by Patrick Gale
‘The kitchen used to be where they arranged flowers and made tea,’ she said, holding out his drink until he took it from her. She had not spilled a drop. ‘And the bathroom’s next door, where the priest used to dress up.’
‘The vestry.’
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I’m going out with my best friend Peggy in a minute and I’ll leave you alone.’
‘I’m not worrying,’ Robin said. ‘How long have you been blind?’ She sat on the other end of the sofa as one who has been told to keep a visitor amused.
‘I’m not blind,’ she corrected him, ‘And I’m not visually disadvantaged, either. I’m just an eyeless person. Blind also means “Lacking in intellectual, moral or spiritual perception”, which I’m not.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Would you like some music?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. I’d put it on myself, but my hand always shakes and that scratches the record. The player’s over there. My favourite album’s on it at the moment.’
‘Fine,’ he said and went to put on the record. He noticed each in the pile of albums scattered by the machine had a small piece of punctured paper stuck to the sleeve. ‘Nina Simone?’ he checked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Put it on the third track. I want to test your hearing.’
Wondering why it was taking Faber so long to dress, Robin set the record playing as she asked and went back to the sofa. It was ‘He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands’. Robin had been made to join in performances of it at primary school, where it was sung in a jolly cotton-picker sort of way with much hand-clapping and a tambourine or two. Nina Simone sang it slowly, with only steady piano chords for accompaniment; a kind of solemn march. Robin felt he was hearing it for the first time.
They sat through it in silence then Iras turned to him in the way that she had obviously been taught in some ‘natural behaviour’ class.
‘What would you say it was about?’ she asked, her pale, sleepwalker’s face sharp with curiosity.
‘Well, I was always taught to think it was about God. That’s what most people think. They sing it in church, sometimes. In some churches.’
‘Yes, but what do you think?’
‘Well, I would have said it was about God, too, but now I’m not so sure.’
‘It’s about death,’ she said. ‘Sung like that it is, anyway. It makes much more sense. Shall we hear it again?’
‘If you like. Yes. But what about Faber?’
‘I told you. He’s dressing. Go on. Put it on again.’
So Robin put it on again and she fetched him another glass of wine. While Nina sang, he looked at the big canvasses that were dangling from the beams overhead, broad examinations of human decay in the form of three barely-gendered down-and-outs. In the most finished, one stared at her/his empty bottle, stared at herself by the second, while the third bared a withered breast and grinned broadly out at the room. Robin wondered how much Iras knew about Faber’s work.
This time she turned to him at the end of the song and asked,
‘Now, think carefully and tell me what Death has in his hands in between the gambling man and everybody here.’
He thought a moment, running through the words in his head.
‘The baby,’ he told her. ‘The little bits of baby.’
She crowed with triumph just as a door opened on the gallery and Faber appeared.
‘Two against one!’ she shouted, throwing her head back to face the sound of the door.
‘Robin,’ said Faber. ‘Good evening. Has Iras got you something to drink? Good. Iras?’
‘Robin says it’s “Little bits of Baby” too,’ she said still strangely triumphant. She turned towards Robin again, ‘Faber said it was “Itsy-bitsy” …’
‘Iras?’ he repeated, more firmly.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you ready to go out? Peggy’ll be here any minute.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m ready.’
‘You haven’t brushed your hair.’
‘I have.’
‘Please, Iras? For me.’
She sighed crossly and started up the stairs but stopped at the sound of laughter outside. Someone rang the bell and Iras turned and ran to the front door. Robin was to learn that she only moved this fast at home, where she knew things. She opened the door and called over her shoulder,
‘Don’t wait up.’
‘Hang on. I want to say hello to Peggy’s mum,’ said Faber, crossing the room, but she had already shut the door. Faber hurried to the bathroom and threw up the window there. The panes had been replaced with mirror, making the room rather dark. He leaned out in a sudden blare of traffic and pavement sunshine. Robin saw his bare feet. ‘Dodie!’ He called out, waving. She seemed to be on the other side of the road. ‘No. Don’t come over. The traffic. When’ll you be dropping her off?… Great. Bye.’ He pulled the mirrors down again, cutting the noise and turned back to the room. ‘Drink,’ he said. ‘I’ve lost my glass. Yours all right?’
‘Fine,’ said Robin.
Faber wasn’t meeting Robin’s eye properly and seemed to sieze this opportunity to go and bustle in the kitchen.
‘That child,’ he said. Sitting at last on a sofa several feet away from Robin’s. He had opened another bottle. His glass was red.
‘She’s hardly a child,’ Robin said.
‘You noticed, huh?’ His voice had an air of culture to it, like a newscaster’s, but he softened the effect with an occasional Americanism. ‘Would you like music?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’ He started to stand. ‘No,’ Robin said, standing first. ‘Let me. You talk. What would you like.’
‘You choose. Anything but Nina Goddamned Simone. She’s been playing that to death.’
‘You could always try swopping the labels round to confuse her fingers.’
‘That’s not funny,’ he said, deadly serious, then chuckled. Then he laughed. ‘Yes, it is,’ he conceded. ‘How long had you been here?’
‘Since eight. I forgot to be late, I’m afraid.’ Robin picked through the pile. The collection was eclectic to the point of formlessness. Or perhaps there was a pattern? Gregorian chant rubbed shoulders with Stan Getz. Beatrice Lillie read Edward Lear poems on one record, Dinah Washington sang the blues on the next. He left the pile and looked in the shelf, hoping to find something neglected. Bartok. The Cantata Profana.
‘Where did she tell you I was?’ Faber had swung his legs up onto the sofa beside him. Their long thinness showed through the linen.
‘Changing,’ said Robin, coming back to his wine and sofa. ‘You took long enough doing it.’
‘I was asleep. I’d still be up there and she’d have gone out with Peggy and left you just sitting there, if she hadn’t put that bloody record on again.’
‘I’d have taken myself on an explore and found you.’ Faber caught his eye, albeit briefly, but his laugh was nervous.
‘She has no shame, you see. Embarrassment is such a visual complaint. What are we listening to?’ he asked, looking away again.
‘Cantata Profana.’
‘Is it mine?’
‘It was on your shelf.’
‘Mmm,’ he said, sipping wine. ‘Someone must have lent it me.’
‘Don’t you like it?’ Robin asked.
‘Yes, I do,’ he said. ‘What are they singing about?’
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s about a man with lots of sons. He complains that he doesn’t want them to have the same dull life that he’s had. Then they all go for a romp in the forest without him. When they don’t come back he takes a gun and goes out to look for them. He finds … Do you really want to hear this?’
‘Yes,’ he laughed. ‘Go on. I’m hooked.’
‘Well. He goes out to find them but comes across a big crowd of fine young stags instead. Naturally, being a ravenous Slav, he raises the gun to shoot them but they tell him, “Stop! It’s us. You
r sons.” Well, then he tries to persuade them to come home and stop messing around but they refuse and say they’ve found a better way of life than his and want to stay in the forest for ever and ever. I think that’s it. More or less. Can I have some more wine?’
‘Yes. Give me your glass.’
‘It’s OK.’ Robin wanted to see the kitchen. The walls were covered with postcards, cuttings, recipes, letters and the occasional bill. He brought the bottle back with him and set it on the floor between their sofas. The fugue was hotting up. ‘I like that,’ he said, pointing the bottle to the canvas where the tramp was smilingly revealing a battered dug. ‘Very much.’
‘It’s weird,’ said Faber, ‘I think someone must have lent it me or left it behind or something. Some people are very bossy about bringing their own music to parties.’
‘No, I meant the painting.’ Faber turned, met Robin’s gaze again and smiled. ‘Oh that! Do you really? I think your mother found it faintly repulsive. It isn’t really finished.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘If you say so.’
Robin stood and went to sit on the end of Faber’s sofa.
‘Faber, why are you so nervous?’ he asked him.
‘I’m not. It’s just … Jesus!’ Faber threw up a hand, spilled a drop of wine and busied himself mopping up the splash with a spotless handkerchief.
‘You forgot to put your shoes on.’
‘I never wear shoes in the house.’
‘What’s wrong? Tell me.’
He chuckled and took a gulp of wine.
‘Robin,’ he confessed. ‘Look. I like you and everything. I like you a lot, but.’ He looked at the ceiling for inspiration then blurted, ‘I’m not a Christian, you see. Not at all.’
‘You’re not?’
‘No. I’m not even agnostic.’ He looked at Robin as though this explained everything. Robin looked at him waiting for him to go on, because it didn’t.
‘Sorry,’ Robin said at last. ‘I don’t quite see. If it makes you any happier, I’m not a Christian either, though I was a bit Buddhist, once, and these things leave deep roots even after you give them up, so I can’t really say I’m atheist.’
‘But …’ Faber looked thunderstruck.
‘You look thunderstruck,’ Robin said. ‘Has someone been telling you stories?’
‘You’re a monk,’ he replied.
‘No,’ Robin corrected him. ‘I’m a mental patient. Was. I think I’m better now. As better as anyone ever gets.’
‘Andrea said that you were a monk. They both assumed … Haven’t you told them anything?’
‘Of course I have, but no one seems to want to listen, so I’ve rather given up.’
Robin laid a hand on his knee. Faber stared at it wide-eyed, like a man chancing on a well-fed spider in a cake-tin. He jumped up, knocking it aside, chuckling nervously again and sounding American.
‘Jesus!’ he said. ‘Andrea always thought … and that bitch, Candida Thackeray. Even she told me in passing that … And look at me. You’re sitting here waiting to be fed and I haven’t made a thing. I wasn’t asleep. I gave Iras strict instructions to say that I’d had to go to the other side of London and not to let you in.’
‘Like a Jehovah’s Witness.’
‘Quite.’
‘But you still arranged for her to go out.’
‘What? No. Not at all,’ Faber gabbled. ‘I mean. She was going out anyway. And there’s simply nothing to eat. Look, there’s quite a good Italian place about a hundred yards down the road. I feel so awful about this. Let’s go there and you can let me treat you.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I want us to go to bed.’
‘What? Oh, my God. Well. Yes. So do I but.’
‘Faber.’ Robin stood, offering him his glass, which he took abstractedly and drained. ‘Faber, you’re losing control. I’m not that exciting.’
‘No. But I mean, yes.’
‘Faber?’
‘Mmm?’
‘Ssh.’
‘But can’t we, I mean, shouldn’t we wait a little?’ Faber asked, wildly. ‘There’s so much I want to tell you. Ask you. Everything.’
‘Bed,’ said Robin, ‘Then talk.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Faber, ‘the sheets.’
‘The sheets are fine.’
‘I spilled a whole glass of wine on them earlier.’
‘We can spill some more.’
‘Iras.’
‘She won’t be back for hours.’
‘No,’ he admitted, taking Robin’s hand, but still failing to catch his eye. ‘She won’t.’
‘Can I open another bottle?’
‘Sometimes,’ he said, staring down at Robin’s palm as he wound it round with fingers, ‘when she’s gone to Peggy’s for the evening, she stays the night there.’
Nineteen
‘Peggy, hello it’s Faber, Iras’s Dad.’
‘Hello. We’re writing a play.’
‘That’s nice. Is your mother there?’
‘Hang on.’ There was a loud clunk as Peggy dropped the receiver and went to find Dodie.
Faber disliked change. However sweet, Robin’s head, dozing heavily in his lap, threatened a violent upheaval. Darkness had finally fallen and the orange streetlamp outside the open window threw a fiery wash across them. Faber admired the hellish pietà they made in the bedroom mirror then looked back at Robin. He ran a hand softly across his cheek. Robin gave a shut-eyed smile, raised a sleepy hand, caught him firmly by the wrist and began to chew a finger. Peggy’s mother came to the phone.
‘Faber, hello. Is something wrong.’
‘Oh no, Dodie. Everything’s fine it’s just that, well, I’ve suddenly realised that this dinner party I’ve taken my friend to in Camden isn’t going to end for hours – we’re all drinking like fish and they still seem to be cooking.’
‘North London,’ Dodie sighed, nostalgically.
‘Exactly.’
‘And you’d like us to hang on to Iras for the night?’
‘Could you?’
There were loud childish cheers in the background.
‘Popular decision,’ said Dodie grimly. ‘They’ve been writing a radio play and now they’ll have time to perform it too.’
‘Please, Dodie,’ he begged, pulling his fingers free and giving Robin’s hair a playful cuff. ‘I’ll paint all your babies one by one.’
‘Done.’
‘Better still, I’ll paint you.’
‘God forbid. Bye Faber. When’s her first class tomorrow? Shall I take her in with Peggy?’
‘She’s got the morning off. We’re going to the dentist to have her new braces fitted.’
‘I’ll get Oz to drop her off at your place, then, on his way to work.’
‘Bless you. Bye.’
‘See you.’
As Faber leaned across the bed to set the receiver back on the telephone, Robin reached up to pull him back into a horizontal. The receiver lay exposed, whining and ignored while Robin kissed him then rolled astride him and kissed him more. Despite himself Faber kissed him back, then came up for air and managed to say,
‘Stop!’
‘Why?’ said Robin and kissed him.
‘My cheeks are sore.’ He tipped Robin back onto the mattress and tugged a fat pillow between them. ‘And yours.’
‘Are they? They don’t feel it.’ Robin put a hand to his jaw with a look of boyish concern. ‘Are they very red?’
‘When did you trim the beard?’
‘This afternoon.’
‘And your hair! You’ve cut it all off.’
‘Do you mind? It was getting such a bore to wash.’
‘No. I like this.’ Faber ran a hand over the bristled nape of Robin’s neck. ‘Jailhouse chic. But the beard’s still a bit Godly.’
‘Let’s shave it off then.’
‘Are you sure? Don’t you like it?’
‘Not much. I could shave it off now.’<
br />
‘Later,’ said Faber. ‘But this I really like.’
He ran his hand over Robin’s nape again. In reply, Robin ran his tongue across Faber’s wrist. Faber sucked in his breath and began to pull the other’s head towards him then pushed him back. ‘Explain yourself,’ he said. ‘I want your story.’
‘I’m hungry. Is there really nothing to eat here?’
‘Talk first, eat later.’
‘Are you sure?’ Robin asked. ‘It’s quite long. Longer than Cantata Profana.’
‘Quite sure.’
Robin pulled away, sat up, plumped out his pillows, then lay back against them, watching Faber watching him.
‘I gather you see my mother often enough. How much has she told you?’ he asked.
‘Well,’ said Faber, discomforted and vaguely resentful at Andrea’s arrival in the bed between them. ‘She told me a bit about Jake. And she said that you and Candida Thackeray were best friends.’
‘We were. I’ve known her for years, through our grandmothers, funnily enough. They were bosom pals – they went on butterfly-hunting expeditions together, propped one another up in widowhood, that sort of thing – and when I was about five I was dumped at Granny’s for a bit and Candida and her granny came on a visit. We were both loners, really, but we sort of clicked and spent hours shut in our rooms or up trees together. We were always up trees. There was a tree house in the garden at The Chase and Granny had an ancient mulberry and a victoria plum you could climb into – she used to send us out there with nothing on so we wouldn’t stain our clothes with the juice. I think she was a bit of a thirties nudist too – she was a Fabian and things – wanted to keep our inhibitions down. Candida used to swear she found an old photo of the two grannies at a naked picnic in their youth but I never saw it. Anyway, we ended up at the same day school in London and then, after her parents split up – I suppose we were about eleven – she spent whole summers staying with us because she couldn’t stand her stepmother.’