Chapter Thirty Three
Bryan stood dithering at the traffic lights, which had changed to red three times, though still he hadn’t dared to cross the road. Even when the lights said ‘Stop’, half the throbbing motorbikes appeared to totally ignore them, simply roared across his path, so he’d twice dodged back in terror, almost lost his legs. He was late for lunch already – if you could call it lunch, that sludge of boiled potatoes or tangled tepid pasta – no vegetables, no meat, no comforting hot puddings; just one tiny scoop of white ice cream in a guesthouse like a fridge itself, with draughts from all the windows, and a slimy cold stone floor. It was hardly worth the effort of getting there at all – the thirty-minute bus ride through hooting manic traffic, with all his fellow pilgrims jabbering like gibbons, or singing fervent hymns.
Fellow pilgrims phooey! He was no one’s fellow. They mostly babied him or shunned him now, either regarded him as handicapped, a delinquent child and burden to his Mother, who must be humoured, chin-chucked, fed Valium and Smarties, or feared him as a psychopath, someone unpredictable, dangerously disturbed. A few women seemed quite terrified if he sat down at their table, edged away, or changed places with the men. He had always seen himself as a totally harmless person, gentle as a moth, yet he had been violent, hadn’t he – attacked those stewards on the plane, even turned on Colin, punched him in the ribs, then had a go at Johnny, who was still walking doubled up. Bryan Payne a desperado, a Hun, a brute, a hoodlum.
Shuddering, he trailed away from the stream of panting traffic, mooched back the way he’d come. He couldn’t face another meal with Colin cutting up his pasta for him, or Mrs Carey-Cartwright whispering to her neighbour that it wasn’t fair on normal people to allow ‘cases’ on the trip. He’d have to find a café, buy himself lunch out, except wasn’t that as daunting, when he didn’t speak the language, preferred Ribena to red wine? And Rome was clearly dangerous – his Mother was quite right. All five priests had warned them of pickpockets and muggers, wily gypsy children who pretended to be begging, but were trained professional thieves. And half the Roman drivers were murderers in disguise, only waiting for a chance to claim another corpse or three. But what was quite extraordinary was that his Mother was enjoying it – had warned him all his life of the perils of ‘abroad’, yet now seemed in her element; even loved the crowded streets, the shops which ripped you off, the brilliant bossy sunshine which felt just like a searchlight and made it impossible to hide. It was a sham, that sun, in any case – all glare without the warmth; had tempted him to venture out without his thermal underwear, so that now he was half-frozen.
He scrabbled in his pocket for his non-existent gloves, found a bag of birdseed which Phyllis had entrusted to him with excited eager cries about a black-necked grebe she’d spotted, feeding on the reed-beds of the Tiber. He could eat the seed himself. It would make a quick and easy lunch, without the need to risk diarrhoea trying out some Roman dish he could neither translate nor digest. And he could eat it by the Tiber, which Phyllis claimed was quiet and almost rural, if you walked down by its banks, followed it upstream.
He checked his map, found the Tiber coiling like a snake along the left-hand side. He missed his own snake desperately. A cad called Clive had nicked it, used it as a cricket bat, a doorstop and a muffler, put it on a dog-lead and hung it from the ceiling, doused it in the water-jug, and finally ran off with it and refused to give it back. He’d tried to ask his Mother to use her (growing) influence to command or coax it back, but she’d been ensconced with Father Fox, whom she now called ‘Alfred, dear’; and seemed always far too busy organising prayer-groups or helping ‘darling Phyllis’, to spare a word for him. She was on first-name terms with all the priests, who admired her selfless courage in devoting her whole life to a defective thankless son.
He increased his pace, braving narrow alleys or heart-stopping main roads; taking out his anger on the flocks of puffed-up pigeons who fled at his approach, or glowering at hirsute and handsome Latins who tried to edge him off the pavement, jeered at his new sunhat. He was tired of Rome already, had spent every free (or stolen) minute searching hopelessly for Mary. How could he find one person in a city of three million, with at least another million tourists – or so it seemed from the crushes in the cafés, the queues in the museums? And there were over a thousand hotels and pensioni in just central Rome alone. He’d checked only eighty-three so far (entering each in his red notebook with a dismal cross beside it when the receptionists shook their callous heads, or even failed to understand him); had found no Mrs (English) Hampton; was beginning to lose hope – as well as weight.
He plodded on morosely, his mind on Mary still. She’d probably never come to Rome at all, had changed her mind – or bookings – or been kept at home by a sick and feverish child. Which meant his own trip was a total waste of money; an ordeal and a torment with no prize at the end of it, no lovers’ knot to make his pain worthwhile. He crossed another busy road, suddenly found himself gazing down at an expanse of jade-green water. The elusive River Tiber had unaccountably appeared, though he’d long since lost his bearings, concluded that the map had been drawn up by a Roman and was therefore clearly wrong. His spirits rose a fraction. The river looked deserted – no shipping like the bustling Thames, no busy built-up towpath; just that stretch of tranquil water reflecting plane trees on one side, bare and mottled branches rippling upside-down, sturdy trunks dissolving. He’d thought Phyllis was romanticising when she’d talked of rural peace – no chance of that in Rome – but as he tottered down the flight of steps to the bramble-tangled bank, the roar of cars and lorries faded to a murmur, and he found himself alone with weeds and water.
He trudged along the bank, crunching through the dead brown leaves, dodging burrs and nettles, half-hidden by the waist-high grasses which began to close him in. Swift white gulls skimmed across the water, perky sparrows quarrelled in the undergrowth, tussling over scraps. He was ravenous himself, had better eat his birdseed, not waste it on a grebe. He chose his picnic site with care, turned his back on the battered cans, twisted scraps of metal, piles of dirty newspapers, which had spoilt the view so far, and sat right down by the bank, spreading his grey raincoat underneath him, so he wouldn’t develop haemorrhoids, or a chill in either kidney. He shook the seeds into his palm, chewed each twenty times; felt a sense of sweet relief as he imagined all the other pilgrims slurping down spaghetti with its dangerous lack of fibre, or fidgeting through grace (which often lasted longer than the perfunctory meal itself).
He lay back on the bank, lulled by sun and chewing, closed his eyes, tipped his sunhat over them, let his breathing deepen. He could hardly sleep a wink at night, what with the singsongs and the japes, the snorings and the sleep-talkings, and his own desperate wish for Mary – not to mention kidnapped Anne. He imagined his soft snake miraculously restored to him, coiled close against his chest, murmured to it fondly as he let himself drift off.
Twenty minutes later, he jackknifed to his feet, sweat beading on his forehead, despite the brisk December air. He’d actually been dreaming in that short sleep on the bank, despite his determination never to dream again. The last nightmare he’d endured involved a battle with the Vatican in which he’d queued for years and years to get official papal permission to go to bed with Mary, then spent so long filling in the forms (thirty sheets in triplicate) that his Love had shrivelled to a crone by the time he’d crossed the final ‘t’ and signed his doddering name. Now he’d dreamed again – and things were even worse this time. He’d had the dreaded Parcel Dream, but with a completely different ending. He’d posted off his Mother to a new volcanic island, but instead of her returning thump-thump on the doormat, she had remained quietly on the lava in her corrugated wrappings; not even tried to force her string or struggle through her sealing wax.
He should feel thrilled, triumphant – to have reached that resolution, that denouement he’d been working for through four long years of therapy; to have achieved a major breakthrough and
be freed, at last, from Mother. In fact, he felt quite terrified – alone and lost and vulnerable. Who would find his snake for him, or calm him on the plane, wash his thermal underpants, cut his horny toenails or the nails of his right hand? His Mother was neglecting him already, never seemed to speak to him, or even say goodnight; never joined him at the guesthouse or helped him through the meals. Her leg was very painful still, so she was spared the jolting bus-rides, ate at a taverna just three steps from the seminary with ‘Alfred dear’ and ‘Snowy’ (Father Smithby-Horne). According to the rumours, these meals were grand affairs – veal or sole or fillet steak, washed down with best Chianti. Breakfast she enjoyed in bed, waited on by the youngest of the curates, a tall and dashing fellow who looked as if he’d been rented from The Thorn Birds.
But what about this morning? Had she had her breakfast? Was she even there? Dreams could be prophetic – he knew that from John-Paul. His Mother might have vanished, and the dream be trying to warn him. He certainly hadn’t seen her, not since late last night when she’d been sipping a liqueur with Father Fox. A liqueur! She never touched them, cautioned him repeatedly about the dangers of all alcohol – how wine upset your liver, spirits killed the brain-cells – yet here she was indulging with the clergy.
He tried to drag his mind back to this morning, remember some odd glimpse of her, maybe limping to the bookstall, or arm in arm with Phyllis, who had become her bosom friend. No. He hadn’t seen a sign of her, and even Phyllis had asked him where she was. Fear choked his throat, hammered in his head. It was all his fault. He’d sent her in the dream to a terrifying island, a waste of bare black lava which had appeared several hundred miles from the barren coast of Iceland just a month or so ago, and been reported in the Mail: the most desolate island ever known (though not as bafflingly remote as Tristan da Cunha which was thirteen thousand miles from the nearest inhabited land, and where he’d already sent his Mother at least half a dozen times, though always had her back within the day). The new island was uninhabited and completely uninhabitable – no Post Office departments he could bribe or beg or bully, no bureaucrats to wheedle, no telephone to make an anguished call.
He paced up and down the bank, shivering in the snappy breeze which had sprung up from the east. The sun had disappeared; the water now looked black and almost curdled. Heavy clouds were snagging on the plane trees; the dead and bloated body of a water-rat floating slowly down the river. He shut his eyes, saw his Mother’s corpse instead, battered by cruel northern seas as she was swept from her small lava-lump by a relentless tidal wave. He’d murdered her, destroyed her, and was now totally alone – no family, no hearth and home, no rules and meals and timetables to keep away the Terror, save him from the Void. It was only now he realised how desperately he needed her as Orderer and Bulwark, craved even her complaining, to prove she cared and noticed him, fill the endless silence. Four years with John-Paul and he was worse than when he’d started. All those shaming pricey struggles to wean him from his Mother, and he was still groping for her nipple, sobbing for the shelter of her strict and chilly womb.
Mary couldn’t help him. There was no Mary, anyway. She was not in Rome, maybe not in Walton. All solid things were beginning to unravel, including his own brain. He suddenly longed to see the crowds again, even hear the traffic, speak to someone – anyone – prove he still existed. Fifty yards ahead of him was another flight of steep stone steps, leading up to street-level. He hurtled to the top, started sprinting down the pavement, headed for the seminary, praying he was wrong and he’d find his Mother digesting her vitello, or enjoying a Cinzano with Father Campion. A bus whimpered to a stop just a pace or two in front of him. He tried to jostle on, met curses and resistance, realised he was entering through the exit. He found the proper entrance, struggled with the bodies (which seemed all jabbing elbows), but was ousted once again, this time because he didn’t have a ticket. In any normal country, you bought your ticket on the bus. But in Rome, you probably got it from the gypsies or the Vatican, filled in a form in triplicate.
He pounded on again, willing to risk a heart attack if it would bring his Mother back. He passed a Metro station, but dared not brave the tube. He’d tried it only yesterday, trembled down three escalators, found every filthy lurching train packed with mafiosi; panted vainly up again, back where he had started. If his Mother was still living, he’d insist that they went home, would lock the doors and stay there, never venture out again, not even to Kew Gardens, let alone to Rome.
‘Rivoluzione!’ screamed a graffito on the wall. He didn’t know Italian, but the word seemed oddly menacing, made his feet move faster, as he dodged past tourists, shoppers; dashed between fast cars.
At last, he reached the seminary, pelted through the gates. The pilgrims should be back from lunch and assembled in the hall for announcements and the rosary before their afternoon excursion to Ancient Ostia. He stopped dead in the courtyard, hair tousled, tie askew. At least a hundred of their party were seething round the fountain – pushing, shoving, jostling, most without their coats, some even in their dressing gowns or half-naked with bare feet, as if they’d rushed down from the washroom to witness some emergency. Dozens more were spewing from the building, trying to butt their way to the centre of the crowd, ramming with their heads, or heaving with their shoulders, more like hoodlum rugger players than pious prayerful pilgrims. Some were armed with cameras and were jumping up on ledges to get a better view, yelling ‘Look this way!’ or ‘Smile, please!’ to someone in the centre, someone totally obscured by the mass of serried bodies. Another group were on their knees, eyes closed in rapturous ecstasy as they recited a hushed prayer; a further large contingent pouring out a hymn of praise, arms outstretched to heaven. The noise was overwhelming – singing, shouting, cheering, clashing in a discord; a swell of mad excitement surging from the courtyard as two hundred eager voices expressed their joy and fervour.
A bow-legged blue-rinsed matron was hobbling swiftly past him, murmuring ‘Praised be God Almighty!’ He grabbed her dangling rosary, stopped her in her tracks. ‘What’s happened?’ he cried hoarsely. ‘What in God’s name’s going on?’
‘A miracle! A miracle!’ she shouted, almost breathless. ‘Let that go immediately! I’m going to get it blessed.’ She tugged her beads back rudely, started forcing through the crowd, swearing at two greyheads who tried to block her way. The mood was turning ugly, several women hitting out with handbags, fists or hymn books, as they wrestled with each other, tried to push in closer. Total gawping strangers had now appeared from nowhere and were swelling out the crowd, Italian peasants clamouring ‘Miracolo! Miracolo!’ as they fell onto their knees.
Bryan was still completely mystified, still lurking by the wall. He inched up very cautiously to the nearest group of women, hovered just behind them, shut out by their jostling backs, but listening to their babble.
‘A shaft of light streaming from the altar …’
‘Pierced right through her leg …’
‘And she’s not even one of us …’
‘Hasn’t been baptised …’
‘Though she’s marvellous with that son, of course …’
‘And suffered all her life …’
‘In pain since 1940 …’
‘Always dragged her leg …’
‘Could never dance or run, poor dear …’
‘Even in a wheelchair on the plane …’
‘Not fair on us good Catholics, though …’
‘Don’t gripe, Madge dear. God works in mysterious ways.’
Horrified, he backed away, tried to find a hiding place, make himself invisible. So his Mother was the centre of this crazy dangerous hubbub, cause of this hysteria; her private shaming history on every pilgrim’s lips. He must leave himself immediately, hoof back to the Tiber, hide in those tall grasses, before he was pounced upon, derided. He started edging down the wall, skulking in its shadow, stopped in sudden terror as he saw three tall policemen swinging through the gate, armed with guns and
truncheons. He wheeled the other way, almost collided with a woman who was trying to embrace him – Phyllis in a sweater and her flannel petticoat. He removed his face from her knobbly knitted bosom, tried to dodge her tickling hair which was tumbling from its bun.
‘Bryan, my dear, you’re here at last! I’ve been searching for you everywhere. A quite amazing thing has happened. Your mother has been healed.’
‘Healed? She wasn’t ill.’
‘Not ill? Your mother’s been in wicked pain since she hurt her leg in 1939. That pain’s completely vanished. The leg is back to normal and she can gambol like a child. It’s the Blessed Edwin Mumford’s latest miracle.’
‘But …’ Bryan’s voice died away. His Mother had no time for the Blessed Edwin Mumford, but how could he tell Phyllis so, explain that just a week ago she’d spoken quite contemptuously of ‘unhealthy religious mania’ and ‘so-called jumped-up saints’? And miracles were moonshine, simply couldn’t happen. There wasn’t any kindly God to heal or intervene, only chaos and disorder, anarchy, blind chance.
‘Now, I’m sorry, Bryan, I’ve got to dash. I’m on my way to the Congregazione per le cause dei santi.’
‘What?’
‘The Office for Canonisations. They’ve simply got to know about this latest splendid miracle. And I’ll inform the press, of course. It’s our duty, dear, isn’t it, to spread news of God’s goodness, when so many silly people blame Him for disasters?’
‘Well, I …’
‘You go and find your mother, dear. She’ll want to share her joy with you, show you her healed leg. Now don’t be frightened of the crowds. They’ll let you through, you see. Just a second – I’d better brush your coat first. You’ve got burrs all down your back.’
She started pouncing on his coat, letting out a little yelp of triumph for every burr she loosened, then propelled him with a final lunge down towards the mob, whispering to a Franciscan friar (who looked a useful sixteen stone or so, and was pushing in himself) to ‘let the poor soul through’.
Fifty-Minute Hour Page 38
