Fifty-Minute Hour

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘You only made the one, Mother.’

  ‘So one pudding’s not enough now. You want half a dozen, do you?’

  ‘We can take it with us, Mother. And the brandy butter, eat them in our room.’

  ‘And encourage rats? Or cockroaches?’ Lena subsided in her chair, rubbed her swollen fingers. Bryan looked the other way. His own hands always itched and throbbed if he watched her scratch her chilblains. He’d never seen chilblains on another single person in his life, let alone such bad ones. His Mother’s circulation was obviously defective, her health poor generally. It wasn’t just her leg, which was bad enough, for heaven’s sake, with its constant dragging pain (and which was probably half the reason why she was so often tense and irritable), but all her other ailments. He felt a pang of conscience. The house was cold and damp, needed proper central heating, complete rewiring, a new effective damp-course. If he didn’t have John-Paul’s bills to pay, he could afford all the repairs, relieve his Mother’s inflamed misshapen fingers, her bouts of sinusitis, her frequent chesty coughs. He buttoned up his jacket. He was feeling cold himself now, the feeble one-bar fire failing in its efforts to beat the frost and fog outside. The temperature was rising on the screen, though; Les cracking out his questions as two new contestants, all teeth and grins and glasses, giggled from their gold and purple stands.

  ‘Can ducks sink?’

  ‘No, Les.’

  ‘Sorry, Babs, you’re wrong. Ducks sink if they’re moulting.’ Les tugged his coal-black toupee. ‘I’d better keep tight hold of this or I’ll end up in the drink. Ready, Tony? Your turn now. When did car ignition keys first come into use?’

  ‘Er … 1921.’

  ‘No, they were still driving Roman chariots in 1921. The answer’s 1949. It made wife-swapping parties much more civilised. It was murder throwing your starter-handle on the table.’

  ‘And what d’you suppose you’re going to use as money?’

  Bryan jumped, swung back to Lena. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Well, I don’t expect it’s cheap abroad, especially not at Christmas. How can we afford to go gadding off to Rome, when you told me just last month you’d had another pay cut?’

  Bryan searched the screen for answers, longed to fold down like a camping spoon, to avoid this line of questioning. He’d spent four long years explaining to his Mother that there was never any money left for luxuries or extras. In fact, he was using all the cash he’d save on four weeks of John-Paul, but his Mother didn’t know John-Paul existed. He was beginning to wish he didn’t. That avaricious doctor had made everything far worse – four years of debt and lies. Even the lies themselves seemed every bit as difficult as they had been at the start, despite his constant daily practice over fifty-one long months. He still found it most distressing to have to kick the truth aside, blast it into bits, when he actually revered Truth, sought it in the universe. He fiddled with the cover on the chair-arm (placed there by his Mother to prevent his dirty – twice-washed – hands from fouling up the furniture); tried to sound ingenuous as he prepared his next deceit.

  ‘Er … you know that chap at work, the one who stole my wallet?’

  ‘Stole it twice, you mean.’

  ‘Well, he’s feeling very guilty now and he’s offered us this holiday as a sort of restitution.’

  ‘Tell him I’d rather have the cash, please. The cooker’s playing up again and I doubt if it will last till …’

  ‘He can’t give us the cash, Mother. He’s already spent the lot.’

  ‘So how can he afford holidays in Rome?’

  ‘He … he …’ Bryan blew his nose, to gain himself some time. John-Paul had once remarked that the easiest and safest course was to aim to tell the truth. Just let his doctor try! Tell the truth to Lena and he’d land up in his bedroom with his bottom smacked and his pocket-money docked for half the year. He’d like to dock John-Paul’s fees, lock him in his bedroom and never let him out. He didn’t make things easy. He’d faced much the same hazards trying to tell his therapist that he’d booked a trip to Rome as he was experiencing with his Mother – had nowhere near succeeded after two relentless sessions. Every time he’d mentioned the word ‘pilgrimage’, John-Paul had tried to relate it to his therapy, made deep but futile comments about ungratified religious needs he was seeking to fulfil, no longer as a patient but a pilgrim. He’d also linked it to his so-called ‘negative transference’, suggesting that his patient was now reacting to him not just as hostile parent, but as inadequate spiritual mentor, who must be replaced by an Almighty Omnipotent Father. In the end, he’d just lain there saying nothing, trying to think up some diversion (or even kidnap-plan), which would dispose of James, John-Paul, his Mother, in one dramatic daring coup, freeing Rome for him and glorious Mary.

  ‘Well?’ his Mother urged.

  ‘He … works for a travel agent.’

  ‘So they employ common thieves now, do they? No wonder this country’s in the state it is. Teachers fathering babies on their pupils, travel agents picking people’s pockets. Well, tell him straight your Mother doesn’t like abroad, and could he please arrange something nearer home. Bournemouth’s nice in winter. I saw an advert in the TV Times for Christmas at the Seaview. They’ve got a conjuror on Christmas Eve and a Mystery Tour on Boxing Day. And if you want a proper English turkey instead of some scrawny foreign bird …’

  ‘It’s booked, Mother. We’re not allowed to change it. Everything’s arranged.’

  ‘You’ve no right to arrange my Christmas, Bryan, without consulting me.’

  ‘But I wanted it to be a surprise.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got what you wanted, then. I am surprised – shocked, in fact – deeply shocked that my only son doesn’t value Christmas in the comfort of his home, but has to drag his poor old Mother to a dirty dangerous country, then call it a surprise.’

  ‘I’ll … I’ll go and make some tea, Mother.’

  ‘You’ve had tea, Bryan – three cups. And that’s another thing – you won’t get tea in Rome. That woman in the ironmonger’s went to France last year and she said they’d never heard of teapots. And then they expect us to join the Common Market.’

  Bryan faltered in the doorway, eyes back on the screen, where Les was being fondled by a sixteen-stone pensioner in a purple lurex catsuit and lilac hair to match. The disembodied audience kept braying, whooping, shrieking, every time Les cracked a joke or a contestant got an answer right. Dramatic chords and fanfares screwed the tension tighter, the music near-hysterical when Anthea from Ipswich won a thirty-piece dinner service in a pattern called ‘Argave’. The revolving silver stairway and spangled turquoise backdrop made their own small sitting-room look shabby and low-key – the chairs fawn and hard and bony like his Mother, the drooping curtains skimpy and unlihed.

  ‘Bryan, while you’re up, go and get the brochure, dear.’

  ‘What brochure?’

  ‘The brochure for the holiday. I’d like to have a look at it.’

  ‘I … er … left it in the office.’

  ‘Silly boy.’

  Bryan glanced at her, surprised. She sounded almost affectionate, had even called him ‘dear’, was obviously relenting. Perhaps now she had recovered from the double shock of ‘abroad’ and no home turkey, she was touched her son had thought of her and was acting like the loving boy she always seemed to crave, booking her a holiday, so she’d be spared the usual chores. His guilt screwed up three notches. He hadn’t thought of her … only of himself. She’d hate a crowded dormitory in some old and draughty seminary; would never cope with the Spanish Steps or the narrow cobbled alleyways of Rome, when her leg played up so cruelly even in their wide and level High Street. Whatever happened, she mustn’t read the brochure – all those pious references to Mass and Benediction, and the ‘cradle of our Roman Catholic Faith’; the daily expeditions to catacombs, basilicas, churches, churches, churches; the conducted tours of Christian Rome, the papal audience. He’d just have to go and check on it, hide it somewhere s
afer in his room.

  ‘Just … popping to the bathroom, Mother.’

  ‘Well, don’t be long, and don’t leave all the lights on, and be sure you …’

  He bypassed the chill bathroom, sneaked into his own room, extracted the brochure from deep inside the mattress-cover, which meant dismantling half his bedding. He smoothed the blankets straight again, sat down on the bed, re-read the opening paragraphs which introduced the pilgrimages – not just to Rome, but to other Catholic centres. He liked the word ‘pilgrim’, the idea of suffering hardship, heat or cold or hunger, in travelling to an object of devotion – in his case holy Mary. The brochure mentioned Mary constantly – as Blessed Virgin, loving Mother, Queen of Angels, Queen of Peace, Comfort of the Afflicted, Gate of Heaven. Mary was all those things and more – his Virgin and his Mother, his own private grace and comfort, the source of future bliss.

  He read on a bit further, admiring the two pictures of Mary with a gentle smile, Mary with superb though well-draped breasts. ‘We have every confidence that you will return from your pilgrimage with a renewal of both faith and hope, and spiritually and physically refreshed. No one leaves Our Lady empty-handed. Mary’s precious gifts include the gift of healing, the gift of strength, the gift of perfect love.’

  Perfect love. Bryan prayed it would be his – and strength, as well – he needed that most specially; not just mental strength to outwit James and stand up to his Mother, but the physique of Tarzan, the shoulders of King Kong. Even more miraculous to return with Mary on his arm, Mary to himself; a Mary humbly grateful to escape from James’s lewdness and find real and lasting happiness with …

  ‘Bryan!’

  He catapulted to his feet, stuffed the brochure down inside his underpants, turned to face the door. Not his Mother, just her querulous voice, resounding through the landing and the hall.

  ‘What are you doing up there? You know it’s not your bath night. We’ll have to ration water even more now, if we’re going to spend our Christmases abroad.’

  He limped downstairs, the crumpled brochure rustling in his groin. The game-show was just finishing, an elated couple exclaiming with delight as their Mystery Prize was revealed in vibrant colour on the screen – a holiday for two on a sun-drenched island paradise. He watched them kissing, hugging in excitement, as palm trees and gold beaches passed before their marvelling gaze. He closed his eyes a moment, saw himself and Mary on their own island paradise, the palm trees whispering in the breeze, the lazy surf frothing round their ankles, mangoes and bananas plopping off the trees. She drew him close, pushed up her grass skirt and the heavy perfumed flower-wreath which encircled her sweet neck. ‘The Mystery Prize,’ she murmured as she pointed to her naked breasts, the honey-filled moist valley which …

  ‘What’s that rustling, Bryan?’

  ‘Banana trees – grass skirts.’

  ‘You’re mumbling, dear, as usual. I can’t hear a word you say.’

  ‘Er … mice.’

  ‘Mice?’ Lena dived into the kitchen to find a trap, daub poison on the cheese. He watched her go, withdrew the guilty brochure from his groin. Worse than guilty – shameless. The pages were quite damp, sticky, glued together. He shut his eyes again as he mopped himself, recovered. ‘Thank you, Mary,’ he whispered very softly. ‘Gate of Heaven, Comfort of the Afflicted.’

  ‘Hallo. This is 246 2321. John-Paul is not available at present, but if you leave your name, address, phone number and a short message, after you hear the tone, he will get back to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘This is Nial, your son. I need you.’

  ‘Hallo. This is 246 2321. John-Paul is not available at present, but if you leave your name, address, phone number and a short message, after you hear the tone, he will get back to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘This is Nial. Remember Nial? The great big strapping clumsy one, with hulking hands and feet. I used to come on Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, Thursdays, always at two-ten. Then you made it lunchtime, made me very special. I came today, at lunchtime, but you wouldn’t let me in. Please ring me. Soon. I’m hungry – getting very small.’

  ‘Hallo. This is 246 2321. John-Paul is not available at present, but if you leave your name, address and …’

  ‘This is bloody Nial. I hate you! You’re doing this to punish me. I know you’re there – listening, but not answering. Jeering, aren’t you, mocking, getting a real kick because you’ve made me cry again? You always tried to do that, tried to make me weak. Well, I’m not weak, not at all. I’m coming round, this minute. I know it’s not my session-time, but I’ll just break your stupid door down. You’re with Beata, aren’t you; gave her all my lunchtimes, span them out to nights? I’ll kill her, I’ll destroy her, I’ll hack her into …’

  ‘Hallo. This is 246 2321. John-Paul is not available at present, but if …’

  ‘I’m sorry. Honestly. Just say you forgive me. Just say one short word. Anything at all. I’ve got to hear your voice – your real voice, not the answerphone – so I know you’re still alive. Just one word can save me. Please save me. Please say “Nial”.’

  ‘Hallo. This is 246 2321. John-Paul is not …’

  ‘Okay. You want to kill me. No sweat. I’ll kill myself. You’ll be sorry then, won’t you, ashamed you didn’t answer, wouldn’t say one footling word, didn’t care a fig? I’m going to do it now – swallow all my sleeping pills, fifty of them – more. I’ve got the bottles here, and I’m shaking all the pills out on the table. Can you hear them rolling, some falling on the floor? They’re so pretty, all the colours: red and blue and purple, happy singing yellow, cosy friendly pink.

  ‘I’m cramming in a handful – gulp and down – like sweeties. I’ve always loved sweet things. We’re alike in that respect. If we’d only met as friends, we could have had so much in common. I’m eating sweets like you do – suck and swallow, suck and swallow – another handful gone.

  ‘No. Why should I take pills, let you off so lightly? They’re far too quiet and peaceful, and I want you to be sickened when you see my mangled body. I’ll hack myself to pieces, like I did with all the paintings, send you limbs and organs through the post – blood weeping through the wrappings onto your breakfast eggs and bacon; my cold heart like a kidney on your toast.

  ‘Don’t imagine I’m just threatening. I mean every word I say. I know exactly how to die. I’ve studied it for years, like other people study art or music. It’s an art itself, in one way, and I’ve always been artistic. Fuck! Your damn machine’s just clicked and …’

  ‘Hallo. This is 246 23 …’

  ‘I’m scared. I’m really scared. If you’re dead, I die as well, and I don’t want to die, not really. Please come back. Please live. I’ll do anything you say. I’ll lick your shoes, I’ll lick your bowel – the inside – I’ll hang head-down from your steeple, like a murdered drooping weather-vane, naked in the wind. I’ll climb the tower ten times a day, on my knees and weeping. I’ll crush myself to mincemeat and let your wolfhounds eat me, then when you stroke and fondle them, you’re really stroking me.

  ‘John-Paul, I’m dying – answer.’

  ‘Hallo. This is …’

  ‘Will you bloody fucking speak to me and turn that cruel machine off, or …’

  ‘Hallo. This is 246 2321. John-Paul is not available at present, but if you leave your name, address, phone number and a short message, after you hear the tone, he will get back to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Goodbye.’

  Help me.

  Monday.

  Non-day.

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  Bryan stood rooted in the middle of the crowded airport concourse, unable to move to right or left. Humans should have been created with more than just two hands, he thought, and preferably with wheels. He could do with a dozen hands, at least, so he could cope with all the luggage: the four huge bulging cases, the carrier bags of staple English groceries, which Lena feared they’d never get in Rome; the briefcase full of medicines
(which covered every possible contingency from malaria to typhoid); the Wellingtons, hot-water bottles, packs of cards and board games (in case of rain, or boredom), the tea-making equipment with special adapter plug, so Lena could be sure of a decent (English) cup of tea, however far she strayed from Ivy Close.

  Lena herself had vanished to the ladies’ room – a dazed and dazzled Lena, still marvelling at the limousine which had whisked them from Upminster to Heathrow in greater ease and comfort than she’d ever known in her sixty, years of life. They should have been going to Gatwick by common tube and train, not Heathrow by chauffeured Peugeot, but just last night everything had changed. The travel agent had phoned to say that unfortunately the airline they were booked on had suffered a grave crisis and been forced into liquidation a mere three days ago, so they’d be flying on another line from a different airport at a later time of day. He’d been totally distraught. He’d spent ninety-seven hours working out the journey plan to Gatwick, entering all the details in his new shiny scarlet notebook (which he’d dared at last, in Mary’s honour – red for passion, danger, ardour, heat and lust), and then to have it overturned, with just one paltry night to change not just his schedule, but half the jammed compartments in his mind – a night he’d spent in anguish, pacing round and round his room, trying to cope with new arrangements, not daring to tell his Mother, finally calling up a car-hire firm as a bribe to stop her nagging.

  It also seemed a most unlucky omen – chaos striking once again, proving the general Chaos of the Universe. If airlines could go bust, then why not Heathrow, also? He’d insisted on arriving with at least eight hours to spare, so if his hunch was right and he found the airport collapsed into a black hole, or just a pile of smouldering rubble, at least he’d have the time to make a third set of new plans.

  They were not, in fact, required. The airport seemed all too vast and solid, almost overwhelming in its sheer size and scale and frenzy, jammed with traffic, tetchy jostling crowds. He was still wilting on the ground floor by the rows and rows of check-in desks, dwarfed by trendy jet-setters with their skis and winter tans; shamed by boyish yuppies still doing frantic business via cellular phones and dictating machines, as if their high-powered firms could hardly bear their absence for an hour. He doubted BRB would even notice he was gone.