Ease

by Patrick Gale

  ‘She send you the ache at your most fruitful time, cara. It is to remind you of the sweet pang of maternal labour. Your dear Mamma, she used to have that pain, just like you, then you were born and it went away! Marry your Randolph, have a bambino, and Holy Mary will take away this little pain.’

  Consigning Santa Maria di Dappertutto, Juliana-Costanza, helpful nuns and all other wise virgins to the Pit, Domina scowled her way to the kitchen in search of coffee. There, Thierry bewailed the fact that he was doomed to be used and discarded like a how-you-say mansize tissue and she snapped at him. On the way back to her room she hid with her breakfast in a bathroom, having seen Avril coming, whistling, from above, felt immediate guilt and found a task to see her through till lunch-time.

  She was surprised to find that Avril’s manuscript was highly entertaining. The English was not the most stylish animal, but she patted that into shape here and there as she typed. The substance of the tale, even though she had, or perhaps because she had made so much of it up, was extraordinary. The discrepancy between La Gilchrist’s tone and the unparalleled sleaziness of her subject matter was unwittingly amusing – as if Louisa May Alcott had paraphrased the symposia of de Sade. By half-past twelve Domina had typed as far as Avril had written, up to Padraic’s discovery and first, not so tentative, explorations of his carnal tastes. By twenty-five to one she had decided that a photocopy of the work so far must be handed to Des for professional perusal. Flared by the thought that she might have stumbled on a bestseller malgré-lui, Domina was embarking on a letter to Virginia to thank her for her letters, quash her conjectures, and demand that she write to a certain Penelope Havers in Bayswater offering her an audition, when she heard voices on the landing.

  ‘Did it say which number his room was, downstairs?’

  ‘No. Just how many times to ring his bell.’

  ‘Why he insisted on living here I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Well, you know Quin.’

  ‘That’s a pointless observation.’

  ‘Well, don’t …’

  Domina’s curiosity beguiled her caution and she opened the door.

  ‘Hello,’ she said.

  They were a man and a woman. He six foot five and almost bald, she much shorter, with brassy, back-combed hair. She was aggressively well-preserved, but Domina guessed that each verged on fifty.

  ‘Good morning,’ said the man.

  ‘Hello. We’re looking for Quintus Harding,’ said she, loudly and distinctly, as to a backward child.

  Quintus was chez ‘Brother Jerome’. She had seen his back view leaving by the front door. He had been carrying some books.

  ‘Quin’s out, I’m afraid. I saw him leave about two hours

  ago.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said the man.

  The woman was giving Domina a thorough inspection, her teeth half bared in a smile for strangers.

  ‘Was he expecting you?’ asked Domina.

  ‘Well, rather,’ said the woman. ‘We’d arranged to take him out to lunch.’ Her voice was clipped by a system of Forces intonation that just failed to mask the occasional slurring of a consonant. ‘Do you … er … know Quintus, then?’

  ‘Well, slightly. I only moved in last week, but sharing a landing we tend to bump into one another. Sorry, I’m Domina Tey. How d’you do?’

  ‘How d’you do?’

  ‘Hello again.’ She shook hands with each.

  ‘We’re his parents,’ added Mr Harding.

  ‘I’m sure she’s guessed that already.’ Mrs Harding threw Domina a glance that dared her not to smile in complicity. Domina smiled briefly back and wished she had stayed in her room. ‘So this is his room?’ Mrs Harding gave a firm shove on her son’s door. ‘Locked,’ she noted. ‘Don’t suppose you’ve any idea when he’ll be back?’ Mr Harding was engrossed in the instructions on the landing fire extinguisher.

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Two hours ago he went, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, he’s normally terribly punctual.’

  Domina saw there was no alternative but to invite them into her room to wait.

  ‘Would you like to wait in my room till he gets back?’ she offered.

  ‘Wouldn’t that be a bore? Don’t you have to be at work or something?’

  ‘I work from home, actually.’

  ‘Well, thank you very much.’ Mrs Harding followed Domina into the room. She let the door swing shut with a bang while Domina hurriedly snatched a bra out of the armchair and stuffed it under her pillow.

  ‘Do sit down.’

  Mrs Harding sat in the chair, Domina on the bed. Mr Harding knocked on the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘No need to knock, you fool,’ his wife called out. ‘Actually we’re here to tell Quin about our divorce.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Look there’s no need …’

  ‘Oh, don’t be a child, Hamish. Everyone’s getting them now.’ Hamish was hovering misplaced, about a chair full of books. ‘I’m sure Miss … er?’

  ‘Mrs Tey.’

  ‘I’m sure Mrs Tey knows lots of separated couples.’

  ‘My parents, as a matter of fact,’ said Domina. ‘Let me put those on the floor for you.’ She cleared the hard-backed chair for Hamish, who perched on it as though used to breaking things. She wondered how they had ever managed in bed, then decided that it must have been separates from day one.

  ‘Really?’ asked Mrs. ‘And how old were you?’

  ‘Twenty-two. I’d just finished at Cambridge.’

  ‘A Cambridge girl, eh?’ asked Hamish.

  ‘Yes. That’s right.’

  ‘Well anyway, we’ve come to break the tidings to Quintus. I think he’s known for ages. Actually, I’m a bit nervy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘About telling him. He’s frightfully pi, you know.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Domina was acutely embarrassed. It was a conversation she wanted to push much further, simply because his parents were so improbable, so explanatory – but the aggression condoned in allowing Mrs Harding to continue was ugly. The topic seemed to have been dropped now. Hamish was reading the back of one of the novels from the library. Mrs, who contrived to make a linen suit and court shoes smart to the point of militarism, was sliding interestingly off balance. Domina wondered whether the situation was strange to her, whether Quintus had had few friends for her to meet.

  ‘Have you lived here long?’ his mother asked, then sensed her blunder and ran a hand over her powdered forehead. ‘Oh no. Of course, last week. You said. So you work from here?’

  ‘That’s right. Normally I’m a school teacher, but I’m typing manuscripts at the moment while I look for a new job.’

  ‘What age group do you teach?’

  ‘Under thirteens, mostly. I used to teach up at Durham.’

  ‘Durham, eh?’ asked Hamish, crossing his extensive legs the other way, and selecting another book.

  ‘Yes,’ said Domina. ‘Do you know it well?’

  ‘He was stationed about thirty miles away for about a month, I expect. It’s pointless asking him questions like that. No memory for places at all.’

  ‘Oh. Oh dear.’

  There was a pause. Mrs Harding opened her handbag and took out a handkerchief. Domina noted with satisfaction that it bore lipstick stains. The nose was blown. Domina smoothed her pillow. The handkerchief returned to the bag which clicked shut. Mrs Harding looked up and for a moment stared Domina full in the face. Then she broke into another smile for strangers and said, ‘The worst thing about coming to visit one’s children is that there’s never any Scotch.’ As she spoke, the door opened and Quintus came in. ‘Darling.’

  ‘Mother, hello.’ They kissed. ‘Father.’ They shook hands.

  ‘Kind Mrs Tey has been entertaining us while we waited for you.’

  ‘Oh no … I mean, have you been waiting long? I came back as quickly as I could.’

  ‘No. Not long.�
� Both parents were now standing. Domina had forgotten quite how tall Hamish was.

  ‘Now, I want to see inside your room,’ said Mrs Harding.

  ‘It’s terribly messy. You can see it after lunch. We’ll miss our table otherwise. Where’s the car?’

  ‘On a meter. Your father actually managed to find one.’

  ‘You start on down and I’ll catch you up.’

  ‘All right. So nice to have met you,’ she said, and gave Domina a cold, dry hand.

  ‘Yes,’ added Hamish, and proffered her a vast one.

  Quintus herded them out onto the stairs, then darted back into Domina’s room.

  ‘I say, I am sorry.’

  ‘Not at all. It was lovely to meet them.’

  ‘I’d completely forgotten they were coming. Were they here for ages?’

  ‘No. No. You rush off and join them.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Have a nice lunch,’ she said as he went, then remembered that they were here to tell him about the divorce. She remained on the edge of the bed, listening to him unlock his door and set his books on his table. She heard the door close, and his feet scurrying down the stairs two at a time. He was lucky not to be as tall as his father.

  Her mind only half on the task in hand, Domina finished the letter to Virginia and set out to post it. As she turned from locking her door, she saw that Quin had left the keys in his. She stood for a moment, looking down into the stairwell and along the narrow corridor that led to the lavatory and bathroom. All was silent. She let herself into the room, taking the key with her, and shut the door.

  The Brueghel poster had been pinned to the wall. With no sun to stream in over the geranium, it made the room feel darker. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to see. There was a shirt, the one he had worn the day before, tossed to the floor in one corner. She snatched it up and plunged her face into it. The pale blue cotton was cool on her skin. She realized as she breathed in through it that Quintus had a familiar scent about him, familiar because she always relished it when loading Seamus’ things into the washing machine. The closest analogy was grilled bacon. A young actor in Ginny’s company had it too. It made her want to growl.

  She cast aside the shirt and crouched to the record-player. Bach’s third ‘cello suite. Certain that this was the one, she put it on. She was right. She turned her eyes to the table, and his books. The Way of the Ascetics, Living Prayer, The Festal Menaion, Lenten Triodion. She could not imagine the boy, the attractive young man, actually sitting down here and reading such things. The idea was faintly disgusting. More repellent was the image of him closeted with the soi-disant Brother Jerome to discuss them. Beside the books lay a spiral-bound notebook. ‘Quintus Harding’ was carefully inscribed in the top right-hand corner. She opened it and read at random:

  7th, 11th and 12th Articles define a system of Eschatology. Double judgement, one at the hour of death – not final, the other, Final, at the end of time. First judgement can be alleviated by prayers of the faithful.

  Vincent of Lerins: quod semper quod ubique ad omnibus (formula). Ergo, highest authority are the 7 Ecumenical councils from everywhere (Ubique) only established formulae for what had always been said (Semper).

  She flicked over some more pages.

  In 1913 there were officially 32 diocese, 4025 parishes, 6 Archbishops, 25 Bishops, 167 monasteries, 10 convents and approx. 1,922,000 souls.

  She shut the notebook in disgust, turning it over as she did so, to see:

  For details of seminary try:–

  Holy Cross Seminary Press

  79 Goddard Avenue

  Brookline

  Massachusetts 02186

  Could he be serious? Could anyone be so very serious?

  With a sigh, Domina sat on the end of his bed. She picked up the record box that lay there beside her and stared blankly at Casals’ egg of a head. The photograph had been tinted blue which lent him an extraterrestrial air. She dropped the box to the floor. The bed was unmade. Unlikely that, nearly suspicious. She reached out a hand and ran it over the rumpled lower sheet. The bedding was cheerful, Habitat stuff. A sensuality bolted down. She rolled to one side and stretched out, face downwards on his bed, sniffing deep the bacon smell off his duvet, his sheets, his pillow. There were a few bloodstains on the pillow, from a nosebleed, perhaps. The music was reaching the point that always sent Randy into the yelps of raw delight that he reserved for music, food and sex. They drew attention to the womanly fullness of his lips. Thinking of Randy, she raised her eyes from the pillow. There was a little bookshelf-cum-bedside table to her left. On the hidden, pillow side, a square of card had been stuck to the side of a box of tissues:

  How great was the purity and sanctity of him who was chosen the guardian of the most spotless Virgin (Butler’s Lives).

  She laughed aloud, but shock knocked her silent. There was a copy of Sinful Living on the shelf. Frowning, she sat up and pulled it out. The French’s edition. She looked inside the cover. ‘Quintus Harding, Bayswater’ it said, and the date of the day before yesterday. Quickly, Domina pushed the book back onto the shelf and tugged out a dusky pink document file that had lain beneath it. She opened it and found photocopies. They were photocopies of reviews of her plays. There were four photographs of her, taken with a polaroid: two of her in the street, taken through the area railings, one of her in the Gardens sitting on a bench and one of her back view climbing the stairs. There were two pages cut out of last November’s Plays and Players with photographs of her and an interview, and there, stuffed in the corner of the file, were the laddered tights she had thrown out two mornings ago.

  Domina sat through the second movement of the Suite, looking from clipping to clipping, over to the desk, up at the icon of Joseph, then back to the things in the file. Her immediate reaction was one of bewildered hilarity, that an embryo saint should be obsessed with her. She pictured his tortured guilt as he took a razor blade to the library copies of Plays and Players, smirked at his discomfort were he caught with the tights in his hot little hand. Then she reflected that Quintus’s hands weren’t hot, that he was a restrained, cool person, and that he had, with restraint, coldness indeed, been deceiving her since they met. He had played along with the deceptions that now seemed so pathetic in one of her age. He had been humouring her and doubtless Seb was in on the joke. Seb Saunders might even have instigated the joke. Here was silly old Domina Tecum, spoiling for one last fling, and his young bit could prove the perfect means to her humiliation. At best, Seb knew nothing, and she was providing a young fan with the peculiar experience of a lifetime. At worst, they chuckled over her together.

  A lump rose to her throat. She took some deep breaths to dissolve it. A single tear spilled down her cheek, and she drew an iron calm about her. She stuffed the clippings, the photographs, the tights, back into the folder and returned it to the bedside shelf. She turned off the record-player, picked up the letter for Virginia and left, leaving the key in the door. She had to buy wine, cheese, bread, perhaps some chocolates and nuts, and she must take a long, long bath. There was no hurry. She scribbled an invitation on a scrap of paper she found in the hall and left it folded in his slot of the letter rack. She ran her fingers through her hair, shook out her skirt, and let herself out. She would eat a late, slow lunch with Des; they could discuss Avril’s manuscript.

  22

  She was in the bath when he returned. It was quite late in the evening. Either lunch had extended into dinner, or the parental bombshell had sent him reeling to Seb for aid. She turned off the hot tap with a big toe and listened. He went into his room, then came out and knocked on her door. There was a pause during which she guessed he pushed open the door to look inside. He called her name softly, then returned to his room. Soon she heard loud choral music coming along the landing. It might have been the Saint Matthew Passion, but she couldn’t be sure. She wondered if he was weeping below the voices. She tugged out the plug with her foot, stood, and wrapped her towel about her. Back in her
room she dressed in the clothes she had selected; nothing wild, but nothing remotely C of E. She slid a new jazz cassette into the tape section of her radio and, humming gently, lit some candles and dabbed some Métale behind each ear. She brought the wine out of the sink where it had been breathing in some warm water, and set it on the floor along with the plates, cheese, grapes and walnuts. She pushed the chocolates under the bed with her foot: chocolate was the replacement, not the aperitif. She made one last pout in the looking-glass, pushing back her hair, then crossed the landing.

  ‘Quin?’

  She knocked and pushed the door open. He was lying on his bed staring up at the ceiling. She guessed he had been trying to cry and had failed. The record had finished. He sat up abruptly.

  ‘Domina, hello.’

  ‘Did you get my note?’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Oh. I left you a note in the letter rack asking you to supper – well, to share a bottle of wine.’

  ‘Oh, yes please. That would be lovely.’ He stood, and switched off the record-player.

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. No. Well …’

  ‘I’m afraid your mother told me why they were here.’

  They walked through the gloom into her room. She slipped the catch on the lock as he passed by her and sat on the floor against the bed.

  ‘It looks nice,’ he said, ‘with the candles.’

  ‘I found the sticks in the kitchen cupboards when I was looking for nutcrackers.’

  She sat across the floor from him, her back against the armchair. She poured two glasses of wine.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said and, toasting her mutely, raised a glass to his lips. Domina drank also. It was a good Bordeaux, but she should have opened it earlier.