by Patrick Gale
Roger’s fear of death was intense; he was one of those men who swore that they had never had a day’s illness in their life, from the superstitious hope that reiteration might assume the power of prophecy. After weeks of hiding behind excuses of a recurrence of glandular fever, he ventured to Saint Boniface’s Infirmary. Tests were run and he was found to be half-eaten by a colony of cancers that had mistaken his lymph system for public transport. By the doctor’s calculations, the damage had begun at about the time Fergus and Roger came to Barrowcester househunting. Death had been creeping up on them for two years, and they were left like children trying to fight back an insidious high tide with bucket and spade. There was nothing to be done, so Roger came home with jars of drugs, a House and Garden he had stolen from the waiting room, and six months to live. The high tide took him into a kind of coma of pain after only two and swept him away a fortnight later.
Barrowcester had a sympathy system that sprang into action on the first sign of suffering, as a concerted campaign of presents and visitations; kindness clustered on kindness around the sufferer like so many stifling antibodies. Anxious to be spared such attentions, Fergus had grieved in near silence and took advantage of the fact that, in their discreet, privet-shaded minds, everyone from Roger’s mother to Lydia Hart (whom he had always regarded as a friend) had assumed that he and Roger had been partners only in business, who shared a house for reasons of bachelor economy. To occupy his wheeling mind, Fergus had prepared a vast tea for Roger’s family when they descended for the funeral, only to receive ‘don’t let us keep you’ looks when they decided that he had outstayed his welcome on the scene of their mourning.
‘There’s something you should know,’ he had told them. ‘Roger and I were lovers and he didn’t die of cancer; it was AIDS.’
He still felt guilty about that extra touch. He had felt it was wrong not to let them know that their son had died loving and beloved, but he had found their grim self-satisfaction and hackneyed grief too maddening for tasteful restraint. Inspired by the faces of ogling shock they turned on him and by the thought of how Roger would have laughed, he plied them with detail after gory detail. They had positively fled, leaving home-made cakes uneaten. In seven weeks, the height of their devotion had been a flight of hideous get-well cards and a basket of bruised, mundane fruit. Charged with the confessional spirit, he had thought of enlightening Barrowcester (though without the extra touch), but forbore; a hard, glistening corner of him remained good at business and had doubts about the breadth of the Barrowcesterian mind.
Reasonless guilt at being the partner left behind, led him to grim fantasies that Roger’s cancers were a new variety, somehow contagious, or even that in a retributive masterstroke, the hellish lie told to Roger’s family should become fact and AIDS take him in its hydra-handed grip. He began to read obsessively anything with the four beguilingly kind initials in it. Victims lingered month after month, he read, suffering indignities normally spared their fellows; skin infections found on birds and fish, throat infections that barely touched a hamster, attacks on the brain and on the very tissues that made a body look human. Fergus’ appetite knew no satisfaction. He read trash. He read inflammatory lies. He read of a man in the South so overrun with sores that, beating down despair with good cheer, the nurses had nicknamed him Mulberry. The man had burst, though, which had spoiled the joke rather.
To be abandoned as caretaker of the relics of so much happiness, condemned by habit to lie to one side of a double bed, to continue to buy the biscuits he had never liked and to watch the programmes he had never found amusing, seemed a far slower ending than any tortures a hellish disease could inflict. Now that the weeks were passing once more at their old fast rate, however, and he found himself still with the bloom of health about him, Fergus had admitted a draught of hope. The remorse swiftly attendant on this obliged him to conduct a merciless daily search for the fatal symptoms. He had begun to weigh himself every day and never soaped himself in the bath without feeling for swollen glands. Since he was condemned either way, to death or to deadly guilt, each slight drop in weight, each bout of flu, each hot, sleepless night charged him with simultaneous thrills of reprieve and death-row despair.
A formerly healthy libido had shrivelled to obsolescence. He masturbated once a week, from a tidy dislike of wet dreams. He found he could do this with a mind clear of fantasy. Indeed, it was less disturbing to concentrate on anything that would not reawaken death-lust associations; a choice of curtain fittings, for instance, or a new stuffing for chicken breasts. He masturbated into clean white handkerchiefs which were then scrupulously boiled and ironed. The only one he never used was the one with an F in the corner, given him by Roger, the one he had lost somewhere.
Fergus’ sole confidante and pal, Dawn Harper, was waiting on his doorstep when he parked the car. For want of close, sane relatives, he loved her.
‘Hi,’ she said with her sympathetic scowl.
‘Hello, Harpy,’ he said, patting her shoulder and taking out his keys. ‘Have you been waiting long?’
‘Yes. You stayed to brood, didn’t you?’
‘No. Honestly. I just weeded then came away.’
‘They haven’t died, then?’
‘No. Worst luck.’
‘You should let me go over there one night with a spade to do them in,’ she suggested, as he opened the door and waved her past him. ‘Still, I suppose I should just do it without telling …’ Dawn’s voice trailed off. Fergus’ mother was standing in the hall in her nightdress. Her hair, face, arms and dwindled bosom were smeared with excrement. ‘Shit,’ Dawn stated.
‘Mother,’ said Fergus.
‘None of you will own up to it but I know you all do it differently from me,’ said Lilias Gibson and started to cry.
Dawn and Fergus froze, watching the silent oh-oh-oh her mouth was forming. The stench seemed to double as Fergus stared. It was Dawn who started forward first.
‘Harpy, you can’t,’ said Fergus, laying a restraining hand on her arm. She threw him a challenging glance. ‘Actually, I’m not sure I could,’ he conceded and released her.
‘Come along, Mrs Gibson,’ she said, steering his mother up the stairs, one hand set firm on her mercifully clean back. ‘I think you need a quick shower.’
Fergus stood listening to the sounds of his mother being driven into the bathroom and of the shower being turned on. A chunk of turd caught his eye on the piece of carpet where she had greeted them. Shocked into action, he hurried to the kitchen, donned a pair of rubber gloves, removed the offending object on a coal scuttle then, having searched for more, flung open every available window and squirted the air with some of the parfum d’ambiance he always presented to clients at the end of a job. Finally he set to work with a bucket of scalding water, carpet shampoo and an old rag. As he came back from tossing both said rag and the rubber gloves into the dustbin, he found Dawn coming downstairs.
‘She’s back in bed,’ she announced.
‘Harpy, you’re an angel.’
‘I know. Give me a phone book and the usual.’
‘Who do you want to phone?’
‘Give.’
He found the local directory and left her with it on a sofa while he went to mix her a brandy and soda. He switched on the kettle for a tea for himself then took her the drink.
‘Thanks,’ she said then held out the directory, a stout forefinger pointing to an entry. ‘Ring them,’ she added.
‘“Brooklea”’ he read, ‘“Rest home, Brwcstr 657211.” Harpy, I can’t.’
‘You’ve got to,’ she replied, sipping her drink. ‘You can’t cope.’
‘I’ll do it later, maybe.’
‘Now, Fergus,’ she said. ‘I’m not doing that for you many more times.’ On ‘that’ she jerked her head towards the ceiling. He sighed surrender, walked to the telephone and dialled Barrowcester 657211. He spoke to a nurse who said that yes indeed they did have a vacancy and no there was no waiting list at the moment on accou
nt of a long hard winter. She told him that Matron could show him round tomorrow and discuss terms. Did he have power of attorney, she asked him. No? Well they advised all their clients to obtain it so as to facilitate transfer of funds. Fergus arranged to see Matron tomorrow afternoon. He then rang his solicitor and arranged to see her tomorrow morning.
While he was on the telephone, Dawn had been to the kitchen and made him a pot of tea and a plate of Marmite soldiers for two. He lay on the sofa with his head on a cushion in her lap and, while a woman on the television showed them how to make a kite from two bamboo rods and one of father’s old shirts, Dawn stroked his thinning hair and fed him.
‘What did you do last night, Harpy?’ he asked her.
‘Sat in the garden in the nuddy and waited for the Devil,’ she admitted and he laughed, desperately unhappy.
23
Evan was sitting on the sofa. It was an unpleasantly soft one so his knees were not far from his chin. He was pretending to read Sukie Lark Rosen’s Towards a New Mythology although there was scarcely any light on his side of the room. Mrs Merluza was sitting in her armchair to his right. Despite the fact that he was apparently absorbed in a book, she had persisted in wittering on about high society in the Barcelona of her youth. He had observed this to be a nervous tic in her, brought on by silence. There was a pile of little presents, all carefully wrapped. Occasionally she would mutter something to herself, reach out to pick one up, finger it curiously then set it back. Madeleine stood glowering in a cloud of smoke. She had changed into a dark red dress. She only joined the others in order to stub out a cigarette and pick up a fresh one.
‘Can’t I open this tiny one?’ asked her mother, fingering another packet.
‘No,’ Madeleine snapped, swinging back towards the garden window. ‘It’s probably just another packet of fudge.’
‘You used to like fudge,’ came the rejoinder after a pause.
‘Well only in moderation,’ growled Madeleine, ‘and not today.’ Evan turned a page. ‘Besides, they’re my presents, not yours.’
‘It’s very kind of you to sit with us, Professor,’ said Mrs Merluza, seeing that Madeleine had turned her back. ‘I do hope you understand.’
‘No. No. It’s quite all right. A pleasure,’ Evan enthused and flicked back a page to trace the beginning of the sentence amidst which he had suddenly found himself.
There was a brief silence punctuated by the occasional clatter and buzz of the policemen’s walkie-talkie in the street below and by Madeleine’s violent throwing up of the garden window for air. Then the doorbell rang. No one left the room but Madeleine turned to lean against the open window and her mother smoothed out her skirt.
‘I wonder who it’ll be now,’ she said.
The front door was opened and closed, there were footsteps on the stairs and one of the policemen put his head round the sitting room door.
‘A Mr Hart to see you, Mrs Merluza. All right if he comes up?’
‘Has he brought fudge?’ asked Madeleine.
‘Yes, of course, Officer,’ said her mother. ‘Send him up. And thank you.’
The policeman disappeared and after a while a man Evan thought vaguely familiar took his place. He had hairy hands and was dressed like a schoolmaster.
‘Clive, what a lovely surprise,’ said Mrs Merluza, rising to take his hand.
‘Hello,’ the man said and glanced amiably around.
‘You know my daughter Madeleine, of course.’
‘Actually I don’t think we’ve met since she was a young girl in my Shakespeare class.’
‘No. We haven’t.’
‘How do you do?’
‘I won’t answer that.’
‘Oh,’ said Clive and laughed. ‘Sorry.’
‘And this is Professor Kirby, who is staying with us to do some research for a book on Heaven.’
‘Hello. Clive Hart.’
‘How d’you do.’
‘Heaven. How fascinating.’ Evan made deprecating noises and flapped the hand with the book in it. ‘I won’t keep you,’ said Clive. ‘Because I’m sure you’re about to eat but Lydia rang to ask me to drop in on my way home and bring you this.’ He held out a large carrier bag. ‘Sorry it’s not wrapped up properly.’ He glanced at the pile of presents. ‘Gosh. It’s a bit like Christmas, isn’t it?’ he said without thinking.
‘An amaryllis,’ said Mrs Merluza, lifting the plant from its bag. ‘How lovely and how kind of you,’ she continued as its grossly phallic stem bounced against her cheek. ‘And it’s going to be a white one. They’re our favourites. Look, cariño.’
‘Lovely,’ murmured Madeleine. ‘Thank you.’
‘Not at all. Just a little nothing, really, but, well, we heard about the fuss in the papers and felt so sorry for you both. People are so insensitive.’ He had perched briefly on the arm of a chair and now rose to go. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Must get back for supper. Bye Madeleine – lovely to see you again. Bye, Professor. Nice meeting you.’
‘Oh must you? I’ll see you out,’ chimed in Mrs M. and followed him out on to the stairs.
‘Why’s he so familiar?’ asked Evan, pushing the door to. ‘I’m sure I’ve seen his face.’
‘Redundant Sixties playwright-turned-househusband and teacher,’ she explained. She had come forward to grab another cigarette, having tossed the last one into the garden. ‘I hate amaryllis,’ she added.
‘They are rather big,’ he agreed.
‘I suspect it may have had an accident by tomorrow.’ She looked up and gave him a tired smile. ‘You should escape now before she comes up again. There aren’t likely to be any more people tonight.’
‘Right. I think I may. Are you sure …?’
‘Yes. I’ll be fine. I think I’ll go to bed in a sec to have some peace. Have you got something for supper?’
‘Fish fingers and butterscotch Angel’s Delight.’
‘Lucky you.’ She waited until he was at the door then added, ‘Thanks, Evan.’
He glanced back but she was touching her cigarette end on the amaryllis bud and failed to see him. Mrs Merluza was doing something in the kitchen so he hurried into the granny flat and shut the door undetected. He added a pint of milk to the Angel’s Delight mix and whipped it up with an egg whisk, working himself into a kind of silent fury as he did so. He set it to thicken in the miniature fridge then arranged the fish fingers in rows in the grill pan. Leaving them to cook, he tugged the curtain across, having realized that he was brightly visible to any journalists who had not yet given up and headed to the Tracer’s Arms in search of Old Stoat and local gossip. Then he strode through to the bedroom, causing the sliding doors to rattle as he went. He sat at the table, snatched off the rubber band from his journal and scrawled.
‘Why a Cardinal? Cardinals are for weird dames in Webster. I doubt whether even Sukie Lark Rosen would lay a Cardinal. I have to admit, though, that it shows a certain flair. It also confirms my suspicions about her being the wickedest girl in class. Could I keep up? The only time I tried to get kinky for Miriam’s sake, I got sick on pineapple chunks and sprained a wrist.’
After the morning’s brush with the journalists, he had spent the day feeling like the Invisible Man. It had felt as though his involvement in the talk of the town should show, and it didn’t. Not until he came home, that was. To sidestep the besiegers at the front door, he had approached the house from the back, through the passage from Scholar Walk. Finding that the garden gate had been locked, he had started to climb the wall only to be pulled back by a policeman. At Evan’s polite insistence, Mrs Merluza’s good word had been sent for and he was released, but not before the pressmen had photographed him as a suspect for Scarlet Woman’s Beau No. 2.
After what seemed to be a heavily censored tour with the Lord, work at Tatham’s library had gone well, although Perkin Philby, the fluting, owlish man in charge there, had not been terribly welcoming. He put an old typewriter at Evan’s disposal on the bizarre condition that he only use it w
hen it was obvious that no one was ‘really trying to read’. Evan suspected that he disliked Americans, so disliked him back.
Compared to the Cathedral’s collection, Tatham’s library had no views, being housed in a converted stable block and laundry with only a few high windows, and those obscured by rasping shrubs. The most precious manuscripts, which Evan was consulting in the afternoon, were housed in high-security, atmospherically controlled stacks with no windows whatever. Glad of an escape route from thoughts of Madeleine, he had ploughed on with far more perseverance than he had mustered on his first day in Petra Dixon’s company, and kept rigidly to relevant material. Every half hour, however, nature had called him out to smoke a Winston as usual. Under bald sunshine the nearby quadrangle had proved far wider than it had felt by moonlight. A few youths and, here and there, a girl had hauled battle-worn sofas and armchairs on to the cobbles and basked as they read. Back in the library he could hear the occasional complaining of castors as this furniture was tugged around to follow the sun. A blind boy was listening to a tiny one’s recitation of some unfamiliar language, giving languid prompts when his flow dried up. There seemed to be an unusual lack of schooltime rush. No handbells rang and no one seemed to be in a hurry for classes. He assumed that this was some scholastic oasis and that the main business of teaching went on elsewhere. He was startled to see Madeleine glaring at him from the front page of The Sun as one small boy sat unfurling it as a break from Homer. He bought one of the last copies in a newsagents on his way to the Tracer’s Arms for lunch and saw it much bandied about by his drinking companions. As he waited to place his orders the barman even stuck up the offending front page on the mirror between the bottles.