‘Karl! It’s not true, Dr Schmidt.’
Frau Angela brushed away the air with one arm, while stretching out the other to switch on the TV.
‘I cancelled my last two appointments,’ she gasped as she fell into one of the armchairs, kicking off her sensible shoes. ‘It’s not every day we land on the moon, and as I missed it when it actually happened I’d like to watch it now.’
‘You cancelled your last two appointments again?’
‘My son is making fun of me, Jane.’
‘Mami got the times wrong,’ Karl explained. ‘They were landing late last night, but it was almost another six hours before Armstrong came out of the capsule and actually stepped on the moon, and by then it was four in the morning.’
‘July 20, they said. At a reasonable hour here in London, I thought. So I cancelled my last two appointments to get back home in time, and in the end I was falling asleep on the sofa, I couldn’t even manage to stay up for the landing.’
‘But yesterday was Sunday,’ I said.
‘My busiest day,’ sighed Dr Schmidt. ‘All the fun of Saturday is gone, Monday is looming, and suddenly the weight of the world seems so unbearably heavy. The mistake, of course, is how extremely we separate the week from the weekend; it’s very punishing. One must learn to make the best of it; that’s what I say to my clients. Karl also, he must know how to rest. Just listen sometimes, not learn but enjoy. And almost every Saturday we manage to find something. You should join us some time, I’m sure Karl would like that, no?’ And when Karl had nodded to say yes, ‘So I take the day off every Saturday, then I work in the afternoon and evening on Sundays and Mondays, then all day on Tuesday - tomorrow until ten, with the two missed appointments, and today I had to start in the morning, to catch up with yesterday’s two missed appointments. The moon has been a scheduling nightmare. But now it’s fine, we know that they are already there.’
The TV was warming up, and the buzz of the grainy black and white filled me with an odd premonition of chaos.
‘How are things at home?’ It was Dr Schmidt, not Frau Angela or Mami, who had asked me the question while we waited for the picture to adjust.
‘I’ve already told Jane what you said.’
‘I see.’ After scowling at her son with a glare of disapproval, Dr Schmidt leaned forward in her chair to assault me with professional concern. ‘What happened to your mother was terrible,’ she said. ‘But so was what happened to you. Terrible, terrible…’
‘I’m all right, Dr Schmidt, really. It was nearly ten years ago now, I don’t even remember my mum very clearly.’
‘But here you remember, here you will never forget.’ Dr Schmidt had spread out both her hands, and with one over the other was thumping at the side of her breast with some force. She looked like she was giving herself CPR. I felt myself erupting in goosebumps. Was this how a Reichian therapist did things? And what on earth might a Reichian therapist do next? A vague apprehension took hold of me.
‘Anyway,’ I said, trying to change the subject, ‘dad’s been very happy since he met his new girlfriend. I quite like her, most of the time. She’s called Mia-Mia, and she works as a hairdresser in Chelsea.’
‘Yes, Karl did mention something, and I think it’s important that you like her.’
‘She’s lived with us since soon after they met, for more than two years now... But she goes to her brother’s bed-and-breakfast in Torquay quite a lot.’
‘Look!’ Karl cried out. ‘There’s Armstrong coming out of the capsule.’
‘Is that really the moon?’ Dr Schmidt had recited the words like a child.
The weightlessness, the crackle, the blur; I thought the effect was otherworldly.
‘That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind…’
‘So banal,’ said Karl.
‘Karl tells me that you’re reading Franz Kafka,’ said Dr Schmidt. And going back to the bouncing about on the moon, ‘Ach, the symbolism! While they slowly murder Vietnam, even on another planet they show off their flag.’ Then returning to me, ‘A tortured man but a marvellous writer, complex and yet also entirely simple. As I always say, one is never too young to be reading Kafka, and never too old to be reading him differently.’
‘The moon isn’t a planet,’ said Karl.
‘Wednesdays are my Sabbath, non-religious of course. Would you like to have lunch with us the day after tomorrow, let’s say at half past two? I’m planning a very late lie-in.’
‘I’d love to, Dr Schmidt, if Karl doesn’t mind.’
‘Karl would be delighted,’ said Karl, winking at me surreptitiously as I got up to leave. ‘And I’m also free tomorrow evening, if you’re not reading Kafka.’
‘Wait!’ Frau Angela instructed, lifting up one arm to bar my way. I turned to Karl, but he looked as at a loss as I was. Leaning forward in her chair, his mother had her face almost rubbing with the static from the television screen. ‘Richard Nixon!’ she cried out, as though his likeness had jumped out from the grain. ‘The man is so obviously a crook, and if he’s managed to become the president of the United States, then I’m sure he’s also capable of that! It’s so ridiculously bad that it’s almost convincing. “That’s one small step for man…” Was that really the best they could come up with? Did they honestly believe they could fool us with a cliché and a B-movie set in the desert? If that is the moon, I will eat Paul McCartney’s guitar.’
‘But why, Dr Schmidt, why would they do that?’
‘A red-under-the-bed anti-communist hysteria,’ answered Frau Angela succinctly. ‘In the new war everything’s becoming propaganda. But lies are not a good way to fight lies. It’s like throwing out the baby with the bathwater, an old German saying that reminds me very much of Confucius.’
‘We have the same saying in English,’ I said.
‘No! What you have is the German saying translated into English. But really, Karl, I cannot bear to watch this any more. Please, turn it off.’
6
Mia-Mia
Late in the morning on the day after mankind’s giant leap, Mia-Mia returned from Torquay. As though the moon had spent the hours of the night pleading with the sun to punish London for Nixon’s conceit, it was a particularly scorching day, and with the windows open auntie Ada and I were sitting at the kitchen table washing down a sandwich with tea. The two giant slices of Black Forest Gateau auntie Ada had brought with her were waiting in front of us on separate plates. When we heard the front door open, auntie Ada’s eyes locked forlornly onto mine…
‘Have you seen today’s front pages? Apparently we’ve conquered the moon.’ Breezing in, Mia-Mia had slung a pile of papers on the table.
‘They landed very late on Sunday night, and on Monday at four in the morning Armstrong came out of the capsule,’ I said. ‘Most of these are yesterday’s papers.’
‘I’ve not had time to look at them properly,’ said Mia-Mia.
‘What brought you back so soon?’ asked auntie Ada.
‘Torquay, if you must know. But this heat! It’s just too much, I don’t think I’ll survive it if it goes on much longer.’
‘Your hair certainly hasn’t,’ said auntie Ada.
‘I had it cut short, don’t you like it? Mia-Mia Farrow, I thought, in Rosemary’s Baby.’
A natural silvery blonde with beautifully shaped unplucked eyebrows, when her make up was on Mia-Mia was… I would have probably said “handsome” rather than “pretty”. She wasn’t what they called “a bombshell”, but had the gift of making excellent use of her flaws: her elongated awkwardness was ballerina-like, and by accentuating her complete lack of curve she took on the air of a confident model like Twiggy. Somehow or other she was really quite pleasant to look at. She wore fashionable clothes from trendy boutiques on the King’s Road in Chelsea, where she occasionally worked as a stylist in a hairdressing salon – she was apparently very sought after, and claimed she made an absolute fortune in tips. She never wore a bra, as far as I could see. In fa
ct, as far as I could see, Mia-Mia had very little cause to wear a bra.
‘I’m parched, aren’t you even going to offer me some tea? I’ll make a fresh pot for all of us, shall I?’
‘There’s a good girl,’ said auntie Ada.
‘I’ve watched it all on television,’ I said, puffing myself up like a peacock.
‘Don’t fib, we don’t have a television.’
‘But my friend Karl has,’ I said. ‘And I watched all this,’ I poked with a finger at the headlines, ‘with him and his mum. Karl stayed up through Sunday night and watched it live, and then we all watched it together last night on the news. We were talking and the astronauts were there,’ I pointed with a finger at the oven, ‘jumping about on the moon. You can ask her if you don’t believe me. Her name is Dr Schmidt, and she’s a famous Reichian therapist.’
‘Ooh, a famous Reichian therapist, is she?’
‘What’s a Reichian therapist?’ asked auntie Ada.
‘She knows how to make people happy,’ I said.
‘No wonder she’s famous.’ When she laughed, Mia-Mia had an irritating habit of clapping her hands.
‘Another charlatan,’ said auntie Ada.
‘Oh, but she’s not. And she doesn’t believe that any of this actually happened.’ I was poking at the papers again. ‘She thinks it’s probably fake. Nixon’s propaganda.’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me,’ said auntie Ada.
‘It’s all to do with throwing out the baby with the bathwater,’ I said. ‘Like the Communists do.’
‘If I knew what that meant, it would probably make sense,’ said auntie Ada.
‘Shall I be mother then? I just hope that what they say is true, and tea really does cool you down.’
‘I take mine black,’ said auntie Ada, after getting up to rinse out her cup. And after rinsing out mine, ‘And white with one sugar for Jane.’
‘Only one, are you sure? I thought she took three.’ Mia-Mia looked at me for confirmation.
‘Not when there’s cake,’ I explained.
‘And why are all the windows open, there’s hardly going to be a draft when there isn’t any air. You’re just letting all the dust in.’
‘Karl’s mother’s German, you see. Karl’s named after his grandfather, who stole an Otto Dix from the Gestapo. His grandmother on the other side was Greek and his grandfather British, and they were both shot in Greece, executed in the wrong civil war just because there wasn’t a right side. Their son’s name was Euripides Smith, and he’d promised old Karl that he’d marry Angela Schmidt as long as they could share the Otto Dix. They both needed money to study. But after Karl was born, Dr Euripides Smith moved to Australia to practise neurosurgery in Sydney with his girlfriend from Sweden, and Dr Angela Schmidt stayed in London with Karl to practise Reichian therapy near Angel. Karl’s name’s now officially Schmidt-Smith.’
‘That seems perfectly straightforward,’ said auntie Ada.
‘And you only know the half of it,’ I said.
‘Who’s Nixon?’ asked Mia-Mia. ‘Is he one of the astronauts who walked on the moon?’
‘You’re not serious,’ said auntie Ada.
‘He’s the president of the United States,’ I said.
‘Really? I thought that Jackie Kennedy was president of the United States.’
‘No, Jackie Kennedy was one of the astronauts who walked on the moon,’ said auntie Ada. ‘And the tea’s too bloody weak.’
I couldn’t help a little giggle.
‘Are you two making fun of me?’ asked Mia-Mia.
‘As if!’ said auntie Ada. ‘And you’ve still not really told us why you’ve cut your visit short. George said you’d be away at least until Thursday.’
‘I was, but I won’t have my brother speaking down to me, just because he’s got a poky bed-and-breakfast in Torquay.’
‘Speaking down to you how?’
‘It doesn’t matter how. I won’t tolerate being spoken down to, and especially not in this heat.’ Mia-Mia crossed her arms against her chest and stared at the two slices of Black Forest Gateau. ‘So I’m back, and my Mr Magikoo is delighted I’m back, as he made very clear when I popped into the shop to say hello. And I mean, very clear.’
Reminded of the Black Forest Gateau, I dug a fork into my slice and savoured the first mouthful.
‘But it’s not even noon yet,’ said auntie Ada, ‘how long is the journey from Torquay?’
‘Long enough.’
‘I mean, if you left Torquay this morning…’
‘What is this, the Spanish Inquisition? I left Torquay when I left Torquay.’
I filled the awkward silence with mouthfuls of Black Forest Gateau.
‘I think I’ll be off now, home to glorious Cyprus Street,’ said auntie Ada, slapping her hands on the table and half getting up.
‘Already? I hope it wasn’t anything I said.’
‘Just get George to let me know when you’ve made up with your brother. And try not to leave it too long.’
‘Really, Ada, you’re welcome to come over and stay whenever you like, you know that.’
‘I don’t think I know that at all.’
‘Well, you do now, because I’ve just told you. We all know how much Jane likes to see you.’
‘Not quite as much as she likes to see Karl.’
‘I might be seeing him later this evening,’ I said.
‘Might you indeed!’ said Mia-Mia, sneaking me a little wink.
‘But don’t you know at all when you’re next going to Torquay?’ insisted auntie Ada.
‘I should probably stop going altogether.’
Auntie Ada’s mouth quivered. ‘And why would you do that?’
‘Because I’ve never really been all that keen on my brother, or on Torquay for that matter.’
‘I’m sure the feeling’s mutual.’
‘Oh, don’t go yet, auntie Ada.’ And after scraping my plate clean and swallowing what was left of my Black Forest Gateau, ‘You’ve only just arrived, I’ve hardly seen you.’
‘I know,’ said auntie Ada, ‘and I’m also disappointed. But why not try and look on the bright side? Mia’s right, the less you see of me, the more you’ll see of Karl and his television.’
‘The name is Mia-Mia, and I never said any such thing.’
‘Here, you can have my slice too.’ Auntie Ada used both hands to push her plate towards me.
‘Ada, you’ll make the girl fat. And I’ve not even been offered a biscuit.’
‘But you never eat sweets,’ I said.
‘That’s right, my lovely, I don’t, I was pulling your leg.’ And pushing the plate even further towards me, ‘Go on, don’t be shy.’
I looked at the slice of Black Forest Gateau, and then I looked at my watch. ‘I better not,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow I’m having late lunch with Karl and his mother.’
‘Oh, late lunch!’ beamed auntie Ada, at last sounding cheerful again.
‘And you might also be visiting him later this evening,’ said Mia-Mia.
‘My, you are seeing a lot of each other.’
Late one night more than two and a half years earlier my father had come home from the pub, stumbling after Mia-Mia through the door, steering her unsteady tallness by the waist as though she were a merry wounded soldier. Auntie Ada was staying, and we were both still up. It was a cold winter night, and the triple-bar electric fire was on. It gave out little heat unless you were too close, and then it dried you up. But the colour of its crackling orange bars was thrown around the room and made it more homely. With a heavy blanket over us we were huddled up together on the old two-seater sofa my father had claimed as his chair, discussing Kafka’s The Metamorphosis.
Auntie Ada knew a lot about books. She had a good job at the library in Kentish Town, where she had started her career just one week after finishing school, earning the required qualification after several years of intensive part-time study. She often told me stories from her childhood that made my skin crawl, b
ut never with the bitterness that always took her over when she quarrelled with my father.
Her dream of University, as a stepping-stone to writing for the stage, had been thwarted by the need to bring in an extra wage. My grandfather had died in the war, rather ignominiously mauled by a dog while pilfering wine from a farm in northern France some time after Mr Hitler had expired in Berlin. According to auntie Ada, he had not been greatly mourned. My father, who was six years her junior, had been the apple of their mother’s eye since the day he was born, and my grandmother had always been determined that her dreams for her son would be fulfilled even at the cost of sacrificing totally those of her daughter. “A good marriage”, in other words a marriage that she wouldn’t feel relieved to be delivered from by a dog, ought to be ample for her Ada. It did not befit girls to be too clever. If anything, it damaged their prospects.
My father’s dreams for himself, firm and more resilient than his sister’s, had formed when he was still a young boy, and did not correspond in the slightest with those that his mother had been harbouring on his behalf: University as a stepping-stone to a middle ranking job in the civil service. Life had stunted her imagination, even reining in her ambitions for her favourite child. But fortunately for my father he was gifted with a wild imagination, and the dexterity to conjure sleights of hand that defied the laws of nature.
‘After everything I’ve done for you, you want to be a magician?’
Those few words, said auntie Ada, were my grandmother’s last. She and young George had watched the symmetry of their mother’s face contort as her central nervous system meted out the various symptoms of a stroke, so massive she could never have recovered from it. Within forty-eight hours she was gone.
‘So first he killed his own mother and then he killed mine. And I’d have been next, if you hadn’t put a stop to Sweeney Todd.’
‘It’s a miracle that either of us survived,’ said auntie Ada, and no sooner had a chuckle escaped her than we both broke into spasms of quite uncontrollable laughter.
‘But seriously, auntie Ada, did you never feel angry, not even a little bit? I think you’d have been brilliant as a playwright.’
The Madness of Grief Page 4