Ending Up

by Kingsley Amis

  As before, Marigold had arrayed herself with some care for his visit: second-best trouser-suit, blue-and-green-striped shirt with high long-pointed collar, queen-sized cameo brooch, cigarette-holder at the ready. Besides routine motives like putting up a show of not giving in to age, she had another, less clearly in mind, to do with using her outward appearance to hide her inward condition. For this purpose, she must be careful to underplay her part, to avoid excessive brightness of manner.

  Shorty knocked, let the doctor in and cleared off as quickly as he could. He and Marigold had said the minimum to each other since the drink-spilling incident, which had come, so to speak, on top of her version of the Pusscat-drenching incident. But he would prepare and take in the coffee and biscuits, because Adela would be told if he failed to and because it was one of the things he did.

  Marigold and the doctor asked and answered a couple of questions about how each had spent Christmas. Her answers laid stress on the visit of her grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Then he said,

  ‘Miss Bastable told me something about a fainting attack. How long were you unconscious?’

  ‘Well, to be perfectly honest with you, I’m not absolutely sure I was ever what you’d call unconscious for a single moment. I’d had much more to eat and drink than an old lady like myself should have done, and I just had a sort of fit of dizziness.’

  ‘I see. Have you experienced such attacks before?’

  ‘Oh really, I think attacks is rather overstating the case. Miss Bastable was making a mountle-pountle out of a molehill; she fusses over me like an old hen.’

  The doctor again said that he saw, established that his patient had felt perfectly well in the meantime, and warned her against any kind of undue—

  ‘Yes, yes, yes, I understand that.’

  Dr Mainwaring smoothed his moustache and asked about lapses of memory.

  After five seconds, Marigold said slowly, ‘I don’t think they’ve got any worse. Oh, now and then I forget this or that, of course, but not often enough to bother me frightfully.’

  Even if not already alerted by the excessive brightness of his patient’s manner, the doctor would have concluded without much trouble, after that overdone pause, that something was being kept from him. But, short of scopolamine, hypnosis or wild horses, he knew he would never hear from her what it was; not that that was an important deprivation.

  He thought of these and related matters while he asked about the tranquillizing pills, was told they were a great help, and wrote out a prescription for more. At this stage Shorty brought in the refreshments and again took himself off at top speed, hardly waiting to be tunkalunked. The doctor refused biscuits, having recognized at least one of those on the plate from his previous visit. After a sip of coffee, which tasted all right but smelt strange, he said,

  ‘How’s Miss Bastable keeping? I’m afraid I shan’t be—’

  ‘Oh, she’s fine, she never complains. Adela’s as strong as an ox.’

  ‘She certainly has a remarkable—’

  ‘She’s such a worker. She did the whole of our Christmas practically on her own, and we were … yes, we were eleven at table, including the two tots. My grandchildren were here for the day with their respective spouses, do you see, and there were the two great-grandchildren as well.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  Thirty-Six

  In George’s bedroom – it was not one of his downstairs days – the doctor said,

  ‘I’m delighted to hear it, Professor Zeyer. When you say total …’

  ‘Let’s put it that when running through any given category in my thoughts I’ve yet to come across an object I can’t name, and I’ve been through plenty of categories. Door, knob, hinge, lintel, jamb, panel, window, frame, catch, pane, sash, cord, glass, dressing-table—’

  ‘Yes, I see what you—’

  ‘—drawer, handle, mirror, clothes-brush, hair-brush, comb, dressing-gown, cord, pocket, table, lamp, bulb, switch, flex, plug, socket …’

  By saying slowly and continuously and more and more loudly that it was very interesting and quite remarkable and most extraordinary and much to be welcomed, Dr Mainwaring brought about silence at last. He delivered a warning against overexertion, trying to sound serious and yet not sepulchral, trying conscientiously too to make it appear that he had never uttered any such warning in his life before, then took his leave and went down to the kitchen.

  Shorty was not to be seen at first, only the evidence of his labours: a large pan of some vegetable soup simmering gently, a smaller pan of potatoes, an opened tin of corned beef, two peeled Spanish onions on a board. The doctor tried to imagine what it must be like to live in this house, but did not have to do so for long, because after the sound of a w.c. being flushed and an outside door being slammed shut, Shorty entered the room buttoning his flies.

  ‘Do I take it that thou cravest audience with thy unworthy servant, O mighty bearer of the staff of Hippocrates?’

  ‘Just a very brief word, Mr Shortell, while I’m here. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, how’s yourself? No, I’m all right, doc, thank you kindly. Bowels well and truly open, as you may not unnaturally have surmised, no doubt in response to generous lashings of vino. Troubled by dandruff and fallen arches, but no bits broken off recently.’

  ‘No change of any sort?’

  ‘No,’ said Shorty without hesitation, having already decided that the pants-pissing incident was too minor to be worth a mention, and wanting to end the talk so that he could take a drink in peace. But inquisitiveness made him ask, ‘How’s her nibs, then?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Mrs Mairygeld Pake.’

  ‘Quite well on the whole, but she does seem a little strained. She needs, let’s say bearing with.’

  Strained arse through a lifetime of sitting on it, thought Shorty, and what she needs is a red-hot pokie-wokie up same. He said, ‘Right. If you want the brigadier he’ll be in the sitting-room.’

  Thirty-Seven

  The brigadier’s location was as notified. Although at the windows and looking out, he took in little of what he saw. That day he had been restless, unable to settle down even to doing nothing. The doctor came in and Bernard turned to face him.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Bastable … Any change?’

  ‘Nothing dramatic. I seem to be passing rather more blood.’

  ‘The haemorrhoids?’

  ‘A great nuisance.’

  ‘What about the pain?’

  ‘I can stand it at the moment.’

  ‘You’re sure you don’t want surgery? I could—’

  ‘Brownjohn put my chances at less than five per cent. That’s good enough for me.’

  ‘You wouldn’t like a second opinion?’

  ‘According to you, Brownjohn’s one of the very best in London, and having seen him I accept that view. So no. Thank you.’

  ‘Mr Bastable, when … when this phase seems like coming to an end, I’d be grateful if you’d warn me in good time. I may not be able to find you a bed immediately.’

  ‘A week?’

  ‘Yes, that would be about right.’

  ‘Very well. Goodbye, Dr Mainwaring.’

  He held out his hand and the doctor, rather surprised, shook it.

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Bastable.’ Then, because it was every cinematic doctor’s exit line, the doctor added, ‘I’ll see myself out.’

  Left alone, Bernard arranged a cushion on one of Adela’s tapestry chairs, sat down carefully, and lit a cigarette. When told that he had about three months left to him he had thought he could be brave, that he would be borne up by his own fortitude in not revealing his state and in never complaining, and that a show of steady affection to the others would not be too difficult, if only in that it might cause them to admire him in retrospect. So matters had seemed all the way back from Harley Street – he had taken the taxi that night in o
rder to have more time to consider. But he had not been able to keep it up; perhaps he could have if he had been able to drink again, though he doubted it. Anyway, his only relief, and that a mild, transient one, had turned out to lie in malicious schemes, acts and remarks.

  He had sat long enough; he got up stiffly and returned to the window. Outside, the sun was shining on various items of vegetation. Another mistaken forecast of his had been that, knowing what he knew, he would come to prize the things outside himself, like the scene before him; yet another, that he would have been able to look back on his life and – not find a meaning in it, which he had never hoped for, but see it as a whole. That might have been some compensation for having had to be Bernard Bastable, for having had to live.

  There was the sound of Adela’s car returning. He limped quickly off towards the kitchen in confident hope of an opportunity to ridicule and distress her.

  Thirty-Eight

  Nothing much was ever made of New Year’s Eve at Tuppenny-hapenny Cottage, and the one that fell soon after Dr Mainwaring’s visit turned out to be rather less convivial than was customary. Shorty went off to bed at his usual time, a few minutes before eleven, not because he wanted to avoid company but out of drunken prudence: he knew that to go on boozing for an extra hour and a half or more would appreciably worsen his hangover and also further afflict his guts, which since Christmas had been as irritable as he could remember. (Not to have gone on boozing and to have boozed less hard earlier were alike out of the question.) Bernard followed at an interval sufficient to guarantee Shorty’s being in bed and asleep. He pleaded a headache; in fact, he was not quite sure how he would behave when that midnight struck.

  So it was only Adela and Marigold who joined George in his bedroom at ten to twelve; it had been another of his upstairs days.

  ‘1973,’ he said reflectively. ‘I find the years are sounding more and more odd. 1973 sounds like a thing out of those comics, with death-rays and robots and monsters from outer space. Whereas the year I was born sounds like stage-coaches and highwaymen and crinolines and fans and duelling-pistols and warming-pans and snuff-boxes and ruffles and shoe-buckles and—’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ said Marigold.

  ‘Oh, you feel like that too, do you? How very—’

  ‘No, but I know what you mean.’

  ‘It seems a long time ago.’ Adela did not phrase or pitch it as a question, but it was one.

  ‘Doesn’t it just?’ said George. ‘But the way to look at it, we ought to think of it as a victory. Another year without the Reds coming over with their tanks and armoured cars and tommy-guns and barbed wire and guard-dogs and watch-towers and—’

  ‘Shall we put the wireless on?’ asked Marigold. ‘We want to make sure we’re tuned in to the right station.’

  With a practised movement, George stretched out his left hand and turned a switch. They heard sounds as of an immense assemblage that might have been a football crowd, an undisciplined but good-natured political congress, a drinks party or some other thing, with a band playing in the background and small groups of people talking loudly in the foreground. These constantly changed, in every case before any of the three listeners had had time to pick up the drift of what was being said, or even who was saying it. But quite soon there were calls for silence at whatever distant place it was, and Big Ben chimed twelve, and Auld Lang Syne began.

  George switched off after a few bars. ‘Well, that seems to be it. Happy New Year, and blessings on you both, and thank you for all you’ve done for me over the past twelve months and before.’

  ‘Happy New Year,’ said Marigold and Adela together.

  The trio clinked glasses in turn, glasses holding some of the last of the rather good Chianti that Keith or Trevor had brought at Christmas. There was no further demonstration: Adela knew that no one liked being kissed by her, and George could not reach up to kiss either of the women, and Marigold realized that to kiss George and not kiss Adela would hurt Adela. But each was, if not exactly happy, at any rate content. Marigold was done with decisions for good. George was pretty sure by now that no editor or publisher was interested in any article or book he might produce; nevertheless he would continue to write. Adela looked forward to a year that, in her eyes, held no threat of change.

  Thirty-Nine

  ‘I must be off,’ said Adela on the Friday morning of that week. ‘They said the sooner I take the car into the garage the sooner they’ll be finished with it.’

  ‘It sounds logical,’ said Bernard. ‘When will you be back? In case anyone comes or anything.’

  ‘As soon as they’ve finished with the car I’ll start for home.’

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘They’ve got to change all the oil, do you see, and make sure the tyres are all right, and clean things in the engine and so on.’

  ‘Yes, and so forth into the bargain I shouldn’t wonder. For the love of God, when will you be back?’

  ‘Oh, honestly … About six, I should think.’

  ‘Six-thirtyish. Don’t forget the Telegraph.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  They nodded at each other and Adela left. She was looking forward to her day in Newmarket: necessary shopping soon done, then a look round the sales, lunch in a café, perhaps a cinema if she could find a film not certain to be wholly incomprehensible to her. It would have been ten times as much fun if Marigold were coming too, but she had decided against it at the last minute, saying she felt she needed rest.

  Bernard poured himself a third cup of coffee and lit a cigarette, though he felt no need of either except as providing activity of a sort. The w.c. sounded nearby and Shorty came in, wriggling slightly and frowning.

  ‘Toimes ya could bar a door wid ut,’ he said, ‘and toimes ya could sop ut wid a spewn. It’s a sopping day today all right. That was my third. Oof! Bernard, didn’t you use to have some kind of liquid cement stuff that gummed your guts up? I don’t hold with messing about with your insides as a rule, but I’m getting a bit—’

  ‘In my top left-hand drawer, green leather case with two bottles. You want the one with the white liquid in it. Don’t touch the other, the clear liquid: it’s a very powerful aperient. Remember – the white liquid.’

  ‘What sort of dose?’

  ‘Well, I should say about a tablespoonful as a start, then see how it is in three to four hours.’

  ‘Heartfelt thanks.’

  Shorty left the kitchen and made towards the stairs, then reconsidered. He was nearly sure that there remained some of the Scotch brought by Trevor or Keith – a natural ring-tightener, Scotch, better than any medicine, and drunk-making too. The sitting-room was empty. What he sought stood on the tile-topped table, a couple of inches of it or more. He considered again, but not for long, and emptied the bottle in a series of sips, coughing happily.

  In the meantime, Bernard had gone to the dresser, brought out two small bags of transparent plastic and stuffed them in his pocket. He slipped quietly into the garden; it was a mild morning for the time of year and he did not expect to have to stay long out of doors. So it proved: quite soon, near the box hedge, he found a respectable pile of Mr Pastry’s turds. With his back towards the house, he lowered himself by painful stages until he was squatting on his heels, produced the plastic bags, put his right hand into one and held the other open. His plan was to dump the excrement in some sensitive area of the cottage, such as Marigold’s bed, and so escalate his campaign for the removal of the dog and the distressing of George. But (Bernard asked himself now) what would be the point? He saw that George’s state of mind, his happiness or unhappiness, had become, as if at that moment, perfectly indifferent to him. The next moment, it dawned on him that, after that first hit with the water-pistol and two or three partial successes later, he had let Pusscat go unscathed. He stood up, again by degrees, dropped the bags on the wet grass and went back indoors.

  Marigold was in
the sitting-room, engaged on a petit-point cushion-cover for Rachel’s birthday. Since Christmas, reversing an earlier policy, she had started to spend some hours of every day here. Her own company held less appeal than it once had; she wrote fewer letters, because she was afraid of sending the same person the same news twice over or more, and it was tiresome to make and keep copies; she felt she had better try to be sociable with Bernard and Shorty, on whose good will she must depend increasingly, while at the same time not conceding that either possessed any good will.

  The door thudded open and Bernard came in. He sat down slowly on his rocking-chair, lit a cigarette and picked up the Radio Times.

  ‘You look pale, Bernard,’ said Marigold truthfully. ‘I think you smoke too much. It can’t do you any good at your age.’

  ‘Nor any harm either. I’m all right.’

  ‘I wish Trevor would ring up.’

  ‘Is there any particular reason why he should?’

  ‘I mean Keith. They’re having that meeting today, the one to decide, you know, about the pet-food advertisement. He promised he’d telephone the moment he heard the result.’

  ‘I’m sure he will.’ Bernard’s mind was picking up speed. He saw what he would have to do, regardless of whether he wanted to do it or what would follow; not to do it would amount to total surrender. After a thoughtful puff or two, he said, ‘I must admit I rather hope those vandals don’t take it into their heads to pay us a visit.’

  ‘Vandals?’

  ‘The ones who’ve been smashing up places in the village.’ Trying to feel pride and triumph in his conduct of the manoeuvre, he went on, ‘You were telling me about it – when was it? – yesterday.’

  ‘Was I? Oh, those people, yes. Little swine. Still, we’re a long way out.’

  ‘That could cut both ways. No neighbours.’

  ‘If we stand up to them they’ll just cut and run. Bullies are always cowards; everyone knows that.’