Little Bits of Baby

by Patrick Gale

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  Little Bits of Baby

  A Novel

  Patrick Gale

  Dedicated, with love, to Jonathan and Celia

  I would like to thank the Royal National Institute for the Blind for supplying me with so much helpful information. I trust they will not think it has been misused.

  Acis & Galatea: The flocks shall leave the mountains,

  The woods, the turtle dove,

  The nymphs forsake the fountains,

  Ere I forsake my love.

  Polyphemus: Anger! Fury! Rage! Despair!

  I cannot, cannot bear!

  Acis and Galatea: Not show’rs to larks so pleasing,

  Not sunshine to the bee,

  Not sleep to toil so easing,

  As these dear smiles to me.

  Polyphemus (hurling boulder): Fly swift, thou massy ruin, fly!

  Die, presumptious Acis, die!

  (Acis and Galatea attrib: John Gay, Alexander Pope et al.)

  Prologue

  As the brothers left the chapel, Luke lingered behind on the pretext of hanging some hassocks back on their hooks. Jonathan, the Abbot was listening to the end of the fugue someone was attempting on the organ. Luke considered that it would have been kinder of them all to have left so as to give the organist a chance to abandon the assault. All hassocks hung, he sat on the end of a pew where Jonathan would see him as he left. When the voluntary came to an abrupt close however, the Abbot rose and headed down the aisle towards the organ loft, presumably for a long, understanding chat. Luke ran short of patience, crossed his fingers and called after him,

  ‘Jonathan?’

  Jonathan turned on his heel, saw him and smiled.

  ‘Luke. I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I was late in. I was down on the shore talking to the fishermen and I missed the bell. So I sat at the back.’

  ‘Ah.’ Jonathan waited, face attentive.

  ‘Jonathan, I wondered.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Whether I could try taking Robin outside. He’s been here five years now and …’

  ‘Is it so long already?’

  ‘Yes. And I thought, if I could persuade him out to help me in the orchard, it might do him good.’

  ‘Do you good, too.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You love him very much, don’t you, Luke?’

  ‘Well. We all do,’ Luke said.

  ‘Thank God someone does,’ Jonathan continued, oblivious. ‘The others all seem to have given up on him. Of course you can take him out. If he’ll come. Has he been out before?’

  ‘Never. Not since he arrived. He’s so pale.’

  ‘If he responds to anyone, it’s only just that it should be you.’

  ‘Thank you, Jonathan.’

  ‘Not at all.’

  The Abbot continued towards the organ loft. Luke hurried to his room, and pulled off his habit. His gardening clothes were on underneath. Like most of the regulations at Whelm, the dress rule was pragmatic. Habits were obligatory for all official and religious occasions but at all other times practicality and comfort were the prime considerations. The heating system remained spartan so the warm traditional clothes were readily worn throughout the Winter, with an assortment of corduroy and jersey underneath.

  Robin had lived in the same room for five years; a small white box. A fine view across the vegetable garden to the sea was some compensation for its cell-like proportions, but there might have been no window at all for all the pleasure Robin seemed to take in it. In the first year, when he was still having violent spells, he had smashed a picture and tried to cut his wrists with the glass, so they had taken the pictures away. Luke had stuck some Italian postcards around the mirror to relieve the gloom, but they had vanished so utterly without trace Robin was assumed to have eaten them. More recently, Luke had sacrificed a favourite poster of The Madonna of the Rocks. This too was rejected, but Luke interpreted the care with which it was taken down, furled and left outside the door as a sign of improvement. Six months ago, Robin’s mother had posted a small, white azalea. Luke had come in the next day to find Robin hunched over the plant, peering closely at its petals and softly humming, so he had followed hard on this breakthrough with a regularly restocked coffee jar of flowers, grasses and attractive leaves from the garden. He had also asked Robin’s mother to send a sketch pad and watercolours but that had been expecting too much; after two or three nightmare daubs, the paintbox was left unopened.

  Luke knocked and let himself in.

  ‘Robin?’ Robin was in his preferred position; on the floor below the window. ‘Hello,’ Luke continued. ‘How did you sleep?’ He sat cross-legged on the floor before him and touched the back of one of Robin’s hands in greeting. Beneath his dark mop of hair, Robin’s eyes stared, sightless at the floor. ‘Look what I’ve brought you.’ Slowly they travelled across his thigh, up his chest and focussed on Luke’s own. Convinced that there was understanding in the gaze, Luke held out an apple on the palm of his hand. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Take it.’ Painfully slow, Robin reached out and took the proffered fruit. It was grey-green with vivid pink stains. Luke had polished it carefully. There were still two leaves on the stalk. ‘Smell it. It’s fresh off the tree.’ Slightly faster, Robin raised the apple to his nose and sniffed. Luke watched his chapped lips brush the skin. He smiled. ‘Go on. Have a bite. It was still growing an hour ago.’

  Robin kissed the glossy fruit for a few seconds more then twisted sharply up onto his knees and flung it through the window. As it arched out of sight in a small shower of broken glass, he let out a howl and crumpled over onto Luke’s waiting shoulder.

  ‘There, Robin. There. Quiet,’ Luke said, rocking him gently and waiting for voices of concern on the path below.

  One

  ‘Jasper, will you be still!’

  ‘It’s OK, Ms Thackeray, we won’t be ready for a while yet.’

  ‘Jake?’

  ‘Mmh?’

  ‘Why’s he calling Mummy “Thackeray” when we’re called Browne?’

  ‘Ssh.’

  ‘It’s my working name. Now Jasper do come and sit still. You’ll make her cry.’

  ‘She’s called Perdita Margaux Browne.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Then don’t call her “her”. It’s rude.’

  ‘Jasper?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sit.’

  Candida Thackeray had just come home to her house in Stockwell with her new baby, Perdita Browne, and was being photographed on a sofa with husband Jake and six-year-old Jasper. In fact she had come back, baby in arms, three days ago. For the sake of Radio Times, Woman’s Realm and the Daily Mail, however, Candida had pulled back on her hospital-leaving coat and, when the time arrived, would dandle Perdita proudly on her knee with father and brother looking on, fresh welcome in their smiles. An empty overnight bag lay suggestively at their feet.

  With a wilful glance at his mother, Jasper walked out of tableau briefly, to return with a painted wooden train which, having clambered back onto the sofa, he cradled with an uncanny sense of his own appeal. Candida gave him a guarded smile.

  ‘Good boy.’

  With split-second timing, Jasper looked up into her eyes and beamed just as a photographer took an ‘informal’ shot.

  ‘Great, Jasper,’ shouted the photographer. ‘And again.’

  Jasper smiled again, the camera flashed two more times and Perdita awoke in bilious mood. Candida sighed and tidied her son’s fine blond hair as Jake scooped up an armful of blankets and new daughter.

  It was far too soon to te
ll if Perdita would be attractive. She was bald and, when roused, her small, creased face turned an alarming puce. Not prepossessing as yet, she at least had her complement of limbs and external organs and was all theirs.

  ‘You’re all ours,’ Jake murmured to her. She bellowed in his ear and spat on his favourite shirt. He rubbed her back and told her to hush but she roared.

  ‘Wants her milk bar,’ said Candida.

  ‘I want a Milky Bar,’ said Jasper.

  ‘They’re bad for your teeth,’ she told him, taking the baby.

  ‘No. I mean I want a nipple. I want your nipple.’

  ‘Ssh.’

  ‘Nipple!’

  Jake tickled his son deftly with one large hand, rendering him incomprehensible. A camera flashed as Jasper squirmed.

  ‘I’ll take her next door,’ she murmured.

  ‘Why not do it here?’

  ‘Jake!’

  ‘Well, you could. No one minds.’

  ‘If your nipples looked like Bath buns …,’ she began, rising.

  ‘Nipple!’ hooted Jasper. ‘I’m coming too.’

  ‘No. You stay here and amuse everyone. Won’t be a second,’ she added to the photographers over Perdita’s yells.

  Released from the sofa, Jasper jumped to the floor and began to chase his train, glancing up occasionally in the hope of catching a camera’s eye. Jake followed his wife to the kitchen where she had quickly unbuttoned the top of her blouse and presented Perdita with a bloodshot nipple through a trap-door affair in her bra.

  ‘I think it’s too early for you to be going back to work,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve got to. I promised them I’d be back tomorrow so I shall be.’

  ‘Well, call them. Trish can do it for a few more days, can’t she?’

  ‘No. Well. Hang on. Have you got a hanky?’

  ‘Yes. Here.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Candida mopped Perdita’s cheek with his handkerchief, then tucked it into her pocket. ‘Yes, of course Trish could, but I can’t stand getting up every morning seeing Jasper watching her do my job. It’ll undermine his confidence in me.’

  ‘Rubbish. He understands. I think he’s far more excited about your production of a sister than watching you on the box.’

  ‘Anyone can produce a baby.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You lent your part.’

  Jake leaned on the sink beside her stool, kissed his wife’s ear and watched their greedy child with an element of envy.

  ‘I did my best,’ he said. ‘She is rather fine.’

  As Candida changed nipples, Perdita peered up, pig-eyed and breathless with gluttony.

  ‘She’s outstanding.’

  Perdita belched then returned to her meal. Jake stroked his wife’s cheek and grunted assent.

  ‘We should get back soon,’ he added.

  ‘Samantha’ll be back any minute. She can make them all coffee or tea or something. Jake, I’ve been thinking.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’d er … I’d like to have Perdy christened.’

  ‘But you haven’t been to church since I met you.’

  ‘Yes, I have. Sometimes.’

  ‘When?’ He laughed, incredulous.

  ‘Sometimes. Not with you.’

  ‘But why christen her? You don’t think it makes any difference?’

  ‘Well … I …’

  ‘And it’ll make Jasper terribly jealous. We’d have to get him done too, which means finding twice the godparents. Unless they’d double up. Do you think they would?’

  ‘No need. He doesn’t want to be done. I asked him about it and he said “God’s all crap, Mummy”.’

  ‘I knew that play-school was the right choice.’

  ‘And I asked him if he’d mind my getting Perdy done and he said no just as long as a) Samantha was kept on to look after him as well as Perdy, b) that he could be allowed to stay up until eight occasionally and c) that I buy him a Cacharel jersey like Flora Cairns’s.’

  ‘Solves the birthday present problem. When is his birthday?’

  Candida passed him Perdita while she buttoned her Bath buns away.

  ‘Next month. I …’ She broke off shyly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve already bought it.’

  ‘Well. That’s all settled then.’

  ‘You’re not cross?’

  ‘Let’s go in and get these pictures over with. I must be in by ten-thirty.’

  ‘Jake?’

  ‘’Course I’m not cross.’ He gave her a squeeze as he opened the kitchen door. ‘I’d love a good Christian daughter.’

  ‘Mummy!’ Jasper ran from a conversation with a heavily stubbled photography assistant to hurl himself at Candida’s thighs and walk backwards with his chin resting on her pelvis.

  ‘Hello, Jasper,’ she said and the four of them returned to the sofa. ‘Sorry about that,’ she called to the photographers. ‘At least she’ll be affable now. We’re all yours.’

  For a few minutes, Jake and his wife said nothing to each other as they were photographed, re-arranged, photographed, asked to brighten smiles, photographed, made to swop children and photographed again. Then, in a lull as she recovered her face from the onslaught of lights, he quietly asked.

  ‘Have you got any candidates for her godparents?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I have.’

  ‘What for?’ asked Jasper.

  ‘Who?’ asked Jake.

  ‘And look out again if you wouldn’t mind,’ asked Woman’s Realm.

  ‘Your sis. I thought that would be nice. And then Dob,’ said Candida, smiling outwards.

  ‘Robin Maitland?’

  ‘Who else? I think he’d be perfect.’

  ‘He’s got God I suppose but, Christ …’ Jake looked away and ran a hand through his hair. ‘Wouldn’t that be a mite insensitive?’

  ‘Who’s Dob?’ asked Jasper.

  ‘An old friend of Jake’s,’ Candida told him.

  ‘This way, please, Jasper. Once more.’

  Jasper smiled perfunctorily for the Daily Mail then turned back.

  ‘No, but who is he really?’

  ‘Here’s Samantha. Are you going to help her make coffee for everyone?’

  ‘Oh. All right.’

  Jasper slid off the sofa and made a passable show of joy at seeing his young nanny again, which quickly turned to genuine pleasure as she slung him onto her shoulders and piggy-backed him briskly to the kitchen, her arms stretched with shopping.

  ‘And just a few of Ms Thackeray and Perdita alone now, please.’

  Jake stood aside and stared nervously at Candida who beamed complacently as she held her daughter’s nose close to her own.

  Perdita was turning boss-eyed with exhaustion and began to whimper at the approaching lights.

  ‘See you eight-thirtyish?’ Candida asked from the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Yup,’ said Jake. ‘Say goodbye to Jasper for me,’ and he took up his briefcase, shook his car keys and left.

  Two

  Robin was up an apple-tree. Through the crackling canopy of leaves he could see most of the tiny island’s coastline and, in the distance, the thin anaemic scar of England. There was nothing else on Whelm besides the monastery and a cottage on the South shore where fishermen from the mainland sometimes slept.

  A word or two about this place that absorbed eight of his precious years. The last Lord Whelm, a virgin mystic, had founded the order in the late 1800s and bequeathed it his island and house in perpetuity. Fundamentally Protestant in outlook, though still unrecognised by the established churches on the mainland, Whelm’s peculiar marriage of discipline and informality was reflected in its relationship with a sister order on the nearby island of Corry. Ever since a childhood sweetheart and lifetime apostle of Lord Whelm’s had risen to be Abbess there, the two orders had celebrated the harvest festival with a picnic. One year the nuns would cross to Whelm, the next, they would play host to the monks. Despite rich conjecture fro
m the fishermen, free to pass from island to island all year, nothing untoward ever occurred. The ritual welcoming of one sex by another and the joint service which followed in a chapel filled with the sheen and rustle of the year’s produce certainly bore more than a hint of fertility rite about them, but any such effect was undercut by the frank, housekeeperly exchange of the honey, mead and candles of Corry for the fruit, flour, and cider of Whelm.

  Whelm possessed no television or radio set. There was one telephone, which rarely rung and was used even less, locked out of temptation’s way in a box in the Abbot’s study. There was a music room with an eclectic record collection and, while there was no control of reading matter beyond a proscribed passage of Scripture or divine writing for each day, most found that the library fulfilled their needs. Post, supplies, visitors and the Abbot’s weekly newspaper were delivered by fishermen. Monks had two visiting days a year, novices four and Robin, as many as he cared for, (and he had cared for none). The air of pastoral isolation was furthered by the island’s lying away from any major flight path or shipping route. Robin’s emergence from a state of collapse to something approaching control, if not exactly mental health, was the passing from a nightmare without hours to a peace kept in motion only by the gentle nudging of a daily schedule of reading and tasks.

  Luke, a novice and the nearest one could have to a friend in a place where every man was friendly, was working at the foot of the tree. They had a routine. Robin would pass him a small basket of apples in exchange for an empty one. As Robin filled the second, Luke would sort the first. The perfect apples he wrapped in squares of tissue paper and laid in smoke-blue moulded trays. The damaged ones he set in a larger basket for immediate pickling or bottling or, if they showed too many signs of life, for pressing into the brown juice that would make cider.

  Robin liked being up the tree. The fragrant crumble of the bark against his hands and bare feet released draughts of childhood. He used to spend hours with a best friend up a beech tree in Clapham, wolfing handfuls of pilfered dried fruit and rehearsing the downfall of adults they secretly loved. He liked the weight of the new apples in his hand and the smell of seashore on the autumn wind when it came to rattle the leaves. He also liked Luke’s company. Luke had the gift of knowing when to talk and when to listen. He listened a lot since he was an adept at leading questions; conversational pinpricks that released pent-up poison for his sympathy to wash away.