Nature and Necessity

by Tariq Goddard

  Gradually Regan began to replay and rehearse what had happened at the gallery, the worst bits first, next the dull parts, and then finally all of them together. As she did so she found herself searching for an explanation that would not incriminate her as a sad loser, or a desperate old maid. More than that, she had to embrace the painful observation that Mingus had not taken an oath of celibacy until she re-entered his life, far less waited to sail away with her in a pea-green boat and be married under the light of a full moon, so like the one they had made their unofficial vows under. Instead, she reached for what would play kindly to her feelings, and help facilitate the dignity she knew she would need to clean her teeth and wash her face in the morning. Her preferred version went something like this: she and Mingus were a modern-day tragedy, star-crossed lovers who had the misfortune to have met on different stages in life’s way, when neither of their realities were the other’s truth, hopelessly ill-served by timing and their own chronologies… It would all fit nicely into a song, but was not enough to stop her tears, which knew another version. Regan allowed the water to come, if anything overjoyed to have the company, the effort of having to prepare a successful account of the night for the girls too reminiscent of the ‘back-shadowing’ her mother had practised down the decades. She had sat as a girl, out of consideration and politeness to the feelings Petula would not own up to having, and listened to her mother alter the significance of the same events with endless invention, adjusting them to her current goals or audience to save her from having her humanity remarked on, or the ordinariness of her existence judged. By remaining stronger than anyone else, empathy would always be an impossibility, yet this was what Regan sought, even as her friends took care to not show too much of it, lest they shatter her self-image as a tower of ice. Let the world laugh then; it would be worth every humiliating second, if scorn were the prequel to empathy, and inclusion into the human condition. Mingus had simply repaid her treatment of him in kind, with the merciful qualification that at least he had not done so deliberately, whereas she had spurned him because she had allowed herself to think that she could do better, and that his love was the first of many. In doing so she wished to remain true to her mother’s example, and the selfless warning that men who loved were the most deluded of all; Regan not able to see that Petula could be selfish even in her kindnesses.

  Regan lay there for an eternity trying not to think of these things, thinking of them, then trying not to, failing to, and thinking of them again, before catching herself and starting the process from scratch. And then the phone by the bed went. Her first reaction was to leave it, assuming that it was Robinson looking for a little bit of afters, or worse, wanting to make up now she had hit the minibar. But a more powerful instinct, indistinguishable from hope, threw her arm over, and reaching as far as she could, she pulled the receiver to her ear. Blankly she said, ‘Hello.’

  At first all she could hear was a lot of noise, a spaceship of macaws being eaten by jungle parasites, before realising that the loudest of them was actually shouting her name, ‘Regan, Regan, it’s me! Shit, I’m so glad I’ve got you! This is about the millionth hotel I tried and I was about to give up! Seriously, I’d called everywhere, so this must be, I don’t know, destiny! Sorry, I’m wasted, I know, but I couldn’t stop myself, I needed to speak to you. Jesus! I’ve spent years just thinking of you! Do you know that? I think you’re great and I can’t believe you came all this way for nothing! I’ve got to give you something… I’ve got to let you know you’re great, great!’

  ‘I think you’re great too!’ she shrieked, ‘Thank God, oh I’m so glad it’s you, you don’t even know!’

  ‘Not as much as me! I didn’t think I’d find you, I tried looking for you again round the gallery, then different hotels I thought you might be at, but you went for the Cinderella moment, you hated the show I guess, yeah? That’s why you left?’

  ‘Yes, no, well partly! But it doesn’t matter, I don’t hate you! I just don’t understand the work.’

  ‘Bollocks! That’s a cop out, just say you hated it! I don’t mind, I think it’s fine, loads of people do! There’s nothing to understand, anyway, every universalisation is a dilution as well as a reaching-out, I’m not surprised I alienate people. Who cares if I do?’

  ‘That sounds very theoretical.’

  Mingus laughed. ‘It’s not meant to be, I’m trying to be stoical, theory is how untalented people get their revenge on the talented someone once said. I don’t know what I’m doing. There’s no plan, people are free to think what they like, especially you.’

  ‘That’s why you’re so successful, everyone does think what they like, you’ve given birth to an entire industry!’

  ‘Bullshitters all of them… I… do you want that… think?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t hear you! It’s getting too loud where you are… you’re breaking up,’ shouted Regan panicking, ‘can you say that again?’

  ‘You’re… my…’

  ‘I can’t hear you! Please, you’ve got to be louder.’

  ‘You’re my destiny, which is why I only know one half of it. My half!’ she heard Mingus yell over the music. ‘When can I see you again?’

  Without missing a beat Regan said, ‘The Brooklyn Bridge, this side, tomorrow morning?’

  ‘God, I’d love to, but I might still be fucked! I’ve just taken a hundred mushrooms!’

  ‘Fuck! Then the next day, same place, dinner?’

  ‘Sure… sure… yes! Time?’

  ‘Nine, I love you, see you then!’

  ‘Me too…’ The line had gone dead. Regan felt lifted off the bed, tossed into the air, caught again, and embraced by the cheers of an adoring crowd. She wanted to sing, take her clothes off and run up and down the corridor pleasuring herself; life was as much, and more, than the dreams she had always regarded as beautifully constructed placebos. In her happiness she turned on the television, stuck as how else to celebrate the moment, Rod Stewart on MTV in tight pink trousers only just coming on when the phone by the bed rang again.

  She felt sick; this time she knew it was not Mingus. Cold sweat had replaced tears as her excrescence, and she waited for the phone to ring off, which after its thirtieth ring it did. Almost instantaneously her mobile began to bleep, and finding it quickly she shoved it under the sheets to smother its vibrating call. After a very protracted period of time it stopped, and the landline started again, Regan holding out until the thirty-first ring before picking up.

  ‘What the hell took you so long?’ screamed her mother.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was, I was asleep.’

  ‘It must have been a very deep one.’

  ‘I was completely out on sleeping pills. Zonked. Sorry.’

  ‘You should watch those, they’ll drive you bloody barmy if you’re not careful. Anyway, at least I’ve got you.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Why does that matter?’

  ‘I’m just surprised.’

  ‘Your office told me you got caught up in some dreadful business involving that circus clown Mackpiece or whatever stupid thing he’s calling himself these days. I thought you could use some moral support.’

  ‘You’re not coming over are you?’

  ‘No, don’t be ridiculous, what would I want to get involved in that idiotic caper for? No, but I need you back here pronto.’

  ‘What? Why? I’ve only just arrived…’

  ‘I know you’ve just woken up, but you’re not sounding very clever; are you alright? You don’t sound… altogether sane. Or right in the head.’

  ‘I’m tired Mum. I was asleep. It’s the pills. But why do I have to come back?’

  ‘Did that little bastard blank you? He’d better not have! He’d be nothing without us, nothing!’

  ‘You mean Mingus?’

  ‘Who else do you think I bloody mean! I’m worried about you!’

  ‘No, no! Of course not, no one has blanked me. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing to worry about
. I promise. But I don’t understand, what’s so important that you need me back right away? Are you alright? Is everything okay at home?’

  ‘Forget about me. What’s so important about where you are that you can’t come back? New York is a bloody terrible place, muggings, crack cocaine, subway rapists! I want you out of there now, before it’s too late and something happens. You’ve got to come home.’

  ‘Mum, don’t be crazy! I’m perfectly safe here. Nothing is going to happen to me.’

  ‘Please Regan, I credit you with intelligence, you’re not involved in something stupid are you? There are many ways of making a fool out of yourself, and you don’t need to get on a plane to New York to find out about all of them.’

  ‘I have things I need to do here. Work stuff too. Why do you need me back so badly? I’m meant to be in the office here in New York for work, it’s important. I have to stay. Really, I have to.’

  ‘Nonsense, just shift a gear and get on that plane tomorrow. Stop arguing with me and just do it! I’ve checked times, there are at least three leaving before nine o’clock. I have plans for us this weekend and also have something to tell you, something very, very important that I can’t simply say down the blower.’

  ‘What is it? Why not?’

  ‘Are you even listening to me? I’ve already told you what you’ve got to do. You are being a bit thick aren’t you; I’ve just said in plain English that there’s a matter that would require us to meet face-to-face, it’s far too important to blurt out now, you never know who is listening on these lines, and still you disobey me, still you ask why…’

  ‘But Mum, I’m meant to…’

  ‘Regan! Regan! Are you not listening to a single word I am saying? What’s the matter with you girl? I require you to be here in two days’ time, which gives you more than enough time to travel and rest, all of tomorrow in fact, and most of the following morning, which is a timeline I don’t think unreasonable in the circumstances. Most reasonable in fact. And what are you doing in New York anyway? I’m told the woman you’re with is certifiable and that Magnum is already yesterday’s news. A charlatan and imposter. A madman and a drug addict. And besides, I can’t stand physical attraction, it’s so… so obvious.’

  Regan could say nothing. She and Mingus were primed for a future they would not inherit, like vines wrapped round each other’s stems so neither of them would ever meet the light. What a lot of time she had spent thinking about something that was never going to happen.

  ‘Regan!’ Petula barked, ‘Are you still there? Can you hear me, are you still there?’

  ‘What?’ Regan practically snarled back, unable to stem her mother’s will, more powerful than fate. ‘What is it you want me to do? Travel all the way back to bloody Yorkshire like I do all the time to meet you at home? That’s fucking crazy Mum! I’ve only just got here! Are you drunk?’

  Ignoring her question Petula sighed and replied matter-of-factly: ‘You’re to meet me in Bath, I agree Yorkshire is a bit much, I’ve booked us in for treatments, spas, facials, manicures, that sort of thing. Bath. Everyone needs to be fussed over now and then. And we need to keep our defences up against illness or worse. I’ll be outside the station in the Audi, nine pm sharp, Friday evening. We can have dinner together. You’ll need something decent after all that airplane and American food.’

  ‘I have to stay here…’ said Regan, no longer believing it was possible to, but owing it to the future she would never have, to protest to the bitter end and die fighting.

  ‘Don’t be so ridiculous, we’ve already finished with that conversation. I need you here. With me. I won’t have it any other way. Do you understand? Of course you do. You damn well know you do. Nine pm. Bath. I’ll see you there. And don’t worry if you’re a little late. We’ll have plenty of time. Goodnight, and don’t forget to set your alarm.’

  Throwing the phone across the room Regan flopped down to the floor and wept, beating at the carpet ineffectually with her small fists. After a while, wanting to make more of her despair, she moved to smash a window, the glass eventually shattering on her third attempt with the table.

  The doctor who helped with the stitches, fortunately on her upper arm and conveniently out of sight, came straight from Robinson’s suite, and along with the management was most understanding of the accident, believing Regan had been driven to her act by the pressures of toiling for an employer they could all agree was a nightmare. Regan thus saved herself the embarrassment of having to explain her predicament, or invent one. The following morning after just two hours’ sleep, Regan took a taxi, which stopped at Mingus’s gallery where she left a letter she hoped would explain everything, and from there to the airport, and to Petula.

  PART FIVE:

  Lethe, forgetfulness.

  Isn’t it queer how we go through life, always thinking

  that the things we want to do

  are the things that can’t be done?

  – GEORGE ORWELL, Coming up for Air

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN,

  kindness and killing.

  It turned out that the very important ‘matter’ her mother had asked Regan to leave New York and journey to Bath for was too delicate to mention right away. Contrary to her insistence over the telephone, Petula preferred to overlook Regan’s impatiently careworn expression, and to warm up on less distasteful topics, including the colour of the Hardfields’ new Saab and Royce’s litter of Springer puppies. She shushed Regan when she brought the ‘matter’ up in the steam room, asked her not to mention it during their facial, played deaf on the treadmill, ignored her reference to the subject over dinner on their last night, and exploded when Regan raised it again as they parted at the train station.

  In a stormy and perplexing dressing-down, attracting the attention of the entire concourse, Petula screamed at her still jetlagged and by now thoroughly exhausted and farouche daughter, ‘Have you never had anything so terrible on your mind that words fail you? Experience that simply defies expression?’

  ‘But I thought you couldn’t wait to tell me!’

  ‘What are you talking about? Of course I could wait to tell you. Otherwise I would have told you over the telephone!’

  ‘So I don’t understand why you can’t now? I’m here, aren’t I?’

  ‘My, I’ve bought you up sheltered and protected, you really have no idea what I’m talking about, have you? No, no idea!’

  ‘But…’

  ‘Have you not the slightest shred of empathy for my suffering? I who washed your baby feet in the bath?’

  ‘How can I when I don’t know what it is? All we’ve had this weekend is the usual trivial pursuits, with a load of activities chucked in. Any excuse to be too busy to talk seriously. But here I am, and I still don’t know what I was meant to travel halfway round the world for!’

  ‘Stop bullying me! On, on, on you go! You never let me speak or leave me alone, following me everywhere like my shadow! It’s like being chased, ravaged and roasted by a bossy Pekinese! I’ll tell you in my own good time! Until then, leave me alone!’

  ‘But Mum…’

  That time turned out to be the following weekend, when to Regan’s horror, Petula decided to remain at The Heights after all, having cancelled her shooting trip in order to catch up with Regan’s gang whom she claimed not to have seen ‘since they were little girls’; factually untrue, though in the spirit of a greater truth, as Petula had never taken any interest in them on those occasions they had met, from little-girlhood onward. Had her vexation not been so transparent, Regan would have found an excuse to cancel the expedition, instead of driving up to The Heights as a condemned woman would, expecting the farce of a show trial, followed by the inevitable denouement, a short trip in an open cart, and death.

  This time things were exactly as she had foreseen. The weekend was a disaster; the most miserable she could remember. If her flight from New York had crushed her will to live, a ghostly and confused message from Mingus on her answerphone at William Morris the on
ly evidence that she had ever wanted to, the reunion with the girls squeezed out what endured of her instinct to exist. Petula did not leave them alone for a moment, stage-managing every molecule of the trip with an attention to the molar architecture of their movements that made her previous efforts to show guests a good, if closely managed, time seem laissez-faire in comparison. There was not a single conversation that was not led, overheard, interrupted or redirected by Petula, into the kind of inane, irrelevant and intense small talk that Regan would have gladly gone deaf not to have to hear again. Meals were formal and punctual, name cards at set places, Petula dragging her arthritic and increasingly unbendable legs behind them on short walks, forcing them out of politeness to plod at a snail’s pace, and listen to her complaints and intermittent put-downs. A desperate last-minute trip into Leeds was called off because Petula wanted them to watch Antiques Roadshow with her, which was in Shatby that week, with Regan delegated to fetching mugs of tea and snacks for her friends, their virtual servant, as Petula feigned outrage that the guests should have to do anything for themselves.

  Saddest, for all of them, was the decision to curtail their rambling soirees before bed on Petula’s insistence: she wanted the young women up fresh and early for her three-course breakfasts, consisting of prunes, porridge and Aga-baked eggs and bacon, which she suggested they prepare together. Her friends, collectively alarmed but too sensitive to convention to refuse to comply, increased the number of cigarettes they had to leave the house to smoke, gathering in the garden furtively and whispering that they could never remember the woman being this bad and how the hell could Regan take it? Understanding that Regan’s trip to New York had been a trophy-less hunt, and that her failure was in some way connected to the mournful figure she cut under her mother’s dictatorial gaze, meant that ongoing and pained glances were the only real communication they had with her all weekend, the anticipated ‘catch-up’ never to happen. And as the girls headed away in taxis to the station, to breathe the air of freedom and lambast the prison they had so recently escaped, Regan, guessing that the moment when it might have meant anything had already passed, asked once again: what was Petula’s urgent secret? With monumental unconcern her mother replied, ‘What? Oh that, nothing really, I can’t remember now. I’ll let you know if it comes back to me. I wouldn’t worry about it if I were you. There’s so many things on at the moment that it’s easy to confuse their importance.’