raise the topic that the dating site matched us up with.

“I listened to Tori Amos today,” I said when she sat down. “My first time.”

“Not a patch on Joni Mitchell,” she snorted. I’d already noted the certainty of her opinions. “When Joni sees clouds from above,” she continued, “they’re feathered canyons and ice-cream. She knows that really they rain on you, but it’s the fantasy she recalls. Like love.”

I didn’t know whether I should agree or argue, so I started talking about the decor. We parted amicably enough – the meeting was deliberately short. I waited two days before phoning, not wishing to appear desperate. We agreed to meet in a gastro-pub. In faded jeans she was still shapely. I wondered why she was single, or even if she was. We exchanged potted biographies. I told her I’d done years on North Sea rigs to get quick money. When my mother got ill I paid to give her special care. Now I headed a charity’s IT unit, giving something back I suppose.

She said she’d worked for years on a dam project in Egypt, which sounded exotic but she had lived in a guarded compound. She felt she’d missed out on life. She’d had boyfriends but their careers or families came first. She returned to England promoted, but she should have been better rewarded – her bosses got the credit for her achievements.

I’d been nibbling some rather bland chips while she talked. When I got up she grasped my hand. “I don’t want to be hurt again. I’m not asking for commitment, but promise me one thing – that you won’t ever disappear without a word.”

“I’m only going to get a sachet of mustard.”

“Sorry,” she said, giggling but not releasing me, “Sorry. It’s been a tough day. Hey, can you get me some salt? It’s the healthy oil they use for frying in this place. No flavour.”

Our relationship progressed slowly. I suppose it’s easier for young lovers – they can adapt to each other as they grow. We were set in our ways. Her Egyptian story seemed just the sort of lie people would use to cover up for lost years. Realising how hard it would be to check her story comforted me – my past would be just as hard to check, though it was true that I was familiar with hospitals, and I had little money. Before long we were texting between our liaisons, which became more frequent and adventurous. All the same, it was a month before she invited me home – a tasteful, impersonal flat. After the chicken and cous-cous that she’d prepared we slumped onto her sofa. When she removed her cardigan I couldn’t help staring at her forearms. They were criss-crossed with pale lines. I looked into her eyes. She was staring at her arms, as if in disbelief. “Don’t analyse,” she said, “Just take my clothes off. Slowly.”

We went to bed, neither of us demanding too much from the other. After, when she asked if I’d had many girlfriends, I wondered whether the question was a criticism of my lovemaking. We went to the en-suite bathroom together. I looked around, impressed by the elegance of the marble and the lion-clawed bath. “Now you know,” she said, gesturing towards the array of bottles. I nodded, having no clue what she meant. “I went grey in my twenties,” she added, “All my roots are white now. I’ve been dyeing for so long I might as well keep going forever. Eyebrows too. That’s why I shave everything else.”

In the glare I noticed her arms again. I recalled that even her floral dress had long sleeves. Perhaps she’d had an accident, I thought, maybe she’d crashed through French windows and slashed herself. Whatever, she was showing a trust in me that I’d not shown to her. I had no scars to explain away – not that you could see. Back in bed I felt a confessional urge.

“I used to write poetry,” I said, “pages of it.”

“Really! Can I read it?”

“It was crap. So bad that a tutor suggested I go on a song-writing course instead. I let my thumbnail grow long to make girls think I played guitar.”

“So serenade me,” she said.

“I couldn’t sing, but I liked the course. They said the first stage was to get some melodies any way you can – strumming, dabbling on the piano, singing in the bath. The more the merrier. Then you have to choose which ones have potential. Then you develop them into songs. They taught us some standard techniques to do that, how to make the melody and lyrics work together.”

She rolled to look at me. “It’s like dating isn’t it? Trying out as many as possible then focusing on the keepers. That’s when the hard work really starts.”

“Am I hard work yet?” I asked, pushing the hair from her eyes.

“Not yet,” she said, resting her head on my chest and falling asleep in seconds.

Next afternoon, without deciding whether to go in deeper or get out while I could, I phoned her. She never answered. I searched for her address, discovered it was an Airbnb place. I wondered what I’d done wrong. I wanted to see her again. I had things to tell her.

She was at the entrance to my apartment block when I got home.

“What are you doing here?” I said, “I thought you’d disappeared off the face of the Earth.”

“Oh come on, it’s only been a few hours.” She pulled a wine bottle from her bag. “You said your balcony overlooked Aldi car-park so I guessed where you lived. Are you going to let me in?”

“What else do you know?”

“That I need you. Isn’t that enough?”

“What are the pyramids like?”

She frowned at me. “Lots of sand.”

Luckily, I had a meal in the fridge. She stayed the night. Then several more, then a break, then we spent a weekend at her place, though it didn’t quite feel like living together.

Our parents were dead. We were both only children, devoted to jobs that we knew the other wasn’t interested in. Any conversation about our pasts led all the way back to childhood, jumping over decades we didn’t want to talk about. We respected each other’s privacy. Children don’t question the existence of Santa Claus because they like having presents. I guess it was the same with us – we didn’t want to spoil what we had. When we argued over Kate Bush it wasn’t serious because she was recent. Disagreeing over a classic Neil Young song however risked a lonely night. Janis Ian, Paul Simon and Don McLean were minefields. Carole King was safe ground. Her “Tapestry” and James Taylor’s “Mud Slide Slim” both came out in 1971. Both had “You’ve Got a Friend” and Joni Mitchell did backing vocals on both of them. We could talk that way for hours.

One evening when we should have met straight after work she didn’t turn up or answer the phone. I’d never got to the bottom of the time when her phone number disappeared. I decided to surprise her at her workplace. She hadn’t kept it secret though equally she’d never invited me there.

“Ms Wallace is unavoidably delayed,” said the receptionist. “Would you like to wait in her office?” It was in the corner of the open plan floor. Everyone had gone home. “Janet Wallace: Project Leader,” the sign said. The decor was like her flat – minimalist, impersonal. On the wall there was a sequence of photographs of a dam during construction. So maybe she hadn’t lied. I spun on her chair, spun again, then feeling awkward moved to a chair without wheels. A man approached the receptionist, who suddenly became animated. She counted something off on her fingers, throwing her hands up in despair, then laughing. He laughed too, then shrugged. People looking at Janet and me as we discussed songs probably wondered if we were going to hit each other. Or maybe they thought we’re in love. The man went to his desk. She followed. I could hear what they were saying now. “Jake’s really copped it this time,” the receptionist said, “He’s been in the boardroom with Wallace for an hour. You know what she’s like.” I regretted not asking the receptionist about Janet when I had the chance – what was she really like? I started exploring her office. There was one photo on her desk – a couple in skiing gear outside a mountain chalet with a little girl. I picked it up. The girl wasn’t wearing a helmet. I studied her features.

“So you found me,” she said from the doorway.

“You were cute even as a kid.”

She took the frame from my hand and replaced it on her desk.

“Why did you come here?”

“You were late. After last time I got worried.”

“What last time?”

“After our first night. I called and your number didn’t work. Your flat was available on Airbnb. I thought you’d done a runner. Then you turned up on my doorstep.”

She shook her head. “I forgot to pay a phone bill. I used to go away a lot and forgot to cancel the Airbnb. That’s all. Maybe one day I’ll investigate you. How would you like that? I’ll meet you at your place later, ok? I’ve got some paperwork to finish here first.”

I thought I’d blown it. That evening though, she was tender – not a word I’d think of using for her. When she fell asleep she didn’t turn away like usual. I could feel her breath on my ear. I began to believe that at last, after years of quiet despair, I’d managed to pull my life around. Somebody cared. I felt tears down my cheeks but didn’t want to move in case I woke her. And then old fears crept back. Suppose she started asking questions? Why hadn’t I married?

In the morning she was more like her usual self. She wouldn’t accept that Paul McCartney was a decent songwriter. “Yeah, he can knock off melodies galore,” she said, “but not songs. After twenty seconds he’s shot his bolt. He’s like a schoolboy losing his virginity.”

“How would you know?” I asked.

“Did I tell you I used to be a teacher?” she said. “Only joking.”

“I was thinking,” I said, pausing nervously, “maybe we should think about a holiday together. Fancy skiing?”

“I haven’t skied since, well, since that photo you saw.”

I was relieved that she hadn’t got angry. “Skiing’s like riding a bike,” I said, “Even after decades you’ll soon get the hang of it again.”

“It isn’t decades. It was just before my husband went off with our daughter. Can we talk about something else? What about The Hollies? When Nash left to join Crosby and Stills, did they do any good songs?”

I wanted to see the photo again, look at the woman rather than the little girl. I wanted to ask how we could continue a relationship if she kept so many things secret. But of course I daren’t. Once a relationship settles it’s hard to change the rules.

* * *

It was a quiet funeral. Neither of us had close friends. Outside the chapel a woman approached me, saying she was Clara, Janet’s daughter. I was too much in grief to show surprise. I knew Janet had left all her money to her, but I didn’t expect her to turn up. She had the same eyes and dark, thick hair. The same eyebrows. I told her that Janet and I had a happy decade together, though I felt I didn’t know her fully, even at the end. We gave each other space. Clara asked about me. Knowing we’d never meet again, I said I’d worked a few months on the rigs, that after my second stint away I mixed too much wine and pain-killers, or maybe not enough. I was in and out of A&E for months with kidney failure, admitted to a rehab clinic. I lost everything – my songs, my family photographs, my hopes. I survived, retrained, coming out much better at table-tennis, and not bad at IT skills either, enough for a charity to take a chance on me, offering me a job. I told Clara that her mother never knew that she’d saved me. My voice started breaking. I dug my nails into my palms (I’d grown them long again on purpose) and I asked her about her own life.

“Dad and me had to go,” she said, “we had no choice. We didn’t know how ill she was, she was good at covering things up.” She started to walk away, then looked back. “Ten happy years is more than most couples manage,” she said, “You were lucky. If we’d stayed any longer she’d have killed us all. Nice meeting you.”

Like a zombie I walked to The Oak where I’d told people to go instead of a wake. A few of her work colleagues had gathered – taking a chance to have a day off, gossiping about the office. I wondered if they knew that Janet was a mother. When I started telling them about my life they interrupted me, offering to buy me a beer. I told them about my first night out of rehab, how I’d walked past cosy pubs with happy people at the windows, past late-night supermarkets with long aisles of drinks. I had to go in anyway for bread. I’d browsed the craft beers like books, laughing when I saw one called “Bitter Memories”. I’d piled bottles of it in my basket, leaving it all at the till and running out. Her colleagues were silent as if I hadn’t delivered the punch-line. Then one of them bought me a lemonade and they carried on nattering about the latest intern, having a bet on who’d sleep with him first. Maybe he was a virgin. After finishing my drink I made my apologies and left.

Surely it was an accident. French windows, glass flying everywhere, hitting her husband and daughter. She wasn’t depressed – the bottles had dye, not tranquilisers. It was just a terrible misunderstanding. She was moody sometimes, that’s all. She really did build dams – I saw the photos.

I’d already begun clearing up the flat. The bathroom was easy – I‘d dumped all her stuff in a bin-bag. In the bedroom I’d hidden her clothes away. Our LP and CD collections had merged over the years. I barely recalled who bought what. We’d got into YouTube in her final months. I loved going through the live gigs, comparing performances. My favourite songs have always been sad ones. Since her death I’d been hunting for videos where singers seemed to re-live the experiences they sang about – Adele at the Albert Hall, Janis Ian on the Old Grey Whistle Test, or Tori Amos almost anywhere. How genuine were the displays of emotion? Sometimes they seemed like part of the performance.

 I remembered us discussing why the songwriters we liked did all their best songs when they were young. Until her final illness we thought we’d improved with age. Why didn’t songwriters? Does old age reduce the number of melodies that come to mind or reduce the ability to finish songs? Surely as you get older you get more skilled at making a song out of a few promising bars, you get experienced at knowing what works and what doesn’t. What goes wrong? A guy on YouTube had left a comment saying Tori Amos had written nothing worthwhile since getting married and becoming a mother. Someone replied that she’d experienced traumatic events when young – you can’t blame her for wanting to be happy. But, said the first guy, why did she have to let her bloody husband play guitar on her records?

The last few months had taken their toll on me. I knew that when the shock wore off it would be like when I finished rehab – suddenly I’d be left to fend for myself, wondering whether all that effort to survive had been worthwhile, the gratitude and guilt becoming overwhelming. And I had the earworms to deal with. Sometimes I woke with one that wouldn’t go away, a song I didn’t even like. When I went through the lyrics there was always a line with a message. There were still so many songs to discover. For the first time in days I opened my laptop.

Tim Love

Image by Christine Sponchia from Pixabay – an elegant table setting for two with shining glasses and cleverly folded napkins and a red heartshape in a holder.