‘Es.’
They gripped each other’s hands for a while, saying nothing. Eleanor looked at her with a kind of dry-eyed hunger.
‘Do you want to sign it?’
‘Sign,’ said Eleanor, swallowing hard.
When Mary broke out into the streets, along with her sense of physical relief at getting away from the smell of urine and boiled cabbage, and the waiting-room atmosphere in which death was the delayed train, she felt grateful that there had been a moment of communication with Eleanor. In that gripped hand she had felt not just an appeal but a determination that made her wonder if she was right to doubt Eleanor’s preparedness to commit suicide. And yet there was something fundamentally lost about Eleanor, a sense that she had neither engaged in the mundane realm of family and friendship and politics and property, nor had she engaged with the realm of contemplation and spiritual fulfilment; she had simply sacrificed one to the other. If she belonged to the tribe who always heard the siren call of the choice they were about to lose, she was bound to feel an absolute need to stay alive once suicide had been perfectly organized for her. Salvation would always be elsewhere. Suddenly it would be more spiritual to stay alive – to learn patience, remain in the refining fires of suffering, whatever. More dreadful life would be imposed on her and it would inevitably seem more spiritual to die – to be reunited with the source, stop being a burden, meet Jesus at the end of a tunnel, whatever. The spiritual, because she had never committed herself to it any more effectively than to the rest of life, was subject to endless metamorphosis without losing its theoretical centrality.
When Mary got home, Thomas ran out into the hall to greet her. He wrapped his arms around her thigh with some difficulty, due to the Hoberman sphere, a multicoloured collapsible dodecahedron frame, which he had allowed to close around his neck and wore as a spiky helmet. His hands were clad in a pair of socks and he was holding a battery-operated propeller fan of fairy lights acquired on a visit to the Chinese State Circus on Blackheath.
‘We’re on Earth, aren’t we, Mama?’
‘Most of us,’ said Mary, thinking of the look she had glimpsed on Eleanor’s face through the open door of her room.
‘Yes, I did know that,’ said Thomas wisely. ‘Except astronauts who are in outer space. And they just float about because there’s no gravity!’
‘Did she sign?’ said Patrick, appearing in the doorway.
‘Yes,’ said Mary, handing him the letter.
Patrick sent the letter and membership form and doctor’s report to Switzerland and waited for a couple of days before ringing to find out if his mother’s application was likely to be successful.
‘In this case I think we will be able to help,’ was the answer he received. He stubbornly refused to get involved with his emotions, letting panic and elation and solemnity lean on the doorbell while he only glanced at them from behind closed curtains, pretending not to be at home. He was helped by the storm of practical demands which enveloped the family during the next week. Mary told Eleanor the news and was answered with a radiant smile. Patrick arranged a flight for the following Thursday. The nursing home was told that Eleanor was moving, without being told where. A consultation was booked with a doctor in Zurich.
‘We could all go on Wednesday to say goodbye,’ said Patrick.
‘Not Thomas,’ said Mary. ‘It’s been too long since he’s seen her and the last time he made it very clear that he was upset. Robert can still remember her when she was well.’
None of Mary’s close friends could look after Thomas on Wednesday afternoon and she was finally forced to ask her mother.
‘Of course I’ll do anything I can to help,’ said Kettle, feeling that if ever there was a time to make all the right noises, it was now. ‘Why don’t you drop him off at lunchtime? Amparo can make him some lovely fish fingers and you can all come to tea after you’ve said goodbye to poor old Eleanor.’
When Wednesday came round Mary brought Thomas to the door of her mother’s flat.
‘Your mother is not here,’ said Amparo.
‘Oh,’ said Mary, surprised and at the same time wondering why she was surprised.
‘She go out to buy the cakes for tea.’
‘But she’ll be back soon…’
‘She has lunch with a friend and then she come back, but don’t you worry, I look after the little boy.’
Amparo reached out her child-greedy, ingratiating hands. Thomas had met her only once before and Mary handed him over with some reluctance but above all with a sense of terminal boredom. Never again, she would never ask her mother to help again. The decision seemed as irrevocable and overdue as a slab of cliff falling into the sea. She smiled at Amparo and handed over Thomas, not reassuring him too much in case it made him think there was something troubling about his situation.
The thing to do is the thing to do, thought Thomas, heading towards the disconnected bell beside the fireplace in the drawing room. He liked to stand on the small chair and press the bell and then let in whoever came to the fireplace-door. By the time Amparo had said goodbye to Mary and caught up with him, he was welcoming a visitor.
‘It’s Badger!’ he said.
‘Who is this Badger?’ said Amparo with precautionary alarm.
‘Mr Badger is not in the habit of smoking cigarettes,’ said Thomas, ‘because they make him grow bigger and smaller. So he smokes cigars!’
‘Oh, no, my darling, you must not smoke,’ said Amparo. ‘It’s very bad for you.’
Thomas climbed onto the small chair and pressed the bell again.
‘Listen,’ he said, ‘there’s somebody at the door.’
He leapt down and ran around the table. ‘I’m running to open the door,’ he explained, coming back to the fireplace.
‘Be careful,’ said Amparo.
‘It’s Lady Penelope,’ said Thomas. ‘You be Lady Penelope!’
‘Would you like to help me with the hoovering?’ said Amparo.
‘Yes, m’lady,’ said Thomas in his Parker voice. ‘You’ll find a thermos of hot chocolate in your hat box.’ He howled with pleasure and flung himself on the cushions of the sofa.
‘Oh, my God, I just tidy this,’ wailed Amparo.
‘Build me a house,’ said Thomas, pulling the cushions onto the floor. ‘Build me a house!’ he shouted when she started to put them back. He lowered his head and frowned severely. ‘Look, Amparo, this is my grumpy face.’
Amparo caved in to his desire for a house and Thomas crawled into the space between two cushions and underneath the roof of a third.
‘Unfortunately,’ he remarked once he had settled into position, ‘Beatrix Potter died a long time ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, darling,’ said Amparo.
Thomas hoped that his parents would live for a very long time. He wanted them to be immortalized. That was a word he had learnt in his Children’s Book of Greek Myths. Ariadne was immortalized when she was turned into a star by Dionysus. Immortalized meant that she lived for ever – except that she was a star. He didn’t want his parents to turn into stars. What would be the point of that? Just twinkling away.
‘Just twinkling away,’ he said sceptically.
‘Oh, my God, you come with Amparo to the bathroom.’
He couldn’t understand why Amparo stood him by the loo and tried to pull his trousers down.
‘I don’t want to do peepee,’ he said flatly and started to walk away. The truth was that Amparo was quite difficult to have a conversation with. She didn’t seem to understand anything. He decided to go on an expedition. She trailed behind him, wittering on.
‘No, Amparo,’ he said, turning on her, ‘leave me alone!’
‘I can’t leave you, darling. You have to have an adult with you.’
‘No! I!’ said Thomas. ‘You are frustrating me!’
Amparo bent double with laughter. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘You know so many words.’
‘I have to talk, otherwise my mouth gets clogged up with bits and pieces of words,
’ said Thomas.
‘How old are you now, darling?’
‘I’m three,’ said Thomas. ‘How old did you think I was?’
‘I thought you were at least five, you’re such a grown-up boy.’
‘Hum,’ said Thomas.
He saw that there was no prospect of shaking her off and so he decided to treat her the way his parents treated him when they wanted to bring him under control.
‘Shall I tell you an Alabala story?’ he said.
They were back in the drawing room. He sat Amparo down on an armchair and climbed into his cushion cave.
‘Once upon a time,’ he began, ‘Alabala was in California and he was driving along with his mummy and there was an earthquake!’
‘I hope this story has a happy ending,’ said Amparo.
‘No!’ said Thomas. ‘You don’t interrupt me!’ He sighed and began again. ‘And the ground opened up and California fell into the sea, which was not very convenient, as you can imagine. And there was a huge tidal wave, and Alabala said to his mummy, “We can surf to Australia!” And so they did, and Alabala was allowed to drive the car.’ He searched the ceiling for inspiration and then added with all the naturalness of suddenly remembering. ‘When they arrived on the beach in Australia, Alan Razor was there giving a concert!’
‘Who is Alan Razor?’ asked Amparo, completely lost.
‘He’s a composer,’ said Thomas. ‘He has helicopters and violins and trumpets and drills, and Alabala played in the concert.’
‘What did he play?’
‘Well, he played a hoover, actually.’
When Kettle returned from her lunch, she found Amparo clutching her sides, thinking she was helpless with laughter at the thought of a hoover being played at a concert, but in fact hysterical at having her idea of what children should be like disrupted by being with Thomas.
‘Oh, dear,’ she panted, ‘he’s really an amazing little boy.’
While the two women struggled not to look after him, Thomas was at last able to have some time to himself. He decided that he never wanted to be an adult. He didn’t like the look of adults. Anyway, if he became an adult what would happen to his parents? They would become old, like Eleanor and Kettle.
The intercom buzzed and Thomas leapt to his feet.
‘I’ll answer it!’ he said.
‘It’s too high up,’ said Kettle.
‘But I want to!’
Kettle ignored him and pressed the intercom to let the others into the building. Thomas screamed in the background.
‘What was that screaming about?’ asked Mary when she arrived in the flat.
‘Granny wouldn’t let me press the button,’ said Thomas.
‘It’s not a child’s toy,’ said Kettle.
‘No, but he’s a child playing,’ said Mary. ‘Why not let him play with the intercom?’
Kettle thought of rising above her daughter’s argumentative style, but decided against it.
‘I can’t do anything right,’ she said, ‘so we might as well assume I’m wrong – then there won’t be any need to point it out. I’ve only just come in, so I’m afraid tea isn’t ready. I rushed home from a lunch that I couldn’t get out of.’
‘Yes,’ laughed Mary. ‘We saw you gazing through the shop windows when we were trying to park the car. Don’t worry, I won’t ask you to help with the children again.’
‘I’ll make the tea, if you like,’ said Amparo, offering Kettle the opportunity to stay with her family.
‘It’s all right,’ snapped Kettle. ‘I’m still capable of making a pot of tea.’
‘Am I being childish?’ said Thomas, approaching his father.
‘No,’ said Patrick. ‘You’re being a child. Only grownups can be childish, and my God, we take advantage of the fact.’
‘I see,’ said Thomas, nodding wisely.
Robert was slumped in an armchair feeling despondent. He’d had enough of both his grandmothers to last him a lifetime.
Kettle tottered back in, laying the tray down with a groan of relief.
‘So, how was your mother?’ she asked Patrick.
‘She only spoke two words,’ he answered.
‘Did they make any sense?’
‘Perfect sense: “Do nothing.”’
‘You mean she doesn’t want to … to go to Switzerland?’ asked Kettle, emphasizing a code she knew the children were excluded from.
‘That’s right,’ said Patrick.
‘That’s a bit of a muddle,’ said Kettle.
Mary felt the effort she was putting into avoiding her favourite word: ‘disappointment’.
‘It’s something we’re all entitled to feel ambivalent about,’ said Patrick. ‘Mary saw it all along. I suppose she was less invested in the results, or just clearer. Anyhow, I intend to take this last instruction very seriously indeed. I will do nothing.’
‘Do nothing!?’ said Thomas. ‘I mean, how do you do nothing? Because if you do nothing, you do something!’
Patrick burst out laughing. He picked up Thomas and put him on his knee and kissed the top of his head.
‘I shan’t be visiting her again,’ said Patrick. ‘Not out of spite, but out of gratitude. She’s made us a gift and it would be ungracious not to accept it.’
‘A gift?’ said Kettle. ‘Aren’t you reading rather too much into those two words.’
‘What else is there to do but read too much into things?’ said Patrick breezily. ‘What a poor, thin, dull world we’d live in if we didn’t. Besides, is it possible? There’s always more meaning than we can lay our hands on.’
Kettle was transfixed by several kinds of indignation at once, but Thomas filled the silence by jumping off his father’s knee and shouting, ‘Do nothing! Do nothing!’ as he circled the table laden with cakes and tea.
Also by Edward St. Aubyn
On the Edge
A Clue to the Exit
At Last
THE PATRICK MELROSE NOVELS. Copyright © 2012 by Edward St. Aubyn. All rights reserved. For information, address Picador, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
St. Aubyn, Edward, 1960–
The Patrick Melrose novels : Never mind, Bad news, Some hope, and Mother’s milk / Edward St. Aubyn.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-42996-6
1. Upper class families—England—Fiction. 2. Drug addicts—Fiction. 3. Gloucestershire (England)—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.
PR6069.T134A6 2012
823'.914—dc23
2011035061
Never Mind, Bad News, and Some Hope originally published in Great Britain by William Heinemann
Mother’s Milk originally published in Great Britain by Picador, an imprint of Pan Macmillan Ltd
First Edition: February 2012
eISBN 978-1-4668-4029-4
The Patrick Melrose Novels Page 62