A Judgement on a Life

by Stephen Baddeley

  I worried about him now, because I knew he was carrying something inside him, and that it was something he shouldn’t have been. I knew he pretended not to be carrying it, and pretended that everything was alright. I knew he was trying to hide it from me, and to protect me from it. I thought it had to do with the revenge I knew he wanted, on Peter and the Major and the men who mutilated me. It worried me to know that and, because it worried me, I talked to him about it and Ambrosia did too. We thought we’d talked him out of wanting revenge, but it turned out that we hadn’t, and, in hindsight, we should have talked more. I don’t know why we didn’t talk more than we did. Perhaps it was because we thought we didn’t need to, that we thought we’d convinced him.

  If we had talked more, would that have made a difference to all the bad things that were about to happen to us, to all of us, to all five of us? I’ve never been sure about any of that.

  I think I was fooling myself when I thought I’d, we’d, talked him out of the revenge he wanted, because I knew that, when I did try to talk to him about it, the shutters came down, and he was closed to me.

  I told him how lucky we’d all been to get through the bad times and how important it was for us to forget them, how dwelling on them would only lessen the good times we had to look forward to, that we had one another and Ambrosia and now we had the girls too, that we had everything we could possibly wish for, and more than we ever thought we would have, that we should get on with the job of being the best parents we could be, and with being as happy as it was possible to be.

  I knew he agreed with me, in a ‘sort of’ sort of way, in a Tommy ‘sort of’ way. He was a good man and a smart man, but he wasn’t a simple or straightforward man, not all of him, not when you got to know him. I knew the part of him that glowed in the dark. I wasn’t sure that he knew that I did, but I did.

  When I first met him, I thought he was a simple man, but I was wrong. Most of him was simple and straightforward, but not all of him. There were complex and convoluted parts of him that were made and moulded in the strangeness and sadness of his childhood. They were the complex parts of him that were not the man I loved, because the man I loved was the simple, kind and honest man. That was the real Tommy. The complex parts of him were hidden, and not really a part of the original plan of him. His capacity for hate and his need for revenge were hidden things.

  Sometimes I thought I knew Tommy better than he knew himself. I once told him he was a ‘man-of-parts’, and, in so many ways, he was. When I said that he was a ‘man-of-parts’, I was referring to his good parts and only later did I come to know the other parts of him, but those parts weren’t the parts I loved. They weren’t added parts, because they were always there, but hidden away deep down, beyond the sunlit places everyone could see, and it was me who found them by mining too deeply into his dark places, the places we all have, but not always know that we have, and even when we know that we have them, aren’t happy in the knowledge of them. Most of us have parts of us that we aren’t happy with and those who don’t think they have those parts probably haven’t looked deep enough.

  I think the things I found, when I mined too deeply into him, were the things his father laid down, like layers of sediment in the early days of his creation. Layers of sediment that were compressed by the years of pain, and fear, and hatred into layers that became rock.

  I was in love with the parts of him that came from his mother, laid down by his mother, and I didn’t have to mine to find those. They lay on the surface of him and were the things I saw first, ignored, and then, only later, saw again and came to love.

  He often talked about his mother, and I felt as though I knew her.

  When he talked about her, he talked in that funny, jerky way Tommy talked about everything, but when he talked about his mother the jerkiness was jerkier, and I think it was the emotion he felt, when he talked about her, that made him think in, and talk in, that jerkier way. You may already know about the funny staccato way Tommy talked.

  He said that I was like her in lots of ways and, when he talked about her, I thought he might be right. When he talked about her I thought I could recognise parts of her that I knew were parts of me. He said he’d ended up marrying his mother, and I knew what a big compliment that was. I wish I’d met her and I wish the girls could have met her. She would have made a wonderful grandmother, I knew that. I was glad none of us would ever have to meet his father.

  Could I heal this damaged man I’d made? Were there ways to do it that would bring him back to the man I loved, and push the man I didn’t love back into the deep places where he belonged? Would time do it? Would talking do it? Would loving do it? Would they, all together, do it? Or would it take something more? Would I need something more to dissolve the hatred and rid us all of the parts of him that never saw the light?

  Would I, in repairing him, be meddling with his soul? Whatever that may be. Do any of us have one of those? I’m almost certain I don’t have one, and that neither does Tommy, and that neither do you, but who can be certain about anything to do with the soul? I think I’m certain that there isn’t a God, but if I was absolutely certain that there isn’t a God, then perhaps I wouldn’t have just given him a ‘G’, instead of a ‘g’.

  I think it’s best not to be absolutely certain about things. It’s easy to be absolutely certain about things, because it takes away the need for thought. A lot of stupid people are absolutely certain about things, lots of things, because it’s always easier that way. Believing things are black or white is always the easier way, even when most of us know the truth is some shade of grey.

  Stupid people, being absolutely certain about things, black or white things, have caused a lot of the strife in the history of our world.

  Stupid people burned witches in Salem. Stupid people burned books in Berlin. Stupid people blew up children in Belfast.

  Fire, stupidity and religion go well together. They always have. They’re happy together.

  I’m as certain, as it is possible to be, that there is no god.

  I was able to repair him, and push the parts of him I didn’t love back down to where they came from. I repaired the damage from his ghastly father and his vacuous brother. He was so young and vulnerable back then, and carried so much hate. It wasn’t good for him to be carrying so much hate and I knew that from the first time I met him.

  I could see he wasn’t happy from the start, right from the first day I met him on the beach. He was a damaged man, and I could see he was from the start. It was the damage that was stopping him from being happy. So, I repaired him, and he helped me do it. It was good that we did it together. It wasn’t easy, but we got there.

  Then there were good times, and we were both as happy as we could remember being. I was happy because I was in love for the first time, and all the other times when I’d thought I was in love came to seem so shallow.

  Then things happened, and what happened damaged him all over again. I was a big part of what caused the new damage, and the new damage I caused was worse than the old damage I’d repaired. I wasn’t proud of doing the things I did to cause the new damage, but I had other priorities and thought I had no choice in what I did, but that was wrong, because I did have a choice and it was just that I ended up making the wrong one. I made such a mess of everything.

  To start with, Tommy wasn’t a priority, and he didn’t become one until later. Repairing him for a second time wasn’t so easy, but, in reality, he repaired himself, without much help from me. Where I was, I couldn’t help him. He used his hatred for me to repair himself, and that’s when the casualties occurred.

  Ambrosia was there to help him, and I was jealous of her for being there to help him, but I was glad she was there, in a jealous sort of way.

  Seven

  I listened to voices. The voices. The voices from deep inside me. I heard what the voices said. I wanted Prouse and the Major dead. That’s what the v
oices said.

  I decided on murder. ‘She’ talked me out of it. ‘She’ thought she talked me out of it. ‘She’ was Annie. ‘She’ was Ambrosia.

  Then other voices spoke to me. I listened to what the other voices said. They were voices from my sunlit place. I didn’t want to be a murderer. That’s what the voices said.

  I wanted them dead. I didn’t want to be a murderer. So, what to do? I needed them dead. I needed not to be a murderer. So, what to do?

  What did I think of the man I was? Of the man I let myself become? How would I judge the man I let myself become? Did I like who I was? Did I ever? I didn’t know. Did I like the man I was becoming? Could I ever like that man? We all make judgements on ourselves, on the way we live our lives. But should we?

  What would be my judgement on myself, on my life? That would come later. Judgement does. Judgement is ‘post eventum’. Most of the time.

  ‘We knowest what we are, but know not what we may become.’ I once said that to Annie. Did she know me? Did she know me better than I knew myself? I didn’t know. Did she know the man I would, one day, become? I didn’t know. I thought she might.

  We lived in Impington. It was near Cambridge. We lived there for a year. We missed home.

  I knew Impington from my years at Caius. I cycled through it. I never stopped. I never thought I’d live there. But now I was. Living there with wives and daughters. It’s funny how life turns out.

  I liked making plans. So, I made one. I would complete my degree. I would get my PhD. I would do it in a year. That was the plan I made, we made. We were happy with the plan. That’s why we made it. Dr Walker was once my tutor. He arranged it with Caius. He supervised my PhD. He squared it with Cambridge. It was irregular.

  An undergrad student, sitting the tripos, writing a doctorate? Not heard of before. He squared it with Cambridge. It was irregular.

  Annie’s PhD took six months. Most people take two years. Then, she was working at the NPG, cataloguing for Prouse, partying with him, screwing him, publishing stuff on Brunelleschi. She was a talented woman. That was before I met her. She’s still a talented woman. She’ll always be a talented woman.

  I knew she was smart, right from the start. Right from the time she came walking up the beach. On the day before my birthday. On the day my life began. She walked smart. She talked smart. It was how I knew she was smart. As smart as anyone I met. As smart as anyone I would ever meet.

  She didn’t mention the PhD. I found out later. After she betrayed me. After she took my Munch. After she gave it to Prouse. After I hated her. Mr Munroe told me about it.

  Then Mr Munroe told me other things. More important things, everything. About every lie. Everything and every lie to get my Munch to Prouse. I disliked Prouse, before that. I hated Prouse, after that. After that, I hated them both. I hated Annie for deceiving me. I hated Prouse for many things.

  I couldn’t believe she betrayed me. She said she loved me. I believed her. I shouldn’t have. I was wrong. I thought I was in love with her. I was wrong. I was wrong about a lot of things, at that time.

  That’s all over now.

  How did she do it? How did she fit it in? The NPG, the cataloguing, the partying, the screwing, the PhDing, the writing stuff on Brunelleschi?

  Could I study the tripos, get a first, finish my thesis, play tennis for Caius, play with my daughters, satisfy libidinous women, and find time to drink a beer at the pub? I wasn’t sure. I’d do my best.

  I knew I could get a first. Dr Walker said I could. That’s how I knew I could. He had faith in me. He always did.

  We played on the floor. The girls climbing over me. The best time of my day. They crawled over me. They shrieked when I tickled them. They looked like their mother. I loved them. Of course I did. I was their father. I wasn’t my father. I wasn’t that fucker’s son. There was nothing I wouldn’t do, to keep them safe. I would die for them. Of course I would. I almost did. That was later. They were good for me. Life was good then.

  ‘Napoleon’ was my thesis. What drove him? What destroyed him? That was my thesis. He interested me. He was interesting. The most interesting man to ever live. Trust me.

  He wasn’t a vengeful man. I was. He was a ‘curate’s egg’. Perhaps we all are.

  Ambrosia and the girls came home. Came home from hospital. They looked so pink. They looked like their mother. Before their mother was mutilated. Their hair was the colour of my mother’s. Before my mother was killed.

  I wanted vengeance. Prouse, the Major, the men who raped, crucified and mutilated Annie. I needed revenge for the things they did. For the suffering they caused. I needed it for all the good people in the world. Or did I? Did I need it just for me?

  The A’s talked me out of it. They thought they talked me out of it. I knew they’d try. They were older than me. They were worldlier than me. They were wiser than me. They knew things I didn’t. They worked on me. They won. They partly won. They won over the gentle side of me. They didn’t win over the man who lived below. I let them think they won. Over all of me.

  It was Prouse’s obsession. That’s what it was about. His obsession with Munch. His obsession with Melancholy. His obsession with my Melancholy. That’s what it was about. But not all about. It was about my obsession too. My obsession to not let him have it. That’s what it was about. Those two things were what it was about. All about.

  Annie wanted me to let him have it. That to not let him have it was wrong. That it was part of my OCD. That to let him have it would be good for me. That giving it to him would be good for me. Good for all of us. That it’d be part of my treatment. Mother agreed with her. From the grave she agreed with her. Mother usually agreed with her. They were in league together. I knew they were. I knew they were right. I didn’t want them to be right. But I knew they were.

  I had his money. The money he paid for it. And he didn’t have the Munch. It was why Annie was raped. Why they did other things to her. The police knew that. I knew they did. I knew he wouldn’t suffer. Not from what the law could do. Prouse never suffered from what the law could do. Could he suffer from what I could do? I didn’t know. It made me think.

  I had his money. I had his painting. His lust was in the palm of my hand. Was I a winner? Would I always be a winner? Was I about to be a loser? Could I end up a loser? Could we all end up losers? I knew Prouse. I knew this wasn’t the end. Mr Munroe said it wasn’t the end. I knew Prouse was planning things. Planning bad things for me. Not just for me. Planning bad things for Annie. Planning bad things for the girls. Planning bad things for all of us. It made me think.

  I wasn’t naïve now. Not like I used to be. I knew how Prouse would think. I knew what the Major might do. It scared me to think of that. It made me think what I might do.

  When I thought of the things he might do, I worried. I worried a lot. I worried for us all.

  I rang his secretary, Prouse’s secretary. I was polite. I was always polite. I was usually polite. I said I wanted to see him. She asked what for. I said he’d know. She said she’d ring back. She rang back. She told me where to meet him. That was at his club. She told me when to meet him. That was next week. He couldn’t fit me in before. That’s what she said.

  He knew what it was about. He knew it was about the Munch. So, why not see me sooner? I knew the answer to that. I was young and stupid, but I knew the answer to that. I was young and stupid, but not as young, or as stupid, as I was before. So I knew the answer to that.

  Seeing me sooner showed ‘interest’. ‘Interest’ showed weakness. Prouse wouldn’t show that. So, ‘interest’ wasn’t on show.

  Prouse showed ‘disinterest’. ‘Disinterest’ showed strength. ‘Disinterest’ gave control. Gave him a feeling of control.

  I relaxed, perhaps that was wrong. He wouldn’t do nasty things, not now, not yet. That’s what I thought. Not until he heard me speak. Not until he knew my mind. That’s
what I thought.

  Annie told me the things he’d plan. Plan if he didn’t get the Munch. Nasty things, more nasty things, nastier things than before. The nasty things that ended up being nasty things for him, nasty and embarrassing things for him. Things he could never forgive me for, even when they weren’t nasty things I planned for him. Just nasty things he planned for me, the nasty things that went wrong, and ended up as nasty things for him. He was a nasty man. He deserved nasty things to happen to him.

  Why didn’t I know this before? Why did I need Annie to tell me the things he would plan for us? Was I still as young and stupid as I was when she first met me? I knew I wasn’t that stupid anymore.

  The A’s were happy. Happy I was going. Going to London to see him. They thought I should see him. That’s why they said I should see him. That it was best I should see him. That’s why I went.

  Why are women so much wiser than men, mostly? Mostly, not always.

  I took the train. I went alone. I took a taxi. I was early. I was always early. Early for everything. It was the OCD. I walked around the block. I walked around the block twice.