1) The Phone Phobia? This already seems irrelevant.
2) The Strange Revelations of Yesterday? Still too overwhelming to talk about. (He’d had to detour to the men’s toilets and sit in a cubicle for twenty minutes before his knees stopped shaking.)
3) His Lack of Money? Urgent to solve, but insufferable to discuss.
4) His Growing Feelings for —
But no! This is not a possible topic for Geoffrey’s office. The thought has pushed unbidden into his mind, irrepressible, hopeful. It needs to remain a secret for now, a slow-growing beauty, bud under bark, a swelling under snow.
Geoffrey has finished stirring his coffee and is looking enquiring. ‘Okay, I’ll talk about my father,’ says Bright in a rush.
BRIGHT’S FATHER WAS THE most mournful-looking man in Maida Vale, if not the entire world. The children in the neighbourhood named him ‘The Beagle’: something to do with the low slant of his eyes. Life had sat heavily on the Reverend’s head for so many years that his face had squished, dog-like, towards his chin.
When Bright thinks of his father, there’s always a closed door. He isn’t tall enough to reach the gleaming handle so he knocks below it, rapping on the oak panel with his small fist. ‘Sir?’ he calls tentatively. ‘May I come in, Sir?’ (In those days, his father still commanded his respect.)
To anyone over ten, Bright’s father was not The Beagle, but Reverend the Younger. The first, older Reverend had been Bright’s grandfather, a fixture in Maida Vale as long as anyone could remember. It seemed as if he’d grown there organically, pushing up through the streets like a bald-capped mushroom, living long enough to become sprawling and huge, seemingly immovable, but finally decaying into death.
‘What is it?’ The voice of the Second Reverend squeezes between the tightly fitted carpet and the bottom of the door. From Mondays to Fridays his study door was always closed. Normal fathers went to work on these days but Bright’s father stayed at home, writing, reading, making phone calls, and murmuring from behind his mahogany desk to the greatest Father of them all.
Bright had learnt to crawl and then to walk in the long aisles of the red brick church at the end of Lonsdale Road. Here, the sun was permitted only if it entered in a gentle, filtered way through the high arched windows. His outstretched hands would turn red, gold and blue: a memorable and surprising sight, and his nine-month-old lungs puffed amazement into the dusty carpet.
Where was his mother? That’s a good question, as Geoffrey would say. Possibly in the church hall making coffee, or in the kitchen making tea — but, looking back, it seems more likely that she was in the travel agent’s, planning her escape. The fact is she’s absent from Bright’s earliest memories — and in his slightly later ones she’s already in a foreign country, forgetting him.
It’s imperative, on those chokingly quiet weekdays, to gain access to the study. Bright’s stomach is sad and gaping, he might cry, even as his brain works with the implacable cunning of a fox. ‘I’ve finished the book,’ he calls through the keyhole. ‘Can I have another volume?’ (Hear the slight imperiousness in his tone? Another volume is the only acceptable reason for interrupting The Beagle when he’s writing a sermon.)
What’s the book clutched in Bright’s slightly sweaty hand? It could be the third volume of Spedding’s The Letters and Life of Francis Bacon. It could be the poetry of Tennyson, or possibly Cowper. Certainly not the Russians, who weren’t encouraged in the O’Connor house due to their excess of high drama, nor the French (overly emotional, with scant regard for structure). The house and its reading material remained resolutely decent, while the clock in the hallway ticked in an orderly fashion, counting Bright’s childhood away.
‘Finished already?’ At last the door is opened, brushing against the salmon-pink carpet. ‘Goodness, Brian, how you gobble.’ The Beagle’s dark moustache quivers with suppressed pride. He marches to the bookshelves and exchanges one volume for the next like a professional librarian. ‘There you go. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better get on.’
‘“I’D BETTER GET ON”,’ muses Bright. ‘That was how each conversation, if you could call it that, finished. Then the door was closed in my face again.’
‘And that made you feel…?’ Geoffrey sits back, resting his fingers together in a steeple.
Bright’s ears get hot with anger. ‘Like reading the fourth volume of Spedding?’ He stares Geoffrey straight in the eyes. Haven’t we moved beyond these cat-and-mouse games by now?
Geoffrey stares back for the requisite minute of silence, then winces. ‘Excuse me.’ He swivels and pulls something out of the cushioned seat of his chair. ‘A burr. I shouldn’t let Pookie in here but he likes the warmth from the radiators.’ He aims at the bin, eyebrows raised and mouth open with the concentration of a basketball player. ‘Damn. Missed.’
‘I’ll get it,’ sighs Bright, heaving himself up.
‘So you couldn’t reach the door handle of your father’s study,’ says Geoffrey, casually addressing his back, ‘yet you were old enough to read weighty scholarly works?’
‘Hmm.’ Bright turns, frowns, returns to his chair. ‘A conflation of memories. Before he went to Africa, after he came back, and in between, I was always trying to get in. My mother was the opposite. Once she made it out of the house and out of London, she never came back.’
‘And what happened once the marriage was over?’
‘The Reverend moved north. Got a new parish. Met the Paper Doll.’
‘Your stepmother, a paper doll?’ Geoffrey looks genuinely interested. ‘Feel free to elaborate.’
‘She sleeps on her back so her chest won’t crease,’ explains Bright. ‘She’s nothing but a manifestation of my father’s midlife crisis. Probably the most normal thing he’s ever done. And the most sensible: she’s filthy rich — family money.’
‘And what happened to you, after they married?’
‘I went to Cambridge because I wanted to keep reading, and then I dropped out because I wanted to write. The Reverend persuaded me to move north so he could see more of me, I moved, we hardly ever see each other. End of story.’
‘It’s never the end of the story,’ says Geoffrey gently. ‘The Jump could have been, but fortunately it wasn’t.’
‘I saw my father the night before.’ He winds the long scarf tightly around his throat. ‘It won’t surprise you that I can’t remember what he said to me. I only remember how he made me feel.’
‘And how was that?’
‘Let’s just say that when I’m writing I feel valid. When I’m with him, I feel invalid. In both senses of the word.’ He gives a choked laugh.
‘Perhaps you can think of him as an insignificant person who happens to be related to you. It’s okay to dislike your father.’
‘Is it?’ asks Bright in a strangled voice.
‘Millions do,’ says Geoffrey cheerfully. ‘Put him in a relegated place, and concentrate on all the people who like and approve of you.’
Bright stops pulling on the scarf and burning air rushes into his lungs. ‘But there’s no one.’ He feels bleak. ‘I have no one.’
‘You’ve chosen to have no one. There’s a big difference. From what I’ve seen, there are plenty of people waiting to be allowed in. And I’m not just talking about your readers.’
‘I can’t let them all in,’ mutters Bright. ‘At least, not all at once.’
‘One at a time,’ nods Geoffrey. ‘Limited admission.’
The alarm clock on the desk gives a short ting; it’s time for Bright to go. ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he assures Geoffrey. ‘Let’s do it again some time.’
Geoffrey smiles, inclines his head, says nothing.
At the door Bright turns and salutes. ‘Sir! From years of experience, I recommend Bacon for nights when you can’t sleep.’ The return to sarkiness feels like lying down after the longest day — but something’s different. The door falls shut with a click; behind it the burr is lying at the bottom of the dark bin, Geoffrey is sitti
ng calmly in his chair, the rain continues to stroke the glass with blurred hands.
And when he walks down the corridor, he doesn’t march in his usual way but treads quietly, listening to his regular unstoppable footsteps, anticipating the touch of raindrops on his face.
THE GREAT PRETENDER
SAVAGE IS FOUND ONE evening lying on the stairs in a pool of vomit. Early the next morning he and his bags are bundled into a taxi, and the door is closed forever on his stay at The Palace.
‘Remember,’ says Geoffrey loudly and encouragingly to the tinted window of the car, ‘you haven’t failed. You just haven’t found the right place yet.’
As Savage is borne away he stares back at them all, his small angry face looking like a scrunched-up piece of paper in the rear window. Lace attempts a wave, although her arm falls to her side almost immediately.
Bright looks disconsolate. ‘Now who’s going to tell us stories about hookers in Chicago?’
Rosalind explodes into noisy tears. ‘I think I loved him.’ She looks around for support, but Mirabelle is inside distancing herself from Problems Not Her Own. Bright has edged away behind Geoffrey, and Gibby has crossed the road to help an old woman whose plastic shopping bag has split. Rosalind clutches at Lace’s arm. ‘Oh, didn’t you love him?’
Lace’s feet are numb and her heart is a cold lump inside her chest. ‘Um, he didn’t say much,’ she manages to say through frosty lips.
‘You’re right,’ wails Rosalind. ‘He was so stoical, so resolute!’
‘And now he’s so gone,’ adds Bright, walking along the top of the wall, out of reach.
‘Come, Rosalind! Remember our discussions about the Unattainable! Don’t undo the good work.’ Geoffrey pulls reams of apricot tissues from his magician pocket for the sniffing Twin, while for everyone else he produces pamphlets emblazoned with the words ‘JUST SAY NO’. ‘Savage’s failure is our failure,’ he says repeatedly, as he hands over the written reminder.
‘But you told Savage that he hadn’t failed.’ Rosalind stares rather malevolently over her handful of tissues.
‘Did I?’ Geoffrey almost looks as if he’s grinding his teeth. ‘My short-term memory isn’t what it used to be. At any rate, we can all see where Savage erred, and rather than judge him or mourn him we might better think —’
‘There but for the grace of God?’ suggests Bright.
‘Exactly!’ Geoffrey slams the gate shut on the troublesome world outside.
‘It couldn’t have been me or Mirabelle in that taxi,’ sniffs Rosalind. ‘Neither of us has touched drugs or a drop of alcohol in our lives. God has nothing to do with it.’
‘Commendable,’ says Geoffrey crisply. ‘Let’s talk more about your joint (pardon the pun) abstinence in our session this afternoon. Lace, I’ll see you in ten minutes, in Dr Mallory’s office.’ He’s less genial today, perhaps rattled by Admin’s discovery of a huge bag of marijuana taped behind Savage’s wardrobe.
‘You and Geoffrey are meeting in Dr Mallory’s office?’ Gibby, returned from his good deeds, overhears this change of plans. ‘Why there?’
Lace shrugs. The tiny salt drops of Rosalind’s grief are pushing through the weave of her jacket: when they reach her skin, will they burn or freeze? She waits without curiosity, listening to Gibby fretting. ‘Perhaps Geoffrey’s office is being cleaned,’ he says. ‘Or Dr Mallory wants more space and is swapping with Geoffrey?’
‘Bigger breasts require bigger rooms,’ says Bright. He touches Lace lightly on the arm, just above the elbow; it’s enough to stop the invasive seep of Rosalind’s tears from entering Lace’s bloodstream. ‘I’ll be reading in the games room,’ he says quietly, moving away.
‘Bigger breasts, bigger rooms! For someone who supposedly loves literature,’ comments Gibby in a not particularly low voice, ‘he’s got a pretty crass sense of humour.’
‘Well, he likes Shakespeare, Chekhov, Beckett…’ Lace speaks from the corner of her half-dead snow mouth. ‘They were all fond of the stupid and the crude.’
Gibby accompanies her into the Old Building. ‘I can wait outside while you have your session, if you like?’ In the interior gloom large purple rings appear under his eyes, almost as if he, like Rosalind, has been crying.
‘Thanks,’ says Lace with difficulty. ‘But —’
He remembers without having to be told that she hates being waited for almost as much as she hates waiting. ‘I’ll be in the games room,’ he nods, before remembering who’s already there. ‘No, I’ll be in the TV alcove next to the snack bar. Come and find me when you’re done.’
Two people waiting for her in the New Building. First, deal with the two waiting here. She’s immobile in the empty hallway, with its low beams and empty picture hooks — but along the floor, crawling out from under Dr Mallory’s door, come the crab voices. Their pincer-tone is recognisable, making her eyes smart and causing time to race backwards and sideways. Child psychologists are talking clickety-clack to her young uncle and her almost-aunt. Severely traumatised, they click. May never recover from what she saw, clack.
It’s imperative to outsmart them but it won’t be easy. Outsmart, outwit, outrun; leave them behind — leave them for dead! Now it’s Johnny Jackson speaking, stomping on the floor-crabs, crushing them with his jubilant boots. Give the performance of your life, he says, juggling phones and a bottle of beer, while giving her the thumbs-up.
How do you warm up for the race of your life? Her legs are trembling. She pinches her cheeks, the way pushy mothers do before their ice-skating daughters rush onto the rink. Still her blood remains subterranean, hidden deep below skin and veins.
‘Do something, Lace,’ she says out loud. ‘Or you’re dead meat.’
It’s enough to set her in motion down the corridor: away from, not towards, the leaking door, through the foyer, and out into the sickly sunlight towards the New Building. Twice she stumbles, dragging her life behind her. Far ahead, across the vast grey-green mounds, the windows of the games room shimmer like a mirage.
But she doesn’t have to struggle that far because he’s coming towards her. His eyes are as light and immediate as the wind. ‘I’m just going to get my dictionary from my room,’ he says smiling. And then, concerned, ‘What’s the matter?’
Her lungs are hurting terribly; she straightens up. ‘I need —’ Her eyes stream with the effort of speech. ‘I need —’
Instantly he wraps his arms around her. So skinny, so wiry, but he stops all draughts and blocks out the tiring sun. Closing her eyes and resting her head against him, she feels his colours seeping into her. The emerald green of his eyes, the fiery red of his hair. The sky blue of his scarf, the vivid orange of his coat, and the bold crimson blood running through his veins.
How long do they stand there? No one knows. When she raises her head at last, she is striped and beautiful. A parakeet in a rainforest where no one blunders or cries, and the only path through life is soaring: never a trudge.
‘You’re — amazing.’ Bright looks at her, still holding her close. It’s no cliché, the words are dazzling, new-minted, suggesting it’s the first time he’s ever said them.
‘You’re amazing too.’ The tingling in her body almost hurts, like numb fingers returning to life. She bites her lip. ‘I only have a minute and a half before my appointment.’
‘Then I’ll do this now.’ And he kisses her. Warm lips, soft but not hesitant, and they thaw the last frozen part of her body: the ice shell around her heart. It’s respect and tenderness, it’s every kind of longing and desire. It’s the kiss she’s been waiting for her whole life.
‘You’d better run.’ He lets her go, steadying her on her feet. ‘I’ll be here for you afterwards.’
And so she’s able to enter Dr Mallory’s office blazing, more dazzling than she’s been in her entire life, making Dr Mallory and Geoffrey blink, shade their eyes and glance down at their notes.
‘Goodness,’ mutters Geoffrey. ‘You look —’ Usually adept at expressing
others’ emotional and physical states, he seems unable to conjure up a phrase to define Lace, transformed.
‘We’ve been worried about you,’ begins Dr Mallory, donning her glasses. ‘You’ve been sliding, not responding in the way we’d hoped — although today there’s a marked…’
At a loss for new words, Geoffrey reverts to old ones, shuffling through session notes. ‘Last week you admitted to feeling… Three days ago you failed to appear… Yesterday morning you were seen crying…’
But even as she sits in a chair, silent and acquiescent, she is unignorably vivid. Like the brilliant silk of a hot-air balloon, her presence swells and billows, pushing Dr Mallory back in her chair, knocking the pen from Geoffrey’s hand. Surely there must be some mistake! breathes the admiring carpet. You’ve got the wrong woman, affirms the ceiling, rising a little out of respect for Lace’s well-being.
Dr Mallory tries hard to stick to the original plan. ‘We’ve come to the conclusion…’ She hesitates. ‘That you may be better off in a more medically orientated institution. Right?’ She looks to Geoffrey for much-needed backup.
‘In truth…’ Geoffrey says, looking understandably confused, ‘we’re not sure we can help you.’
‘We can’t ignore the seriousness of your…’ straggles Dr Mallory. ‘Even your friend has grown anxious about…’ Her sentences lose their way, have no courage of conviction — because Lace, in her borrowed colours, has claimed it all.
Geoffrey clears his throat as people do when wanting to sound assertive. ‘Do you have anything to contribute?’ Looking amazed, he stares at the sheen on Lace’s skin, the glow of health on her cheeks, the radiant colourful calm of her being.
Yes, Lace will contribute. Her explanations scatter like diamonds from her fairytale mouth: glittering, shining, with the convincing hardness of gems. ‘First…’ she says wisely. ‘And then… Later it was a simple case of this. Followed by the smallest bout of that.’
Suicide Club, The Page 28
