‘What motivates you?’ asked Bridget.
‘Style,’ said Tony bashfully. ‘And love for my friends,’ he added, softly patting Bridget’s wrist.
‘Don’t try to butter me up,’ said Bridget.
‘Who’s being a cynic now?’ gasped Tony.
‘Look what Granny brought me,’ said Belinda, holding out a bag of lemon sherbets, her favourite sweets.
‘Would you like one?’ she asked her mother.
‘You mustn’t give her sweets,’ said Bridget to Virginia. ‘They’re frightfully bad for her teeth.’
‘I only bought a quarter of a pound,’ said Virginia. ‘You used to like them too as a girl.’
‘Nanny disapproves terribly, don’t you, Nanny?’ asked Bridget, taking advantage of the reappearance of Nanny with a tea tray.
‘Oh yes,’ said Nanny, who hadn’t in fact heard what was being discussed.
‘Sweets rot little girls’ teeth,’ said Bridget.
‘Sweets!’ cried Nanny, able to focus on the enemy at last. ‘No sweets in the nursery except on Sundays!’ she thundered.
Belinda ran through the nursery door and out into the corridor. ‘I’m not in the nursery anymore,’ she chanted.
Virginia put her hand over her mouth to make a show of concealing her laughter. ‘I didn’t want to cause any trouble,’ she said.
‘Oh, she’s a lively one,’ said Nanny cunningly, seeing that Bridget secretly admired Belinda’s rebelliousness.
Virginia followed Belinda out into the corridor. Tony looked critically at the old tweed skirt she wore. Stylish it was not. He felt licensed by Bridget’s attitude to despise Virginia, without forgoing the pleasure of despising Bridget for not being more loyal to her mother, or stylish enough to rise above her.
‘You should take your mum shopping for a new skirt,’ he suggested.
‘Don’t be so rude,’ said Bridget.
Tony could smell the weakness in her indignation. ‘That maroon check gives me a headache,’ he insisted.
‘It is ghastly,’ admitted Bridget.
Nanny brought over two cups of tea, and a plate of Jaffa Cakes.
‘Granny’s going to keep the sweets for me,’ said Belinda, coming back into the nursery. ‘And I have to ask her if I want one.’
‘It seemed to us like a good compromise,’ Virginia explained.
‘And she’s going to read me a story before dinner,’ said Belinda.
‘Oh, I meant to tell you,’ said Bridget absently, ‘you’ve been asked to dinner at the Bossington-Lanes’. I couldn’t refuse, they made such a fuss about needing extra women. It’ll be so stuffy here with Princess Margaret, you’ll be much more at home over there. They’re neighbours of ours, frightfully nice.’
‘Oh,’ said Virginia. ‘Well, if I’m needed I suppose…’
‘You don’t mind, do you?’ asked Bridget.
‘Oh no,’ said Virginia.
‘I mean, I thought it would be nicer for you, more relaxed.’
‘Yes, I’m sure I’ll be more relaxed,’ said Virginia.
‘I mean, if you really don’t want to go I could still cancel them I suppose, although they’ll be frightfully angry at this stage.’
‘No, no,’ said Virginia. ‘I’d love to go, you mustn’t cancel them now. They sound very nice. Will you excuse me a moment?’ she added, getting up and opening the door that led to the other rooms on the nursery floor.
‘Did I handle that all right?’ Bridget asked Tony.
‘You deserve an Oscar.’
‘You don’t think it was unkind of me? It’s just that I don’t think I can handle P.M. and Sonny and my mother all at once.’
‘You did the right thing,’ Tony reassured her. ‘After all, you couldn’t very well send either of those two to the Bossington-Lanes’.’
‘I know, but I mean, I was thinking of her too.’
‘I’m sure she’ll be happier there,’ said Tony. ‘She seems a nice woman but she’s not very…’ he searched for the right word, ‘… social, is she?’
‘No,’ said Bridget. ‘I know the whole P.M. thing would make her terribly tense.’
‘Is Granny upset?’ asked Belinda, coming to sit down next to her mother.
‘What on earth makes you ask that?’
‘She looked sad when she left.’
‘That’s just the way she looks when her face relaxes;’ said Bridget inventively.
Virginia came back into the nursery, stuffing her handkerchief up the sleeve of her cardigan.
‘I went into one of the rooms for a moment and saw my suitcase there,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Is that where I’m sleeping?’
‘Hmm,’ said Bridget, picking up her cup of tea and sipping it slowly. ‘I’m sorry it’s rather poky, but after all it’s only for one night.’
‘Just for one night,’ echoed Virginia, who’d been hoping to stay for two or three.
‘The house is incredibly full,’ said Bridget. ‘It’s such a strain on … on everybody.’ She tactfully swallowed the word ‘servants’ in Nanny’s presence. ‘Anyhow, I thought you’d like to be near Belinda.’
‘Oh, of course,’ said Virginia. ‘We can have a midnight feast.’
‘A midnight feast,’ spluttered Nanny who could contain herself no longer. ‘Not in my nursery!’
‘I thought it was Belinda’s nursery,’ said Tony waspishly.
‘I’m in charge,’ gasped Nanny, ‘and I can’t have midnight feasts.’
Bridget could remember the midnight feast her mother had made to cheer her up on the night before she went to boarding school. Her mother had pretended that they had to hide from her father, but Bridget later found out that he had known all about it and had even gone to buy the cakes himself. She suppressed this sentimental memory with a sigh and got up when she heard the noise of cars at the front of the house. She craned out of one of the small windows in the corner of the nursery.
‘Oh God, it’s the Alantours,’ she said. ‘I suppose I have to go down and say hello to them. Tony, will you be an angel and help me?’ she asked.
‘As long as you leave me time to put on my ball gown for Princess Margaret,’ said Tony.
‘Can I do anything?’ asked Virginia.
‘No, thanks. You stay here and unpack. I’ll order you a taxi to go to the Bossington-Lanes’. At about seven thirty,’ said Bridget calculating that Princess Margaret would not yet have come down for a drink. ‘My treat, of course,’ she added.
Oh, dear, thought Virginia, more money down the drain.
7
PATRICK HAD BOOKED HIS room late and so had been put in the annexe of the Little Soddington House Hotel. With the letter confirming his reservation the management had enclosed a brochure featuring a vast room with a four-poster bed, a tall marble fireplace, and a bay window opening onto wide views of the ravishing Cotswolds. The room Patrick was shown into, with its severely pitched ceiling and view onto the kitchen yard, boasted a full complement of tea-making facilities, instant-coffee sachets, and tiny pots of longlife milk. The miniature floral pattern on its matching waste-paper basket, curtains, bedspread, cushions, and Kleenex dispenser seemed to shift and shimmer.
Patrick unpacked his dinner jacket and threw it onto the bed, throwing himself down after it. A notice under the glass of the bedside table said: ‘To avoid disappointment, residents are advised to book in the restaurant in advance.’ Patrick, who had been trying to avoid disappointment all his life, cursed himself for not discovering this formula earlier.
Was there no other way he could stop being disappointed? How could he find any firm ground when his identity seemed to begin with disintegration and go on to disintegrate further? But perhaps this whole model of identity was misconceived. Perhaps identity was not a building for which one had to find foundations, but rather a series of impersonations held together by a central intelligence, an intelligence that knew the history of the impersonations and eliminated the distinction between action and acting.
‘Impersonation, sir,’ grunted Patrick, thrusting out his stomach and waddling towards the bathroom, as if he were the Fat Man himself, ‘is a habit of which I cannot approve, it was the ruination of Monsieur Escoffier…’ He stopped.
The self-disgust that afflicted him these days had the stagnancy of a malarial swamp, and he sometimes missed the cast of jeering characters that had accompanied the more dramatic disintegrations of his early twenties. Although he could conjure up some of these characters, they seemed to have lost their energy, just as he had soon forgotten the agony of being a ventriloquist’s dummy and replaced it with a sense of nostalgia for a period that had made up for some of its unpleasantness with its intensity.
‘Be absolute for death’, a strange phrase from Measure for Measure, returned to him while he bared his teeth to rip open a sachet of bath gel. Perhaps there was something in this half-shallow, half-profound idea that one had to despair of life in order to grasp its real value. Then again, perhaps there wasn’t. But in any case, he pondered, squeezing the green slime from the sachet and trying to get back to his earlier line of thought, what was this central intelligence, and just how intelligent was it? What was the thread that held together the scattered beads of experience if not the pressure of interpretation? The meaning of life was whatever meaning one could thrust down its reluctant throat.
Where was Victor Eisen, the great philosopher, when he needed him most? How could he have left the doubtless splendid Being, Knowing, and Judging (or was it Thinking, Knowing, and Judging?) behind in New York when Anne Eisen had generously given him a copy during his corpse-collecting trip?
On his most recent visit to New York, he’d been back to the funeral parlour where, years before, he had seen his father’s body. The building was not as he remembered it at all. Instead of the grey stone facade, he saw soft brown brick. The building was much smaller than he expected and when he was driven inside by curiosity he found that there was no chequered black-and-white marble floor, and no reception desk where he expected to see one. Perhaps it had been changed, but even so, the scale was wrong, like places remembered from childhood and dwarfed by the passage of time.
The strange thing was that Patrick refused to alter his memory of the funeral parlour. He found the picture he had evolved over the years more compelling than the facts with which he was presented on revisiting the place. This picture was more suitable to the events that had occurred within the disappointing building. What he must remain true to was the effort of interpretation, the thread on which he tried to hang the scattered beads.
Even involuntary memory was only the resurfacing of an old story, something that had definitely once been a story. Impressions that were too fleeting to be called stories yielded no meaning. On the same visit to New York he had passed a red-and-white funnel next to some roadworks, spewing steam into the cold air. It felt nostalgic and significant, but left him in a state of nebulous intensity, not knowing whether he was remembering an image from a film, a book, or his own life. On the same walk he had dropped into a sleazy hotel in which he had once lived and found that it was no longer a hotel. The thing he was remembering no longer existed but, blind to the refurbished lobby, he continued to imagine the Italian with the scimitar tie-pin accusing him of trying to install his girlfriend Natasha as a prostitute, and to imagine the frenetic wallpaper covered in scratchy red lines like the frayed blood vessels of exhausted eyes.
What could he do but accept the disturbing extent to which memory was fictional and hope that the fiction lay at the service of a truth less richly represented by the original facts?
The house in Lacoste, where Patrick had spent most of his childhood, was now separated by only a few vines from a nasty suburb. Its old furniture had been sold and the redundant well filled in and sealed. Even the tree frogs, bright green and smooth against the smooth grey bark of the fig trees had gone, poisoned, or deprived of their breeding ground. Standing on the cracked terrace, listening to the whining of a new motorway, Patrick would try to hallucinate the faces that used to emerge from the smoky fluidity of the limestone crags, but they remained stubbornly hidden. On the other hand, geckos still flickered over the ceilings and under the eaves of the roof, and a tremor of unresolved violence always disturbed the easy atmosphere of holidays, like the churning of an engine setting the gin trembling on a distant deck. Some things never let him down.
The phone rang, and Patrick picked it up hastily, grateful for the interruption. It was Johnny saying that he’d arrived, and suggesting that they meet in the bar at eight thirty. Patrick agreed and, released from the hamster’s wheel of his thoughts, got up to turn off the bathwater.
* * *
David Windfall, florid and hot from his bath, squeezed into dinner jacket trousers that seemed to strain like sausage skins from the pressure of his thighs. Beads of sweat broke out continually on his upper lip and forehead. He wiped them away, glancing at himself in the mirror; although he looked like a hippopotamus with hypertension he was well satisfied.
He was going to have dinner with Cindy Smith. She was world-famously sexy and glamorous, but David was not intimidated because he was charming and sophisticated and, well, English. The Windfalls had been making their influence felt in Cumbria for centuries before Miss Smith popped onto the scene, he reassured himself as he buttoned up the over-tight shirt on his already sweating neck. His wife was in the habit of buying him seventeen-and-a-half-inch collars in the hope that he would grow thin enough to wear them. This trick made him so indignant that he decided that she deserved to be ill and absent and, if everything went well, betrayed.
He still hadn’t told Mrs Bossington-Lane that he wouldn’t be going to her dinner. He decided, as he choked himself on his bow tie, that the best way to handle it was to seek her out at the party and claim that his car had broken down. He just hoped that nobody else he knew would be having dinner in the hotel. He might try to use this fear to persuade Cindy to dine in his room. His thoughts panted on optimistically.
* * *
It was Cindy Smith who occupied the magnificent bedroom advertised in the brochure of the hotel. They’d told her it was a suite, but it was just a semi-large bedroom without a separate seating area. These old English houses were so uncomfortable. She’d only seen a photograph of Cheatley from the outside, and it looked real big, but there’d better be underfloor heating and a whole lot of private bathrooms, or she couldn’t even face her own plan to become the independently wealthy ex-Countess of Gravesend.
She was taking a long-term view and looking ahead two or three years. Looks didn’t last forever and she wasn’t ready for religion yet. Money was kind of a good compromise, staked up somewhere between cosmetics and eternity. Besides, she liked Sonny, she really did. He was cute, not to look at, God no, but aristocratic cute, old-fashioned out-of-a-movie cute.
Last year in Paris all the other models had come back to her suite in the Lotti – now there was a real suite – and each one of them, except a couple who chickened out, had done her fake orgasm, and Cindy’s was voted Best Fake Orgasm. They’d pretended the champagne bottle was an Oscar and she’d made an acceptance speech thanking all the men without whom it wouldn’t have been possible. Too bad she’d mentioned Sonny, seeing how she was going to marry him. Whoops!
She’d drunk a bit too much and put her father on the list also, which was probably a mistake ’cause all the other girls fell silent and things weren’t so much fun after that.
* * *
Patrick arrived downstairs before Johnny, and ordered a glass of Perrier at the bar. Two middle-aged couples sat together at a nearby table. The only other person in the bar, a florid man in a dinner jacket, obviously going to Sonny’s party, sat with folded arms, looking towards the door.
Patrick took his drink over to a small book-lined alcove in the corner of the room. Scanning the shelves, his eye fell on a volume called The Journal of a Disappointed Man, and next to it a second volume called More Journals of a Disappointed Man, and
finally, by the same author, a third volume entitled Enjoying Life. How could a man who had made such a promising start to his career have ended up writing a book called Enjoying Life? Patrick took the offending volume from the shelf and read the first sentence that he saw: ‘Verily, the flight of a gull is as magnificent as the Andes!’
‘Verily,’ murmured Patrick.
‘Hi.’
‘Hello, Johnny,’ said Patrick, looking up from the page. ‘I’ve just found a book called Enjoying Life.’
‘Intriguing,’ said Johnny, sitting down on the other side of the alcove.
‘I’m going to take it to my room and read it tomorrow. It might save my life. Mind you, I don’t know why people get so fixated on happiness, which always eludes them, when there are so many other invigorating experiences available, like rage, jealousy, disgust, and so forth.’
‘Don’t you want to be happy?’ asked Johnny.
‘Well, when you put it like that,’ smiled Patrick.
‘Really you’re just like everyone else.’
‘Don’t push your luck,’ Patrick warned him.
‘Will you be dining with us this evening, gentlemen?’ asked a waiter.
‘Yes,’ replied Johnny, taking a menu, and passing one on to Patrick who was too deep in the alcove for the waiter to reach.
‘I thought he said, “Will you be dying with us?”’ admitted Patrick, who was feeling increasingly uneasy about his decision to tell Johnny the facts he had kept secret for thirty years.
‘Maybe he did,’ said Johnny. ‘We haven’t read the menu yet.’
‘I suppose “the young” will be taking drugs tonight,’ sighed Patrick, scanning the menu.
‘Ecstasy: the non-addictive high,’ said Johnny.
‘Call me old fashioned,’ blustered Patrick, ‘but I don’t like the sound of a non-addictive drug.’
Johnny felt frustratingly engulfed in his old style of banter with Patrick. These were just the sort of ‘old associations’ that he was supposed to sever, but what could he do? Patrick was a great friend and he wanted him to be less miserable.
‘Why do you think we’re so discontented?’ asked Johnny, settling for the smoked salmon.
The Patrick Melrose Novels Page 33
