SHORT STORIES: ‘The Troubles of Anthony Cunningham’

I had never been a close friend to Anthony Cunningham, so it was with great incredulity that, after a chance meeting, he told me of his life.

He had been walking aimlessly in the park at the same moment as I, and after a handful of pleasantries a light rain began to fall which gently persuaded us to take shelter in the local inn.

We had grown up in the village together, and had spent one particular summer in each other’s company; running through the woods, kicking a ball about or laying idly in farmer’s fields, anaesthetised by the heat of the midday sun. We were never close though; we used each other merely to alleviate the dullness of empty Augusts, and when we moved to upper school our friendship drifted into the background, replaced by more stimulating and interesting prospects.

Our mothers remained in contact throughout our youth, and then beyond, so Anthony’s exploits and achievements were relayed to me in tedious and irrelevant bursts across my education, and then still into adult life. I heard of his graduation, his marriage and his holidays, but never in the stark, candid detail he offered to me in the Coach House that night.

He was slumped exhaustedly over a pint of ale, his once youthful eyes heavy with sleeplessness and lips drooping gently towards his chin through lack of use. He looked up at me and said in a strained voice:

“I’m sorry to do this to you, but can I tell you something? I have to tell someone.”

I nodded. It was due to a lack of interest that I had chosen to roam the park on a cold autumn afternoon, so I was almost excited by the prospect.

“I’ll start from the beginning.” He took a large gulp from the glass before lazily returning it to the table.

“I first met Josephine at university. We were at a dance, and she was just exquisite. Dressed for a party several social classes higher than this particular gathering, in a jet black dress with a diamond trim across the neckline. I went and asked her to dance and she obliged. I’d never had much trouble convincing women of my handsomeness, but this time I was nervous. What would I have done if she had said no? Anyway, our friendship grew over the following months, and we started walking out together frequently. We shared a passion for literature, particularly Fitzgerald, and eventually she consented to marry me.”

“I heard.” I interrupted. I immediately felt stupid for the remark.

“During our engagement, we went to Paris with her parents for a week.” He continued, unperturbed by my unhelpful intermission.

“We dined in the finest restaurants, danced in the most exclusive night spots and stayed in a hotel of great luxury. It really was a most splendid week, despite my distaste for her mother.

She seemed to have an incredible talent for riling people up to the point where they were about to snap, only to then retire to an easy chair to languorously read for hours in their sight. It was almost as if she were feeding off the ill feeling in the room.

We returned from this trip, got married within the year, and returned to Paris for our honeymoon. We spent another week of intense and carefree hedonism, spending days drinking fine wine and dancing. It was a time of sheer joy. One never really does tire of the finest thing in life I find.

Upon our return though, there was a tangible change in her demeanour. She never ceased to talk of our next visit to Paris the following summer, and grew increasingly determined to make it happen. I had no argument as I thoroughly enjoyed the week, and we had been financially blessed by our wedding guests, so I set the remaining money aside for a return to the heady light of the city.

Thus we returned, and spent hours wandering the Seine by night, and sitting in cafes sipping lavish cocktails. But again on our arrival home, she became transfixed with the idea of returning. I told her we could not afford to continue with such extreme getaways, and she then took on a job as an assistant in a boutique. My work as a doctor left us financially comfortable, but she yearned tirelessly for these weeks of excessive escape.

Her work affected me little, as I was working many hours, and we just about accrued enough to enjoy another week in Paris. This time however I was uneasy about the reckless spending. I turned down extra drinks, and slyly advised her against certain clothing purchases.

Back in Britain, she seemed dissatisfied by the break, and vowed to take on another job at the weekends to fund the next year’s trip.

She was pleased with that trip as it lived up to those previous, so she carried on working the two jobs. I was seeing less and less of her though, as she worked overtime so that she might have another glass of her preferred wine, or buy the matching gloves the following year. She was becoming more withdrawn too when did see her. Tired, yet still determined to achieve her week of leisure class extravagance.

Mid way through the year, I took a heavy pay cut. It was rolled out across the nation, and I saw no other choice but to keep working away. Josephine took it badly though, and insisted that we trim certain comforts from our everyday life. No television licence, cold water for the washing up, she had sold the dishwasher you see, no more trips out together; anything that could be lived without, would instead be used for afternoon tea in the Ritz.

I objected of course, but after a week of unbearable tension in the house I gave in. I could no longer stand the way she would argue constantly her case, before withdrawing to the living room to incessantly solve crossword puzzles.

After a year of hardships, we were in Paris once more, and Josephine seemed even more intense than before. I had to call the bank during the week to free up extra funds as she was insatiable. On the final day she was decidedly upset. She sulked around the city all day before heading back early to the hotel.

Later on she went out for a walk, claiming she needed fresh air. I told her I was tired, so she went alone. An hour later I became concerned for her. It was an oversight on my part to let her go wandering without accompaniment, so I ventured out after her, leaving the room key with the girl on the desk.

After a nervy hour of pacing the arrondissements, I saw her standing in the centre of the Pont Au Change. She was leaning on the barrier watching the waters of the Seine sail gently away toward the sea. She turned to me, and fear filled her eyes. All of a sudden she climbed up onto the stone side of the bridge. My heart leapt, and before I knew it I was sprinting toward the middle of the bridge. I slowed as I approached her and realised I had no plan. I walked the last few steps, meaningfully placing one foot in front of the other so as not to surprise her.

“I do so envy the river,” she announced, still staring down at the murky water. “It never changes. It just flows endlessly through this enchanting city.”

“You must come down, please come down,” I ventured.

“I want never to come down. I am happy.”

“Might I at least come closer, that I might see as you do?”

She agreed and I came to stand behind her. I did not look at the water, I just firmly grabbed her by the arm.

“Come down.” I ordered. She pulled against me for a moment but then conceded. As she returned to the street level she looked deeply into my eyes.

“This must end. We cannot return. We cannot keep living this façade of a life.” As I spoke she continued to stare at me, emotionless, but piercingly so. She turned and walked back to the hotel and sure enough we left Paris, never to return.”

He took another large drink, picked up a beer mat and began turning it over and over in his hands as he continued.

“That was three years ago, and now she spends every day as my antagonist. She talks when I want silence, she is silent when I talk to her. She crushes my elations and nourishes my failures. It’s unbearable. Every time I try to have it out with her she just retires to her armchair and gets lost in a puzzle. She is curating a nightmare because I rationalised her dreams. I don’t know what to do.”

At this utterance a tear slid neatly across his cheek, down past his sullen mouth and onto the table. He followed it, slumping onto the table, his head in his hands.

I offered him words of consolation, but they were like throwing buckets of water at a wildfire, instantly evaporating at the measure of the destruction. He sat up, and we sat in silence for a while. He then announced his departure. I scribbled my telephone number on the beer mat, and suggested we meet again.

Outside the inn we embraced, and turned our separate ways. As I strode home through the now heavy rain, I reflected on the afternoon’s happenings. I wished so hopelessly that I could help and I vowed that I would give the matter great consideration.

I arrived home to the empty house and imagined Anthony returning to his. There was someone there, but his house was empty nonetheless. Perhaps even more so, as his was draining, while mine simply needed filling. I sat down, with the aim of untangling some of the strands of his despair, but soon fell into a deep sleep.