‘Where’d he live?’
‘Eighth Street.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Chilly. ‘What did he do?’
‘Well, he … sold … he lived on the streets really … that’s why I knew it couldn’t be you. Anyway, he was older.’
‘I remember you!’ laughed Chilly. ‘You’re the English guy with the coat, right?’
‘That’s right!’ said Patrick. ‘It is you! Christ, you look well. I practically didn’t recognize you. You play really well too.’
‘Thanks. I was always a musician, then I…’ Chilly made a diving motion with his hand, glancing sideways at his fellow musicians.
‘What happened to your wife?’
‘She OD’d,’ said Chilly sadly.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Patrick, remembering the horse syringe she had carefully unwrapped from the loo paper and charged him twenty dollars for. ‘Well, it’s a miracle you’re alive,’ he added.
‘Yeah, everything’s a miracle, man,’ said Chilly. ‘It’s a fuckin’ miracle we don’t melt in the bath like a piece of soap.’
* * *
‘The Herberts have always had a weakness for low life,’ said Kitty Harrow. ‘Look at Shakespeare.’
‘They were certainly scraping the barrel with him,’ said Nicholas. ‘Society used to consist of a few hundred families all of whom knew each other. Now it just consists of one: the Guinnesses. I don’t know why they don’t make an address book with an especially enlarged G spot.’
Kitty giggled.
‘Oh, well, I can see that you’re an entrepreneur manqué,’ said Ali to Nicholas.
* * *
‘That dinner at the Bossington-Lanes’ was beyond anything,’ said Ali Montague to Laura and China. ‘I knew we were in trouble when our host said, “The great thing about having daughters is that you can get them to fag for you.” And when that great horsy girl of his came back she said, “You can’t argue with Daddy, he used to have exactly the same vital statistics as Muhammad Ali, except he was a foot and a half shorter.”’
Laura and China laughed. Ali was such a good mimic.
‘The mother’s absolutely terrified,’ said Laura, ‘because some friend of Charlotte’s went up to “the Metrop” to share a flat with a couple of other county gals, and the first week she fell in with someone called “Evil John”!’
They all howled with laughter.
‘What really terrifies Mr Bossington-Lane,’ said Ali, ‘is Charlotte getting an education.’
‘Fat chance,’ said Laura.
‘He was complaining about a neighbour’s daughter who had “a practically unheard of number of Os”.’
‘What, three?’ suggested China.
‘I think it was five and she was going on to do an A level in history of art. I asked him if there was any money in art, just to get him going.’
‘And what did he say?’ asked China.
Ali thrust out his chin and pushed a hand into his dinner jacket pocket with a thumb resting over the edge.
‘“Money?” he boomed. “Not for most of them. But you know, one’s dealing with people who are too busy struggling with the meaning of life to worry about that sort of thing. Not that one isn’t struggling a bit oneself!” I said I thought the meaning of life included a large income. “And capital,” he said.’
‘The daughter is impossible,’ grinned Laura. ‘She told me a really boring story that I couldn’t be bothered to listen to, and then ended it by saying, “Can you imagine anything worse than having your barbecue sausage stolen?” I said, “Yes, easily.” And she made a dreadful honking sound and said, “Well, obviously, I didn’t mean literally.”’
‘Still, it’s nice of them to have us to stay,’ said China provocatively.
‘Do you know how many of those horrid porcelain knick-knacks I counted in my room?’ Ali asked with a supercilious expression on his face to exaggerate the shock of the answer he was about to give.
‘How many?’ asked Laura.
‘One hundred and thirty-seven.’
‘A hundred and thirty-seven,’ gasped China.
‘And, apparently, if one of them moves, she knows about it,’ said Ali.
‘She once had everyone’s luggage searched because one of the knick-knacks had been taken from the bedroom to the bathroom or the bathroom to the bedroom, and she thought it was stolen.’
‘It’s quite tempting to try and smuggle one out,’ said Laura.
‘Do you know what’s rather fascinating?’ said Ali, hurrying on to his next insight. ‘That old woman with the nice face and the ghastly blue dress was Bridget’s mother.’
‘No!’ said Laura. ‘Why wasn’t she at dinner here?’
‘Embarrassed,’ said Ali.
‘How awful,’ said China.
‘Mind you, I do see what she means,’ said Ali. ‘The mother is rather Surrey Pines.’
* * *
‘I saw Debbie,’ said Johnny.
‘Really? How was she looking?’ asked Patrick.
‘Beautiful.’
‘She always looked beautiful at big parties,’ said Patrick. ‘I must talk to her one of these days. It’s easy to forget that she’s just another human being, with a body and a face and almost certainly a cigarette, and that she may well no longer be the same person that I knew.’
‘How have you been feeling since dinner?’ asked Johnny.
‘Pretty weird to begin with, but I’m glad we talked.’
‘Good,’ said Johnny. He felt awkward not knowing what more to say about their earlier conversation, but not wanting to pretend it had never happened. ‘Oh, I thought of you during my meeting,’ he said with artificial brightness. ‘There was this man who had to switch off his television last night because he thought he was putting the presenters off.’
‘Oh, I used to get that,’ said Patrick. ‘When my father died in New York one of the longest conversations I had (if I is the right pronoun in this case) was with the television set.’
‘I remember you telling me,’ said Johnny.
The two men fell silent and stared at the throng that struggled under wastes of grey velvet with the same frantic but restricted motion as bacteria multiplying under a microscope.
‘It takes about a hundred of these ghosts to precipitate one flickering and disreputable sense of identity,’ said Patrick. ‘These are the sort of people who were around during my childhood: hard dull people who seemed quite sophisticated but were in fact as ignorant as swans.’
‘They’re the last Marxists,’ said Johnny unexpectedly. ‘The last people who believe that class is a total explanation. Long after that doctrine has been abandoned in Moscow and Peking it will continue to flourish under the marquees of England. Although most of them have the courage of a half-eaten worm,’ he continued, warming to his theme, ‘and the intellectual vigour of dead sheep, they are the true heirs to Marx and Lenin.’
‘You’d better go and tell them,’ said Patrick. ‘I think most of them were expecting to inherit a bit of Gloucestershire instead.’
* * *
‘Every man has his price,’ said Sonny tartly. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Robin?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Robin, ‘but he must make sure that his price isn’t too low.’
‘I’m sure most people are very careful to do that,’ said Sonny, wondering what would happen if Robin blackmailed him.
‘But it’s not just money that corrupts people,’ said Jacqueline d’Alantour. ‘We had the most wonder-fool driver called Albert. He was a very sweet, gentle man who used to tell the most touching story you could imagine about operating on his goldfish. One day, when Jacques was going shooting, his loader fell ill and so he said, “I’ll have to take Albert.” I said, “But you can’t, it will kill him, he adores animals, he won’t be able to bear the sight of all that blood.” But Jacques insisted, and he’s a very stubborn man, so there was nothing I could do. When the first few birds were shot, poor Albert was in agony,’ Jacqueline covered her eyes theatric
ally, ‘but then he started to get interested,’ she parted her fingers and peeped out between them. ‘And now,’ she said, flinging her hands down, ‘he subscribes to the Shooting Times, and has every kind of gun magazine you can possibly imagine. It’s become quite dangerous to drive around with him because every time there’s a pigeon, which in London is every two metres, he says, “Monsieur d’Alantour would get that one.” When we go through Trafalgar Square, he doesn’t look at the road at all, he just stares at the sky, and makes shooting noises.’
‘I shouldn’t think you could eat a London pigeon,’ said Sonny sceptically.
* * *
‘Patrick Melrose? You’re not David Melrose’s son, by any chance?’ asked Bunny Warren, a figure Patrick could hardly remember, but a name that had floated around his childhood at a time when his parents still had a social life, before their divorce.
‘Yes.’
Bunny’s creased face, like an animated sultana, raced through half a dozen expressions of surprise and delight. ‘I remember you as a child, you used to take a running kick at my balls each time I came to Victoria Road for a drink.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Patrick. ‘Oddly enough, Nicholas Pratt was complaining about the same sort of thing this morning.’
‘Oh, well, in his case…’ said Bunny with a mischievous laugh.
‘I used to get to the right velocity,’ Patrick explained, ‘by starting on the landing and running down the first flight of stairs. By the time I reached the hall I could manage a really good kick.’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Bunny. ‘Do you know, it’s a funny thing,’ he went on in a more serious tone, ‘hardly a day passes without my thinking of your father.’
‘Same here,’ said Patrick, ‘but I’ve got a good excuse.’
‘So have I,’ said Bunny. ‘He helped me at a time when I was in an extremely wobbly state.’
‘He helped to put me into an extremely wobbly state,’ said Patrick.
‘I know a lot of people found him difficult,’ admitted Bunny, ‘and he may have been at his most difficult with his children – people usually are – but I saw another side of his personality. After Lucy died, at a time when I really couldn’t cope at all, he took care of me and stopped me drinking myself to death, listened with enormous intelligence to hours of black despair, and never used what I told him against me.’
‘The fact that you mention his not using anything you said against you is sinister enough.’
‘You can say what you like,’ said Bunny bluntly, ‘but your father probably saved my life.’ He made an inaudible excuse and moved away abruptly.
Alone in the press of the party, Patrick was suddenly anxious to avoid another conversation, and left the tent, preoccupied by what Bunny had said about his father. As he hurried into the now-crowded drawing room, he was spotted by Laura, who stood with China and a man Patrick did not recognize.
‘Hello, darling,’ said Laura.
‘Hi,’ said Patrick, who didn’t want to be waylaid.
‘Have you met Ballantine Morgan?’ said China.
‘Hello,’ said Patrick.
‘Hello,’ said Ballantine, giving Patrick an annoyingly firm handshake. ‘I was just saying,’ he continued, ‘that I’ve been lucky enough to inherit what is probably the greatest gun collection in the world.’
‘Well, I think,’ said Patrick, ‘I was lucky enough to see a book about it shown to me by your father.’
‘Oh, so you’ve read The Morgan Gun Collection,’ said Ballantine.
‘Well, not from cover to cover, but enough to know how extraordinary it was to own the greatest gun collection in the world and be such a good shot, as well as write about the whole thing in such beautiful prose.’
‘My father was also a very fine photographer,’ said Ballantine.
‘Oh, yes, I knew I’d forgotten something,’ said Patrick.
‘He was certainly a multitalented individual,’ said Ballantine.
‘When did he die?’ asked Patrick.
‘He died of cancer last year,’ said Ballantine. ‘When a man of my father’s wealth dies of cancer, you know they haven’t found a cure,’ he added with justifiable pride.
‘It does you great credit that you’re such a fine curator of his memory,’ said Patrick wearily.
‘Honour thy father and thy mother all thy days,’ said Ballantine.
‘That’s certainly been my policy,’ Patrick affirmed.
China, who felt that even Ballantine’s gargantuan income might be eclipsed by his fatuous behaviour, suggested that they dance.
‘I’d be pleased to,’ said Ballantine. ‘Excuse us,’ he added to Laura and Patrick.
‘What a ghastly man,’ said Laura.
‘You should have met his father,’ said Patrick.
‘If he could get that silver spoon out of his mouth—’
‘He would be even more pointless than he already is,’ said Patrick.
‘How are you, anyway, darling?’ Laura asked. ‘I’m pleased to see you. This party is really getting on my nerves. Men used to tell me how they used butter for sex, now they tell me how they’ve eliminated it from their diet.’
Patrick smiled. ‘You certainly have to kick a lot of bodies out there before you find a live one,’ he said. ‘There’s a blast of palpable stupidity that comes from our host, like opening the door of a sauna. The best way to contradict him is to let him speak.’
‘We could go upstairs,’ said Laura.
‘What on earth for?’ smiled Patrick.
‘We could just fuck. No strings.’
‘Well, it’s something to do,’ said Patrick.
‘Thanks,’ said Laura.
‘No, no, I’m really keen,’ said Patrick. ‘Although I can’t help thinking it’s a terrible idea. Aren’t we going to get confused?’
‘No strings, remember?’ said Laura, marching him towards the hall.
A security guard stood at the foot of the staircase. ‘I’m sorry, no one goes upstairs,’ he said.
‘We’re staying here,’ said Laura, and something indefinably arrogant about her tone made the security man step aside.
Patrick and Laura kissed, leaning against the wall of the attic room they had found.
‘Guess who I’m having an affair with?’ asked Laura as she detached herself.
‘I dread to think. Anyhow, why do you want to discuss it just now?’ Patrick mumbled as he bit her neck.
‘He’s someone you know.’
‘I give up,’ sighed Patrick who could feel his erection dwindling.
‘Johnny.’
‘Well, that’s put me right off,’ said Patrick.
‘I thought you might want to steal me back.’
‘I’d rather stay friends with Johnny. I don’t want more irony and more tension. You never really understood that, did you?’
‘You love irony and tension, what are you talking about?’
‘You just go round imagining everybody’s like you.’
‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Laura. ‘Or as Lawrence Harvey says in Darling, “Put away your Penguin Freud.”’
‘Look, we’d better just part now, don’t you think?’ said Patrick. ‘Before we have a row.’
‘God, you’re a pain,’ said Laura.
‘Let’s go down separately,’ said Patrick. The flickering flame of his lighter cast a dim wobbling light over the room. The lighter went out, but Patrick found the brass doorknob and, opening the door cautiously, allowed a wedge of light to cross the dusty floorboards.
‘You go first,’ he whispered, brushing the dust from the back of her dress.
‘Bye,’ she said curtly.
10
PATRICK CLOSED THE DOOR gratefully and lit a cigarette. Since his conversation with Bunny there’d been no time to think, but now the disturbing quality of Bunny’s remarks caught up with him and kept him in the attic.
Even when he had gone to New York to collect his ashes, Patrick had not been c
ompletely convinced by the simple solution of loathing his father. Bunny’s loyalty to David made Patrick realize that his real difficulty might be in acknowledging the same feelings in himself.
What had there been to admire about his father? The music he had refused to take the risk of recording? And yet it had sometimes broken Patrick’s hearts to hear it. The psychological insight he had habitually used to torment his friends and family, but which Bunny claimed had saved his life? All of David’s virtues and talents had been double-edged, but however vile he had been he had not been deluded, most of the time, and had accepted with some stoicism his well-deserved suffering.
It was not admiration that would reconcile him to his father, or even the famously stubborn love of children for their parents, able to survive far worse fates than Patrick’s. The greenish faces of those drowning figures clinging to the edge of the Medusa’s raft haunted his imagination, and he did not always picture them from the raft, but often as enviably closer to it than he was. How many choked cursing? How many slipped under silently? How many survived a little longer by pressing on the shoulders of their drowning neighbours?
Something more practical made him rummage about for a reason to make peace. Most of Patrick’s strengths, or what he imagined were his strengths, derived from his struggle against his father, and only by becoming detached from their tainted origin could he make any use of them.
And yet he could never lose his indignation at the way his father had cheated him of any peace of mind, and he knew that however much trouble he put into repairing himself, like a once-broken vase that looks whole on its patterned surface but reveals in its pale interior the thin dark lines of its restoration, he could only produce an illusion of wholeness.
All Patrick’s attempts at generosity ran up against his choking indignation while, on the other hand, his hatred ran up against those puzzling moments, fleeting and always spoiled, when his father had seemed to be in love with life and to take pleasure in any expression of freedom, or playfulness, or brilliance. Perhaps he would have to settle for the idea that it must have been even worse being his father than being someone his father had attempted to destroy.
Simplification was dangerous and would later take its revenge. Only when he could hold in balance his hatred and his stunted love, looking on his father with neither pity nor terror but as another human being who had not handled his personality especially well; only when he could live with the ambivalence of never forgiving his father for his crimes but allowing himself to be touched by the unhappiness that had produced them as well as the unhappiness they had produced, could he be released, perhaps, into a new life that would enable him to live instead of merely surviving. He might even enjoy himself.
The Patrick Melrose Novels Page 38