The Sense of an Ending Page #6

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all on her very own,

she works in PR.

Whatever that may mean.

Thanks for the tea, Tony.

I have to leave,

I have an appointment.

Are you... did I say...

No, finish your cake.

Is this because I've been

banging on about myself?

'Cause I don't mean to.

No.

The other day, after we'd

met, I went to the pub.

I met Adrian.

Both Adrian and you

are very important to me.

And all I can say is that

abhorrent letter of mine

was the expression of a moment.

And it was deeply shocking

for me to read

after all these years.

Do we really need to do this?

If I may, though.

I'm not expecting you to hand

over Adrian's diary anymore.

If you've burnt it,

that's the end of it.

And if not,

as it was written

by the father of your son,

it belongs to you.

Enough.

I... I can only imagine how

difficult it's been for you.

No, you cannot imagine.

No. Right. Yes.

Whoops.

Ben:
Is that everyone?

Adrian, are you okay?

Adrian Jr.:
It's that man.

Yeah, that one I saw, yeah.

Over there?

Yes.

The one with the bad beard?

Ben:
I'll be right back.

Hello.

Is there something

I can help you with?

Do you want a chip?

No, I'm fine.

On the menu it says

they're fat cut, hand cut.

But what it really means

is they're fat cut.

They've not actually

been cut by hand at all.

Uh, look, don't take this

the wrong way, but...

I'll do my best.

I think, for whatever reason,

one of the people I look after

is a little uncomfortable

with you being here. Again.

Oh, I'm sorry.

I didn't mean to

upset anyone. I'll leave.

If you don't mind,

can I ask who you are?

Tony Webster.

Uh, Ben.

Do you mind if I sit down, Tony?

Of course.

Cheers.

I was an old friend

of Adrian's father,

and I've recently become

reacquainted with his mother.

Oh, you'll understand then.

She and I were

at university together.

Really? You don't look old

enough to have been at uni

with Adrian's mum.

You're too kind.

I was rather hoping to

bump into her here. But...

Wait, wait, sorry.

Bump into who?

Veronica. Adrian's mother.

Um...

You understand I can't discuss

our clients' histories,

it's a matter

of confidentiality.

Yeah, of course.

Now if you are

a friend of the family,

what you're saying, Tony,

doesn't make any sense.

Veronica is Adrian's sister.

Um, their mother, Sarah,

passed away six months ago.

How did he seem?

Cheerful.

Happy. Like himself.

Only more so.

As we said goodbye,

he told me he was in love.

You won't let Veronica

get away with too much,

will you?

Sorry?

Don't let her get away

with too much.

Are we okay?

They seem very happy,

the five of them.

You obviously do a good job.

We try our best.

Good luck to you all.

I'm gonna head back

to the group.

Margaret:
Please leave me

a message after the beep.

Hi, Margaret, it's me again.

Yeah, uh, this is it.

I think this is definitely it.

Where are you?

Tell me about your day.

My day?

Yeah. What you did.

Oh. Okay. I went to Highgate.

To see a woman who I'd had

a relationship with

when I was an undergraduate.

We've recently

become reacquainted.

But she wasn't there.

Wasn't where?

At home.

So what were you doing there?

I went to see her.

But she wasn't there.

No.

I waited around a bit,

outside and at the station.

So you're stalking her?

You're her stalker.

No.

Yes, you are.

No. Not at all, no.

No, moving on,

we broke up is the point.

While we were

still at university.

And not long after

she formed a relationship

with my best friend.

And I wrote them both

a very nasty letter.

And recently I've been working

under the assumption that

they'd had a child together

shortly before my best friend

committed suicide.

But now it appears

that the mother of that child

wasn't my ex-girlfriend,

but it was her mother.

And I can only assume

that it was

my horrible letter that in

some way pushed the friend...

Emma:
Hello again, Tony. Emma.

Oh, hi, Emma.

How we doing?

Oh,

I'd say holding up, just about.

Emma:
I'll just

check baby's head.

No, no, no. Dad, stay.

Just for a bit.

You can hold my hand.

What's going on?

I don't know what's going on.

Tony:
Everything's fine.

Dad, why isn't

anyone saying anything?

Everything's absolutely fine.

We're nearly there,

I promise you.

Emma:
Susie, you have a baby.

Congratulations.

Why isn't he crying?

He's not crying.

Can you see anything?

He's fine. He's fine.

Why isn't he crying?

Excuse me, my daughter's asking,

why isn't her son crying?

So proud of you.

I wanna see him.

Tony:
Yeah.

Baby.

Ah, look.

Say hello to your mummy.

There he is.

It's very hot.

Margaret:
Thank you.

You don't have to stay here,

you know.

I want to.

Susie said you dealt with

everything very impressively.

I'm not an entirely redundant

member of this family, yet.

I've never said you were.

Haven't you?

Where are you going?

I'm gonna give you some space.

Fine. But, uh,

you may be interested to know,

you probably won't,

but I was planning on

making an apology to you.

For being insensitive.

For being a bore.

For being a monumental pain

in the arse.

Maybe it's too little too late,

but I hope not.

I know, technically,

we're not supposed to make

pronouncements

of this nature anymore,

but you and Susie

are the two most important

people in my life.

Divorced. Married.

Makes no difference.

Well, there you are.

Despite what you might think,

I assure you, I'm trying.

What's wrong with your watch?

It's stopped.

Come on, baby.

Get you home.

Leaving. Leaving hospital.

Tony:
How often do we

tell our own life story?

How often do we adjust,

embellish, make sly cuts?

And the longer life goes on,

the fewer are

those around to tell us

our life is not our life.

It is just a story

we've told about our lives.

A story about our lives

told to others,

but mainly to ourselves.

Oh, hello. How are you?

What?

Are you well?

Uh, fine.

Want a coffee?

Yeah.

Mmm.

Thank you.

Could you, um...

Could you sign here,

please? I just got...

Thank you.

Great, thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Tony:
I've been turning over

in my mind

the question of nostalgia,

and whether I suffer from it.

I suppose I am nostalgic.

I think of my time with Margaret

and Susie's birth

and her first years.

A bunch of kids in school.

A girl dancing

for once in her life.

A secret horizontal gesture

beneath a sunlit Wisteria.

I think of Adrian's

definition of history.

I think of everything

that has happened in my life,

and how little

I have allowed to happen.

I, who neither won nor lost.

Who avoided being hurt

and called it

a capacity for survival.

I think of how our lives

got entwined

and went along together

for a time.

And when I look back,

now, on that time,

however brief,

I am moved

more than I thought possible.

Indeed, I'm sorry

that I have known nothing

of your life in the years since.

No doubt you could have taught

this old fool a thing or two.

Perhaps, in a way, you have.

Hello.

Surprise.

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