Patrick dragged behind the rest of the party, trying to pretend he was in a horticultural trance, leaning over to stare blindly at a nameless flower, hoping he looked like the shade of Andrew Marvell rather than a stale drunk who dreaded being drawn into conversation. The vast lawn turned into a box maze, a topiary zoo (from which the doomed kangaroo was excluded) and finally a lime grove.
‘Look, Dada! A sanglier!’ said Thomas, pointing to a curly haired, heavy snouted bronze boar, with legs that looked too delicate to bear the weight of its pendulous belly and massive tusked head.
‘Yes, darling,’ said Patrick.
Wild boar had always been French for Patrick and he was heartbroken that they were French for Thomas as well. How could he have retained that word over the whole year? Was he thinking of the wild boar at Saint-Nazaire trotting across the garden to eat the fallen figs, or snuffling among the vines at night, looking for ripe grapes? No, he wasn’t. Sanglier was just a word for the animal in the statue. He had already turned his back on it and was running down the lime grove pretending to be an aeroplane. Patrick’s heartbreak was all his own, and even that was hollow. He no longer felt a corrosive nostalgia for Saint-Nazaire; its loss just clarified the real failure: that he couldn’t be the sort of father he wanted to be, a man who had transcended his ancestral muddle and offered his children unhaunted love. He had made it out of what he thought of as Zone One, where a parent was doomed to make his child experience what he had hated most about his life, but he was still stuck in Zone Two, where the painstaking avoidance of Zone One blinded him to fresh mistakes. In Zone Two giving was based on what the giver lacked. Nothing was more exhausting than this deficiency-driven, overcompensating zeal. He dreamt of Zone Three. He sensed that it was there, just over the hill, like the rumour of a fertile valley. Perhaps his present chaos was the final rejection of an unsustainable way of being. He must stop drinking, not tomorrow but later this afternoon when the next opportunity arose.
Strangely excited by this glint of hope, Patrick continued to hang back. The tour drifted on. A stone Diana stood at the far end of the grove, eternally hunting the bronze boar at the other end. Behind the house, a springy wood-chip path meandered through an improved wood. Patches of light shivered on the denuded ground between the broad trunks of oaks and beeches. Beyond the wood they passed a hangar where huge fans, consuming enough electricity to run a small village, kept agapanthus warm in the winter. Next to the hangar was a hen house somewhat larger than Patrick’s London flat, and so strangely undefiled that he couldn’t help wondering if these were genetically modified hens which had been crossed with cucumbers to stop them from defecating. Beth walked over the fresh sawdust, under the red heat lamps, and discovered three speckled brown eggs in the laying boxes. Every plate of scrambled eggs must cost her several thousand dollars. The truth was that he hated the very rich, especially since he was never going to be one of them. They were all too often only the shrill pea in the whistle of their possessions. Without the editorial influence of the word ‘afford’, their desires rambled on like unstoppable bores, relentless and whimsical at the same time. They could give the appearance of generosity to all sorts of emotional meanness – ‘Do borrow the fourth house we never get round to using. We won’t be there ourselves, but Carmen and Alfonso will look after you. No, really, it’s no trouble at all, and besides it’s about time we got our money’s worth out of those two. We pay them a fortune and they never do a stroke of work.’
‘What are you muttering about?’ said Nancy, who was clearly annoyed that Patrick had underperformed as an admiring guest.
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Patrick.
‘Isn’t this hen house divine?’ she prompted him.
‘It would be a privilege to live here,’ said Patrick, catching up abruptly with his social duties.
When the garden tour ended, with a gift of eggs, the visit ended as well. On the way back to Nancy’s, Patrick was confronted by his decision not to go on drinking. It was all very well to decide not to drink when he had no choice, but in a few minutes he would be able to climb into the Buick’s private liquor store. What did it matter if he started stopping tomorrow? He knew that it somehow mattered completely. If he went on now he would be hung over tomorrow morning and the whole day would begin with a poisonous legacy. But more than that, he wanted to cultivate the faint hope he had felt in the garden. If he stopped tomorrow it would be from an excess of shame, a nastier and less reliable motivation. What, on the other hand, was Zone Three? His mind was occluded by tension; he couldn’t reconstruct the hope.
Back in Nancy’s library, he stared out of the window, feeling that he was being stared at in turn by the bottle of bourbon he had replaced on the drinks tray. It would be so much neater to bring it down to the level the empty one had started at. Just as he was about to give in, Nancy came into the room and sank with a theatrical sigh into the armchair opposite him.
‘I feel we haven’t really talked about Eleanor,’ she said. ‘I think I’m frightened of asking because I was so shocked when I last saw her.’
‘You heard about the fall?’
‘No!’
‘She broke her hip and went into hospital. When I went to see her she started asking me to kill her. She hasn’t stopped asking me since. Every time I go…’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Nancy, ‘I really don’t think that’s fair! I mean, it’s all too Greek. There must be some special Furies for children who kill their parents.’
‘Yeah,’ said Patrick. ‘Wormwood Scrubs.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Nancy, twisting in her chair. ‘It’s so complicated. I mean, I know I wouldn’t want to go on living if I couldn’t speak, or move, or read, or watch a movie.’
‘I have no doubt that helping her to die would be the most loving thing to do.’
‘Well, I don’t want you to misinterpret me, but maybe we should rent an ambulance and drive her to Holland.’
‘Arriving in Holland isn’t in itself fatal,’ said Patrick.
‘Oh, please, let’s not talk about it any more. I find it too upsetting. I really couldn’t bear it if I ended up like that.’
‘Do you want a drink?’ asked Patrick.
‘Oh, no. I don’t drink,’ said Nancy. ‘Didn’t you know? I watched it destroy Daddy’s life. But do help yourself if you want one.’
Patrick imagined one of his children saying, ‘I watched it destroy Daddy’s life.’ He noticed that he was leaning forward in his chair.
‘I might help myself by not having one,’ he said, sinking back and closing his eyes.
15
MARY COULD HARDLY BELIEVE that Patrick and Robert were in one thinly carpeted motel room and she and Thomas were in another, with plastic wraps on the plastic glasses, and Sanitized For Your Protection sashes on the plastic loo seats, and a machine down the corridor whose shuddering ejaculations of ice reminded her unwillingly of the state of her marriage. She could hear the steady hum of the freeway thickening in the early morning. It was the perfect soundtrack to the quick, slick flow of her anxiety. At about four in the morning a phrase had started clicking like a metronome she was too tired to reach out and stop: ‘Interstate–inner state, interstate–inner state.’ Sleeplessness was the breeding ground of these sardonic harmonies; ice machine–marriage; interstate–inner state. It was enough to drive you mad. Or was it enough to stop you from going mad? Making connections. She could hardly believe that her family was haemorrhaging more money in order to have a horrible time in one of America’s migratory nowheres. So much road and so few places, so much friendliness and so little intimacy, so much flavour and so little taste. She longed to get the children back home to London, away from the thin rush of America and back to the density of their ordinary lives.
Patrick had kept up the tradition of getting them thrown out of somewhere rather lovely quite a long time before the end of the holidays. Saint-Nazaire last year, Henry’s island this year. Of course she was delighted that he had stopped drinking, but
the effect in the first week was to make him behave like other people when they were blind drunk: explosive, irascible, despairing. All the boils were being lanced at once, the kidney dishes overflowing. Henry was certainly a nightmare, but he was also some sort of relation and, above all, a host who was providing a playground for the children, with its own harbour and beaches and sailing boats and motor boats and, to Thomas’s undying amazement, its own petrol pump.
‘I mean, it’s unbelievable, Henry has his own petrol pump!’ Thomas said several times a day, opening his palms and shaking his head. Robert was in a statistical frenzy of acres and bedrooms, totting up the immensity of Henry’s domain, but both boys were mainly having a wonderful time dashing briefly into the freezing water and going out in Henry’s speedboats, riding the wake behind the big ferries which served the public islands.
The only thing which went wrong was everything else. During the first lunch Henry asked Mary to remove Thomas from the dining room when his monologue on the moral necessity of increasing Israel’s nuclear-strike capacity was interrupted by Thomas’s impersonation of a petrol pump.
‘The Syrians are filling their pants right now and they’re right to be…’ Henry was saying gleefully.
‘Bvvvv,’ said Thomas. ‘Bvvvv…’
‘I’m sure you’re familiar with the phrase, “Children should be seen and not heard”,’ said Henry.
‘Who isn’t?’ said Mary.
‘I’ve always thought it was too liberal,’ said Henry, craning his neck out of his shirt to emphasize his bon mot.
‘You’d rather not see him either?’ said Mary, suddenly furious. She picked Thomas up and carried him out of the room rapidly, Henry’s unmolested monologue resuming its flow behind her.
‘When Admiral Yamamoto had finished his attack on Pearl Harbor, he had the wisdom to be more apprehensive than triumphant. “Gentlemen,” he said, “we have roused a sleeping dragon.” It is that thought that should be uppermost in the minds of the world’s international terrorists and their state sponsors. With an arsenal of tactical nuclear weapons, not just a deterrent nuclear shield, Israel will send a clear message to the region that it stands shoulder to shoulder…’
She burst onto the lawn picturing Henry as one of those unknotted balloons Thomas liked to watch swirling flatulently around the room until it suddenly flopped to the ground in wrinkled exhaustion.
‘I’m letting go of a balloon, Mama,’ said Thomas, spinning his hand in tight circles.
‘How did you know I was thinking about a balloon?’ said Mary.
‘I did know that,’ said Thomas, tilting his head to one side and smiling.
These borderless moments happened often enough for Mary to get used to them, but she couldn’t quite shake off her surprise at how precise they were.
By silent agreement the two of them walked away from the house to the little rocky beach at the foot of the lawn. Mary sat down on a small patch of silvery white sand among rocks festooned with beaded black seaweed.
‘Will you look after me for a long time?’ asked Thomas.
‘Yes, darling.’
‘Until I’m fourteen?’
‘As long as you want me to,’ she said. ‘As long as I can…’ she added. He had asked her the other day if she was going to die and she had said, ‘Yes, but not for a long time, I hope.’ His discovery of her mortality blew away the dust which had dimmed the menace of it in her own mind and made it glare at her again with all its root horror restored. She loathed death for making her let him down. Why couldn’t he play a little longer? Why couldn’t he feel safe a little longer? She had recovered her balance to some extent, attributing his interest in death to the transition from infancy to childhood, but also wondering if Patrick’s impatience with that transition was making it happen sooner than necessary. Robert had been through the same sort of crisis when he was five; Thomas was only three.
Thomas sat down on her lap and sucked his thumb, fingering the smooth label of his raggie with the other hand. He was minutes away from sleep. Mary sat back on her heels and made herself calm. She could do things for Thomas that she couldn’t do for herself or anyone else, not even Robert. Thomas needed her for his protection, that was obvious enough, but she needed him for her sense of virtue. When she felt gloomy he made her want to be cheerful, when she was drained he made her find new wells of energy, when she was exasperated she searched for a deeper patience. She sat there as still as the rocks around her and waited while he dropped off.
However hot the day became, the sea here was a refrigerator throwing off a sceptical little breeze. She liked the feeling that Maine was basically inhospitable, that it would soon shake out its summer visitors, like a dog on a beach. In the chink between two winters the northern light sparkled hungrily on the sea. She imagined it stretched out like a gaunt El Greco saint. The thought made her want to paint again. She wanted to make love again. She wanted to think again, if she was going to start making lists, but somehow she had lost her independence. Her being was fused with Thomas’s. She was like someone whose clothes had been stolen while she was having a swim, and now she didn’t know how to get out of this tiring beautiful pool.
After Thomas had been asleep for five minutes she was able to move to a more comfortable position. She sat against the bank at the bottom of the lawn and placed him lengthwise between her legs, as if he was still being born, still the wrong way round. She formed a canopy with his raggie to protect him from the sun, and leant back and closed her eyes and tried to rest, but her thoughts looped back tightly enough onto Kettle’s remote style of mothering and the part it played in producing her own fanatical availability. She thought of her nanny, her kind, dedicated nanny, solving one little problem after the next, inhabiting a nursery world without sex or art or intoxicants or conversation, just practical kindness and food. Of course looking after a child made her feel like the nanny who had looked after her when she was a child. And of course it made her determined to be unlike Kettle who had failed to look after her. Personality seemed to her at once absurd and compulsive: she remained trapped inside it even when she could see through it. Her thoughts on mothers and mothering twisted around, following the thread of a knot they couldn’t untie.
For some reason, sitting by this black sea with its slightly chill breeze made her feel she could see everything very clearly. Thomas was asleep and nobody else knew exactly where she was. For the first time in months nobody knew how to make any demands on her and in that sudden absence of pressure she could appreciate the family’s tropical atmosphere of unresolved dependency. Eleanor like a sick child pleading with Patrick to ‘make it stop’; Thomas like a referee pushing his parents apart if Patrick ever tried to get close to her indifferent body; Robert keeping his diary, keeping his distance. She was at the eye of the storm, with her need to be needed making her appear more self-sufficient than she really was. In reality she couldn’t survive on the glory of satisfying other people’s unreasonable demands. Her passion for self-sacrifice sometimes made her feel like a prisoner who meekly digs the trench for her own execution. Patrick needed a revolution against the tyranny of dependency, but she needed one against the tyranny of self-sacrifice. Although she was overstretched and monopolized, an appeal to her best instincts only drove her further into the trap. The protests which might be expected to come from Robert’s sibling rivalry came instead from the relatively unstable Patrick. It was bad luck that she had become disgusted by the slightest sign of need in Patrick at a time when he had Thomas as well as Eleanor to stimulate his own sense of helplessness. Patrick accused her of overindulging Thomas, but if Thomas was ready to do without certain maternal comforts, Patrick must be even readier. Perhaps he was no longer ripe but rotten. Perhaps a psychic gangrene had set in and it was the smell of corruption that revolted her.
That evening she excused herself from dinner and stayed with Thomas, leaving Patrick and Robert to face the roused dragon of Henry’s table talk on their own. Even before dinner, as she sat
on the faded pink cushions of the window seat, the panes of the bay window around her bleeding and glittering in the sea-reflected evening light, with the children behaving beautifully and Patrick smiling over a glass of mineral water, she knew she couldn’t stand more than a few minutes of Henry’s address to the nation. He was on a whirlwind tour of foreign policy, heading east from Israel, through the Stans and the Formers, and on his way to the People’s Republics. She had a dreadful feeling that he intended to get to North Korea before bedtime. No doubt he had a cunning plan to nuke North Korea before it nuked South Korea and Japan. She didn’t want to hear it.
After his bath, Thomas wanted to climb into her bed and she didn’t have the heart to refuse him. They snuggled up together reading The Wind in the Willows. Thomas fell asleep as Rat and Mole started to drift down the river after their picnic. When Patrick came into the room she realized that she had also dropped off with the book on her lap and her reading glasses still on.
‘I so nearly had a fight with Henry,’ said Patrick, striding into the room with his clenched fists still looking for a destination.
‘Oh dear, what was it this evening?’ she asked.
Patrick was always saying that their erotic, conversational and social lives were over, that they were just parental bureaucrats. Well, here she was, shattered and abruptly woken, but ready for a lively conversation.
‘North Korea.’
‘I knew it.’
The Patrick Melrose Novels Page 59
