Songs of thankfulness and praise
Jesus, Lord, to thee we raise …
No, he couldn’t face it. Their Lord wasn’t his God. He didn’t have a God, didn’t have a Mother. Lena had become no longer simple Mrs Payne, but what Father Smithby-Horne called a ‘vehicle’ to display God’s might and mercy to the faithful. And the ‘vehicle’ was revelling in her power. Everyone was pandering to her; ardent Phyllis acting as her handmaid, priests rushing to escort her if she so much as moved a step, special meals and privileges laid on throughout the day. They were even setting up a bronze and marble plaque, to record the details of her miracle, and once engraved, it would become a solid fact – at least to half of Rome.
The whole business quite disturbed him. How could he square miracles with anarchy and chaos, except miracles were chaotic in themselves, broke natural laws, upset normal reason? He’d tried to stick to reason, to explain the cure away as what doctors called a natural remission, or argue, John-Paul-style, that Lena had been healed because she no longer had a need for her affliction; had been enjoying herself for the first time in her life; been cosseted, respected, since she was first wheeled onto the plane. John-Paul had once explained that certain people could aggravate their pain, or even induce it in the first place, to win sympathy, attention, but if they could get this in another way, through esteem or some achievement, their injury or illness might diminish quite dramatically. Now he was less sure. You could no more prove John-Paul’s ideas than a miracle itself. And when he thought back to his Mother’s life, there were indeed things which truly baffled him. The whole business of John-Paul himself, for instance. How had she discovered that, save through supernatural powers, when he’d done every last thing possible to keep it secret from her? And even minor matters, like the way she always knew when he’d been eating between meals – and not just when, but what. Once, he’d chewed up the whole chocolate wrapper, as well as just the Fruit and Nut, so she’d never find it in his waste-bin; washed out his mouth with Listerine, in case she smelt his breath, yet she’d still remarked acidly at dinner time: ‘Bryan, I don’t know why I even bother cooking, when you prefer Cadbury’s Fruit and Nut bars to my macaroni cheese.’
Now, she wouldn’t notice if he devoured a whole sweet-shop full of chocolate; would probably never cook for him again; maybe never return to Ivy Close at all, but stay in Rome where she’d be famed as a celebrity, surrounded by an entourage of local Catholic fans. He’d lost his home, lost her as his Mother – and it was partly his own fault. He’d tried to lose her, hadn’t he, almost all his adult life; packed her off to islands or hostile barren wastelands, using double string and cardboard, so he wouldn’t hear her screams? Well, this time he’d succeeded. She was indeed as far from him as if she’d been delivered by a postman three hundred thousand miles away.
He pulled his trousers up again, struggled with his belt, stood slumped against the wall, staring dully out through the tiny smeary window. A full moon was very dangerous on a night like New Year’s Eve, when passions were already high, and fuelled by alcohol. Even on a normal night, a full moon could drive you mad. He’d read it in the Mail – how staff in mental hospitals had twice as many crises on the days around full moon – patients cracking up or running wild. He drew the dirty curtain to try to shut it out, sank back on the seat once more, head drooping, eyes half-closed. ‘God of might and mercy’ they were trilling from downstairs. There wasn’t any mercy – that at least was clear. His stomach griped, his tongue was furred, his body had stopped working. Impotence. His pale lips mouthed the word. Constipation was just another term for it, another symptom of paralysis, stagnation. Even if he outflanked all his rivals, won Mary for himself, he’d probably prove a laughing-stock, unable to perform. He could see the shameless father of her baby thrusting wildly into her, pistoning and pumping her in every bar in Walton, every bed in Rome. If he ever met that maniac, ever had an inkling who he was, he’d … he’d …
He unclenched his fists, wiped his clammy palms. His own fury terrified him – those jumbled lethal images of cudgels, choppers, hatchets, daggers, guns. They locked up violent psychopaths, strapped them into straitjackets. ‘Go away!’ he shouted to the flint-faced psychiatric nurse who had reared up in his head. He must calm down, wash his hands and face, scour his mind, for God’s sake. Impossible to wash, though. There wasn’t any water. And yet he could feel germs crawling over him: germs of jealousy, revenge, germs of fury and confusion. He reached behind the cistern for the bottle of disinfectant – Sainsbury’s disinfectant which must have been brought by one of the English to counter Roman squalor. He could sluice his hands with that, perhaps even swab his body, pour some on the cleaning-rag and have an instant sponge-down, sterilise his brain with it, remove those deadly weapons.
Except it was Mary who needed sterilising – and in both senses of the word. It was she who’d made him violent, she who’d tainted, taunted him. He closed his eyes a moment, saw her lying naked while he swilled the disinfectant between her open thighs, scouring all the men off her, their fingerprints, their sperm; trying to reach inside her body, so he could fumigate her womb, flush that hated foetus out. He could see her flesh glistening-wet and quivering, as it shrunk from his cruel hands; watched her flinch and tremble as the undiluted fluid smarted on her nipples, stung inside her groin. No – he flung the rag away, couldn’t bear to hurt her, even with such flagrant provocation. Inflicting pain on Mary didn’t heal his own.
He turned back to the window, bottle in his hands still. It had become a baby’s bottle now; Mary’s baby swelling from a speck to a Goliath, gobbling down her milk, her breasts, her life. Of course he hadn’t managed to abort it – it was growing every moment, expanding as he dwindled. How would he endure the next nine mocking months; how even find the courage to bear the next two hours – that loathsome pilgrims’ party planned to start at midnight: the jollity, the singsongs, the charades and childish games. He checked his watch – exactly ten to twelve. Just ten brief minutes left until New Year. Could he face another year, its loneliness, its pain; face another two hundred sessions on John-Paul’s fruitless couch; maybe twenty times two hundred if his analyst was right and he was resisting his own treatment, one of those psychotics who needed half a lifetime before they could be cured, or even move from desperate to plain miserable? He could hear John-Paul’s impassive voice repeating those grim phrases he’d heard so many times – resistance, negative transference, persecutory anxiety, repetition-compulsion. How could he ever win against such odds?
He tugged back the tattered curtain, gazed out at the night, the callous moon pretending there was some event to celebrate as it poured its tinsel beams on roofs and walls. Even the disinfectant bottle shimmered in its light, like some festive gold liqueur. ‘POISON’, read the label. ‘Not to be taken.’ He fought a wave of dizziness as the letters blurred and rippled in his head. If he disobeyed the label and drank that potent poison, he could miss the party, miss New Year, miss the birth of Mary’s baby, the transfer of his Mother’s goods and furniture from Ivy Close to Rome. His body seemed to spring to life as the idea took hold and rooted. He could feel the blood drumming through his arteries, pounding in his head. He was no longer blocked or paralysed, but untrammelled, freed, released. He had actually made a decision for the first time in his life, without agonising, dithering, setting out long lists of pros and cons.
There were no cons as far as dying was concerned. Even John-Paul had written a book on Thanatos (which at first he’d feared was a new and dire disease, until he discovered from the dust-jacket it was simply the Greek word for death, used by Freud to personify the death-instinct). He’d borrowed the tome from his local public library, struggled through the close-packed text, given up halfway; but still been struck by his doctor’s obvious interest in the pull and lure of death – man’s longing for oblivion, negation. Oblivion was his now, and oblivion came free – no monthly bills charging him for pain. All he had to do was make sure his death was order
ly, time it with precision, not shamble out casually with no strict and tidy plan. He had his plan already. As the first loud stroke of midnight resounded from the courtyard clock, he would tip the bottle up, gulp the first long draught, and as its last chime died away, he would drain the final drop.
He put the bottle down a moment, so he could comb his hair, straighten up his tie, brush any speck or loose thread from his clothes. Thank goodness he was wearing a clean white shirt, a decent formal jacket. It seemed important to be neat, to have his shoes and nails clean. He positioned himself squarely on the seat, feet together, back and shoulders straight, then held the bottle ready, unscrewed its rusted cap. He wasn’t even frightened; more elated and amazed that he had cut through all the torment of a lifetime; the vacillation, seesawing, the endless indecision. Just four minutes to go now. He started counting seconds to calm himself, still the frantic judder of his heart.
At last, he heard that sudden throaty in-breath from the courtyard, which always meant the clock was about to strike. He panicked for a second as he confused it with the clock outside John-Paul’s Gothic tower – that cracked and strident voice cawing eight o’clock each Monday, Wednesday, Friday of his life; inducing sweet relief as it released him from the couch, yet also deep frustration, since he knew he would be back there morning after morning, as year succeeded year. ‘No,’ he whispered to himself. ‘I shall stop my clock, run down. Just twelve more chimes, then silence.’
The first chime seemed to vibrate through his body, thunder through his brain. His hands were clenched and sweaty on the bottle, his whole body tensed, prepared. He tipped his head back, raised the heavy bottle to his mouth; his last thoughts not on Mary, but on the triumphant fact he’d escaped John-Paul for ever, outwitted him in death. The bottle grazed his trembling lips, as he closed them round its nipple, closed his eyes as well, let the bitter golden liquor lacerate his tongue.
Chapter Thirty Nine
‘Mary, this noise is quite ridiculous! I was prepared to put up with it at midnight, but it’s nearly three a.m. now.’
‘I know, dear. Try and read. It’s the only thing to do. The man downstairs told me a lot of youngsters celebrate till dawn.’
‘Celebrate? It sounds more like a war. I’m going to complain.’
‘Oh, don’t, James! No one can do anything. And if you go outside yourself, you may get hurt.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of going out. I just want a word with that moron of a desk clerk. Maybe he can’t control the fireworks and the yobbos, but at least he could restrain the hotel staff. There’ve been half a dozen porters banging around with luggage for almost a full hour now. I mean, what in God’s name’s going on? People arriving in the middle of the night, or changing rooms or something? And can’t he have a word with that ass in 207? Okay, if he wants a knees-up in his room, that’s quite all right with me, but does he have to leave his door open and have half his guests lurching down the corridor and battering on our door?’
‘Only one did, darling.’
‘There’ll be more – you see. Just as we’ve nodded off at four or five o’clock, he’ll send out for indoor fireworks or start playing the accordion …’ James erupted from the room, coat atop his dressing gown, bare feet in bluff black shoes. Mary put her book away, switched on the main light. New Year’s Eve hadn’t gone too well, starting with the picnic meal which had been mainly cream and sugar – chocolate lions, sickly cake, followed by more lions – which, as James had pointed out, was hardly very healthy for his cholesterol levels. She’d been so elated by the mago, so excited by her future, her mind had been on higher things than coleslaw and salami. She had totally forgotten to buy salads and cold meats (or even bread and cheese); had left her bag of apples by the fortuneteller’s chair. The boys had been delighted by a meal of mainly sweets, but James kept asking anyone who’d listen how a normal rational female who’d kept house for thirteen years could spend five thousand lire and two hours in a food shop and return with just one gâteau and no change?
Even the fireworks had been something of a let-down – all bang and not much spectacle – and with none of those set-pieces of flowers or shapes or buildings which you got back home in England, and no real show of colour. Just what James described as a ‘God Almighty racket’, which had terrified poor Jonathan, and put Lionel in a paddy since it continued well past midnight when he’d been trying to sort out his research notes on Third World artesian wells. And it wasn’t just the rockets or raucous fellow guests. James had been complaining about the din from 207, but there had been even more disturbance from her own immediate family. First Simon had come bursting in with stomach-ache, then Oliver with nightmares and Harry with a heart attack (which she re-diagnosed as flatulence and dosed with Pepsidol). And, lastly, Lionel himself, just half an hour or less ago, summoning their help to remove a drunken Lithuanian who had collapsed outside his door.
Mary sighed, trailed into the bathroom. Even her bladder seemed irritable tonight. She’d blamed it on the wine at first – three glasses in the café, and then champagne on top. But it could be just another symptom of her pregnancy. She had planned on telling James about the baby in the first hour of the new year, which would surely be symbolic; mark the new start in their marriage and their hopes. She had imagined a romantic lull with all the fireworks spent, the children sleeping peacefully, and even Harry anaesthetized by his tumbler of champagne. She could hear him through the bathroom wall, splashing water, coughing; guessed he might lurch in again with some new and fatal symptom. She didn’t want her baby’s birth mixed up with Harry’s death. Maybe safer not to tell James until they were actually back home, had off-loaded both the fathers, waved the three boys off to school. She could choose a Sunday afternoon when he was relaxed from golf, replete with beef and trifle; take his hand in hers as they sipped coffee by the fire, draw it gently to her tummy and …
She jerked back from the basin as a shattering crash outside aborted her soft thoughts – the noise of broken glass, maybe broken bodies. She fretted to the door, opened it an inch, glimpsed the man from 207 dancing with the pie-eyed Lithuanian; his party guests storming down the corridor, hurling glasses at the picture-frames. Then, suddenly, another figure came limping into view, one whose legs and hips she recognised, though his head and neck and torso were more or less obliterated by what looked like yellow porridge.
‘James!’ she cried, darting out to grab him, steer him safely to the room, since his eyes were yellow-poulticed and he was carrying his shoes; in danger from the broken glass, the pools of spilt champagne. ‘How …? Who …? Why …? What …? What is it?’
‘Lentils,’ James groaned softly, as he scooped them from his mouth, shook a glutinous coating from his shoulders. ‘Six pints of lentil stew. It’s some special dish they make for New Year’s Eve.’
She slammed the door and locked it, snapped the safety-chain in place, led him to the bathroom, found flannels, soap and towels. He no longer smelt of aftershave – the Brut he’d splashed on earlier to celebrate New Year – but overwhelmingly of garlic. ‘I’m sorry, James, but I just don’t understand. Why lentils on your head?’
He sank down on the bathroom stool, let her sponge and scrape him, unplug his ears and nose. ‘Well, I was just talking to that desk clerk, telling him it was high time we got a bit of shuteye, or was that infernal bloody bunfight continuing till dawn? I suppose he imagined I was threatening him, because he summoned three more staff, and this damn great slanging match breaks out, with total strangers joining in – other guests and waiters and some riffraff from the bar – and soon everybody’s shouting and even using fists. I didn’t stand a chance, Mary. I lost my coat and dressing gown – could have lost an eye, as well, the way those nerds were carrying on. Then this jackass of a chef in a tall white hat and apron and pissed out of his mind, comes prancing from the kitchen with a bloody great cauldronful of what he calls lenticchia alia toscana and dumps the whole lot on my head.’
‘He could have killed you,
darling, or blinded you, at least. Were the lentils hot or cold?’
‘Tepid and congealing – and with enough garlic in the mixture to halt a Roman legion. Yet he even had the cheek to say they’d bring me luck. Apparently it’s some old Roman custom. You eat lentils at New Year and they’re meant to make your fortune – “many many monies”, as he put it.’
‘Well, that would be a change, dear. Now you’d better have a bath. I’ve scraped off what I can, but your hair’s still plastered with the stuff and it’s sort of hardened round your chest-hair. While you’re soaking, I’ll wash out your pyjamas and try to clean your shoes.’ She ran his bath, found shampoo and bath-foam, cleaned the stool and floor where he’d been sitting, then dragged back to the basin with his lentil-soggy shoes. The left one felt much heavier than the right; seemed blocked not just with garlic-pungent sludge, but with something hard and knobbly, which had been rammed inside like a gross dismembered limb.
‘James! Whatever’s this?’
James had discarded his pyjamas in a damp heap on the floor, was just stepping into the bath. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Oh, that. A present from the chef. It’s a pig’s foot – a zampone – meant to bring you luck again; in fact, not just luck, but health, wealth, happiness, the rainbow’s end, delirium – you name it. Another of their damnfool New Year customs. It’s served up with the lentils. You get a wish or something with the first slice that you cut. The chef’s English was atrocious, so I couldn’t really follow it. And frankly, I wasn’t all that riveted, not with half a hundredweight of lentils dripping down my neck.’ He plumped into the bath, still railing and complaining; tipped right back, so his head was half-submerged.
Mary ran more water, sponged the pig’s foot clean. Perhaps it was an omen and James’s constant worries about debts and bills and creditors would be miraculously relieved; the brave New Year be filled to overflowing with ‘many many monies’. She’d be contributing herself by giving up her therapy, axing those substantial monthly bills. And if lentils brought you luck, then their luck was running over – oodles of thick golden luck still smeared across the floor, floating in the bath-water, blocking up the basin, clinging to her nightie. She heard the clock outside strike three, savoured each long chime, touched her swollen breasts a moment as she paused in swabbing shoes. Never mind the problems. If Simon sicked his cake up, or Lionel decided he was flying home that night (as he’d already threatened twice), or Harry staggered in again with rabies or Bell’s palsy, or that jackass of a chef appeared with a saucepanful of boiling ravioli, did it really matter? Those were simply trivia, life’s minor snags and hitches. She let her hands slide lower, pressed them to her belly, could almost feel the foetus quickening in her womb. She had her luck already. The New Year was growing, swelling, already three hours old – the most blessed year she’d ever know, in which she’d give birth to a daughter who would explode like a bright rocket on the dark face of the world – Joanna-Pauline, her dazzling saviour girl-child.
Fifty-Minute Hour Page 44