A Judgement on a Life

by Stephen Baddeley

  They showed us around the new hotel. It was big. It was plush. Too big. Too plush. It didn’t fit. It wasn’t ‘Darwin’. Darwin drank beer under palm trees, bare-footed, bare-chested, from a barman who said ‘fuck’. It wasn’t that sort of place.

  It was for cocktail-drinking people. Not front-seat riding people. Not door-opening people. Not bed-making people. Not eye-contact people. Not people who said “Yup”. Not our kind of people. His sort of people. People like Prouse and my father. Enemies of the planet type people.

  I liked the old hotel. It had style. It had style, because it had no style. Because it had no style, it had ‘class’. Because it had ‘class’, we all felt at home there. Everyone who said “Yup” felt at home there.

  The tour finished. We were brought to the terrace. There was champagne. It was Bollinger. It wasn’t Mumm. I drank it. I’m not stupid.

  Prouse appeared. His head minion appeared. She appeared first. She had a microphone. She introduced him. She spoke about him. She said good things about him. Things children might believe. Children who just lost a tooth might believe. It was fiction. Prouse knew that. The head minion knew that. We knew that too.

  Then Prouse spoke. I knew the sort of man he was. I knew the sorts of things he’d say. But I was wrong. He said nice things. Nice things about Darwin. He said nice things about the people of Darwin. He said nice things and flattering things. It was a fine performance. But it was the wrong audience. He finished. No one applauded.

  The rest sat down for lunch. We didn’t.

  The head minion came and found us. She asked us to follow her. So we did. She took us along a path. It was set back from the beach. There were gardens. The gardens were good. We glimpsed a house through the trees. It was the house she was leading us to. I glimpsed the glimpses. I knew what we would find. I knew what we would find before we found it. Shape-recognition? We can all tell a Merc from a Jag.

  So, I knew this shape. I knew it all my life. It was the house I grew up in. It was the house I lived in now.

  There was a sign at the end of the path. It said ‘Ellesmere’. It was the house I grew up in. It was the house I lived in now.

  What a sick man.

  He met us on the terrace. He shook my hand. He kissed Annie’s cheeks, both of them. I never liked that. I never did that. He ignored Ambrosia. He stood with his back to her. It was as though she wasn’t there. She wasn’t invited, so, she couldn’t be there. She was a black-slave-type-person, so, she couldn’t be invited, so, she couldn’t be there.

  He was doing what children did, what the girls did. When they saw something they didn’t like. When they put their hands over their eyes. If they couldn’t see it, it wasn’t there. If they couldn’t see it, it didn’t exist. Prouse was being a child. He didn’t want Ambrosia there. If he couldn’t see her, she wasn’t there. Perhaps we all do that. Sometimes, now and then, now and again, when it suits us, but not often, not for most of us.

  “Nice place,” I said. I was prepared. I already saw the house. He was expecting surprise. I didn’t give him it. I was doing well. I knew there was more.

  I knew Prouse, parts of Prouse. I knew parts of him better than he did. Parts he pretended weren’t there. Parts he kept hidden, even from himself.

  “I thought you might like it, Tarquin.”

  He liked calling me Tarquin. He always did. I knew why he did. It was the name on my birth certificate. It was what Father, when he called me anything, called me. It was what Mother never called me. What brother Bob never called me either. Bob called me ‘The Reject’. You may know that already.

  He called me Tarquin, to take me back. Back to my childhood. To the vulnerable, bumbling sadness of my childhood. To the time of bullying, fear and loneliness. To the time of Mother’s death. To the bad times I tried to forget. To the time before Annie dropped her towel. To the time before I fell in love. To that time.

  “Peter, really, ‘Tarquin’? No one’s called me that for years. Calling me Tarquin reminds me of ‘coquedam’. Remember ‘coquedam’, Peter?” I knew he wouldn’t like ‘Peter’. Not without the ‘Sir’ in front. So, that’s why I did it. I could be childish too. The game was on. Every point counted.

  He was defending. “Can’t say that I do, old chap.” It was a baseline lob. Never a winning shot.

  He remembered ‘coquedam’ well. He would never forget it. ‘Coquedam’ told him I spoke Latin, spoke their boardroom code.

  Remembering ‘coquedam’ would push him back. Push him back from the net. He liked to volley. Volleyers controlled the game. ‘Coquedam’ wouldn’t let him volley. I needed to win this game.

  So, he came to Darwin. He built a hotel. A hotel for people like him. For people from somewhere else. For people who needed their doors opened, to give their lives meaning. The sort of people, my sort of people, simple people, would think ghastly people. My sort of people, simple people would be right. Darwin didn’t do people like that.

  So, he came to Darwin and built my house. Why did he do that? Was I under his skin that much? If I was. Good.

  He built my house, an identical house. What was that all about?

  “Would you like a look around?” he asked.

  “Not much point really.”

  “Oh, but I think you just might find it interesting.” He was coming to the net again.

  “OK, let’s take a look.” I couldn’t refuse.

  “Come with me.” He turned towards the house. He stopped. He turned. He looked at Ambrosia. He turned to me. “You can leave the ‘help’.”

  “I would if I had any. I don’t. Ambrosia is my friend. Show us the house, she comes. She doesn’t, we don’t.” I passed him at the net. He scrambled to keep the ball in play.

  “Alright, follow me.” He turned again, went through the French windows and into the ‘Long Room’. The head minion looked at me and smiled. It was a real smile, a true smile, an honest smile. It told me things. Thing it told me number 1.) – She didn’t like her boss. Thing it told me number 2.) – She hadn’t seen him passed at the net before. Thing it told me number 3.) – She was happy I passed him at the net. Thing it told me number 4.) – She liked me. Thing it told me number 4a.) – She liked me a lot. Thing it told me number 5.) – She might be an ally one day. Five good things to be told, maybe six. And all in one smile.

  Annie stayed quiet. Ambrosia giggled. Giggled loud enough for Prouse to hear. She knew the game we were playing. It was American doubles. Annie wasn’t playing.

  Annie stayed quiet. She was quiet all day. The shutters were down. I couldn’t see through. We followed him into the house.

  The Modigliani alcoves, the Picasso alcoves were lit. But there were no Modiglianis and no Picassos, how could there be?

  They were the Munch Melancholy alcoves, of course they were. How could they not be? There were four now and one of them was mine, once mine. I wondered how many Hiram Earl Lambert III had. How was the battle going? Did he have four too?

  I was glad to be rid of my Melancholy. Father’s Melancholy. I’d wanted it to go to Hiram Earl Lambert III, but it ended up with Prouse. I didn’t want it to, but it did. He won that game. Now he was trying to win this one. I didn’t know what this one was about. Not really. Not quite. I should have known.

  I did know what this game was about, but not until later. Not until later, when it was almost too late. Not too late, just almost.

  Should I have known sooner? I think I should. If I did know sooner, knew what the game was about, would it have helped me? Helped us? I’m not sure. Possibly. Probably. Hard to say. Even in retrospect, it’s hard to say.

  We looked at them. All four of us looked at all four of them. Prouse looked only at me. It was his triumph. But he would never have Annie. She was my triumph.

  “What you be a’doin’ collectin’ all de roobbish like dis? You de big man wid all de money an de big fancy boat. What you
doin’ wid de crap like dis?” She could ham it up when she wanted to. “Sure der ain’t sometin’ wrong wid you? Sure you shouldn’ be a’seein’ one of doze clever brain type docs?”

  How could anyone reply to that? I didn’t know. Neither did Prouse, because he didn’t. The top-spun lob went over his head, accelerated away from the baseline and she won the point for us. I wanted to kiss her. Prouse wanted to kill her. It was a good moment.

  But not a good moment for him. He turned away and went through to Father’s wing. The wing I left out when I built my home on the beach. The wing that was Father’s study, sitting room and gun rooms. The wing where I went each week to read the editorial of The Telegraph to him. The wing where I went to be humiliated and beaten. The wing I left out, because of all the bad things that happened to me there. The wing Prouse left in, because of those things. We followed. The head minion gave me another smile. Another five things, maybe six. I started to like her. Later, I liked her a lot. Her name was Peggy. It was my nanny’s name too.

  I was surprised. But in another way, I wasn’t. I saw, for the first time, how much I obsessed him. How much I was under his skin. How much he needed to win. How much he needed me to lose.

  I was the stuttering idiot-boy all over again. The stuttering idiot-boy he knew from my childhood. Knew and discounted, because there was nothing worth knowing and nothing to count. The stuttering idiot-boy, who now wasn’t. A boy become man. A boy making his own decisions. A boy refusing his services. Refusing his council. No longer playing ward to the Guardian Prince. An ungrateful, headstrong upstart. An upstart on his way to failure.

  I transgressed. I didn’t fail. I didn’t fail without him. I did things without him. I didn’t fail. It was because of Annie I didn’t fail. He knew that. But it was my fault I didn’t fail. I was the one to be punished. I was the one to suffer. But who else must suffer, to be sure I suffered? I knew the answer to that.

  The answer worried me. I suffered with the worry of knowing the answer. I suffered since I went to his club. The second demand made me suffer. Not a lot, at the start, just a bit, at the start, just a bit, all the time. He knew that.

  He wanted Annie, the ‘thing’ I loved most. He wanted her, not because he wanted her, but because I wanted her. His gain was not to gain her. His gain was for me to lose her. He was that sort of man. Ambrosia was right. He was a nutter.

  Why would any man want to reproduce another man’s house? Why would anyone want to reproduce Father’s study? Father’s gun rooms, his sitting room, his offices? This was seriously strange stuff. I couldn’t tell that it wasn’t what I knew it wasn’t. That it wasn’t Father’s study, that Saturday morning place of fear and humiliation. The place for the hour I hated most. The hour before I took revenge on Bentley-Still III.

  Even the Melancholy was there. Not ‘my’ Melancholy, the fake Melancholy. The fake of the one downstairs. The fake Bakewell made. The fake that almost sent me to jail, but didn’t, not quite. The fake that almost killed Annie, but didn’t, not quite. The fake that, in the end, caused Prouse pain. Pain, embarrassment, derision, ‘loss of face’. For men like Prouse, that was worse than jail. You may know about that already.

  So I stood in Father’s study, that wasn’t Father’s study. I stood there and thought. As I thought, I realised something. I realised I wasn’t dealing with a bad guy. Not just a bad guy. Prouse was a mad-bad guy. (I was about to write, ‘More mad than bad’, but that wouldn’t be right, and that’s why I didn’t write it.) He was just as bad as he was mad.

  What was more creepy, were the gun rooms. The Purdeys, the Holland & Hollands, the Dickson & MacNaughtons, the McKay Browns, they were all there. As though I’d never destroyed them. As though I never did what I did on that wonderful cathartic day. The day I turned these ugly things, things that turned beautiful things into ugly things, into worthless and useless things. I was happy that day. I knew Mother was happy with me that day. Happy with everything I did that day.

  Creepiest of all were the trophies. The ones I took from the walls of his gun rooms. The ones I laid around the wreckage of the Steinway and the pile of broken guns. That was years ago, but they were the same ones. They weren’t copies. They weren’t replacements. I knew that. I knew the kudu buck with his curling horns, beard and graceful face. I knew the two hornless does on either side. I knew the impala, the bush-buck and the rare black letchwe. I knew the warthog with his funny face and curling tusks, the big male leopard and the snarling lioness. I knew them from my childhood.

  When I took them down and laid them around the wreckage of the Steinway, I thought that was the end of it, but it wasn’t. I realised that now. This was something strange. This was something creepy. This was something bad. Maybe more mad than bad. Prouse was a nutter.

  How did Prouse, and why would Prouse, have Father’s trophies? My trophies? When Father died, they became my trophies. I didn’t want them, but still they were mine. Why would he want them? Why would he bring them here? Bring them all the way to Darwin? Why would he put them in a replica of Father’s gun rooms? Then invite me to see them?

  Why would he build a replica of my house? He had to be mad. I knew he had to be mad, but was that enough of an explanation? I didn’t know. I didn’t think so. There must be more to this. More than just an arrogant man who lost his marbles.

  I worried more. Maybe not more. The worry came to the surface. The worry I hid down in my unseen places was no longer down in my unseen places. Now it was up in my shallow places. Places anyone could see. Places Prouse could see.

  He looked at me. He could see the shallow places. He could see my worries lying there. He was winning the game. It was time to leave. So we did.

  But before we did, I left them. I left Prouse showing off at the Steinway. He was playing Debussy’s Valse Romantique. It was the first thing I played for Annie, the day the towel dropped, the day my life began. I knew, how he knew, it was the first thing I played for Annie, the day the towel dropped, the day my life began. Annie told him. Before she fell in love with me, she told him everything. Everything I did and everything I said. Prouse liked knowing the details of my life.

  I walked through the house. I climbed the stairs to the library. I went to where Mother’s fishing rooms should be. Where I built my shrine to Mother. They were empty, almost empty. The first room, where we tied our flies, where we played the upright, was empty. There was nothing. Not even dust. The house wasn’t old enough for dust. The second room, where the rods and reels were kept, wasn’t empty. Not quite. There was a shrine, a real shrine. Not the shrine I built by moving her things from Beaconsfield. This was a real shrine. The room was empty, almost empty. Not quite empty. Hanging on the wall was a photograph of her. Of Mother in a tennis dress, racket on her shoulder. Grinning at the camera, certainly a winner. Beautiful when she stood, more beautiful when she moved. I didn’t know this photograph. It wasn’t one of ours. Not our family’s.

  In front of the photograph was a table. On the table were burned-down candles.

  It was a shock. How could it not be? Prouse came in behind me. He stood beside me. I looked at him. His madness was plain to see. It wasn’t spit-dribbling, eyeball-rolling madness. It was madness none the less. It was madness plain to see. The madness of love, long hidden. The madness of love, long suppressed. But not quite suppressed. Not suppressed enough. Now, not suppressed at all. The poor bastard. I almost felt sorry for him. But not quite sorry. Not sorry at all.

  Is it possible for us to feel sorry for someone we hate? When something bad happens to someone we hate, do we feel sorry for them, sad for them? I don’t think we do. When bad things happen to someone we hate, do we feel better, happier? I think we do. The Germans have a word for it.

  He didn’t look at me. He looked at Mother. Stared at Mother. Mother young, Mother active, Mother beautiful.

  Prouse loved Mother, my mother, loved her then, loved her now. Would always love her. I c
ould see that. I could understand that.

  (I was about to write, ‘What a loony’, but that wouldn’t be right, so that’s why I didn’t.)

  Falling in love with Mother wasn’t madness. I loved her as a child, fell in love with her as a boy, became her lover as a man. Almost became her lover, but not quite her lover. Prouse fell in love with her too. I wondered when. We both loved her, both still loved her. Was it a bond between us? Was it a rift between us? I wasn’t sure.

  I saw into him. I saw a weakness in the place I saw. Could I use that weakness? Could I exploit that weakness? If I did use and exploit that weakness, would I be using and exploiting the only decent and honest part of this man? If I did use and exploit that weakness, would the using and exploiting of it be decent things to do? Fine things to do? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. My hatred for Prouse took me beyond the need to be decent and fine. We were back in the game. I knew that.

  But did I see a weakness? Was it a weakness? Could it be a weakness to love my mother? He didn’t think it was. He didn’t want to hide it. The door to her shrine was open. He stood beside me. We looked at her together. He didn’t talk. He didn’t explain. There was nothing to explain. He loved my mother, the same as I did. Not as much as I did. No one could love her as much as that.

  He was mad and he was bad, but loving my mother wasn’t either of those. It wasn’t a weakness. He knew it wasn’t. I would be wrong to think it was.

  I went back to my childhood. I didn’t do that often. I went back to the time before I went away to school. I went back to the tennis court, back to the swimming pool, back to riding the woods around Burnham. I went back to summer dinners on the terrace. They were my memories of Mother, exclusively of Mother. And always in the background was Peter Prouse. Never far away from her. Always looking at her. How could I have missed it?