The Grid - Friday 13th August 2010:
Having considered his absence for a few hours would not cause disruption or inconvenience to his team, Harry is surprised, perhaps even miffed upon his return to find that all has not descended into chaos and confusion. The Grid is almost silent. His eyes are drawn to a beam of light illuminating a desk; he is not surprised that the desk is Ruth's any more than he is surprised that she stays at work for more hours than is needed. Nor is he disappointed. Her presence, even at a distance, provides his working days with much needed balance; a calm and steady reminder that he is not alone in the world. Shoulders as wide as his require that he regularly acknowledge the need he has for a close confidante – someone whom he can trust, someone who at the most difficult of times can be there to help share his burdens.
Seeing her glancing up from her work, Harry drops his eyes, pretending to read the first of the messages which have been placed on his desk during his absence. The Foreign Secretary has rung twice, followed by two different members of the JIC, and several calls from someone called Annabel Cruikshank, who has demanded that he return her calls at his first opportunity. All will have to wait until tomorrow. It's after eight in the evening, and he could do with a drink, followed by some food. Harry leans back in his chair, palms on the surface of his desk, contemplating the wisdom of ordering takeaway. Maybe he could ask Ruth to join him. Or not. Since his desperate proposal earlier in the year, the two of them have thrown themselves into their work, the prospect of a life spent together now dead in the water. He sighs heavily, saddened once again by the memory of Ruth's response, delivered like the final blow that it was. If only he had not accepted her rejection without question or argument. If only he had thought to counter her response with a verbal picture of the plans he had for them, his vision of the life they could share.
"I thought you might need a drink." Ruth's voice interrupts his private musings. She is standing in the doorway to his office, and in her hands she carries two mugs of steaming coffee. He quickly stands, crossing the office floor to take the mugs from her.
"Perhaps we could sit on the sofa," he says, hoping she doesn't think he's coming on to her.
"Good idea," she says, offering him a weak smile before perching at one end of the sofa.
They sit at an unnatural distance from one another, each carefully sipping their coffees while privately wondering where they should go from here. Ruth's rejection of his proposal of marriage still hovers between them, an unwelcome guest who refuses to leave after the party has ended.
"You look wrecked," she says at last, and Harry turns to see her staring hard at him.
"It's been a long day, and today ..." But he can't finish that sentence. The reason he had been away from the office since mid-afternoon was personal, and he and Ruth no longer share a personal bond. That realisation saddens him, and he allows his shoulders to sag. Turning back to her he finds her watching him, her forehead creased in what he hopes is worry, or concern. "Have you heard of of Annabel Cruikshank?" he asks.
Ruth's face quickly changes, and she sits up, her back straight. "Why? Why do you ask?"
"She called several times while I was out."
"She's an analyst as GCHQ. I've heard she's after my job."
Harry suppresses a desire to laugh. "So she thinks she can blag her way into your job," he says lightly.
When Ruth smiles, her face relaxes. "I'm told that once Annabel makes up her mind about something she is resolute. She won't take no for an answer."
Unlike me, Harry thinks. Maybe he should call Annabel, and canvass her for some tips. "I'll not be taking her calls then," he says quietly.
They spend long minutes in silence, each locked inside themselves on the sofa, each maintaining their distance from the other. While Ruth appears relaxed, Harry is excruciatingly ill at ease. He takes a sip of his coffee, but at this time in the evening it is not his preferred drink. Should he speak to her about his day? Should he share with her his views on the month of August? Why not? There is nothing between them any more, which also means there is nothing to be lost.
"Today is the tenth anniversary of my father's death," he says quietly, his eyes down, as though contemplating his coffee. "Each year I avoid visiting his grave, but today I thought it … about time I made the effort."
"I'm sorry," Ruth says, glancing down to where her mug of coffee rests in her hands.
"Don't be. It was a long time ago."
"Ten years is hardly a long time."
Harry's nod is barely perceptible. "I suppose so."
"Was his death .. sudden?"
"Not exactly, although once the Alzheimer's diagnosis was made, he lived less than a year. Sometimes it's like that."
"That was before I began working here," Ruth says, watching Harry's discomfort.
He turns towards her and nods. "I'd already lost my mother when I was twenty. She also died in August, so ..."
"It's a sad month for you," Ruth says quietly. Across the distance between them Harry can sense her empathy. He nods.
"But it's sad because I make any excuses available to me to not visit their graves on the anniversary of their deaths."
"You went today, so that's the main thing."
"Mostly it's Jane who maintains the graves."
"Jane?"
"My ex-wife. She and my dad were great pals. He'd call her the daughter he never had. I suspect she was closer to my father than to her own."
"That's … unusual."
"I suppose so, but it's always been that way, ever since Jane and I began dating."
"Was she there today .. at your father's grave?"
Harry shakes his head. "She's on the continent for a few weeks, so my daughter agreed to accompany me to Reading. That's where my parents are buried."
Ruth fiddles with the handle of her coffee mug while Harry watches her. She appears discomforted by the talk of his family. She rarely mentions her own family, and she never mentions George or Nico, although he knows how much they both meant to her. "Do you ever see your ex-wife?" she asks at last, lifting her eyes to his.
Harry is temporarily stunned by her forthright question. "Not if either of us can help it," he says bluntly. "We didn't part on the best of terms, and the intervening years have done little to soften that."
"That's so sad."
Harry nods. He supposes it is, but needing to break the mood he stands, crossing the floor to the cupboard behind his desk where he places his coffee mug on the shelf, before lifting the whiskey decanter. "Would you like one?" he asks, turning to Ruth, who shakes her head. "You don't mind if I ..." to which Ruth again shakes her head.
When he returns to the sofa, Harry sits a little closer to her, watching her while she fiddles with the handle of her coffee mug. There is part of him would love to climb inside her mind, just so he can read her private thoughts.
"My own father died when I was eleven," Ruth says at last, her voice barely audible.
"I know," Harry says, and when she turns towards him, he qualifies his reply. "You mentioned it … years ago."
Ruth nods. "I also make excuses not to visit his grave, but that's because doing so dredges up the pain of losing him." She picks at the sleeve of her cardigan before lifting her eyes. "Did you and your father have a good relationship? "she asks him.
Harry sighs heavily, reluctant to visit his past. "When I was a boy, yes," he begins. "I was the eldest, and he was a busy man, but he always made time for me, but when I hit sixteen or so, I suppose I believed I no longer required his guidance. I'm ashamed to say I became .. terse with him, and sometimes even unkind." He breaks eye contact with Ruth, wondering why he'd thought to share such a personal reality with the woman who had so definitively turned him down.
"You are someone who needs to approach life on your own terms, Harry. Don't feel shame at wanting to develop independence. It's one of your finest traits, although I have to say that it's also .. rather .."
"Irritating?"
Which is when Ruth turns towards him and smiles her most natural of smiles. "I was about to say it can be difficult for anyone trying to convince you that you may not always be right, and that you might benefit from listening to others."
This time it is Harry who smiles. How like Ruth to wrap her critical thoughts in such polite words. "What you're trying to say, Ruth, is that in avoiding others' attempts to control me, I become as controlling as they are."
Ruth nods, still smiling. "I'm glad you said that," she says gently. "I wouldn't have had the nerve."
Harry is surprised to find himself relaxed and smiling into Ruth's eyes. He has little idea what is happening here, but he doesn't want it to end. He watches her for a long moment before she is the one to break eye contact.
"It's especially your independence in thought and ideas which I find most … admirable." Ruth's voice is so quiet that Harry has to lean a little closer to hear her. Admirable? Did she just call his independence admirable?
"If I ever begin to think or behave like the pen pushers or number crunchers on the seventh floor, then please tell me," he says, not altogether seriously. The sudden change in tone of their conversation has so surprised him that he has almost forgotten that his whiskey sits on the small table by his left elbow.
"And what if I were to do that?" Ruth says at last.
"To tell me?" he asks, and Ruth nods. "I'd have to throw myself from the roof balcony to the street below."
"Wouldn't that be a trifle …?"
"Foolish?" Harry offers.
"I was thinking it more unnecessarily dramatic," she replies, "especially when all that is required would be a change in perspective."
Harry smiles a slow smile. She's right, of course. There is a lull in their conversation during which Ruth finishes her coffee, while he slowly sips his whiskey. He doesn't know about her, but for himself, he doesn't want the evening to end, although he knows it will, and probably quite soon.
"I have to go soon, but I was thinking," Ruth says, turning towards him, having placed her empty coffee mug on the floor beside her. "Next Tuesday evening my choir are having a full rehearsal of our next performance. It's Beethoven's Choral Fantasy. Bernard – ," she rattles on quickly, "the choirmaster is especially fond of it, so he generally gets his own way. I was wondering whether … but you can say no if you like, because you're probably busy -"
"Ruth .. spit it out. What is it you're asking?"
She lifts her eyes to his, clearly embarrassed that she'd raised the subject. "Would you like to attend the rehearsal .. as my guest? It begins at seven."
"As long as I don't have to sing, I'd love to."
"Some of the choir members ask friends and family along to the final rehearsal. Bernard's wife is always there, her critical musical ear in overdrive. She's not terribly popular with the members of the choir."
"Then I promise to only offer praise," he says.
Ruth drops her eyes, searching for the right words. "I'd rather you were honest in your appraisal, but keep in mind we're just a group of amateurs."
Harry nods, wondering what it is has fueled her change of heart. As much as he'd love to know at what moment she had decided that they could spend some time together away from work, he may never know. In a burst of uncharacteristic optimism, Harry's next words are spoken before he has time to edit them, or even to change his mind about the wisdom of airing them. "And after the rehearsal we could have a bite to eat .. together."
Ruth is slow to lift her gaze from her hands, which are folded in her lap. The seconds between his invitation to a shared meal and her lifting her head to look at him feel like an eon.
"I don't think we're quite ready," she begins quietly, not quite meeting his gaze.
A wave of dread passes through him, but he has to ask. "Do you mean us … or the choir?"
Ruth's answering smile is very welcome. "I was thinking more of the choir," she says before once again dropping her gaze to her fingers. "As for us … I suspect we're more than ready."
Is she serious? And when had her change of heart occurred exactly? "I suspect we were ready some time ago," he offers hopefully, "but it seems we're so rarely on the same page .. at the same time."
Noticing Ruth's definitive nod, accompanied by the softest of smiles, Harry sighs heavily, turning away from her to focus on the wall behind his desk. Feeling Ruth's eyes on him, he turns back to her, his words out of his mouth before he is aware of having spoken them. "So after Ros's funeral we were not on the same page."
He is relieved to see Ruth's gentle smile. "We were not even in the same book," she says lightly, "and probably not even in the same library. On the night of Ros's funeral I regretted my hasty reply to your … suggestion, but what was done could not be undone."
"And now?"
"So long as you don't surprise me with another proposal we should be fine. And we're long overdue for another meal together."
He is not about to argue with that. Harry takes a quick sip of whiskey, planning his next step … the step to offer Ruth a ride home. He shouldn't, really. He still has a few calls to make, and it's best he make them from his office. He is still conducting a private and silent argument around the pros and cons of offering to drive Ruth home, when she beats him to it. When he feels her stand, he turns to see her on her feet, her hands quickly brushing her skirt, as though she'd dropped crumbs in her lap. Perhaps, after all, the crumbs were invisible, the crumbs of words not said, of unspoken regrets, and years of silent longing.
He quickly stands, taking a small step towards her. "You're going?"
"The next bus leaves in fifteen minutes, and before you offer me a ride home, I need to go. It's been lovely talking, and I look forward to Tuesday evening."
Ruth hesitates for only a moment, and then she leaves his office, hurrying to her desk to collect her things. Harry takes their empty mugs to the kitchen, and when he again appears on the Grid floor, Ruth has already left. They really are the most awkward couple. She is shy, and he is hesitant, although he has only ever been hesitant with her. With other women, he has always acted with confidence, and even assertiveness.
He ambles to his office, suddenly not so keen to make those phone calls. Surely they can wait until tomorrow. He is turning off his computer when he hears his phone's text message tone. He reaches into his jacket pocket. The message is from Ruth.
Sorry for running out on you like that. I need some time on the bus to think about our conversation. I'll see you Monday.
Of course Ruth will need to put what had happened that evening into the correct folders in her inner filing system, the secret space she reserves for such events, rare as they have been in their shared past. He'd rather she just accept that during their evening together they had drawn closer, but had she then she wouldn't be the Ruth he adores. His reply to her is brief.
No need for an apology. I look forward to Tuesday evening.
That will have to do. And as sure as he is that he's about to blindly step into the minefield that is Ruth's fluctuating emotional life, he hopes the journey will be worth it. Only time will tell.
