Eden took a deep breath in through his nose and held it there. His nostrils closed over like the stops on a clarinet. Then he released the pent-up air from his mouth with a satisfied sound—ppaahhhh. ‘It’s always so quiet here. Really clears out those cobwebs.’
‘You’re too young for cobwebs,’ Crest said. ‘You want to see cobwebs, take a look in here.’ He tapped his temple with a pointed finger. He was about to say something else, but suddenly he was stumbling on his feet. ‘I’m sorry, excuse me, I’m feeling a little dizzy.’ He sat back down on the bench.
‘Are you okay, Herbert?’ Oscar asked.
‘Yeah, yeah, I’m alright. But I think we need to speed this up a little.’
‘Good idea,’ Eden said, and turned to Oscar. ‘Would you mind giving us a moment alone? I’d like to examine him.’
‘Examine him?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re not his doctor, Eden.’
‘I’m well aware of that, thank you.’
‘I don’t think I should leave him,’ Oscar said. ‘I told his nurse I’d look after him.’
‘He’ll be fine with me. I’m here to help him, not harm him.’
Oscar waited for the old man to nod his approval.
Crest gave one slow, solemn blink. ‘Go on. Do as he says.’
There was another row of benches on the other side of the cemetery, with a clear enough view for Oscar to keep his eye on things. ‘I’ll be over there if you need me.’ He left them to face each other, feeling nervous about it, like a fist-fight might suddenly break out between them. By the time he got to the other benches and looked back across the lush grass of the graveyard, Crest had removed his hat and Eden was standing over him with two hands held against the old man’s shoulders, staring down at the scar on the top of his skull. Eden stayed there, holding that position for several minutes, as if scrutinising every line and freckle on the old man’s head. Then Crest seemed to fall into his arms. His body was a deadweight and Eden took the burden of it, carefully turning the old man around, lying him down flat against the bench. For the slightest moment, his head hung limp from the edge until Eden moved to cradle it in two hands. He crouched down on his haunches beside Crest and, with the dispassion of somebody testing the air in a football, began to knead his skull with the tips of his fingers.
Oscar didn’t know whether to go over there or not—the old man didn’t seem to be in any discomfort—but he watched Eden carefully. There was nothing sinister about what was happening. In fact, the whole process seemed almost brotherly, just one man tending the bedside of another. Eden’s hands prodded and pressed around Crest’s head. There was no sound but the wind in the trees, and the murmurs of couples as they went arm in arm through the cemetery, stopping to read the epitaphs of sisters and mothers, husbands and fathers, wives of the above.
It must have gone on like this for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, until Eden rose from his haunches and turned Crest back into a sitting position, supporting his head the way you might hold a newborn’s. Crest’s body regained its stiffness; he flexed his elbows a few times and slowly rolled his head on his neck, a full rotation. He replaced his hat and sat there, saying nothing. Eden turned around. Bringing his fingers to his lips, he sounded a wolf-whistle that made the birds explode from the hedges in frightened packs.
Oscar took his time. He wasn’t going to come running just because Eden demanded it. He got up and tied his shoelace on the bench, then the other one, even though it didn’t need retying. Labouredly, he moved his feet through the long grass. The first thing he noticed when he got over there was that the old man’s forehead was no longer sweating.
‘Here’s the situation,’ Eden said. There was something very businesslike about him now—no more kidding around, no more cursory chat. ‘Obviously, this man is very ill. You don’t fool about with cancer. I’m going to need some time to think about this.’
‘What’s there to think about?’ Oscar said.
‘I—’ Eden paused. His self-confidence seemed to falter. That looseness in his shoulders, that movie-star brashness was starting to abandon him. ‘I’d like some time to think about it, that’s all.’
‘Time isn’t something I have much of, kid,’ Crest said. ‘You gonna help me or not?’
Eden straightened the tied-up sleeves of his jumper. ‘Look, it’s going to be very difficult. These aren’t broken bones we’re looking at here. You have a GPM tumour. It can’t be fixed with a paean and a few towels like my sister’s leg.’
‘Are you saying it’s beyond your capabilities?’ Crest asked.
‘No, no, I didn’t say that.’ Eden wagged his finger. ‘I can do it, I just need a bit of time to think over the details.’
‘How long?’
Eden removed his sunglasses from their perch in his wiry hair. Holding them by the hinges, he studied the lenses for smears, blew on them, wiped them with his jumper, and placed them back over his eyes. ‘Two weeks,’ he said. ‘Let me get the Lent term over with.’
‘I think we can manage that,’ Crest said. ‘Provided I can stick around that long.’
‘And what then?’ Oscar said.
‘I’ll let you know.’
‘Now you’re starting to talk like a real doctor,’ Crest said.
‘There’s just one caveat,’ Eden went on. ‘Are you still taking your medication?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll need you to stop taking it.’
‘Right away?’
‘No, not yet,’ he said. ‘But you have to be ready to stop when I tell you to.’
Crest raised his eyebrows at this. He thought about it for a few seconds, rubbing at his jaw, leaving red fingermarks on his skin. ‘Y’know what? That’s fine. It makes me nauseous anyway. But you have to do something for me in return.’
Eden sniggered. ‘Aren’t I doing enough already?’
‘I want you to promise me a sit-down when this is over.’
‘A sit-down. You mean, you want me to lie back on a couch and tell you about my childhood.’
‘No. I’d just like to talk to you some more. Get to know you.’
Eden shrugged. ‘Okay. Fine. As long as I don’t have to look at ink-blots or tell you about my dreams. I’m not shy when it comes to talking about myself. You can have as many sit-downs as you want.’
‘Good.’
‘In the meantime, go back to London and rest. I’ll be in touch.’
Crest tried to stand up again but Eden waved him back down. ‘Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.’ He smiled and shook the old man’s hand cordially. ‘You know where to find me, Oscar.’ And with a casual flick of his finger, he pushed the sunglasses to the bridge of his nose, and walked away, along the same worn path from which he came. They watched his lean body strolling into the distance until it vanished behind the bushes.
‘Well, that was a trip,’ Crest said. ‘He doesn’t like you much, does he?’
‘Not lately, no.’
‘I wouldn’t worry about it.’ The old man got to his feet with a groan. ‘A guy like him has a hard time keeping friends. Reminds me of some of the guys I used to know back when I was at King’s. Most of them ended up on the trading floor. He’s got the same ugly confidence about him.’ Crest sniffed. ‘Shall we go?’
They walked back towards Mill Road, and though Crest made only gradual progress with each tired step, he no longer needed Oscar to help him stay upright. His skin seemed more opaque, and his breaths were stronger and more apparent in the air.
‘Andrea’s not going to be pleased about you stopping your medication,’ Oscar said. ‘You’re not really going to, are you?’
‘Way I see it, I’ve got to follow orders.’
‘Why?’
‘To keep things black and white, that’s why. I don’t want to give this guy a get-out-of-jail-free card for later. I don’t want to give him the chance to say: It didn’t work because you carried on taking your medication when I told you not to. They reached the
end of the graveyard where the grass turned to shingle and a dainty little church stood by the roadside, half-buried in weeds and overgrown trees. The quiet suburban neighbourhoods of Cambridge continued as normal, seeing and hearing no evil. ‘Funny what he said about my tumour, though, huh?’
‘He seems to know these things somehow. I don’t know how he does it.’
Crest stopped. His exhalations swirled around his face. ‘Thing is, I have a G-B-M—glioblastoma multiforme. G-P-M? I don’t even know what that is. That’s not even anything.’
‘So he was wrong for once. That’s good. He’s slipping.’
‘Yeah, but that’s not what bothers me about it. Don’t take this the wrong way, but when I was talking with your girlfriend at breakfast, I think I might’ve said G-P-M—a slip of the tongue. My mouth was all dry with the bacon.’
‘Oh. Are you sure?’
‘I thought she’d correct me, her being a med student and all, but she didn’t. That’s why I remember it. Now her brother just made the exact same mistake. You think that’s a coincidence?’
Oscar felt too shaken to answer.
‘Yeah,’ Crest said. ‘I don’t either.’
ELEVEN
The Treatment of Our Mutual Friend
There was a time when Oscar would sigh at the very thought of Cedarbrook. He’d arrive at its black trellis gates in the winter to see the bare wisteria vines on the brickwork and the dour lights behind the early morning windows, and a heaviness would gather in his belly. He’d traipse towards the entrance, knowing the next five, eight, sometimes twelve hours would be nothing but a chore. The tang of iodine in the staff bathroom would make him cloudy-headed and he’d try to settle himself with a strong cup of tea before clocking on, and somehow it would never taste quite right—as if the milk was on the turn. But now he almost looked forward to work every day. He found himself enjoying the stroll along Queen’s Road towards Cedarbrook, seeing the wide face of the building on the horizon like the genial smile of an old friend. He felt that Cedarbrook was the only thing about his life that was changeless—for all the headaches it gave him, and however exhausted he got from its routines, at least it could be trusted to remain that way forever. There was something to be said, after all, for predictability. There was comfort in seeing the same old fuzz-lipped women in the parlour every day, with the porridge stains on their dressing gowns and their balled-up tissues stuffed into their cardigan sleeves; and the bow-legged old chaps with their dogmatic way of reading broadsheets with magnifying glasses, column by column. He saw more of these people than his own family, and knew more about the day-to-day progress of their lives—sometimes he wondered if he even cared more about them. They were a cast of elderly relatives he was grateful to have adopted.
Most of all, Cedarbrook was a good place to hide. In the last week and a half, Oscar had taken on as many shifts as he could manage, because being at work gave him the perfect excuse to tell Iris when she called and asked why it had been so many days since they’d seen each other. ‘Well, okay, but don’t work yourself too hard,’ she said, the first time she called. ‘I know you need the money, but it seems like I haven’t seen you in ages,’ she said, the second time. ‘I’m starting to think you’re avoiding me,’ she said, the third time.
On Saturday evening, he saw her number flashing on his mobile but chose to ignore it. He ignored her text messages too. He listened to the voicemail she’d left for him: ‘Oscar, what’s going on? You’re not even answering the phone now? I miss you. I’m worried about you. I’m sort of afraid you’ve forgotten about me. You’ve met someone else? Is that it? Oh God, please ring me. Are you angry at me?’
‘Angry’ wasn’t the right word. He felt betrayed by her, deflated and suspicious, and those feelings had grown into resentment. He wasn’t sure he could trust her. When he saw her again, he knew he’d have to pay close attention to his words, worry about what he might let slip, in case she reported it back to Eden. And that made him think of all the times they’d lain together, held each other, walked through the Cambridge streets to each other’s rooms, speaking with the kind of abandon that now seemed dangerous. He couldn’t think of lying next to her, redolent from sex and second-hand smoke, with that same comfort he’d always felt with her before—the assurance that there was nothing in the world that he couldn’t say to her. She had cheated on him—that was how he felt—not with her body, but with her spirit, her allegiance.
All of this must have shown on his face when he went to see Dr Paulsen that Friday. Though Oscar had been up to the old man’s room many times in the last week or so, he’d managed to keep his disconsolation to himself somehow, held a cheeriness in his voice and a bounce in his step so nobody would notice the deflation of his heart. But that evening, Paulsen was lying flat on his bed in the dark, pillows and duvet strewn on the floor beside him. The curtains were drawn, and the only light in the room came from the Maglite torch that he was shining towards the ceiling—a ghost-white disc moving across the swirls in the Artex like a giant ophthalmoscope. The beam swung towards Oscar’s face, and he squinted against the brightness of it. ‘Turn that thing off, will you?’ he said.
Paulsen kept on shining the torch into his eyes. He flashed his palm across the beam, laughing, and the light spat upon Oscar’s face with a Morse code flicker.
‘Cut it out, for God’s sake!’
Startled, the old man clicked off the torch and the room went black for a moment. ‘Alright, son,’ he said, reaching for the bedside lamp, ‘out with it. You’ve been tetchy all week. And I’m a man who knows what it means to be tetchy. Come on, let’s hear it.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
The lamp wouldn’t go on at the push of Paulsen’s fingers. ‘I can’t have my best nurse going about the place with a face like Armageddon. You need to put things into perspective,’ he said. ‘Think about Herbert, everything he’s going through. If you think you’ve got it bad, son, you just remember what he’s dealing with. Oh, for heaven’s sake, help me with this thing, would you?’
Oscar kept quiet, fumbling with the switch until the lamp struggled on. He perched on the bed frame, unable to look the old man in the eye. There was a tightness in his chest. It had been almost a month since he’d gone to meet Herbert Crest in London and he still hadn’t mentioned anything about it to Paulsen. It had been weighing on his conscience.
The old man’s moods had been stable of late. He’d been less withdrawn, coming down for mealtimes more often, throwing fewer of his customary tantrums. Seeing Herbert Crest so close to death had been a strange kind of tonic for Paulsen, sobering and redemptive. Even the other nurses had remarked on it. But Oscar knew that if he uttered a single word about his meetings with Crest, all of this progress would come undone.
‘What were you doing just then—with the torch?’ he asked.
The old man smiled and flicked on the Maglite again, angling it towards the Artex. ‘I was counting,’ he said. ‘It struck me yesterday that I’ve been staring up at this ceiling every night for years and I’ve never known how many grooves there are. A man can’t go to his grave without closure on a matter like that. What if there’s some sort of comprehension test at the gates of heaven, hmm? I’ll be put in the cheap seats, and all because I didn’t pay enough attention.’
Oscar could think about nothing but Herbert Crest as he left the old man’s room. He’d made only one call to him since their meeting with Eden at the cemetery, just to check in, to make sure he was doing okay, and Andrea had answered the phone with her warm caramel voice: ‘Hello. Crest residence.’ She’d sounded so pleased to hear from him, saying, ‘Oh, hey there, I was wondering if you’d call today.’ Then she’d passed the phone to Crest, who’d wasted little time in getting to the point. ‘I’ve already rewritten my introduction,’ he’d said. ‘I think you’ll like it. Might just be the best thing I’ve ever written.’
They’d talked briefly about his state of health, glossing over it: ‘Oh, you know, sam
e old headaches, same old sputum. Any word from our friend?’ Oscar had told him there’d been radio silence, and this had been Crest’s cue to speculate on when—more like if—they would hear from Eden again. ‘I’m sort of looking forward to seeing what he comes up with. I’m having visions of being stripped naked, lithe young virgins holding candles over my body, chanting mantras. Maybe that’s just wishful thinking, huh?’ Crest had said to call when there was any news. In the meantime, he was trying to keep his editor off his back, telling her what an exciting new course the book had taken, selling her the idea with ‘some fancy talking’, and doing preparatory research at the British Library. ‘Turns out Andrea’s a whiz with their Dewey system. She could find you a journal blindfolded.’
Before hanging up, Crest had lowered his voice, as if pulling Oscar to one side for a quiet word. He’d said: ‘Listen, have you mentioned any of this to Bram? It’s just, I’m not sure it’s a good idea for him to know about it. If he hears I’m going to be in Cambridge for a while, he’ll want to see me, and I really don’t need that kind of distraction right now. I have to put everything I’ve got into this book, you understand?’ Oscar had said he wouldn’t tell Dr Paulsen anything. ‘Good. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love that old man, but sometimes he can be suffocating.’
That Saturday night at Cedarbrook, Oscar came downstairs from the old man’s room to find somebody waiting for him at reception. He saw a dark-haired stranger leaning on the counter, chatting with an agency nurse, and it took him a long moment to realise it was Iris. She had dyed her hair coal-black and cut it into a bob, with a straight-edged fringe that rested upon her eyebrows; it made her look distinctly foreign, like some Balkan air hostess. It was only because of the merry whisper of her voice that he recognised her at all. ‘I wasn’t sure when I was sitting in the chair, but now I’m rather pleased with it,’ she was saying.
‘Yeah, it, like, really suits your face,’ the nurse said. ‘Makes your eyes, like, sparkle and stuff.’
‘You think so?’ Iris pushed at the back of her bob. It was then that she noticed Oscar approaching from the staircase, and she ran over to hug him. ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ she said, and stepped back dramatically to present her new hairdo. ‘What do you think? You like it?’
The Bellwether Revivals Page 21