Collected Stories (72 page)

‘It’s harmless, you’re saying.’

Gerald said, ‘And sometimes useful.’ He laughed. ‘Turning dreams into money for all of you, almost literally.’

Gerald imagined it was almost the only way that Harry could grasp what Alexandra was doing.

But it wasn’t true.

*

Harry drove around the old places after leaving Mother. He wanted to buy a notebook and return to write down the thoughts his memories inspired. Maybe he would do it tonight, his last evening alone, using different-coloured markers.

It started to rain. He thought of himself on the street in the rain as a teenager, hanging around outside chip shops and pubs – not bored, that would underestimate what he felt, but unable to spit out or swallow the amount of experience coming at him.

It had been a good day.

Walking along a row of shops he remembered from forty years ago, he recalled a remark of some philosopher that he had never let go. The gist of it was: happiness is wanting one thing. The thing was love, if that was not too pallid a word. Passion, or wanting someone, might be better. In the end, all that would remain of one’s years would be the quality of one’s link with others, of how far one had gone with them.

Harry turned the car and headed away from his childhood. He had to go to the supermarket. He would buy flowers, cakes, champagne and whatever attracted his attention. He would attempt to tidy the house; he would work in the garden, clearing the leaves. He would do the thing he dreaded: sit down alone and think.

The next morning, he would pick up Alexandra at the airport, and if the weather was good they would eat and talk in the garden. She would be healthy, tanned and full of ideas.

He had to phone Heather to check whether she was all right. It occurred to him to write to her. If he knew little of her day-to-day life, she knew practically nothing of him, his past and what he did most of the time. Parents wanted to know everything of their children, but withheld themselves.

He thought of Father under the earth, and of Mother watching television; he thought of Alexandra and his children. He was happy.

For days he had been fearful of this night but wanted to believe he was ready.

However, when he arrived at the party, bearing a bottle of champagne, he started to feel afraid that people would notice, that they would be able to tell right away what had happened to him, and how he had changed. He wondered whether his friends would think badly of him. He considered who would be hostile, who envious and who sympathetic.

His friends were modernising the house. The floorboards were still bare and some walls unpainted. Wires hung from their sockets; tinsel hung from the wires. The hostess hurried past, wearing antlers. The host, bearing a tray of mince pies, either didn’t recognise Brett or took him for granted.

Brett sidled in, shocked that his paranoia hadn’t diminished with age, even as his reasonable side told him how unlikely it was that anyone would be in any state to take a close interest in him.

‘Brett, Brett!’ someone shouted.

‘Hallo there!’ he replied. ‘Whoever you are!’

He had deliberately left it late; the room was crowded. He knew most of the revellers, who were of his age. Now he was able to think about it, he had known some of them for more than twenty years.

He kissed and greeted those near by and went into the kitchen. These were well-off people; they would give a good party. The trestle table was bent with the weight of bottles, cans and food. He added the champagne to the load and looked around.

He wasn’t about to drink lemonade. Someone put a glass of wine in his hand. It was a good idea, the perfect cover.

Recently he had been going to the theatre and cinema, and had stayed to the end; he had read at least three books all the way through. This was the first party he’d been to since the incident by the river, as he called it. He had made up his mind to stay a while. There were things it would do him good to look straight at.

He returned to the living room. To his relief, a sombre male friend joined him and began to talk. From where Brett sat, occasionally asking a question, he could observe the other people.

He watched a man trying to zip up his top. The zip stuck; it wouldn’t budge. The man pulled it apart and began again. He couldn’t get the serrated edges together, and when they did click, they wouldn’t move. This went on for some time. Finally the man took the thing off, joined the parts together on his lap and tried to pull it over his head, where it lodged. Others joined in then, tugging the garment and the man in different directions.

Brett was distracted from this by a wet-eyed acquaintance who was dribbling already; his head was bent. Walking like an old man, he looked as though he might collapse. Another friend pulled Brett up, stood close to him, and shouted in first one ear and then the other. When it was obvious that Brett didn’t understand, the friend brought a companion over and together they yelled at Brett, or, it seemed, yelled into him, laughing at one another.

Brett was nodding his head. ‘I see, I see now.’

‘That’s it!’ said the first friend. ‘Brett is with us! Hello, Brett!’

Brett didn’t know why they had to stand so near, or why they kept plucking at him. The only thing to do was to have a drink. That was the key to things here; then he would understand. But he couldn’t have a drink.

Luckily, Francine fell into the sofa on the other side of him.

‘There you are, Brett darling. Thank God you’re here. Some of these bloody people are boring fuckers!’

‘Are they?’

‘You know they are!’

She had made the effort: her lips were bright, her black clothes expensive, her hair colouring and cut the best. She wore high-heeled black suede boots. He noticed, though, when talking to her, that her eyes kept closing, even as she told a story about getting stuck in a lift with her boss. During this narcoleptic monologue, she spilled her drink over him.

He stood up.

‘Oh God, God, God! So sorry!’ she said. ‘I’ve made you wet.’ She was pulling at his wrist. ‘Sit down!’ She wiped his leg with her hand; she dried her hand on the sofa. ‘Don’t look so grumpy. You did the same to me once. Except it went over my breasts.’

He looked at her breasts.

‘I didn’t.’

‘You won’t remember. You don’t remember anything, remember?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t think I do.’

If he’d forgotten, it wasn’t only that dissipation had wiped his memory: he hadn’t properly been there in the first place.

‘You are out of your mind.’ Francine shifted closer to him and stroked his hair. ‘Your face is smooth. You’ve shaved, for a change. But you really are gone, this time.’

‘Perhaps I am,’ he said, and chuckled. ‘Please tell me what you’re talking about.’

‘First, you can give me some of that. Brett, you owe me.’

Her hands were in his crotch, searching for his pockets.

She said, ‘Your face is white, dear! I’ve never seen you so tense or wide-eyed. Is it that pure stuff people are talking about? You shouldn’t be taking it, with your blood pressure. Give it to me and get to the rehab!’

‘Is there really something wrong with me, Francine? Tell me if you think there is.’

‘What’s right with you? You haven’t laughed at anything I’ve said.’

‘You haven’t said anything funny.’

‘Don’t be a fool, Brett.’

‘Stop that fiddling!’ he said. ‘There’s absolutely nothing for you in my pocket.’

It didn’t discourage her.

‘You banged your head when you fell in the river. That’s what did you in. Isn’t that right?’ She was laughing with her mouth open. ‘What were you doing down there, by the river?’

People loved this story; they rang to ask about it, and it was repeated around town. He couldn’t deny her.

He said, ‘I got Carol to stop the cab after that party because I needed a pee and didn’t want people to see me.’

‘Is that why you climbed over the wall and slipped?’

‘With my cock out, actually, all the way down the ramp. Right into the cold river, I feared. But into the cold mud, luckily.’

‘Didn’t Rowena and Carol haul you out?’

‘Haul me out?’ he said. ‘They were tottering around hysterically at the top. I could hear them screeching like a zoo. I was told Rowena rang her agent who was having dinner at Gaga and asked him what to do.’

‘What did the agent say? I told her to get rid of that fish. I can fix her up with Morton. He did that deal for Ronnie. Maybe I should arrange –’

Brett said, ‘If you really want to know about it, the taxi driver pulled me out. Otherwise, I would have gone down for good, and that, as they say, would have been that. He had blankets in the boot which he wrapped me in. He took me home. I guess I messed up his car. D’you think it’s too late to call him and apologise?’

‘Where did Carol and Rowena go afterwards?’

‘Don’t know.’

The taxi driver had been tall and dark-skinned, a North African of some sort, wearing worn-out shoes. At home, Brett invited him in and made tea. The man sat there with Brett’s mud on him and said he was a law student with two children. He studied half the time and drove the rest; sometimes he slept; occasionally he played with his children.

Brett offered him dry clothes. When the man refused, Brett tried to give him money for his dry-cleaning bill. At this, the man raised his hands in protest.

‘What’s wrong?’ Brett had asked.

‘You don’t understand!’

‘Please tell me –’

‘Anyone would have done this thing!’

‘Yes, of course!’ said Brett. The man seemed relieved. ‘I see, I do see,’ said Brett.

He shook the man’s hand.

Drinking tea only, Brett had thought about this for the rest of the night and went over it again the next day.

Probably the man was religious. But you didn’t need religion to save someone. It had not been a sentimental gesture but what you did when someone fell.

Now Brett watched people shouting at one another. They would laugh inexplicably, their mouths almost touching. No one was listening, but what was there to hear? People’s words were not in any recognisable order and their gestures were unrelated to anything they said. A couple dancing looked as though they were wrestling.

Brett kissed Francine’s cheek. ‘It’s time I made a move.’

‘Already? That’s the best suggestion I’ve heard in minutes.’

They went out into the hall, where she started talking to someone. She and the other person went into the bathroom and Brett left the house.

Outside, he lit a cigarette and looked for his car keys. It was frosty and still. From the house opposite, he could hear voices singing, and a piano.

He had reached the gate when she caught up with him, one arm in her coat.

‘You tried to sneak off without me. Would I leave you here alone? Have I ever done that to you? Here are the keys I took from your pocket.’

He helped her on with the coat and said, ‘You live way across town.’

‘We’re going on to Gaga! Please, just for a bit. Then you can take me home.’

‘I don’t want to go to Gaga, but I’ll drop you off there.’

‘How will I get home?’

‘How have you got home every night for the last fifteen years?’

‘What nonsense you talk, Brett. Come on, you’ve got to sober up for the drive.’

In the car, she was smoking. Her skirt was up.

‘You behave so badly, Brett. But somehow I always forgive you.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Jesus. Have you seen what’s going on tonight?’

He drove slowly. The high street was more than busy. Crowds gathered outside bars and clubs. People ran into the road; they shouted and a man threw a punch; there were ambulances and police cars about. He slowed to a stop and waved at the cars behind him. Someone was lying face-down in the road. Others were trying to pull the person to the pavement but couldn’t decide which side of the road was best.

He said, ‘What you just said sounded strange but intriguing. What do I have to be forgiven for?’

‘Brett, where is the light in this wretched car?’

She had managed to empty her bag on to the floor and was bent double, trying to reclaim her credit cards, cocaine, numerous pills and keys.

He thought he was bleeding. He reached up and realised it was snowing on his head. Slush ran down the back of his neck. Looking for the light, she had released the sun roof. He left it open.

She was saying, ‘Forget all that. Brett, the thing is, I think we both need to go away. It’s that time of the year. How about Rio?’

‘Now?’

‘Tomorrow morning.’

‘It’s too far.’

‘Paris? It’s only up the road now.’

‘What would we do?’

‘Eat, drink, go out.’

‘I don’t want to do that any more.’

‘What else is there?’

He said, ‘Where am I going to park?’

She had already opened the car door and was heading towards the members’ club, plumping her hair and squirting perfume at her throat.

‘See you inside!’ she called.

They knew him at Gaga. At the end of the night, they often called cabs for him and lent him money to pay for them.