Paradise News

by David Lodge

  The telephone rang inside the room and he gave a start. As he went back inside, a strange conceit sprang into his head that the call was from the couple, who had been watching him from behind their curtains in the building opposite. He would pick up the phone and a mocking voice would drawl … What? And how would they know the number, anyway? He shook his head as if to clear it of such nonsense, and picked up the receiver. It was Tess.

  “You promised to phone to say you’d arrived safely,” she said accusingly.

  “It’s difficult, because of the time difference,” he said. “I didn’t want to wake you up in the middle of the night.”

  “How’s Daddy? Has he recovered?”

  “Recovered?”

  “From the journey.”

  “Oh! Yes, I think so.”

  “Can I speak to him?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Why?”

  Bernard paused for thought. “He’s in bed,” he said at length.

  “Why? What’s the time?”

  “Ten-thirty, at night.”

  “Oh well, don’t disturb him, then. How’s Ursula? Was she glad to see Daddy?”

  “She’s hasn’t seen him yet. I went on my own today. Ursula’s been moved out of the hospital to a rather unsatisfactory place called a care home.” He went on at some length about the unsatisfactoriness of the care home, and the financial constraints on Ursula’s freedom of choice in this respect.

  Tess was clearly put out. “Do you mean to tell me that Ursula is poor?” she said at length.

  “Well, not exactly poor. But she isn’t at all well-off. She certainly couldn’t afford a posh private nursing home for long. The question is, how long will she need it for? It’s a rather delicate matter to discuss with her.”

  “I must say,” said Tess crossly, “that I think Ursula has given us all a very misleading impression of her style of life.”

  “Don’t you think we constructed it for our own purposes?”

  “Oh, I can’t split hairs with you now, Bernard,” said Tess. “This call is costing a fortune.” She rang off with a final injunction to him to phone her again, “when I can speak to Daddy.”

  Bernard stared at the receiver in his hand as if at a smoking gun, appalled by his own duplicity. He had completely forgotten his promise to phone Tess, and although the question of how he would break the news of his father’s accident to her had hovered darkly at the perimeter of his consciousness all day, he had been too preoccupied with more urgent problems to give it proper thought. Presented with an opportunity, he had funked it. He had lied to Tess – or if, according to a certain kind of casuistry, he had not quite done that, he had certainly deceived her.

  He felt a powerful impulse to phone Tess back immediately, and confess all. He actually lifted the receiver, and got halfway through dialling the long sequence of digits, before clapping it down on the cradle again. He got up and paced around the apartment. Of course, she was bound to find out about the accident sooner or later. On the other hand, there was nothing she could do about it, so why not wait until their father was definitely on the mend? The logic seemed impeccable, but he was left with a residue of guilt to add to to the heap he had already accumulated.

  To distract himself, he sat down on a spindly upright chair at Ursula’s bureau, and searched, as she had instructed him, for her bank statements and stock portfolio. He found these documents without difficulty; but while he was looking through the drawers he also came across an exercise book, or writing book, unused, pristine, its stiff board covers bound in dark blue cloth. The empty, ruled pages opened easily, invitingly, and lay flat before him. They were smooth and silky to the touch. It was the kind of book, Bernard thought, in which you might write a journal. Or a confession.

  He yawned suddenly, and felt another wave of tiredness course through his limbs. He closed the bureau, and went to bed, taking the writing book with him.

  In other rooms in Waikiki other visitors are preparing themselves for bed, or are already asleep. Dee Ripley seems to be asleep, her sharp features gleaming with moisturizer against the white pillow, as Sue Butterworth tiptoes past on her way to the bathroom. Amanda Best is listening to Madonna on her personal stereo, under the bedclothes so as not to disturb her mother, who is asleep in the adjoining bed. Since Amanda and Robert are too old to share a bedroom, and Mr Best considers the single-occupancy supplement exorbitant, he is sharing a twin room with his son, and Mrs Best another with Amanda. Robert has speculated to Amanda that their parents may be particularly ill-tempered because these sleeping arrangements prevent them from having sexual intercourse. Amanda finds it difficult to imagine her parents having sexual intercourse under any circumstances, and it is only the second night of the holiday, but they have certainly been abnormally stroppy, even for them, so perhaps there is something to his theory. Lilian and Sidney Brooks have just returned to their room after dining with Terry and Tony to find the lights turned on beside their beds and the radio playing soft music. The bedclothes have been turned down to expose a triangle of crisp white sheet; their humble Marks and Spencer’s nightwear, which they rolled up and shoved under their pillows earlier in the day, has been smoothed and spread out across the beds; and on each pillow reposes an orchid blossom and a chocolate wrapped in gold foil. Lilian looks nervously around the room as if fearing that the perpetrator of these attentions may be hiding in a closet, waiting to spring out at them with a cry of “Aloha!” or whatever the Hawaiian for “Goodnight” is. Roger Sheldrake is sitting up in his enormous bed, underlining occurrences of the word “paradise” in This Week in Oahu, sipping a glass of champagne poured from a bottle generously sent to his room with the manager’s compliments. Brian and Beryl Everthorpe are enjoying vigorous sexual intercourse, positioned on the bed so that Brian can watch his performance in the wardrobe mirror, even if he cannot replay it. And Russell Harvey is gloomily watching an adult movie on the hotel’s video channel, while Cecily breathes deeply in sleep from one of the room’s double beds.

  It has been a trying day for Russ. Cecily showed considerable ingenuity in avoiding direct communication with him. In the morning, she called the concierge from their room to say, “We’re going to the beach, which part would you recommend?” so that when she prepared to go out, Russ knew where they were going. When they were settled on the crowded beach, she struck up an acquaintance with a woman sitting on a raffia mat nearby and chattered away to her, saying, “What a good idea those mats are, where do you get them?” so that Russ knew he had to go and buy them a couple of mats; and then, “I think I’ll go for a dip now,” so he knew it was time for a swim; and, after an hour or so, “I think we’ve had enough sun for our first day,” so that he knew it was time to collect up their belongings, and traipse back to the hotel. And at the hotel she asked the bell-captain the way to the zoo, so that he knew what they were going to do in the afternoon. The zoo! Whoever heard of honeymooners going to the zoo, on their first day, and in Honolulu of all places. Apart from anything else, it must niff to high heaven in this heat. When Russ expressed this opinion, Cecily smiled sweetly and said to the bell-captain, “Well, he doesn’t have to go, does he?” But of course Russ did go, and it did niff.

  So it went on all day. And all evening. At the end of dinner, Cecily yawned in the waiter’s face and said, “Oh, excuse me! Jetlag I suppose. We’d better have an early night,” so Russ knew they were going to bed. But not to the same one. When the housemaid knocked on the door to ask if they wanted their bed turned down, Cecily smiled sweetly and said, “Yes, both of them please.” Then she locked herself in the bathroom for about an hour. Then she took a sleeping tablet and passed out.

  Yes, it has been a trying day, and now even the adult movie channel seems to have joined the conspiracy to drive him mad with frustration. Not only does it have it have the usual imbecilic plot and robotic actors, but he has been watching it for a good three-quarters of an hour and so far there hasn’t been a single bonking scene. A bit of s
triptease, a coy hint that the heroine was touching herself up in the bath, but not a single bout of simulated sexual intercouse, which is after all the whole point of watching these films and the only justification for charging you $8.00 a throw. Whenever it looked as if the heroine was finally going to make it with one of her admirers, the image faded out and the next thing you knew, she was dressed again and in another scene. He has seen sexier things at home on BBC2. It dawns on Russ that the film must have been cut. Censored. As if to confirm this suspicion, the movie ends abruptly, after only fifty-five minutes. Russ is outraged. He considers phoning the reception desk to complain, but cannot think of a suitable form of words. He paces up and down the room. He stops and glowers at Cecily. She is lying on her back, with her fair hair fanned out over the pillow. Her bosom rises and falls rhythmically under the sheet. Russ slowly peels back the sheet. Cecily is wearing a long white nightdress of chaste design. He lifts its skirt and looks underneath. Things are much as he remembers them under there, except that the thighs are a little red from the sun. He contemplates marital rape, but decides against it. He lets the skirt of the nightdress fall, pulls the sheet up to Cecily’s chin and returns to the television. He slumps into the armchair, and presses a button on the remote control at random. An enormous blue-green wave fills the screen, a moving cliff of water, smooth and glassy at the bottom, foaming and boiling at the top, like an inverted waterfall, propelling before it, clinging to his surfboard by his toes, balanced at an impossible angle, with arms extended and knees bent, a tiny triumphant human figure. Russ sits up.

  “Fucking hell,” he murmurs admiringly.

  PART TWO

  And dark scents whisper; and dim waves creep to me,

  Gleam like a woman’s hair, stretch out, and rise;

  And new stars burn into the ancient skies,

  Over the murmurous soft Hawaiian sea.

  And I recall, lose, grasp, forget again,

  And still remember, a tale I have heard, or known,

  An empty tale, of idleness and pain.

  Of two that loved – or did not love – and one

  Whose perplexed heart did evil, foolishly,

  A long while since, and by some other sea.

  Rupert Brooke:

  “Waikiki”

  1

  Saturday 12th

  DROVE TO THE Geyser Hospital this morning to see Ursula’s oncologist, by appointment. The Geyser is a huge medical citadel, much bigger and grander than St Joseph’s, recently constructed in curvilinear concrete and mirror glass on a site about ten miles outside Honolulu. Apparently it used to be situated down by the shore just outside Waikiki, next to the Marina, but a few years ago the site was sold to developers, the hospital demolished and a high-rise luxury hotel was constructed in its place. In fact the reception area of the new hospital is itself a bit like the lobby of a luxury hotel, carpeted and upholstered in tasteful tones of grey and mauve, with examples of Hawaiian folk art on the walls – an indication of how profitable the change of location was. Dr Gerson assures me that it also has all the state-of-the-art medical technology, but it must seem a long ambulance ride if you happen to be knocked down in Waikiki.

  Gerson admits to missing the view he used to have, from his old office, of the yachts going in and out of the marina. He is a keen windsurfer, and I should think he is good at it – he is lean, wiry, youngish. As he leafed through Ursula’s file he tilted his swivel chair as far it would go as if balancing a sailboard against the wind. His forearms, thrust from the short sleeves of his starched white tunic, were tanned and muscular, covered with fine gold hairs.

  He thanked me for coming to Honolulu – “Frankly, it makes my task easier if there’s family around to take care of the practical problems in a case like this.” He was brisk, forthright and, I thought, a little cold. Perhaps you have to be in his line of medicine. The mortality rate of his patients must be pretty high. He confirmed what Ursula had told me about her condition: malignant melanoma with secondary cancers of the liver and spleen. “Caused by too much exposure to the sun, I’m afraid, in the days when the danger wasn’t appreciated. People came here because of the climate and lay about in the sun all day. It was asking for trouble. I always wear a sunblock with a fifteen per cent protection factor when I go windsurfing. I advise you to do the same on the beach.” I said I doubted if I would have any time for sunbathing.

  Prognosis was difficult, he said, especially with elderly patients. His own estimate was that Ursula would live for about six months, but it could be more, or much less. The condition was incurable. “This type of cancer doesn’t respond well to radiotherapy or chemotherapy. I offered them to Mrs Riddell because they can give some remission in certain cases, but she declined, and I respect that. She’s a tough old lady, your aunt. She knows her own mind.”

  When I criticised the accommodation she was in, he answered, as I knew he would, that she had insisted on the cheapest available. “But I agree with you, it’s not appropriate for a patient in her condition, and will become even less so as time goes on.” He said there were several private nursing homes in and around Honolulu, costing anything from $3000 a month up, according to the type of care and degree of luxury they offer, and gave me a list compiled by the hospital’s Nursing Co-ordinator. He explained that Ursula’s medical plan covered her for something called Skilled Nursing Care, i.e. 24-hour attendance by registered nurses, such as you get in hospital, but not Intermediate Nursing Care, which is all she needs at present – or so he says. I deduced that there was a certain pressure on him not to admit patients to hospital lightly, since they then become a charge on the Geyser Foundation. I said I thought Ursula ought to be in hospital while I looked for a suitable nursing home, and pressed him to visit her. He said he was very busy, but when I told him how badly constipated she was, he agreed to try and call on her today.

  Drove back along the freeway to visit Daddy at St Joseph’s. He is in some pain, and was fretful and surly. He turned his nose up at the pyjamas I had bought for him because they didn’t button at the neck. I pointed out that in this climate you didn’t need pyjamas that buttoned at the neck, and he said, “What about when I go home – or don’t you think I’m ever going to get home?” I told him not to be silly. I described my visit to Ursula yesterday, but he didn’t seem very interested. Illness, I’m afraid, makes people even more selfish and ill-natured than they are normally. In all my time as a parish priest, visiting the sick in hospital and at home, I could count on the fingers of one hand the number of patients I met who “rose above” their suffering. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be one of that number myself.

  Daddy asked me if I had telephoned Tess to tell her about his accident. I said I thought it was pointless to worry her unless it was absolutely necessary. He was displeased and said she had a right to know, the whole family had a right to know. What he meant was that he had a right to know they were all worrying themselves sick on his behalf, and blaming me. He said slyly, “You’re afraid of Tess, aren’t you?” Touché.

  On my way out, I met Daddy’s physician, Dr Figuera, a cheerful, portly man of about sixty, who assured me that Daddy was making a good recovery, and that he didn’t anticipate any complications. “Good bones, good bones,” he said. “Don’t worry about him. He’ll mend.”

  Drove to Mrs Jones’s. A white BMW with a sailboard on the roofrack was parked outside, and proved to belong to Dr Gerson, who was just leaving as I arrived. We conferred in the street, through the open window of his car. His tanned, golden-haired arm was jack-knifed to grip the roof. “You were right to call me in, she’s in bad shape,” he said. “I’m readmitting her to treat the constipation. That should give you a few days to fix up a nursing home, OK?” I asked him when Ursula would be moved, and he said, “When can you bring her in?” I pointed to my old Honda and said, “You mean, in that? Can’t she have an ambulance?” He said, somewhat irritably, “You don’t seem to realize I have to operate within certain financial constraints. I have
to make a medical case for every ambulance I authorize. If your aunt can walk to the bathroom, she can walk to your car.”

  I pointed out that the cast on her arm would make this difficult.

  “She can sit in the back.”

  “It’s a two-door car. She could never climb into the back.”

  He sighed and said, “OK. You get your ambulance.”

  I stayed with Ursula until the ambulance came, and helped her pack her few belongings. Mrs Jones, who had given me a very frigid reception at the front door, didn’t come near us. “She thinks it’s your fault that I’m being moved,” Ursula said. “Well,” I said, “she’s right,” and we giggled conspiratorially.

  Ursula was delighted to be escaping from that dreary house. For the first time since I got to Hawaii – for the first time in a long while – I felt a glow of satisfaction at having achieved something, at having bent circumstances to my will, at having been of some use. Ursula has also been busy on her own account. She had Mrs Jones bring her a cordless phone, and made calls to her bank, her stockbroker and her lawyer. It seems that I must obtain power of attorney before I can consolidate her various bank accounts and sell her stocks and shares.

  Re-reading that sentence, I sound like a man of business. In fact I have only the foggiest idea of what is entailed. I have never managed personal finances more complex than a current bank account and a Post Office Savings Book in my life. When I was parish priest of St Peter’s and Paul’s my curate Thomas did all the accounts. He had a head for figures, fortunately. I’m just about the least qualified person in the world to help Ursula settle her affairs. But I suppose I can learn, if only from Ursula. Perhaps she learned from Rick. It surprises me that she has any investments at all, good or bad. The Walshes never were any good at money. We don’t understand its abstract workings – interest, inflation, depreciation. Money to us is cash: coin and banknotes, kept in jamjars and under mattresses, something necessary, coveted, but vaguely disreputable. Family gatherings – weddings, funerals, visits from or to relatives in Ireland – were always marked by people furtively pushing screwed-up, low-denomination banknotes into each other’s hands or pockets by way of presents. We never had enough money at home, and what we had was badly managed. Mummy would send one of the girls out to the shops every day, for little bits of this and that, instead of buying in bulk. Daddy never had any savings to speak of. I think he bet on horses secretly. Once, when I was still at school, I borrowed a raincoat of his and found a betting slip in the pocket. I never told anybody.