by Mavis Cheek
'He's a good boy’ goaded Bertha. 'Poor lad. He's taking the loss of his dad very hard.'
Florence said nothing
'Crying he was’ said Bertha, triumphantly. 'Real tears.'
Florence removed her gaze from her son to stare at her sister in outrage. 'He was probably coughing,' she said, 'He has a weak chest as you know. Out there in the open with a hole in the ground instead of all neat and over with indoors.'
'No, dear’ said Bertha. 'He cared. He cared very deeply' Florence saw that her son's cheeks were wet with tears, and she felt - added to the burden of Lilly, and George's betrayal from beyond the grave -enraged. With palpitations. If the worst came to the worst with Lilly, Florence could always turn blue.
Patrick, recovered enough to be pleasantly warmed by the alcoholic experience, took another drink of what was supposed to be ginger ale and more hell broke loose over his tonsils. In London he drank either brown ale, Guinness, the occasional cider or rough, red wine. He stared at Dick and Archie in astonishment. 'You need it,' they said. 'Can't bury your father without a man's drink inside you.' And his glass was topped up again.
It brought him to life, made him confident. It also continued to make him weep. He approached Lilly with tears still rolling down his cheeks and she looked at him with approval. She beckoned him closer. He wanted to giggle but managed to contain it. And just as he was nearly there and about to speak he trod rather heavily on Peggy Boxer's foot which seemed to have arrived out of nowhere. He sat down so heavily between them on the settee that they both bounced.
'Sorry’ he said, feeling it would do for both of them. His voice sounded very loud.
'S'all right’ said Peggy. And lifted her foot up for inspection. 'No harm done.'
She removed her shoe and wiggled the little toes. They were encased in pale nylons, and looked like pink little prisoners. Patrick swallowed and turned to Lilly. What he saw in her face calmed his base thoughts. She really did look dreadful - ancient, ravaged - and still oddly familiar.
'Sorry’ he repeated, and he wiped his damp cheeks with the backs of his hands. 'I'm Lilly’ she said. 'Pleased to meet you.'
He remembered what his mother had told him. Childhood sweethearts. He leaned towards her and patted her hand and said, a little more roguishly, a little more loudly, than might be thought fitting at a funeral, 'I know all about it. I know all about you and my dad.'
'Do you now?' said Lilly, astonished.
'Oh yes. Love that bears the test of time . . .' he misquoted. 'You must have had some fun with him.' Patrick was feeling quite lyrical about the whole idea. He could imagine the two of them in the playground together. 'Dark horse my father, was he?'
Lilly blinked. 'Ye-s’ she said cautiously. 'Bit of a lad on the QT.'
'Like father like son’ said Patrick, and he slapped his knee.
Lilly looked faintly worried. 'Ye-s’ she said again. 'I never knew you knew.'
'Oh I do’ he said. 'It's hard to imagine, though.' He winked and gave her a little nudge. 'My father as somebody's sweetheart!' Now he fondly pictured them sitting in class, or walking in the fields, socks wrinkled, grubby hands holding on to each other tightly.
'How did you ... find out?'
'My mother told me. Just now.'
Lilly put her hand to her mouth. 'Never?' she said.
Patrick nodded. He was still delighted. Conversation flowed. 'Did you do things like conkers together?' he asked.
‘I beg your pardon?' she said, and then shut her mouth up tight. Whatever it meant she was not going to divulge anything of a scandalous nature. She straightened her back and said defiantly, 'Well, we had your mother's permission, you know, though nothing was ever said ...' Her eyes filled with tears again. 'And I do miss him.'
Patrick, who found the mention of his mother and the apparent duration of such feelings extraordinary, said, 'Really? You miss him after all that time? That's quite something.'
'It is.' She nodded, perking up.
'And how old were you when it first began?' he asked, just a little roguishly.
'Forty-one’ said Lilly happily.
Patrick sat quite still. He did not feel that he was altogether there. Then he shook his head and repeated the question. 'No. I mean, how old were you when you were - er - larking around with my dad?'
'Forty-one’ said Lilly. 'And he was the kindest, nicest man you could hope to meet.'
'Was he?' said Patrick faintly. He was confused suddenly and his head felt ready to split like a ripe tomato. Across the room he could see his mother staring at him as if her eyes could bore through to the very core of him.
Lilly's voice, perhaps to compensate for Patrick's faintness, was louder than necessary and she almost smacked her lips. 'He liked what he couldn't get at home all right. But he was discreet... And you never gave him my note. Never mind. He found me again.' He stared at her, trying to make head or tail. At last she lowered her voice. Patrick, head spinning, leaned over to listen. 'But red-blooded,' she said, giving his hand a little pat. 'Without any doubt of it. He certainly was that. I forgive you for the toffee.'
'Thank you,' said Patrick, braving it out.
'And I hope you'll follow in your father's footsteps.'
Patrick thought of the hole in the ground and began to laugh. It seemed ineffably funny.
Lilly, dabbing at her own eyes, gave him the benefit. 'I'm glad you, at least, can cry for him.' She shot Florence a look of pure venom.
'Oh no,' he said. 'I just swallowed some whisky the wrong way ... Those buggers over there slipped me a Mickey Finn.' He could not stop laughing if he tried. 'I'm just not used to it. I'm not really crying at all!' He slapped her on the knee. 'Silly,' he added playfully.
Lilly stood up. 'May both of you burn in hell,' she said, almost conversationally, rearranging the knot beneath her chin. 'I'm off.'
Somewhere from within Patrick remembered manners. He stood up too and gave a little bow and said, 'So soon? Thank you for coming.' And watched in some confusion as the woman marched over to his mother. Forty-one? he was thinking. Forty-one?
Florence stood her ground. Lilly came right up close to her, beside herself, as Florence could see.
I'll dance on your grave, Florence Parker,' she said. 'I'll dance on your grave.'
And then she went.
'Well,' said Bertha to Dolly.
But Dolly was looking at something quite different. She was looking at Peggy Boxer and Patrick Parker. Patrick put Lilly and his father out of his mind. Peggy Boxer was there and she was smiling at him. He searched for something to open with. Something impressive. And - lately enamoured of Ionesco - he said, 'Have you seen The Chairs?' At which she looked about her, studied a few of them, and gazing up at him brightly, 'Very nice,' she said. Patrick thought she was adorable.
Later that evening, with the beginnings of a headache, he found himself at the end of the garden, beneath the pale, full moon, with Peggy Boxer wriggling up against him and her feather tickling his ear and his nose as he inhaled her scent of Goya gardenia and busied himself about her body. She removed her skirt and her jacket, she removed her chemise and brassiere, and she even removed her hat for the final stages of it all, for which he was extremely grateful given the way the feather would catch him out just at the wrong moment. Her lower body, bathed in moonlight, looked like Roman marble, smooth and white and perfect where Audrey's had a few ripples and lumps. But it was warm flesh he was dealing with all right, and not the wishful contouring of some ancient artisan. Besides, Peggy Boxer appeared to be perfectly constructed. Each gesture could be read; beneath her taut skin each muscle, sinew, limb showed its connection. He watched it all and marvelled: Audrey never moved around like that, nor bent one knee while stretching out the other leg, which was so inviting.
'Canova made flesh,' he said.
'Really?' said Peggy Boxer happily.
'Really.'
The artist made free of his bonds, he remembered thinking, as the final great moment came.
Aft
erwards, while Peggy busied herself with the snaps and fastenings of her clothing, he was not so sure that it had been a good idea. He felt nauseous and the headache had intensified. He decided that this was less the effect of Bourgeois guilt, than the unaccustomed onslaught of neat whisky. He thought about Audrey, and in that startling moonlight, staring up at the stars in an attempt to control the waves of sickness, he knew that she would never understand. He had talked with her about Free Love but she muddled him by asking if it applied to her, too, which somehow did not appeal. That was always Audrey's problem - questions, questions, questions. So he would not tell her about this moment. She was not Modern enough. In any case it was just a moment of pleasure, an experience, and he would not repeat it.
In London Audrey put down her old school French grammars, turned off the radio and yawned as she went out into the hallway. She wondered about the funeral, what Patrick was doing now (Audrey, do not ask) and if her withdrawal had been noticed by him. She hoped it had because it had cost her dear (dearer than she knew). Surely he had noticed her silence, her absence, and at such a critical time, too - he would know from that how much he had hurt her. Surely? She traced her fingertips longingly over the top of the telephone but somehow managed to stop herself - as she did every night - from ringing the Coventry number. Her mother would telephone tomorrow and Patrick would probably want to talk to her then. She would leave it to him. He must be missing her - he must. In fact, given how much she missed him, she had no doubt of it.
But when Dolly rang the next evening, Patrick was not in the house. 'He's a bit distracted,' said her mother cautiously. 'As is only to be expected.'
Audrey took comfort from that. 'When is he coming back?' she asked. But she had meant to ask when her mother and father were returning.
'Tomorrow -' said Dolly. 'We are. I couldn't say about him.'
'He's all right though?'
'I told you - just a little distracted.'
Patrick was most certainly distracted the following morning. What with the glaring summer sunshine and a sudden understanding of the current phrase regarding mouths and gorilla's armpits, he stared into the speckly old bathroom mirror and reaffirmed his decision not to see Peggy again. Besides, Audrey was waiting for him in London. It did not do to tangle with someone like Peggy. Her body and her movements might be perfect but her feathered hat was ridiculous on someone her age. And the way she folded her clothes. Those shoes of hers, too - he shuddered - it was all so - Magazine World. So oddly respectable. Audrey, when the time came for her to remove everything, just flung it on the floor, which was much more modern. He thought of her with affection. He would do no more than pass the time of day with Peggy when he saw her next. And that was all. And he would talk to Audrey on the telephone that night. Dolly would be ringing her anyway.
But by five o'clock teatime that day, when Peggy came cycling by, he was ready - as he told his mother - to 'take the air with Peggy' again. And Florence smiled. When he came whistling home there was a look about him that Florence decided to accept. In a good cause. It reminded her of Wednesdays long past. But if the girl caught her son's fancy then she must accept the method of catching it, she supposed. Peggy Boxer had no ambitions to leave Coventry - Patrick would return to be with her - and she would make an easy daughter-in-law. Ruby, no better than she ought to be, would be glad of the connection. Patrick closed the front door and she went out to greet him. At least she had something to thank George's funeral for. It had cost enough. Which reminded her - she had not finished with that minister yet, not by a long chalk.
Patrick and Peggy spent the next few days 'taking the air' together. So much so that Aunt Bertha commented to Florence that if he took in any more air, Patrick would end up floating. Patrick found his old bicycle - minus the saddlebag - in the half-emptied shed and the two set off bright-eyed and eager for the woods. Dolly returned to London and for Florence it was like the old days having her beloved son home. She lived for it really. But inevitably, Peggy or no Peggy, the time arrived, a few days later, for Patrick to return. He did not ask Peggy to come to the station.
'I will write to you,' she vowed.
'No need,' said Patrick. 'Audrey will be waiting.'
But this time Peggy took it on her pretty little chin. She acknowledged that it had been fun. Everything comes to her who waits.
Florence, smiling a little, asked him what he thought of the Little Boxer Madam. Patrick said that he thought she was very Coventry. Florence agreed. 'Nothing wrong with that, though,' she said crisply. 'So are you.' Patrick swallowed hard and said nothing. He could not wait to get on the train. His mother, as usual, had everything washed and ironed for him and she packed it away as neat as a pin, including several new pairs of pants and some socks which she did not tell him about. The ones he had brought with him were too brief by half. And Aertex was better for you. Aertex was very Coventry. Everything up here was.
During the week of his visit he had taken a good long look at the city. He had walked around the parts that were already rebuilt and checked the drawings and plans for its further renewal - and he thought Ling the architect was a prissy person pleaser: a man who had trained with Fry and Gropius and yet saw the place as a series of chequerboard arrangements. Two tower blocks to pay lip service to the potential excitement of a waiting skyline, a pedestrian precinct that would be dead by six in the evening, and small places for people to sit and contemplate their navels. Such small-time concepts do not a New Age city make - thought Patrick - and turned his face back to thoughts of Tokyo.
At the station he carried his precious portfolio of drawings as carefully and as proudly as if they were made of gold. Which, in a way, they were, for they contained the finished work for the Gold Medal (even better than he had hoped) and represented the golden future that lay ahead for him. Nothing was more important than that. Not Death, not Love, not the ties of Blood. Absolutely nothing came close. As the train for London drew in, he breathed in the excitement of it all. 'See you in the summer,' said his mother, 'if not before.' He kissed her on the cheek, said, 'You bet,' winked at her and jumped into the carriage. Thank God, he thought, thank God, I'm leaving.
In truth he would not go back to Coventry for a long time. He hadn't told his mother but he had already arranged to stay down in the summer vacation and get a job in an engineer's office. He was on his way. Now back to College, back to Audrey, and modern civilisation.
12
Endures the eternal clown’The eternal clown’ A naked woman ...
Westminster Bridge, one of the widest and most graceful bridges in Europe, consists of seven low segmental iron arches, supported on granite piers. It is 1160 feet long and 85 feet wide and was opened in 1862. Wordsworth wrote of the view from the bridge of his day, 'Earth has not anything to show more fair ...'
The Charing Cross Railway Bridge had not then been built.
Guide to London
Well, Audrey forgave him everything, of course, and Patrick, overjoyed to be back in London, the very next day took her to the British Museum. He stroked his hand lovingly over the curves of Danae, admired the bits of frieze with their naked urgent warriors, he stared up at Winged Victory and the way her breasts pushed out against her drapery.
'Pheidias,' he said.
'My goodness,' said Audrey, picking her words carefully, 'Pheidias, eh?'
Despite being Modern she was still slightly embarrassed at the very obvious nakedness of it all.
'Mmm,' said Patrick. And then added, just to clear things up for her, which it didn't but which she was too polite to say, 'Controller of Pericles' buildings.'
Audrey then rested her chin on her hand and looked up at them pensively. 'Ah yes,' she said.
'And Mnesicles. Mmm,' she said. 'Well, well.'
He nodded, a little thrown by her easy reference. 'Metopes from the Parthenon. Those ancient Greeks knew a thing or two.'
'Well, I can see that,' she said.
They were both peering closely at them now. The
delineation really was very clear. Given that the room was fairly crowded and the masculine gender of the marble riders was very obvious she did not, exactly, know where to look. In the end she settled for a horse's tail.
'Big frieze,' said Patrick, nodding sagely.
'Yes,' she said. 'But hardly surprising if they wore so little.'
Patrick burst out laughing, making everyone stare. 'You can be quite witty sometimes, Aud,' he said, and put his arm round her. She laughed too, wondering what was funny.
They sauntered on, arm in arm, and she felt close to heaven.
"The body,' he said, 'is probably the most perfect piece of engineering in the Universe.'
Audrey looked into his eyes.
He took a deep breath. Might as well, he thought, and added, 'And yours is pretty near the top of the pile ...'
Fortunately it did not occur to her to ask if she was 'pretty near' the top, who then was actually 'top of the pile' or Patrick, coming over all Modern and bohemian again, might have told her.
'Now,' he said, suddenly whirling her around a plinth so that attendants wagged their fingers and visitors stared. 'Now - back for tea and crumpets and I'll show you what I've been doing for the Gold Medal.'
