The Bellwether Revivals

by Benjamin Wood

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he said. The words sounded so definite, so final. He pulled back the door with his good hand, walking out into the fading remnants of the night, where the glow of TVs burned blue in upstairs windows along the street, oblivious and unreachable. All he wanted was to go home and get up for work again in the morning and never see Eden Bellwether again.

  Nobody at Cedarbrook noticed the wound on Oscar’s hand—none of the residents, none of the other nurses—because the next day it had almost disappeared. He’d gone back to his flat, swallowed a codeine with a gulp of vodka, and fallen asleep with the wound still aching. The medicine had kicked in overnight, or so he assumed, because he’d woken up feeling no pain at all. The cotton dressing was spotted with blood, dried to a blackish burgundy. But, lifting it back to check the skin underneath, he’d found only two faint scabs below his knuckles, no bigger than freckles. It didn’t seem possible. He had the vaguest memory of the night before: the initial panic of seeing the wound, the mention of broken glass, and the sheer persistence of Eden’s grip on his hand. Maybe, in the anger of the moment, the injury had seemed worse than it was. Maybe he’d overreacted. But if he’d really fallen, like Eden said, shouldn’t there have been some indication of it: a lingering soreness in his body; a bruise, a mark—something?

  Still, he was glad that he didn’t have to explain his injury to anyone at work that week. It was better that way. No fuss, no questions, no time to dwell on what a fool he’d been. From Tuesday to Sunday, he harboured the shame inside him like a pilot light. He stayed behind an extra few hours at the end of every shift, helping Jean and the other nurses. He signed himself up for nights the week after, five in a row—and weekends—every available slot until the end of November.

  Dr Paulsen was easy to evade. He’d withdrawn into his room again, still raw from the incident at Sunday dinner, and too stubborn to press the nurse-call when he needed attention. So Oscar arranged for Deeraj to take the old man his meals, and empty his urine bottles, and change his bedding, and bathe him. In exchange, he agreed to take on all of Deeraj’s least favourite duties. ‘You can start with Mrs Radnor’s corn plasters,’ Deeraj said, ‘and then you can shave Mr Clarke, and I’ll see what else after that.’

  For two weeks, Oscar found no time to read—or rather, no will. The thought of it overwhelmed him now; seemed futile and humiliating. A whole fortnight had passed by the time he noticed The Passions of the Soul was still lying on his night table, untouched. On Monday morning, he gave it to Deeraj.

  ‘What am I supposed to do with this?’

  ‘I need you to return it to Paulsen for me.’

  ‘No chance,’ Deeraj said. ‘If he thinks I’ve been anywhere near his precious books, he’ll start with the spitting again.’

  ‘But I can’t give it back to him myself.’

  ‘Why not? I thought you two were friends.’

  ‘I just can’t, okay.’

  Deeraj chewed on his lip. He gathered a fresh set of towels from the store cupboard. ‘Sorry, pal. Better handle this one yourself.’

  Tuesday was a pleasant, sunny day—a break from the flat grey weather that had pervaded the previous week—and Oscar worked so hard through the morning that he had completed most of his duties by early afternoon. He walked down to the foot of the garden and stared at the vines of wisteria. They would bloom an intense purple in the spring, covering the front of the building, but for now, they only gave the building a feeling of unmet potential.

  He was gazing around the newly turned flowerbeds in the Cedarbrook grounds when he heard a high, scratching knock from above him. He looked up towards the building. Dr Paulsen was standing at the window of his room, rattling the handle of his cane against the glass. Tack-tack, tack-tack. He was wearing a tweed blazer, and a panama hat, white as a picket fence. Motioning his arm slowly, he gestured for Oscar to come inside.

  The Passions of the Soul was in the staff room, and Oscar went to retrieve it from his locker before going upstairs. There was a bar of light under the old man’s door. Oscar called hello as he went inside but heard no reply. Paulsen was waiting at the foot of the bed, one hand gripping the crook of his cane. The floor was a chaos of clothes. ‘I can’t seem to work the telephone. All this dialling nine and zero first,’ he said. ‘Would you be so kind as to order me a taxi?’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The Orchard.’

  Oscar moved deeper into the room and began picking up clothing: musty Argyle jumpers, scratchy tweed trousers, dress shirts. ‘You can’t just take yourself off to The Orchard. Don’t be silly. You know the rules. Things like that have to be arranged.’

  ‘I can go wherever I want, son. Don’t you tell me what I can and can’t do. People used to open doors for me, you know. They’d stand up when I entered the room.’ Dr Paulsen got up to emphasise his point. Then he gave a long, forlorn sigh. He removed his panama and held it to his chest. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m a bit impatient today.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘It’s just that I got this letter from a dear friend of mine last week, saying he wished to meet me at The Orchard. I told him, quite categorically, that I would be there.’

  ‘And who’s going to look after you?’

  ‘I’ve never missed an appointment in my life.’

  ‘That’s not the point.’

  ‘This man is a very, very dear friend of mine. I haven’t seen him in such a long time, and last time I checked, this place was not a prison.’

  Oscar folded up more of Paulsen’s clothes and set them in a careful stack on the bed. He wondered where the old man had found the strength to dress himself, and with such neatness and co-ordination. ‘Okay, look,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you a taxi, but I’ll have to go with you.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Paulsen sniffed. ‘But I don’t need a chaperone.’

  ‘They’re not going to let you out otherwise.’

  ‘And who’s going to stop me?’

  ‘About twenty nurses.’

  ‘Pah! Let them try!’

  Dr Paulsen nodded towards the shirt Oscar was folding. ‘What did you do to your hand?’

  He was amazed that Paulsen had noticed—he could’ve sworn the wound was no longer visible. ‘You can see that?’

  ‘With my eyes? I can hardly see a thing. It’s just strange that you’ve been folding everything with one hand.’

  ‘Oh.’ Oscar breathed. He pushed both hands into his pockets.

  ‘I hope you haven’t hurt yourself.’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’

  ‘Good.’ Paulsen reached into his blazer. ‘Would you like to see the letter from my friend?’ The old man handed over a piece of lavender paper. It bore a scent like cigar smoke. Oscar unfolded it and read it quietly to himself. At the end, the letter was signed: ‘Deepest Love, Herbert Crest’. He folded it back up and returned it to Paulsen. ‘This says he wants to meet on Tuesday the nineteenth.’

  ‘Yes. I can read.’

  ‘Today is Tuesday the twelfth.’

  ‘Oh, no, are you sure?’ A disconsolate look came over the old man’s face. ‘And I’ve got my glad rags on and everything,’ he said, lowering himself onto the bed. ‘Well, consider this a week’s notice. Next Tuesday, I’m going to The Orchard and nobody’s going to stop me. Are we clear?’

  ‘I’ll let the Staff Nurse know.’ Oscar smiled. He stayed for a moment, putting the old man’s clothes into drawers, rehanging them. He felt the bulk of The Passions of the Soul in the apron pocket of his uniform, but he knew it wasn’t the right time to return it. Dr Paulsen was lost in thought, rocking back and forth at the foot of the bed.

  He was on his way out when Paulsen called to him: ‘Have you ever been up in a balloon?’

  He turned in the doorway. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘A hot-air balloon. Have you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, you should. It’s the most incredible experience.’ Paulsen exhaled emphatically. ‘I d
on’t think a man can say he’s truly lived until he’s seen the world from up in a balloon. You can see for miles. You can breathe the air. Everything’s so tranquil up there, and the only noise comes from the birds flapping through the clouds, and the whooshing of the gas every now and then. I swear, you don’t even realise how vast the world is until you get higher. When you can look down and see your own house, the old turf you’ve trodden your entire life, all of this—’ He gestured with his arms towards the window; beyond the glass, the well-tended grounds of Cedarbrook were doused in sunlight. ‘—you realise just how insignificant it all is. From up there, the fancy old colleges are like rabbit-droppings. You really must go up in a balloon one day.’

  ‘Yeah. Maybe I will.’

  ‘Go this weekend. Take that girl of yours—what’s her name? The student?’

  ‘Iris,’ he said. The word rang in his head.

  ‘Take her. There’s nothing more romantic. Herbert and I used to take balloon rides every few months. We couldn’t get enough.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll be seeing her anytime soon.’

  The old man didn’t seem surprised by the news. He gave a long, protracted blink but his expression didn’t change at all. ‘Herbert was a King’s boy, y’know. A strange young thing, he was, when I met him. Only owned three outfits, wore them in rotation, whatever the weather. He used to have this smell about him—musky, a bit sweaty. It wasn’t completely unpleasant. There was so much to love about him. I don’t know what he saw in me, I really don’t … Can’t remember why I’m even telling you all this now.’ Paulsen took a long moment to recapture his train of thought. A sprig of hair had sprung up on the back of his head and he smoothed it down with his fingers. ‘I suppose what I’m saying is, it’d be nice to take him up in a balloon one more time. I think he would like that. It’s been ages since we saw each other. Sometimes, you can hold a grudge for so long you forget why you were holding onto it. And before you know it, half a lifetime has gone by and all you’ve got is an empty fist and a lot of regret.’ He gave a small cough, clearing his throat dryly, and hung his panama from one finger, as if spinning a plate. ‘I suppose I should put this back in the wardrobe until next week.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do about The Orchard,’ Oscar said. ‘Maybe I can take you there myself.’

  Paulsen nodded. ‘Now you’re talking.’

  Later, when Oscar was filling out his time sheet in the staff room, he found himself distracted by the thought of hot-air balloons. He tried to imagine standing in the basket, peering down at the tiny world, but it only made him feel lonely and directionless. And so he pictured himself sharing the flight with Iris, her lithe hand operating the gasflame, her long hair stirred by the wind, and he realised the picture looked so much better this way. He’d missed the comfort of thinking about her, day by day, the company of her image in his mind.

  He didn’t quite feel ready to go back to Harvey Road. Instead, he went home and looked for the name Bellwether in the phone book. He tried the number before work the next morning, hoping she would answer. It rang four times and then her frail, friendly voice came through the receiver. All she said was ‘Hello,’ but it made his heart quicken.

  ‘It’s Oscar,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, Oscar, thank goodness.’ She exhaled loudly. ‘I’m so glad to hear from you. I wanted to call so many times and explain, but I couldn’t think of how to … it doesn’t matter. We’re talking now. That’s what counts.’ They navigated around the subject of her brother with awkward small talk about the recent hail showers. She began to tell him about an ice storm she’d once seen in Montreal, but he interrupted her. ‘I was thinking we should get a cup of tea or something. Like normal people,’ he said. ‘Are you free later?’

  ‘Yes. That would be nice.’ He could almost hear her smiling. Then she asked, ‘Where?’, and his mind wiped itself blank. All he could think of was a funny-looking place by Magdalene Bridge, an Italian chain bistro with phoney terracotta walls.

  She arrived nearly ten minutes late, sporting a grey bobble hat that barely covered her ears, and a pair of mittens made from the same thick, whiskery wool. The sight of her coming down Magdalene Street brought a tremor to the backs of his knees. A soft ache built inside him. He was still angry with her, but it didn’t seem to matter any more. She was carrying her cello case, strapped over two shoulders like an unwieldy backpack, the weight of it bending her body forwards. A cyclist steered quickly to avoid her as she crossed the road without looking.

  Stopping before Oscar, she set the cello down by his feet. They shook hands, daintily, like they were perfect strangers. ‘Sorry I’m late. I got out as soon as I could,’ she said. ‘Our director was going on and on about our bowing. I told him, Mike, if we were any more in sync we’d be Siamese twins, but he didn’t really see the funny side. Have you been waiting long?’

  ‘I just got here.’ She didn’t need to know that he’d been standing nervously in the doorway for a quarter of an hour. ‘I thought you were giving up the chamber group.’

  ‘No. I decided against it. My father will just have to lump it. And besides, it annoys the heck of out my brother.’ She looked away. ‘We should get a table.’

  They found a place beside the biggest window in the café. The austere grey buildings of Magdalene College stood proudly on the riverbank. Everywhere Oscar turned, the college and its pristine lawns were in his peripheral vision, lurking, pressing. It was getting on for four o’clock, but the sun was still slanting down, casting silhouettes upon the river. Punts were idling along the water, and for a moment he sat there quietly with Iris, watching them collide with tame little bumps. A Japanese family steered into the embankment while an old man in a straw boater went by serenely, a parade of mute swans following in his wake. There was a tension in the silence. For the first time, he felt uneasy being alone with her.

  Iris poured her Darjeeling. ‘So look,’ she said, ‘sooner or later, one of us is going to have to talk about what happened the other week.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I want you to know how sorry I am. Things got out of control.’

  ‘Well, I think I might have overreacted a little bit.’

  ‘That’s understandable. You were injured, after all, and Eden only made things worse.’

  ‘I should’ve let you explain.’ He tried to look into her eyes, but her face was pointed down towards the spoon she was whirling in her tea. ‘I mean, I haven’t known Eden that long, and I don’t know what he thought he was trying to prove with that stunt of his exactly. I don’t even know how I ended up hurting myself. But that’s not what upset me. It was when he wouldn’t let go of my hand, and I looked at you—it seemed like you didn’t want him to let go. It felt—’ He stopped to make sure the words came out right. ‘It felt like maybe you were enjoying seeing me like that, under his control. It was like you were laughing at me.’

  There was a balanced sort of hush in the bistro. Iris looked out of the window towards the river, now empty of punts, the water hardly disturbed. ‘I wasn’t laughing at you, Oscar—I’d never do that—and I certainly wasn’t enjoying it. But there are things about Eden I knew you wouldn’t understand, unless you saw them for yourself.’

  ‘What things? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Honestly, I think he’s going funny in the head. I mean ill.’ She tapped her temple with her fingertip. ‘That whole performance the other night was so demeaning. I’ve been dying to call you and apologise but—oh, I suppose I was afraid you wouldn’t speak to me. I just don’t have anyone I can talk to about this. Not really. I find myself worrying about him constantly these days. It’s making me feel so desperate.’

  ‘You can talk to me,’ he said. ‘I mean it.’

  She smiled. ‘You’ve got a kind heart, Oscar. I could tell that about you the moment I saw you.’

  ‘What is it that you’re so worried about?’

  ‘Him. My brother. His delusions of grandeur.’ She paused, sipping her t
ea thoughtfully. ‘I really want him to see a psychiatrist. But you’ve seen what he’s like. Can you imagine him listening to a word I say?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘I’ve tried to bring it up with my parents but, well, they listen less than Eden does. My father’s dead-set against psychiatry in general—he can’t sit still long enough to talk properly about anything, let alone his emotions—and my mother’s always at church, or too busy with her meetings to care about anything that’s important to me. But this feeling I have about Eden’s been building for a long time, and I’m really at the end of my tether. I didn’t mean for you to get caught up in it all.’

  Oscar fidgeted with his coffee cup, lacking the appetite to drink it. ‘So why didn’t you warn me not to come the other night? If you were worried about what he might do …’

  ‘Because.’ She shrugged. ‘I was being selfish. I wanted to observe him in action. I wanted to see what he was going to do to you. And I know it was wrong of me, to use you like that, but you’ve got to appreciate: I was trying to gather evidence.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know, something I could talk to a psychiatrist about, ask for advice on.’

  ‘It sounds like you’re trying to get him committed or something.’

  ‘I just want a professional opinion, that’s all.’

  Oscar leaned back in his chair. ‘What exactly do you think is wrong with him?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet. I’ve been reading all these textbooks about behavioural problems, but his symptoms—if you can even call them symptoms—change all the time. The psychiatrist I spoke to seemed to think there was nothing too concerning about it.’

  ‘You spoke to someone?’

  ‘Yeah, last week. I made an appointment with this woman I found online—Dr Heller. She has this private practice near King’s Lynn. Middle of nowhere. Took me forever to drive there.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. She doesn’t psychoanalyse people based on second-hand information, apparently. But if my brother would like to make an appointment himself … Ha! I told her there was more chance of it raining cantaloupes.’