GD Harper Harper

Chapter 1

Glasgow, June 1975

Should you be at someone's funeral, if they died because of you?

That was the question on everyone’s lips, on their minds. I knew it. Joe was dead and it was because of me. Nice, kind, butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth Bobbie Sinclair. I’d always tried to think of other people, to care about their feelings. I was the sort of person my friends liked to introduce to their parents, because I was the sort of person that parents approved of.

But then I killed someone. Someone who loved me.

Two years I’d known Joe; two kids who met at a student disco and fell in love. Two years of being the couple everyone said were made for each other. And the last six months of realising no, he was a nice enough guy, but he wasn’t the one for me. And just as the class of ’75 was about to step out into the big wide world with our whole lives ahead of us, Joe was dead.

It shouldn’t have been like that. I’d planned it so well, or so I thought. I said nothing, gave not an inkling of my decision, until after his final exam. I didn’t want to do anything that would affect his grades. Then the pain of telling him. The quizzical look in his eyes as I started. The long, deep breath I took before I told him it was over. I said everything the Cosmopolitan article on breakups told me to. I delivered my lines perfectly. Should have of course, I’d practised them endlessly the day before. I believed I’d left nothing to chance, we’d break up in a mature and adult way. Get on with our lives, no hard feelings.

But that outburst, when he had said life wasn’t worth living without me. Should I have taken his words seriously? I’d read somewhere that people who talk about suicide never actually do it. It was obviously a ploy, he knew me too well. Just a ploy to win me back.

I’d sounded so cold-hearted, but I honestly thought being tough was the fairest way. Any hint of indecision would have been seized upon, holding out hope of reconciliation, a change of heart. And that would have been cruel. I didn’t want to prolong the pain. My words had been blunt, final and uncompromising. How they must have hurt. ‘I need to find myself.’ ‘I can’t simply make myself love you.’ ‘I need something more.’ Horrible.

I had done one last sweep of my flat to make sure I was rid of his stuff. I’d found his Rubik’s Cube and was deliberating whether to chuck it or not when the phone rang. Joe’s uncle. It was weird him calling me, I'd only met him once and it took me a second to recall what he looked like. And his voice. Very serious. Very formal. He told me he was calling on behalf of Mr and Mrs Dawson, Joe’s parents. The sickening dread as I realised something bad was coming. Told me to prepare myself. I knew then Joe was dead.

The hard, cruel truth. Suicide. The note. To me. ‘I told you so.’

Should I be at his funeral, I asked myself again. I saw the furtive glances, everyone looking away quickly as I caught their eye. The only people my age were three of Joe's friends, huddled at the street corner, having one last cigarette before going into church. If ever I needed Duncan to be around, it was then. I was aching to have someone to talk to, but I had to deal with it without my best friend to help me. He was travelling somewhere around Europe; there had been no way to get in touch with him. My other friends were cast to the four winds following the exams. It gave them an excuse, I suppose, but for most of them it was a cop-out. And of course, my dad had found an excuse for him and Mum not to be there. Typical of him.

I went over to the huddle.

‘Aye, Bobbie. Terrible, terrible, isn’t it? Who’d have thought?’ Fergus said.

‘I’m still in shock,’ I replied. ‘It doesn’t seem real somehow, I keep expecting him to appear any second. I can’t believe I’m never going to see him again.’ My voice seemed to be coming from somebody else. I felt another wave of sobbing rise up inside me.

‘Aye, aye, terrible, isn’t it? Who’d have thought?’ Eloquence was not Fergus’s strong suit.

‘Yeah, it’s a drag,’ said Kenny. He and Joe used to go to Partick Thistle matches together, a masochistic pursuit I’d managed to avoid. At the very least, I owed Kenny a debt of gratitude for that. So I agreed with him. Joe’s death was, indeed, a drag.

We agreed the weather could not have been better, and that East Kilbride was a bummer to get to from Glasgow’s West End. I stole a glance at the third member of the group, Ian. He was the only one who looked angry at me for being there, shifting from foot to foot as he tried to disguise his hostility. I wanted to tell him to be patient. The minute the service was over I’d be gone, but I came to pay my respects. If Joe’s parents were magnanimous enough to say I could be there, so should he.

Instead we nodded awkwardly to each other.

‘So are you still doing that play about Virginia Woolf?’

Kenny’s question snapped me out of my thoughts. He knew about my ambitions to be an actress. With my exams out of the way, I was going after whatever parts were up for grabs in Glasgow’s burgeoning theatre scene.

The question threw me. I hadn’t thought about it to be honest. ‘Yes, I think so,’ I said. ‘And it’s not about Virginia Woolf. It’s just called Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, a sort of joke by the writer.’

‘Who’s Virginia Woolf anyhow?’ Ian obviously felt he had to say something.

‘It disnae matter, Ian, it’s no’ about her,’ said Fergus.

‘Oh. Right then. Nae bother.’

I can’t go through with this, I thought. I walked away.

I stood on my own, a lonely island of despair in a sea of condemnation, convinced that every whisper, every murmur around me was full of censure and blame. I felt so isolated, so forlorn. It was a mistake to have come. Would it be even worse now to leave? I wished again Duncan could have been there. Or someone, anyone who would understand what I was going through.

‘You're… Bobbie, aren't you?’ An unfamiliar voice broke into my thoughts. ‘This must be awful.’

A stranger. Middle-aged, like pretty much everyone else there.

‘Thanks. I mean, not thanks, but… well, yes. It's awful. So sad. Joe… What, what can I say?’ It was not the most coherent reply.

‘Yes, the Dawsons told me about it. I can't imagine what they’re going through. And you. It's good you came today. You're very brave. I'm Felix by the way. How are you feeling?’

He knew. But ‘how are you feeling?’ His question was too direct, too personal. I felt my face redden, my neck tingle. I took a deep breath to compose myself. Who was he, anyway? And Felix, what sort of a name was that?

‘I'm fine, thank you. Very sad, of course. I'll miss Joe. I’m so fond of him. Was so fond of him, I mean.’ I could hear myself talking mechanically, my words stilted and cold.

I walked into the graveyard; it fitted my mood. It was only a short time until the service began. As I came back I saw Felix again. Maybe it was me that was rude, walking away like that. I gave him a half-smile of apology.

‘I’m sorry, I didn't mean to intrude,’ he said. ‘It's just that you're here, everyone knows the tragic circumstances, and you’re being left on your own. I can’t begin to imagine the horror you're facing. Your friends over there don’t seem to be helping much, if you don’t mind me saying so. Do you want to talk about it?’

There was something soothing in his voice, comforting, reassuring. He was looking at me, straight in the eye. None of the furtive censure I could sense all around me. I could feel the pain welling up inside me again. But he was right. I did want to talk, to confide, to confess. He smiled. The first real smile I’d seen in days.

‘I feel as if every pair of eyes here are following me. Accusing me, judging me.’ My voice trembled as I spoke.

I stared down at the ground, embarrassed by what I’d blurted out. But then I heard myself talking about blaming myself, how the rancid poison of my last words to Joe were eating away at me. Once I started I couldn’t stop, it was like a cascade of self-reproach. Felix nodded and gently led me away from the other mourners.

‘I don’t think you did anything wrong.’ He was speaking very quietly now, like he was sharing a confidence with me. ‘Could you have foreseen this happening? Of course not. Could you have handled the breakup differently? Maybe, but we all do things that make us feel guilty later on when we find out the consequences of our actions.’

I nodded, not lifting my eyes. Instead, I looked at his shoes. They were shiny and polished. I wondered how he kept the mud off them.

He leant forward. ‘The key is to accept you’re only human. Don’t blame yourself because you should have acted differently or should have been an ideal person. You’re not, and neither am I. That’s how people are.’

I liked this. I liked him. Someone able to put my feelings into words, not just offer the usual platitudes. We must have been talking for another five minutes when he said, ‘I think we should head inside. I can see funny glances coming our way. Maybe a thirty-five-year-old man shouldn't be chatting so long to a beautiful young woman at a funeral. Particularly you, at this funeral.’

I’d forgotten he was old. I nodded in agreement, but pursed my lips so hard I could feel the blood being pushed out of them. I was aching to keep talking. I didn’t want him to go, but maybe it was best he did. I caught him also having a quick glance around, giving a nod of recognition to one of the other men in the crowd. The man stared at me. It felt uncomfortable so I moved away.

Joe’s father arrived. I hardly recognised him. His face was drawn and haggard, as sombre as a mask. He walked as if the life force had been sucked out of him, like an old caged circus animal. He glanced over at me. I held his gaze for a second, scrutinising it for a sign of reproach or anger. Nothing. Then Joe’s mother, being helped by two friends, her grief disabling in its intensity.

I didn’t want her to see me. I hurried away to sit at the back of the church, in the corner. I had the row to myself. I stared at the coffin. It had a photo of Joe on top of it.

The minister started talking about Joe. Stories about Partick Thistle to try to make us smile. Carefully chosen words to describe his personality. No mention he had killed himself, that in the eyes of the church he had incurred God’s disapproval. But the stilted innuendo was suffocating in its insincerity. There must have been some sort of negotiation to get a church funeral and this was the result. The minister summarised Joe’s life but there was no mention of our last two years together. He must have known I was in the congregation. Did he think I was desecrating the service with my presence? Probably. When everyone stood up to sing ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, I slid along the pew and slipped out of the church.

Once outside, I sagged against the church wall, felt a hollow exhaustion. I should go home now, what else was there to do? Or maybe a walk, some fresh air would do me good. I felt paralysed by the emptiness I was feeling inside.

‘Bobbie? Are you okay?’

I turned and there was Felix. The church doors were still closed, everyone was still inside. He must have left before the end as well. I blinked in confusion. What was he doing here?

‘I heard a noise and saw you were leaving,’ he said. ‘I wanted to check you were all right, whether you would like to talk some more. Would you like that?’

I was tempted. Talking to him had made me feel a little better. And it would good to hear what someone his age had to say to me. Someone who could maybe give me some answers. But I didn’t know him, how could I ask a stranger to help me like that?

‘No, it’s okay. Thanks, Felix. I’m going home now. I’ll be fine.’ Even as I said the words I knew they weren’t true. I wanted to talk. I looked at his eyes. There seemed so much wisdom in them.

‘You don’t look fine. Come on, there’s a Wimpy Bar a few streets away. We can talk as long as you want.’

I hated Wimpys but that didn’t matter. I wasn’t there to enjoy myself. We sat down and the waitress came over. I said I would like a coffee. ‘Two coffees,’ Felix said. ‘Do you want anything else, Bobbie?’

I said no.

‘Why did you leave the service?’ I asked.

‘Because you left. And I promised to help you. You’re young, unhappy and alone. And needlessly blaming yourself for what happened. Your trouble, Bobbie, is that you have an overactive conscience. You feel terrible about the whole saga, but no one’s blaming you. You’re accusing yourself, to the point where you’re starting to believe things about yourself that aren’t really true.’

‘I wish you were right,’ I replied. ‘But the truth is, Joe died because of me. Every time I fall asleep I have a nightmare, where I’m holding his hand as he hangs off a cliff and then I let him go. Or another one, where my father is lecturing me in front of everyone, telling me it’s my fault Joe killed himself. I wake up, and for a few seconds I realise it was a dream, that the horror isn’t real. Then I remember it is and cry myself back to sleep.’

‘The dreams will go away, over time. What you’re going through is only natural. Soon your subconscious will let you forgive yourself. And don’t be afraid to tell yourself it was right that you broke up with him, if he wasn’t the one for you.’

It felt like I had a real-life agony aunt sitting across from me. I told him more about Joe, about how I’d arrived at the conclusion we weren’t right for each other.

‘It sounds terribly shallow, but his looks were the main thing that really attracted me to him,’ I confessed. ‘When you’re experiencing freedom for the first time, having a boyfriend with Cat Stevens eyes, Mick Jagger lips and who fills a pair of jeans like Robert Plant is very important.’

I’d never told anyone that before. I felt ashamed for being disloyal. And a little embarrassed by my Robert Plant comment. But Felix laughed, didn’t seem to mind.

‘Joe’s beautiful, deep-brown eyes,’ I said, lost in my memories again. ‘He had a lovely faraway expression, which at first I thought was a sign of some profound philosophy he was contemplating. It was only later I found out his only deep and meaningful thoughts were whether Alan Rough would still be Partick Thistle’s goalkeeper next season.

I smiled at the fond memory of Joe’s wee obsession. Then, stupidly, I started crying. Of course Joe had deep thoughts. Deep melancholic thoughts. How could I not have known he was like that? Was I too wrapped up in thinking about my future to spot them? That question again. Was it my fault?

I looked at Felix in despair, begging him to give me an explanation, some understanding. I needed, wanted him to judge me, to tell me whether it was true I’d committed an unspeakable wrong. I took a deep breath and shook my head. ‘Sorry,’ I mumbled, as I stared at the floor.

He looked around, as if suddenly realising the intensity of our conversation. ‘A Wimpy Bar isn’t the right place for this conversation. We need to find somewhere more discreet. Do you like Italian food? I bet you haven’t eaten all day. There’s a nice Italian restaurant five minutes from here. Luigi’s. Good food and everyone minds their own business. Let’s go there.’

It seemed such a natural thing to do. Somehow it seemed right this stranger was leading me out of the abyss of self-loathing I had been feeling the last few days. Somehow it felt preordained that he was here to help me. Whatever it was, I never for a moment thought about saying no. We got up and left.

We walked briskly to the restaurant, both of us wanted to get back to our conversation. He opened the door of the restaurant to let me in, put his hand on my shoulder as I entered. The warmth of his touch seemed to release some of the agonies inside me. I smiled my appreciation.

The restaurant had just opened. They offered us a table by the window but Felix gestured to a table by the far wall. It was broad daylight outside, but they still lit a candle for our table. I munched on a breadstick in a basket in front of me.