Never Let Me Go - Kazuo Ishiguro [123]
“Of course it’s important. A good carer makes a big difference to what a donor’s life’s actually like.”
“But all this rushing about you do. All this getting exhausted and being by yourself. I’ve been watching you. It’s wearing you out. You must do, Kath, you must sometimes wish they’d tell you you can stop. I don’t know why you don’t have a word with them, ask them why it’s been so long.” Then when I kept quiet, he said: “I’m just saying, that’s all. Let’s not fight again.”
I put my head on his shoulder and said: “Yeah, well. Maybe it won’t be for much longer anyway. But for now, I have to keep going. Even if you don’t want me around, there are others who do.”
“I suppose you’re right, Kath. You are a really good carer. You’d be the perfect one for me too if you weren’t you.” He did a laugh and put his arm round me, though we kept sitting side by side. Then he said: “I keep thinking about this river somewhere, with the water moving really fast. And these two people in the water, trying to hold onto each other, holding on as hard as they can, but in the end it’s just too much. The current’s too strong. They’ve got to let go, drift apart. That’s how I think it is with us. It’s a shame, Kath, because we’ve loved each other all our lives. But in the end, we can’t stay together forever.”
When he said this, I remembered the way I’d held onto him that night in the wind-swept field on the way back from Little-hampton. I don’t know if he was thinking about that too, or if he was still thinking about his rivers and strong currents. In any case, we went on sitting like that on the side of the bed for a long time, lost in our thoughts. Then in the end I said to him:
“I’m sorry I blew up at you earlier. I’ll talk to them. I’ll try and see to it you get someone really good.”
“It’s a shame, Kath,” he said again. And I don’t think we talked any more about it that morning.
I REMEMBER THE FEW WEEKS that came after that—the last few weeks before the new carer took over—as being surprisingly tranquil. Maybe Tommy and I were making a special effort to be nice to each other, but the time seemed to slip by in an almost carefree way. You might think there would have been an air of unreality about us being like that, but it didn’t seem strange at the time. I was quite busy with a couple of my other donors in North Wales and that kept me from the Kingsfield more than I’d have wanted, but I still managed to come in three or four times a week. The weather grew colder, but stayed dry and often sunny, and we whiled away the hours in his room, sometimes having sex, more often just talking, or with Tommy listening to me read. Once or twice, Tommy even brought out his notebook and doodled away for new animal ideas while I read from the bed.
Then I came in one day and it was the last time. I arrived just after one o’clock on a crisp December afternoon. I went up to his room, half expecting some change—I don’t know what. Maybe I thought he’d have put up decorations in his room or something. But of course, everything was as normal, and all in all, that was a relief. Tommy didn’t look any different either, but when we started talking, it was hard to pretend this was just another visit. Then again, we’d talked over so much in the previous weeks, it wasn’t as though we had anything in particular we had to get through. And I think we were reluctant to start any new conversation we’d regret not being able to finish properly. That’s why there was a kind of emptiness to our talk that day.
Just once, though, after I’d been wandering aimlessly around his room for a while, I did ask him:
“Tommy, are you glad Ruth completed before finding out everything we did in the end?”
He was lying on the bed, and went on staring at the ceiling for a while before saying: “Funny, because I was thinking about the same thing the other day. What you’ve got to remember about Ruth, when it came to things like that, she was always different to us. You and