Christian was adamant that he could not afford another pair of hands. His brother would have to go into a home of sorts.
Malise did nothing but try to batter down the door leading to the kitchen.
New arrangements took time to sort out and caused much anxiety but were finally arrived at. Malise went but Kathleen refused to do so. She now had her eye firmly on Christian and, after a prolonged and difficult courtship, caught him and forced him to the altar. He was involved in the local church and refused to have the marriage conducted anywhere but there. Using a ring once worn by Christian’s devout late mother, he made promises to the older woman – never for an instant suspecting that the union was bigamous.
The pair rather enjoyed each other’s company and alternated between visiting the very old couple at The Grid and Malise at the nearby home for those suffering from conditions of the mind.
Christian and Kathleen bought a dog and, for the first year of their non-consummated and illegal marriage, when not visiting the old or the mad, enjoyed walking Patricia, as the dog was called (they both felt that the absent Patricia had brought them together) and bringing back belongings from the barn where Malise had built a shrine to the memory of his youthful pleasures.
39
The old father and Alyson died within three weeks of each other and Kathleen much enjoyed the power of being in charge of funeral arrangements and of reclaiming objects from the Grid – including the portrait of Malise as a beautiful child. She had hoped that there might be a stirring of interest among aristocratic relations after she paid to have a notification of the funeral printed in The Times newspaper but none, if there were any left, showed interest.
Christian was now in charge of all family money and, before long, he and Kathleen gave notice to the nice RAF tenant and took over the old rooms. Christian was insistent that they move back into his childhood bedroom and that Kathleen should occupy the bed once slept in by Malise. No mention was made of the activities that took place on the floor of that room during the brothers’ early years.
At the nearby home for demented patients, Malise lingered on, doped and querulous, never uttering more than the word ‘Patricia’. His hair went white and his eyes watered constantly. He was not old and still remarkably handsome, although his back teeth showed decay, and liked to look at himself in the vast, gold-framed glass that hung outside his cubicle door.
One evening, as Christian and Kathleen, ate toasted cheese in the kitchen (once banned to Malise) Christian suddenly said ‘He must be fwee by now’.
‘Free? Oh dear no. They’ll never let him out. Not in his condition.’
‘Fwee. Fwee years old. The child.’
‘Oh no. Not that dear. Don’t even think about it.’
The last thing Kathleen wanted was a little Mc Hip to gather what would, eventually, be left. Christian, although younger by far than her, might expire first and leave her in full charge of everything – Malise’s portrait included.
‘It would be interwesting to find out.’
‘No dear. We’ve nothing to go on and to let sleeping dogs lie is always the best policy.’
The subject was dropped for a while but Christian continued to brood.
Visits to Malise had to be paid – not that the visitors or the visited gained any pleasure from them. On one occasion Christian, in a hearty mood, addressed his brother who sat, sedated and goofy, in a dirty armchair.
‘So Malise. How are they tweating you?’
No reply. Not even a tweet.
Kathleen chipped in ‘they say this is a nice place Malise. Of course we wish you were back with us at the farm but we are happy there and never forget that you now have me as a sister.’
No reply.
Christian always had a book of jokes and riddles by him. He sifted through the book after looking at his Half Hunter watch – once the property of Malise but now appropriated, and said, ‘Midday Malise. Talking of time, did you know what the Leaning tower of Pisa said to Big Ben?’
A mention of Pisa, near to Lucca after all, might spark something off in the poor, lapsed memory.
No reply.
‘If you’ve got the time I’ve got the inclination.’ He doubled with loud laughter as the pair made their getaway.
40
‘As you know dear, I’m happy to see to bits and bobs for you.’ Kathleen’s teeth were enormous and her hair very dark excepting the roots.
She was content to be running the house and felt more or less safe from her past. No one, now that she had become a Mc Hip, was likely to track her down. Her troublesome ‘first’ husband had, she had learnt many years before, also indulged in a bigamous marriage so was unlikely to wish to upset any apple carts.
‘Yes Kathleen. You are a gweat help here.’
‘It’s Malise and that dentist that are bothering me.’
‘What dentist is that?’
‘The one who visits patients at the Olive Branch. Where they look after your brother.’ She added the last words in case he had forgotten what The Olive Branch was, for Christian, too, was becoming forgetful.
‘What has a dentist to do with it?’
‘There’s one, a foreigner, I don’t like to call him a darkie, who does the rounds there. He inspects the teeth of dwellers; patients I should say. Matron wanted a word with me when I went on Saturday.’
‘What did she say?’
‘It seems that the dentist thinks money ought to be spent on his back teeth. The front ones are doing all the chewing. He says bacteria may form and cause cancer. Scaremongering I call it.’
‘We’d better go ahead. I’ll pay with Malise’s money and he’s still got stacks.’
‘How shall I put it? Is it worth it? They say he won’t last forever you know.’
Christian made no reply.
Kathleen, slightly tipsy, enlarged on the topic of unnecessary extravagance. She wasn’t exactly drunk but had arrived at the stage when she knew, if she took another sip, she was certain to be. She took another sip and was.
‘Christian. When I consented to be your wife, I expected a little more from you. Our bedroom, for a start. Does it hold some guilty secret? Why can’t we move ourselves into more comfortable quarters? Why not the large room with the pretty curtains?’
Christian was dumb as she filled her glass with more wine.
‘Then, when it comes to Malise’s money. You have power of attorney. Why can’t we help ourselves and have the larger bedroom done over?’
No longer dumb, Christian answered ‘I shall use Malise’s money to go in search of his child. There may yet be Mc Hips living here one day.’
41
The odd couple scoured an attic where, in a cedar wood chest, Christian found an old coat, possibly once worn by his grandfather. It was long and dark – the darkness tinged with green from age; made of Melton cloth and with a squirrel lining. It had long deep pockets and, having been packed in moth balls, had survived well.
Kathleen was pleased too. She unearthed an Astrakhan coat, once the property of Alyson, and sent it to the cleaners. The lining to one of the pockets was ripped but she clipped the two torn bits together with safety pins. They took a slow train to Dover. It was cold and smoky but Kathleen rejoiced that the money for Malise’s back teeth had at least been spent on a trip. Not that she approved of the trip either but considered it preferable to Malise’s back teeth. She was bored rigid by visiting her brother-in-law in his demented state and by sharing that grim room with Christian and his warped but unspoken memories of childhood. She had been happy, though, to find a wad of lires in a drawer, left over from Malise’s emotionally charged visit to Italy.
The crossing was rough and Kathleen, a poor sailor, vomited as Christian showed his true boy scout spirit and watched the White cliffs fade from sight. Between violent bouts of retching, she asked ‘Didn’t you once tell me that you used to have a pen friend in France? Something to do with the Scouts?’
‘I did but Malise said it was babyish
and tore the letters up. I let it go after that.’
It was a struggle – getting off the boat and getting onto the train bound for Paris. Cigarette fumes changed from Craven A to Gauloise. Kathleen had been to Paris before but denied it when speaking to Christian for fear of revealing anything connected with her past. She was glad of the Astrakhan coat, although it was rather heavy and one of the ripped pockets still contained an old shopping list left over from one of Alyson and Christian’s outings to the Coop.
They spent a terrible night on the train from Paris to Pisa. Their couchette compartment was designed for six horizontal travellers and the slats on which they slept were made up of dark green, formica. Very slippery. The four slats not occupied by Christian and Kathleen were taken over by loud, male students who smoked and spoke all through the night. It was early when the train passed through a customs check. Much shouting of ‘Dogana’ but nobody came near them. Kathleen was relieved for fear of carrying too much contraband cash. Later, at a station, men with packed breakfasts in pink paper boxes strolled the platform yelling ‘Café, panini, banani,’ and the night was over.
42
They caught a train that went slowly from Pisa to Lucca. The wooden slats on which they perched bulged with darkly dressed Italians and were uncomfortable. Christian read, many times, from the notebook that he carried in his coat pocket. In the book was written the name and address of Patricia, her husband and, in all probability, her two children. His uncertain mission was in progress and he looked committed as he heaved their suitcases down from a meshed rack above his head at Lucca station which, in spite of the efforts of Mussolini, was dark and cheerless. There they asked a loitering fellow passenger to direct them to a pensione. ‘CostoPoco’ he said several times and very adamantly.
They walked, dragging cases, one containing Christian’s Teddy Bear, to the pensione that almost touched the station building. A furious man at a desk asked for immediate payment before pointing, grumpily, at a flight of filthy stairs. Their room was musty. It stank of cigarettes and the terrazzo floor, patterned as an ailing liver, was stained and chipped. There was a high, small window a low hard bed and a bumpy pillow apiece. No food on offer there. Nobody spoke English nor did Christian and Kathleen speak any Italian. It was mid morning but after a night with no sleep, Christian’s intentions were still firm – even if he barely knew what they amounted to.
‘We’ll play it by ear,’ he said as they sat in misery in the dark, damp room. He suddenly itched for a boy scout. A small boy called Joey. Christian remembered Joey’s bright smile that had exhilarated him at one of his lowest moments – soon after Malise left home for boarding school.
Although thepensione stood outside the Lucca walls, only a short walk was needed, through one of the historic gateways, to reach the city centre.
He was compelled to make his way, Kathleen puffing beside him in her astrakhan coat, to the Piazza San Michele and the bar where he had, with a demented Malise, encountered the pregnant Patricia where she carried, quite possibly, an embryonic Mc Hip.
At first they stood in the bar. No seats were free. Christian asked for two slices of pizza and a strong drink for both of them. They perched on stools beside the busy bar. He watched Kathleen dig her enormous teeth into her pizza slice and winced as melted cheese oozed out between them. Seats became free and the pair moved into a dark corner of the café. Kathleen faced him. She dreaded returning to the horrible pensione and had no strength with which to peruse the town.
‘So, Christian. Why, exactly, are we here?’
‘Mission dear. I wish to know if I have a little nephew or niece in this town.’
‘But would they be dear? Even if ….’ She stared at him with ferocity.
‘Well. Blood is blood Kathleen and we are, er, well, you know ….’
‘What do I know? Nothing of your relatives apart from the old ones who have gone and Malise who wouldn’t make much of a daddy. If you remember not one of them responded to my funeral notice in The Times and that was not cheap to insert.’
He ignored the reference to his dismissive cousins and said ‘Well. Daddy – no – but blood is what counts.’
‘Even so dear.’ More cheese oozed as she signalled to a waiter to bring her a glass of brandy – shortage of funds or not. ‘Are you intending to call on these people? The Leris? What will you say to them? The husband for one, might object and the wife might deny any knowledge of your brother.’
‘The boy. Her son. He will wemember. He did when we met up with them on this vewy spot.’
‘What if it breaks the family up?’
‘Can’t be helped. The child would have the wight to know of his or her blood line. Mc Hip.’
The brandy arrived. She drank it fast and ordered another.
Christian became melancholy. ‘We should have discussed this more fully before we came I know, but here we are and, yes. We will call on them this evening. Why not? Nothing to lose.’
‘Plenty for them to lose if you go telling the husband about his wife’s fling with Malise. He may never have heard of it. What’s more – what on earth do you intend to do with this three year old if you note a family resemblance? I’m not looking after it and that’s for sure.’
The second brandy was taking effect and she ordered a third.
Christian left her to drink and went away hoping to buy a map of the city.
When he returned to join her it was obvious that there was no question of calling on anyone that day. Kathleen was drowsy, hiccoughing, and barely able to rise from the table. The bill was unnervingly large. They walked, very unsteadily, to the horrible pensione and flopped onto the hard, low bed. In the passage there was a lavatory and basin. No bath. The cistern of the lavatory was broken and the top lay in dirty fragments on the wet floor. Water in the cistern was bright orange with rust. No paper and no water from the single tap above the cracked basin. Kathleen retched and semi-sobbed before slumping beside Christian. They both stayed there, getting very thirsty, until the following day.
No food was available in that dark place so, when they were dressed but still unwashed, they trotted once again into the town in search of coffee and a croissant. The Astrakhan coat fell heavily on Kathleen’s shoulders and her head ached appallingly and they trudged back to the bar of the day before.
43
After drinking coffee, they faced each other once again.
‘So. Christian. Are we going to call on those poor Leris today?’
‘That’s the idea.’
‘It’s a bad one. I’m not going with you.’
‘As you please.’
‘It isn’t that I’m pleased by any of it. The horrible hotel. It’s cold and filthy. Let’s go home.’
‘Not yet Kathleen.’
‘Then you go your way and I’ll go mine. We’ll meet at that dreadful place this evening before going out to eat.’
‘As you say, Pwobably better that way,’
The squirrel lined coat was too hot and heavy for the time of year. Harsh winter had not arrived and that particular November was a mild one – if damp. Christian sweated but walked briskly – comparing map with address book – to a less populated part of the city but within its walls. The map and the note book guided him to a front door. It appeared to belong to a ground floor apartment that stood on a quiet and pleasant street. Brickwork galore. He remembered brickwork from having listened to many of Malise’s verbal rambles. He rang the bell and heard it shrill. It was answered, almost at once, and there, in front of him, stood the undeniably beautiful Patricia. She knew, immediately, that calamity, under a squirrel lined coat, had struck. Christian was a rough and distorted version of Malise and she remembered him well from their hideous encounter when Malise had, thanks to heaven, failed to recognise her or her son, Antonio. She had been pregnant at that time and had noted, with horror, Christian’s interested eyes dwelling upon her swollen stomach.
A weird chill settled on her forehead. Her breath came in sharp pants
.
‘Come in. Can I help you? My husband is upstairs and the children are both out with their grandmother. She always takes them out on a Sunday. I was painting and must return to work very soon. Just tell me what I can do for you.’ She heard her voice coming from another corner of the room and wondered why she had told him that her mother in law always took the children out on Sundays. She had not wished to tell him anything at all. Her mind was disordered and she wondered if she was dreaming or, shockingly, awakening. She shouted to Andrea. ‘Come at once.’
Christian followed her into a pretty sitting room – much influenced in style by Patricia’s informal English taste. Cushions, pictures, rugs and comforts. There they stood. Andrea joined them. He had never seen this oddly attired stranger but something in his flavour gave a hint. It reminded him of the Englishman, Malise Mc Hip, who had entered and departed from their lives at equal speed.
‘How do you do?’ Andrea held out his hand to Christian.
‘Are you visiting our beautiful city? You have, perhaps, an introduction to us through mutual friends?’
‘Not pwecisely. My bwother knew you I believe. Malise Mc Hip.’
Patricia sat down and her temperature rose. How dare they? One brief, shabby episode in her happy life had returned to cause her anguish. Was there no such thing as the forgotten past?
Patricia and Malise Page 10