Pagan and her parents

by Michael Arditti

  I only discover that she has met William when she lets slip that she has a new uncle and that he has a ‘pram just like Mummy’s’.

  ‘He asked me to kiss him, but I asked if he was going to die like Mummy. And she –’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know … said that was a wicked thing to say and I should say sorry. But he said he didn’t mind and it was just his legs. And I asked when would they be better and he said never and I said I bet they could and I told him about your programme with the man who stood up when they put wires in his dead legs. And he said you mustn’t believe everything on television and I said, “I know that, silly”. But I do when it’s you.’

  She likes William, who played ping-pong with her in the dining room, until your mother spotted the scuff-marks on the parquet. ‘She said he should have known and he just drove away. Then she said “guess who’ll have to clean it up”, so I said “Grandpa”, which made her cross; but she said to guess.’

  All my fears of her disaffection vanish in her open hostility to your parents. When they bring her home, she rushes upstairs so quickly that I have to force her down to say goodbye.

  ‘She’s just showing off,’ your father says.

  ‘She never did before,’ I lie.

  I try to maintain good relations, like an ex-wife hiding her hurt for the sake of the children. So I accept their weak tea on Fridays and bring out my whisky on Sundays. At which point, your mother always reminds your father that he is driving; as if her security rests less in his sobriety than in the familiarity of the phrase.

  Last Friday, I noted an addition to their sideboard: a photograph of your parents with Pagan.

  ‘William took it,’ she explains to me.

  ‘Uncle William, dear,’ your mother says, from the foot of the family tree.

  ‘You’re smiling,’ I say, almost in accusation.

  ‘I couldn’t help it. He said, “Say Primula”, that’s like cream cheese. And I said your favourite cream cheese –’

  ‘That’s enough,’ your mother says with unexpected vehemence and stares at me in disgust.

  ‘He said how if he was photographed from his tummy, no one would know about his legs,’ she continues defiantly. Your mother looks sour; such talk is taboo. I have never understood what led them to adopt William. If they picked you because you were pretty, how did they explain him? Or did they fail to discover the truth until it was too late … your father’s dreams of his opening for England shattered by his refusal to crawl; your mother’s Home Sweet Home harmony destroyed by the squeak of his chair?

  ‘There’s no shame in being adopted,’ your father told you, following his rule-book. ‘It means that we chose you above all the others; we wanted you even more.’

  ‘You must never tell people you’re adopted,’ your mother told you, ironing her towels. ‘It has nothing to do with anyone but us.’

  These days, concealment is harder. With the dearth of healthy white babies, hopes are as handicapped as the children; desperation has to face every disadvantage. No wonder she is so keen on traditional family values: the stigma attached to illegitimacy was a lifeline to her. Am I being cynical? Believe me, in the light of your parents’ behaviour, I have every right.

  They have made another application for Pagan. Max assumes that they must have new evidence. Why have they said nothing to me? I thought that their middle-class code specified being good losers. And yet they compete for Pagan like a challenge cup. At least she will be spared any upset. She likes the Welfare Officer, whom she calls the Doll’s House Lady on account of their games. I am the one who will have to suffer the strain of another hearing, although Max assures me that it will be painless. Having rejected your parents once, the Judge is bound to be on our side.

  I doubt that he will look kindly on their having sold their story to the Sunday Sentinel, a paper whose initials give a fair indication of its social stance. In ‘their own words’ and a mass of editorialising, they share their sorrow on being deprived of their only grandchild; in bewildered tones, they describe your estrangement, which they see as a typical teenage rebellion, and claim that their sole crime was to love you too much. They seem to believe – on what grounds I cannot say – that the weakness of their case lay in your adoption and that, had they been natural parents, the ruling would have been reversed.

  Illustrating the article is William’s picture of the proud – but desolate – grandparents with Pagan, whose face has been blacked out in a manner that I find both symbolic and sinister. The risk of identifying her is the reason for not naming me, a somewhat superfluous gesture given the clues liberally scattered about the text … I suggest that they offer a prize to the first four million readers who work it out. Publication is carefully timed, between the hearing and the new application, to leave us no redress. Technicality is now nine-tenths of the law.

  It is the perfect story for a paper that espouses family values while luridly exposing anyone who flouts them. Even the word bachelor seems to be less a description than a charge. Equally cynical is its depiction of your parents as little people at the mercy of those with power, on a par with elderly victims of muggers – as long as they are black – and council neglect – as long as it is Left. Your father’s war record is so lauded as to qualify him for the Errol Flynn Single Combat Medal, while the eulogy to your mother’s ambulance work would honour Edith Cavell.

  I now face a more direct attack. I am working at home after a fractious day at Television Centre, when Consuela informs me that there is a socialist at the door. From her note of disdain, I assume that it is someone canvassing for the SWP, which must be an uphill struggle in W11. Old sympathies stir, and I go down to see her. She turns out to be a social worker; Consuela having subscribed to popular prejudice in good faith. From her smart clothes and sophisticated manner, it is clear, however, that she is a long way from any Leftie-and-lentils stereotype. She flashes her identification and tells me that she has come to talk about Pagan. I am affronted and remind her that it is customary to make an appointment. She insists that she has already spoken to Susan, which surprises me as it is quite unlike her to forget. She assures me that her inquiry will only take a few minutes, and so I invite her upstairs. From her reluctance to reveal anything further, I presume that your parents have lodged another complaint.

  ‘May I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Just water.’

  ‘Evian or Badoit?’

  ‘Plain Thames will do me.’

  I exit to the kitchen and, on my return, I am amazed to find her leafing through a file. She puts it down without the least trace of embarrassment. I hand her the glass, which she takes to the couch, where she sits, crossing her legs and picking the cushion. She produces a tape-recorder, which seems unduly formal after her predecessor’s notes. As she tests my voice-level, I joke that I might as well be back at work, which fails to raise a smile. She seizes on my suggestion that she look at the holiday snaps of Spoleto, only to skip the pictures of Pagan and linger over me. She presses me for details of domestic arrangements. I conceal my annoyance; it is as well to settle matters once and for all.

  She suddenly changes tack and asks if I have seen your parents’ interview in the Sunday Sentinel. When I tell her that I never read the tabloids, she produces a copy and asks if I would like to comment.

  ‘No, I would not. And I’d like to know what it has to do with Pagan.’

  ‘My superiors are very concerned about her moral welfare.’

  I am appalled and demand names, which she claims not to be at liberty to divulge. She then proceeds to display a frightening intimacy with our lives. After hinting at your affairs with Edward and Peter Cruikshank, she questions me about David, stating that their records show that he lived here for nearly two years in 1983 and 1984. I do not think to ask how … he was on no register; he paid no rent. So I stutter my explanation.

  ‘He was a researcher at the BBC on a short-term contract. When it ran out, both Candida Mulliner and I employed hi
m as a secretary.’

  ‘Come, Mr Young, you’ll have to do better than that. Ms Mulliner was based in the States during most of that period, taking photographs for Vanity Fair. Meanwhile you were alone here with the youth.’

  ‘He was twenty-three when I met him, only five years younger than me.’ I am over-defensive and scared. ‘He had a self-contained flat in the basement.’

  ‘With easy access to the rest of the house?’

  ‘He came and went like everyone else.’

  ‘Mr Young … Leo; let’s drop the pretence. I think we know one another.’ But I do not know her at all until she reintroduces herself a few moments later. ‘Louise Sable, the Nation.’

  ‘Then you’re not a social worker?’ I am aghast.

  ‘Hardly. My editor thought that it was the simplest way to gain access. I said that you’d talk of your own accord. After all, we work for the same organisation.’

  ‘A columnist for the Criterion has nothing in common with a journalist for the Nation. I can’t believe … Isn’t there a law against this?’

  ‘I hardly think you’re in any position to invoke the law.’ My head pounds. ‘We’ve been investigating you for months. Ever since the custody case.’

  ‘How … what do you know? It was a closed court … a private hearing.’

  ‘There are always people prepared to talk. You’re a very familiar face, Leo. You’d have to go far further than Brighton to go to ground.’

  ‘I am not Ernest Simpson avoiding the press in Ipswich! Brighton happens to be Pagan’s grandparents’ home town.’

  ‘We have a file as thick as this on you.’ Her fingers open a dismaying distance. ‘The Sentinel has given the Mulliners’ story. The Nation would like yours.’

  ‘What is this? Competition or coercion? If you think you can scare me, you’ve got the wrong man. You force your way into my house –’

  ‘You invited me in.’

  ‘You showed me forged identification.’

  ‘Did I? Take a look.’ She mockingly holds up a gym membership card. I was blind to the small print.

  ‘Do you have no scruples?’

  ‘I’m just a journalist doing her job.’

  ‘Are professional ethics the only ones left?’

  ‘You’re doing yourself no good.’

  ‘Just leave. Go on, out. Before I call the police.’ I brook no argument and bundle her down the stairs. When a waiting photographer shoots me pushing her through the front door, my patience snaps. ‘I shall go to Print House tomorrow. I’ll speak to your editor. Your job is on the line.’

  ‘Come on, it was his idea.’

  ‘Then you’ve both made a big mistake. I’m an old friend of Brian Derwent. I’ll apply to him. You’ll regret coming here with your threats.’

  I am conscious of my raised voice and look for ruffled curtains; but the only reaction comes from inside where Pagan appears on the stairs, a strand of hair in her eyes and her cot comfort-blanket clutched to her chest.

  ‘Why are you shouting?’

  ‘What are you doing out of bed?’

  ‘I heard you shouting.’

  ‘It must have been a dream. Come on, I’ll take you back upstairs.’

  ‘Why were you shouting in my dream?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I wish that I did or that, at least, I had your ability to lie, whatever the occasion, even at the woozy breakfast when she overheard our inquest on the night before.

  ‘He wanted fellatio. I told him that I never put anything in my mouth that Nanny wouldn’t approve of.’

  ‘What’s fellatio?’

  ‘It’s a cream cheese to which your Uncle Leo is particularly partial.’ I am not sure which impressed me more, the explanation or the speed.

  I determine to discover the truth the next morning and drive to Vauxhall to confront Derwent. I meet my first obstacle at the car park where, having forgotten my pass, I am refused entry. The attendant admits that he knows my face; he admits that he knows my show; but I am no one without identification. The horns hooting behind me threaten to drown the voice of reason. ‘If I am not me, who am I? Someone so desperate for a space that he resorts to impersonation? Perhaps one of the impressionists who does me on TV?’ As he ponders the possibility, exasperation magnifies my mannerisms to the point where it might well be true.

  He rings for authorisation with vengeful slowness. The barriers grudgingly rise. I enter the building and submit to the body search and security checks that attest more to Charles Mitchell’s self-importance than to any actual threat. As I appear on the monitors, the receptionist cracks her usual joke about my being on TV. I make my usual riposte about a fee. Sic transit spontaneity. From the pungent perfume, I assume that she has overdoused in cologne, until she explains that Mitchell has had a scented air system fitted after his wife read about the benefits in New York. ‘Pity he can’t deodorise his papers’ prose style,’ I suggest. She laughs tentatively, while the grim-faced guard grunts and rubs a faded tattoo.

  I take the lift to the Criterion floor. Babel meets bedlam, as the prejudices of the nation are shaped in open-plan chaos. News bulletins blast, phones ring, editors shout, and integrity lies buried in the archives. This is the architecture not of efficiency but of paranoia. Partitions threaten the party-line; walls are dangerous; closed doors foster open minds.

  ‘Fierce column,’ Freddie Leaver calls to me with studied coolness. At twenty-eight he has been appointed Culture Editor after some controversial articles in Smash Hits. His arrival has been designed less to appeal to youth than to flatter the management into thinking that they do. So he peppers his speech with enough buzzwords to be hip but too few to be intimidating.

  ‘Actually, the column was cut. I found it almost incomprehensible. It’s in my contract: no changes are to be made without my approval.’

  ‘Last-minute ad, mate. You know the score. Monster column, cooking ideas, major feedback.’

  ‘Don’t you find it ironic that a piece about slipshod speech should display the very traits that I deplored?’

  His eyes narrow. ‘Think of Shakespeare, mate. Do you think he complained? Burbage comes along. H.M. is making a rare visitation to Bankside in the p.m. Wants to see the Hamlet gig. Trouble is two hours max. Do you think he said sorry bro, no go. Did he fuck! Snip, snip went the scissors. Out went the ghost and Ophelia. But do you suppose anyone cared?’

  ‘How about Shakespeare?’

  ‘That’s what I like about you, Leo. Always stick to your guns. Catch you on the flip side.’ And, with a tap on my shoulder that feels like a stab in the back, he shimmies away.

  I sit outside Brian Derwent’s office soaking up his secretary’s shrugged smile. As my stomach flutters, I remind myself that I am thirty-seven years old. The trouble is that my memory is a good ten years younger. It turns me … he turns me from the successful television host into the tyro radio performer. I am once again waiting in the Caprice for my first dinner with you both. I go down to the loo in anticipation. As I wash my hands, I drench my flies. I dab them frantically, futilely, but break off at the sound of steps. He takes me in instantly. ‘What’s up? Pissed yourself?’ he asks cheerily and then himself proceeds to piss, more forcefully than anyone I have ever heard. I hurry back to the table and, when you introduce us, he smacks a proprietorial kiss on your cheek and says that we have already met.

  I assert my prior claim: ‘I certainly feel that we have. Candida has told me so much about you.’ He looks startled.

  ‘Not everything, I hope?’ You both laugh flatly.

  ‘I can’t believe that there’s much more.’ How I would love to prick his complacency by revealing that I know every detail of his sagging, sallow flesh and missing toes and the way that he calls his penis Derek. And yet, as he glances between us, it is clear that for the first time he appreciates the extent of our intimacy and it frightens him. I have seen him naked, albeit at one remove, which is a privilege granted to few men. Women are different; they can be bought or bought
off, betrayed or bedded. But men – even gay men – are a threat.

  He reassures himself by scratching his balls and feeling his wallet; he asserts himself by ordering a bottle of champagne. As he urges me, superfluously, to choose whatever I want, I feel his hostility spicing every dish. I debate whether to have the agneau aux haricots but decide against it. ‘Flageolets bring flatulence,’ I say to impress him and fail.

  He considers me closely. ‘I like to call a fart a fart.’

  ‘When Brian farts, people listen.’

  ‘There’s nothing half-arsed about me.’

  I am grateful that at dinner, at least, he restricts himself to belching.

  ‘Better out than in,’ he says.

  ‘In China, it’s considered perfect etiquette,’ you add.

  ‘You should have saved money and taken us to the local Chinese.’ I narrowly avoid yelping as you kick me. He looks at me sharply and then laughs.

  ‘That’s funny. And brave. I like you. I know you don’t like me, but why should you? And why should I care? Tell me a bit about yourself.’

  I tell him about the radio, which is a mistake, as to him broadcasting is synonymous with television. You add that I want to write and that they should give me a column on the Criterion. You sing my praise (and my prose) so loudly that I abandon hope. I am amazed when he suggests that, if I ring him next week, he will arrange an appointment with the Editor. You look triumphant. I try to thank him, but he dismisses it as a matter of no importance. And it is clear that any exertion is not because he believes in me, or even cares for you, but to prove his power … He is fully clothed again and I am no longer a threat.

  Your attempts to engage my complicity only emphasise my exclusion, as you flirt and flatter through the meal.

  ‘I don’t know what Brian sees in me.’

  ‘You titillate my fancy.’