The Bellwether Revivals

by Benjamin Wood

  Oscar woke up alone at Harvey Road the next morning. Daylight was pressing on the windows and Iris had left her usual mess of clothes on her side of the bed. Downstairs, the clink of cutlery was rising from the kitchen. He got dressed and went to get himself something to eat. Eden was at the breakfast counter, slicing the top off a boiled egg with a steak knife. He must have heard Oscar’s footsteps in the doorway, because he didn’t look up from what he was doing, just said: ‘If you want anything for breakfast, tough—there’s nothing in. But I can offer you some orange juice. It might be a day or two past the sell-by.’ He shook his fingers, wincing with the heat of the egg, and the severed top fell onto his plate.

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Gone to class. Left the wolf alone with the lamb. Tut tut.’ Eden was still holding the knife, about an inch or so from his face. He twisted it around a few times, set it down beside his plate, then opened his book on the table and began reading.

  Oscar went to pour himself some orange juice. It smelled a little fermented, so he filled a glass with tap water instead and stood there drinking it.

  ‘Don’t you have work or something?’ Eden said, hardly lifting his eyes from the book.

  ‘Night shift.’

  ‘How awful.’

  ‘You get used to it.’

  There was a sudden stirring from the washing machine. ‘Well, please don’t stick around for my benefit,’ Eden said, chewing. He turned a page and added, nonchalantly: ‘If you’re going to stay over again, do me the courtesy of keeping your mouth closed. I can hear you snoring from the next room.’

  This is how Eden had started to talk lately. He would utter snide remarks to Oscar when they were alone together, making no eye contact, and sometimes his voice would sound almost threatening. The disquiet between them had only worsened over the Christmas break. Though Oscar had spent most of the holidays at Cedarbrook, racking up the hours at triple pay, he’d accepted the Bellwethers’ invitation to join them for lunch on Boxing Day. He’d expected it to be a grand occasion, all cravats and champagne and seafood canapés. He’d imagined a fleet of cars on the driveway, and an assembly of distant Bellwether relatives packed inside the house. But it had turned out to be a quiet affair: just him, Iris, Eden, and their parents, gathered around that too-large dining table. Oscar had taken his seat beside Iris, her crutches leaning on the chair next to her, and Eden sat across from them, supervising their behaviour.

  Halfway through the meal, Theo asked Oscar if he had a favourite patient at Cedarbrook, someone to whom he might have given special attention. He qualified this by saying: ‘Everybody has favourites. It’s inevitable. When I was doing my first rotation at St Albans, there was an old dame called Mrs Garrett in the Renal Ward. She was always telling me how handsome I was and trying to get me to go out with her daughter. Anyway, I scrubbed in to observe her surgery and the poor woman died on the table—it was all very heartbreaking. For the rest of my rotation, I thought I was some sort of surgical Jonah. I was afraid to get close to patients after that. I got over it, of course, but I’ll always remember Mrs Garrett’s face.’

  Oscar could have told Theo about Dr Paulsen, but he chose not to. His relationship with the old man was not something he wanted to discuss across the dinner table; it was not some inane topic that could be passed around like cranberry sauce for everyone to dip into. So he just said: ‘No, I don’t really have any favourites. I try to treat everyone the same.’

  ‘That’s admirable,’ Mrs Bellwether said.

  ‘Yes, very,’ Theo agreed.

  At this point, Eden had pushed his plate away. ‘Oh, please. Of course you have a favourite.’ He eyeballed his parents. ‘His favourite is someone named Paulsen. Dr Abraham Paulsen, if I recall it correctly. Room 12, second floor. Isn’t that what you told me?’

  That had left Oscar almost speechless. He removed his napkin from his knee and politely dabbed his lips. ‘I don’t remember telling you that.’

  ‘Oh, well, ignore me. Perhaps I got it wrong. Or perhaps you were a little, you know—’ Eden made a tipping motion with his hand, as if drinking from some miniature champagne flute. ‘In vino veritas and all that. There’s no need to lie about it.’

  Iris weighed in: ‘Alright, Eden, I think you’ve made your point.’ She placed a hand on Oscar’s knee, beneath the frill of the tablecloth. Her voice had an engaged sort of tone. If she was trying to take someone’s side by entering the conversation, Oscar wasn’t sure whose. She turned to look at her mother. ‘He wasn’t trying to lie. I’m sure he just didn’t want to discuss it, did you, Oscar?’

  He didn’t know what to say. He’d expected her to defend him, not give some half-hearted apology for his presence. ‘I—’

  ‘A lie of omission is still a lie.’ Eden tilted back in his chair.

  ‘Stop badgering the boy and finish your lunch,’ Theo said, standing to retrieve the carafe of burgundy from the centre of the table. ‘I wish I’d never brought it up.’

  Oscar had excused himself from the table and gone into the bathroom just to have some time alone. He had a seasick feeling in his bones, and it stayed with him long after Boxing Day. It was still there now, as he stood in the kitchen at Harvey Road, watching Eden spoon the whites of his eggs into a cereal bowl. There was a stale air coming in from the hallway and the washing machine was turning slowly. He drained his water and set the glass down on the counter. ‘Can you tell Iris I’ll call her later?’

  Eden gathered his book and went back to reading. ‘I’ll be sure to pass it on.’ His pupils rolled upwards. ‘Will that be all? Or would you like to stay and help me fold my delicates?’

  ‘Just make sure you tell her.’

  Oscar went into the hallway to look for his shoes. They were lodged between the wall and a pair of Jane’s wellingtons. He was tying his laces when Eden appeared by the doorjamb, picking his teeth. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ Eden said. ‘You really shouldn’t worry about my sister’s—you know—her patterns of behaviour.’

  ‘Her what?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. She always goes for the rough diamond types. First there was that ghastly labourer she slept with, and then the rugby players, and those other handsome but ordinary types—’ Eden stopped, inspecting the floor. ‘And now there’s you. There’s a pattern. If you ask me, I think she likes a project. Someone she can put a shine on.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Just an observation.’

  ‘I don’t remember asking for your observations.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘And I really don’t care what you think.’

  If Eden was startled by the sudden failure of their courtesy, it didn’t register on his face. ‘That’s what I’m telling you,’ he said, stepping forward. ‘Why should it matter what anyone thinks? My sister knows who she wants. She can be incredibly stubborn about things.’ Eden was staring at him with that usual self-congratulatory smirk. ‘We don’t need to discuss it if you don’t want to. I just thought it might be concerning you. Like this thing with the old man.’

  ‘What old man?’

  Eden placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Come on. You know who I mean.’

  Oscar could see his own tiny reflections in Eden’s eyes, bearing down on him. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  Eden gave a short snicker. ‘Listen, you don’t have to play dumb with me. My sister tells me everything. I mean everything. All I’m saying is, people have a habit of letting other people down, breaking promises they made to each other. And I really hope you’re not going to be another one of those people.’

  ‘You’re not making any sense, Eden.’

  ‘I want you to say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘I want you to say you’ll keep your promises.’

  Oscar felt the pinch of Eden’s fingernails upon his shoulder. ‘Fine. Okay. I’ll keep my promises.’

  Eden removed his hand and smiled. ‘Very glad to hear it.�
� He straightened out the front of Oscar’s coat, backing away along the hall. His stocking feet made no sound. ‘There’s a quiet little place I know, not too far from here. Plenty of greenery, not many people. If there’s a certain somebody who wants my help, I’d like to meet him there.’ He got as far as the kitchen door, then turned. ‘Thursday week is good for me, but stay by your phone in case I change my mind.’

  TEN

  Wives of the Above

  ‘Isn’t that him, in the corner?’ Iris pointed to the far end of the hotel restaurant, where Herbert Crest sat alone at a large circular table. It was nine a.m. on a Thursday morning, and the Crowne Plaza was half empty, just a few businessmen loading plates with croissants at the buffet, a mother feeding her baby out in the lobby. ‘You might’ve warned me. He looks so fragile.’

  ‘What did you expect?’ Oscar said.

  ‘I thought he’d seem more—I don’t know—’

  ‘Alive?’

  She gave a rueful nod. ‘Yes, I suppose I did.’

  They walked across the monogrammed carpet to Crest’s table. ‘You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up,’ the old man said. His skin was oily, shellacked with colourless pimples. ‘The mind’s still there, but a decent wind could blow me over.’ He waved a hand at the empty chairs in front of him. ‘Sit, sit. I woke up with an appetite. Let’s eat before it abandons me.’

  ‘Are you feeling okay?’ Oscar asked, sitting down.

  ‘So-so. Thanks for checking.’

  ‘Your nurse isn’t with you?’

  ‘She’s up in the room. I’ll page if I need her.’ Crest pulled at the peak of his baseball cap, gazing at Iris across the table. ‘Well, I’ve got to say, you’re quite a picture, honey. Something told me you’d be prettier in person—I was right.’

  Iris smiled. ‘Nice to meet you too, Dr Crest.’

  ‘Now there’s a sentence I don’t hear very often.’ Crest gave a croaky laugh, leaning forward. He nodded at the envelope in Iris’s hand. ‘I see you brought what I asked for.’

  Iris slid it towards him. He removed two X-ray films and studied them under the light of the mock chandeliers. ‘Well, I’m not a bones man,’ he said, ‘but I know enough to see this was a pretty bad break. Would you mind walking around a little so I can take a look at your gait?’

  Iris did as he asked, striding between the tables, where businessmen looked up from their laptops, admiring her. Oscar watched Crest watching her.

  ‘Can I sit down now?’ she said, returning to the table.

  ‘Of course you can. Thank you, sweetheart.’

  ‘So you believe me?’

  ‘Oh, I never doubted you. I just needed to check something out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s not important right now. Let’s order, shall we?’

  They talked about nothing but Eden over breakfast. The whole meal passed by like a preparatory meeting between lawyers. Crest wanted to know so many things. He began by questioning Iris about what he called Eden’s ‘methodology’, and she told him what little she could recall. ‘I passed out every time, so I can hardly remember anything. You’ve seen the videos—you know as much as I do. But I do remember feeling this lovely warmth surging through my leg when I woke up. And I remember my brother telling me not to try too hard to listen to the music beforehand, but just to let it fall over me—like the rain, that’s what he said. I should let it fall over me like the rain. And it did sort of feel like that. It put me to sleep.’

  ‘Do you remember anything about the music?’ Crest asked.

  ‘If you mean, could I hum the tune for you now—no. If you mean, do I remember it being there, all around me, and what it felt like—yes, I do. It felt wonderful. Soothing. I really mean that.’

  ‘I wasn’t questioning your honesty.’

  ‘Well, good, because I don’t have any reason to lie.’

  Crest rested his elbows on the table. ‘What about those towels he put on the organ pipes—can you tell me anything about that?’

  ‘No. I don’t remember any of that. It surprised me when I saw the videos.’

  ‘You don’t recall anything?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And what about Eden himself, while it was all going on—did he say anything to you, or mention anything else out of the ordinary?’

  ‘No. Nothing I can remember.’

  Crest was being polite about it, but Oscar knew he was frustrated with Iris’s answers. The up-and-down motion of his eyes gave him away. He went on to ask about Eden’s relationship with his parents.

  ‘Well, he’s always been the golden boy,’ Iris answered, ‘but he’s been arguing more with my father lately. They both sort of look up to each other, I think. That sounds strange, but it’s true. They talk to each other like they’re work colleagues sometimes. Eden calls my father by his first name. It can be quite peculiar, I suppose, to people on the outside, but they’ve been that way all my life. It’s not strange to me.’

  Crest looked at Oscar. ‘Did you find it peculiar?’

  ‘The first time,’ he replied. ‘But I’m sure if you met my parents you’d find them twice as peculiar. People have their own habits.’

  ‘I guess so.’ Crest paused. ‘Did they put any kind of pressure on him?’

  ‘How’d you mean, pressure?’ Iris said.

  ‘You know, academically, socially.’

  ‘Hardly at all. But then again, the academic life always came naturally to Eden. I’m the one they lean on most about grades. Really, my brother always seemed to have some sort of immunity from their expectations. I’m the one who they pushed towards a medical career. And socially? Well, we’ve always sort of existed in our own little bubble. Boarding school can do that to you. We don’t live the same way as your average Cambridge students. I suppose we’re kind of on the fringes of things, but deliberately so. We like to be on the outside looking in. That’s how we’ve always been. But we still have a close-knit group of friends, don’t we, Oscar?’

  He nodded and smiled. The waitress arrived with their plates.

  ‘Oh, at last,’ Crest said. He stared at the well-presented breakfast on his plate: lean bacon, lightly poached eggs, granary toast, a ramekin of beans. ‘I was hoping for something a little less healthy.’ Crest cackled, throwing his napkin over his lap and flattening it out with his palms. ‘So, tell me, honey, what should I expect when I meet this brother of yours today? Suspicion? Humility? What?’

  ‘Oh, you won’t find a humble bone in my brother’s body,’ she said. ‘But he has every right to feel superior, given what he’s capable of. He’s a remarkable person, really.’

  ‘Remarkable how?’

  ‘Well, you know …’ She paused, chewing. ‘You’ve seen the videos. There’s isn’t enough room in his head for all of the things he knows about.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘You’ll find out for yourself, soon enough.’

  Oscar looked at her, thinking this was the kind of sentence Eden might well have spoken himself. But if Iris recognised this fact, she didn’t allow it to show. She set about refastening her earrings, absently.

  ‘Tell me about what he was like as a child,’ Crest said.

  ‘Oh God, really. Do we have to go into all of that?’

  ‘You don’t think it’s important.’

  ‘It probably has some bearing on things, I suppose, but I don’t buy all of that Freudian Oedipal nonsense, if that’s where this is heading.’

  ‘No, I prefer to steer clear of Freud. I’ve always been more of a Jungian, anyway. But I’d still like to know about your life together as children. I do think it’s important. If you don’t want to talk about it, I won’t push you.’

  Iris blurted out: ‘It was mostly idyllic.’ She said it proudly, resolutely.

  ‘What’s your idea of idyllic?’

  She told him about the cherry blossom trees, and the marquee birthday parties, and the tyre-swings by the riverbank, and the backyard tennis court; about the history of her p
arents’ house, the rectory, the organ house—all of the things she used to tell Oscar about when they lay together in bed at night, holding each other in the darkness. How he missed those nights. It had been months since they’d held each other like that.

  ‘We were given just about everything we ever asked for,’ she went on, citing the grand piano that Eden had been given for passing his Grade 8 music exam when he was nine, and the family holidays to Tuscany and Egypt and Long Island and Barcelona. ‘When my brother was sixteen, he asked for a diamond tie-pin from this famous antique jewellers in London, and my parents got it for him. It cost a fortune.’

  ‘Is money important to him?’

  ‘No. He treats it like—like, I don’t know, talcum powder or something. He’s got so much of it, he throws it around everywhere without thinking.’

  ‘And what about you?’ Crest said, his voice turning sympathetic. ‘Did you ever get anything?’

  ‘I got plenty. We were never competitive like that—he got things, I got things. I was never jealous of him.’

  ‘Wasn’t suggesting you were.’

  ‘I know, but still.’ Iris took a gulp of Darjeeling.

  ‘Was he ever jealous of you? Of anything you were given?’

  She gave this a small amount of thought, looking sideways at Oscar. ‘Nope.’

  Crest struggled to cut through his bacon, then gave up. He picked up his coffee and slurped it. ‘Can you think back to the very first time your brother healed you? And I’m using that word advisedly, for want of a better one.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, it was a long time ago.’

  ‘How old were you?’

  ‘Hard to say exactly. Seven or eight.’

  ‘See, I’m trying to pinpoint what I like to call a trigger moment. An event that seems innocuous and ordinary but is actually the opposite. Oscar’s already told me a few things, but I guess I’m looking for something more. Can you remember anything that might’ve happened around that time—something that might’ve happened earlier that day, or vaguely around that timeframe?’