31

Andrew Gibson returned to check on Timothy just after six. ‘How’s he been, Roger? Any improvement?’
    Roger shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. He’s been talking to himself a lot. Turning his back on me one minute, demanding my attention the next. Waffling on about God and sin. Looking for his mother and this Patrick character. Biting his fingernails.’

‘This isn’t sounding good.’

The concerned doctor found Timothy, still in his mother’s bedroom, still wearing the black silk kimono, and writing a letter.

‘Hello, Andrew,’ he said gently. ‘I’m just writing to ask God’s forgiveness for my sins,’ but Andrew noticed that he’d only got as far as writing, Dear God.

Dear God, indeed, Andrew thought, donning his psychiatrist’s hat. ‘And what sins are they, Tim? I need to know so I can try and help you get better. I really care about you.’

‘Roger doesn’t.’

‘I’m sure that isn’t true. He’s most concerned.’

‘No he’s not. He’s being really piggy.’

‘Tim, you’re going through a very unsettling time. Why don’t you tell me what’s troubling you. Is it the boating accident that’s getting you all churned up again? You can tell me. Just talk about it.’

‘Andrew, she was such a perfect person and I loved her so much. I know she loved me, but I’ve never deserved her love. I’ve been a very, very naughty boy. Can you get Father Ewan from Waldringhythe to come down and see me? He’s a truly wonderful man. Mumma talked to him for years. He put her right, so he’ll put me right, too. Please, Andrew. Make sure he comes.’ He snuggled down in the bed and pulled the counterpane over his head.

Andrew left the room, looked at his watch and descended the stairs. Only seven minutes from start to failure. He found his way to the kitchen and shook his head.

‘Complete no go, Roger. He just rambled on about being a naughty boy and confessing his sins. From experience, I’d say we’re looking at a serious breakdown, either caused by his current grief or tied up to the boating accident. He’s adamant he wants to confess to a priest, and he’s asked for Father Ewan. The famous one Marina saw at Waldringhythe.’

‘Confession!’ Roger scoffed. ‘Sorry to be so ratty but what sort of confession is he likely to waffle on about in the state he’s in? Bugger the God Squad. It’s far too over the top.’

‘Well his mother set great store by this chap. I’ll contact him personally and see if he’d be willing to do a pastoral visit in the circumstances.’

‘I rather you didn’t. His stuff ’s only a load of tripe, isn’t it?’

‘That’s a very odd statement coming from the husband of a grief counsellor.’

‘I’m entitled to my personal opinion. Sally doesn’t know anything about publishing, actually.’

‘Point taken, Roger, but with the greatest of respect, the effects of bereavement can be as real as a physical sickness. Headaches, anorexia, nausea, bowel disturbance and palpitations. The term “broken heart” is used, and to a large extent it’s true. The heart pumps harder and thus mimics exhaustion, but it’s the mental effects that are always the most obvious and painful. Despair, depression, loneliness, fear. I’m sure you’re doing everything you can, but Tim said you were being… well I’d better use the words he used… a bit piggy. I know it’s a reflection of the confused and childish state he’s fallen into, but I’d be grateful if you don’t interrogate him or get cross. We must treat him with kid gloves if he’s going to be able to attend his mother’s cremation, and I’ve got some news. I rang the undertakers to find out the state of play, and believe it or not they’ve had a cancellation. Not a misdiagnosis on the slab, but a will found from another deceased person requesting burial in the Scilly Isles. Mr Fullylove has slotted it in for Tuesday morning at ten-thirty. Terribly short notice but do you think that would be acceptable?’

‘Best get it over with,’ Roger replied. ‘Then Tim may improve.’

‘There’s no established pattern with this disorder. We can only hope the crisis peaks and gradually simmers out. I’m so sorry if you find it baffling, but I must reiterate that patience is the order of the day.’

Roger sighed with undisguised irritation. ‘Andrew, I can assure you I’m doing my level best to cope sympathetically, but my eye’s more than a bit off the ball. I’m sorry to have to involve you with the trivia of my own life, but our dog was run over and killed yesterday afternoon. A petrol tanker on the village green. I’m quite shot to pieces.’

‘Oh! Oh, Roger, I’m so sorry. That really is awful. He was such a beauty. You have got a lot on your plate, haven’t you? Are you quite sure you’re OK to stay the night?’

‘Yes, of course. There really is no one else.’

‘That’s a relief. Otherwise I might have been forced to admit him. At the moment he’s not showing any signs of being a danger to himself, but his emotional state is on such a knife-edge there might be a rapid deterioration. I’ll give you a couple of tablets to help him get through the night. Just mild sedation, but he really should have something to eat and drink first. Something simple like soup and a sandwich. No alcohol, of course. If you have any concerns I’d rather you bypassed our normal on-call service and contacted me directly.’ He wrote down his mobile phone number and gathered up his black bag. ‘Good night, Roger.’

‘I suppose you don’t fancy staying for a quick drink?’

‘Not tonight, if it’s all the same. I’ve got choir practice.’

The only food that Roger found to hand was the remainder of the cheap, village shop biscuits. He made a pot of tea and carried the tray upstairs to where Timothy lay, prostrate and flushed. Although Roger had absolutely no religious beliefs he suddenly felt like falling down on his knees and praying for recovery. His relationship with Tim had, for so long, followed the same pattern. No real highs or lows. No quarrelling or diffidence. A predictable, comfortable and samey blueprint that needed no analysis. They knew each other’s likes and dislikes, wishes, hopes and dreams. It had all been so easy. Sometimes on Sunday mornings, they’d lain together and sung the Commodore’s song together, ‘Cause I’m easy… easy like Sunday morning… Cause I’m ee-ee-ee-ee-easy, easy like Sunday mor-or-or-or-ning…’ They both knew the words, the notes, the syntax and the rhythm. Suddenly it was dyslexia and two left feet.

‘Angel,’ Roger whispered. ‘A little snack.’

Timothy lifted his head from the pillow and stared hard at the tray. ‘Biscuits! You haven’t been to Sainsbury’s, have you?’

Roger swallowed hard. ‘No I haven’t, honey, but I’ll go first thing tomorrow morning, I promise. Now come on. Sit up. At least have a cup of tea. Andrew’s left a couple of pills to help you sleep.’ Timothy sat up obediently, sipped the tea and swallowed the tablets.

‘Why are you being so horrid to me?’ he said.

‘I’m not being horrid,’ Roger replied. ‘Look, the strain’s getting to both of us. I’m just a bit tired.’

‘Are you worried about Sally? Do you miss her?’

‘I don’t miss her as such, but I’ll be very relieved when I know where she is.’

‘But you won’t go back to her, will you?’

‘Good God, Tim, I’ve no intentions of going back to Sally!’

‘And you still love me, even though I’m wicked and evil? Father Ewan’s coming to see me tomorrow, and I shall confess everything.’

‘Tim, all this confession stuff is pissing me off. If you’ve got anything to say, say it to me.’

‘I can’t tell you because you’ll hate me, and you won’t ever speak to me again. I think I need to go to sleep now, so will you kiss me goodnight?’

Roger leaned forward like a parent and kissed his lips. ‘Sweet dreams, old son. You’ll feel better in the morning. There’s nothing like a good night’s kip.’

‘Night, night, Skipper. Is Cora coming tomorrow?’

‘Presume so.’

‘Then will you ask her to make some of her scrummy fairy cakes? Mumma’ll be so annoyed if we don’t have a nice little tea party to offer Father Ewan.’

As Timothy fell into a deep sleep, Roger sat at the bedside trying hard to be understanding, but he was beginning to feel seriously claustrophobic. The ambience of Marina’s bedroom issued a smoky, oily emanation of her; an invisible reminder of the stranglehold she’d had on Tim’s life. He stared hard at her wedding photograph. A young peach-skinned bride on the arm of the creased old Toby, her face completely unadorned and natural, glowing with a unique and fortunate beauty. Her pregnancy didn’t show, but he knew she was well podded with Tim. Just a bimbo on the make. An old man’s shag-bag. Yesterday she’d been up-ended and ferried out as a cold corpse, but her power was still a threatening domination over Tim’s psyche. Everywhere he looked he could sense her ghostly presence. Finding constant vigilance impossible, he left the bedroom and descended the stairs.

He slumped down again at the kitchen table. His body shivered and an anxious tightening pulled his gut. His nickname at school had been Fuller-Confidence, but now he felt as weak as a faltering faun. On Tuesday, at Marina’s cremation, his pact with Tim would have to be bravely verified. Their ‘outing,’ they had to call it, as if it was as normal as taking the village playgroup to Legoland. At his feet the hideous Persian cat appeared, yowling pitifully. With something much less than tenderness he searched for a tin of cat food, found something called Felix and donated the whole tin to its demands. Another vile reminder that this place was not home. The walls of The Manor House shifted to close in on him and he lifted the telephone.

‘Mrs Feather, it’s Roger Fuller speaking. I was wondering if I could ask a big favour. Old Tim’s not had a good weekend. He was admitted to hospital on Saturday afternoon with a bit of a breathing problem. Stress, they said, but it’s quite a normal reaction in the light of things. He’s home now and having a bit of a confidence problem, but Andrew Gibson’s firmly on the case. Problem is, I’ve just got to go into work tomorrow and he really needs someone to… well… just keep an eye on him until I get back. Could I ask you to stay on a bit longer? Double time, of course. I’ll have to leave here at eight and should be back by seven at the latest.’

Cora ummed and aahed. ‘Oh, all right,’ she agreed, ‘but not a minute past, mind you. It’s bingo night at the village hall, and I’d like the money cash in hand. That’ll be five hours at twice £8.00. £80 by my addition.’ Roger mumbled his thanks and replaced the receiver. Eight quid an hour! For cleaning? Overpaid old bat!

He looked at his watch. Just gone six. Another long, alien evening on his own loomed up, but as something of a face-saver, he convinced himself he was tired enough for an early night. He took a long, hot shower, scoured off the sour-pig smell of his neglected body and threw his rancid clothes into the washing machine. Then, donning Tim’s towelling dressing gown that failed to meet in the middle, he dialled for an extravagant Lebanese takeaway. It arrived just as he awoke from a delicious catnap, and after mopping up every morsel with the appetite of a wolf, he found two very impressive bottles in the wine cellar. Being rendered unconscious for most of the evening, it was well after midnight when he stumbled to the kitchen to transfer his small laundry from the washing machine to the tumble dryer. It was then he discovered that his navy blue socks and red boxer shorts had danced in biological delight with his dazzling white shirt; the latter now assuming a dull shade of pinky purple.

Fucking Persil Performance. Fucking life. Fucking Tim getting all fucked up. Fucking Sally fucking off. The fucking fuck-awful face of his dead dog and the fucking Gestapo police fuckers, and as for fucking, there was no fucking chance. Tim had asked him, ‘Do you miss Sally?’ Well, did he. He’d denied it and he probably thought he was telling the truth, but twenty minutes later, he found himself still slumped at the kitchen table having thought of only her. The dearest constant in his life. His lovely Sally of the old days, who made cracking roast potatoes and danced a mean lambada, and spread her womanly presence as thick as honey. For years he’d dreamed of being with Tim, but now the thought of not being with Sally filled him with fear. Where the hell was she? He would forgive her for burning his clothes. He would forgive anything and give anything for news of her return.

November 1982

Roger had been exiled for three months in the New York office of Sandridge Fuller when the news came. His father, having keeled over in his club, had suffered a serious, debilitating stroke and was not expected to live. Roger now stood with his mother in a hospital ward, staring at the unconscious, impotent husk of the man who could no longer control his life. The feeling of relief had been greater than the effect of alcohol or any narcotic.

Roger slid his arm around his mother’s shoulders and went on staring, as mother and son stood dry-eyed, six feet from the bed. They didn’t admit their lack of love or any form of concern that he might not survive, but it was obvious. A nurse, graceful as a dancer, walked up to check on her patient. She was tall and slender, with heavy tendrils of crinkly red hair scraped into a twist under a circular white cap. Long neck, long arms and long fingers. Long black-stockinged legs below a knee-length hem. Heavily freckled skin. No makeup apart from dark mascara on her long lashes. Green eyes. A true shade of buttery jade. A colour rarely seen, and when seen, magnetic and unbelievable.

Her badge said ‘Nurse Kenton-Browne. Third Year Student.’ She turned and gave them a hopeful smile. ‘No change, I’m afraid, Mrs Fuller, but no deterioration either.’

‘Thank you, Sally,’ said his mother, and then, turning to Roger, she introduced her. ‘Sally, this is my son, Roger. Roger, this is Sally. Daddy’s personal nurse.’ Roger said hello, and the elegant figure glided away.

‘She looks like those paintings,’ Roger said to his mother. ‘You must know the ones I mean?’

‘Ah, that’ll be the Pre-Raphaelites, dear. Yes, she does. Actually, she’s a perfect image of Rossetti’s The Beloved Bride. It’s in the Tate.’