In a Fishbone Church
Page 20
Bridget sighs again and puts down the remote control. ‘Dad,’ she says, ‘you sound tired. Why don’t you go up to bed now?’
‘No, he’s right, Bridget,’ says Etta. ‘Her finger did swell up.’
Gene looks at Bridget. ‘We’re not doddering wrecks yet.’
‘She was my mother’s sister,’ Etta continues. ‘She was living on the farm with us for a while, when my mother – wasn’t well. Yellow one first?’ She feeds Gene a capsule. ‘She went out to get some kindling from the orange crates, and when she came back in she said her finger hurt. Then it started swelling and turning black.’
‘Oh, gross.’
Etta holds Gene’s arm steady as he takes a sip of water, then she pushes another capsule between his lips. ‘It travelled right up her arm, and within half an hour she was dead. They thought she must have been bitten by a spider.’
‘It was Maggie,’ says Gene behind his hand, and laughs. Etta takes the glass of water from him just before it tilts over. The video flicks off pause, and an ad for fly spray blares from the television.
‘Poison in a can,’ says Etta. Since Gene has been sick she has been suspicious of a number of products.
‘Couldn’t they have taken her to hospital?’
‘Out where they lived? The nearest doctor was over an hour away, and they only had a horse and trap. Let’s have a look.’ Etta pokes her finger in Gene’s mouth. ‘You naughty thing! It’s still on your tongue.’ She holds the water up to his lips. ‘One of my uncles died out there of an asthma attack, and there was nothing anybody could do.’
‘Uncle Henry?’
‘Big gulp now. Good. No, no this was my mother’s brother Bernard. It happened before I was born. No, Henry died over in Ireland, not long after he went back.’
‘He was the one who played the violin?’
Etta shakes a tiny white tablet into her palm and passes it to Gene. ‘That’s right. I can’t really remember that, though. He lost three fingers and the thumb off his left hand when I was about seven.’
‘What, did he get bitten as well?’
Etta peers into Gene’s mouth again and places another white oval on his tongue. ‘He had bad arthritis, and then he got a splinter in his hand which became infected, so he had to have them removed.’
Gene makes a gurgling sound and his mouth drops open. He stares at a point above Bridget’s head, water trickling down his chin.
‘Oh God.’ Bridget jumps from her chair.
‘Swallow,’ says Etta. ‘Swallow … that’s it.’ She holds Gene’s hand, looking over at Bridget. ‘We just forgot to swallow, that’s all.’ She plucks some tissues from a packet and wipes his chin.
Bridget puffs out her cheeks and exhales slowly.
‘He should never have gone back to Ireland,’ says Etta. ‘He was a lovely man. Very much missed at the farm. It was like having a second parent.’
‘Is that why he left the farm to your father?’
Etta is silent for a moment. ‘He never married. We used to look after him, tie his shoes and button his braces and cut up his meat. Then when we got a letter from him, after he went back, he sounded so sad to be home.’ She holds a measure of syrup up to Gene’s mouth, but Gene grasps the tiny plastic cup, pulls it away from her. The two of them sit there staring at one another. Finally Gene says, ‘I’ll hold it myself,’ and Etta notices how white his knuckles are.
‘He said his nieces there didn’t know him,’ she says, ‘and didn’t understand about braces and shoes and cutting up meat.’
‘Are there any photos of him? Or Bernard?’
Etta strokes Gene’s hair. ‘My mother never kept things like that.’ She takes the newspaper from Gene’s lap and folds it. He is still on page one; he doesn’t seem to make it past the tragedies these days. ‘The rifleman, that was the two-dollar bird,’ she says. ‘On the count of three then,’ and she takes his hands and hauls him to his feet.
As Etta leads him to the hall she can hear Bridget sigh with relief, settle into Gene’s armchair and click the remote control.
I have been trying to polish the opals but they are giving me a lot of bother I cannot find anything that will stand up to them as they tumble. The container must keep a very smooth surface & glass is the only thing suitable but it breaks. I have broken all the 1/2 gallon jars about the place but when I get a good run for 24 hours I get results.
‘That’s it, love. It’s right behind you.’
Gene lowers himself into the stair chair. ‘An ingenious bit of engineering, this,’ he says. ‘Bridget should see it in action.’ And, before Etta can stop him, he calls, ‘Hey, Bridget! Come and have a look at this!’
‘Custom built,’ he says when Bridget has appeared, the remote control cradled in her hand. ‘The track curves right round the landing. Ingenious.’
‘Shall I push the button or can you manage?’ says Etta, hovering at the bottom of the stairs, making sure Gene is holding on to the arm rests and that there are no sections of dressing gown dangling near the track.
‘I’m fine,’ says Gene. ‘Don’t fuss.’ And he presses his finger on the end of the arm rest and begins to move up the stairs. ‘Chocks away!’ he calls.
Bridget and Etta watch as he rounds the corner. As the chair turns him to face them they wave, as if he is on a fairground ride.
Gene waves back. ‘Hey Bridget,’ he shouts over the noise, ‘do you ever hear this from your room?’
‘Oh no, not at all. It’s fine.’
‘Good,’ yells Gene. ‘I wouldn’t want to disturb you. A girl needs her beauty sleep.’
‘Really, it’s fine, Dad,’ says Bridget, and she and Etta wait until he has disappeared behind the wallpapered corner and is gone.
Etta tidies up the bench, screwing the lids on bottles of pills and wiping down Gene’s table. Some of the medication has leaked on to the embroidered tray cloth, so she puts it out to be washed and unfolds a fresh one. They are not necessary, of course, but she likes to keep things looking nice.
‘I’m not going to let things get on top of me just because Dad’s sick,’ she tells Bridget. She replaces Native Birds of New Zealand and says, ‘Right then. I’ll just go up and get him settled.’
I got caught in my own trap today my cardigan the one that Mum knitted got pulled into the belt drive on the tumbler believe me it threw me a beaut but only a few bruises Marsha 6.30 p.m.
She lifts Genes legs into bed and pulls up the blankets.
‘The thing is,’ he says, ‘how do you tell a healthy possum from a sick one?’
‘Do you want that many pillows?’ asks Etta. ‘Let’s get rid of this one, shall we?’
‘I’ll tell you what I’m not doing any more,’ says Gene, leaning forward while she arranges the pillows. ‘I’m not balancing any more bloody teacups for any more lions, and that’s that.’
‘All right,’ says Etta.
She creeps back down the stairs to the living room, being careful not to catch her foot on the chair track.
Bridget is pouring herself a brandy.
‘That was nice of you, what you said about the noise,’ says Etta. ‘I know you were lying, it’s like a pneumatic drill.’ She tries to squeeze her daughter’s hand, but Bridget plops herself down in Gene’s armchair again and stares at the television. ‘It’s just he worries, I think,’ Etta goes on. ‘About being a nuisance.’
‘Mmm,’ says Bridget.
‘He made me move into the guest room, because he was worried I wasn’t getting enough sleep.’
‘You probably weren’t,’ says Bridget, thinking of her mother’s soft nocturnal footsteps.
‘He’s slipped such a lot lately. Even he admits it.’
Bridget aims the remote at the television and switches it off. ‘Sit down, Mum. I’ll make you a drink.’ She pours a second glass of brandy. ‘Might as well use the good stuff.’
‘You know, they’ve increased his morphine again,’ says Etta. ‘It’s quite interesting, the hospice nurse was ro
und this morning and she said he’s not addicted to it, even though he’s taking so much. She said the pain absorbs it, and it’s only if you take it when you’re not in pain that you get addicted.’
Bridget nods, swallowing slightly too much at once.
‘These were my mother’s,’ says Etta, holding her glass up to the lamp and watching the brandy tremble behind the crystal. ‘I don’t know what happened to the rest of the set. She wasn’t very careful with breakable things.’
The fridge shudders and falls silent. Bridget munches on an ice cube, sucking in her cheeks.
‘On his last x-ray,’ says Etta after a while, ‘three of his ribs had been eaten away. Imagine that, bones, just gone.’
The Stiltons have become very popular. Every Sunday afternoon a party of visitors descends, and Bridget greets them and ushers them into the lounge.
‘Look, Dad, Mrs Kerr’s come to see you,’ she says. ‘Mr Crandell’s just popped in for a visit.’ ‘Look who’s here, it’s Mrs Fitzroy.’ ‘What a nice surprise, Mrs Davis.’
‘Isn’t he good?’ they say, looking Gene up and down, sounding surprised and, Bridget suspects, a little disappointed. She excuses herself and goes to the kitchen, where she counts teacups and saucers and arranges biscuits, and listens to the visitors tell Etta and each other how good Gene is.
‘Here we are then,’ Bridget says, pushing the lounge door open with her foot. As she distributes afternoon tea, manoeuvring around the enormous handbags the women have brought and placed at their feet like obedient dogs, the visitors comment on her own goodness.
‘Aren’t you lucky to have her?’ they say. ‘Isn’t she marvellous?’
‘How are you doing with your tea?’ asks Bridget, offering Gene a scone. ‘Or would you rather a cool drink?’
‘Actually, that would be just the thing,’ says Gene, so Bridget goes out to the kitchen and pours 20ml of morphine syrup into a glass of orange juice. She came up with this code herself, and Gene says he wishes they’d thought of it years ago, particularly for Shirley Davis’ visits.
Had 12 members of the Ladies Guild round in the afternoon to see the stones.
‘There you go, Dad,’ Bridget says now, the ice cubes clinking like distant bells. ‘Your favourite.’
‘Ooh, that looks lovely,’ says Shirley. ‘I couldn’t have one of those too, could I Bridget?’
And Mrs Fitzroy says, ‘Orange juice! What a good idea, yes, I’ll have an orange juice, if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘No trouble at all,’ says Bridget, smiling.
‘You are lucky, Etta,’ they murmur. ‘Isn’t she good?’
‘Look what Shirley gave me,’ says Etta after they have all left. ‘Well, lent me.’ She pulls a plastic supermarket bag away from two small speakers. ‘It’s a baby monitor. Jodie and her husband bought it after they lost their first child.’
‘Is her hair still thinning?’
‘Bridget!’
‘Sorry. Is it?’
‘They said we can use it for as long as we need.’
Bridget sets it up beside Gene’s bed, with the receiver in the living room.
‘Now you won’t have to shout when you want something,’ says Etta.
Unfortunately, it only works one way.
Gene jolts awake at the sound of the phone and looks around the room, blinking.
Carnelian busy with last-minute packing. The family were round in the afternoon for tea (except Gene) I took photos with a coloured film. We took Carnelian to the airport & when the time came to go she did just what the Queen does she walked out smartly, mounted the steps turned & waved & was gone. We followed the next four hours very closely. Pulse 94
‘I’ll get it,’ says Bridget. He hasn’t seemed to realise what the noise is. She reaches across him.
‘How’s it going?’ says Christina’s voice.
‘Hey! How are you?’
‘Great, really good. How’s home?’
‘Oh, you know,’ says Bridget, glancing at Gene, who has resumed watching Dad’s Army.
‘Stupid boy!’ says Captain Mainwaring.
‘Don’t panic!’ says Private Jones.
Gene smiles.
‘It’s great to be back,’ says Bridget. ‘The house is really nice.’
Christina cackles. ‘They’re there, aren’t they? For Christ’s sake, swap phones. I think I can afford the extra thirty seconds while you run upstairs. Or glide in motorised comfort at the touch of a button.’
‘Mum?’ calls Bridget. ‘Could you hang up for me?’
Up in Gene’s room she shouts, ‘Got it!’ and waits for the click.
‘So,’ says Christina, ‘is that Antony boy still hanging round?’
‘They are driving me insane,’ Bridget says through gritted teeth.
‘I did warn you.’
‘If I have to see the stair chair in action one more time I swear I will tie myself to the track and press go.’
‘Come over for a holiday, then.’
‘No,’ says Bridget. ‘I’d feel bad, you know, if something happened.’
‘Thorsten wants to meet you. He likes nice strapping kiwi girls.’
‘I am big-boned,’ says Bridget. ‘No, I can’t afford it, anyway.’ She groans. ‘Mum’s so jumpy, you only have to glance in the direction of a curtain and it’s pulled, and if you actually ask for something you can’t see her for dust.’
‘You could slip her some Diazepam.’
‘And Dad’s pretty glazed, most of the time. It’s like she’s making up for it by doing twice as much.’
‘He’s as bad as Grandad used to be.’
And then Christina begins telling Bridget about what a wonderful time she’s having in Sydney with Thorsten, and how they went to a gay dance party a couple of weekends ago – with her friend Mike, the gay lawyer, who goes out with Andrew Martin, the Medical Superintendent – and they took a trip, and she just loved everyone and everyone loved her. She wore this obscene PVC miniskirt and a matching bra top, and Thorsten proved to be a very popular boy indeed.
Bridget says, ‘Aha,’ and, ‘I see,’ and, ‘Right,’ every so often and just lets her sister chatter on, because all of a sudden she has no idea what to say to her. She wonders if, in Sydney, Christina even realises that Gene’s bones are dissolving, that his lungs are turning to stone.
‘So do you think I should come over for a visit?’ says Christina.
‘Sure. They’d love to see you.’
‘Yeah, but do you think I should come? I mean, do I need to come?’
‘He has good days and bad days. You’re the doctor. You should know how it advances.’
Bridget hears Etta climb the stairs and turn on the bath. Then she comes into the bedroom.
‘I might come next weekend then,’ says Christina. ‘No, wait, that’s the Globe party. I promised Claudia – ’
‘Won’t be a minute,’ whispers Etta. ‘I’ll just get some clothes.’
‘The club scene here is really amazing,’ Christina is saying.
‘So how’s Thorsten?’ Bridget cuts in, watching Etta select a singlet and a pair of underpants. ‘Are you improving your German?’
Etta looks up.
‘I know lots of new words now,’ says Christina.
‘Is that Christina?’ says Etta, rushing over. ‘Why didn’t you tell us? I’ll say a quick hello.’
The Dad’s Army credits are sliding across the screen, and soldiers run towards Gene, bombs exploding behind them.
At 1.25 p.m. an announcement came over the air from the police that a tidal wave was approaching the East Coast at the speed of 500 miles per hour and was expected to arrive at 1.30 p.m. We shut the shop (Rob didn’t see the need to but I insisted) and hurried home the police don’t put things like that over the air unless they have good reasons. It did not arrive but the sea is still acting very strange and yesterday they had more earthquakes in Chile. There will be no stones gathered this weekend. Bowels Poor.
Pulse 95
‘Dad,’ says Bridget. ‘Can I switch this off now?’
‘Mmm,’ he says, staring at the television.
‘I’ll put some music on. Do you want anything to drink?’ ‘Mmm.’
She flicks through the CDs, but there is nothing she feels like listening to. In the end she plays the one that is already in the stereo.
‘Mozart’s flute concerto,’ she says. ‘You like this one.’
She wishes she was accomplished enough to play it herself; she is sure the neighbours are tired of her meagre repertoire, to say nothing of Christmas carols in May.
‘You play,’ says Gene now, sitting up and looking more alert. ‘Go on, you play me a few tunes.’
‘If you think you’re up to it,’ says Bridget, and she takes her flute from its blue velvet case and fits it together, lining up the mouthpiece with the row of silver keys. She remembers something her first flute teacher, an elderly English man, told her: if you let someone play your flute it is like letting them kiss you. She’d gone to his funeral a few years ago. During communion, while walking past the coffin, his wife had bent and kissed him. Bridget had been disgusted.
‘I wish I’d learned to play an instrument,’ says Gene. ‘My mother always said I had the hands of a violinist, but that was as far as it went. Boys don’t play the violin.’
Bridget begins an unsteady rendition of ‘Greensleeves’, and Gene leans back in his chair and closes his eyes.
‘I like this one,’ he murmurs.
Just as Bridget is starting the third verse, there is a cry from upstairs.
‘The bath!’ shouts Etta.
Bridget rushes up the stairs two at a time and finds her mother leaning over the bath, turning the taps off.
‘I think I got it in time,’ she says. ‘It was just overflowing when I came in.’
‘Shit,’ says Bridget, grabbing some towels from the cupboard and throwing them on the floor. ‘Are you sure? I can feel it squelching underneath the carpet over here.’
‘Oh dear,’ says Etta, all of a sudden sounding on the verge of tears. ‘I was talking to Christina and I just forgot about it. Oh dear.’
Bridget pushes up her sleeve and reaches into the warm water to pull out the plug. ‘Come on, come downstairs and have a cup of tea, and I’ll take care of this.’