Golden Boy

by Rosemary Friedman

Motioning James and Jane to remain in the corridor, he slid his master key card into the door and, coughing discreetly, tiptoed into the darkened room.

  ‘Mr Smith. Excuse me, sir, Mr Smith.’

  But in the light from the corridor Jane had recognised Douggie Hayward’s handwriting in the overcoat in the lobby. She pushed past Mr Fourbouys and made her way to the bed.

  ‘Freddie,’ she said, shaking the inert form. ‘Freddie! Oh my God…’

  ‘Take it easy, Jane.’ James picked up the empty pill bottle from the floor.

  ‘Freddie!’ Jane was screaming.

  James eyed the empty whisky bottle.

  ‘Freddie, wake up!’ Jane put her face to the stubbled cheek. ‘Please wake up.’

  Mr Fourbouys picked up the telephone. ‘Fourbouys here. Get an ambulance. Quickly. The back door. Then call the police.’

  Thirty-eight

  Rosina and Tristan were at the hospital. James had phoned them from the car. They sat on either side of Jane in the visitors’ room, but she had never felt so desperately alone. Someone, somewhere – it was not easy to find out from the overworked staff exactly what was going on – was washing out Freddie’s stomach. Getting rid of the poisons. No one had bothered to inform her whether or not he was expected to live. Taking them out, very carefully, one at a time as if they were precious, Jane examined her thoughts. Rolling back the years, like a carpet, she went back to the beginning when she had first set eyes on Freddie in the snug of the Cambridge Blue.

  On holiday from the Union Centrale des Arts Décoratifs, she was staying with her aunt, Marie-Hélène – like Jane’s mother she had married an Englishman, a history don at Magdalene – when James, mesmerised by the red hair beneath a hat with yellow ribbons, had followed her round Heffers and picked her up in the French Literature department. A few days later, enervated by the heat, it seemed in those days always to be summer, after walking Marie-Hélène’s wire-haired terrier in the Botanic Garden, they had landed up at the pub in Prospect Row. James, whom Jane found extremely attractive, was giving her a rundown on the cricket at Lords (the West Indians had just won the first World Cup) whilst she wondered whether or not she was going to go to bed with him, when, her mind far removed from the defeated Australians, she happened to glance idly into the next room. Coming through the low doorway, inclining his golden head, was Freddie, and she knew immediately that she was not going to go to bed with James. She was not surprised when Freddie made his way to their table. She had always believed in fate.

  ‘Jane, this is Freddie, Freddie Lomax. Freddie, Jane Morley.’

  It was as if not only James, but everyone else in the room had ceased to exist. As she held Marie-Hélène’s dog with one hand and held out the other for Freddie, an attachment was forged which was to last for seventeen years.

  The precise sequence of events which followed had, with the passage of time, become blurred. The three of them, if she remembered correctly, had made their way down Silver Street to the Mill Pool, then strolled back to Marie-Hélène’s, where they had taken tea on the lawn.

  ‘Jane and I were thinking of going to the cinema.’ James handed the fruit cake to Freddie. ‘Care to join us?’

  ‘What’s on?’

  ‘Jules et Jim. You like Truffaut.’

  ‘You know very well I’ve seen it.’ Freddie didn’t take his eyes off Jane.

  ‘Actually I have a bit of a headache…’ Jane brushed away the midges.

  ‘Look…’ Freddie addressed Jane.

  ‘Have a bit of fruit cake.’ James held the plate out to Jane.

  ‘She doesn’t want any fruit cake, James.’

  ‘How do you know she doesn’t want any fruit cake?’

  ‘As I was about to say,’ Freddie eyeballed James. ‘Why don’t you go to Jules et Jim and Jane can come back with me…’

  ‘Hang on a minute!’

  ‘…I’ve got a new recording of The Barber of Seville. You do like opera?’

  Jane looked from James to Freddie and pulled down the brim of her hat. The sun, over the high stone wall, was in her eyes. ‘I adore opera.’ It a stupendous lie.

  For Freddie’s sake, sitting over a glass of white wine in his armchair, while Freddie paced the room, conducting in time to the music and explaining the finer points of the plot, she had tried to differentiate between the voices of Dr Bartolo and Count Almaviva, to get worked up over the toings and the froings and the billets-doux, to give credence to the sotto voice intrigues of the lovers.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Freddie begged her excitedly, singing, with the cavatina, ‘“Una voce poco fa”!’

  She did her very best to show enthusiasm, to concentrate on the music master and the soldiers (by whose pranks Freddie appeared unaccountably amused), but by the time Rosina and Almaviva had signed the marriage contract and Banolo been outwitted, she was bored out of her mind. She forced herself to stick it out because of Freddie. She did not know then how many times she was destined to do so over the years.

  When the last record was finished, when the opera was over and the room, thankfully, was quiet, like opposite poles of a magnet, they found themselves, as if it was the most normal, the most natural thing, drawn into each other’s arms. It was the prelude to a night which coursed like a flowing river, in which there were no decisions to be made. Jane did not remember either of them removing their clothes, only standing in the moonlight while Freddie worshipped at the shrine of her dappled body, turning and turning it again. She remembered the golden hairs which covered his slim torso, glinting in the same moon, and how, like a young god, he had led her to his narrow bed. If they slept at all she did not remember it, only recalled hearing the dawn clock strike, and from the haven of her lover’s arms, understanding, for the first time, the importance of physical happiness between a man and a woman, and the bond it creates.

  After that night, during which she had the distinct impression that Tristan was conceived, neither she nor Freddie had eyes for anyone else. They were Abelard and Heloise, Aucassin and Nicolette, Paul and Virginie, their names uttered in a single breath both in Cambridge and in Paris, where Jane was finishing her course.

  Jane’s affair with Freddie had followed the biblical progression. She had known him, then she had loved him. There was so much to love. Freddie did not play games: what you saw was what you got. He was generous and considerate, he was clever and he was funny (he and James did a double act in the Footlights), he was dependable, and he was gentle which was what women needed most of all.

  After their marriage, the birth of Tristan, and Freddie’s first job – with which he was orbited into the perpetual motion of his career – like halves of an equation, the two of them had led separate lives but were always in close touch. When they came together, the aggregate never failed. She and Freddie had done their growing up together, and the chemistry which had drawn them together in Cambridge had blossomed rather than withered, waxed rather than waned. They had had their ups and downs. Their rows, both major and minor, had sometimes descended into slanging matches in which words were uttered which were later regretted and possessions had been known to fly through the air. They did not allow the arguments to fester however and had never let the sun go down on their wrath. Until Freddie lost his job, and another Freddie, a Freddie she did not know, aimed the arrows of his unaccustomed anger unerringly in her direction to inflict the round-the-clock pain of their wounds.

  She had tried, on more than one occasion recently, to explain to him that it was Freddie Lomax whom she had married, Freddie Lomax that she loved, that she had always loved, and not the vice-chairman of Sitwell Hunt, the head of corporate finance. But Freddie did not want to know. It was as if he had worn an invisible label, ‘successful executive’, and without it had ceased to exist.

  His suspicions about herself and Piers Warburton had been not only unfounded but ridiculous. It was as if the house she and Freddie and built together, on firm foundations of loyalty and love, was built of cards, and Freddie was d
eliberately trying to pull it down. There had been several occasions, over the years, when she had been drawn to men and propositioned by them. Times, mostly when Freddie was away, when she had dallied with the idea of an affair – although Piers Warburton had never been on the agenda. The temptations had served only to reinforce her belief in her marriage vows and the relevance of fidelity, and she had remained faithful to Freddie.

  Now Freddie had turned away from her, had shut her out of his life which he no longer appeared to value himself. If Freddie died – putting an end to it all seemed such an un-Freddie thing to do – she stood to lose her husband, the father of her children, her best friend, and her lover. She prayed that he might live, and for courage to weather the storm until their relationship – which had endured for so long and acquired new dimensions of knowledge and respect – was back on the familiar rails. She thought of Grandmaman and the maxim which had enabled the baker’s wife to surmount the vicissitudes of a life which had survived the hardships of war, marriage to Grandpapa, who had a definite eye for the village girls, and the premature death of a child: la vie pardonne. Jane prayed that Freddie would recover, and give life a chance to forgive.

  In the seat next to her, Rosina, holding, but not reading, a tired magazine, the mascara she had worn for Lilli’s funeral still conspicuous on her cheeks, was praying too. She was not religious, not in the accepted sense, she had not been brought up to be. But while she waited for her father’s stomach to be washed out, for him to be restored to life, she made all sorts of pacts with God. If Freddie lived she would put her heart and soul into her school work, would do her very best to make him proud of her, would strive for nothing but excellence in her GCSEs. If Freddie lived she would never again lie about her whereabouts, never fiddle with the tuning on his radio, never use his music centre, never make snide remarks about his operas, never play her ghetto blaster loudly, never outstay her curfew, never tattoo her arms. Yesterday, witness to the grisly rite of passage with which she had difficulty in coming to terms, she had comforted her father by Lilli’s graveside; now she slid her fingers, the nails bitten to the quick, into Jane’s icy hand.

  ‘There’s a machine outside,’ Rosina whispered. ‘Shall I get you some coffee?’

  Jane shook her head. She was very pale. Rosina could see that she was near to tears and concentrating on her prayers for Freddie. Since the business with Henry Dove, Rosina had got on better with her mother. Freddie’s relief at the news that Rosina was not pregnant had been succeeded by a dose of the heavy father in which he declared his intention of inflicting all manner of punishment upon her seducer, until Jane reminded him that this was the 1990s and that Rosina was not Tess of the d’Urbervilles. When the two of them were alone, Jane had told Rosina exactly what she thought of her squandering her 15-year-old virginity upon Henry Dove, cautioned her in no uncertain terms about the dangers of promiscuity, and, to Rosina’s relief, ceased treating her like a child.

  ‘I don’t even like sex,’ Rosina had confessed in one of their heart to hearts when she was sprawled on Jane’s bed. ‘I can’t see what all the fuss is about.’

  ‘Give it time,’ Jane had said. ‘You will when you’re older, when you are emotionally prepared, when you find the right man.’

  And Rosina had. Ferdinand. Who seemed in no great hurry to have it off with her, unlike the precipitate Henry Dove, but enjoyed her company and her conversation and getting to know her as a person.

  ‘They’re taking an awfully long time.’ Jane addressed Tristan, but her anxious voice broke into Rosina’s thoughts. ‘Do you think they’ve forgotten about us?’

  While Tristan fidgeted nervously with the lock of red hair which flopped over his forehead, pushed his Armani glasses back up his nose, and tried to summon up courage to confront one of the harassed, white-coated doctors who were rushing around, Rosina stood up.

  ‘I’ll go and ask.’

  Through the glass door Jane watched her approach a passing nurse. She could not hear what she said.

  ‘He’s still in resusc.’ Rosina resumed her seat.

  Tristan, his palm damp, squeezed Jane’s hand reassuringly.

  ‘Dead…’ He stopped, appalled. He had meant to say Dad. ‘Dad will be okay.’

  He wished he believed it. He wished he was not shit scared. He wished he wasn’t such a wanker. He wished he didn’t have sex on the brain. He wished he was not awkward and clumsy. He wished he didn’t blush at his fantasies or at the drop of a hat. He wished he had the courage to tell Miranda Harding that he was in love with her. He wished he was decisive like Rosina, could stand up to authority and didn’t mind making a nuisance of himself. He wished he was not rotten at games. He wished he was not timid inside. He wished he did not feel left out. He wished that Freddie would not leave him, just when he had found him. He wished that he believed in immortality, rather than the brevity of existence. He wished that he had been able to cry at Lilli’s funeral. He wished that the world would go on for ever, and that there were no black holes. He wished that he did not think, privately, that all was vanity, that we have but an hour to strut upon the stage, that the days of wine and roses vanish swiftly, and that we must die. He wished Freddie to make an effort. To fight back with all the forces at his disposal, all his larger-than-life strength, to respond to whatever it was the medical team was doing for him. He was only 16. He did not want to be abandoned. He wanted to keep his options open. He did not want to have to think about mortgages and life insurance. He did not even want to tie his own shoelaces. He did not want to grow up.

  James, who had been down to the canteen, came into the visitors’ room. He looked worried.

  ‘I bumped into the staff nurse…’

  He helped Jane to her feet and put his arms round her, drawing her to him.

  ‘Freddie…?’ Jane’s voice was strung tight with anxiety.

  ‘Freddie’s fine. I’ve just seen him. He’s pretty incoherent. He keeps banging on about this guy in Thermopylae.

  ‘“Who couldn’t do anything properly.”’

  Not even take his own life.

  ‘He’s going to be all right,’ James said.

  ‘Where is he?’ Jane, uncertain whether to laugh or cry, was halfway out of the room. ‘Show me where he is.’

  ‘Hang on a minute!’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong?’ There was fear in Jane’s voice as irrational thoughts of possible complications crossed her mind.

  ‘Freddie’s fine,’ James reassured her. ‘He’s sleeping it off. The thing is…’

  Jane stood by the door.

  ‘He doesn’t want to see you. He absolutely refuses to see you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  James shrugged. ‘I don’t know, darling. I’m just the messenger. I haven’t a clue what’s going on.’

  Thirty-nine

  Freddie had been in the Chesterfield, a private psychiatric clinic and crisis intervention centre to which Bruce Cardwell – who had taken an extremely serious view of the fact that he had made an attempt on his own life – had referred him, for two weeks. He had not thought that he would stay in the rambling, rundown place, which comprised three large houses in a street off the Fulham Road, for two days.

  He had been a difficult and uncooperative patient. He did not like his room, which was small and cramped, hated being kept waiting – for the routine blood tests, for his meals – found the food inedible, was hostile to the nurses (he never seemed to see the same one twice), impatient with the grossly inefficient domestic staff, had nothing in common with the other patients with whom he was expected to socialise, disliked the consultant, Martin Wells, who was looking after him, and wanted nothing whatever to do with his team of multi-disciplinary experts who offered everything from yoga and massage to relaxation classes and seminars, which he expected Freddie to attend.

  There was nothing the matter with him, and he was unable to see why the fact that in a bad moment he had swallowed a few pills, washed down by a litre
of whisky, made him a suitable case for treatment, a candidate for the funny farm.

  He had already asked for his account which – thanks to Gordon Sitwell – would be taken care of by the insurance company, and was ready to walk out of the place, when Dr Kay Chapman, who was standing in for Dr Wells, who had left for a psychiatric conference in Rio, had knocked on the door of his room.

  ‘Have you got my bill?’ Freddie was getting his overcoat out of the cupboard.

  ‘That’s not my department.’

  Kay Chapman was small and had grey eyes. She had curly blonde hair and wore a mini-skirt.

  ‘If it’s more blood you’re after, forget it. I’m discharging myself.’

  ‘I’m Dr Chapman. Dr Wells has asked me to look after you, Mr Lomax.’

  ‘I can look after myself, thanks.’

  Dr Chapman looked at the notes she was carrying. ‘You don’t seem to have been making a very good job of it. Why don’t you sit down, Freddie? I’d like to have a chat.’

  ‘You carry on.’ He pulled the chair out from the table for her. ‘I prefer to stand.’

  ‘I gather you’re not happy at the Chesterfield.’

  Freddie collected the newspapers from the bed, arranging them into a neat pile. He took his mobile phone from the locker and slipped it into his coat pocket.

  ‘If you really want to know, I think it’s a load of bullshit. I don’t want to mix with a bunch of neurotics, I can have a massage at my squash club, and I have no intention of going to a group and playing stupid games.’

  ‘Okay. That’s what you don’t want to do. What do you want to do?’

  ‘Go home. Get on with my life.’

  ‘Your life?’

  The words hung on the air.

  ‘Your wife has been enquiring about you. She’s worried. I understand you don’t wish to see her.’

  ‘She’s been fooling around with one of my friends.’

  ‘How does that make you feel?’

  ‘Terrific.’