But while he was satisfied with his writing accomplishment, he had failed to find similar success in dispatching his sperm to fertilise Macy’s welcoming eggs. After months of vain attempts, the sheer quantity of sexual intercourse had given way to a more considered, quality approach. No more recreational sex, just strictly organised copulation. It was now a question of optimum times, menstruation cycles, body temperatures and preferred directions of flow. Masturbation was strictly out of the question. There was pressure, stress and even the apportioning of blame. He now wanted a child more than anything. He wanted a child because Macy wanted a child, he wanted a child because he wanted a child for himself, for his dead parents, for his marriage, for the void left by his finished novel. He no longer said ‘we are trying to get pregnant’ because the emphasis had changed from ‘trying’ to ‘pregnant’. One year before, ‘trying’ had meant ‘playing’ and ‘pleasure’ and ‘constant sex’. Now it meant a legs-up-in-the-air disaster.
‘I am a failure,’ he confided to Aldous. ‘To fertilise an egg with my sperm is a simple, natural, male function yet it is the one thing over which I have no quality control. I can fail my exams because I didn’t study enough. Or I can fail to lift that weight because I didn’t train enough. But I fail to impregnate Macy because…?’
Aldous was standing at his easel by the window, still dressed in his blue-silk robe and pyjamas at two in the afternoon. His paintbrush was poised between palette and canvas as he observed the carefully prepared tableau. Two solid silver goblets, a decanter half-filled with port, a linen napkin threaded through a gold ring. A simple arrangement had it not been for the brace of dead pheasant. Not real pheasant, but stuffed imitations acquired from a friend of Aldous’ who worked in the stock department of some film company.
‘I am dying, Eddie.’
‘What?’
‘I am dying. I have cancer.’
‘Christ, Aldous. What are you telling me?’
‘I am telling you I am on the way out. End of story. Finito. No cure.’
‘It can’t be.’
‘Don’t worry. Your reaction is normal. Disbelief, denial, as you try to absorb the information. I would try and make it easier for you but I do not know how. I have entered the land of the dying. You may come and visit me from time to time, that’s all you can do.’
A few moments of silence. Then the rattling of a bus as it throttled past the window. The port rippled in the decanter.
‘Oh, Aldous,’ he said as he walked over to his friend. He attempted an embrace but the intrusion of the palette and brush made his action awkward. Instead, he gently patted Aldous between the shoulderblades, his hand moving upwards on the third tap to touch the back of his friend’s neck, the skin cold. He noticed the weak sunshine outside the window, St Paul’s in the distance, some dried-up geraniums in the flower box. Suddenly all these details very important.
‘Thank you, Eddie. But please, just sit down. It is better that way.’
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He took a chair from against the wall, brought it up close to the easel, away from the light. Cleared his throat.
‘Why do you paint this stuff anyway? These inanimate objects. It doesn’t seem to be your style.’
‘Because it is not my style is precisely why I do it. It is important to notice the details normally overlooked. The light on the glass, the precise coloration of the wine, the pattern of the feathers, the reflection on the silverware.’
‘But you could do that with landscapes. With portraits.’
‘Still life isn’t about people.’
Aldous’ cat Macavity slipped into the room, padded listlessly over to purr at the feet of his master. The poor creature should have provided a welcome distraction but at sixteen years old Macavity was at death’s door himself. Aldous bent down, scratched the animal’s neck with the point of his brush.
‘What do the doctors say?’
‘Kidneys. I was pissing blood. That’s what alerted me. If it stays where it is, I’ve probably got two years, tops. If it starts wandering, it could be a few months.’
‘Is there pain?’
‘Nothing that can’t be controlled. Later, I’ll just go into a morphine haze.’
‘Christ, you’re only fifty. It’s so unfair.’
‘Fifty-four. But I wouldn’t say it’s unfair. My health has never been too good. That’s what kept me out of the war. I could have been blown to bits on a Normandy beach. Now that would have been unfair.’
Edward watched Aldous dabbing his brush on the canvas. He could see the thinness of the man, the bony wrists and ankles, the chest hollow in the ‘V’ of his robe, the pallid colour of his skin, the hair lank. But the blue eyes still shone. How long would it be before they sank back into their sockets, became lustreless? He loved this man. Not in the way that might be desired of him, but he loved him nevertheless.
‘How am I going to tell Macy? She’ll be devastated. She really loves you, you know.’
‘I’ve told Macy already.’
‘What?’
‘I’d originally thought of getting her to tell you instead of me.’
‘Why would you do that?’
‘Because I’m a coward. And I wanted to avoid this little scene.’
‘There is no little scene.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Aldous shouted as he threw the paintbrush across the room. Even Macavity stirred at the outburst. ‘I don’t want this. All this polite tiptoeing around. I’ve got cancer. And I don’t want one patronising word out of you, do you hear that? I will be dead soon. Fact. Just no pity, please.’
‘Whatever you want.’
‘You see. There’s been a little scene.’
‘No, there hasn’t.’
‘Yes, there has. There are tears running down your cheeks.’
Edward left soon after so that Aldous could lie down. He imagined this was how it would be from now on. Little bursts of energy, periods of brightness, windows of hope, of thinking that somehow the illness would be manageable, that it would be stable, that this was as bad as it would get. And then these disappearances to lie down, to suffer, to recover. These periods of absence growing longer and longer, until being with Aldous would be just one long period of absence. London didn’t help his mood either with its cold wind spiking the drizzle against his cheeks, spraying it down his neck between his collar. He walked down to Oxford Street and waited half an hour for a bus, toes and fingers freezing in the bitterness, London Transport living up to its reputation by finally sending down two Number 78s at once. He let the crowded first one go by, hopped on the second, went upstairs for a cigarette. The greasy, vinegary smell of fish and chips amid the steaming coats and open newspapers cheering him up slightly, although he wasn’t sure why. Life going on as usual, he supposed. He closed his eyes and mentally triggered himself to wake up before his stop.
Macy was beaming when she answered the door, her cheeks all flushed, her arms in a fling around his wet neck.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she shrieked. ‘We’re pregnant. You’re pregnant. I’ve just come from the doctor. We’re going to have a baby.’
He wanted to dance but his feet felt glued to the steps. He wanted to exclaim his happiness but his heart was heavy. And then he realised that what he really wanted to do was laugh. Not with an irony. But with joy. Sheer joy. Birth, death, birth, death, birth. The cycle of life. And for a moment, he saw himself back in a Japanese garden, the waterwheel dipping in and out of the dark water with just the merest flashes of gold from the carp swimming below the surface.
‘You don’t seem too happy.’
‘It’s all right.’
‘He told you, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
She let out a little yelp like a trodden-on puppy. ‘He was going to let me do it.’
‘I know.’
Eight o’clock in the morning a few Sundays later, while Edward lay in bed recovering from a hangover, the phone rang. It was Aldous.
‘I wo
uld like you to take me to a football match,’ he demanded.
‘Is that why you called at this ungodly hour?’
‘This is not an ungodly hour. In fact, it is very much a godly hour when all good Christians should be up and about in preparation for the worship of their Maker.’
‘You are not a good Christian, Aldous.’
‘Nevertheless I would like to go to one of these football matches.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never been to a game in your life. Why start now? You’d hate it.’
‘I believe this country will soon be hosting something called the World Trophy. I would like to be more informed.’
‘It’s called the World Cup.’
‘World Cup it is then.’
‘Well, at least let’s wait until spring is here. This is the coldest winter I can remember. I have a headache. I’m going back to sleep.’
‘Eddie.’ The voice weak but the tone firm. ‘I have no time to wait.’
‘All right, all right. I’ll take you to see Chelsea. They might be playing at home next week.’
‘And where is home?’
‘The ground’s not far from here.’
‘That sounds excellent. Now, tell me, does this ground have seats? Or do we have to stand in those terraced places?’
‘I’ll try to get tickets for the stands.’
‘You’re not listening. I don’t want to stand. I will need to sit.’
‘Just leave it to me, Aldous. I will organise the tickets.’
Chelsea were playing at home the following Saturday. Against Leicester City. Aldous turned up swamped in a fur coat with matching hat, clutching a thermos.
‘I laced the tea with whisky and honey,’ he said.
‘Very thoughtful. Now you’re going to have to let me buy you a scarf. The fans will skin you alive dressed like that.’
‘I will do whatever I am told to blend in with the masses. Anyway, that Chelsea blue goes well with my eyes, don’t you think? Onwards and upwards, my dear boy. Onwards and upwards.’
Edward took his friend’s arm, feeling how thin it was even through the thick coat, helped him up the steep steps, guided him through the throngs of beery, pork pie-chomping supporters inside the stadium until he found the entrance up into the stands. Then up those last few steps to where the pitch was suddenly visible. And in that precious moment, Edward was glad he had come, glad Aldous had wanted this experience. For what was a life if it had not felt the wonder of entering this gladiatorial arena for the first time?
‘Oh, Eddie, this is so exciting,’ Aldous gasped. ‘And the grass… it is so… so… I don’t know… so exquisitely green.’
They found their places and they settled. It might have been a freezing hard pitch but it was not a hard battle. They spent more time out of their seats than in them, cheering a succession of Chelsea goals. And despite the cold and his illness, there were patches of colour on Aldous’ cheeks, a glint of joy in his eyes. But by midway through the second half with Chelsea four–one up, Edward saw the poor man was exhausted, took him back home to Macy who wrapped him up warm in blankets on the sofa in front of a stoked-up fire.
‘Look at him,’ she said, bringing in some more cushions. ‘He’s shivering to death.’
‘It was his idea.’
‘I suppose you’d listen to him too if he told you to jump off Westminster Bridge.’
‘I will not have you two arguing on my account,’ Aldous interjected. ‘I’m still quite responsible for my actions.’
‘Well, I won’t have you going out again in this weather in your condition.’
Of course, Aldous didn’t listen.
So Edward watched him plough through the next few weeks with all the vigour of a much younger man, with all the desperation of a dying man. And he was glad to connive and conspire in all his friend’s adventures. A special time for them both, each moment highlighted by the shadow of death, as they searched out London’s little jewels. The Impressionists at the Courtauld Gallery, the Reading Room at the British Museum, the Royal Academy, another Chelsea game – this time against local rivals Fulham, afternoon tea at the Savoy, a shoe-shine in Burlington Arcade, an arm-in-arm stroll down King’s Road, smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels at a kosher deli down Brick Lane.
‘Now what are we going to call this new book of yours?’ Aldous asked as he chewed away on his sandwich. Edward noted that speaking with his mouth full was something his friend never used to do. Impending death, it seemed, had rid Aldous of his manners.
‘I don’t have a title. That was always your advice – if you say you’ve got a title, you’ll never write the book.’
‘Very good advice. But I do need one now. The book is written. Publication is imminent. Dominic Pike and his story of homelessness and social injustice. You must have some idea.’
‘How about Address Unknown?’
‘Too bland.’
‘Between the Cracks?’
‘Too vague.’
‘The Fall of Dominic Pike?’
Aldous smiled. A piece of smoked salmon shone pink in a wedge between two of his yellowing teeth. ‘Yes, yes. That’s the one.’ He then took another eager bite of his bagel, chewing as he spoke. ‘You know, of course, Dominic Pike was the name of that man we dragged in to witness your wedding?’
All thoughts of the publication of The Fall of Dominic Pike were put on temporary hold with the news of Churchill’s death. The whole country came to a stop. For Edward, it was like King George VI’s passing all over again. Except it was so cold he wasn’t sure he would attend the funeral. But Aldous was insisting.
‘I must pay my respects to the old warrior. We may never see the likes of such an occasion again.’
‘Don’t be so stubborn,’ Edward countered. ‘You’ll freeze to death out there.’
‘That could be a blessing,’ Aldous replied.
‘You’re not going,’ Macy said. ‘And that’s that.’
In the end, all three of them went, taking a taxi as far as they could until the traffic and the crowds made it impossible to go on. Then by foot up to Tower Bridge, where they watched the draped coffin carried on to the launch Havengore for its journey down the Thames to Waterloo. A piping party played the coffin on board, then a seventeen-gun salute split the bitter, grey day, each boom a wartime reminder of other explosions that used to sweep the London sky. Some of the crowd stood and saluted, others wept. Aldous clung to Macy’s arm while Edward knocked back whisky from his flask. He could not help but remember their own sighting of Churchill waiting alone in the foyer of the Savoy, and think that this whole ceremony, these kings and queens, princes and presidents in attendance, this mobilisation of regiments, of armies and navies and airforces, these Archbishop blessings and the prayers and tears of a nation, were all directed towards that one man. And then as the launch pulled away from the quayside, one of the most moving sights he had ever seen. The cranes across the river at Hay’s Wharf slowly dipped their jibs. On whose script had this stage direction been written? Was it at the command of some royal master of ceremonies or merely a spontaneous gesture from the crews manning the docks? For amid all the pomp and ceremony, here was the working man’s salute to the great leader and it pierced Edward’s heart.
‘It has been a bad time for deaths,’ Aldous said. ‘First TS Eliot and now Winston. This has been the cruellest of months.’
Since he had discovered Macy was pregnant, Edward played secret games inside his head. The scales were ever so slightly tipped in favour of the male. But he would never, ever have admitted to that. He would have loved a girl just as much. Of course he would have.
First there were the warning signs. The abdominal pains. The spotting. The bleeding. And then in the night that awful scream. That awful, awful scream wrenching at his heart, splitting open his whole being. The rush to the bathroom. Macy lurched over the toilet basin, the red crotch stain on her nightgown. For one horrific moment, he thought she had slashed herself. And then the re
alisation. The hissing of the cistern filling. Shhhshhhhsssssssss. How would he ever forget that sound?
‘Oh my God!’ she howled. ‘I’ve flushed it down the toilet.’
It should always be a male, he thought. Let it always be a male. Because no human being should have to endure this. No human being should have to give death to their own child. He knelt down beside her. He placed a hand on the clammy skin of her shoulder but she shook it away.
‘Leave me alone,’ she sobbed. ‘Just leave me alone.’
Two weeks later, Aldous died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Hakone, Japan • 2003
The corridors were silent. Except for the sound of his too small, blue, terry towelling slippers flapping against the soles of his feet. Too early even for the maids and their cleaning trolleys, the porters with their newspapers and shoeshines. He liked it that way. All the guests wrapped up secure in their temperature-regulated rooms. Generators humming, reception clerk barely awake at his desk, night porter making sandwiches in the kitchen. Everyone asleep, safe and sound. Like those nap sessions at school. ‘Fold your arms, children. Heads down. Close your eyes. Fifteen minutes.’ Drift into sleep. Protected by the teacher’s watchful eye and diligent timekeeping. To this day, when he took naps, they would last one quarter of an hour. Not a minute more or less.
An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful Page 22
