Fifty-Minute Hour (55 page)

She turned left, then right, then left again, miraculously remembering the streets she'd taken, the shops and bars she'd passed; found herself back beside the Pantheon. She stared up at its massy bulk, chequered in the moonlight. What had Oliver told her – that it had been built two thousand years ago as the temple of all pagan gods, then became a Christian church, re-dedicated to her namesake, Mary, and all the saints and martyrs? Her eldest son was intrigued by pagan deities, kept questioning the Christian one with arguments which flummoxed her; insisting he preferred the idea of nature-gods and emperor-gods to a one-and-only abstract God which nobody could prove. The whole subject quite confused her, especially since she'd heard last month on
Woman's Hour
that at least a thousand people in Britain today claimed to be gods themselves, and that this was still more common in the East, where gods could (and did) manifest themselves in the guise of ordinary men.

She paused a moment by the stained but robust portico, touched the dank stone columns. Could John-Paul be a deity himself – not just a saint, a god? If there were so many different gods around – Egyptian ones and Roman ones, emperors, gurus, yogis, even common English bank-clerk gods, then why not John-Paul, too? It was no more inconceivable than Jesus being God – in fact, less surprising, really, since Jesus was a hippie-type who dressed in beard and sandals, and had sometimes sounded rude and quite unmannerly, whereas John-Paul was never anything but courteous, considerate, and impeccably turned out. And it would certainly explain the
mago
's strange word ‘saviour'. After all, a god's child would be special, destined for future greatness. She had seen statues of ten dozen gods in the museums they'd been visiting – river gods and sky gods, gods of wine or war. John-Paul should have his plinth as well, as he already had his cult, his obedient marvelling votaries – as God of Love, Libido.

She heard a clock strike eight, jogged the last three hundred yards, panted to the Bar Navona where she had arranged to meet the menfolk at seven forty-five. She was twenty minutes late, yet she couldn't see a sign of them; scanned the pavement tables, even checked inside, though the boys had all insisted on a table in the open, so they could see the fountains and the buskers, watch any early fireworks which might be let off in the square. They'd probably got distracted by the stalls, or Father Christmas, and if she tried to track them down they were bound to miss each other. Best for her to wait, sit tight, bag that last free table.

She ordered herself a glass of sparkling wine, watched the press of people drinking, laughing, guzzling – well, all except the sullen group at the table right beside her, where a girl was actually in tears; their mood obviously quite different from the general festive merriment. The girl was tall and handsome, despite her tear-stained face, with fine bones, striking features – though with a strangely ragged haircut, as if she'd hacked it off herself. She was also dressed in man's clothes, though the garb looked almost stylish, accentuated her slim but shapely figure. She was sitting with four men, who all seemed rough and brutish; none bothering to comfort her, but ignoring her completely as they smoked and downed their beer. She longed to lean across and say a word of sympathy, though the girl wouldn't understand it – looked foreign, as the men did, dark and slightly exotic, as if several different countries had left their mark on her.

She sipped her wine uneasily as she listened to the sobbing; hated anyone to cry, least of all today, when she herself had so much joy to share. Could the girl be pregnant, too, but perhaps not want her baby, and that surly man beside her be the unwilling angry father? She suddenly rummaged in her handbag, drew out her handkerchief. This girl was in distress, nose running into her mouth, tears soaking into her shirt, and with nothing but her sleeve to mop them up. She might not know the Italian word for hankie, but that needn't stop her offering it.

‘Th … Thanks,' the girl said, startled, as she scoured her nose and eyes, edged her chair round sideways, so it was almost touching Mary's.

‘You're English!'

‘Yes. And I never cry on principle, least of all in public.' She was laughing now, as well as still half-crying; seemed extremely overwrought, her legs twisted round the chair-rungs, an ashtray full of mangled cigarette-ends beside her empty glass.

‘Well, it's very nice to meet you. My name's Mary Hampton.'

‘Nial.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘
My
name. Blame it on my father. In fact, you won't go too far wrong if you blame everything on him.'

‘Cut it out, Nial, can't you? The whole of Rome doesn't want to hear your hang-ups.'

The bad-tempered man beside her had risen to his feet, tossed Mary's hankie back to her, yanked Nial up by the wrist. ‘It's time to go, anyway. You ready?'

‘Yeah.' The girl seemed subject to him, didn't spare a look behind her, or even the briefest of goodbyes, as she shuffled out morosely, the three other men getting up as well.

Mary watched them go, smoothing out the saturated hankie. That girl should see John-Paul, learn what she was doing to herself – how she'd probably chosen that uncouth and fractious boyfriend because she was trying to reproduce the situation with her father, force an unloving man to love her. She sighed and checked her watch, trying not to fret about the boys. At least the piazza offered great diversion, all her senses titillated by the sound of plashing water, the pulse of a rock band, the smells of roasting chestnuts, cloying candyfloss, the gaudy tinsel colours of the sweet-stalls. She kept her eyes scanned for her menfolk, though it was hard to distinguish anyone in the tangled crowds, the pools of murky shadow which alternated with swathes of light from the dramatic floodlit fountains. And she was continually distracted – by a poodle in a real fur coat, a lad in scarlet pantaloons juggling with six balls, a furtive man in a raincoat and a sunhat just skulking past her table, eyes fixed on the ground.

‘
Bryan
!' she called, astonished. ‘What
are
you doing here? I thought you said you had to fly to Tokyo on business?'

Bryan lurched towards her table, his face draining of all colour, seemed to stagger, reel. Mary caught his arm. ‘Are you all right? You've gone quite pale. Sit down a moment, and I'll order you a brandy.'

He stared at her, unspeaking; looked haggard and unkempt, dark rings beneath his eyes, his raincoat buttoned wrongly, so that it hung lower on one side. He stroked his crumpled sleeve where her arm had touched his own, kept gazing at it wonderingly. ‘I'm dreaming,' he said slowly. ‘This is just one last cruel deception. You're not Mary Hampton, are you – the Mary of the class?'

She laughed. ‘Of course I am. Look, do sit down and join me. I'm just waiting for my family. It would be nice for you to meet them.'

He backed away immediately. ‘Oh, no. I'm … er … busy, very busy – preparing for a seminar.'

‘A seminar on New Year's Eve? They must be awful slave-drivers. You can spare five minutes, surely?'

He peered a moment at his watch, then glanced nervously around him. ‘It's dangerous to be out at all, especially on your own. Father Campion warned us. It's the most dangerous night of all the year in Rome. He said we might get killed or …'

Mary pulled a chair out, patted it encouragingly. She could think of more exciting companions than poor perverted Bryan, but until James and co turned up themselves, she'd rather have a chaperone than sit here on her own and be subjected to rude leers. Anyway, tonight she craved for company, almost any company, longed to pour her news out, share it with the world. ‘We're safe till ten, at least, Bryan. It's only nearer midnight that things get really violent – or so our courier said.'

He sagged down in the chair, as she ordered him a brandy, herself another wine. She already felt just slightly faint and fuzzy, but it surely wouldn't hurt to get a trifle tipsy on this one night of the year, and when she'd received such marvellous news.

‘Isn't Rome
fantastic
,' she said, leaning forward to clink her glass to Bryan's.

‘Yes,' he mumbled tonelessly.

‘How long have you been here? And is it strictly business, or a holiday as well? And why Rome and not Japan?'

He shook his head, as if he'd hardly grasped her questions; really did look ill. Perhaps he'd caught that 'flu bug which had been going round at Christmas time, and was still feeling weak and low. She must try to cheer him up, rummaged through her mind to dredge up Simon's little jokes, or the priceless things that Jon had said about what he called the cattycombs. His face remained quite tragic, his posture slumped and stooping. Recklessly, she ordered still more drinks, as much to lift his gloom as to calm her own anxiety about her husband and the boys. It was almost half past eight now and no sign of them at all. Had her precious Jon been injured by a firework, her precocious brilliant Oliver had a bed thrown at his brain?

She drained her third Spumante, felt better instantly. Of course the boys were fine; everything was fine; and she was pregnant with a daughter, a rare and splendid girl-child who would lighten the dark world. ‘Bryan,' she said, giggling rather nervously as she flirted with her beer-mat. ‘Can I trust you with a secret?'

He suddenly leaned forward, as if at last she'd caught his interest, roused him from his torpor. She looked away, still nervous. ‘I shouldn't tell you really. It's something very private, and you might not understand, might think I'm – you know – loose.'

‘Mary, what are you trying to tell me?' His hand was groping after hers, his face no longer pale, but flushed and almost galvanised.

‘Er, nothing. Look, forget it. It was just a … silly joke.'

‘No, Mary, not a joke. I know you're serious.'

‘Well, yes, I am, but …'

‘You
are
? Oh, Mary! I never thought you'd say it, never thought you'd actually dare to …'

‘Well, I suppose I shouldn't really. I mean, I haven't even mentioned it to James yet.'

‘You're going to
tell
him?' Bryan's eyes were wild – fearful yet triumphant, the flush deepening on his cheeks, exulting down his neck.

‘Well, of course I am. I can't keep it a secret any longer.'

‘Oh, Mary, I'm so happy!'

‘But I haven't told you yet.'

He shook his head, both hands seeking hers now. ‘You don't need to spell it out. We don't need boring words.'

‘You mean it
shows
, already?' Mary moved her hands to the safety of her glass, glanced down at her stomach. She had known John-Paul for only fifteen weeks, but then fifteen weeks was just exactly long enough for a pregnancy to show: the first swelling of her belly, rounding of her breasts.

Bryan sprang up from his chair, started waving to a waiter. ‘Let's celebrate! I'll order some champagne.'

‘No, really, Bryan. It's sweet of you, but I've had three drinks already and I shouldn't really touch the stuff, not in my condition.'

‘What condition? Mary! You're not ill again, for God's sake? Oh, no, please no, not that!' He sank back in his chair, hid his face a moment, groaning through his fingers. ‘Just when everything's come right, to have you dragging back to that dreadful hospital.'

‘What hospital? I don't know what you're talking about. I've never been ill in my life. I was just referring to the baby.'

‘Baby?'

‘Yes. The one I'm going to have.'

‘You're … You're going to have a … a baby?'

Mary stared at him, concerned. This wasn't just the aftermath of 'flu – he really was far gone. His AIDS must be much worse, striking at his mind now, as well as his poor body, attacking memory and brain-cells, not just the immune system. He had no recall at all of what they'd just been talking about, appeared to have blanked it out entirely. And he even seemed uncertain who she was; had questioned her identity when she'd first called out to greet him, and was now confusing her with some invalid in hospital. She must treat him very gently; made her voice as kindly as she could as she explained to him again in simple words. ‘Yes, I'm pregnant, Bryan.'

‘Pr … Pregnant?'

‘Yes.'

‘It's a lie, a lie! You
can't
be.'

She laughed, despite herself; was feeling really strange now, giggly and yet anxious, distressed for Bryan, yet reckless. ‘That's what
I
thought, first of all. But I've done a test – well, two, in fact. I wanted to be absolutely certain, so I repeated it a second time and there's not a shred of doubt. And it's going to be a girl, a very special girl. Oh, I know I shouldn't tell you this, but I'm just bursting to tell someone.' She leaned across, gulped Bryan's untouched brandy, wrestling with herself about the advantage of discretion against the release of speaking out. She longed to shout her news from the highest point in Rome, boom it through a megaphone, but if that were neither wise nor even feasible, then why not whisper it to Bryan across the table? Her secret would be safe with him, and it would be a mark of trust to take him into her confidence, let him share her happiness. The poor wretch seemed so friendless, so utterly alone; might appreciate a private bond between them. She edged her chair up closer, voice lowered, yet intense. ‘Bryan, I think the baby's father's may be what they call an avatar.'

‘A
what
?'

‘It's a Hindu word – means he's actually a god, but he's come down to earth in human form. They explained it all on
Woman's Hour
.'

‘Your husband is a …?'

‘Oh, no, not James. It's not my husband's baby.'

Bryan rammed his chair back violently, hurled both their glasses to the ground, and began pelting across the square, scattering chestnut-sellers, jugglers, and alerting an alsatian which bounded in pursuit of him, barking near-hysterically. Mary tried to follow, felt a dragging weight behind her; found she was tethered to her seat by one end of her coat-belt, which had tangled in its plastic slatted back. She tugged it free, at last, shouting at his disappearing form. ‘Bryan! Come back. Please wait. You don't understand at all. Let me just …' She lurched two steps from her table, bumped – smack! – into a group of men and children, was caught in two steel arms and a whiff of strong Havana; heard her name spat out with clear distaste.