“There’s just one more red mark I wanted to ask you about.” I flipped back through the pages. “You mark the place when she’s feeding Gabriel shepherd’s pie, just after the sentence: Madelyn smiled, and wondered why she spent her time worrying that violence and shouts would influence Gabriel, instead of appreciating the fact that he had inherited his father’s overt passion for food, life and enjoyment. What fault do you find with that? She’s being positive.”
“The fault is the dearth of that type of comment. She mentions my success at parties, but seems to suggest that I become a morose animal as soon as I enter my own home, locking myself in my lair to lick my wounds. That’s unjust. You know how much joy I extract from life — the pleasure I get from a good meal or even a pleasant interaction at the shops. It takes very little to make me happy and very little to depress me. I extract more joy and sorrow from life than most human beings and give as much pleasure to those around me as unhappiness. Yet she concentrates on the negative, revelling in it in order to present a martyred life, which is how she wanted to see herself. The whole point of reading this manuscript together is to make you understand that this is a one-sided perspective. You know me, you know what I say is true. Remember how I used to recount humorous anecdotes about my students over dinner, and we’d howl with laughter?”
“I remember how you’d fastidiously load your fork with a tiny morsel from everything on your plate — a sliver of meat, a tiny dollop of potato, three or four peas and a scrape of gravy wiped over the top with your knife. You would pause for a minute after placing it in your mouth and concentrate. It was a joy to watch you eat.”
“And I would make little jokes. You used to love my jokes. You’d wait on tenterhooks for me to come to the punch line and then roar, even if you’d heard it before.”
“When you were in a good mood…”
“Not infrequently…”
“That’s true, Dad.” I get to my feet and place my hand briefly on his shoulder before I head up to bed.
I can’t sleep. My mind is jumbled with confusion. At the beginning, I read my mother’s manuscript as though it were a story told by somebody else. But at some point, I began to feel anger with my father. Then we’d talk, and even while I rolled my eyes and tapped my foot at his justifications, still, they did sway my point of view. Almost despite myself, I understood where he was coming from, my initial anger tempered with a confused pity. Am I so wishy washy that I lack any of my own perspective? Instead it depends on who I’m talking to? Or am I doing the right thing, emptying my mind of all criticism and judgment, allowing the events in the manuscript and my father’s clarifications to paint the whole picture? I think so.
But now my anger is growing. That scene in the kitchen was utterly repugnant. I felt increasingly nauseous as I read it, imagining my mother’s pain. But I think that I successfully curbed my disgust while I talked with him afterwards. There is no point in a blow-up right now. He is sick, he is dying, he is guilty as hell. There is no point feeling irritation when he talks about her negatively. Jenny says that behind every atrocious behavior there is always a primary emotion like fear or sadness, or our interminable need for love. There is no point saying “you’re a shit” and leaving him to die. He needs me to listen to him. Gabriel Golden, a.k.a. catholic priest.
I hope I can get through the whole manuscript without a blow-up. Because I’m not really a fucking priest and I feel fucking angry myself — primary emotion being desperate sadness about my poor mother.
Still, I can control myself. I’m not like him. I can wait, reserving judgment till I have all the facts. I must be an open book, receiving information from all sources. Two people in a marriage. Each one with their own perspective, their own truth. They have the right to tell their son.
The next day dawns bright and clear, and I busy myself making a picnic lunch for our day in the park. The neatness of my father’s cupboards and fridge amuses me. Leftover food in Tupperware containers on the first shelf, neat lines of pickles, mustards, sauces and other condiments on the second shelf. Veggies and fruit nestle in their respective drawers, while several types of cheese — brie, stilton and mozzarella — are stacked neatly in a compartment called ‘dairy.’ I choose hot peppers, olives and tomatoes to create different palatal sensations with the cheeses. I fry up some bacon and make mayonnaise-laden BLTs. Boiled eggs, Bakewell tarts from the store, cheese and onion chips, grapes and apples and a large thermos of tea fill the picnic basket. I set it all beside the door.
My desire to finish the manuscript is overwhelming. I am glad that my mother did not have the chance to construct an ending. I believe everything is the truth as she saw it, and it would be hard to diverge from this mindset in order to accommodate a flight into fiction.
My father’s heavy tread plods down the hallway, and I escape into the back garden to allow him the peace and quiet he needs. After he has finished breakfast we set off down the road arm in arm. I feel uncomfortable at the close proximity and realize I had never touched my father much. It is not affection, even now, but a need. I am his walking stick.
“Your Mum and I always used to walk arm in arm,” he says.
A clear picture flashes into my mind of the small, elegant back treading beside the tall, strong one, her head barely reaching his shoulder, arms intertwined. When I was a teenager I went through a silly phase when I couldn’t bear to walk with my parents. I trailed behind, eyeing their backs with embarrassment.
“Yes, I remember.”
There is a little park within walking distance. Just. At first I imagined taking the tube to a big park, like St. James’s. But I realize this is impossible as I support the brunt of my father’s weight, the extent of his weakness betrayed. This little park is still nice. English parks and gardens are always havens of peace and beauty. There are trees and an abundance of plants and flowers, with benches placed in strategic positions. I want sun, he wants shade, so we choose a bench with half and half, placing the basket on the border line between us, the thermos in the sun and the eggs in the shade. We decide to read a bit before we eat. Every action seems to reawaken another submerged memory.
“Do you remember Mum always insisted that we swim before eating at the beach?”
“And we would argue, insisting that we were starving and had to eat immediately.”
“That same squabble, every single time. She always won, by racing into the sea herself and staying there for ages.”
“We didn’t want to unpack without her. It was so exciting watching as she produced treat after treat from the innards of the basket.”
In memory of Mum we try to read a bit, but I am so desperate for a BLT that I can’t concentrate on anything else. In the end we give up and consume the contents of the basket. After all, the basket holds no surprises for me, so without Mum the wait lacks its advantage — that of anticipation.
Afterwards we sit back, replete. I hold a cigarette in one hand, and with my cup of tea balanced on the edge of the bench, begin to read.
TWENTY-SIX
Finally summer school ended, Sam investing the usual absurd amounts of time and worry in correcting papers. Despite the stress, he struggled to remain patient and loving with his family. He got into the habit of asking Madelyn’s opinion about some of the papers, asking her to read one paper and then twenty papers later verify whether his marking system was consistent.
“If you’re so conscious of the possibility that your marking standards might change, then how could they?”
“Easily. For example, what happens if I start with some weaker papers, and then mark a run of solid papers, followed by another weak one? How can I ensure that my standards haven’t wavered, giving the poor bugger following the run of solid papers a worse mark than the first weak papers received?”
So Sam read all the B’s out loud to Madelyn, then all the A’s.
“Do these two papers both deserve an A? Are they equal in q
uality?”
“Yes, I think they are. They are both much better than the B papers you read me yesterday.”
“Yes, but the ideas in this paper are more original.”
“The other paper is better written.”
“Are you sure? They both deserve an A?”
“I think they do.”
Sam would totter off to his study happily, leaving Madelyn pleased at his respect for her opinion, all the more intense because she felt like a fool so often.
There were also pleasant hours spent discussing plans for the rest of the summer. Sam had been impressed by the lonely beauty of the Canadian campsites and suggested they take a camping holiday. Madelyn wanted to drive down to California, which enticed Sam (despite the added cost) because they had recently obtained driving licences and bought a tiny, secondhand British car. Sam was inordinately proud of it, and seemed oblivious to the fact that it was dwarfed by the huge cars that everybody else seemed to drive. Madelyn was also pleased to have a car, though she wouldn’t have minded a bigger one — Sam’s huge head touching the roof of the miniscule vehicle looked odd.
Driving lessons almost disintegrated into hostilities, mainly because they both had the same tester, who passed Madelyn first time around and failed Sam twice.
The first failure was accepted with equilibrium, resulting in detailed analyses of miscalculated parallel parkings. Sometimes benevolent acquaintances (never the same person twice) gave them lessons together, and Madelyn would sit in the back while Sam drove, eyes fastened on the white knuckles of the teacher as he clasped the dashboard in fear. Sam seemed incapable of concentrating on his driving for any length of time and would chat without cessation, pointing out interesting landmarks and turning his head ninety degrees to look at his terrified teacher while the car veered towards the shoulder.
“Watch the road!” the teacher screamed, and Sam’s eyes dragged reluctantly to the forefront. As soon as he deemed the condemnatory silence had endured long enough (and could no longer bear the mindless activity of quiet driving), he resumed his chatter, turning his head and looking at his companion for seconds at a time, despite the fact that the teacher’s eyes remained fixed on the road.
Third time around the tester passed Sam just to get rid of him, muttering that driving with Sam was taking years off his life. Madelyn then moved into the front seat and took over the teacher’s role, watching the road while Sam’s massive head swivelled around. Three times he returned from solo trips with new dents in the car.
“A person cut in front of me,” he protested. “People here don’t know how to drive at all.” More often, he had no idea how he had got the dent. When Madelyn pointed it out, he’d scratch his head in perplexity.
They set out on their trip enthusiastically, with Gabriel squeezed into the back seat amongst the luggage. Sam bought a rack for the top of the car so they could pile things on the roof, and Madelyn tried to ignore people turning to stare after the little car, chugging along like a mushroom with its huge cap of gear lilting dangerously on the turns.
It was a wonderful holiday. At first they stayed in different campsites across Vancouver Island. The isolation of these huge, beautiful spots never ceased to amaze them after the crowded conditions in England. Often, they were the only people staying at the campsite, and Sam and Gabriel indulged in after-dinner screaming competitions, just because it was so delightful.
When they arrived at a new campsite, it became Madelyn’s task to unpack, sort out the food, erect the tent and lay out the sleeping bags. Meanwhile, Sam cut wood for the fire. He loved doing this with a passion, claiming it made him feel primitive and at one with nature.
The tent was a patched, floorless affair of thick green canvas that maintained a peculiar smell even after days of airing in the sun and wind. Madelyn gathered pine needles to cushion their bed and alleviate the odour, resisting Sam’s suggestion that she may as well gather firewood for him to chop while she was about it. They had little mats and thick sleeping bags and were cosy enough snuggled up together.
Every morning Sam disappeared for a few hours — walking and swimming, while Gabriel and Madelyn compiled collections of shells or made fairy houses among the trees, complete with pine cone sofas and pebble beds.
After lunch Sam looked after Gabriel while Madelyn escaped for a few hours. She loved to walk, though she didn’t quite dare to swim alone. The wildness of the places suggested the presence of animals watching her invisibly, and the water’s murky depths no doubt contained its share of eels, leeches and other strange creatures. The glorious scenery made walking sufficient pleasure, with masses of huge old trees in the wild greenness and just enough danger to make one start at rustling noises, and then laugh at a squirrel leaping up a tree.
In the evenings they ate from a variety of cans and fruit that they picked up en route from one campsite to the next. Madelyn and Sam sat up long after Gabriel was in bed, drinking and smoking and feeling happy.
One day during the first week Madelyn noticed that Gabriel was covered in angry red spots and bumps, which he scratched furiously.
“I think it’s chicken pox, Sam, but it does seem to be a rather vicious outbreak. Do stop scratching, Gabriel dear, it just makes it worse.”
Gabriel desisted for at least two seconds and then succumbed to a frenzy of rubbing.
“I think we should have a doctor check him.”
Sam lay back. “I seem to have a few red spots as well. Maybe you should drive into town by yourself. I wouldn’t want to exacerbate my condition by over-exertion.”
It took all morning to drive into town and find a doctor, but Gabriel’s spirits did not seem affected by the red spots. Indeed he seemed more ravenous than usual. Madelyn was bewildered by this lack of symptoms and prepared to hobnob with the doctor for quite some time until they figured out what the strange ailment might be.
The doctor blew angry snorts through his nose as he pulled off different articles of clothing, revealing more and more spots.
“The poor child is covered. This is outrageous!”
Madelyn smiled with a trace of contempt. These Canadians didn’t know how to use words. “Yes, it is a nasty outbreak. Do you think it might be an allergic reaction of some kind?”
The doctor looked at her in amazement. “An allergic reaction? If this kid was allergic to mosquitoes he’d be dead by now.”
Madelyn smiled with puzzlement. “I wasn’t thinking of an allergy to mosquitoes. Perhaps to some type of tree or vegetation, since we’re camping in the wild?”
“These are mosquito bites. Your child is covered with mosquito bites. I have never seen such … negligence.”
“I beg your pardon! I’m not from here and I don’t know anything about mosquitoes. If you give me something to repel them, you can be sure I’ll use it every day.”
The doctor looked at her as if he didn’t believe her, which was infuriating. Madelyn soothed herself and Gabriel with a nice hot meal of baked ham and salad in a local restaurant before heading back.
“Mosquitoes?” said Sam, “So that’s what was biting me. I’ll have some of that ointment you got for Gabriel, if I may.”
After a couple of weeks of camping they headed towards California. Sam didn’t realize it was so far, or he wouldn’t have agreed to go. They drove on and on — the road was never-ending. Sam drove in the morning, when he was fresh. By the time his driving shift was finished Madelyn was already exhausted from entertaining Gabriel and the stress of watching the road, clenching her hands around an imaginary wheel and pressing her foot on the brakeless floor.
“There’s a car coming,” she would say when it was necessary in order to avoid an accident. So long as she kept her voice very quiet and calm, and it was blatantly evident that their lives had been saved by her intervention, all was well. Otherwise Sam would bawl, “I’m the driver, aren’t I?”
They’d st
op for lunch at the first little town that materialized at the appropriate time, and Sam would force them to walk up and down the streets for ages, trying to find the cheapest restaurant.
Madelyn drove in the afternoons, exhausted from the tension of Sam’s awful driving, the long walk and the heavy lunches, while Gabriel and Sam slept. In the evenings they found a campsite. It was also delightful to meet other people at the campgrounds. Everyone was friendly, and they often ended up sitting at one campfire or another, drinking and listening to travel anecdotes. One couple taught them how to cook marshmallows over the fire. Sam thought they tasted disgusting, but Gabriel loved them.
The marshmallow couple joined them on the beach the next day, waving in a friendly fashion and crossing a huge expanse of empty beach in order to sit beside them.
“That’s the problem with people,” Sam stage-whispered in the direction of Madelyn’s frozen, welcoming smile, “you feel like a chat for a few minutes one day and you’re condemned to spend the next twenty-four hours with them.”
He lay down and put his book over his face, while Madelyn stood up to provide a welcome over her comatose husband.
They came and sat. People tend to do what they are inclined to do. Besides, who could imagine that yesterday’s expansive English gentleman would metamorphose into a grouch overnight?
“Why doesn’t your little boy swim?” they asked Madelyn.
“He doesn’t know how. I would like to teach him but I think I’ll start in a swimming pool.”
“Oh no, it’s nicer learning in a place like this. We have just the thing,” and the man disappeared in the direction of his campsite, returning a few minutes later with a huge rubber ducky.
“See here, son. This ducky won’t let you drown — just hold it all the time in the water.”
Gabriel emitted squeals of joy and rushed down to the water with his ducky. Sam took the book off his face to watch him leap about.
“Do you think there are jelly fish or anything that could hurt him?” Madelyn asked.
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