‘I don’t think he’s ready for London.’
‘Why not? Why can’t you bring him to the flat? There’s the park and the zoo right on the doorstep. He’ll go mad for the komodo dragons.’
‘I’ll think about it. In the meantime, there’s the concert.’
‘If you’re that set on going, I’ll do something with Nick around Montreux - but he’s bound to want to go with you.’
‘I don’t think he will. He’d rather be with you these days. Which is just as it should be,’ I added. ‘You being his father and all.’
‘You’re your own worst enemy, Louise, you know that?’
‘Really? I thought that was you.’
Androssoff and Nicky had certainly become much closer since we moved to Geneva. Nicky was my life, but slowly, slowly but surely, I saw him slipping away from me, a sombre future when he would be at school full time, a teenager, testing his boundaries, and then a student, flying the nest, inhabiting a world where I couldn’t follow. I didn’t want to be some kind of devouring mother, nor the sort of indifferent and self-centred character my mother had always been for me: I wanted a balanced, happy relationship with my son, but I dreaded losing him. Since he was born, we had existed in a sort of symbiosis. I remembered those times in New Zealand when he played in the garden with Buz, rushing back indoors to me after the game. Big hug, he’d say. Big hug. Where was Androssoff then? In Geneva, London, at the Harvard Medical School – another of his alma maters? I missed Buz deeply. He had understood me.
13
We took the train to Montreux on the Saturday morning. The weather wasn’t promising, particularly over the lake, where black skies lowered above the French Alps. But over Lausanne some patches of blue were emerging.
‘Enough to make a sailor a pair of trousers,’ I told Nicky.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’ Androssoff said. The woman sitting opposite us gave him a disapproving look. He looked like a beatnik today in his biker jacket and worn out jeans, an ageing rocker. There would be plenty of those at Montreux.
Nicky was looking through the window.
‘My grandma told me if there’s enough blue in the sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers, it will be a fine day,’ I elaborated.
He kept his eyes on the passing landscape, always a thrill in Switzerland. He was going on the steam train up to Rochers de Naye while I went to the gig. I had packed them a picnic. It was in Androssoff’s rucksack, together with Nicky’s fleece for when they got out to admire the view from the high plateau. I left them at the station and walked down to the waterfront, hoping to get a seat on a bench somewhere so I could listen discreetly to the music. If it was bad, I would sneak away.
There was a half hour or so to go before the gig began so I went to a cafe-stall near the water and asked for a bottle of lemonade. There were plenty of people milling around, but the crowd around the stage was not very big. A lot of people were sitting in boats moored at pontoons near the shore. The stage had that abandoned look of all pre-concert platforms: deserted drum kits, a number of amps with lights on standby, a flashing keyboard. Eventually, a man with a pony tail came on to the stage to fiddle with the equipment. I sipped my lemonade slowly and decided to stay where I was on a plastic chair belonging to the cafe-stall. At two minutes to two the band appeared to the sound of claps and cheers and crowd thickened out. Drew stood over by the amps to the left of the stage. He didn’t have his stick with him and I hoped he wouldn’t fall over. He was tuning up on what I assumed to be the Fender Stratocaster. The bassist had the same near shoulder length hair as Drew and his double, Androssoff, although in the bass player’s case, the hair was tonsured by a bald spot that was turning red in the emerging sunshine. He must have been pushing sixty. Then a much younger man with short curly hair jumped onto the stage to sporadic clapping and a few encouraging whistles.
‘I can see some funk and blues fans here this afternoon.’ Affirmations from some older members of the audience. ‘We’re gonna start with a tribute to the late, great Tim Buckley.’ Faint cheers. ‘This is for Tim and his son Jeff, also taken before his time.’ Louder cheers. The vocalist turned to the band: ‘Dolphins.’
Drew started strumming on the Stratocaster. The metallic sound was thin at first, against the humming vocals, but then the rest of the band came in and the music gained momentum. Drew was good, but that was only to be expected from someone who had backed Zeb Tree and Jimi Hendrix. After Dolphins, they went straight into Buzzin’ Fly, and then the vocalist paused to take a swig from a bottle of beer on top of one of the amps. There was a lot of applause from people my age, slightly less enthusiasm from younger members of the audience. Drew played the introduction to the next song, Pleasant Street, which was funkier and caused a bit of head movement. They finished the set with Sally Go Round the Roses, which had people up on their feet, hand-jiving and clapping to the beat.
‘Smoke on the water,’ someone called.
‘Song to the Siren.’
‘ Check out Robert Plant at The Casino.’
‘Smoke on the water. Smoke on the water.’
The microphone screeched and the vocalist nodded to the band: ‘Don’t let me be misunderstood.’
This was my very favourite blues song. I had it at home on a Nina Simone CD. The sun was out now and people were enjoying themselves. A few bottles were dropped, but there was nothing unruly. A very blonde man, a German I think, edged close to me and asked me coldly when I would be leaving. He was after my chair. I was sorely tempted to stay in it for a while just to spite him, but I had long since finished my lemonade. I checked my watch: Nicky and Androssoff would soon be making their descent from the plateau. If I hung around, I would surely have to say a word to Drew and I was suddenly shy of doing that. What happens after the gig? Androssoff had cautioned. I didn’t want to visit the Pension Anna.
I decided to slip away. Drew looked at home on the stage with his fellow band members. A gaggle of young women were already there, besieging the vocalist. I didn’t see myself as a middle-aged groupie.
Back at the station I waited on the platform for the steam train to come in. The doors to the old carriages swung open and I saw Androssoff and Nicky getting off behind a group of Japanese tourists. Nicky raced up to me. I gave him a big hug. He was clutching a miniature steam strain.
‘Look what I’ve got.’
‘Did you eat your picnic?’
‘Dad ate it, didn’t you dad? I had a banana.’
‘Well, what’s the verdict?’ Androssoff asked me.
‘It was good. Drew was excellent.’
Nicky was pulling at my hand. ‘Can we get some chocolate?’
I picked him up: ‘You know, your great granddad worked on the steam railway.’
‘My great great granddad owned a steam railway in Russia,’ Androssoff put in.
‘That’s something, isn’t it Nick?’ I said.
While he was getting chocolate from the kiosk with his father, I went to pick up some pastries. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and felt quite light-headed. My mind was still on Drew, up on the stage, completely engaged with his playing. If the police hadn’t tapped on our car window, he would be at the bottom of Lake Zug now, a clump of damp ashes in an urn without a name on it, sinking by degrees into the mud. Buz was down there already, together with many nameless others.
14
I called him a couple of weeks after the gig. I didn’t know what to say to him. When he picked up the phone, he didn’t seem to know who I was.
‘I liked your performance. I meant to get in touch sooner, but it’s been hectic here.’
‘Lucie … Louise! … I didn’t recognise your voice. I had a bit of a heavy session last night. Why didn’t you come up and say hello? I had a bottle of wine waiting for us at the Pension.’
‘I had to meet my family.’
‘Yeah? Well I’m glad you liked the set. What are you doing in the holidays?’
‘Chas is taking Nicky back to Eng
land next week to show him a bit of London. I’m staying on here for a few days to give them some time together, man and boy. I’m not used to being without my son. It will be a novelty for both of us.’
‘Maybe we can meet up then?’
‘Well, yes, if you’re coming into Geneva.’
‘Sweet. I’ll give you a bell.’
Short and sweet, I thought, but at least he sounded full of life. It was extraordinary that only a few weeks ago he had been all set to swallow his dose of NaP in Zurich. The enquiry into the Charon Clinic was proceeding apace. There had been some reports about the progress, but nothing I didn’t already know. This week, they were set to question the director, Jean-Marie Moulenc, about the destination of the charitable bequests. I wanted them to scrutinise the time-frame for assisted suicide, the cooling off period, the breathing space in which people could change their minds. I checked the news-feed every hour, waiting for updates.
I was taking a break from my job while Nicky was on holiday. Pocock had told me there was no guarantee that it would still be there when I came back, so I considered myself duly warned. They had a summer intern coming in who would work without pay – so much for women’s rights. I had no need, therefore, to let Nicky go to England early with Androssoff, but I allowed myself to be persuaded. I had spent every day with my boy since he was born, and I wanted to see how I – and he – would handle a separation. I needn’t have worried on Nicky’s behalf because he was thrilled to be flying back to London with his father. Had he shown any sign of wanting to stay with me, I would not have let Androssoff take him. Part of me wanted him to choose to stay with me, but he’d already packed his rucksack, jamming it full with model dinosaurs. Androssoff was going to take him on the London Eye and to the Planetarium and other sights before I came over to join them. I was glad to be missing some of those sights, but I would have liked to witness Nicky’s reactions: I imagined his face lighting up when he saw the reptile house at the Zoo. I would miss that. Androssoff, when I thought about it, had missed so much, so many milestones in Nicky’s life: the day he cut his first tooth, the day he said Mama. I thought I’d misheard him, but then he said it again when I turned away.
‘Don’t take him to the London Dungeon,’ I told Androssoff. ‘I don’t think he’s ready for that yet.’
‘I could always take him to Charity’s. I could show him the collection – free entry there, of course.’
‘If you take him anywhere near the mortuary store, I’ll have something to say about it.’
‘Maybe he’d like to see where I work.’
‘Not the collection, Chas, not body parts.’
‘You think I’m a fool.’
‘You’re a zealot when it comes to the collection.’
He told me to wind my neck in.
I had never not kissed Nicky goodnight before and his absence was visceral. I felt as though I’d lost a limb: he had been such a part of me, and now we were apart. What was I when I was not fulfilling my role as full-time mother? A part-time admin person at the women’s project, a sometime contributor to online bulletins, a middle-aged groupie. When I spoke to Nicky on the phone in London to check they had arrived safely, he sounded distant and uninterested. He wanted to go straight out on Primrose Hill. Androssoff had bought him a kite.
I called again to make sure he had had his supper, then again at eight o’clock to make sure Androssoff was getting him ready for bed. It was the same indifferent reaction. Androssoff took the phone off him and told me to relax: they had had some Chinese food and were about to have a bedtime story about a boy who travelled through time and ended up in the Jurassic period.
I called the following morning to check Nicky had had some breakfast. He said he’d had some coco-pops and could we have coco-pops when he came home because they were really nice. He said they were going to the Zoo.
I called him again after lunch to see how the morning had gone: ‘Did you see the komodo dragons?’
‘There was a red frog. It was like a tomato. I like where Daddy works. I like Janice.’
‘Put your daddy on, please.’
‘You took him to the hospital?’
‘We just dropped by to get a memory stick from my office. I need to do a peer-review before we go away, unless you want me to do it on holiday. I can work on it at home when he’s asleep. Janice was on her lunch break so we went for a bite near St Paul’s. He had pizza and ice-cream, isn’t that right, Nick?’
‘You’re meant to be on holiday already. I’ll be there on Sunday. He’s safer with me.’
‘He’s safe with me.’
‘Just watch him crossing the roads. Don’t let go of his hand, there’s so much traffic in London and he’s not used to that. – Chas?’
‘We’re in the queue for tickets at the London Eye. We’ll meet you at the airport, as arranged. Don’t keep calling him every few hours. He’s fine. He’s enjoying himself. I’ll call you later so he can tell you good night.’ He cut me off.
I checked the news-feed to see if there was anything about the day’s proceedings at the Charon enquiry. There was still no coverage of the time-scale issue. Today’s angle was all about breaches of the peace in respectable neighbourhoods. Several people had made strong statements about the nuisance. I too felt contaminated by the presence of the clinics, but I also thought Swiss voters were morally implicated in the shady aspects of assisted suicide because they had backed it through their democratic consensus. It seemed to me to boil down to money and profit: seven thousand euros – the price of a life.
15
A distorted voice came over the intercom. It took me a minute to work out it was Drew. He was outside the villa, leaning on his stick. He had brought his rucksack and a guitar case.
‘Nice place,’ he said. ‘I bet it costs you.’ He came into the hall, without being invited. ‘I’m on my way to Paris. I’ve got a ticket for the early train tomorrow – cheap week-end deal. I should have called, I know.’
‘You’re staying the night in Geneva?
He smirked, the expression of a naughty boy who has been caught out, an expression not dissimilar to Androssoff’s when he had been caught out. ‘I thought I could crash here maybe, but it’s OK if you’re not cool with that. I’m used to sleeping rough.’
He had put me right on the spot. ‘Come through,’ I said, ‘So long as you don’t mind the sofa.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’ve got to leave first thing in the morning too. I’m going to the airport. The taxi could drop you at the station.’
‘That’s sweet,’ he said. ‘I knew you were a nice lady.’
I felt uncomfortable. How was I going to entertain him for the next few hours? How did he think I was going to entertain him? He was looking at the bottle on the coffee table, at my half empty glass.
‘Would you like some wine?’ I asked.
‘You read my mind.’ He sat down on the sofa. It was the only piece of furniture we had bought for the apartment. It was squishy and comfortable and already showing signs of wear – Androssoff watching Top Gear, entertaining Naomi. Rodolfo’s uncomfortable settee was in retirement beneath the window. I took one of the stiff brocaded chairs.
‘You look like a queen, sitting there on your throne.’
I felt as though I was treading on eggshells. ‘I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you not to smoke in here, Drew.’
‘I’ll go in the garden.’
‘There’s a table outside on our terrace. I’ll fetch your drink.’
I wondered what Rodolfo would think if he saw us sitting out there, but the windows of the piano nobile were shut. Rodolfo must have gone out. I had a sudden misgiving that maybe there was no one in the villa, except Drew and me. Naomi was long gone, the family on the second floor were on holiday, the interns had all gone home for the summer.
Drew lit a roll-up. ‘I’ve been dying for a smoke. I really should have called you.’ He glanced over at me. ‘I didn’t think you’d mind.’
&nbs
p; ‘I don’t, I don’t mind.’
‘When the cat’s away, eh?’
‘The cat ...? Look, Drew, don’t get the wrong impression.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to leap on you. Chance would be a fine thing. It’s peaceful here,’ he sighed. ‘It’s good to put down roots. I never had roots – that’s life on the road for you – you never know where you’ll wake up.’
‘I thought sessions work would be studio-based’
‘Yeah, but there’s studios all over the place. You’ve got to travel. Welsh mountains, Irish bogs, Scottish glens, you name it. My mate Zeb Tree opened one in a converted railway station up the back of beyond after he quit performing. He’s back in London now he’s made his millions, and he’s no longer my mate, not since he accused me of splitting up the band. It was him who split us up, him and his solo ambitions. When you’re in sessions, you’re on the road all the time.’
‘How long do you think you can carry on with it?’
‘How long’s a piece of string?’ He removed a shred of tobacco from his bottom lip. ‘I had to give it all up when I had the head problem.’
‘Have you got something fixed for Paris?’
‘I’ve been asked to do a couple of gigs, enough to be going on with. Do you know Paris?’
‘I studied there for a year.’
‘You’re a smart lady. I bet you were at the Sorbonne.’
I nodded. The grey walls of the faculty in Rue des Écoles rose up in my memory. At the very top was an attic room where we had seminars on Rabelais led by a gnome-like professor. He could have been cast for The Hunchback of Notre Dame.
‘Did you ever go to a Jim Haynes party?’
‘I did as a matter of fact.’
‘I’ve known Jim for years. He’ll give me a bed till I get set up.’
‘I only met him once. You had to ring up and get the door code.’
‘That’s it. That’s something we’ve got in common then.’
‘Hundreds of people have been to those parties.’
Fatal Choices Page 7
