Patricia and Malise (12 page)

They caught a train that went slowly from Pisa to Lucca. The wooden slats on which they perched bulged with darkly dressed Italians and were uncomfortable. Christian read, many times, from the notebook that he carried in his coat pocket. In the book was written the name and address of Patricia, her husband and, in all probability, her two children. His uncertain mission was in progress and he looked committed as he heaved their suitcases down from a meshed rack above his head at Lucca station which, in spite of the efforts of Mussolini, was dark and cheerless. There they asked a loitering fellow passenger to direct them to a
pensione
. ‘
Costo
Poco
'
he said several times and very adamantly.

They walked, dragging cases, one containing Christian's Teddy Bear, to the
pensione
that almost touched the station building. A furious man at a desk asked for immediate payment before pointing, grumpily, at a flight of filthy stairs. Their room was musty. It stank of cigarettes and the terrazzo floor, patterned as an ailing liver, was stained and chipped. There was a high, small window a low hard bed and a bumpy pillow apiece. No food on offer there. Nobody spoke English nor did Christian and Kathleen speak any Italian. It was mid morning but after a night with no sleep, Christian's intentions were still firm – even if he barely knew what they amounted to.

‘We'll play it by ear,' he said as they sat in misery in the dark, damp room. He suddenly itched for a boy scout. A small boy called Joey. Christian remembered Joey's bright smile that had exhilarated him at one of his lowest moments – soon after Malise left home for boarding school.

Although the
pensione
stood outside the Lucca walls, only a short walk was needed, through one of the historic gateways, to reach the city centre.

He was compelled to make his way, Kathleen puffing beside him in her astrakhan coat, to the Piazza San Michele and the bar where he had, with a demented Malise, encountered the pregnant Patricia where she carried, quite possibly, an embryonic Mc Hip.

At first they stood in the bar. No seats were free. Christian asked for two slices of pizza and a strong drink for both of them. They perched on stools beside the busy bar. He watched Kathleen dig her enormous teeth into her pizza slice and winced as melted cheese oozed out between them. Seats became free and the pair moved into a dark corner of the café. Kathleen faced him. She dreaded returning to the horrible
pensione
and had no strength with which to peruse the town.

‘So, Christian. Why, exactly, are we here?'

‘Mission dear. I wish to know if I have a little nephew or niece in this town.'

‘But would they be dear? Even if ….' She stared at him with ferocity.

‘Well. Blood is blood Kathleen and we are, er, well, you know ….'

‘What do I know? Nothing of your relatives apart from the old ones who have gone and Malise who wouldn't make much of a daddy. If you remember not one of them responded to my funeral notice in
The Times
and that was not cheap to insert.'

He ignored the reference to his dismissive cousins and said ‘Well. Daddy – no – but blood is what counts.'

‘Even so dear.' More cheese oozed as she signalled to a waiter to bring her a glass of brandy – shortage of funds or not. ‘Are you intending to call on these people? The Leris? What will you say to them? The husband for one, might object and the wife might deny any knowledge of your brother.'

‘The boy. Her son. He will wemember. He did when we met up with them on this vewy spot.'

‘What if it breaks the family up?'

‘Can't be helped. The child would have the wight to know of his or her blood line. Mc Hip.'

The brandy arrived. She drank it fast and ordered another.

Christian became melancholy. ‘We should have discussed this more fully before we came I know, but here we are and, yes. We will call on them this evening. Why not? Nothing to lose.'

‘Plenty for them to lose if you go telling the husband about his wife's fling with Malise. He may never have heard of it. What's more – what on earth do you intend to do with this three year old if you note a family resemblance? I'm not looking after it and that's for sure.'

The second brandy was taking effect and she ordered a third.

Christian left her to drink and went away hoping to buy a map of the city.

When he returned to join her it was obvious that there was no question of calling on anyone that day. Kathleen was drowsy, hiccoughing, and barely able to rise from the table. The bill was unnervingly large. They walked, very unsteadily, to the horrible
pensione
and flopped onto the hard, low bed. In the passage there was a lavatory and basin. No bath. The cistern of the lavatory was broken and the top lay in dirty fragments on the wet floor. Water in the cistern was bright orange with rust. No paper and no water from the single tap above the cracked basin. Kathleen retched and semi-sobbed before slumping beside Christian. They both stayed there, getting very thirsty, until the following day.

No food was available in that dark place so, when they were dressed but still unwashed, they trotted once again into the town in search of coffee and a croissant. The Astrakhan coat fell heavily on Kathleen's shoulders and her head ached appallingly and they trudged back to the bar of the day before.

After drinking coffee, they faced each other once again.

‘So. Christian. Are we going to call on those poor Leris today?'

‘That's the idea.'

‘It's a bad one. I'm not going with you.'

‘As you please.'

‘It isn't that I'm pleased by any of it. The horrible hotel. It's cold and filthy. Let's go home.'

‘Not yet Kathleen.'

‘Then you go your way and I'll go mine. We'll meet at that dreadful place this evening before going out to eat.'

‘As you say, Pwobably better that way,'

The squirrel lined coat was too hot and heavy for the time of year. Harsh winter had not arrived and that particular November was a mild one – if damp. Christian sweated but walked briskly – comparing map with address book – to a less populated part of the city but within its walls. The map and the note book guided him to a front door. It appeared to belong to a ground floor apartment that stood on a quiet and pleasant street. Brickwork galore. He remembered brickwork from having listened to many of Malise's verbal rambles. He rang the bell and heard it shrill. It was answered, almost at once, and there, in front of him, stood the undeniably beautiful Patricia. She knew, immediately, that calamity, under a squirrel lined coat, had struck. Christian was a rough and distorted version of Malise and she remembered him well from their hideous encounter when Malise had, thanks to heaven, failed to recognise her or her son, Antonio. She had been pregnant at that time and had noted, with horror, Christian's interested eyes dwelling upon her swollen stomach.

A weird chill settled on her forehead. Her breath came in sharp pants.

‘Come in. Can I help you? My husband is upstairs and the children are both out with their grandmother. She always takes them out on a Sunday. I was painting and must return to work very soon. Just tell me what I can do for you.' She heard her voice coming from another corner of the room and wondered why she had told him that her mother in law always took the children out on Sundays. She had not wished to tell him anything at all. Her mind was disordered and she wondered if she was dreaming or, shockingly, awakening. She shouted to Andrea. ‘Come at once.'

Christian followed her into a pretty sitting room – much influenced in style by Patricia's informal English taste. Cushions, pictures, rugs and comforts. There they stood. Andrea joined them. He had never seen this oddly attired stranger but something in his flavour gave a hint. It reminded him of the Englishman, Malise Mc Hip, who had entered and departed from their lives at equal speed.

‘How do you do?' Andrea held out his hand to Christian.

‘Are you visiting our beautiful city? You have, perhaps, an introduction to us through mutual friends?'

‘Not pwecisely. My bwother knew you I believe. Malise Mc Hip.'

Patricia sat down and her temperature rose. How dare they? One brief, shabby episode in her happy life had returned to cause her anguish. Was there no such thing as the forgotten past?

Andrea continued. ‘Your brother. We knew him very slightly for a very short time. We are busy people and cannot entertain you but, if you need, I will give you advice of where eating is good in Lucca. Now we must both return to our work before my mother returns with our two children.'

‘Two'. Christian was resolute. ‘It's the young one I want to meet. There might be an – er – connection.'

This was more than the baffled couple were able to take.

Andrea said ‘I'll show you his photograph and then you must go.' His voice was tense and angry. He picked a framed photograph of a child with clear cut features and crisp dark hair. He handed it to Christian. ‘That is Ezra. He has a typical and fine Jewish face. See his long flexible hands. We named him after his grandfather who he resembles closely.'

Patricia held her head in her hands and trembled. Horror shot through her and her eyes watered. She understood what this creature was driving at and knew him to be semi insane but, nonetheless, he brought shame and debilitation.

Andrea took back the photograph and almost shovelled Christian to the front door. The heavily coated fellow had no desire for more. Whether or not he would, left to himself, have recognised the child as being, most definitely, not a Mc Hip, he was unsure but he knew that there was no future in his quest.

Andrea and Patricia were left to steady themselves and return to yet a fuller understanding of each other.

Malise, imprisoned at the Olive Branch, was unaware of almost everything although he still took pleasure in guzzling food. A sense of dumb trouble showed in his eyes but, in more lucid moments, he continued to feed recklessly on illusions – sobbing and calling out Patricia's name as he counted steps. He was, by a long way, the youngest patient in the care home – and medical advisors were mystified upon learning that dementia had set in at such an early age.

Christian had been asked, at the start, whether Malise had suffered external stress of any kind – had he had an extreme reaction to rejection for instance?

‘I vewwy much doubt it' he had replied.

Malise's nocturnal confessions whilst sharing a room with his brother had held no real importance for Christian. He had enjoyed the position of superiority that accompanied them but had little understanding of the true cause of Malise's anguish, even if, later, he decided to put the disclosures to (what he considered to be) good use.

Different doctors had suggested different diagnoses. Nobody arrived at conclusions – other than to agree that the condition stemmed from nothing but extraordinarily and very unusual bad luck as the result of having been dealt some emotional shock.

Nina, one of the nurses, particularly enjoyed caring for Malise. His hands did not wander over her, as they had done in the case of Kathleen, for his limbs were cold and almost lifeless. Nina liked to gaze at him. ‘If only I could, I'd have his teeth fixed, then I'd frame him and hang him on the wall in a lovely gold frame,' she'd tell her friend. ‘Fancy anyone as handsome as that losing their wits so young. If I'd been him I'd have glanced in the mirror once a day and cheered myself up.'

‘Handsome is as handsome does' her friend answered – although she had no understanding whatsoever of what the saying told her.