Trumpet: A Novel (Vintage Contemporaries)
Page 17
We never miss Sunday brunch if we are at home. ‘Sunday brunch!’ Joss always announces it, as if we were in a restaurant and he was shouting out the menu for his customers. ‘Joss Moody’s Sunday Brunch.’ Colman is rarely impressed. Joss sings to us as he puts each plate down on the table with a flourish. Da da da dah da da da dee da didi bum bum bum brup brup brup baaaaade dup dup. Scatting. Making it all up. If Colman is irritable he will shout, Stop it, Daddy, or latterly, Shut up, and Joss will start singing louder and louder, stamping his feet and moving the plates in time to his rhythm dancing across the kitchen floor. Just give me my breakfast, Colman will say. And I’ll look at Colman reprovingly. Why do you have to spoil everything? I’ll ask him. Your dad’s just having fun. What is the problem? Be nice.
I am being nice, Colman will say. I just want my breakfast. So we will sit down to eat. Joss completely unbothered by Colman’s bad humour, and me trying to rise above it and be pleasant but all the time feeling this terrible rage inside me, that these days springs from nowhere. I have never felt angry towards anyone in my whole life like the anger I can feel towards my son. It scares me. Right, let’s have a nice breakfast, I say in my bully’s pleasant voice. In other words, I’ll want to punish him in some timely way if he doesn’t manage to bring out the best of himself.
You know I don’t like scrambled eggs, Colman will say. He is, what? Nine, ten? Anyway, whatever he is, he has been eating scrambled eggs happily for years. I get up and yank him from the table, pulling him along to his room. I throw him into the room and say stay there until you do like scrambled eggs. I know as I am doing it that this is not quite fair; but neither is he fair and I am sick of him trying to ruin my weekends. Sick to the back teeth of his sulky ways. I hear him throw something in his room. I resist the temptation to open the door and have a piece of him. The table is still perfectly laid. The bright yellow tablecloth and the bowl of fruit and the coffee pot are all unchanged. The sun is coming through the window and making light of the apples.
Joss looks up from his paper. ‘There’s no need for that. You make him worse when you do that,’ he says. ‘Come back when you do like scrambled eggs?!! Are you out of your mind?’ I laugh and stand behind him. I kiss the back of his neck. ‘You’ve hurt me,’ I whisper in his ear and he smiles, shamefaced. I bend over him and kiss him on his soft lips. ‘You go and get him,’ I say and sit down to my Sunday brunch.
When Colman is back with us at the table, eating his eggs and trying really hard, I feel all guilty again. My lovely boy. He looks beautiful. He is a good eater, really, I say to myself. Why was I so hard on him? He’s only a boy. (Show me the boy and I’ll show you the man.) Why do I let him annoy me so much? I’ll need to try to be better. Try to be a better mummy. That’s a nice boy, I say to him and smile. His eyes look all loving and hurt Like a tiny pitiful Oedipus.
We get in the car and drive to the Heath. We like a long walk on a Sunday on the Heath. It is the only place in London that makes us feel that we are not in London. The trees are shyly blooming and the May sun shines through the leaves towards our faces. Joss and Colman walk and run hand in hand. We play games as we walk. Make up stories. I spy. Catch you out if you say No. Make up a song with a car in it. Make up a song with the word San Francisco in it. Make up a song with the word bitter in it. We can never catch Joss out. No matter how unusual the word. I even tried Shakespeare on him and he got a song. Brush up your Shakespeare, he started singing, pretending he was sweeping the Heath with a big broom.
Sundays. Perfect, ordinary Sundays. Today is Sunday. I have missed five Sundays now without Joss. Five. He died on a Sunday. I wish he had died on a different day. The last few Sundays before he died were not like our Sundays at all. He was so ill and we both knew he was dying. We didn’t know when it would be.
I remember things each day about the Sunday Joss died. Things I don’t want to remember. It was a while before I called anyone. I just sat with him, waiting for his soul to travel. I have never believed in such things until the moment that Joss died. But I do now. Because in our room as Joss was dying, I could feel two of him there. One was the ill person, lying on his bed, constantly making clacking sounds with his dry mouth, opening and closing it, trying to make it moist. The other did not have a body, but was more like a spirit in the room. A spirit that had miraculously managed to get out of his body early and comfort me, tell me to let go, tell me everything was going to be all right, only I needed to let go so that he could too. For some moments I wrestled with the voice of this spirit. I didn’t want to let go. Right up until the last minute, I believed in miracles; I believed he might pull through, get better. You hear of people all the time that are at death’s door and turn back to life. I was waiting, wanting more than I’ve wanted anything in the world for Joss to turn back to life, just get better. I prayed. I clasped my hands together like a child; I went down on my knees and prayed. I am not religious, but I prayed. I prayed. So help me God. I didn’t want to let Joss go. I held on to the sick person’s hand. I felt sick myself. Weak from lack of sleep and pure terror. A kind of terror I have never ever felt. A kind of terror that is so pure, so powerful, it goes into your body and claims it. Your temples sing the terror. Your sweat smells of it. Your mouth tastes of it, metallic, poisonous. Your hands shake with it. Your voice, even though you try to sound soothing, comforting, reassuring, your voice shakes and is not your own voice any more. It is the voice of pure terror and you know it; you know it when you try to speak with your old voice and this new voice comes out. This new voice that is saying please to itself, please please please. Not now. Don’t go.
Until I realized that this was agony for him. That the first Joss and the second Joss both wanted to go. That the spirit was kind but it was also at the end of its tether. The vehicle was ready and waiting, it couldn’t wait any longer if it was going to take Joss to where Joss needed to go. So I kissed his hand and took some initiative. I said, it’s all right now, darling. You can go now. You can go now. It is all right. You can go now. I kept stroking his hand, stroking it smoothly in the one direction. Feeling the ghost of a pulse still beating. I left the room. I went to the toilet. When I came back his pulse had gone. His hand had fallen out of the sheets and was hanging over the bed. I tucked it in. He was lying half-covered in a white sheet. He had on a pair of cream linen pyjamas. His hair was still damp, his skin was still clammy. His hands were still his hands. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked different. I’ve heard of people who pull a sheet over the dead person to cover the face. But I couldn’t do that to Joss.
Joss told me a few days before he died more about being a girl than he had ever done in a lifetime of marriage. Two days before he died he had an unusual request: a tin of ambrosia creamed rice. His favourite pudding when he was a girl. He had said those words, for the first time in his life with me: ‘When I was a girl my favourite pudding was ambrosia creamed rice.’ I spoon-fed him a little bit of the rice and that was his last meal. He told me to remember the bandages, to remember and put the bandages back on. So I unbuttoned the pyjama jacket, managed to pull it off. It was hard work. I wrapped the bandages around his chest for the last time. The bandages that were part of our life together. I wrapped them round and round tightly till his small breasts flattened underneath the cream-coloured bandages. I did not cry when I was doing this. I had no way to express this feeling I felt. It was worse than anything I have ever felt. I still have that feeling. That same sickening feeling. I had it this morning when I woke up and thought for a moment that Joss was alive. I put his pyjama top on and did the buttons. All this must have taken a very long time. I put a fresh sheet over him and another blanket. I would call the doctor, the undertaker, get him moved soon; but first I had to tell Colman.
I wanted to wash my hands now. Wash my hands and my face with cold water. I could still feel the other Joss in the room, hovering. The spirit Joss. The kind understanding one. I stood up on my own two feet. I went into the hall and stared at the black phone.
I stared at it for ages trying to remember Colman’s number. It came to me some time later. I know it must have been quite a while because the dark shades deepened. I had looked at my watch when Joss died. It was 1.12 a.m. when I came back into the room and found him dead. I had heard that in hospitals they are strict about the time of death as well as the time of birth. I wanted to get the time right. That night before he died, I had left the room for a couple of seconds to phone 1 2 3, so that I could be sure that my time was the same time as the rest of the country. The disembodied voice told me it was nine-thirty and twenty seconds. It is half-past two. Colman’s number enters my head, fully formed – 802 0464.
I cradle the phone. I say to the spirit that I know is still there: I’m going to phone our son. I’m going to phone our son. I push the numbers. My fingers feel barely strong enough to push the numbers. I get Colman’s answerphone. I have always hated them. How can he have it on at a time like this when he knows his father is dying? I hold on waiting for the bleep that everyone tells you to wait for. When it comes it frightens me, it is so loud and thoughtless. I say, Colman? Colman, are you there? And the real Colman is on the line in a flash. Your father died an hour or so ago, Colman, I say. Can you please come round?
I don’t know what I would have done without him. He came round, quite soon I think. But he didn’t want to see his father. He said he’d rather remember him alive. If only he hadn’t changed his mind. If only he’d never gone to the funeral parlour. It wouldn’t have made any difference, I suppose. Somebody was bound to tell.
When Colman came he started behaving in a way I had never witnessed: he became super efficient, organized, understanding. He made hundreds of phone calls. He made me many cups of tea. I wanted to ring the undertaker myself. I had to think now of the person lying in that room as Joss’s body. I remember noticing daft things. A neighbour of ours that had never been all that friendly weeping in the street when the body was carried out, early on Monday morning. I watched at the doorway. I had to watch him being taken away. I had to make myself. A little boy, two houses down – his name has gone – came running up to me. Did your husband die? Did your husband die? he asked till his mother came rushing out and shooshed him. I stared at him for a moment then I said, ‘Yes. My husband died.’
My husband died. I am now a widow. That is what I will tell them if they come and ask me. My husband died. I am now a widow. My husband died, I am now a widow.
Why can they not understand how ordinary that is? Many women have become widows. Many women have gone through what I’ve gone through. Many women know the shape, the smell, the colour of loss. Many women have aged with loss. Grief has changed the face of many women. I am not alone. I have to tell myself this. I am not alone.
I am lying to myself. I am always lying to myself and I really must stop it. I am alone. My friends don’t know how to talk to me or write to me any more. They are embarrassed, confused, shocked. Perhaps angry. I don’t know. Perhaps they are angry like Colman is angry. I don’t know. Perhaps they want to know how I ‘managed’ it.
I managed to love my husband from the moment I clapped eyes on him till the moment he died. I managed to desire him all of our married life. I managed to respect and love his music. I managed to always like the way he ate his food. I managed to be faithful, to never be interested in another man. I managed to be loyal, to keep our private life private where it belonged. To not tell a single soul including my own son about our private life. I managed all that. I know I am capable of loving to the full capacity, of not being frightened of loving too much, of giving myself up and over. I know that I loved being the wife of Joss Moody.
I managed to live with a genius. Not easy, I can tell you.
Maybe all widows feel misunderstood. The widow who takes to her bed and pulls her curtains down, does not do the done thing – pull herself together, put on a brave face – perhaps she feels like I do. I am putting on a brave face. I have pulled myself together.
Today is Sunday. The fifth Sunday without Joss. I have made myself a brunch. My scrambled eggs are not as good as his. My coffee is always too weak. My bacon is overdone. I sit down at the wooden table at Torr and eat. Joss would approve of my making a Sunday brunch in his honour, in his absence. Later, I will go out and get a newspaper. I haven’t read a whole newspaper for quite a while. Those disgusting articles scared me off. But today I quite fancy a couple of the Sundays.
If they come I will be ready for them. I will tell them all about being Joss Moody’s widow. I will not be shy. Now that I come to think about them, I realize that I actually want them to come. I know that if I actually see Colman and he looks straight into my eyes, he will not be able to do this book. Not possible. When they come for me in the morning, or the morning after that, or the afternoon after that, or the following week, I will be ready.
OBITUARIES
JOSS MOODY
1958 Millie’s Song (Centre)
1960 Night Hiding (ACR)
1963 Prodigal Son (ACR)
1966 Fantasy Africa (Heygana)
1967 Moody Moanin’ (Power Label)
1968 Wee Blue Bird (Sugar)
1972 Torr (Sugar)
1975 Rainstorms in Italy (Columbia)
1979 Blues in a Wild C (Columbia)
1982 Rubric (Columbia)
1985 Slow ’n’ Moody (Columbia)
1987 Sunday Brunch (Columbia)
1991 Joss Moody (Columbia)
1994 The Best of Joss Moody (Columbia)
Joss Moody, trumpet player, born 1927; died 27 July 1997
GOOD HOTELS
He must have been away with his father at least seven or eight times in the past five years. Little trips, a couple of days with the band. If there is a Toblerone in the mini-bar, the hotel scores top marks. If there’s a white bathrobe in plastic in the wardrobe, it scores top marks too. The only time Colman ever wore a dressing gown was on the road with his father. It was fun. His father always insisted Colman have his own room. If the room service menu includes a hamburger in a seeded roll or a steak sandwich, it’s doing not bad. If it has Sky TV and a movie channel, it’s in with a shout. If it has none of these little luxuries, it stinks. This one, in Glasgow, has the lot, the whole package. Colman checks for everything, sees it’s all there, then feels depressed. He doesn’t know why. Feels himself sinking. There is no old man to meet in the bar for a drink.
‘What do you like?’ she asks him, pulling her white napkin over her black silk dress. ‘Would you like a gin and tonic to start?’ ‘You order everything for me,’ Colman says and watches Sophie’s eyes. Her eyes are large. Her lashes long. Her hair is blonde; she wears it up. A few long fallen strands of hair line the edge of her cheek. Her cheeks are high and sharp. She tilts her head to one side, looking at the menu. Her lips are slightly open as she thinks. She’s wearing a bright lipstick, a startling red. Her lips are not full, and not thin. The bottom lip looks as if it could belong to a different mouth from the top lip. ‘Are you sure you want me to order for you?’ Sophie asks, looking up from the menu. ‘Sure, positive,’ he says. The waiter comes and she orders two dover soles and a bottle of Chablis. ‘That’s us then,’ Sophie says.
Colman can’t think what to say. When the fish arrives, he is relieved to have something to do. He lifts the bone out carefully. It is pleasurable to airlift the bone to safety. He puts it at the side of his plate. The fish is excellent. Sophie Stones talks incessantly about the book. She calls it, ‘Our book.’ It’s starting to grate on him. ‘Our book.’
Alone in my hotel room, I go over and over Colman in my mind. Strip him bare. Picture his back completely bare, his arse, his thighs, the inside of his thighs, his balls, his cock. All of him. It is not a game any more. It is not even a story. Tonight for the first time, I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for myself. Feeling sorry for him only made me want him more. Damn, Colman loves his father. He loves his father. It agitated me to discover that instead of hate or fury or spite or repulsion, the emotion, that I sa
w clearly written across the wide high bones on Colman Moody’s cheeks, was love. Love! It was like the first time in my life I’d really seen it.
I take off my black silk dress and hang it up. I put on the white towelling bathrobe and run a bath, pouring the bubble bath in. I slide underneath the foamy bubbles, close my eyes. Something is wrong. Must ask him what is the matter. Tonight, at dinner, he was on about how he couldn’t meet these people, how it would do his head in, I had to do it. Wanted to meet Mrs Moore on his own. (Had to give in to that.) I mentioned this Torr place to him and he just about blew up. Not going to visit his mother. Not taking me up the road to Torr. Couldn’t do it. He said, ‘I’m not taking you!’ as if I was tainted or something. It hurt my feelings. As if I was the gutter press. I might write for the Daily Sky, but I’m freelance. It annoys me when people assume we’re all the same. Colman didn’t even pause on my hurt look. He loved that place, Torr, he said, with its windy roads, the wind on the top of the cliffs, the wild walk down to the harbour, the boats. The men fishing, endlessly, patiently fishing. The smell of fish and rain. The little café that’d been there since he was a kid. Torr was sacred. Couldn’t be touched. Neither could his mother. She needed to be left in peace. No matter what she’d done. She must be grieving, he said, as if it had just that moment occurred to him that his mother would be grieving. ‘Grieving badly, man,’ he said. I didn’t know how to react. I wanted to say to him, ‘Look, you’ve got me all wrong.’ I didn’t want to risk it, to risk antagonizing him. I had to play it cool. People often get cold feet just before they spill the beans. Quite common. Not the first time a great story has pulled out on me. A scoop scuttling backwards. Never thought I’d have any problems with Colman Moody though. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘it’ll be good this book. It is just trying to explain the phenomenon of your father. It’ll help other people.’