A Start in Life (53 page)

‘She's my mother,' I said. He spewed chicken-shreds all over the table, as if about to have a seizure. ‘Last time I was up there,' I went on, ‘she told me all about you. I'm your son, right enough.' I filled in the puzzle, and he listened, hands stretched across the table so that I could have driven nails into them, or the bread knife – one at a time.

‘Now shall the eyes of the blind be opened,' he said, his gills white nevertheless.

‘She never married after that,' I told him, ‘I think you were the love of her life, though she was too proud and independent to say so. I don't suppose she'd look at you now. In any case, she's getting married in a month to a bloke who's worth a hundred of you, a Communist. I'm sure she'll do well by him.'

He stood up unsteadily, though he wasn't drunk: ‘Pearl, go to the kitchen and get a bottle of champagne from the fridge. We must drink to this. I didn't have children in either of my marriages. Thought I was sterile – which it seems I was, in the married state. But now I find I had a son from the first real love of my life – though I didn't know it was going to be that at the time.' He came round, and I stood up as well, knife in hand: ‘Put that down,' he said.

I didn't even know I was holding it. ‘Why did you abandon her?' Memories of Claudine crushed me, and I couldn't say anything else. What could I do but shake his hand firmly if I was to be true to myself?

‘It's no use saying I'm sorry,' he said, ‘because I am.' He stared at me, and I stared at him, wondering why the hell I'd let myself in for this. Pearl, holding the champagne, glared at us both as if we were pulling some fast trick on her, and at me in particular so that I knew she finally didn't like me at all. My one ambition was to get into a simple situation, but no sooner had this deep wish struck than I knew it to be impossible. I couldn't even hate my father for what he'd done to my mother, now that I'd found him, meaning that he was no use to me at all. And I was glad I couldn't put him to this use, for he was unable, because of this, to sap my strength. At the same time he had none to give me. Meeting him like this was just one more experience for me to mull over from time to time. While we drank the champagne he looked at me, a strange glimpse, almost as if he were afraid in some way. He was certainly shocked, and I had the feeling that he might go off and hang himself in an odd moment of boredom or emptiness at some time in the near-future. But this crazy idea passed off, and he asked me all about my life. I refused to tell him anything at first, saying he only wanted to know so that he could put it into one of his novels. Then he started to cry and said this was true, which made me laugh, while Pearl ran for some pills, so I told him what I thought he wanted to know about myself, which had no connexion whatever to the truth. Some time later I said I was going to the toilet, but I picked up my coat and walked out of the flat, not even bothering to say goodbye.

I went round Sloane Square a few times, then got into a phonebox and dialled Moggerhanger. The line was dead, and when I looked down I saw that the paybox had been ripped out. At the next one I phoned Blaskin's flat, listening for him while two men stood outside waiting to come in after me. ‘Hello?' said Blaskin.

‘This is Michael.'

‘I thought you were in the toilet?' he shouted.

‘I left. I'm in Hampstead. Listen, I never want to see you again. I'm not your son and you're not my father, so get that into your stream of consciousness.'

I slammed the lid down before he could reply, and pushed my way out of the box. Halfway to the World's End I realized I'd yet to phone Moggerhanger. At the next booth I got straight through to him. ‘I'm going to Geneva the day after tomorrow,' I said. ‘Pindarry and Cottapilly will be off to Zurich in the morning.'

‘I shan't forget you for this. You've got a place in my heaven from now on.'

‘Can you put me on to Polly?'

‘I'm afraid I can't,' he said, and I could see him trying to laugh, ‘she went to Geneva, to see her old schoolfriend. I expect she'll be back in three or four days. If you're lucky she might be waiting for you when you get there.' This was the best weather forecast for some time, and wishing him goodnight I got back into fresh air and headed for the river. The thought of a few days by the lake with Polly put my head above the clouds, made all my mix-ups seem very small indeed. I thought that if I kept my nerve, watched myself, played my cards right; if I was patient, cool, and prayed for the upkeep of my luck, repeated all such clichés as if they were prayers, then I'd sail out of this tricky patch unscathed and happy. I'd haul down the skull and crossbones and henceforth live at Upper Mayhem under my purple banner of bliss with sweet Polly Moggerhanger for ever and ever.

Sleep was deep and dreamless that night, and it's as well that it was. I'd expected a quiet and uneventful day on my own before the trip to Geneva, but during breakfast the phone rang. I didn't want to answer it, no matter who was trying to needle through. I counted the times it rang, thinking it couldn't go on to more than fifty, but at the thirteenth I lost patience and picked it up. ‘Hello?' I said sharply.

‘Michael? It's Bridgitte.'

I'd expected Polly, Leningrad, my mother, Blaskin, Moggerhanger himself, but not Bridgitte. Why couldn't I expect everything, even the unexpected? ‘How are you, my own sweet darling? I've been phoning you for days and days.'

‘You liar,' she screamed. ‘I've been trying to get you.'

‘What's wrong?' She was crying again, and her sobs went through to me. I was getting used to women crying, and was beginning to feel sorry for them when I heard it, no longer feeling just annoyed. ‘What is it, love? What can I do for you?' I almost pleaded, till I pulled myself together and stopped it.

‘Come over to the house,' she said, ‘now. It's Smog.'

‘I'll be right over on the number-two helicopter,' I said. ‘What's gone wrong?'

‘Dr Anderson was killed last week, in a car crash on the motorway. Oh, that's all right, don't be sorry. He was buried the day before yesterday. I don't care. But Smog won't eat. He's curled up in the dark, and won't open his eyes.'

I slammed the phone down without giving her time to finish, picked up my coat and ran.

I flagged a taxi at the end of the street, and told him to get up to Hampstead like a jet because I'd just heard that my son was ill and in danger of his life.

‘Leave it to me, mate,' he said, and drove over the first junction with the light just changed to red. ‘I shan't kill you,' he laughed, ‘just rest back and try not to worry.' He went up through Chelsea and Kensington, over the Park and through St John's Wood. I offered him a cigar. ‘Light it and pass it in,' he said. I couldn't see much of his face, but he wore a cap and seemed about forty, and had glasses on. ‘Whatever you do,' he said, ‘don't worry. Things'll be all right. Take it from me. Kids often go off a bit, but you'll pull him round. How old is he?'

‘Seven.'

‘That's all right. Under five, and it might be touch and go. What's wrong with him?'

‘Don't know. Wife just phoned. Can't get much out of her.'

‘Women!' he said. ‘Never mind, mate. They do their best.'

‘And more,' I said. So we went on, and soon he was pulling up by that open flight of steps climbing the green bank of the garden. I gave him two quid, but he pushed one back. ‘Don't skin yourself. Just get going.'

‘All the best,' I shouted, going like Batman, but feeling sick.

I called for Bridgitte. She wasn't in the living-room. Half the furniture had gone, and there were suitcases all over the floor. Of course Smog was upset. How could he grieve in an atmosphere like this? I had a sudden vision of the brutality of the world towards children, and ran down the stairs into the kitchen. A saucepan of milk was boiling over on the electric stove and causing a great stink. She wasn't there so I ran upstairs, on to the bedrooms, looking in each one till I found her.

She stood by the window, staring outside: ‘I saw you on your way up.'

‘Then why the bloody hell didn't you come down and let me in?' I was full of rage, then saw Smog in the bed, curled up. He seemed to be asleep. ‘What's the trouble?' I lowered my voice in case he was. I knew she wanted me to kiss and comfort her, but I was too concerned about Smog to feel much sympathy for her distress. She wore a black sweater, and a black skirt, black stockings, and black carpet slippers with black pompoms in the front – as if she'd really fitted herself out for mourning day and night. I suppose she had a black nightdress, and stuffed herself with black wadding if she was having a period.

Smog groaned and turned over, facing me without opening his eyes. ‘He's drunk warm milk,' she said, ‘for the last four days.'

‘And you haven't got a doctor?'

‘Not yet. His mother came to the funeral, then went off and left us. She's gone up to Scotland.'

‘I suppose he sleeps all the time?'

She lit a cigarette, and nodded.

‘Go down and make him some Quaker Oats,' I said, ‘and cool it with milk and butter. Put plenty of sugar in. I suppose you can do that?'

‘Of course I can.'

She went out. I stroked Smog's face, and he looked at me. ‘What's all this?' I said. ‘I've come to see you, and I wanted to take you out.'

‘Daddy's dead.'

‘I'm your dad. I thought you knew. I always told you I was.'

‘You're Uncle,' he said.

‘I'm your dad now, as well.' He was pale, his lips thin and pink as if somebody had tried to doll him up with lipstick. His feet kicked under the clothes. ‘How are you feeling?'

‘My head keeps ringing.'

‘Like a telephone?'

He smiled. ‘No, like a big single bell.'

‘I suppose that earwig got loose, and started swinging on it. Everybody's head has got an earwig in it. But you know why they always get on that bell and make it ring?'

‘No,' he said. ‘Why?'

‘To tell you that they're hungry. They want you to stuff some food into your mouth for them.'

‘I don't feel hungry.'

‘But they do. Your earwig must be getting very restless, ringing that bell like that. If you want it to stop, you have to eat something.'

He leaned on his elbow, but fell back. ‘Really?'

‘Really.'

He thought about it. ‘What do earwigs like best to eat?'

‘Depends. Some of 'em are like tigers, and only want raw meat. Others eat bacon and eggs. Mostly they like a nice breakfast if they haven't eaten for a while. I should think yours is that sort. A bit of porridge to start off, warm, with some milk stirred in it. That'll keep him quiet for an hour. Then try a bit of scrambled egg.'

‘I don't believe you.'

‘Listen, Smog, I've never told you a lie, have I? A few stories maybe, but no lie. So you try it, and if the ringing doesn't stop, then you'll know I'm telling a lie. Either that or the earwig wants scrambled egg.'

‘Where's the porridge, then?' he said.

‘I don't know that there is any. I'm about to have my breakfast, starting with porridge. Bridgitte's bringing it up to me on a tray so that I can talk to you while I'm eating it. There was only a bit left in the packet, but maybe I'll give you a spoonful of mine, just to keep the earwig quiet. The thing is that if he doesn't get fed soon he'll call on his pal the hedgehog to get on that bell and help him to ring it a bit louder. Here's Bridgitte, and I'm starving for my breakfast. I always eat porridge to start with, so you'll have to look sharp if you want any of it from me.'

I was able to feed him nearly all of it. He wanted some scrambled egg as well, but I gave him a drink of water, then lay down with him on the bed so that in two minutes he was asleep. ‘It's half past ten,' I said. ‘We'll wake him at one with some toast and egg. I'm sure he'll eat now. If I stay all day, he'll be back to normal by the morning.'

I was sweating with the effort of getting him to eat, and went down to the kitchen so that we could make coffee. ‘I knew you'd do it,' she said. ‘That's why I didn't call a doctor.'

‘Thanks for having such blind faith in me, but it was Smog's life you were playing with. Why all the packing in the living-room?'

‘I'm going to Holland, with Smog, for a couple of weeks.'

‘Then what?'

‘I'll come back here. This house is mine.'

‘You'll live here?'

‘I'll sell it.' I made the coffee myself, because first she dropped the milk, then tipped over the sugar.

‘Stay with me, Michael. I need some help.'

‘I'll stay today. Tomorrow I'm working. I'm going to Switzerland for a couple of days. I'll get in touch when I come back. We must pull Smog around. After coffee we'll go to the living-room and put the cases away. We'll arrange the furniture and clean the place up a bit, so that when I carry Smog down this afternoon he'll see we're all orderly and settled. I only care about him at the moment. I never believed it was women and children first, only children.'

We set the living-room to look more or less the same as it had before Anderson was killed. Bridgitte sat in one armchair, and I was in another by her side, both looking through the big windows and down over the lawn.

‘I'm sorry I'm such trouble,' she said, holding out her hand.

‘Your trouble seems like calm to me,' I said. ‘I'm sorry Anderson died. This is the first moment I've had to tell you.'

‘I hated him,' she said, pulling her hand away.

‘He couldn't help being what he was. He was Smog's real father, so I can't finally damn him.'

‘He was Smog's father as far as we know,' she said.