‘You shouldn’t be driving,’ she said. ‘You’ve had head injuries.’
‘I’m better than before, they say. Reflexes of a teenage Afghani warlord. You should see me collect bananas in Super Monkey Ball.’
‘Bananas?’ A note of caution in her voice. ‘Jack, do you have pills you should take?’
‘These monkeys are inside bubbles and you have to…’
‘So,’ she said. ‘Elevenish. I’ll pick you up. There must be a place over there with edible food.’
Food. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.
I wanted someone to bring me food.
No one was going to bring me food. I put on lights and went in search. The pantry needed to take a good hard look at itself, it was a museum of preserved foodstuffs. I found a can of mushroom and leek soup, made in Scotland some time after the union with England.
The freezer too was overdue. Unidentifiable objects. I pulled something from under an ice overhang. Turkish bread. How long did frozen bread remain edible? Halfway edible. We would see.
I started the warming processes, opened a 1989 bottle of Elizabeth semillon, found hiding in the pantry in its grey papier-mache sleeve, the last of a case. I took it to the sitting room. A fire, I needed a fire.
Tomorrow. Do some shopping. Go to Piedemonte. Just buy the necessaries. Then take a walk, there wasn’t anything wrong with my legs. After that, make a fire.
Why did I always say at least one wrong thing to Rosa? She brought out something in me, she turned me into a version of my grandfather, my mother’s father. For him, unqualified approval did not exist, he was unreserved about nothing. I learned early that, even when he smiled at me, I should brace myself. That’s a nice report, John. But I see here…
When I was older, it became clear that he hated the fact that his daughter had married a stonemason, worse, one who belonged to the Communist Party. And I was the result of that union. Ergo.
There was no photograph of my father in the Toorak house until the day of my grandfather’s funeral. After the cemetery, mourners came back and tea and fruitcake and sherry were served, people patted me, kissed my cheek, shook my hand. When everyone had gone, we went into the smaller sitting room. My mother sent me to find a bottle of whisky, that was something new. My mother and grandmother drank a few glasses. I could sense something in the way they talked about the funeral, how well it had gone. They were relieved.
My grandmother left the room and came back with a picture in a silver frame. She put it on the mantelpiece. It was the photograph taken after the civil marriage of William John Irish and my mother. He was in a dark suit, a handsome man and large, black hair disciplined with oil, a head and more taller than my pale and lovely mother, in a cream suit herself, a neckline hinting at bosom.
Where had it been? Had my grandmother kept it hidden, in a drawer?
For Rosa, born after her Commie father was dead, her grandfather was the first male of importance. The infant knew only the Toorak house, sleeping in her mother’s nursery, in her mother’s cot, with her mother’s stuffed animals, cared for eight hours a day by her mother’s nanny. When she was a baby, the old man took her out in the grand pram on Saturdays and Sundays. I had a clear memory of him, in a tweed jacket, leaning into the big-wheeled carriage, his nose pointing, his hand causing chuckling sounds.
‘Gramps was lovely,’ Rosa once said. ‘I miss him so much. Perhaps he never had the chance to bond with you.’
I said, ‘ Bond? What do you understand by bond?’
And in asking this, I knew the rich, thin-lipped old bastard lived on: my mother had bequeathed me his genes. And I knew also that my unease about that fact matched exactly my grandfather’s feelings about the genes of a Communist stonemason in his grandson.
I fetched my supper and sat in the most uncomfortable chair because I wanted to punish myself. I drank a glass of wine, had half a bowl of soup. The soup had aged well, the bread was edible. Had the Turks ever mounted any Polar expeditions?
Tired in the moving parts. Inside too, in the core. I’d stripped the bed, I would have to make it. Not tonight. The spare room, I would sleep in my own spare room, the bed was made. A mug of Milo. No milk, no Milo. Shit.
I brushed my teeth, avoided looking in the mirror, not wanting to see myself. I switched off the heating, the lights, stood at the front window and looked out at the visible universe. Bare branches moving, headlights on the street beyond the parkland.
I was turning back the covers when I thought about putting on the answering machine. It was 9.15 pm. Someone might ring, adults weren’t supposed to be horizontal at 9.15 with the intention of sleeping.
To the sitting room, press the button on the machine, back to the bedroom. A good mattress on the bed, hard. I opened my book, got comfortable on the pillows, drowsy immediately, fought it, a few paragraphs, put the book down, switched off the light, half turned. The blessing of sleep, the laying on of oblivion.
I woke in sweat, heart thudding, dreams vivid, incoherent — fleeing in terror, heavy crippled legs, climbing sheer surfaces that crumbled, ladders with missing rungs, rungs that broke underfoot, the abyss below, pursuers close, gaining.
It was a long time before I fell asleep again, lying in the dark, needles of pain when I moved, feeling sad in the way I’d felt since waking up in hospital, a chronic sadness.
In the morning, I found the keys to the Lark and to Linda’s Alfa inside the front door, pushed through the letter slot. The cars were outside. Cam. The Cam taketh and the Cam returneth. The one person who didn’t come to see me in hospital. Instead, he sent a parcel with half a bottle of Grange Hermitage 1983 in a flat silver flask.
I liked him even more for that.
21
Time passed, a chain of forgettable and forgotten days, weeks. I fended off almost everyone who inquired, didn’t reply to most telephone messages, extinguished them. People became exasperated.
‘If you don’t get back to some semblance of your former self,’ Linda said from London one morning, ‘I’m coming back and I’m taking stern measures. Arse-kicking I’m talking about.’
I had no rejoinder.
I went to Charlie’s on most days, made myself do that. With no heart in it, I worked at tasks he gave me to do. He didn’t say anything about my absence, carried on as always, lectured me on accurate measuring, the need to tune tools after every use, the virtues of a slow and humiliating apprenticeship in the trade, the wisdom of certain European thinkers. Sometimes after my run I went back to bed, sleeping fitfully, not getting up until midday, sleeping badly that night, the old dreams back, the unconnected images: my father coming towards me down a passage, picking me up, raising me above his head, my mother crying, holding me tightly to her in a doorway, car lights gleaming on wet bluestone gutters.
I woke earlier and earlier and, as the body pains lessened, the runs got longer and longer. I didn’t go to the Prince much. I caught people frowning at me, exchanging glances. People told me jokes. Everyone seemed to want to cheer me up.
In mid-June, I read a bank statement, the first time in months. There was a deposit of $50,000 about which I knew nothing. I rang the bank. The money was an electronic transfer from a Luxembourg bank called CreditInternat.
The hospital bill? It had been paid, said Rosa. I hadn’t thought about it again. I rang the hospital accounts department. Paid by electronic deposit from CreditInternat.
The next day, I ran through the dawn streets as far as once-lovely Royal Park, ran down to the tramlines, turned and angled across the expanse, through the clumps of grass and the scrubby native trees. The splendid parkland was now ruined, courtesy of a government falling for some vague pencil sketches produced by mystical landscape designers in the 1980s. Soon they would find bodies here.