An Exquisite Sense of What Is Beautiful (24 page)

His second novel, the proof he was no flash in the pan, was about the homeless and rootless. Not just the beggars in the streets, the vagrants sleeping under bridges along the embankment, but the broader political issues. The slum landlords, the housing shortages in central London, Tory policies that created a climate of
profiteering
in an unrestrained property market, the exploitation of the working class. Where he had got the inspiration from, he wasn’t exactly sure. Perhaps now that he was no longer homeless and
rootless
himself, he felt he could start to tackle such topics. But his book was not preaching from the pulpit, a rant against social injustice. Instead, he was focused on the plight of just one man, Dominic Pike, a schoolteacher, happily married, living in a three-storey
terraced
house in North Kensington. Dominic Pike, who fell through the cracks. Who lost his job, his savings, his wife, his home, his friends, in that order. Until he was picked up off the streets by a bunch of well-meaning volunteers steeped in good Christian values who ran a hostel for the single homeless. And where was this
hostel
? In North Kensington. In fact, it was a conversion of Dominic Pike’s former home. There was the front door he had painted, the boiler he had clad, the cracks he had plastered over, a set of shelves he had put up for his ex-wife. Mr Pike was now homeless living in his own home. Edward finished and delivered a polished draft to Aldous in just under a year.

But while he was satisfied with his writing accomplishment, he had failed to find similar success in dispatching his sperm to fertilise Macy’s welcoming eggs. After months of vain attempts, the sheer quantity of sexual intercourse had given way to a more considered, quality approach. No more recreational sex, just strictly organised copulation. It was now a question of optimum times,
menstruation
cycles, body temperatures and preferred directions of flow. Masturbation was strictly out of the question. There was pressure, stress
and even the apportioning of blame. He now wanted a child more than anything. He wanted a child because Macy wanted a child, he wanted a child because he wanted a child for himself, for his dead parents, for his marriage, for the void left by his finished novel. He no longer said ‘we are trying to get pregnant’ because the emphasis had changed from ‘trying’ to ‘pregnant’. One year before, ‘trying’ had meant ‘playing’ and ‘pleasure’ and ‘constant sex’. Now it meant a legs-up-in-the-air disaster.

‘I am a failure,’ he confided to Aldous. ‘To fertilise an egg with my sperm is a simple, natural, male function yet it is the one thing over which I have no quality control. I can fail my exams because I didn’t study enough. Or I can fail to lift that weight because I didn’t train enough. But I fail to impregnate Macy because…?’

Aldous was standing at his easel by the window, still dressed in his blue-silk robe and pyjamas at two in the afternoon. His paintbrush was poised between palette and canvas as he observed the carefully prepared tableau. Two solid silver goblets, a decanter half-filled with port, a linen napkin threaded through a gold ring. A simple
arrangement
had it not been for the brace of dead pheasant. Not real
pheasant
, but stuffed imitations acquired from a friend of Aldous’ who worked in the stock department of some film company.

‘I am dying, Eddie.’

‘What?’

‘I am dying. I have cancer.’

‘Christ, Aldous. What are you telling me?’

‘I am telling you I am on the way out. End of story.
Finito
. No cure.’

‘It can’t be.’

‘Don’t worry. Your reaction is normal. Disbelief, denial, as you try to absorb the information. I would try and make it easier for you but I do not know how. I have entered the land of the dying. You may come and visit me from time to time, that’s all you can do.’

A few moments of silence. Then the rattling of a bus as it
throttled
past the window. The port rippled in the decanter.

‘Oh, Aldous,’ he said as he walked over to his friend. He attempted an embrace but the intrusion of the palette and brush
made his action awkward. Instead, he gently patted Aldous between the shoulderblades, his hand moving upwards on the third tap to touch the back of his friend’s neck, the skin cold. He noticed the weak sunshine outside the window, St Paul’s in the distance, some dried-up geraniums in the flower box. Suddenly all these details very important.

‘Thank you, Eddie. But please, just sit down. It is better that way.’

‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ He took a chair from against the wall, brought it up close to the easel, away from the light. Cleared his throat.

‘Why do you paint this stuff anyway? These inanimate objects. It doesn’t seem to be your style.’

‘Because it is not my style is precisely why I do it. It is important to notice the details normally overlooked. The light on the glass, the precise coloration of the wine, the pattern of the feathers, the reflection on the silverware.’

‘But you could do that with landscapes. With portraits.’

‘Still life isn’t about people.’

Aldous’ cat Macavity slipped into the room, padded listlessly over to purr at the feet of his master. The poor creature should have provided a welcome distraction but at sixteen years old Macavity was at death’s door himself. Aldous bent down, scratched the
animal
’s
neck with the point of his brush.

‘What do the doctors say?’

‘Kidneys. I was pissing blood. That’s what alerted me. If it stays where it is, I’ve probably got two years, tops. If it starts wandering, it could be a few months.’

‘Is there pain?’

‘Nothing that can’t be controlled. Later, I’ll just go into a
morphine
haze.’

‘Christ, you’re only fifty. It’s so unfair.’

‘Fifty-four. But I wouldn’t say it’s unfair. My health has never been too good. That’s what kept me out of the war. I could have been blown to bits on a Normandy beach. Now that would have been unfair.’

Edward watched Aldous dabbing his brush on the canvas. He could see the thinness of the man, the bony wrists and ankles, the chest hollow in the ‘V’ of his robe, the pallid colour of his skin, the hair lank. But the blue eyes still shone. How long would it be before they sank back into their sockets, became lustreless? He loved this man. Not in the way that might be desired of him, but he loved him nevertheless.

‘How am I going to tell Macy? She’ll be devastated. She really loves you, you know.’

‘I’ve told Macy already.’

‘What?’

‘I’d originally thought of getting her to tell you instead of me.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because I’m a coward. And I wanted to avoid this little scene.’

‘There is no little scene.’

‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ Aldous shouted as he threw the paintbrush across the room. Even Macavity stirred at the outburst. ‘I don’t want this. All this polite tiptoeing around. I’ve got cancer. And I don’t want one patronising word out of you, do you hear that? I will be dead soon. Fact. Just no pity, please.’

‘Whatever you want.’

‘You see. There’s been a little scene.’

‘No, there hasn’t.’

‘Yes, there has. There are tears running down your cheeks.’

Edward left soon after so that Aldous could lie down. He
imagined
this was how it would be from now on. Little bursts of energy, periods of brightness, windows of hope, of thinking that
somehow
the illness would be manageable, that it would be stable, that this was as bad as it would get. And then these disappearances to lie down, to suffer, to recover. These periods of absence growing longer and longer, until being with Aldous would be just one long period of absence. London didn’t help his mood either with its cold wind spiking the drizzle against his cheeks, spraying it down his neck between his collar. He walked down to Oxford Street and waited half an hour for a bus, toes and fingers freezing in the
bitterness
, London Transport living up to its reputation by finally sending
down two Number 78s at once. He let the crowded first one go by, hopped on the second, went upstairs for a cigarette. The greasy, vinegary smell of fish and chips amid the steaming coats and open newspapers cheering him up slightly, although he wasn’t sure why. Life going on as usual, he supposed. He closed his eyes and mentally triggered himself to wake up before his stop.

Macy was beaming when she answered the door, her cheeks all flushed, her arms in a fling around his wet neck.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she shrieked. ‘We’re pregnant. You’re pregnant. I’ve just come from the doctor. We’re going to have a baby.’

He wanted to dance but his feet felt glued to the steps. He wanted to exclaim his happiness but his heart was heavy. And then he
realised
that what he really wanted to do was laugh. Not with an irony. But with joy. Sheer joy. Birth, death, birth, death, birth. The cycle of life. And for a moment, he saw himself back in a Japanese garden, the waterwheel dipping in and out of the dark water with just the merest flashes of gold from the carp swimming below the surface.

‘You don’t seem too happy.’

‘It’s all right.’

‘He told you, didn’t he?’

‘Yes.’

She let out a little yelp like a trodden-on puppy. ‘He was going to let me do it.’

‘I know.’

Eight o’clock in the morning a few Sundays later, while Edward lay in bed recovering from a hangover, the phone rang. It was Aldous.

‘I would like you to take me to a football match,’ he demanded.

‘Is that why you called at this ungodly hour?’

‘This is not an ungodly hour. In fact, it is very much a godly hour when all good Christians should be up and about in
preparation
for the worship of their Maker.’

‘You are not a good Christian, Aldous.’

‘Nevertheless I would like to go to one of these football matches.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never been to a game in your life. Why start now? You’d hate it.’

‘I believe this country will soon be hosting something called the World Trophy. I would like to be more informed.’

‘It’s called the World Cup.’

‘World Cup it is then.’

‘Well, at least let’s wait until spring is here. This is the coldest winter I can remember. I have a headache. I’m going back to sleep.’

‘Eddie.’ The voice weak but the tone firm. ‘I have no time to wait.’

‘All right, all right. I’ll take you to see Chelsea. They might be playing at home next week.’

‘And where is home?’

‘The ground’s not far from here.’

‘That sounds excellent. Now, tell me, does this ground have seats? Or do we have to stand in those terraced places?’

‘I’ll try to get tickets for the stands.’

‘You’re not listening. I don’t want to stand. I will need to sit.’

‘Just leave it to me, Aldous. I will organise the tickets.’

Chelsea were playing at home the following Saturday. Against Leicester City. Aldous turned up swamped in a fur coat with
matching
hat, clutching a thermos.

‘I laced the tea with whisky and honey,’ he said.

‘Very thoughtful. Now you’re going to have to let me buy you a scarf. The fans will skin you alive dressed like that.’

‘I will do whatever I am told to blend in with the masses.
Anyway
, that Chelsea blue goes well with my eyes, don’t you think? Onwards and upwards, my dear boy. Onwards and upwards.’

Edward took his friend’s arm, feeling how thin it was even through the thick coat, helped him up the steep steps, guided him through the throngs of beery, pork pie-chomping supporters inside the stadium until he found the entrance up into the stands. Then up those last few steps to where the pitch was suddenly visible. And in that precious moment, Edward was glad he had come, glad Aldous had wanted this experience. For what was a life if it had not felt the wonder of entering this gladiatorial arena for the first time?

‘Oh, Eddie, this is so exciting,’ Aldous gasped. ‘And the grass… it is so… so… I don’t know… so exquisitely green.’

They found their places and they settled. It might have been a freezing hard pitch but it was not a hard battle. They spent more time out of their seats than in them, cheering a succession of
Chelsea
goals. And despite the cold and his illness, there were patches of colour on Aldous’ cheeks, a glint of joy in his eyes. But by midway through the second half with Chelsea four–one up, Edward saw the poor man was exhausted, took him back home to Macy who wrapped him up warm in blankets on the sofa in front of a
stoked-up
fire.

‘Look at him,’ she said, bringing in some more cushions. ‘He’s shivering to death.’

‘It was his idea.’

‘I suppose you’d listen to him too if he told you to jump off Westminster Bridge.’

‘I will not have you two arguing on my account,’ Aldous
interjected
. ‘I’m still quite responsible for my actions.’

‘Well, I won’t have you going out again in this weather in your condition.’

Of course, Aldous didn’t listen.

So Edward watched him plough through the next few weeks with all the vigour of a much younger man, with all the
desperation
of a dying man. And he was glad to connive and conspire in all his friend’s adventures. A special time for them both, each moment highlighted by the shadow of death, as they searched out London’s little jewels. The Impressionists at the Courtauld Gallery, the
Reading
Room at the British Museum, the Royal Academy, another Chelsea game – this time against local rivals Fulham, afternoon tea at the Savoy, a shoe-shine in Burlington Arcade, an arm-in-arm stroll down King’s Road, smoked salmon and cream cheese bagels at a kosher deli down Brick Lane.

‘Now what are we going to call this new book of yours?’ Aldous asked as he chewed away on his sandwich. Edward noted that speaking with his mouth full was something his friend never used to do. Impending death, it seemed, had rid Aldous of his manners.

‘I don’t have a title. That was always your advice – if you say you’ve got a title, you’ll never write the book.’