Observatory Mansions: A Novel

by Edward Carey

  We carried Father back out of Mother’s bedroom and, as we were shuffling him forwards, Mother rushed into the lavatory and only came out again when Father was safely out of sight in the kitchen, then she darted into her own room and slammed the door.

  When we aimed Father’s bottom at that red leather armchair the old man began to panic again, shifting his weak body from side to side and whining in frustration. We propped him on an upright pine chair and fed him.

  Mother in the mirror.

  Mother saw herself in the mirror and said very calmly:

  Look at that ugly old hag.

  Mother washed herself, changed out of her nightclothes and put on a red dress. She brushed her hair. She put on a little make-up. Then Mother, looking in the mirror, said:

  Good morning, Alice. Irresistible Alice.

  Indeed, Mother was a fine-looking woman when she took the time to smooth out her ugliness.

  Gradually our routines began.

  Father, in those first days of his return to us, was able to move only with the greatest difficulty. Slowly though, with encouragement, Anna Tap and I taught Father to walk as parents teach babies. We stood, one behind Father and one in front, and softly dared him to take a few steps. Sometimes he fell, but we always caught him. What a heavy child Father was. But he progressed quickly and soon we were able to take him out of flat six and along the corridor. In time he learnt to climb the stairs, slowly, on all fours. Descending them, though, was more perilous. He grasped the banisters until his knuckles showed white and refused to let go. But slowly, with great patience, taking each step as an individual journey, we brought him back home.

  Mother was making swifter progress. She was out of flat six on the first day she returned to us. A week later she managed, with supervision, a short walk in the park. Most of her days, though, were spent inside Observatory Mansions. She would walk from empty flat to empty flat; she hissed at the Porter and watched television with Claire Higg.

  We found Father’s false teeth in a drawer, dusted and washed them and said: Open wide. At night we would disguise the red leather armchair with sheets and pillows and place Father in its familiar comfort. He slept badly and was often heard calling to the stars.

  We took turns to look after Mother and Father. Usually I took Mother and Anna took Father, but often we supervised one parent together. At first Mother did not like Anna Tap at all, she called her the photograph thief, and it was only after Anna had shown her many kindnesses that she began to consider her tolerable company. Mother would only ever refer to Father as that strange man, and when informed that that strange man was in fact her husband, she would invariably reply: Nonsense, my husband died of a stroke many years ago.

  In the following weeks, time was divided into two. Mother and Father were imagining themselves in the same place but at different times. Father saw himself in Tearsham Park and could not understand why it had changed so much. Mother knew she was in Observatory Mansions, and not the Observatory Mansions in which she was happy; she was in the latest Observatory Mansions, the disintegrating Observatory Mansions, that the rest of us dwelt in, in real time. She understood that, she existed in the present, but she liked to wander into the past, and touching the walls of the various abandoned flats she would recall pictures that had once hung there. Mother was reminiscing, working her way backwards, remembering in reverse order, but Father was living the past. Father could not see that he had lost himself hopelessly in a time long dead. He believed he was in Tearsham Park and that Tearsham Park had become somehow alienated from him. He tried to redress this unfamiliarity by struggling to remember exactly where the rooms were that were temporarily avoiding him. Sadly, he found plasterboard walls in his way and would shriek – The servants’ hall is here, just the other side of this wall. And we would have to shrug our shoulders and pat his hand and say: No, Father, you are mistaken. He was right, though. He was always right.

  Together my Mother and Father heaved themselves back to life. And as they did so the building that was called Tearsham Park, that was called Observatory Mansions, began to fill with the people and objects of their yesterdays.

  THE COMPLETE HISTORY OF

  OBSERVATORY MANSIONS

  AND

  TEARSHAM PARK

  as seen through the eyes of my mother and father

  (retold with the assistance of Francis Orme and Anna Tap):

  PART ONE.

  Observatory Mansions.

  My mother stood in the abandoned flat eight, in an empty bedroom. She wiped away cobwebs with her hands, blew all the dead flies into a corner and then sat in the centre of the bare, dusty floor. Here, where I’m sitting, she said, was the bachelor’s bed. It was a large double bed, it made no noises. The bachelor lay here on this bed, every night and slept (said Mother, spreading her hands around the dust). Some nights while he lay here he did not sleep, some nights, and some days too, he had a companion. I am here, said my mother, to recall the last time I came into this flat. I stood here (she stood with only one foot inside the flat, the rest of her on the threadbare landing carpet). He did not let me in. I saw through the gap in the door that all his bags were packed and that his flat was cleared. He was going to leave the next morning, without saying goodbye.

  There could have been a thousand things to say to him. But he didn’t care for me any more and I couldn’t make him care, the harder I tried, the more he pushed me away. As I stood on the landing, with only the smallest part of me in his flat, I thought: What’s the point, what’s the point of anything? And I just said a not very forceful bastard to him and left. I went to my bedroom in flat six, changed into my nightie, drew the curtains and got into bed. That’s how it started.

  Francis came to see me, he said: Mother, get up, it’s not night-time. Listen Francis, I said, if I close my eyes I can be anywhere. I can imagine myself in any time I desire. I can always be in summer if I like. I can relive those rather better days that seem to have dried up for ever. Perhaps, if I want to see myself in flat eight with the bachelor, when I first met him, when we were happy, I can just close my eyes and be there. But perhaps it would be better if I had a little something of his to remember him by. Francis, I know you’re a thief. You’ve been a thief since you could crawl, it’s your nature, I’ve never complained, I’ve never reported you, even when I knew you were to blame, even when your victims were in tears and desperate. I could have, but I never did. So, now, Francis, I have a commission for you. You will be paid. Steal for me a pair of the bachelor’s Y-fronts.

  Francis Orme, aside to Anna Tap.

  In time Mother and I drew out great plans. I helped to contain all Mother in one room. I stole back all the gifts that she had ever given. I piled objects into Mother’s room. And she paid me for each object returned. When I had collected all Mother’s memories I would sit in her room, holding hands with her, and we would laugh together. The Exhibition of Mother was one of the greatest achievements of my life; surpassed only by that other exhibition down in the cellar, in the tunnel that leads to the church. But how did Mother repay me for my genius? She shut herself up and loved only Mother’s past and Mother’s objects. Mother ghosted herself.

  Tearsham Park.

  My father complained that the smells were all wrong.

  There was a damp smell all about Observatory Mansions and the musty, sweet scent of rats. It never used to be like that, he said, it always used to smell of wood polish, they were always polishing the oak floorboards. Or it would smell of the delicious odours from the kitchen. After his first attempts to rediscover the rooms of Tearsham Park had led only to off-white walls and ripped wallpaper, my father decided to begin again. He decided to start with his childhood and work his way forward, slowly, methodically. He was sure that this process of remembering would eventually reveal the entire and familiar Tearsham Park to him, that he had somehow forgotten something that might explain it to him, that the building was a complicated puzzle which he must unravel.

  Observatory Mans
ions.

  Mother said: Here I stand on the second floor facing flat twelve. To my right is flat thirteen, to my left is flat eleven. In flat twelve lives a mother. Either side of her live her two daughters. I open the door to flat twelve: here is the mother, she is called Elizabeth. I open the door to flat thirteen: here is the daughter called Christa. I open the door to flat eleven: here is the daughter called Eva. The sisters were twins, but never have I known such un-identical twins in my life before or since. Christa was tall and thin. Eva was short and fat. Elizabeth, their mother, was tall and fat, but she suffers from a terrible cancer that has made her progressively shorter and thinner. I close the door to flat twelve. Mother Elizabeth has died. I open the door to flat twelve, the mother is buried. Now in flat twelve are the two daughters, before so pleasant, but now screaming and clawing each other. They are dividing the complete possessions of their mother between them. The sisters used to be inseparable, they spent their days nursing their sick mother. I have never before or since seen such devotion in children. However, when the mother died and it came to the division of the mother’s articles, never have I known before or since such harridan sisters. They are walking around the flat now. One holds a sheet of paper with little round red stickers on it. The other holds a sheet of paper with little round green stickers on it. They are walking around the flat placing the circular stickers on various items. They are arguing with each other, if one sees a red sticker on an object she demands that it be taken off so that it can be exchanged for a green sticker. And vice versa. Some objects have green or red stickers on them and directly underneath them, hidden from sight, are red or green stickers. Now they have both stopped before an object. This object is an eternity ring given to their mother by their long-dead father. It is a beautiful ring, its thick silver holds a precious diamond. Eva says the diamond is hers, Christa contradicts her. The diamond is covered by green and red stickers. They scream at each other, their screams are heard throughout the building, all the residents come out and stand in their doorways, trying to hear more. Both sisters say: This ring was given to my mother as a symbol of love, I loved Mother, I loved Father more than you, it is only right that I should have the ring. They curse each other. They slap each other. They accuse each other of never having loved their mother at all. They call each other selfish and materialistic. But they are unable to decide which sister should keep the ring. Finally, they resolve to break off their argument until the next morning. They lock the door to flat twelve. I close it. They return to their flats eleven and thirteen. I close these doors too. Behind them the sisters are sobbing alone. It is now night. Close your eyes. Open your eyes. It is now morning. I open the door to flat eleven. I open the door to flat thirteen. The two sisters bid each other a cold good morning. I open the door to flat twelve. The sisters enter flat twelve. The eternity ring has gone. It went in the night. Christa says to Eva, Give back my diamond. Eva says to Christa, Return my ring immediately. They accuse each other for many hours, they search each other’s pockets and each other’s rooms. They do not find the eternity ring. The police are called. The police do not find the eternity ring either. Three days later flats eleven, twelve and thirteen are empty. The objects of flat twelve have been divided among the sisters under the supervision of lawyers. The sisters leave Observatory Mansions with their own possessions and a half each of their dead mother’s possessions. They never speak to each other again.

  Tearsham Park.

  Father standing in flat one said: This is the drawing room. It used to be, unless I’m much mistaken, about three times the size of this. It’s so dirty! Where has all this rubbish, all these empty cans and newspapers come from? And someone has smashed the windows. There should be, just above me now, written into the stucco-decorated ceiling with its roses and leaves, a date: 1687. Here, said Father kicking a wall, should be a fireplace, a great marble surround with columns supporting the mantelpiece, its twin should be a few metres further down, the other side of the wall. There, that’s in the way, that deceiving wall! There should be tapestries, it’s all too, too small! With your imagination put a sofa here. On this absent sofa I sit with my mother. My father is sitting alone over there. He is reading the last volume of the History of the Ormes. He had written this volume. He is laughing. I am playing with a magnifying glass. Father closes the book. It is finished.

  Francis, says my father, you are heir to a great and old family. Look after it when I am gone. Cherish it. Marry, get yourself a son, at least one. Never waste money. Extend Ormeland. If you can’t, keep it as it is. If you lose one inch of it you will be cursed by your ancestors.

  My father takes me around the house showing me all our family’s possessions. Look at them, he says, aren’t they beautiful? Never lose one, Francis, he says.

  Father takes Anna and me into the entrance hall and says: Here in the hall of Tearsham Park are many faces. Not bare and filthy wallpaper, and the floor should be black and white chequered marble, not threadbare carpet. Here are many faces painted in oil. Many proud profiles. Many old Ormes. One head on top of another, five heads high, climbing piggyback into the darkness. Many old dead Ormes. The dead that are frequently dusted, a chapel of history. All these faces arranged neatly in order of existence whisper remember me. All that spotless history. They look at me and there is no approval in their look.

  Come here every day, says my father, as I have done. Look at these faces. If you can look at them then you are doing your duty, then these portraits will be your friends. If you cannot look at them then you are doing something wrong. Immediately right that wrong, Francis. If you buy land, and you will, you must go in and see the portraits. You will find them smiling at you. Never sell, Francis, extend, expand. That is the oldest Francis Orme up there at the top, Sir Francis Orme, who died in these grounds, in a tunnel that starts in the cellar. We are all his little children, he made us. In gratitude we borrow his name for our little lives and then pass it on. It is never ours to keep. Pass it on, Francis, keep it living. Read the History of the Ormes in the library, write your own. Do not let us down. Promise me you won’t. Swear by these portraits and on your own father’s life that you won’t let us down. Promise, Francis, promise.

  I promise.

  Observatory Mansions.

  Mother: This is flat sixteen. Its occupant is Claire Higg. Claire Higg is watching television. She has only recently taken up the habit of watching television and—

  Mother suddenly stopped talking, she had heard Father moving about in the next door flat and rushed down a level.

  Tearsham Park.

  Father inside flat fifteen: This is Peter Bugg’s room. This stern, jet-black-haired man is my tutor during his school’s holidays. He used only to have one room but now, strangely, it has extended to four rooms. Three of these rooms are fictitious. Ignore them. On the walls are school photographs.

  Observatory Mansions.

  Mother: This, flat ten, belongs to Peter Bugg. This bald man who is always sweating and crying was tutor to my husband and to my son. He has only recently come to live here. His former home was repossessed. He keeps himself to himself and spends much of his time sitting at his desk writing. I do not know what it is that he is writing. There is a waste-paper basket by the window. It is filled with scrunched up pieces of paper. This wallpaper made of one huge photograph of a harbour with fishermen at work in strange looking boats has nothing to do with Peter Bugg. It was here before him. How ridiculous Mr Bugg’s school photographs look here, hanging just above an ultramarine sea. This strange wallpaper was placed here by the old resident of flat ten, an old man, who had spent many years working abroad. This photograph wallpaper was the view he had from his house in that foreign land of his, which he missed so much. The old man, Mr Wilson, had had to return to this country, his job out there had finished. He hated it here and turned his flat into a museum of his old days spent abroad. Almost everything he placed inside it was from that foreign world. One day when he walked out, having not, I believe, left h
is flat for almost a week, he was so appalled by what he saw that he stood absolutely still, all his muscles tensed, and screamed and screamed and wouldn’t stop screaming. The Porter called a doctor, the doctor called an ambulance. They took Mr Wilson away and they didn’t bring him back.

  Tearsham Park.

  Father with tears in his eyes, back in flat one which he called the drawing room: Over there (he points to an empty, dirty corner) is my father. We think, my mother and I, that Father is sleeping. Mother goes to wake him, the gong for supper has gone, but Father will not wake up. Mother shouts at me. She tells me to go into supper alone. I never see Father again.

  Shortly afterwards people will start demanding money from us, a great deal of money – taxes and duties that we have to pay entirely because Father has just died. They ask for so much money that Mother starts crying and we sell the two oil landscapes in the dining room, whenever we look at the gaps on the walls we are reminded of them. I see Mother at the desk in the smoking room, where Father kept his accounts. She says: In your grandfather’s time this house had twenty-seven staff, there were butlers and under butlers, footmen, lady’s maids and even lamp boys, but things have changed. That was a long time ago.

  She sighs and tells me that we must further reduce the number of our staff. The house steward must go and one housemaid and the valet, too, and we can’t afford even to keep the pantry boy on any longer or even the daily woman for that matter. There won’t be enough people to keep the place tidy any more and there’ll be no one to polish the floors.

  Observatory Mansions.