More Tea

“I don’t want you to think I’m interfering…”

It’s Marnie, shouting faintly from a crackly mobile with intermittent reception. Her telephone line has been broken for three weeks, and every time she wants to phone someone she has to drive to the end of the park and use her mobile. There’s no reception where she lives – it really is the middle of nowhere

“Can’t you tell BT you’re vulnerable?” I try to make it sound like a joke, but actually it’s true – she is eighty and miles from any other house

“Oh I’ve tried the helpless old lady thing but they say they need to excavate the line and it’s National Trust you know – they say they need to have an enquiry first” She laughs, and I laugh back. We both know it’s not funny.

“Anyway – have you still got your ticket? That’s why I phoned. How is he?”

I’m stuck for a minute. I can’t tell her the truth. I can’t tell her that I’m worried sick. There’s been nothing from him except a few lines every now and again – sending love, telling me that he’s been sleeping twenty two hours a day, that he’s scared of going back to work. I can’t tell her what I’ve read about meth withrawal.

“He’s very busy, tired, you know. Working very hard..” It sounds lame and disinterested, as if I don’t care

I wish I could swoop down into Tucson tomorrow, tell him work doesn’t matter, and make him get on a plane with me. I want to bring him home and look after him until he’s better. It wouldn’t work though. For a start he’s big – six feet tall – there’s no way I could carry him. And if he’s asleep most of the time how would I get him through immigration? More importantly, I can’t because he doesn’t want help – he needs to do it on his own. He hasn’t said, but I know. I think he’s trying to prove something to himself and I have to leave him alone to do that. So I am – I send him my love every few days and that’s about it. I don’t want to give him anything else to worry about.

“I wondered if you’d like to come to tea again. At the cottage – if you don’t mind mess. I’m sorting out my life’s work – all my paintings and so on. Everything from the house in Soho had to come here – all Joel’s things – I haven’t thrown anything away. I want to give you my film script to read – see what you …”

Suddenly she breaks off and there’s a scuffling noise. I’m alarmed – maybe she’s fallen over or something. She doesn’t look it but I think she’s quite frail.

“Is everything okay? Whereabouts are you?”

“By the letterbox in the village. I posted something by mistake … I was waiting for the postman to come so I can get it back… that was him just now,”

I remember Joe telling me once how when he was little she drove to his grandparents’ house and he had to wait in the car while she put a brick through their window. I can see she’s still quite a feisty person despite the stick. I wonder what the letter said, and who it was addressed to.

So – tea?”

“I’d love to – thanks, and I’d love to read your film script”

We fix a day, and then hang up

The next day there’s another email from him. He says Marnie’s been writing him long emails, singing my praises. I think she must really be enjoying herself playing the matchmaker. Best of all though, he tells me he’s managed two days of work:

..exhausted. but clean. and no anhedonia. reading your words continues to give me pleasure. so dont you DARE cash your ticket in!

It makes me smile, and this time I mean it. Things are definitely starting to look up again.