Exposure

by Talitha Stevenson

  She switched off the lamps and noticed the moonlight pooling on the wood floor, glinting on the club fender, curving softly over the vase on the mantelpiece. The drawing room never felt empty—it gave you the feeling that your children were hiding behind the curtains, shaking with laughter, or that one of them was crying piteously under the writing desk. It was always crowded with family—like every room in the house.

  As she walked upstairs and along the corridor towards her bedroom, she could hear Luke watching TV and tapping away on his computer. She had stopped hoping he was working now when she heard the tapping going on. She wondered if he had actually been sacked. She was going to have to talk to him. He went out until God only knew when every night. He drank—you could smell it under the door from his room—and he had polished off almost a bottle at supper.

  What was going on in his mind? She felt such a deep sympathy for Luke that sometimes it was as if she was him. She felt all of Alistair's little slights to him—particularly the way he never remembered exactly what Luke did for a living, so that Luke got into a terrible muddle and started boasting about his salary in a truly disgraceful way. But Alistair knew this, surely, and if he had thought about it for a moment, he might have seen that each one of these slights was like a razor nick to Luke, like death by a thousand cuts.

  She went into her room and closed the door.

  Luke stayed in front of his computer, drifting out of sleep into a DVD, then back into sleep, and then into a computer game until six thirty. Then he put on a sweater and went out—straight across the lawn—to the annexe for his beer with Goran. It was cool and misty and a little darker than usual. There was a smell of wet leaves in the air. He knocked on the door. It was Mila that answered. 'Hello, Luke,' she said. She had obviously been crying. 'Goran says we want be alone for talk. I am sorry.'

  'Oh. Is everything...?'

  She looked away.

  'No, that's fine. Just give him this, then,' Luke said, handing her the bottle of beer he always brought for Goran. Mila closed her eyes as she accepted it. She seemed agonized. 'I am very sorry, Luke,' she said softly, as if she was trying to speak out of earshot.

  Luke was mystified.

  'That's OK, Mila,' he said. 'I'll—you know—I'll see you tomorrow or something.'

  She nodded, but both of them knew that the routine had now been broken for good.

  Chapter 21

  After his rest, Alistair had left Ivy with the lovely Meals on Wheels girl and the much-anticipated shepherd's pie, and pears with custard. He kissed her fondly, thanked the girl, whose name was Rebecca, for looking after her so well, and walked back to his old home. His leg was very painful now, but it was not a long journey. After all, his father had lived two streets along all Alistair's life.

  Ivy had told him that the visiting times at Rosewood Lodge were between nine thirty and twelve, two thirty and six. When he woke up in his mother's old bed the next morning, he decided to visit Geoff in the afternoon. He wanted to think a little first, he told himself. He needed to work out what to say.

  But, as the morning progressed, he realized that the scene was impossible to imagine. He heard the words 'Geoff, Ivy told me,' or 'Geoff, I've come because I know,' and then he was struck by what seemed like a deeply inappropriate amusement. He laughed out loud a couple of times and, imagining he was hysterical, took himself out into the garden for some fresh air.

  At around one, he went out to the local shop and bought some crisps, chocolate and a microwaveable sausage roll, which he hoped did not absolutely insist on being microwaved. He ate this peculiar meal without tasting it at all and then he spent the early part of the afternoon attempting to read a history of the Ottoman Empire. He had brought it with him out of a long habit of making sure he always had something to read and he smiled sardonically as it occurred to him that this had proved an effective way of preventing all personal reflection.

  The book had been given to him some years ago, rather unexpectedly, by Luke as a Christmas present. The shaky biro inscription said, 'Dear Dad, I hope I've got this right. I think this was what you said you would have studied if you hadn't been a barrister. Anyway, it's a very good book by all accounts. Happy Christmas, from Luke.' He was not conscious of having mentioned to Luke his interest in the Ottoman Empire. He would hardly have discussed something like that with his son. Perhaps Sophie had told him.

  The book had turned out to be by one of Alistair's Oxford contemporaries. He distinctly remembered a rather plump, scathing man, and a defining argument, during one of Philip's tea-parties, about who would 'be a darling' and go and get some more butter for the crumpets. They had decided to draw straws, but Henry Downing had refused to take part, saying he had been invited for tea and it was all very bad manners and Philip, as host, ought to go himself. Alistair could also remember seeing Henry waiting around, trying to corner the dons after their lectures with one of those elaborate questions that are really designed to showcase the scope of the enquirer's mind.

  Of course, Professor Downing, as he was now, had been a huge academic success and the book on the Ottoman Empire was probably his life's great achievement. Alistair weighed it in his hand. Suddenly the cruelty and utter senselessness of this gesture struck him and he put the book down.

  A local cab driver rang the bell at four and Alistair gave him the address of Rosewood Grange. 'Oh, yes, I know Rosewood,' the driver said. 'Visiting, are you?'

  'Yes, I am.'

  They got into the car.

  'Your old mum, is it? Your dad?'

  'My father,' Alistair told him.

  The man calmly accepted this incredible information and flicked his indicator switch.

  It was only a five-minute drive. Rosewood Grange was an ivy-softened modern building at the end of a short avenue of trees. Outside, in the small parking area, there were a good twelve or fifteen cars belonging to staff and relatives. As they pulled in, two little children came running out of the front door, straight into the path of the car. Fortunately they were driving slowly enough to stop. A frantic mother grabbed the children's sleeves and halted them. She mouthed, 'Sorry,' through the windscreen and the children looked ashamed.

  Youthful energy curbed just a little too long, Alistair thought. They could hardly be blamed for finding Grandma or Grandpa slow and boring. He watched them getting into their family car. He could remember being five or six, running like that for no reason at all, merely to expend energy, to express life.

  In front of the main entrance, there was a stretch of neat lawn. An implied route, from the bottom to the top, had been marked out on the grass by stepping-stones to the last few metres of the tarmac drive, over a paved forecourt and inside the main entrance. On the forecourt, which was bordered by two perfectly symmetrical beds of bright flowers, were parked three rather ghostly-looking wheelchairs for transportation of residents to and from their relatives' cars.

  It was by no means a beautiful place in which to end your days, but it was not merely functional either. The overall effect implied that the designer's heart was in the right place, but that there had not been enough money for anything but the most basic ornamentation.

  Alistair paid the cab driver and went up the forecourt, which had a slope, rather than steps, and through the open door into the reception area. He was greeted by a beaming young man, whose name, Dave Pelham, was written on a badge on his chest. 'Hello, sir, can I help in any way at all?'

  Alistair explained he had come to see one of the residents, a Geoff Gilbert. As he said the name, the momentousness of what was about to happen thumped into his heart like a fist.

  'I see,' the man said, narrowing his eyes. 'We've not seen you before, have we? We mostly just get dear old Ivy coming for Geoff.'

  'Actually, Mrs Gilbert said she'd call and leave my name with you,' Alistair said.

  'Ah, did she? Right.' The efficient young man flicked through a notebook. His nails were polished and he turned the pages delicately, occasionally licking his fingertips. 'Oh
, yes. Here we are. Are you Alistair Langford, then?'

  'That's me,' Alistair said, smiling, amazed once again by his exterior calm. He really was an incredible actor.

  'That's fine, then.' The young man called out to a passing nurse, 'Um, Julia, would you mind taking this gentleman, Mr Langford, to see Geoff Gilbert?'

  'Not a problem at all,' she said. 'How d'you do? I'm Julia.'

  Alistair attempted to say hello but found that his mouth was too dry to speak. He managed to nod and they set off.

  The interior of Rosewood Grange also maintained the designer's stand against the institutional look, but somehow less successfully than the exterior. Perhaps it was merely the presence of so much medical equipment, or perhaps it was the residents themselves, whom Alistair glimpsed through doorways as he passed, seeing them slumped in chairs with TVs playing softly in the background.

  They walked down a long corridor. 'Geoff doesn't get many visits,' Julia said. 'His wife comes regularly, though.'

  'Yes,' Alistair said.

  'She's sharp as anything, isn't she? It's Ivy, isn't it?'

  'Yes, Ivy.'

  'I thought that was it. Lovely woman. She's not here so often now, but you can't blame her—she's no spring chicken herself.'

  'No. She comes when she can,' Alistair said, speaking mechanically, and then feeling fraudulent for implying an intimacy with the facts of Ivy's life.

  As they turned a last corner, past a desk with a dispensary, a receptionist and a few attendant nurses, Julia said, 'I do hope I haven't rushed you. We're brisk walkers, nurses. What have you done to your poor leg?'

  'Me? I ... The kneecap and shin are injured,' Alistair said.

  He watched her wait for a moment, and then, having seen that no further explanation was coming, she said sympathetically, 'Dear me. How painful. Well, here we are. This is Geoff's room. Just come out if there are any problems and one of the nurses at the desk will assist you right away.'

  'Yes. Thank you.'

  She was still looking at him. 'Mr Langford, you seem a little ... Are you OK?'

  'Oh, perfectly. Thank you very much,' he said.

  She took her hand off his arm and he watched her walk away to the desk. She leant over the counter, playfully tilting back her lower leg, and took a sweet out of a bag by the phone.

  'Oy, you—get your own!' The receptionist laughed, snatching the packet away.

  Alistair turned away from them and knocked. He got no reply, but as he leant towards the door, he thought he could hear voices and wondered if Geoff already had a visitor. He glanced back at the laughing nurses, hating them for their obliviousness. He was appalled at the casual way he had been abandoned at the door, subject to such profound uncertainties. Were there other people in the room? Why had the dreadful impropriety of this not occurred to the nurse?

  He pushed the door open anyway, and immediately opposite him sat Geoff. In the first few moments of sensory comprehension, Alistair saw that he had become a very old man. He was much more drastically aged than Ivy, though there could only have been a few years between them. A portable radio was playing on the bedside table, which accounted for the voices he had heard in the room.

  Geoff looked up at him and, divided by a deep cleft between his brows, his face appeared to crack with anguish. 'Oh, no,' he said simply.

  Why was the fist always aimed so accurately at Alistair's heart? He cleared his throat and said, 'Geoff, I'm so sorry this is unexpected.'

  Geoff shook his head and glanced down. 'Oh, no,' he said again.

  Alistair felt unable to support his own weight any more and sat down on the end of the bed. 'Look, I'm sorry. I've obviously shocked you. I knew I would, really. How does one break a silence quietly? You know why I'm here, of course, I went to see Ivy yesterday and we had a long talk. I—' He broke off. From the window there was a view of the edge of the forecourt and one side of the lawn. It lay beyond a corridor formed by two walls. A car passed through this sunny gap, and the woman driver waved at someone who must have been on the forecourt, waving back. At the end of the lawn, the chestnut trees were moving in the wind.

  'I'm finding it hard to know what to say,' Alistair said. He was aware that Geoff was still intermittently shaking his head. Had he been imaginatively equipped to picture this scene, Geoff's reaction would have been the realization of a nightmare.

  'Oh, God, you must understand why I needed to come. Don't you?' Alistair said desperately. 'I'm getting old now too, but it's—well, it's never too late. Please, Geoff,' he said, 'are you angry? For God's sake, please don't be angry with Ivy.'

  At last Geoff looked at him. He pointed at the radio. 'The cricket,' he said sadly, 'and it looks like rain.'

  Alistair listened to the radio voices for a moment. It was not a cricket match at all—it was some kind of cookery programme. 'Then beat the egg whites until they're stiff' said a brisk, female voice.

  'Oh, no,' Geoff said. 'He says it looks like rain.'

  Alistair put his head in his hands. In the background, the female voice went on, 'Take an orange and grate the zest, being careful not to cut into the white pith underneath. Orange zest is very high in vitamin C, so you can feel you're looking after yourself as well as making a lovely pudding.'

  When Alistair took his hands from his face, he saw that Geoff had fallen asleep. Very gently, and with a kind of ceremonial reverence destined only to be noticed by himself, Alistair switched off the radio.

  Why had Ivy not warned him? When she told him Geoff had become 'too much' for her, he had not imagined this. How could he have imagined this? He looked at the old man's peaceful, sleeping face: the anxiety about the cricket had fallen away and the deep cleft between the brows had softened. 'Well,' Alistair said gently, 'I'm your son. And that makes you my father.'

  He glanced around him for a moment—at a photograph of Ivy on the chest of drawers, which, without anyone noticing it, had slipped sideways in its frame, half obscuring her face; he looked at Geoff's comb and toothbrush and at the little crucifix standing beside them. Alistair imagined Ivy had probably brought the crucifix in. He walked over to it and picked it up, taking in the effeminate little figure with the down-hanging head.

  Growing older had brought a paradoxical understanding to Alistair. On the one hand, on peaceful Sunday afternoons, when he remembered his youthful arrogance and the elaborate means by which it had been schooled out of him, he was aware of a composition, of an artist whose sense of proportion lay far beyond the bounds of his own self-pity and desire. But, on the other hand, when he went over recent events, so many of them acquiring their narrative significance only by weird fluke, they seemed to him to have been generated by chance, by a computer, perhaps, spewing mathematical possibilities.

  He turned back to the sleeping old man in the chair. Dear old Geoff. Dear 'tempted' Geoff with his corner shop and his piles of coloured pencils and his sugary fingers and his shoulders for riding on and his paper aeroplanes and his pint of bitter and his 'girls'...

  And it had been too late, after all.

  This did not suggest an eye for composition! At best the whole idea was recklessly unfinished, tossed out at humanity as if to solve an amusing after-dinner conundrum. If God existed, Alistair thought, He was not a great artist: He was a brandy-swilling dilettante with a comical frame of mind.

  Alistair ran his fingers over the little arms and legs, the tiny wrists nailed to the cross. A faint memory stirred in him. Instantly he was sure he had seen this figure of Jesus often before. Wasn't it the one that had once stood by his mother's bed? Surely it was the one he had learnt to say his prayers in front of as a child?

  What on earth was it doing here? He could not recall its having been in the box of his mother's possessions, which he had left for Ivy to go through. And, in fact, when he thought about it, he knew Ivy had never been much of a believer, so it was unlikely she had either been given it by her friend before death or chosen it afterwards as a memento. No, Ivy would have chosen a brooch, a heads
carf, one of the hide china dogs to remember her old friend June.

  There was only one explanation. His mother had given her little crucifix to Geoff herself. This act, with its implied slow music of shared guilt and sympathy, and of enduring attachment, moved Alistair deeply.

  Chapter 22

  Luke's own beauty came as a surprise to him. He had not shaved or washed his hair for two weeks. He stood in a bath towel in front of the mirror and studied his sharp, handsome face for a moment, the dark-blond hair with its platinum streaks, the lightly tanned flawless skin, the neat symmetrical mouth and large grey eyes he had inherited from his mother. Losing weight had made his cheekbones stand out and he looked supernaturally lean as a film star. His stomach was flat and smooth and muscular. He took no personal satisfaction in these observations—except in the sense that they made him feel well prepared, well armed.

  He patted on some aftershave, then he went into the bedroom and put on a sky blue cotton shirt and a pair of cream linen trousers. He chose a brown leather belt, his white gold and opal cufflinks and a pair of worn tan loafers. He looked at his reflection—Eurotrash to a T; effortless elegance achieved only with much idle consideration and at great expense. He would fit in perfectly. In fact, he would look better than Jamie Turnbull who had rather vulgar taste in clothes, who wore designer labels and silk shirts and indulged in celebrity-style caprices, like flip-flops and Nehru collars and diamond pinkie rings. Well-brought-up people who had been to good schools wouldn't dream of dressing like that, he thought.

  He took the gun out of his desk drawer along with the last of the ZylamaproneTM. The party didn't start until eight thirty, and since he hardly wanted to arrive on the dot, he had plenty of time for a joint. There was only a tiny bit of stale marijuana left, so along with it he crumbled almost a whole cigarette into a king size Rizla and, having crushed up the Zylie with the back of his hairbrush, sprinkled the powder on top. He was still not sure it really did anything—there was no raised heartbeat or chomping of the teeth or other obvious signs of euphoria, but he had been encouraged by the large number of 'Zylie-face' addiction-support sites: 'www.yourkidsandzylamaprone.com' had contained an incredible list of warnings, and people were not idiots after all—they must be doing it for something.