Love Songs in Age

Quite why she'd checked out the size of my feet would be a question for another day, I decided.

I hesitated.

"You worried I'll go too fast for you?"

"No. I'm worried I might actually die if I try and run and talk at the same time."

"Aww. I'll go slow, I promise. Come on."

And so I found myself jogging around the park with her, wearing her father's trainers, some rather snug fitting shorts in a quite eye-catching purple, and the t shirt I'd been wearing underneath my sweater. Isobel was wearing black leggings that left little to the imagination and a cropped white top that revealed an enviably flat midriff below a pair of small but undeniably perky breasts. Men's eyes followed her as we ran past, I noticed.

"So," she said, just as conversationally as if we'd been back in the house. "Tell me about Larkin. I mean, I just didn't get any of his poems at all. They were so... I don't know... gloomy and weird."

"He was a disappointed man," I wheezed.

"What was he disappointed about?"

"He... he thought... most of us spent our lives waiting for something to arrive that... never does."

"Like what?"

"Money. Happiness... Sex."

"His poems are about sex?"

"Some of them."

"So... he didn't think he got enough sex, and he wrote poems about it?"

"Um... well, not just sex... but he.... He did write a lot about how love and sex were a... sort of illusion. We kid ourselves that.... that they're going to be amazing.... and usually they're not."

"I wish I'd known that," she said. "His poems sound a bit more interesting now."

I didn't answer, focusing instead of trying to maximise my intake of oxygen.

"So do you think love -- and sex -- are disappointing?"

"I think we should... keep the discussion about... Larkin."

She flashed me a glance. "I don't think DH Lawrence found sex disappointing."

"No," I agreed. "He definitely thought it was... well... pretty central to everything, really."

"So actually... they're kind of like... two extremes?" She seemed genuinely taken with the idea.

"You could certainly make... that argument... sure."

She looked at me again, an irritated glance this time. "But is it RIGHT? That they're extremes? Opposites?"

I held up a hand. "I need to walk for a bit... sorry."

She relented and we slowed our pace right down, though I could see she was barely breaking a sweat.

"Izzy," I said. "It's not about being right. In English Lit, the study of it, there's often no such thing as 'right'. It's about... being able to make an argument that's interesting and you can support. So -- with Larkin and Lawrence, it could be that there are, like you say... contrasts in their thinking. Using one writer to illustrate another. This isn't mathematics. This is... ideas. And your ideas... well, they're just as valid as anybody else's."

She looked dubious.

"When we get back," I said. "We'll look at some of his other poems. The ones about love, and yes, the ones about sex. And I want you to tell me how you think his approach is different from Lawrence's."

She considered this, then nodded.

"That's assuming you don't die on the way back," she said cheerfully. "You're looking pretty awful."

**

And so we made our way through Larkin's poems. Once we'd read through them a few times I could see the penny beginning to drop, and she made some insightful comments that further reassured me that we were going to get her through this.

"I hope he's wrong though," she said, a few days later when we'd been discussing his poem Love Songs In Age.

"How so?"

"This old woman... she always thought love was going to be the answer... and she's at the end of her life and it never was. I mean... that's pretty bleak, isn't it?"

"Yes," I agreed quietly. "It's pretty bleak."

She looked at me. "And he's so... obsessed with death, isn't he?"

I nodded, but didn't say anything. I could see she was trying to organise and articulate her thoughts.

"It makes the world feel like... a very cold place. Whereas The Rainbow, and Women In Love, and the Gatekeeper book... they make me feel warm."

She blushed. "And not just because of the... you know. Though... I suppose that is part of it."

She fiddled with the book in front of her. "That's probably a really... what's the word... banal observation, isn't it?"

"No. It's not," I said. "And tonight I want you to write me five hundred words on the different philosophies of Larkin and Lawrence regarding life and love and sex."

"I can't do that!"

"Sure you can. And five hundred words is nothing. Couple of paragraphs. Set a timer and do it in twenty minutes. Don't spend too long worrying about it. Just do it."

"It'll be rubbish."

"Maybe. But I doubt it. And if it is, we can work on it together and make it better, can't we?"

**

She didn't write five hundred words. She wrote over a thousand. And it was repetitive in places, and the structure was a little shaky, but there was some smart, passionate thinking in there.

"This would easily get you a C," I said, the next day.

"Really?"

"And with a small amount of work, it could be a B. No question."

She looked at me suspiciously. But I was being perfectly genuine, and I think she saw that.

"So... what would I have to do to make it better?"

I moved and sat down beside her, and started to show her how to structure her essay a little more traditionally. Where she should have added an extra sentence or two to the introduction. Parts of her argument that she was still making in the conclusion, when they should have been in the main body. Places where she'd been repetitive.

"No more than those four or five changes," I said. "And that's really good quality work. Everything was there. You just need to get in the habit of organising it in the way that examiners like."

She was pleased with herself but trying not to show it. Sitting that close I could smell the soap she must have used that morning. Perhaps it was her shampoo.

"I still have to pass history," she said, looking doubtful again.

"You can pass History, Isobel. Once you can write essays like this, it'll be a breeze, honestly."

"But... this is quite interesting. History's really boring."

I grinned at that. I couldn't help it.

"What's so funny?"

"It's just... I know somebody who would be howling with anguish if you said that. And I can't wait to tell him."

"Oh no... don't... he'll think I'm really stupid."

"He won't. I've told him you're not."

"You have?" She was intrigued, and a little pleased. "So... who is it?"

I hesitated. I'd always tried to keep my personal life private, slyly deflecting any questions that seemed a little too probing.

Isobel studied my face. She looked solemn. "Is it... your friend? The... one you live with?"

I looked at her, surprised. It must have shown.

"Daddy investigated you. Of course he did -- he wasn't going to leave his precious little daughter with some guy who might molest her, would he? One of the big things in your favour was you being gay... my so-called virtue would be in no danger."

"So," I said slowly, "your father... knows I live with a man. And he told you?"

"Yes. God -- I hope you're not upset, are you? Please don't be. I mean -- I think you're really helping me, and it would be horrible if you left... and I had to start with somebody else. Please don't be upset."

I stared at her. "I'm not upset," I said.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I got up. "I think we should probably call it a day, Isobel."

"You are upset! I knew it. God! I shouldn't have said anything!"

I held up a hand to hush her.

"Would you like to meet him?" I said.

**

It was a twenty-minute tube ride to the flat. When we got there David was asleep on the sofa, my copy of The Gatekeeper's Daughter beside him on the floor. He looked unspeakably pale and wan and for a dreadful moment I thought he might have died in his sleep but as we came into the room he stirred and opened his eyes.

"What the fuck are you doing home so early?" he said drowsily but amiably.

"Language," I said reprovingly. "We have a guest."

His eyes opened wider, and he spotted Isobel lurking a little shyly on the far side of the room.

"Isobel!" he exclaimed. "How lovely!"

She blushed, and came a little closer. "Yes -- hello. How did you know who I was?"

"Oh, he tells me all about you."

"Does he?" She glanced at me questioningly.

"Isobel -- this is David," I said quickly. "My brother."

"Your brother!" She stared at both of us.

"Hard to believe, isn't it?" said David, smiling weakly at her. I could see that he was perking up. "Not really fair. I got the looks and the brains, and poor old Mikey... well, he somehow gets by with the little he has."

"Oh stop it," I said. "I brought her here so she could tell you in person how boring history is."

"Well, of course it is - the way you teach it! The way most people teach it. Poor Isobel's never had the benefit of learning from somebody like me."

"Oh for God's sake," I said. "I'm going to make some tea."

"Yes. You do that. Come and sit by me, Isobel. I want to talk to you about this wonderful book you've found for us." He sat up and patted the space beside him. As I left the room he was already chatting to her like they'd known each other for years, and I could see her relaxing and being caught up in his infectious charm and impish humour. He always had that gift.

When I returned with a tray of tea and biscuits he had somehow dragged the conversation around to the Paris Peace Conference and the Treaty of Versailles. He was telling her about all the personalities, making it sound more like a bitchy teen drama than a ponderous, stuffy conference. I don't think she followed all of what he was saying, but she was totally transfixed by him and doing her best to contribute and keep up. I was reminded again of the other great gift that he had. He made you want to please him. Not in an oppressive way, but you always somehow wanted to be at the top of your game when you were with him.

I confess, watching them together, I felt a small pang of jealousy.

When we were sipping our tea Isobel retreated slightly into herself again, and I saw her looking curiously back and forth between us.

"Isobel's parents had me investigated before they hired me," I said.

"Quite right too." David dunked a biscuit in his tea. "And yet somehow they still hired you. Wonders never cease."

"Well... turns out the reason they hired me is because I'm gay."

David paused, his biscuit still submerged. His mouth fell open, and a huge, delighted grin spread over his face.

"No! Not really!"

"Apparently so."

"O -- M -- G. If only I'd known! My little brother, a screaming queen like me!"

"Hold on," said Isobel, turning to me. "So... you're not gay?"

It was David who answered. "Only one gay in this household, sweetie, and despite my manly, macho, manner... you may have somehow guessed that it's me."

Now it was Isobel's turn to be open-mouthed.

"Fuck," she finally managed.

"Yes. Very good summary, Isobel. 'Fuck', indeed. I think your father should get a refund from whoever investigated us."

"Might be best... not to tell him," I said carefully. "But... it's up to you, Izzy."

"Shit." Isobel was still digesting this thunderbolt.

"I can certainly see why Mikey speaks so highly of your language skills."

I gestured at David that was quite enough for now, thank you.

Isobel was staring at me. "So, all this time... you've not been gay?"

"All this time," I agreed. "Sorry. But... to be fair, I had no idea you thought I was."

"Do you have any plans to become gay?" asked David, with interest. He was enjoying himself hugely.

"No," I said. "No plans."

"Mmm. Just as well. You wouldn't be very good at it, I don't think. Your whole sense of style... taste in music... even your walk... no, you would be the worst gay ever."

I glared at him. "So... it's fine for you to play up gay stereotypes, but when anybody else does it, you're all morally outraged?"

"That's right, duckie." He turned to Isobel. "I'm afraid you're stuck with him as a raging straight. Do you have any Mace? Just in case he can't control his lust?"

She rolled her eyes. "My dad is going to go ballistic."

There was a silence while we all thought about this.

"Well," said David, "we'll just have to keep it a secret for a while longer, won't we?" He looked at me, eyes gleaming. "I'll give you a few tips on how to be more convincing as a homosexual."

**

The next day when I arrived I thought there was something different about her. It took me a while to work it out. Actually, it was a number of small things. Her hair, usually tied back carelessly in a ponytail, was now brushed and shining and fell elegantly to her shoulders. Her clothes seemed a little more feminine than usual. And there was the very faintest trace of perfume, which I'd not ever noticed her wearing before.

She probably thought she was being very subtle. And I suppose she was. I was amused and touched in equal measure, and carefully didn't mention any of the changes. There was no need to read anything into them. It was just a young girl who'd been made aware of a slight change in circumstances, one where her femininity had perhaps more relevance than she'd thought. It was even possible, I reflected, that she'd done these things without any awareness of them. That they'd been entirely subconscious.

Most noticeable of all, however, was her attitude. Over our time together we'd progressed from her initial torpor to a more semi-engaged level, but I'd never felt she was wholly committed to the work. Probably because she doubted herself. But now she was much more questioning and involved, probing and challenging in a very open, reflective way which I found refreshing. It is always tiring when you're teaching to have to expend a lot of your effort on breaking down barriers. Now we were able to exchange ideas and develop them. Not as equals, not yet, but with an intensity and lack of self-consciousness that delighted me.

We spent several hours going over the two Shakespeare plays she had to study, and then I said we had to switch to history. I'd expected some resistance to that, but to my surprise she nodded, and started to gather up her things.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting ready to go."

"Go where?"

"Your place, of course. I'm doing history with David."

"What?"

"Didn't he tell you?"

"No! And... he can't! He's not well enough."

"He said he could teach me even with his eyes shut. And he said it would make him feel useful again. If he gets too tired, I'll stop, I promise, but he said this first time I was to just ignore whatever you said."

She looked at me, a little sheepish but also quite determined.

"So... when did you discuss all this?"

"Last night. On WhatsApp. We swapped numbers yesterday while you were clearing up."

I glared at her, but mainly I was cross with David.

"He's... a bloody idiot!"

"No, he's not," she said. "He just wants to be useful. While he still can. So - I think you should let him try."

She finished packing up her things, then got up.

"Coming?" she said.

**

They spent the best part of three hours discussing the years following the First World War. I sat somewhat sulkily off to one side. Occasionally I contributed the odd titbit, and a couple of times David asked for some tea, but mostly I listened. He was at his absolute best that first afternoon, I think. He could swoop from the broadest overview to the most fascinating tiny detail in the space of just a few breaths. And from Isobel's questions and tone of voice I could tell she was equally gripped.

At the end he gave her some reading suggestions -- nothing too onerous, just a couple of chapters from one of the few textbooks he approved of. And he told her that night she should walk around her bedroom and review what they'd discussed, acting as if she was a teacher.

She looked at him, perplexed. "Act like a teacher?"

"That's right. Imagine you're the teacher, standing in front of a class of horrible boys and girls a few years younger than you, and you're trying to tell them about how the end of the First World War ended up being the start of the Second. Just like I've been doing."

"But... I could never do it as well as you."

"Of course you couldn't," agreed David. "But pretend you're the next best thing. Somebody who's learnt from me. And really show off. Have confidence that you know a lot more than they do. Really do a performance for these imaginary horrors."

"But I won't remember everything!"

"Well, then stop and look it up. But don't treat history as something you have to keep in your brain like a boring collection of dried up dates and names. Treat it as if you're going to go on stage and tell it like a story and everybody's going to be spellbound and hugely impressed."

She looked doubtful. "Well... I'll give it a try."

"Good girl. Now, you've worn me out." He paused. David could never resist a smutty aside when it presented itself. "And I expect I'm not the first beautiful young man who's said that to you, am I?"

There was a silence. Then she picked up her pad of paper and playfully whacked him on the leg with it. "Stop it! You're AWFUL!" She was blushing and laughing in equal measure.

David clicked his fingers imperiously at me. "Time to escort this young lady home, I think."

"Oh no," said Isobel to me. "You don't need to do that."

"Maybe not, but I will anyway," I said. "Come on."

I looked at David. "Now, have a snooze while I'm gone, for god's sake. You need some rest." But actually he looked remarkably well, better than I'd seen him in some months.

On the way back Isobel looked at me as we stood on the underground platform together, waiting for our train.

"Is he very ill?"

"Yes," I said, quietly. "Two years ago... the doctors gave him eighteen months."

There was a pause. "Has he always been such a dreadful flirt and show-off?"

I smiled. "For as long as I can remember, yes." To my alarm I found my eyes were watering slightly, so I looked away and pretended to study an advert on the wall opposite.

I felt her hand snake into mine and give it a brief squeeze. And then it was gone.

**

We worked like that for another two months. I would spend several mornings at their house, but more often than not Isobel would come to our flat to study. Her parents were often out and her communication with them seemed to be almost entirely electronic. So as she said, it didn't really matter where she was, as long as the work got done. I supposed that was true, but I felt a little sorry for her. I knew more than most how small rifts and resentments between parents and children could deepen and solidify over time.

The one downside was that David would often interrupt when I was talking about literature, complaining that I was being pompous or opaque or -- most frequently -- just plain wrong. But sometimes Isobel would leap into defend me, and I could sit back and watch her counter his arguments with a combination of her ideas and mine. And when that happened I would sometimes catch David's eye, and he would give me an almost imperceptible nod of approval. Sometimes, to his even greater delight, she would agree with him, and I would be forced to try and defend my position against their combined onslaught.

Often our days would end over a board game. David would always win at chess, I had a lucky streak at backgammon, and Isobel proved herself surprisingly ruthless at Monopoly. I can still remember David's despairing wail when she refused his request to defer his rent payment when he landed on one of her hotels. He called her a heartless capitalist bitch. She called him a grouchy old queen. After that the insults multiplied rapidly until we were all almost helpless with laughter.