‘Relax,’ she said. ‘You get used to it.’
She shone beside him. She moved so easily through the water he thought it might swallow her, that she might slip further and further away from him until she was gone. Her golden thighs shimmered and blurred and she swam ahead, her hair a billowing net. He felt water collecting on his skin like mercury.
‘Hurry up,’ she called. ‘There’s not much time.’
In his wake he could just see his gown, far behind them now and floating, a white jellyfish, the ties thin tentacles. He wanted to stay here.
But days had passed, and nights too, full of bad dreams and restlessness and lust and peace and sorrow, and there had been burglaries and New Year parties and snores and coughs and sighs of contentment, and frightening noises in gardens, and an entire winter, and he had forgotten how to speak and forgotten how to write and had learned all over again, and his cousin and his ex-wife had come and read to him, because they loved him or because he was family or perhaps both, and he had grown older.
He watched her swimming away and said, ‘When When am I allowed to go home?’
He’d been on his way to his mother’s house, he knew that now. He’d given his first lecture and he’d been driving to his mother’s house to sort through her things, but the sun had been too bright and he’d been rushing and had driven off the bridge and into the icy river. Faye and Rosemary had told him all this while they plumped his pillows and poured him water and told him how much better he was looking, how well he was doing, how pleased the physiotherapist and the speech therapist and the doctors were.
‘There’s still some glass inside you,’ said Faye as she took him home. ‘From the windscreen. Don’t worry, you won’t even know it’s there. The main thing is, you’re going to be fine.’ She lifted Patrick’s suitcase from the boot of her car and took it inside. ‘Now, you’re to stay as long as you like. I’ve got plenty of room, and Rosemary’s coming every other day to give me a hand. We’ll go to your place when you feel like it, and you can pick up some more things, whatever you need to make you feel at home.’
‘What about my lectures? I’d prepared all the notes.’
‘Yes, we found those,’ said Faye. ‘Not the ones from the first lecture, of course—they’re somewhere in the river, or probably the sea by now—but we went through some things at your house, I hope you don’t mind. We wanted to read you something familiar, that might bring you round.’
‘Like Hilla’s dialogues.’
‘You heard us?’
‘I think I must have.’
‘Rosemary read you some bible passages too, but I couldn’t be bothered with them. I made her stop.’
‘Ah.’
‘I did enjoy the dialogues. Rosemary always wanted to be God, of course, but I insisted we took turns.’
Patrick settled into Faye’s guest room that night.
‘This is where your parents stayed after the fire, isn’t it?’ she said.
It was the first time she’d mentioned it, and Patrick caught his breath. He hadn’t thought about it for such a long time, it was as if it hadn’t happened at all.
‘I wanted you all to stay for good,’ she said. ‘I hated coming home in the holidays when just Mum and Ronnie were here. It felt so empty. Do you know, I could call out to her from my bedroom, and she’d never hear me.’
Patrick nodded.
‘Ronnie did though.’ Faye stopped, pressed her hands together. ‘You were so kind to me when I was in hospital, and when I came home—’
‘You were family, Faye, of course I was.’
She smiled. ‘Well. Good night, Patrick. I’m just next door, if you need anything.’
Patrick examined the books shelved in the corner of the room, ran his finger along the spines. He thought of Saint Columba, who had copied Finnian’s psalms illegally, his fingers shining as he wrote. That story ended badly. Finnian’s messenger, sent to check on the precious manuscript, peered through the church keyhole and had his eyes wounded by Columba’s pet crane. And the King ordered Columba to return the transcript to Finnian, declaring, ‘To every cow her calf, and to every book its copy’
Patrick knelt to read the spines on the bottom shelf. Right in the corner was a small red volume, its title faint from many handlings: A Book of Golden Deeds. He took it to bed and began at the beginning, with the author’s 1864 preface. The authorities have not been given, said Charlotte M. Yonge, as for the most part the narratives lie on the surface of history. Patrick settled deeper into bed, folding the sheet over the woollen blankets so they wouldn’t scratch his face. There is a cloud of doubt resting on a few of the tales, which it may be honest to mention, though they were far too beautiful not to tell. But it was not possible to give up such stories as these, and the thread of truth there must be in them has developed into such a beautiful tissue, that even if unsubstantial when tested, it is surely delightful to contemplate. Patrick listened to Faye turning on taps in the bathroom, splashing water, letting it drain away again. Charlotte M. Yonge, he read, had provided enough detail of surrounding historical events to make the situation comprehensible, even without knowledge of the general history. This has been done in the hope that these extracts may serve as a mothers storehouse for reading aloud to her boys, or that they may be found useful for short readings to the intelligent, though uneducated classes.
Before he turned the light out, Patrick read stories he still remembered. He read of valiant dogs and constant princes, faithful slaves and plague heroes, shepherd girls and lost children. His head felt as new as a baby’s on the pillow; already his hair was growing back to hide the scars. Faye had lit a fire for him, and he got up and placed the guard around it, in case of sparks in the night, and then he went to sleep.
The fire was a real spectacle. People from up and down the street came to watch it and to look concerned. Some of them were so concerned that the firemen had to ask them to move along. Patrick saw one woman actually holding her hands out to the hot brick walls, as if she were cold, or wanted to touch them. The pale faces of his neighbours were illuminated by the flames, coloured with gold. He’d never realised how loud fire could be. It was never that loud when contained by a hearth, but his fire—for he had created it—was furious: wood cracking like bullets, sap boiling and whistling, paint sizzling. One by one the windows of the house smashed and flames whooshed through them like ragged curtains. Or was that his mother, hysterical, choking? He thought he saw her heaving with sobs, but her voice was sucked into the heat and the smoke, eaten by the riotous flames. The ash was the only silent thing about the fire. As it fell softly on his hair, his arms, his bare feet, he thought of moths. And each moth represented a part of their house, their old life: there was a floral wallpaper moth, an eiderdown moth, a dinner-set moth, a sofa moth.
He would have liked to stay and watch, but neighbours began pulling at his sleeves, telling him and his parents to come away, not to upset themselves.
‘Come and we’ll make you a nice cup of tea,’ said one.
‘I’ve got a drop of Scotch if you’re after something stronger,’ said another. ‘You look like you could do with something stronger.’
‘Fruitcake,’ pronounced a third. ‘Freshly made this morning.’
Suddenly the Mercers were in demand, the whole street thronging around them like buyers at an auction. It was Mrs Morrin who triumphed, grabbing Patrick’s arm and manoeuvring him towards her driveway, her reading glasses wobbling against her chest.
‘I think the Mercers would like to be left in peace for a bit. Come along Graham, Doreen,’ she said, and Patrick was surprised to see his parents follow her without a word.
‘My homework was in there,’ he whispered. ‘What will Mr Ross say?’
‘You should be ashamed of yourself, young man,’ said Mrs Morrin. ‘At a time like this. Can’t you see your mother’s in shock?’ She clamped a meaty arm around his mother’s shoulder and said, ‘Don’t you worry, Doreen, we’ll soon get you in front of th
e fire with a nice cup of tea.’
And so they went and sat in Mrs Morrin’s house, where black-framed photographs of her husband clustered on the wall like blowflies, and she asked how a thing like that could happen, meaning the fire, not her husband, and just as Patrick’s mother was saying that she didn’t know, his father said that it must have been because someone was playing on the porch with a magnifying glass.
When Patrick woke in the morning, a few embers were still glowing in the grate. He’d slept all night with the fire in his room, he realised. He felt rejuvenated. He thought of a hint from his eight hundred-year-old manuscript, which was now locked in Faye’s china cabinet. If it should happen through negligence that your ink be not black enough, take a fragment of iron the thickness of a finger, and putting it into the fire, allow it to glow, and throw it directly into the ink. He was, he told Faye at breakfast, getting his strength back.
Colette couldn’t sleep on the flight. When the cabin attendants lowered the blinds to enforce night, she couldn’t pretend. Outside the windows, she knew, the rising sun was following the plane, and she remained awake.
She didn’t let herself sleep on the train from London, either. She wanted to witness every bit of the landscape on the way to Patrick’s home town. Once she’d checked into the bed and breakfast, she told herself, she could rest, refresh herself for her hospital visit. She’d been careful to pack clothes that were both flattering and wrinkle-proof, and she’d bought a bottle of her favourite perfume at the duty-free shop. Trésor rose from her wrists and throat; even the soft pulse-points behind her ears were scented.
When she’d found her way to the bed and breakfast, she unpacked and arranged her things as if at home. Then she climbed into bed, her map folded open to the right place and her route for the next day marked in red ink.
Saint Luke’s hospital was on the outskirts of the city. Colette got off the bus a few stops early and walked, taking in the flavour of the place, the feel of Patrick’s immediate surroundings. Odd, she thought, that it was autumn in New Zealand and spring here, and both climates felt the same. She checked her reflection in a shop window, straightened her collar, smoothed her hair.
At the hospital she had to wait while the receptionist explained to a new father that Saint Luke’s did not have the facilities for him to stay overnight.
‘Are we living in the Dark Ages?’ said the man. ‘Fathers deserve to be involved too, you know. It’s healthy for the child,’ he shouted, and stalked away down the corridor.
‘Can I help you, dear?’ the receptionist said.
‘Yes,’ said Colette, ‘I was wanting to visit Patrick Mercer. I’m not sure which ward he’s in.’
‘Mercer,’ said the woman, tapping the name into a computer. Colette could hear the new father muttering to himself in the distance. ‘He checked out on Monday, love. Maybe you can visit him at home.’
There were only two Mercers in the phone book, and one was a D. Colette scribbled down the address for P. Mercer and rehearsed silently on the way there: Hello, I don’t know if you recognise me, your friends have been sending me letters, I think we must have met before, I’m not sure if you know who I am, I’m not sure if I know you. The afternoon was growing cool by the time she found the house, and she rubbed her hands together as she waited on the front porch. There was still no answer after she’d knocked four times.
As she walked round to the back she noticed that the carport was empty, the lawn overgrown. All the windows were shut and most of the curtains drawn. She retrieved the last Friends of Patrick letter from her bag. The address on the back was residential and, according to her map, not too far away.
It was a beautiful old place, set amongst trees and clematis vines and beds of lavender. On one side was a glass conservatory, so delicately constructed it could have been made of ice. Colette’s hand shook as she rang the bell. Through the frosted pane she could see someone approaching and she cleared her throat, smoothed her hair again.
‘Yes?’ said the woman. She was small and slim, and although she must have been in her sixties, her skin was still smooth.
‘I’m trying to find a Patrick Mercer. I’m Colette Hawkins, I was sent letters about him from this address.’
‘You’re Colette?’ The woman frowned. ‘You can’t be.’
‘I—I have my passport here somewhere,’ Colette fumbled in her bag. ‘The letters said he wanted visitors. I’ve come such a long way—’ The words caught in her throat.
‘Look,’ said the woman, reaching outside and drawing Colette towards the threshold, ‘why don’t you come in.’
At the end of the hallway was a big, warm room overlooking the garden. An old man sat beside the window, a small red book open on his lap.
‘Patrick,’ said the woman, ‘we have a visitor from New Zealand. She says her name’s Colette Hawkins.’
The man in the chair started, looked up. ‘You’re not Colette.’
‘I told her she wasn’t.’
‘But I got letters from you,’ said Colette. Addressed to me, telling me how Patrick—’ she glanced at the old man ‘—how Patrick was progressing.’ She stopped. ‘I thought he was my age,’ she said in a small voice.
As she spoke the man watched her, his eyes shifting across her face. ‘You’ve come all the way from New Zealand?’ he said.
She nodded.
‘Come here. Come along, I won’t bite.’ And he took her face in hands soft as water and turned it towards the window. ‘Faye,’ he said, ‘would you make us some tea?’
A long time ago, when he was newly married, a museum curator was sent on a trip. As he hadn’t done much travelling, he decided to combine business with pleasure. He needed to see the world as well as read about it, he told his wife, who tired easily. When she heard all the places he wanted to visit, she told him she would stay behind, and secretly the curator was glad.
He went on a journey that began at home and moved south and, to begin with, the further away from home he travelled the hotter it became. He heard two bronze giants striking the hour in Venice; he saw dragons’ heads adorning Cretan sabres. He visited Malta’s Ta Pinu basilica, where a peasant woman had heard the voice of God, and he saw the Step Pyramid at Saqqarah, from which the dead Pharaoh had boarded a sacred boat to carry him with the sun across the heavens. When the museum curator crossed the equator he saw an Indonesian puppet show made of shadows, an island made of coral, the dry heart of Australia. And it grew colder, and the water drained clockwise from the bath, and even the crescent moon seemed backwards. As is the case when travelling, the curator collected addresses from strangers, most of whom he would never see again. When he reached the south of New Zealand and could go no further without hitting ice, he met a beautiful young woman, much younger than himself, who told him her name was Colette. They saw each other every day, and he ignored the scenery, the mountains and the waterfalls and the lush green bush. Am having a marvellous time, he wrote to his wife. Here is a picture of a mountain. The young woman whose name was Colette added herself to his address book, but told him he must never contact her, not unless things changed. And he didn’t write to her, not at first, not until eight years later, when he thought things might indeed have changed. They had and they hadn’t: she was still married, but now she had two young children. She didn’t want any complications. And so the curator stayed married too, for a few more years, and buried himself in books.
‘That must have been why Dad left,’ said Colette. ‘He must have found out.’ She gathered her bag and her passport, refolded her street map. ‘I should go now.’
Patrick started to speak and stopped again. He reached inside his mouth and removed something very small. ‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Glass.’ He displayed the shard on his palm. ‘It keeps turning up.’
Colette continued buttoning her jacket.
‘I’m sorry if I made things complicated for your mother. I didn’t know she was married too, not at the start. I never would have become involved if I’d
known.’
‘My mother’s name is Anne, did you know that? Colette was obviously an invention. She lied to you. She never intended to stay in touch.’
Patrick examined the piece of glass, nudging it across his open book with a forefinger. ‘She never mentioned me?’ he said quietly.
‘I asked her once why she called me Colette. She said there was no special reason, she just liked the name.’
‘I see.’ Patrick stared at his book. ‘I don’t know why I thought—it was just a few days, after all. Really just a holiday romance.’ He pushed the shard right to the edge of the page.
‘Here we are,’ said Faye. ‘Who’s for tea? Patrick, you haven’t had more glass have you?’ She plucked the tiny fragment from the book and inspected it. ‘He’s already had six pieces. This is the seventh.’ She placed it on the mantelpiece, where the others were arranged in a semi-circle, like baby teeth. ‘We were very alarmed when the first one appeared, weren’t we? But it’s quite normal, apparently. It could go on for years.’
‘I’m afraid I do need to get going,’ said Colette.
‘Nonsense.’ Faye began pouring the tea, motioning for her to sit down. ‘Patrick’s had a lot of visitors from round here, but none from Australia. We had such a marvellous response to our letters. He didn’t know he had so many friends, did you love?’
‘New Zealand,’ said Patrick. ‘Colette is from New Zealand.’
‘How lovely. What’s it like there this time of year?’
Colette smiled in spite of herself. ‘Cool in the mornings and evenings, but warm during the day’
‘It sounds the same as here,’ said Faye. Without moving her eyes from the stream of hot tea, she said, And have you sorted out who the other Colette is?’
‘I think so,’ said Patrick. ‘I think we have, yes.’
And so Colette unbuttoned her jacket and sat down again and drank tea with them, and ate two of Faye’s apricot biscuits, which were delicious, and then Faye showed her the garden and told her Patrick used to watch for fireflies there in summer, which wasn’t far away.
Golden Deeds Page 24