Natural History

by Neil Cross

  (The hot Ribena assaulted Patrick with a sense memory of his mother so powerful that for a moment his eyes pricked with tears and he felt briefly untethered and lost, as if he had walked into a dream.)

  Jo’s face had a sickly blue-white tinge, indigo round the eyes, like faded old Levis. Trailing curls of hair, the colour of cinnamon when wet, were plastered to her brow and cheekbones.

  He knelt and brushed the wet curls from her eyes and said, ‘Baby girl, what are you doing here?’ and she put her long arms round his neck and squeezed him, and began to cry.

  Esther Hivon let Patrick borrow the shop’s landline; he’d left his mobile phone at the office, this time by accident.

  It was a 1970s Trimphone—the sleek, modernist, beige kind that warbled like a canary. Seeing it, Patrick wanted to guffaw with astounded nostalgia. But he didn’t—he dialled Nately’s number instead, marvelling at the unhurried movement of the rotary dial. He hated to think what it must be like, to call 999 with one of those things.

  Eventually, Nately’s phone shrieked on the other end of the line. Patrick let it ring for fully two minutes. But Nately didn’t answer.

  So he drove to Nately’s house with his knuckles white on the wheel and his jaw flexing.

  Jo sat next to him, wrapped in a grey blanket. He’d turned the heater up to maximum, and the car was like a greenhouse. Rain exploded on the windscreen and made it worse. Patrick leaned forward in his seat.

  The heat was soporific, and Jo was nodding into her chest. She’d have fallen asleep, had Patrick not taken the bends so hard, and had he not muttered impatiently to himself at every half-visible­ intersection.

  Eventually, he pulled up to Mr Nately’s gate, making a little cowboy noise (whoa!) as the Land-Rover skidded in the wet mud and stuck its fat arse into the road. Patrick struggled like a bus driver to correct it, cursing and heaving at the wheel. He told Jo to wait, then pulled the hood of his anorak over his head and climbed out.

  Jo watched him.

  He seemed to be far away—the steamy windows made him look like a memory, and the rain on the roof sounded like sleep.

  Patrick’s fingers were clumsy with nerves and anger, and he gashed his thumb yanking the gate open. He strode down the path sucking and biting on it.

  He banged on the door with his other fist, still sucking his thumb. Three solid blows.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Then he waited. He took his thumb from his mouth, and the rain diluted the blood to a thin pink that ran down the back of his hand.

  He pounded on the door again.

  Bang.

  Bang. Bang.

  He waited.

  He noticed that the downstairs curtains had not been opened. Some of the anger left him.

  Stepping back, he examined the front aspect of the house. The sodden grass wet his legs. His socks sponged up the water and wicked it into his boots. His feet squelched. He cursed.

  Then he called out: ‘John?’

  He cocked his head, the anger all gone now. He stood in the front garden of the secluded cottage, and didn’t know what to do.

  He nibbled at his lower lip and made a decision. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure Jo was okay (she seemed to be asleep), then he tramped round to the back of the cottage. He stood in the long garden before the vegetable plots, the shed, the scratchy orchard, and called out once more.

  ‘John!’

  But the house was silent.

  It felt haunted. The idea was silly, but it raised the flesh on Patrick’s arms.

  He squint-peered into the still-life of the conservatory, 1950s vintage; autumn fruit rotted in a ceramic bowl on Nately’s breakfast-table.

  Patrick hadn’t even read Nately’s references. He had simply listened to Jane rehearse them aloud, and agreed to everything she said. Jane had dealt with it all. And now look at him.

  He called out once more—‘John!’—and the sound fused with the wall of rain and vanished.

  He considered calling Stu Redman, but he was too embarrassed. He knew Stu would keep him waiting out here, in the fucking rain, while he knocked officiously at the door.

  So he said, ‘Sod it’, and kicked open the kitchen door.

  It was a portal between worlds—the storm out here, the warmth and the stillness in there. It was like entering a painting. And then he stood in Nately’s kitchen, with the rain outside.

  He went to the kettle and touched it. It was cold. It hadn’t been boiled today. The cold kettle made him scared to proceed.

  He called out, once more—‘John …?’

  But his voice was weak and the way it died in the emptiness unnerved him. The deep shadows, fading to reveal the antique furniture, the floral carpet, fifty years old. The ancient smells: Omo and Vim and other household chemicals that had evaporated from the shelves when Patrick was a child.

  He passed the back room—Jo’s classroom—the desk, the whiteboard, the bookcases, the computer.

  He passed the downstairs toilet but feared to enter. He opened the door—just a crack—to make sure Nately was not inside. He peeked into the living room, although in this house it barely deserved that name. Smell of beeswax and starch.

  No Nately.

  He hesitated at the bottom of the stairs.

  Then he went up; single stair by single stair. Into the bathroom. Heavy porcelain bath, lavatory and basin, dating to the first third of the century. The chemical did not exist that could blanch the stain of age from them.

  The floor creaked underfoot.

  He shut the bathroom door behind him.

  The next door revealed a linen closet and Patrick closed it quickly, embarrassed by the intimacy of it—the folded sheets and blankets and spare duvets, smelling faintly of lavender and mothball and dust and spider carcass.

  The next door opened onto a bedroom that seemed too big for the house.

  As Patrick stepped inside, a squall of rain shuddered at the window. But he walked on in.

  The curtains were closed. The light switch was a Bakelite nipple. He flipped it and the room fluoresced with a wan, nicotine glow. Against the far wall was a large double bed, and sprawled on the large double bed lay John Nately.

  His eyes were closed and he lay quite still. His mouth hung open. A crust of dried saliva flaked from mouth to chin.

  On the bedside table was a cardboard box containing Temazepam, which Patrick happened to know—because it was one of those snippets of information that his mind retained—was the best-selling­ prescription sleeping-pill issued in the United Kingdom.

  12

  Patrick needed help.

  Charlie was missing, even on those few occasions he was actually at home. Patrick didn’t know what was going on inside his head.

  And Jo, too, was unhappy. She had no tutor, and Patrick was taking her to work, where she fretted and moped—as if it was Patrick’s fault that Nately had tried to top himself.

  Patrick took her to meet the people who’d be running stalls when the market opened in a couple of weeks. They showed Jo the things they made, the cloth they wove, the candlesticks they wrought, the wine they brewed, the specialist ales, the venison sausages, the boar steaks. Jo was polite and distant; she didn’t understand these people, and when Patrick drove her back to Monkeyland, she moaned, ‘Why do people just have to sell things all the time?’

  ‘I don’t know. Human nature.’

  She looked at him sideways, because he wasn’t an expert on any kind of nature, least of all human. He waited for another question he wouldn’t be able to answer, but Jo just frowned to show disagreement.

  They jostled in the Land-Rover. He wished the radio worked.

  He supposed he’d have to find her a school. But the local comprehensive wasn’t local. Just getting her there and getting her back again; dro
pping her off at the right place, at the right time, and picking her up again, was logistically vexing. Until Jane got home—if Jane ever got home—he was a working single parent.

  Nately had been a good tutor, and Jo liked him. But right now, Nately was in the nuthouse, shuffling round in carpet slippers.

  Jo said, ‘I want to see him.’

  ‘You can. As soon as the doctors say it’s okay.’

  He was lying.

  He was angry at Nately. And he was angry at Jane for choosing Nately as Jo’s tutor. And he was angry at Jo, for pining for Nately so acutely. And he was angry at himself, for being so uselessly fucking angry.

  Who could he ask for advice? It was easier, looking after chimpanzees. He bared his teeth in a big, happy bark when he thought that, and wished there was someone to whom he could explain what was so funny.

  So in the evening, they sat alone together in different rooms. Patrick in the kitchen, trying to read 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. Jo upstairs, mooning. Charlie in the living room staring at Top of the Pops on the old TV with the fucked-up colour balance.

  There was the sound of a vehicle, slowing down in the driveway.

  In the living room, Charlie hit the mute button.

  In the kitchen, Patrick looked up from his book.

  In her bedroom, Jo sat up.

  They weren’t expecting anyone; they never were—not unless it was Don Caraway. And Don never came after sunset. They heard:

  A car door slamming.

  Crunchy footsteps. Hesitating.

  A knock at the door.

  Patrick unfolded from his chair. Set down his book.

  Went to the door. Opened it.

  And there was Richard. He was dressed in clean, new clothes—Levis, trainers, nylon parka, nylon shoulder bag. His hair needed cutting and he had the makings of a pretty good beard.

  Nausea billowed up inside Patrick, and all the dreams came rushing at him—he stood in a howling tunnel of them. And then they’d passed, like a ghost-train, and Richard was still there, on the doorstep.

  He said Patrick’s name and extended a hand. But Patrick was holding onto the doorframe because his legs had weakened and he thought he might fall over.

  He was aware of the kids, behind him. A hand—tentative—crawled into his, like a hermit crab into a shell. Jo’s. He squeezed. Relaxed.

  He could feel Charlie’s energy, at his shoulder.

  Patrick said, ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  Before Patrick could speak, or think what else to do, Richard had reached into his shoulder bag and removed from it a dilapidated Jiffy bag, ripped in places to show the grey wadding.

  Patrick took the Jiffy bag. Its flap was open. Inside was a notebook. Attached to the notebook with a thick, rotten, multi-wrapped elastic band, was a piece of paper.

  Patrick inspected it. It was a letter.

  Then he looked, uncomprehending, at Richard. Who said, ‘You’d better read it, mate.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Richard had the night behind him. He was a shadow.

  Patrick stuffed the Jiffy bag in his pocket.

  He said, ‘Richard. Christ. Do you want to come in? Have a drink or something? A hot chocolate. You look—’

  Richard shook his head. ‘I’d better—you know. I’d better get home. I haven’t been home.’

  He re-set the nylon bag on his shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, mate.’

  He nodded a shamefaced goodbye to the kids and walked back to his car.

  Behind the white glare of headlamps, Patrick could see the boxy shapes of Richard’s luggage, piled haphazardly onto the rear seat, like Christmas gifts in a sentimental old movie.

  They went inside and sat round the kitchen table.

  Patrick blew out his cheeks. Exhaled. Took the Jiffy bag from his pocket. Removed the elastic band. It was perished and it snapped and uncoiled on the table like something dying.

  Patrick unfolded the letter. It was fragile, stained, like an antique.

  Jo said, ‘Read it out.’

  He scanned it, first. Then he licked his lips:

  These notes started as preparation for a script, maybe even a book—a bit of local colour, a bit of political background. But they turned into something else. Not even a diary.

  It would be pointless, telling you this over the phone, because I wouldn’t be able to do it. You have to be here to understand, and you can’t be here. You can’t come here, and I can’t leave.

  I’d be betraying myself if I walked away from this, from those animals in that terrible zoo.

  I don’t know how long I’ll be here. Not long, I hope. I’m not even sure, yet, what I can do. But I have to try.

  Does this make any sense?

  Write to me, c/o the International. Richard has the details. I’ll write when I can. Keep safe. I will. I’m not alone here; there are aid workers and journalists and God knows who else. I’ll be safe. Look after each other. I miss you. I love you.

  ‘And there are,’ Patrick counted, ‘twenty kisses.’

  ‘Let me see,’ said Jo, and Patrick passed her the letter. ‘There are eighteen, actually.’

  ‘There are eighteen kisses,’ said Patrick.

  For a few moments, they stared at the scarred surface of the old table. Then Jo said, ‘Excuse me,’ and pushed back her chair and went up to bed.

  Patrick waited for a while. Then he muttered something to Charlie—a soft grunt more than a word—and followed her.

  He and Jo sat on the bed together, hands clasped in their laps.

  He said, ‘Are you okay?’

  She was looking at her lap. ‘She still loves us.’

  ‘She does,’ he said, not knowing if it was true.

  And Jo told him, ‘Love is like maths.’

  He’d been stroking her hair. Now he let his hand fall. ‘Is it?’

  ‘Like—is it real? Is it a thing? Or does it just describe the relationship between things?’

  He looked at the wall. It was an old wall, and beneath the peeling paint in the 60-watt lamplight, it was a landscape of lumps and bumps that cast odd, mauve shadows.

  ‘I don’t know, baby.’

  She said, ‘I would like to go and see Mr Nately.’

  ‘I know.’

  She cuddled his arm, sniffing. Her hair brushed his face and a few strands caught against his stubble. The weak light shone on the hair that joined them, and he knew the answer to her question: love was real, and if you were lucky you walked inside it.

  And everything—the planets, the combusting, wheeling suns, the impossible galaxies, the dreadful spread of the universe: everything was inside it. And he realized that his daughter had made him believe, for one moment, the only moment in his life, in God.

  He said good night, and she lay down, fully dressed, and he turned off the light.

  He wanted to touch her brow and take it away from her. He wanted to heal her. But Patrick couldn’t heal things. Never could; he blundered and said the wrong thing and made things worse. So he hesitated in the doorway. She was a bundle of sturdy twigs, bound together with a shock of rough wool, and he knew what it meant, when people talked abut a heart breaking. A broken heart swelled until it exploded in your chest, like a universe being born.

  Downstairs, Charlie was still at the table. In the background, the TV was still on. EastEnders.

  Patrick went to the fridge and got out two cans of Guinness. He cracked them and poured them into a couple of glasses.

  He was trying to think of a story—an anecdote, something about when Jane was young, not yet a mother. The anecdote would illustrate how she’d always been the same, and would never change—and how that made her the person they loved.

  But he couldn’t think of any
anecdotes. So he sat down and sipped Guinness.

  In the end, Charlie spoke first. What he said was: ‘I think she’s sleeping with Richard.’

  Patrick sighed. ‘I know.’

  In the quiet that followed, Charlie seemed to condense and solidify.

  Patrick told him, ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘How can it not?’

  ‘Well, sometimes it feels like it matters. But it doesn’t. Not really.’

  Charlie was still gazing down at the table. Patrick could see the sandbar pattern on his forehead, the place permanent wrinkles would some day appear.

  ‘You should have done something.’

  ‘Done what?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Hit him?’

  ‘No. Yeah. I don’t know.’

  ‘Hit her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Left her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  Charlie was looking at the table.

  Patrick said, ‘We’re not animals, mate.’ Gently, he turned a knuckle into his son’s skull, like turning a key. ‘We’ve got this,’ he said, ‘In here.’

  Charlie didn’t speak, or move.

  Patrick said, ‘It’s not about not having urges like that. Violent urges. Stupid urges. It’s about overcoming them.’

  ‘She doesn’t overcome them. Her urges.’

  Patrick covered his mouth with a hand. Speak no evil. He took it away.

  ‘I love her, Charlie.’

  Charlie was whispering now. ‘How do you do it?’

  ‘I don’t know. You just do. If you have to.’

  Charlie nodded, once. His fingers were splayed wide on the table, as if to anchor it, to keep it from floating away.

  Another letter arrived. This one had been addressed to Patrick at Monkeyland, and Mrs de Frietas had placed it—sarcastically? hopefully?—at the summit of his in-tray.

  He took it down, creating a small landslide. The envelope was handwritten with, by the look of it, a pretty decent fountain pen. He opened the envelope, put his feet on the desk and unfolded the letter.

  North Devon District Hospital

  12 December

  Dear Patrick,

  Firstly, an apology. I can only imagine how alarming it must have been, finding me like you did. Secondly, I must thank you for your prompt action.