The Patrick Melrose Novels (52 page)

‘Of course not,' said Alexander. ‘But only because he wouldn't enjoy it.'

*   *   *

‘Anne!' said Patrick. ‘I didn't expect to see you here.'

‘I know,' said Anne Eisen, kissing him warmly. ‘It's not my kind of scene. I get nervous in the English countryside with everybody talking about killing animals.'

‘I'm sure there isn't any of that sort of thing in Sonny's part of the world,' said Patrick.

‘You mean, there isn't anything alive for miles around,' said Anne. ‘I'm here because Sonny's father was a
relatively
civilized man – he noticed that there was a library in the house as well as a boot room and a cellar. He was a sort of friend of Victor's, and used to ask us to stay for weekends sometimes. Sonny was just a kid in those days but even then he was a pompous creep. Jesus,' sighed Anne, surveying the room, ‘what a grim bunch. Do you think they keep them in the deep freeze at Central Casting and thaw them out for big occasions?'

‘If only,' said Patrick. ‘Unfortunately I think they own most of the country.'

‘They've only just got the edge on an ant colony,' said Anne, ‘except that they don't do anything useful. You remember those ants in Lacoste, they were always tidying up the terrace for you. Talking of doing something useful, what are you planning to do with your life?'

‘Hmm,' said Patrick.

‘Jesus Christ!' said Anne. ‘You're guilty of the worst sin of all.'

‘What's that?'

‘Wasting time,' she replied.

‘I know,' said Patrick. ‘It was a terrible shock to me when I realized I was getting too old to die young anymore.'

Exasperated, Anne changed the subject. ‘Are you going to Lacoste this year?' she asked.

‘I don't know. The more time passes the more I dislike that place.'

‘I've always meant to apologize to you,' said Anne, ‘but you used to be too stoned to appreciate it. I've felt guilty for years for not doing anything when you were waiting on the stairs one evening during one of your parents' godawful dinner parties, and I said I'd get your mother for you, but I couldn't, and I should have gone back, or stood up to David, or something. I always felt I'd failed you.'

‘Not at all,' said Patrick. ‘On the contrary, I remember your being kind. When you're young it makes a difference to meet people who are kind, however rarely. You'd imagine they're buried under the routine of horror, but in fact incidents of kindness get thrown into sharp relief.'

‘Have you forgiven your father?' asked Anne.

‘Oddly enough you've caught me on the right evening. A week ago I would have lied or said something dismissive, but I was just describing over dinner exactly what I had to forgive my father.'

‘And?'

‘Well,' said Patrick, ‘over dinner I was rather against forgiveness, and I still think that it's detachment rather than appeasement that will set me free, but if I could imagine a mercy that was purely human, and not one that rested on the Greatest Story Ever Told, I might extend it to my father for being so unhappy. I just can't do it out of piety. I've had enough near-death experiences to last me a lifetime, and not
once
was I greeted by a white-robed figure at the end of a tunnel – or only once and he turned out to be an exhausted junior doctor in the emergency ward of the Charing Cross Hospital. There may be something to this idea that you have to be broken in order to be renewed, but renewal doesn't have to consist of a lot of phoney reconciliations!'

‘What about some genuine ones?' said Anne.

‘What impresses me more than the repulsive superstition that I should turn the other cheek, is the intense unhappiness my father lived with. I ran across a diary his mother wrote during the First World War. After pages of gossip and a long passage about how marvellously they'd managed to keep up the standards at some large country house, defying the Kaiser with the perfection of their cucumber sandwiches, there are two short sentences: “Geoffrey wounded again”, about her husband in the trenches, and “David has rickets”, about her son at his prep school. Presumably he was not just suffering from malnutrition, but being assaulted by paedophiliac schoolmasters and beaten by older boys. This very traditional combination of maternal coldness and official perversion helped to make him the splendid man he turned into, but to forgive someone, one would have to be convinced that they'd made some effort to change the disastrous course that genetics, class, or upbringing proposed for them.'

‘If he'd changed the course he wouldn't need forgiving,' said Anne. ‘That's the whole deal with forgiving. Anyhow, I don't say you're wrong not to forgive him, but you can't stay stuck with this hatred.'

‘There's no point in staying stuck,' Patrick agreed. ‘But there's even less point in pretending to be free. I feel on the verge of a great transformation, which may be as simple as becoming interested in other things.'

‘What?' said Anne. ‘No more father-bashing? No more drugs? No more snobbery?'

‘Steady on,' gasped Patrick. ‘Mind you, this evening I had a brief hallucination that the world was real…'

‘“An hallucination that the world was real” – you oughta be Pope.'

‘Real,' Patrick continued, ‘and not just composed of a series of effects – the orange lights on a wet pavement, a leaf clinging to the windscreen, the sucking sound of a taxi's tyres on a rainy street.'

‘Very wintery effects,' said Anne.

‘Well, it is February,' said Patrick. ‘Anyway, for a moment the world seemed to be solid and out there and made up of things.'

‘That's progress,' said Anne. ‘You used to belong to the the-world-is-a-private-movie school.'

‘You can only give things up once they start to let you down. I gave up drugs when the pleasure and the pain became simultaneous and I might as well have been shooting up a vial of my own tears. As to the naive faith that rich people are more interesting than poor ones, or titled people more interesting than untitled ones, it would be impossible to sustain if people didn't also believe that they became more interesting by association. I can feel the death throes of that particular delusion, especially as I patrol this room full of photo opportunities and feel my mind seizing up with boredom.'

‘That's your own fault.'

‘As to my “father-bashing”,' said Patrick, ignoring Anne's comment, ‘I thought of him this evening without thinking about his influence on me, just as a tired old man who'd fucked up his life, wheezing away his last years in that faded blue shirt he wore in the summer. I pictured him sitting in the courtyard of that horrible house, doing
The Times
' crossword, and he struck me as more pathetic and more
ordinary
, and in the end less worthy of attention.'

‘That's what I feel about my dreadful old mother,' said Anne. ‘During the Depression, which for some of us never ended, she used to collect stray cats and feed them and look after them. The house would be full of cats. I was just a kid, so naturally I'd get to love them, and play with them, but then in the autumn my crazy old mother would start muttering, “They'll never make it through the winter, they'll never make it through the winter.” The only reason they weren't going to make it through the winter was that she'd soak a towel in ether and drop it in the old brass washing machine and pile the cats in afterward, and when they'd “fallen asleep” she'd turn on the washing machine and drown the poor buggers. Our whole garden was a cat cemetery, and you couldn't dig a hole or play a game without little cat skeletons turning up. There was a terrible scratching sound as they tried to get out of the washing machine. I can remember standing by the kitchen table – I was only as high as the kitchen table – while my mother loaded them in and I'd say, “Don't, please don't,” and she'd be muttering, “They'll never make it through the winter.” She was ghastly and quite mad, but when I grew up I figured that her worst punishment was to be herself and I didn't have to do anything more.'

‘No wonder you get nervous in the English countryside when people start talking about killing animals. Perhaps that's all identity is: seeing the logic of your own experience and being true to it. If only Victor was with us now!'

‘Oh, yes, poor Victor,' said Anne. ‘But he was looking for a non-psychological approach to identity,' she reminded Patrick with a wry smile.

‘That always puzzled me,' he admitted. ‘It seemed like insisting on an overland route from England to America.'

‘If you're a philosopher, there is an overland route from England to America,' said Anne.

‘Oh, by the way, did you hear that George Watford had a stroke?'

‘Yeah, I'm sorry to hear that. I remember meeting him at your parents.'

‘It's the end of an era,' said Patrick.

‘It's the end of a party as well,' said Anne. ‘Look, the band is going home.'

*   *   *

When Robin Parker asked Sonny if they could have ‘a private word' in the library, Sonny not only felt that he'd spent his entire birthday party having difficult interviews in that wretched room, but also that, as he'd suspected (and he couldn't help pausing here to congratulate himself on his perspicacity), Robin was going to blackmail him for more money.

‘Well, what is it,' he said gruffly, once again sitting at his library desk.

‘It isn't a Poussin,' said Robin, ‘so I really don't want to authenticate it. Other people, including experts, might think it was, but I
know
it isn't.' Robin sighed. ‘I'd like my letter back and of course I'll return the … fee,' he said, placing two thick envelopes on the table.

‘What are you blathering about?' asked Sonny, confused.

‘I'm not blathering,' said Robin. ‘It's not fair on Poussin, that's all,' he added with unexpected passion.

‘What's Poussin got to do with it?' thundered Sonny.

‘Nothing, that's just what I object to.'

‘I suppose you want more money.'

‘You're wrong,' said Robin. ‘I just want some part of my life not to be compromised.' He held out his hand for the certificate of authentication.

Furious, Sonny took a key out of his pocket and opened the top drawer of his desk, and tossed the letter over to Robin. Robin thanked him and left the room.

‘Tiresome little man,' muttered Sonny. It really wasn't his day. He'd lost his wife, his mistress, and his Poussin. Buck up, old boy, he thought to himself, but he had to admit that he felt decidedly wobbly.

*   *   *

Virginia was sitting on a frail gold chair by the drawing-room door, waiting anxiously for her daughter and granddaughter to come downstairs and start the long drive back to Kent. Kent was ever such a long way, but she completely understood Bridget's wanting to get out of this bad atmosphere, and she'd encouraged her to bring Belinda along. She couldn't hide from herself, although she felt a little guilty about it, that she quite liked being
needed
, and having Bridget close to her again, even if it took a crisis like this one. She'd already got her overcoat and her essentials; it didn't matter about her suitcase, Bridget had said they could send for that later. She didn't want to draw attention to herself: the overcoat was suspicious enough.

The party was thinning out and it was important to leave before there were too few people, or Sonny might start badgering Bridget. Bridget's nerves had never been strong, she'd always been a little frightened as a girl, never wanted to put her head under water, that sort of thing, things only a mother could know. Bridget might be intimidated and lose her resolve if Sonny was there booming at her, but she knew that what her daughter needed, after this Cindy Smith affair, was a good rest and a good think. She'd already asked Bridget if she wanted her old room back – it was a marvel how the human mind worked, as Roddy had been fond of remarking – but it had only seemed to annoy Bridget, who'd said, ‘Honestly, Mummy, I don't know, we'll think about that later.' On reflection, it was probably better to give that room to Belinda, and put Bridget in the nice spare room with the bathroom en suite. There was plenty of room now that she was alone.

Sometimes a crisis was good for a marriage, not all the time of course, or it wouldn't really be a crisis. There'd been that one time with Roddy. She hadn't said anything, but Roddy had known she knew, and she'd known he knew she knew, and that had been enough to end it. He'd bought her that ring and said it was their second engagement ring. He was such an old softie, really. Oh dear, there was a man bearing down on her. She had no idea who he was but he was obviously going to talk to her. That was the last thing she needed.

Jacques d'Alantour was too tormented to go to sleep and, although Jacqueline had warned him that he'd had enough to drink, too melancholy to resist another glass of champagne.

Charm was his speciality, everyone knew that, but since ‘
l'affaire Alantour
', as he now called it, he had entered a diplomatic labyrinth which seemed to require more charm and tact than it was reasonable to ask of a single human being. Virginia, who was, after all, his hostess's mother, played a relatively clear role in the campaign he was launching to regain Princess Margaret's favour.

‘Good evening, dear lady,' he said with a deep bow.

Foreign manners, thought Virginia. What Roddy used to call ‘a hand-kissing sell-your-own-mother type'.

‘Am I right in assuming that you are the mother of our charming hostess?'

‘Yes,' said Virginia.

‘I am Jacques d'Alantour.'

‘Oh, hello,' said Virginia.

‘May I get you a glass of champagne?' asked the ambassador.