Mary made out the faint words, in pencil-written block capitals, ‘WHY SEAMUS DOES NOT COME?’
Mary suspected the reason, but could hardly believe it. She hadn’t expected Seamus to be so flagrant. His opportunism always seemed to be blended with the genuine delusion that he was a good man, or at least a strong desire to be mistaken for one. And yet here he was, only a fortnight after the final transfer of Saint-Nazaire to the Foundation, dropping his benefactor like a sack on a skip.
She remembered what Patrick had said when he finally used the power of attorney his mother had given him to sign over the house: ‘These people who want to crawl unburdened to their graves just don’t make it. There is no second childhood, no licence for irresponsibility.’ He then got blind drunk.
Mary looked at Eleanor’s face. It was impacted with misery. Her eyes were veiled like the eyes of a recently dead fish, but in her case the dullness seemed to stem from the effort of staying disconnected from reality. Mary could see now that her missing teeth were really a suicidal gesture, with the violent passivity of a hunger strike. They could so easily have been replaced, it must have taken great stubbornness to stay in the vortex of self-neglect, week after week, as they fell out, one by one, ignoring the medical profession, the antidepressants, the nursing home and the remains of her own will to live.
Mary felt pierced by a sense of tragedy. Here was a woman who had abandoned her family for a vision and for a man, and now the man and the vision had abandoned her. She could remember Eleanor telling her, when she could still speak adequately, that she and Seamus had known each other in ‘previous lifetimes’. One of these previous lifetimes had taken place on something called a ‘skelig’, some kind of Irish seaside mound, which Seamus had taken Eleanor to see early in his financial courtship, on that unforgettable, blustery day when he took her hand and said, ‘Ireland needs you.’ Once Eleanor realized, in a ‘past-life recall’, that she had lived as Seamus’s wife on the very skelig they visited, during the Dark Ages, when Ireland was a beacon of Christianity in that muddle of pillage and migration, her immediate family, with whom she had a relatively shallow past, began to slip from view. And once Seamus visited Saint-Nazaire, he realized that France needed him even more than Ireland needed Eleanor. The house had been a convent in the seventeenth century, and a second ‘past-life recall’ established that Eleanor was (it seemed obvious once you were told) the mother superior. The noun, Mary remembered thinking, had stayed stuck in front of the adjective ever since. Seamus, amazingly, was the abbot of a local monastery at exactly the same time. And so they had been thrown together again, this time in a ‘spiritual friendship’ which had been misinterpreted and caused a great scandal in the area.
When Eleanor told her all this, in an oppressive parody of girls’ talk, Mary decided not to argue. Eleanor believed more or less anything, as long as it was untrue. It was part of her charitable nature to rush belief to the unbelievable, like emergency aid. She clearly needed to inhabit these historical novels to make up for the disappointment of a passion which was not being acted out in the bedroom (it had evolved too much for that) but was having a thrilling enough time at the Land Registry. It had all seemed so ridiculous to Mary at the time; now she wished she could stick back the peeling wallpaper of Eleanor’s credulity. Under the dreadful sincerity of the original confession was that need to be needed which Mary recognized so well.
‘I’ll ask him,’ she said, covering Eleanor’s hand gently with her own. Although she hadn’t seen him yet, she knew that Seamus was in his cottage. ‘Perhaps he’s been ill, or in Ireland.’
‘Ireland,’ Eleanor whispered.
When they were walking back to the car, Thomas stopped and shook his head. ‘Oh, dear,’ he said. ‘Eleanor is not very well.’
Mary loved his straightforward sympathy for suffering. He hadn’t yet learned to pretend that it wasn’t going on, or to blame the person who was having it. He fell asleep in the car and she decided she might as well go straight to Seamus’s cottage.
‘Well, now, that’s a terrible thing,’ said Seamus. ‘I thought with the family being here and everything, that Eleanor wouldn’t want to see me so much. And, to be honest with you Mary, the Pegasus Press have been breathing down my neck. They want to put my book in their spring catalogue. I’ve got so many ideas, it’s just getting them down. Do you think Drumbeat of my Heart or Heartbeat of my Drum is better?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Mary. ‘It depends which one you mean, I suppose.’
‘That’s good advice,’ said Seamus. ‘Talking of drums, we’re very pleased with your mother’s progress. She’s taken to the soul-retrieval work like a duck to water. I just got an email from her saying she wants to come to the autumn intensive.’
‘Amazing,’ said Mary. She was nervous that the monitor wouldn’t work. The green light seemed to be winking in the usual way, but she had never used it in the car before.
‘Soul retrieval is something I think Eleanor could benefit from immensely. I’m just thinking aloud now,’ said Seamus, swivelling excitedly in his chair and blocking Mary’s view of a leathery old Inuit woman, with a pipe dangling from her mouth, that radiated from his computer screen. ‘If your mother were to lead a ceremony with Eleanor at the centre of the circle, that could be hugely powerful with all the, you know, connections.’ He spread the fingers of both his hands and intermeshed them tenderly.
Poor Seamus, thought Mary, he wasn’t really a bad man, he was just a complete idiot. She sometimes became a little competitive with Patrick about who had the most annoying mother. Kettle gave nothing away, Eleanor gave everything away; the results were indistinguishable for the family, except that Mary had ‘expectations’, made fantastically remote by the robustness of her meticulously selfish mother, who thought of nothing but her own comfort, rushed to the doctor every time she sneezed and ‘treated’ herself to a holiday once a month to get over the disappointment of the last one. Patrick’s disinheritance had nudged him ahead in the bad-mother stakes, but perhaps Seamus was planning to eliminate that advantage by taking Kettle’s money as well. Was he, after all, really a bad man doing a brilliant impersonation of an idiot? It was hard to tell. The connections between stupidity and malice were so tangled and so dense.
‘I’m seeing more and more connections,’ said Seamus, twisting his fingers around each other. ‘To be honest with you, Mary, I don’t think I’ll write another book. It can do your head in.’
‘I bet,’ said Mary. ‘I couldn’t even begin to write a book.’
‘Oh, I’ve done the beginning,’ said Seamus. ‘In fact, I’ve done several beginnings. Perhaps it’s all beginnings, do you know what I mean?’
‘With each new heartbeat,’ said Mary. ‘Or drumbeat.’
‘That’s right, that’s right,’ said Seamus.
Thomas’s waking cry burst through the monitor. Mary was relieved to know that she was in range.
‘Oh, dear, I’m going to have to leave.’
‘I’ll definitely try to see Eleanor in the next few days,’ said Seamus, accompanying her to the door of his cottage. ‘I really appreciate what you said about the heartbeat and being in the moment – it’s given me a lot of ideas.’
He opened the door, setting off a tinkling of chimes. Mary looked up and saw three Chinese pictographs clustered around a dangling brass rod.
‘Happiness, Peace and Prosperity,’ said Seamus. ‘They’re inseparable.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Mary. ‘I was rather hoping to get the first two on their own.’
‘Ah, but what is prosperity?’ said Seamus, walking with her towards the car. ‘Ultimately, it’s having something to eat when you’re hungry. That’s the prosperity that was denied to Ireland, for instance, during the 1840s, and that’s still denied to millions of people around the world.’
‘Gosh,’ said Mary. ‘There’s not a lot I can do about the Irish in the 1840s. But I could give Thomas his “ultimate prosperity” – or can I go on cal
ling it “lunch”?’
Seamus threw back his head and let out a guffaw of wholesome laughter.
‘I think that would be simpler,’ he said, giving Mary’s back an unwelcome rub.
She opened the door and took Thomas out of his car seat.
‘How is the little man?’ said Seamus.
‘He’s very well,’ said Mary. ‘He has a lovely time here.’
‘Well, I’m sure that’s down to your excellent mothering,’ said Seamus, his hand by now burning a hole in the back of her T-shirt. ‘But I’d also say that with the soul work, it’s very important to create a safe environment. That’s what we do here. Now, maybe Thomas is picking that up, you know, at some level.’
‘I expect he is,’ said Mary, reluctant to deny Thomas a compliment, even when it was really intended by Seamus for himself. ‘He’s very good at picking things up.’
She managed to stand out of Seamus’s range, holding Thomas in her arms.
‘Ah,’ said Seamus, framing the two of them with a large parenthetical gesture, ‘the mother-and-child archetype. It makes me think of my own mother. She had the eight of us to look after. At the time I think I was preoccupied with little ways of getting more than my fair share of the attention.’ He chuckled indulgently at the memory of this younger, less enlightened self. ‘That was definitely a big dynamic in my family; but looking back from where I’m standing now, what amazes me is how she went on giving and giving. And you know, Mary, I’ve come to the conclusion that she was tapping into a universal source, into that archetypal mother-and-child energy. Do you know what I mean? I want to put something about that in my book. It all ties in with the shamanic work – at some level. It’s just getting it down. I’d welcome any thoughts about that: moments when you’ve felt supported by something beyond the level of, you know, personal sacrifice.’
‘Let me think about it,’ said Mary, suddenly realizing where Seamus had learned his little ways of getting mothers to hand over their resources to him. ‘In the meantime, I really must make Thomas some lunch.’
‘Of course, of course,’ said Seamus. ‘Well, it’s been grand talking to you, Mary. I really feel that we’ve connected.’
‘I feel I’ve learned a lot as well,’ said Mary.
She now knew, for instance, that his feeble promise to ‘try to visit Eleanor in the next few days’ meant that he would not visit her today, or tomorrow, or the next day. Why would he waste his ‘little ways’ on a woman who only had a couple of fake Boudins to her name?
* * *
She carried Thomas into the kitchen and put him down on the counter. He took his thumb out of his mouth and looked at her with a subtle expression which hovered between seriousness and laughter.
‘Seamus is a very funny man, Mama,’ he said.
Mary burst out laughing.
‘He certainly is,’ she said, kissing him on the forehead.
‘He certainly is a very funny man!’ said Thomas, catching her laughter. He scrunched up his eyes in order to laugh more seriously.
* * *
No wonder she was tired after seeing Eleanor and Seamus on the same day, no wonder it was difficult to extort any more vigilance from her aching body and her blanched mind. Something had happened today; she hadn’t quite got the measure of it, but it was one of those sudden dam bursts which were the only way she ever ended a long period of conflict. She had no time to work it out while Thomas was still bouncing naked in the middle of the bed.
‘That was a very big jump,’ said Thomas, climbing to his feet again. ‘You certainly are impressed, Mama.’
‘Yes, darling. What would you like to read tonight?’
Thomas stopped in order to concentrate on a difficult task.
‘Let’s talk reasonably about lollipops,’ he said, retrieving a phrase from an old book of Patrick’s which had got stuck down in Saint-Nazaire.
‘Dr Upping and Dr Downing?’
‘No, Mama, I don’t want to read that.’
Mary took Babar and Professor Grifiton from the shelf and climbed over the guard onto the bed. They had a ritual of reviewing the day, and Mary threw out the usual question, ‘What did we do today?’ Thomas stopped bouncing as she had hoped.
Thomas lowered his voice and shook his head solemnly.
‘Peter Rabbit has been eating my grapes,’ he said.
‘No!’ said Mary, shocked.
‘Mr McGregor will be very angry with Seamus.’
‘Why Seamus? I thought it was Peter Rabbit who took the grapes.’
‘No, Mama, it was Seamus.’
Whatever it was that Thomas was ‘picking up’, it wasn’t the sense of a ‘safe environment’ that Seamus had boasted about creating for ‘the soul work’. It was the atmosphere of theft. If Seamus was prepared to treat Eleanor with so little ceremony, when she had set off the prosperity chime in his life with such a resounding tinkle, why would he bother to honour her promises to his defeated rivals? His imagination was teeming with competing siblings, and he had adopted Patrick and Mary for the purposes of triumphing over them in an archaic contest for which neither of them had received his commando training. What was the point of an old woman who couldn’t even buy him a sensory-deprivation tank? And what was the point of her descendants cluttering up his Foundation during August?
12
‘BUT I DON’T UNDERSTAND, said Robert, watching Mary pack. ‘Why do we have to leave?’
‘You know why,’ said Mary.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his shoulders rounded and his hands wedged under his thighs. If there had been time, she would have sat beside him and hugged him and let him cry again, but she had to get on with the packing while Thomas was sleeping.
Mary hadn’t slept for the last two days, equally tormented by the atmosphere of loss and the longing to leave. Houses, paintings, trees, Eleanor’s teeth, Patrick’s childhood and her children’s holidays: to her tired mind they all seemed to be piled up like the wreckage from a flood. She had spent the last seven years watching Patrick’s childhood like a rope inching through his clenched hands. Now she wanted to get the hell out. It was already too late to stop Robert from identifying with Patrick’s sense of injustice, but she could still save Thomas from getting tangled in the drama of disinheritance. The family was being split in half and it could only come back together if they left.
Patrick had gone to say goodbye to Eleanor. He had promised not to make any irrevocably bitter speeches in case he never saw her again. If he had enough warning of her death, he would doubtless fly down to hold her hand, but it was unrealistic to think that the rest of them would be checking into the Grand Hôtel des Bains to mount a deathbed vigil in the nursing home. Mary had to admit that she looked forward to Eleanor dropping out of their lives altogether.
‘Would we get the house if we killed Seamus?’ asked Robert.
‘No,’ said Mary, ‘it would go to the next director of the Foundation.’
‘That’s so unfair,’ said Robert. ‘Unless I became the director. Yes! I’m a genius!’
‘Except that you would have to direct the Foundation.’
‘Oh, yeah, that’s true,’ said Robert. ‘Well, maybe Seamus will repent.’ He adopted a thick Irish accent. ‘I can only apologize, Mary. I don’t know what came over me, trying to steal the house from you and the little ones, but I’ve come to moi senses now and I want you to know that even if you can find it in your heart to forgive me for the agony I’ve caused you, I shall never be able to forgive myself.’ He broke down sobbing.
She knew his fake sobbing was close to being real. For the first time since Thomas was born she felt that Robert was the one who needed her most. His great strength was that he was even more interested in playing with what was going on than he was in wasting his time trying to control it – although he did quite a lot of that as well. His playfulness had collapsed for a few days and been replaced entirely by wishing and longing and regretting. Now she saw it coming back. She could never quite get used to
the way he pieced together impersonations out of the things he overheard. Seamus had become his latest obsession, and no wonder. She was too exhausted to do anything but give him a laborious smile and fold the swimming trunks she had unpacked for him less than a week before. Everything had happened so fast. On the day he arrived with Robert, Patrick had found a note asking if Kevin and Anette could have ‘some space’ in the house. Seamus had dropped in the next morning at breakfast to get his answer.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ he called out.
‘Not at all,’ said Patrick. ‘It’s good of you to come so quickly. Would you like some coffee?’
‘I won’t, thank you, Patrick. I’ve really been abusing the caffeine lately in an attempt to get myself going with the writing, you know.’
‘Well, I hope you don’t mind if I go ahead and abuse some caffeine without you.’
‘Be my guest,’ said Seamus.
‘Is that what I am?’ asked Patrick, like a greyhound out of the slips. ‘Or are you in fact my guest during this one month of the year? That’s the crux of the matter. You know that the terms of my mother’s gift included letting us have the house for August, and we’re not going to put up with having your friends billeted on us.’
‘Well, now, “terms” is a very legalistic way of putting it,’ said Seamus. ‘There’s nothing in writing about the Foundation providing you with a free holiday. I have a genuine sympathy for the trouble you’ve had in accepting your mother’s wishes. That’s why I’ve been prepared to put up with a lot of negativity from your side.’
The Patrick Melrose Novels Page 54
