‘And it’s a long time, from June till September…’ or was it May to December? He could remember the tune but not quite the words of the old song. June till September suited him anyway.
He sat on the beach at Ste Maxime trying to write a letter with a biro gritty with sand and to keep an eye on Rosy and Daisy in the water at the same time. His top half, beneath the umbrella, was cold but his legs were burning, the shin bones rapidly becoming red. He pulled a beach towel from the striped bag to cover them and with it came two peaches and a banana (Rosy’s and Daisy’s elevenses), a snorkel and mask. He dusted them off and put them back in the bag. He hated beaches; hated the sand beneath his feet, in the sun-tan oil, in his eyes when the wind blew. He swore that as soon as the children were old enough, another year or so for Daisy, he would not go near another beach. He was writing to Marie-Céleste. The letter would be addressed c/o Mrs Wilson at the surgery.
No matter what the exact words of the song said, the summer had been long; long and hot. Until now, caught up in the events, there had been no time to dream, to think on it. Never had he gone on holiday more reluctantly.
The two major poles in his life had moved in opposite directions. As his father grew thinner, Marie-Céleste grew fatter. Both metamorphoses pulled at his entrails. Despite everything, he managed to finish his book. He knew it was good. Death in Heraklion was already taking shape in his mind.
The quiet left by Rosy and Daisy, away with the school, had helped him on the last lap; it was interrupted only by letters. From Rosy, who had crossed the Channel in a force ten gale, the dramatic: ‘…sick, sick, nothing but spuw! One boy slipped on it and broke his arm and another boy nearly fell off. We are here now and it is quite nice but rather squashed…please write…’ From Daisy: ‘We have just arrived and the place has been painted. I did not feel sick on the coach…thanks for the chocs, Mum…’ From Rosy: ‘…the French children are great. Last night was terrible ’cause there was this insect in our room and Nichola, Adrienne and I could not get to sleep so Miss Lancaster said that Adrienne and Nichola could sleep in her bed but still they could not get to sleep so I slept with Nichola. What a racket everybody made snoring and talking in their sleep… I was so hot…yesterday we went on a beach and “Sir” took a film of us paddling the other day Rebecca and I were passing a car with a sheet over the windscreen. We peeped into the window and there we saw a little boy with his shirt off he was lying on the passenger seat. He had dried blood and cuts on his chest. Then a bit later an ambulance came and took him away. He might have been dead we had chicken in cream sauce for lunch yummy! Write soon…’ From Daisy: ‘… I’ve got a cold its lovely here and don’t forget to feed my rabbit Araminta said she would but you no Araminta and don’t forget the water today we are going to see the cows being milked…’ By the time they came back, tired and skinny with their bags full of dirty clothes and their small gifts (corkscrew Rosy, Devon toffees [from Sussex?] Daisy), Death on the Riviera was ready for typing and he was excited as a small child at seeing them again. They were always impossible for a bit when they’d been away but it was as if life once more had been breathed into a moribund house; the bricks and mortar became once more a home.
In the week that both girls were away Karen went to Edinburgh with Dr Boyd for his lecture and he went with Marie-Céleste to the royal film première. He spent the night in Ernest’s bed and had his breakfast coffee from Ernest’s cup. When Karen came home and asked him what he’d done with himself he said oh nothing just watched the royal film première on television. For good measure he told her how lovely Her Majesty had looked in her lime green dress. He waited for the world to fall about his ears as he remembered with horror their TV was black and white. Karen was too preoccupied to notice.
He went to Brighton as often as he could, or more precisely as often as he could bring himself to. His father, who had been a big man although not tall, weighed little more than seven stone and was in constant pain, scarcely able to move about his room. The flat in Hove was organized but the big house as yet unsold. Dr Macready, the young locum who was working for his membership, was looking after the patients while his father waited, in the big front bedroom with its bow window looking out on to the sea, to get better. He could hardly stumble from bed to chair and from chair to bed again. His limbs were stick-like, his skin yellow.
Oscar sat with him trying to think of things to say. His father cursed the pain and his disability and the fact that he could not attend the public enquiry concerning the marina in order to preserve its original intention and not become an offshore property development. He planned a long convalescence (take your mother on a cruise perhaps) away from the ‘keen’ wind of Brighton. He spoke of Christmas and how if they were still in the house he and Karen and Rosy and Daisy must come and stay. Mother would cook an enormous turkey and afterwards he’d walk the girls to Rottingdean where at Christmas time the waves washed over the undercliff walk and it was a great game running as fast as you could and shrieking with the excitement of trying not to get caught and soaked and afterwards scolded by Grandma.
Oscar said yes and yes when it was perfectly obvious he wasn’t going to make Christmas but humoured him as one did a child. Unwilling to surrender the role he had played all his life it made him feel angry, and afterwards guilty, to play along with this lying, cheating infant.
The locum, an earnest young man with glasses that slipped down his nose, said that it was wrong to hazard guesses but it did look as if Dr John might have some metastases (secondary cancer deposits) in the spine although it was impossible to tell without seeing the X-rays and even then they didn’t always show up. In view of his emaciated condition, his pain and continuing weight loss, however, it seemed a distinct possibility… His mother played ‘games’ too. She had been with his father to the hospital and been assured that nothing abnormal had been found on investigation. Tom Patterson, their close friend and the medical consultant, had made her promise that if the sciatica became worse, she must bring him back for further tests. His father had refused to go. It would get better. He did not believe in doctors; not even Tom Patterson whom he refused to see other than socially when he called. He knew sciatica when he saw it. Of course he had no appetite; he wasn’t getting any fresh air, exercise…
By the end of July he was giving himself morphia twice daily for the pain. Oscar offered not to go away to France but his mother said if he did that his father would think there was really something the matter with him… By the time the holiday was due he was too weak to hold the syringe and the locum was allowed to administer the morphia. It was a relief to Oscar to get away from the haunting sight of the shrunken form engulfed in the dressing gown that suddenly had become too large. His father made Oscar promise that when he came back he would drive him to the marina.
In the weeks before they had left for France he had seen more of his parents than he had for many years. The children sent ‘get well’ cards to Grandpa and small things made at school which he treasured.
He saw more, too, of Marie-Céleste. Having finished his book he had taken to meeting her as soon as she finished her morning visits. They could not go to the flat as Conchita did not leave until two. They had lunch at a pub or in the park. One day they drove to Windsor, another to Blenheim. Marie-Céleste had grown increasingly beautiful with the advancement of her pregnancy. He loved to lie with his head on her belly waiting for the baby to kick him; to bury his head between the heavy breasts.
“Suppose you have the baby while I’m away?”
“Not until September.”
“Suppose you do?”
“What do you suggest?”
“I don’t want to leave you.”
“You can’t disappoint Rosy and Daisy.”
“No.”
“And Karen; she needs a holiday too.”
“Yes.”
“You too my Oscar.”
“I need you more.”
“What a beautiful sun tan you will have. You will be so handsome.”
“Will you love me more?”
“Impossible.”
“Will you write every day?”
“I shall get the post first.”
“Is it wise…?”
“If you don’t write every day I shan’t go…”
“What shall I tell you?”
“About the baby; how many times he has kicked. If you are well. I must know if you are well.”
She laughed. “I have never felt better.”
“But you will write?”
“I will write.”
He told the patron of the Chardon Bleu that he would collect the mail each day from his office; that he was on no account to send it to the bedroom. Marie-Céleste had written every day. He did not like to admit even to himself that her letters were something of a disappointment. They were pedestrian, factual. In his, he expressed his love, his yearning for her, his desolation at being so far removed. Neither sun nor sea nor food nor air of Provence made up for her presence. He was counting the days until he could go home.
The journey down had not been uneventful. After the usual merry-go-round of packing, taking everything but the kitchen sink ‘just in case’, they set off with anticipation and relief. Rosy and Daisy sat in the back of the car with their books and games and sweets and drinks and fruit ‘for the journey’. They got no further than the end of the road when Daisy announced she had forgotten her snorkel. Oscar said he would buy her one in France but she said it was a special snorkel and cried, so they turned back which was just as well because the light was on in the hall and Daisy was exonerated. Karen, who hadn’t got out of the car, said she’d left the light on on purpose because of burglars but Oscar refused to go back again and Rosy supported him by saying that anyway any burglar worth his salt knew jolly well people didn’t live in the hall for two weeks.
They managed to get as far as Holloway Road when Oscar remembered he’d left the passports on the kitchen table and did a U-turn so fast that Rosy and Daisy screamed and cars screeched to a halt after which his passengers remained silent and petrified except for the odd ‘Daddy, look out!’ on the hair-raising ride he gave them back to Primrose Hill. They had booked the eleven o’clock Hovercraft and he was damned if he was going to miss it.
The passports had been entirely his fault so there was no one he could even shout at, just give them hell with his driving, taking corners almost on two wheels and cutting in and out of traffic like a maniac. When they drew up for the second time outside the house Rosy said: “Thank you Daddy, for a lovely holiday.”
Oscar was not amused. He scooped up the passports and hesitated at the lavatory door wondering whether to leave the light on; then remembering Rosy’s dictum he decided against it. They got as far as Holloway Road again when Daisy said she felt sick.
“You can’t possibly,” Oscar said illogically. “We’re not even out of London.”
“I’m going to be sick,” Daisy persisted.
He glanced in the mirror. She looked green.
“Hurry up and stop Daddy,” Rosy said nervously. “I don’t want it all over me.”
He drew into the side of the road where Daisy vomited into the gutter. Karen produced the wet flannel and dry towel which were part of their long distance travelling equipment but which were not usually called into service so soon.
Back in the car Oscar said: “Do you think we can really go now? We’re only an hour late!”
“The last time wasn’t my fault,” Daisy said cuttingly. “Who forgot the passports? And it was only all that swerving around that made me feel sick in the first place.”
They drove in silence and at speed to Ramsgate. There was a long queue of cars outside the Hoverport. Oscar asked an AA man if they were in time for the eleven o’clock ‘flight’.
“You’re in time for the ten-thirty, sir,” the man said. “A party was taken bad on the ten o’clock; heart attack, passed away in fact, the ambulance is down there now so we have to ask you to be patient…get you away as quickly as possible…”
Oscar collapsed in the seat.
“Fancy dying in a Hovercraft!” Rosy said.
“He didn’t say dead. He said passed away,” Daisy said.
Rosy gave her a withering glance.
Karen said: “Fine start to a holiday.”
“Ours wasn’t too good.”
“Not too bad either, comparatively speaking.”
They looked out of the window uneasily as an ambulance passed them by.
“I’m going to stretch my legs,” Oscar said. “We’ll be in this queue for hours.”
They had not driven through Paris yet without mislaying the Boulevard Périphérique. This time was no exception. The fact that it was pouring with rain and the children tired and irritable did not improve Oscar’s temper. They stayed the night in Fontainebleau and faced each other at breakfast peppered with mosquito bites.
Apart from the itching and scratching and demands for the calamine lotion day two was a distinct improvement on day one. The Autoroute du Sud was not crowded. By mid-day the rain had stopped and the weather became decidedly warmer. No one was sick and they declared unanimously that the Autoroute amenities had improved immeasurably since their last visit. The garages were treasure troves of robots which spewed forth coffee, chocolate, Pepsi, ices at the touch of a franc. There were books, sweets, rest-rooms and super civilized toilet facilities.
As they drove further south the girls changed into shorts. Oscar took off his shirt and opened the roof and they made for the nearest Jacques Borel, the high-spot of the journey for which Rosy and Daisy, who seemed on these trips to be entirely at the mercy of their stomachs, had been waiting.
The restaurant was advertised on huge signs across the road some twenty kilometres in advance. At each scarlet hoarding with its two familiar pigtailed waiters hustling along with a trolley of food between them they shrieked out ‘Jacques Borel!’ in what appeared to be agony but was in fact ecstasy.
When they finally pulled off the motorway they declared themselves dying of starvation.
Despite the crowds of holidaymakers, being France and not England they were immediately allotted a table. Rosy and Daisy almost ate the menu with its shiny, luscious pictures of fried chicken legs in a basket, hamburger with chips, swirling ices topped with chocolate sauce and cigarette wafers.
“Remember we’re driving,” Oscar warned automatically. “Unwise to eat too much.”
They did not deign to reply.
Rosy settled for the chicken (accompanied by foil-wrapped jacket potato) and Daisy the hamburger and chips. He and Karen opted for an omelette forestière and a Kronenbourg. They sat amazed and amused as Rosy finally demolished an ‘Atomic Chantilly’ and Daisy a ‘Soleil Couchant’ created from vanilla ice cream, raspberry ice cream, gooseberry sauce and pineapple-flavoured cream. Never had a setting sun been more eagerly consumed.
Oscar looked at his watch. “Time’s up.” They filed out towards the car.
It was almost midnight when hot, tired and sticky they arrived in the tiny town of Ste Maxime and enquired the whereabouts of the Auberge du Chardon Bleu.
They scarcely remembered getting into bed. Oscar had been too tired to hunt the pillow and had fallen asleep on the bolster. He awoke to the sound of a yard broom on stones and a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach caused not by hunger but the awareness that today there would be no Marie-Céleste.
Beside him Karen slept. He lay still in an attempt not to waken her and examined the bedroom in the light that filtered in through the shutters. The floor was red-tiled and clean; the central light and lamps wrought iron. On the wall was a telephone on a hook. The cotton curtains were grey-and-white trimmed with scarlet bobbles. The inventory taken and still bored, he picked up the cardboard folder from the small table beside his bed. In the half light he was able to read the Auberge du Chardon Bleu welcomed him and hoped he would enjoy his stay. There were instructions concerning keys, electric current, hotel linen (you are kindly requested neither to take the hotel linen to the beach nor to hang anything out of the window). There were further comments concerning noise, guests en pension (packed meals at twenty-four hours’ notice), restaurant, parking of cars, air conditioning, complaints. There was also advice on where to buy lingerie, knitwear, bathing costumes, photographic and camera supplies and real estate… Karen stirred. They were still scrubbing the stones. He wondered what Marie-Céleste was doing at that moment and willed her to think of him. Padding over the cool tiles he flung open the shutters and was hit full in the face by Provençal sun. It never failed to lighten his mood, however low.
“Is it a nice day?” Karen said.
That and every day that followed; not even a mistral. Yet he could not settle. They had been at the Auberge for seven days. It could not be faulted. The service was personal to the extreme. Monsieur and Madame watched their every coming and going; Oscar swore they recorded it in a book. The inn was built around a courtyard over which their room looked whose stones were always scrubbed at first light. In the courtyard, its balconies heavy with bougainvillea, twice daily they ate their meals, each one a tiny banquet and fully justifying the couronne in the Guide Kléber, the étoile in the Michelin. Lunch was light; a salade Niçoise or melon, followed by rougets or sole; devilled chicken perhaps with the children’s beloved frites followed by ice cream and fresh fruit. At night, beneath the stars, the patron, who personally supervised each dish, really went to town: potage de légumes, mousse de saumon, médaillons de charollais, vacherin; consommé madrilène, quiche lorraine, cotes d’agneau, ratatouille, crêpes soufflées.
Under different circumstances Oscar would have enjoyed it. He could not relax.
Uncharacteristically he got up early, unable to lie in bed. He took the children to the beach each morning while Karen tidied the rooms and washed bikinis and beach towels and chased missing hair bobbles and flip-flops from under the girls’ beds.
The beach, only eighty metres away, was a family one. There were the customary umbrellas, orange and blue, chaise-longues, matelas, boats, gondolas, and pedaloes for the hiring. Waffles and grape juice were available for the hungry which Rosy and Daisy seemed invariably to be the minute they had had breakfast. They were no trouble. They spent most of the day in the water, which was warm and ideally shallow, with Delphine and Pascalle with whom they were firm friends.
He would sling the girls’ discarded clothes over the spokes of the umbrella, together with his own shirt, and having retrieved various footwear from the sand, he would study his Var-Matin or write to Marie-Céleste. As usual in August the newspapers carried little but catastrophes reported with relish. A tourist evacuated to hospital by helicopter; an eight-hour traffic jam of aoûteins on the road to Ste-Maxime following an accident; the death (with gory pictures) of a racing driver in the Dutch Grand Prix.
He wrote to Marie-Céleste each day. Each morning on his way to the beach he enquired for mail from the patron, attempting to sound as if he could not care less whether there were or not but held his breath as the letters were sorted and he watched for the familiar hand…
The letters did not come easily. He sat with the airmail paper against the folded newspaper, chewing his biro. He wrote ‘I love you, I need you, I miss you, I want you,’ like some love-sick schoolboy. Despite the fact that writing was his profession he found it hard to convey to Marie-Céleste on paper the state of inner turmoil in which he found himself. All he knew was that he wanted to go to her; did not want to miss one moment of the growing baby, one glimpse of the maternal smile. Once he got going it was not so bad. His feelings poured out ungram-matically.
He was unaware that Karen had come to stand behind him on the soft sand.
“So many letters!” she said. “Not like you.”
He folded the paper in attempted nonchalance. “Father…” he said, “it’s awfully dull for him never going out of the bedroom…”
“He’ll wonder what’s got into you. I don’t suppose you’ve written him more than a dozen letters in your life.”
He wasn’t aware that she’d noticed his unaccustomed activity.
“Where are the children?” she asked. “Don’t tell me Rosy’s going in without her lotion, I must have told her a hundred times…”
He could not understand how it was that she did not know, never guessed, when he felt he had Marie-Céleste emanating from him in flashing lights. Her only complaint was that they did not make love as often as usual on holiday. In other years they had gone upstairs after lunch while the girls were sent to rest and in the coolness of their shuttered room enjoyed a lovemaking more satisfactory than at home, helped by the aphrodisiac effect of the lunchtime wine and the sensation of wellbeing brought about by the relaxing heat of the sun.
On five of the seven days which they had been away Karen had gone to the bedroom alone. He’d stayed on the beach to sleep or read or walk in the discomfort of the mid-day heat.
She’d asked once if there was anything wrong.
“No, why?” His heart was pounding.
“You seem so edgy. The holiday; I don’t think you’re enjoying it.”
“I am. I am.”
She’d held him in her arms. “Poor Oscar.”
He waited, puzzled. “I know you didn’t really want to come away.”
He realized suddenly she was talking about his father.
“Sorry if I’m giving you a rough time.”
“You’re not. I only thought…perhaps it would help…take your mind off…if we…”
He had tried and was astonished that he had been able to perform out of pity for Karen.
Afterwards she said: “I told you it would make you feel better. There’s nothing like sex for taking your mind off things.”
It seemed incredible how she attributed the changes in his behaviour to Dr Adler, his father’s illness.
He dusted the sand from her mattress for her and stood up.
“Where are you going?”
“To post my letter.”
“Can’t it wait until we go up?”
“My legs are burning.”
For dinner they had soup de poissons, omelette aux champigons, noisettes d’agneau, courgettes, le petit duc.
Rosy, sun-tanned and healthy looking as a peach, said: “Golly, I’m full to bursting!”
The patron hurried over the stones and told Oscar he was wanted on the telephone.
The ‘restaurant en plein air dans le frais jardin-patio ombrage’ had never seemed so large. He tried not to hurry. She had had a miscarriage; the baby was dead; Marie-Céleste was dead; Ernest was dead. He had left her the number but she had said that she would only use it in an emergency. He answered the smiles of the diners at the other tables as he passed. A waiter with a tray of artistically arranged omelettes at shoulder height stood in his way. They did a little dance in each other’s path with many a “je m’excuse” from the waiter.
The bar was quiet, dark. He picked up the receiver which the patron had laid down.
“Marie-Céleste?”
“Oscar?”
“Yes.”
“Oscar, this is Mother…”
Back at the table Karen waited anxiously.
“Who was it?”
Oscar sat down. What sort of a man was he to be relieved that it was only his father who was dying? He told Karen.
“Mother says he keeps asking for me. She thinks I should go.” My God, he actually felt excited at the prospect. His heart was pounding.
“Then we must go,” Karen said. “You won’t mind, will you girls? Grandfather is very ill.”
“Just me,” Oscar said, terrified. “There’s no need whatever for all of us…spoil the children’s holiday.”
“I wouldn’t dream of staying here without you. The girls won’t mind, they’ve had a week which is more that a lot of children have.”
“I insist,” Oscar said. “Besides, we’re committed for the bill. In a tiny place like this they won’t get another family for a week. People have already made their plans and it’s almost the end of August…”
Karen considered.
“If you don’t want to drive,” Oscar said, “I’ll take the car, drive all night, and you can fly back.”
“I don’t mind driving,” Karen said.
“What do you think, girls?”
“Fly,” they declared in unison.
“You drive too slowly,” Rosy said.
“I thought I drove too fast?” Oscar said.
“Yes, but we like it.”
“I wouldn’t have thought so from the complaints.”
“We have to complain so that you won’t go faster!”
They sent the girls out with money for crêpes along the seafront, while Karen packed his case.
The patron was immediately sympathetic and assured Oscar that he need have no worry about his wife and children. They would be well looked after and he would see to it that they had everything they required.
By the time Rosy and Daisy returned, Rosy with sugar on her face and Daisy smelling of the cognac she had had on the crêpe, Oscar was ready to leave.
He kissed them all, Karen clinging to him and, leaving all three standing on the narrow pavement waving, drove off into the night.
He felt like an arrow released from a bow winging its way in the direction he had yearned to go all week. Each time his thoughts turned to Marie-Céleste he tried to concentrate on his father. He could not. He is dying, he told himself, your father is dying. He was unable to make the words mean anything.
At dawn he was on the outskirts of Paris. Already the complex of roads was filling with traffic speeding towards the city. He stopped at a café for breakfast. He had never liked the dullness of northern France; Flanders, Ypres, Wimereux evoked thoughts, romantic and angry of death with no glory and poetry of misplaced sentiments, but otherwise the flat, uninteresting countryside failed to move him. He was tired and had to concentrate extra hard in order to keep sufficiently awake to avoid accidents. He was conscious of his reactions slowing down and knew he was reaching danger point. He was relieved to see the sign for Calais.
From Dover he telephoned Marie-Céleste. She was no longer looking after her patients and was at the flat.
“OK to talk?”
“Fine.”
“I’m in Dover.”
“Oscar! Anything wrong?”
“My father. Mother phoned so I came home. I’m on my way to Brighton. When can I see you?”
“Whenever you like.”
“I need you.”
“I need you too.”
“I’ll ring from Brighton. Are you fat?”
“Enormous. I waddle like a duck.”
“Have you packed your case?”
“Oscar! There is almost a month.”
“You never know.”
“I know.”
“I have more experience.”
She laughed. “I hope you had an easy time!”
“I love you. I must go and see Father.”
“I hope…no that’s stupid. I’ll be thinking about you.”
It was four o’clock when he arrived in Brighton. He was going to make a joke about having the kettle on but one look at his mother’s face deterred him. He wasn’t sure how he found himself with his arms round her, her tears soaking through his shirt.
“I haven’t cried before. I suppose it’s relief that you’ve come. Your holiday… I’m so sorry…he suddenly seemed to get worse… Tom has been several times and Dr Macready is being marvellous with the morhpia but there’s nothing…he’s been so brave, Oscar.”
He gave her his handkerchief.
He tried to delay the moment, afraid.
“I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”
“I’ll put the kettle on while you pop up.” She went towards the kitchen then stopped. “Oh, Oscar, there’s a nurse; he didn’t want to…but he can’t…you know…and I couldn’t manage him alone any more…she comes from an agency…”
The vast bedroom was quiet, sun-filled. The nurse in a white uniform with a navy blue belt sat in the armchair. She had blonde hair tied tightly back, not more than twenty. She stood up when he came in.
He crossed to the tidy bed. His father’s face was an ochre mask. Oscar thought he was dead already and the nurse hadn’t noticed. The bed was almost flat except for a swelling in the middle. Oscar guessed it was a cage to take the weight of the bedclothes.
He stood looking down.
The nurse made a move.
“Don’t wake him,” Oscar said.
“He’d like to know that you’re here.” She put her face close to that of his father. “Dr John. Dr John. Can you hear me? Your son has come to see you! Your son is here.”
“Oscar,” Oscar said. It was like sending a telegram.
“Oscar has come to see you, Dr John!”
The eyes opened at the name. The mouth tried to speak.
Oscar stood awkwardly. He wasn’t good at this sort of thing. He wouldn’t have woken him up to start with.
He looked at the skeletal hand in its striped pyjama sleeve on the white sheet. He could not. No, he could not. The nurse, unafraid, took it in both of hers, soothed it.
“Your son has arrived. You wanted to see him. You told me you wanted to see Oscar. Well, he’s here. All the way from France.”
There was a chair by the bed. Oscar sat on it. The eyes, expressionless, followed him.
“Take his hand,” the nurse said.
He took it as the nurse had done, stroking it. He wondered if there were something wrong with him. If these things should have come instinctively.
“How are you?” Oscar said stupidly. God what next? You’re looking better? No; not that. One could stoop only so far.
“I came to see you. We’re back from holiday,” he lied, sure that time had ceased to have meaning, soon would cease altogether.
His father was trying to say something. It sounded like “Whoopsadaisy.”
“Rosy and Daisy?” Oscar said. “They’re fine. They’ll come and see you…” The lies came more easily now.
He mouthed something else. Oscar was stumped.
“He wants a drink,” the nurse said. She put one hand behind his head, tenderly as if he was a baby, and held a feeding cup to his lips. He did not take any. She wiped his mouth with a tissue.
He closed his eyes. The nurse indicated the armchair.
“Would you like to sit here, Mr John?”
“No. Thank you. I’m fine. Actually I’m going to have a cup of tea and change my shirt. I’ve been driving all night.”
“Does he…?” He nodded towards the bed thinking, talking across him, about him as if he were already… “a cup of tea or anything?”
The nurse shook her head. “Not since yesterday.”
He released the weightless hand.
“I’ll be back in a little while,” he told his father.
There was no response.
The nurse smiled reassuringly.
Downstairs his mother had regained her usual composure. Dark circles beneath her eyes, a slackness of skin told of strain and sleepless nights. She’d put ginger cake, his favourite, and chocolate vienna biscuits on a tray in the sitting-room with his tea.
“I’ve got a goulash in the oven,” she said. “The way you like it, with dumplings, although there wasn’t any parsley…”
He was appalled. Goulash, dumplings, did she really think the lack of parsley important? Where were her feelings?
“I’ll go up while you eat. I don’t like to leave him. I haven’t, not for more than half an hour, since yesterday. Sorry about your holiday but he kept saying ‘Oscar’, ‘Oscar’, nothing but ‘Oscar’. I couldn’t let him go without…”
Without his muffler or his overshoes. As if the weather was bad and he was off to visit a patient.
He was surprised at his own ability to fill himself with vienna biscuits and ginger cake. When he’d finished he lay back on the sofa and fell asleep.
He slept until dinner time. Would have slept more if his mother hadn’t woken him. He went upstairs. The nurse was sitting in the same place. His father seemed restless, agitated, moving his head from side to side as if trying to say something.
The nurse put her ear close. It sounded like “Anne. Anne.”
She looked questioningly at him.
He shook his head. They knew no Annes.
“Bedpan!” the nurse said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to help me.”
She brought it from the bathroom covered with a white towel which his mother always described as ‘huckaback’.
She laid the bedpan on the chair while she pulled back the covers.
His father was wearing the top half of his pyjama only. There was no ‘cage’ taking the weight of the bedclothes. Just two stick-thin legs and a grotesquely swollen belly over which the skin seemed tightly stretched. It was as if he was nine months pregnant. He though immediately of Marie-Céleste. He had never seen anything so horrible, obscene…
“If you can put one hand here, and one here, like so,” the nurse was saying, “and help me raise him, I’ll slip the pan underneath.”
Oscar’s instinct was to call his mother. He did not think he could touch what confronted him. He asked himself if he was a man or a mouse and did as he was asked.
They waited. He tried not to stare at the limp genitals. Thou shalt not uncover thy father’s nakedness. He prayed he would never come to this.
“He won’t manage anything,” the nurse said.
She took the bedpan away and set the bed to rights.
“His stomach?” Oscar said.
“Acute obstruction. Can’t go on much longer after that.”
He wondered if his father could hear.
His mother came up to relieve him and tell him the goulash was dished up. She would have hers when he had finished. He wasn’t to rush. He was glad to eat alone.
Again his appetite surprised him. He felt as if he should not eat. His guilt did not prevent him from a large second helping from the casserole his mother had left on the hot-plate.
When he had finished he met the nurse in the hall. She had changed into a denim suit and released her hair. She was very young. He looked at her with admiration. How could she do the things she had to do, then pop off dancing or wherever it was she was going?
“Goodnight, Mr John. I’ll see you in the morning. I do hope the doctor has a good night.” She sounded as if she cared.
He held the door open for her, smelling the ‘keen air’ like which there was no other smell in the world.
In the bedroom a bronzed Australian with clear blue eyes and an accent you could cut with a knife was wiping his father’s face tenderly.
“…beck home,” she was saying to his mother, “we wouldn’t call that a beach! All those rocks. I nearly died. We have mile upon mile of sand. Bitter then London though. Earls Court! Three months was enough for me. I brought my bathers but I shan’t be putting my toes in thet ocean…”
She must have been well over six feet tall. She looked down at Oscar.
“Hi! I’m Merralin. Your father’s told me all about you. You’re the one that writes the books, aren’t you? I’ve been reading them at night. Dith in Bilgrade! Thire great. You’ll have to come to Australia. Dith in Sydney. How about thet?”
“If all the girls are like you,” he said.
“Bitter!”
He suddenly had to get away from the sick room and its unseemly banter.
“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he told his mother. Outside, the air filling his lungs, the sun drooping like a red tomato into the sea, he struck out for Black Rock.