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A GIFT
Having had my injection the night before, I slept well and awoke refreshed. Not unnaturally, my first thoughts revolved around the miracle and mystery of existence and the price we must pay for awareness, i.e., knowledge of death. This morning, my mood being good, I regarded it as a reasonable price which might in any case have already been paid by the son of man.
Then I interpreted my dreams, got up and completed an exercise routine of oriental subtlety. I collected Frank’s mail--mainly scientific journals--from the letterbox and brought it upstairs to him. From the cover of one of the magazines I observed that a team of foreign scientists claimed to be close to a general unified theory of physics.
“You don’t have to do that, Wordsworth.” Frank propped himself up on an elbow and then levered himself out of bed. As I expected, he opened the biochemistry journal first. “You don’t owe me anything,” he said vaguely, moving around the bedroom in his pyjamas, absorbed in the article. I knew he didn’t want me to feel indebted but that did not alter the facts.
With some difficulty I opened the door of the linen closet and brought him towels for his morning shower. There used to be an enormous number of different smells from that closet starch, warm linen, mothballs, pinewood, snail trails, fly specks, mouse droppings. Now there was just an amorphous smell of laundry. Change sometimes means loss, but it didn’t bother me unduly.
Frank was grateful for the towels but, again, seemed embarrassed by the gesture. Maybe I was overdoing it. Sometimes it’s hard to judge the deeds of friendship.
“How about a walk to the shops later?” he suggested. “We could have some breakfast in that new coffee place on the high street.” He smiled, reading my mind.
I nodded enthusiastically, looking forward to that simple pleasure. While he showered and dressed I waited in the front porch, basking in the sunlight. Summer was coming on like a brass band. The sky was hoarse with crows and I was on the verge of metaphor. The sun, it was claimed, would implode in two billion years. Nothing was forever. There was much to be said for seizing the moment although I believed passionately that the unexamined life was a waste of time and space.
As we walked towards the high street a neighbour greeted us, “Hello Frank …. Hi, Wordsworth. Isn’t this a wonderful day?” He went on phatically for a while, directing himself mainly to Frank though I sensed that his eyes were on me every time I looked away. I knew why, of course, and that gave me the edge in this type of social encounter. The main thing, however, was that Frank accepted me and, because of his standing in society, others would in the fullness of time follow his lead. Frank is, after all, a Nobel Laureate and often appears on T.V., the latter being the more important accolade in the mind of the public. I know he worries about being seduced by the media. “The roar of the crowd,” he once confided, “can spell disaster for a scientist.”
It is interesting to note that Frank’s major scientific achievements have been the result of insight rather than plodding experimentation. This is, I believe, quite rare in the present era of information technology where the computer can do our thinking for us if we let it. In fact, Frank tells me that the computer may soon replicate the human brain, reptilian core and all, although I doubt if it can ever replace the inner eye.
“ …. summer can’t be far away now,” Frank was saying. “Any holidays arranged yet?”
“Our little island hide-away again this year,” the man answered. “The wife loves it. You ….?”
Frank moved his shoulders helplessly. “Have to finish … some work. You know how it is ….”
The neighbour, remembering that Frank’s wife had died less than two years ago, drew in his under lip. “I understand …. But you still need a break, Frank.” He tried to lighten the mood. “Sand, sea, ozone ….” He expanded his lungs. “Wordsworth would enjoy it too ….”
Frank smiled but I could see that it was forced. “We’ll see,” he said.
He was inconsolable after his wife’s death. She was a wonderful person by all accounts, a soul mate. I didn’t mind being second fiddle; there was no way I could fill the void in his life, much as I wanted to.
When Frank came out of the newsagents there were a few dogs at the door bothering me.
“Shoo!” He clapped his hands and waved them away. “They should be on leashes,” he added. I felt in two minds but didn’t argue the point. Still, I knew what he meant. People should take responsibility for their own lives--and for their domestic pets.
I sat beside him in the coffee shop as he scanned the newspaper over breakfast. Judging by the speed with which he turned the pages it was obvious that nothing much caught his eye, which meant that my world was reasonably tranquil. He had coffee and toast; I had milk and a hot cross bun. Shoppers came in with parcels and some nodded towards us in recognition respectful glances for the most part, although there were a couple of repressed giggles which didn’t go unnoticed by me.
The café had Art Deco pretensions with several mirrors oddly shaped. Mirrors fascinate me. Before mirrors people could see themselves in still water. Frank once told me a story about a dog with a bone in its jaws looking into a pond. It saw what it thought was another dog with a bone and wanted that one too. You can imagine the rest. A dumb animal can’t understand mirrors or even recognise itself. I won’t labour the point since that would diminish the integrity of the fable.
Towards the end of breakfast I must have fallen into some sort of reverie because I jumped when Frank struck a match to light a cigarette.
“Sorry, Wordsworth …. I didn’t mean to ….” A flicker of consternation passed over his face.
I didn’t like making him apologise. He had nothing to be sorry about; in fact the opposite. I wondered if he, of all people, was sometimes confused about me--my new status. It hardly bore thinking about.
We did some more shopping in the high street and then walked home together. It had been a good Saturday.
The next day Frank decided he would have to go to the lab even though it was a Sunday. Although I tried to conceal my disappointment he must have sensed it and, again, to my dismay, he apologised.
“I’d almost forgotten about those damn cultures. My fault entirely. But I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He could have been making excuses to his wife; maybe he was in a way. Just before he left he switched on the T.V. but I didn’t really want to watch the soaps.
It wasn’t the first time I was left in charge of the house when he was at the lab. I don’t mind the responsibility but it can be lonely. Sometimes I doze off but I don’t really like that because you …. miss things. It’s a kind of going back. You wake up dizzy, not knowing where you are or what might have happened while you were in no-man’s land. It can be frightening--like that match being lit in the café--so I try not to snooze during the day. So much for resolutions.
I must have dozed for a while.
I woke with a start and tried to fathom the inexplicable lapse. Cultures. What cultures did he forget? Not like Frank. Something else he forgot …. the injection. Still, he said he’d be back soon. Not to worry; strong bond between us. Me and Professor Frank Cullen, known the length and breadth.... for work in gen …genes… genetics. Words slip first, then thoughts, so they say, or maybe other way round. Don’t worry. Be back soon, man of his word. Injection then....Shouldn’t have nodded off. My fault, not Frank’s, after all he did for me. What’s that noise? Rat maybe, behind the wain …. Yes, can tell by the scent. Poisoned rat desperate for water. Can’t help, mate; you’re on your own. We all are, but mustn’t beg…. Need injection... Too hot now. That light in window, sun, I think they call it. They, not me or we. Forget all that, just look for shade, water, marrow bones…. And that bitch next door coming on heat. Good, good … if not for Vet. No pups for Wordsworth. Stupid name, freak name …. Dog years go so fast, fly by. Can’t complain …. inject …. light going.... go …. wo …. woo …. woof.
Better than Monet Page 2
