“All right, dear,” said the ambulance man. “Sit with Holly in the back.”
Berthea was to have only a vague recollection of what happened in the ambulance on its breakneck journey to the hospital. Holly, the ambulance woman, worked on Terence’s chest. She applied an instrument that looked like some sort of iron. Terence shuddered. She felt his pulse; she did something else. Berthea wept. My brother, my only brother.
She closed her eyes and she saw Terence, not as a man, but as a little boy. She saw him standing with his teddy bear and then bending down and putting the limbs of the teddy bear through the motions of dance. Had it begun that early? she wondered. Were those the seeds of all this, of the sacred dance? Watch children playing, she had always advised; see them enact their inner dramas with their toys.
Poor Terence. Poor, dear, gentle Terence. He had been searching for something all his life—he said as much himself—and he had never found it. And that thing, of course, was love, although he never saw it that way. He said that he was looking for enlightenment, for beauty; he said that he was looking for the sacred principle that informed the world. And all the time he was looking for that simple thing that all of us look for; that we yearn for throughout our lives. Just to be loved. That was all.
She took her brother’s hand and held it lightly. There was oil on it, or blood, she was not sure which. When had she last held his hand? When had she last held anybody’s hand? That simple gesture of fellow feeling, which expresses ordinary human solidarity, which says: You are not alone, I am with you. I am here.
46. Terence Moongrove Has a Near-Death Experience
AT SOME POINT on the journey between the Moongrove Queen Anne house and the Accident and Emergency Department at Cheltenham General Hospital, Terence’s heart, which had stopped as a result of his coming into contact with an electrically live Morris Traveller, began to beat again. It had been still for a very few minutes, not long enough for the memories and attitudes stored somewhere in his brain to fade as their supporting cells died. But it was a close-run thing, and the ambulance lost no time in its journey to hospital, nor did anybody linger as Terence was wheeled in on a trolley and rushed into the care of his doctors.
Berthea had no time to reflect on the fact that she had saved her brother’s life. She sat fretting outside the ward where the doctors first assessed and then stabilised his condition, and when a nurse came out and whispered to her, “He’s coming round just fine—a few little burns on his hand but nothing much else,” Berthea wept with relief. Not long after, she was ushered into the ward to stand at his bedside and find him looking at her with an expression of slight puzzlement.
“What happened?” Berthea asked. It was a trite thing to say to one who had just returned from the dead, and an insensitive thing too, even if not quite as tactless, perhaps, as asking, “What on earth did you do?”—which is, of course, what she meant.
“The Morris’s battery must have been faulty,” said Terence. “I was charging it and I think that it exploded, or something like that.” He waved a hand in the air to demonstrate the vagaries of car batteries.
Berthea frowned. “I didn’t know you had a battery charger,” she said.
This remark was greeted by another expression of puzzlement from Terence. “Battery charger …?” He did not complete his sentence: Berthea was staring at him with a look that he knew well, a look made up of a mixture of incredulity and irritation. She began to say something, but thought better of it; a reunion with a brother saved from death was hardly the time to comment on a lack of technical understanding. There would be time for that later on. Or perhaps not; he would not change. All she could hope was that the divinity that hedges about those whose concerns run to sacred dance and Beings of Light would somehow be kind to him and protect him from the worst dangers of this world. And lightning, she reflected, tended not to strike in the same place twice. Could one say that same thing, though, of electricity? Somehow she thought not.
“The important thing,” Berthea muttered, “is that you did not die.”
Terence thought about this for a moment. “But I did,” he said. “I died. The ambulance man told the doctor that my heart had stopped when they picked me up. And I saw them trying to start it in the ambulance with that pad thing. A battery charger perhaps.”
Berthea looked doubtful. “You saw that? But your eyes were quite closed, Terence. I was there, remember? I was in the ambulance with you.”
Terence nodded. “Yes, I saw you. I saw you sitting …” He hesitated for a moment as he clarified his recollection. “You were sitting at the back, at my left side. You were holding a handkerchief in your hand and twisting it round and round. I saw you. I also saw you take my hand and look at the blood that was on it. Here, you see, where the bandage is.”
Berthea said nothing. She had the handkerchief in her pocket, and she remembered that she had twisted it so tightly that the fabric had torn.
“You see,” Terence continued, “I had died and I was hovering—that’s the only word for it—hovering at the top of the ambulance, looking down. I saw everything—you and the ambulance man and my own body lying there. It was very clear.
“And then I was called away for a few minutes. I was led through a tunnel of some sort, a tunnel that had light at the end. Very bright, lovely light. And there were people there—very gentle people—who took my hand and said that I was forgiven. They said that they understood and I was not to worry about anything. And the AA was there too—some AA men in their uniforms, but with a light behind them, shining. They said I was not to worry about the Morris—they were very kind.”
Berthea could not contain her surprise. “AA men?”
“Yes,” said Terence. “They were not the usual AA men who come to help me with the car in Cheltenham. I did not know who these ones were. But one of them said, ‘Don’t imagine that there are no AA men in heaven. We’re here too. We’re ready.’
“And then somebody came to my side and said to me, ‘It is not your time yet; you must go back. There is work for you to do.’” Terence paused and looked at his sister. “Do you believe me, Berthy? Or do you think I’m making all this up?”
Berthea thought for a moment. She had read of near-death experiences and knew their general shape. People who had died—at least in the sense of their heart having stopped—upon recovery sometimes reported going through a tunnel and being ushered into the presence of light. They were sincere in these accounts, and often withheld them from others because they feared ridicule. She had put all this down to the last flickerings of oxygen-deprived consciousness, although the common features of these experiences were puzzling; if all this was entirely subjective, then surely accounts of these experiences would differ widely? Of course, Terence had introduced precisely such a subjective factor: AA men. That was ludicrous really, unless the AA men were symbolic of something—of care and attention and kindness to those in need. And why should they not be such symbols? In the iconography of European painting it was St. Christopher who performed such a role; in the iconography of a society in which saints and their doings were becoming a distant memory, meaningless to so many, perhaps it was appropriate that AA men should fulfil the role saints had previously had.
She looked at Terence. “Oh, Terence,” she began, but did not finish her sentence. Terence’s eyes had closed.
“Eh?” he muttered sleepily. “Eh, eh?”
She took his hand and stroked it; his frail, foolish, human hand. He was still talking about the AA; dear Terence, dear constantly searching but never finding Terence.
47. Your Shoes, Your Sad Shoes
AS WILLIAM BEGAN to make his way back to Corduroy Mansions, he became aware that Freddie de la Hay was trying to tell him something. The dog, who had been trotting happily at his side, circled round and sat down pointedly in front of him, all the while looking up with an expression that seemed to be a mixture of concern and anticipation. It occurred to William that Freddie merely wanted to prolong his walk,
which was perfectly understandable: just as a walker might wish to draw out the pleasure of a stroll in bucolic surroundings, so might a dog wish to put off the moment of going back inside. Outside was a world of fascinating smells—a whole map, a palimpsest of the comings and goings of people, of other dogs, of cats, even the trace here and there of a wily urban fox; how could a dog be indifferent to all that? Inside, by contrast, was very much the same thing all the time and quickly exhausted from the olfactory point of view. That must be it: Freddie de la Hay was simply not ready to come in.
“More walks?” enquired William. “Is that it, Freddie?”
Freddie de la Hay stared at his new owner, his head moving slightly in what William thought might be a shaking motion; but surely no dog would shake his head to convey disagreement? I shall not be anthropomorphic, thought William; I am not going to imagine that this dog understands English.
He bent down to get closer. “What is it, Freddie? I can’t spend all my time taking you for walks, much as I’d like to. You do know that, don’t you, my boy?”
Freddie de la Hay stared into William’s eyes. Very brown, thought William, you have very brown, liquid eyes. And what lies behind them? What emotions? What canine thoughts?
Freddie answered the question with a whine. It was not a large sound, just a whimper really. And then, glancing quickly at William, the dog stood up and took the bag containing the Belgian Shoes in his jaws. Carrying the bag jauntily, he moved to William’s side, ready to continue the journey back to the flat.
William chuckled. “Oh, I see. That’s what you want. Thanks, Freddie.”
They made their way up the staircase in Corduroy Mansions, man and dog, Freddie de la Hay carrying the Belgian Shoes with the air of a gundog bringing back a pheasant—and this, William thought, was the urban equivalent. London dogs might not be able to bring pheasants back to their owners but they could at least retrieve Belgian Shoes.
William’s amusement over Freddie’s desire to be useful meant that he did not dwell on the question of Eddie until he was taking off Freddie’s leash in the hall of the flat. Eddie was not an early riser on a Saturday—nor on any day, William reminded himself—but now there were sounds, and the smell, of freshly ground coffee coming from the kitchen. Eddie always ground coffee with careless abandon, putting far too much into the grinder and then throwing out the surplus. I paid for that, William thought; I pay for every single coffee bean that my son grinds and then throws out.
Leaving Freddie de la Hay in the hall, William walked into the kitchen. Eddie was standing at the kettle, filling the coffee jug with water. He had just got out of bed by the look of things and was wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts. William looked at his son with distaste; he looked at the small mole on his back, at the line of hairs at the top of his spine, and … there was a tattoo just above the beginning of the natal cleft.
Eddie, continuing with his coffee-making, did not turn round. “Morning, Dad. Taken your new friend for a walk? Or the other way round? ‘Dog Makes Fat Owner Lose Weight.’”
It was another of Eddie’s headlines. William clenched his teeth. It helped, he found, to do this when Eddie said something particularly annoying. “‘Idle Son Wastes Father’s Hard-Earned Coffee,’” he replied. “And I am not fat, by the way.”
Eddie laughed. “Come on, Dad. No need to be so sensitive. So you’re thin. Feel better now?”
William found himself staring at his son’s tattoo. “You’ve got a tattoo,” he muttered.
Eddie looked over his shoulder nonchalantly. “Oh, that. Yeah, I’ve got a tattoo. So? You want one too? I know this guy who does really good work. Not cheap, but you have to pay for quality. You could have ‘wine merchant’ tattooed on your arm if you like. Or ‘Pimlico’ maybe. Anything you like—he’s really artistic. Calls himself Da Vinci Tattoos. How about that? Da Vinci Tattoos.”
“I wouldn’t dream …,” began William. But he was now peering more closely at his son’s back, straining to make out the details of the somewhat indistinct tattoo. There were words underneath the picture and he read these now—and then recoiled sharply. “Eddie, why on earth would you have that put on … put on your back?”
Eddie shrugged. “Because it says it all, doesn’t it?”
William sighed. “And what if you decide that you don’t want it any longer? What then?”
Eddie moved across the room to pour the coffee. “Oh, people always say that about tattoos,” he replied. “But that argument could be used against doing anything. Any building, for example. The Dome. The new terminal at Heathrow. Anything.” He paused, sniffing at the jug of coffee he had just made. “You need to get more of that Jamaican stuff, Dad. I don’t like those big bags of Colombian that you get cheap. Anyway, where’s our dog?”
“Our dog?”
“Yes. Freddie de la Whatever. The dog you got us.”
William looked out of the window. “I thought that you didn’t like …?”
“Exactly, Dad—didn’t. Past tense. I’ve been thinking, and I think Freddie and me are going to get on fine.”
“Freddie and I.”
“Yes, you too.”
William felt himself getting warm at the back of his neck. He looked at the red boxer shorts. Disgusting. My own flesh and blood. Disgusting.
“I thought I might take Freddie down the pub,” Eddie remarked. “I’m meeting Stevie. He’s keen on dogs.”
William said nothing. His plan had failed. He had failed.
Then Eddie saw the Belgian Shoes, which his father had retrieved from Freddie de la Hay in the hall. For a moment his eyes narrowed, then he looked up at William. “You’re going to wear those, Dad? You’re going to wear them?” He reached forward and snatched one of the shoes from William’s hand. “‘Man Buys Sad Shoes,’” he said.
48. A Golden Parachute
BY THE TIME he left for the shop that Saturday, William was in a thoroughly bad mood. Exchanges with Eddie were difficult at the best of times, but that morning’s conversation with his son—if one could really be said to converse with someone who spoke in newspaper headlines—had made him feel quite bereft of hope. Eddie, it seemed, was the cross that he was destined to bear in life, the reluctant, work-shy fledgling who would never leave the nest. The prospect of years of his company was grim indeed, and what if—awful thought—Freddie de la Hay were to decide to side with Eddie? It was too appalling to contemplate. Man Pushed Out, he thought, By Son and Dog.
He stopped. He could not allow himself to catch Eddie’s dreadful headline habit; like all linguistic short cuts, it was so seductive, so easy to slip into. No, he would take command of the situation and act decisively … He would … he would … he would move out. No, he would not. That would be capitulation. He would give an ultimatum to Eddie. He would throw him out. He would tell him … No, he would speak to Marcia. She would tell him what to do.
When William arrived at the shop he found Paul serving a small queue of customers. His assistant threw him a reproving sideways glance, muttering under his breath, “Look at the time.”
William smiled at the customers and then turned to glower at Paul. “Did you say something?”
Paul counted out a customer’s change. “I said, look at the time,” he repeated out of the corner of his mouth.
William drew in his breath. “That’s what I thought you said. And what, may I ask, do you mean by that?”
Paul now turned away from the customers and addressed William. He spoke quietly but his voice became louder as his indignation increased. “I meant that you’re always criticising me for being late and then where are you when all these people need to be served? I had to get up on the ladder twice this morning to get those stupid Californian wines off the top shelf. Twice. Almost broke my neck. And people waiting to be served.”
William smiled again at the customers. “I’ll speak to you later,” he whispered to Paul. “And remember it’s California wine, Paul. Not Californian. A Californian is a person, not a wine. Th
ey’re very fussy about that. And that, if I may remind you, is how we tell those who know what they’re talking about from those who don’t.”
“I don’t care,” said Paul. “I’m going over to Oddbins.”
“Then we’ll have a little chat when you come back. And don’t be long, please.”
Paul laughed. “You didn’t get it, Mr. French. I said I’m going over to Oddbins. Not to buy anything. I’m going to go and ask for a job. The manager said that any time I needed a job I should speak to him. So I’m going. Right now. This morning.”
William stood in silence. He reached out to place a hand on his assistant’s shoulder—a gesture half of apology, half of restraint. “Now listen, Paul—”
“No, I’ve just had enough. Sorry. You don’t pay me enough. You never have.”
William felt the same warm feeling that came to him when he argued with Eddie. It was exactly the same: inter-generational-generated subcutaneous warmth.
“I’ll pay you more—”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then why did you raise it?”
“Dunno. Just did.”
The customers had now drifted away in embarrassment. One had gone to examine a shelf of special promotions; a couple had left the shop altogether; another, thought William, had been carrying a bottle of unpaid-for wine when he walked out of the door.
William rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, Paul, if you’ve been unhappy here you should have said something. We could still sort this out. You’ve got a great future ahead of you in the wine trade.”
“Thanks. With Oddbins. I’ve got a great future with them.”
William sighed. “I can’t stop you, can I?”
“No.”
William sensed that there was no point in prolonging the discussion. “All right. But you don’t think that you should work your notice? A week at least?”
Paul looked surprised. “Notice?”
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