Observatory Mansions (24 page)

Observatory Mansions
.

My mother, on the fourth floor, walked into the empty flat twenty-three. Mother: This, the smallest flat in the building, was once the home of Lord Aloysius Pearson. Lord Pearson lived alone. He was once the owner of a castle which was so large and so full of treasures that in the month of August he
opened it to the public and, for a fee, toured his visitors around. The castle was, however, in a bad state of disrepair, and to make things worse, a cedar tree had collapsed on its roof during a thunder storm causing considerable damage. Lord Pearson could not afford to personally finance the restoration of his home. He had just one option: to hand it over with all its treasures to a trust. This trust would repair the castle and keep it open to the public all the year round. The trust stated:

a. That it would not be possible for Lord Pearson to remain in the castle.

b. That it would not be possible for Lord Pearson to show visitors around the castle. (See note below)

Note: The trust has a team of specialists in history and architecture,
professionally
trained to entertain the public.

Lord Pearson left his castle assured that it would be repaired and that it would keep for ever all his family’s treasures. He came to the city and bought, with the majority of what money he had left, flat twenty-three of Observatory Mansions. This building, he said, had such a feel for history, and besides, he said, the flat (formerly servants’ rooms) was so reasonably priced. Here he lived and here he died. Before he died he would often invite the other residents into his flat and show them around it as if it were a stately home. He would say – This is the drawing room where Lord Pearson sat and watched television. This is the bathroom and in this plastic bath Lord Pearson washed himself with lemon-smelling soap. This is the kitchen and at this table Lord Pearson sat and sipped his consommé soups. And so on. Lord Pearson died by taking an overdose of sleeping tablets. His money had run out. He had no idea how he could possibly earn any more. On his body which was smartly dressed in a tweed suit was a note that said:

This is Lord Pearson.
A stately relic dating back to the beginning of
the century.
Please bury in the family vaults.

Tearsham Park
.

Father stood in abandoned flat twelve. Father: This is my mother’s room. My mother is lying in her bed. All around the room are her collection of porcelain dolls, staring at me. It is day. My mother no longer gets out of her bed any more. My mother tells me to remember to keep the Orme family alive. She tells me to study the
History of the Ormes
so that I may be able to pass it on to my children. Then she starts crying. She tells me that she is being persecuted by my wife. She tells me that my wife is deliberately changing the positions of all the objects in Tearsham Park. Mother tells me that Alice has been moving objets about to undermine her authority. Mother complains that when she can’t find these missing objects Alice points to the objects which have been deliberately repositioned and tells her that as far as she was aware they had always been kept there. Mother tells me that this has happened so often that the servants have begun laughing behind her back. When she asked for the whereabouts of a missing object last time, Alice asked her, in front of servants, if she was feeling well and wondered if she wouldn’t be better off in bed.

Mother says to me, Sit with me, Francis, my darling boy. I say, I can’t, I told Alice that I would go for a walk with her. The next day my mother tells me that Alice has turned all the servants against her. I tell Mother that she is being cruel to Alice and that I will bring Alice up to the bedroom later, so that Mother can apologize to her. Mother orders me out and tells me never to come back. During the night she dies in her sleep. We bury her. I move all her porcelain dolls to the attic
storerooms. My wife said: I can’t stand those dolls glaring at me. Take them away, Francis, before I smash them.

Observatory Mansions
.

Mother, inside flat nineteen: It is the evening before the lift fails. Alec Magnitt is sitting at his desk pressing the buttons of his calculator. He hears a voice outside on the landing. He approaches his front door and puts his ear to the keyhole. He hears the Porter talking to Claire Higg, knocking on her flat door.

Can I come in?

No.

Please will you come for a walk with me?

No, I don’t want to.

I want to kiss you. I love you.

Leave me alone.

Open up, I want to kiss you.

Go away!

The Porter leaves the door of flat sixteen and kicks the landing skirting board leaving a dent which you see here. Then he walks away cursing. I know all this because I was in flat sixteen with Claire Higg. We heard Alec Magnitt walk out of his flat and up to the door of flat sixteen. Inside the flat Claire looked excited. Then we heard the footsteps walk away and the door of flat nineteen close. Claire looked disappointed. That night Alec Magnitt wrote, on the back of a passport photograph of himself, a confession of love.

Tearsham Park
.

My father stood in Mother’s bedroom in flat six. Father: Finally! Yes, this is right, this is my wife’s room! The same walls decorated with the same red flock paper. Perhaps it’s a
little more cluttered than before, but it
is
her room. Look there, I recognize that night lamp, it belonged to Francis.

Add a cot now. Put it here, by the night light. In that cot sleeps a baby. The baby is male. He is called Francis. All the first-born sons of the Orme family are named Francis. He is very small and very white. This is our baby. This is the baby that Alice and I made together.

The portraits are smiling.

Observatory Mansions
.

Mother: I am in the entrance hall. It is evening. Alec Magnitt is coming back home from work. He gets into the lift and is carried to the third floor. Now Claire Higg comes into the entrance hall. She has been following Alec Magnitt. She walks up the stairs to the third floor. Here comes a third person. It is the Porter. The Porter has been following Claire Higg following Alec Magnitt. His face is red. He is jealous. He descends the stairs to his basement flat. Here comes the fourth and final person. It is I, Alice Orme. I have been following the Porter following Claire Higg following Alec Magnitt. I realize the Porter has grown attached to my friend Miss Higg. There is something dangerous about him. He never showed interest in her until he discovered that Alec Magnitt loved her. Perhaps he is one of those people who can only love people who are already loved. Perhaps only then does he feel a person is worth loving. Perhaps he needs to see a person being loved in order to imagine what love is like. Then, when he sees it, he wants to steal it.

Claire follows Alec, the Porter follows Claire, I follow the Porter. It is not an unusual occurrence. It happens a few times each week. The only person completely unaware of it is Alec Magnitt.

It is strange that after Magnitt’s death, the Porter no longer pays any attention to Claire. He immediately loses interest, as
if without Alec being there he can no longer see what it was that made Claire lovable.

Tearsham Park
.

Father, in flat fourteen: I know that this room is the nursery, even if someone has taken the nursery tables and chairs away to fool me. And there used to be tiles the colour of bluebottle flies on the floor and halfway up the walls. In this bit of wall here, I’m sure it was here, I scratched my name. Look! Plaster! They’ve covered it up, but I was here! This
is
the nursery! I sat just there with my microscope. But that was long ago, now, years later, I see our child sleeping in the nursery bed. The doctor has just left, one of many doctors who we have called for these last months. Our child is five years old. He is not well. He is diseased. His head has begun to swell and he is very pale. He complains of headaches. He is sleeping now and as I look down at his pale, thin body I begin to cry. The head on that body is too large. It is out of proportion. The cheeks are very swollen. The flesh of his face looks so tight that I imagine it to be on the point of ripping.

Observatory Mansions
.

Mother, in flat eight, where her bachelor lived: I am in the bedroom. I am not alone. I am smiling.

Tearsham Park
.

Father, in flat fourteen: My son’s illness has progressed. While his head has expanded his body has become thinner. I notice he smiles a great deal. He is smiling now. Wrinkles have developed around his eyes. My son is holding one arm of his teddy bear. He has ripped off the mouth, the smile from the teddy bear’s face. My son does not want to smile. I think
it is the disease affecting his face that has stretched his skin into a smile. My son has very fine, fair hair. It is parted. It is so fine that you can almost see his skull through it. I am looking at my son and I am thinking that my five-year-old son looks like an old man.

Observatory Mansions
.

Mother, still in flat eight: I am in the bedroom. I am not alone. I am smiling.

Tearsham Park
.

Father, in Mother’s bedroom, in flat six: My wife is in bed. She spends most of her days in bed now. She has not been in to see our son for a long time. I am wearing my pyjamas. It is night. I get into bed with my wife. I say to her: Alice, I’ve been sitting with the portraits. Alice, we need another Francis Orme. I don’t think this one will last.

Observatory Mansions
.

Mother, up in flat eight: I am in the bedroom. I am not alone. I am smiling. I am in love with a bachelor. I have never been so happy.

Tearsham Park
.

Father, in Mother’s bedroom in flat six: In the cot that should stand here sleeps our second child. He is another boy. He is called Thomas. Alice looks after him very carefully and cups her hands around his head every hour to check if it is swelling. She is sighing with relief. My other son, who is usually kept in the nursery by his ailment, cannot stop smiling now. His eyes, though, I notice show no happiness. He has seen the
baby. He studies the child carefully, as he looks at the baby’s face he strokes his own cheeks. My wife will not allow our eldest son to touch the baby. She pushes him away when he comes near. There he is now with his back to us, walking up the stairs that lead to the nursery. He is six years old but looks sixty.

There are two doctors around my son’s bed. My son is wailing and holding his head. I ask the doctors: Can’t you do something? He’s hurting. Now I scream: Do something! The doctors say nothing else can be done. They have given the boy morphine. My son is feverishly scratching his head.
DO SOMETHING!

Observatory Mansions
.

Mother in flat twelve: I have just given the two sisters a present. I gave Eva and Christa a record player. This is the last present I will ever give. Today I have learnt that the only unoccupied flat, flat eight, has been bought by a very handsome bachelor. The bachelor, whose name is Dominic, smiled at me when he came to look around the flat. There was something in that smile. He asked me my name and if I was married. I said my name is Alice and I am a widow. The sisters unwrap the record player and put on a record. They have already said: Thank you very much, Alice, you are very kind. All these presents you have given us! We listen to a famous love song, and as we do I think of the bachelor.

Tearsham Park
.

My father walked out of flat fourteen, his feet remembering differently carpeted stairs. His hands were stretched out as if he were carrying an object. In that moment I could almost see Father when he was younger, almost see his hair darker and fuller, his spine straight.

Father: This is Francis Orme eldest son of Francis Orme. I wish he weighed more. I feel as if I am carrying nothing. He looks like a little old man. He stopped breathing. His big head doesn’t work any more. This is my son. This was my son. My son is dead and I feel sick.

Mosquito bites and lip cream
.

Just because my parents had chosen to run around Observatory Mansions and wade forwards and backwards through their histories was not reason enough to drop our own lives. I continued, with the few hours of the day that I could leave my parents to the care of Miss Tap, to stand atop my plinth in the city’s centre or to wander down the alleyway of my exhibition. And Miss Tap was relieved by me as often as she required it, so that she might visit the wooden altarpiece of Tearsham Church and pray to Saint Lucy to save her fading sight. Once, when I returned from my plinth I found Anna Tap alone sitting at the kitchen table in flat six (Father was down in flat four in what used to be part of the old library; my mother was taking a nap in her bedroom). Anna, I am not mistaken in this, was wearing a pair of white gloves and when I walked in she quickly hid her hands. I only saw them for a second but she was nevertheless wearing white cotton gloves. Gloves not taken out of my glove diary boxes, gloves still unaccounted for after the terrible Gloves Armageddon Experience.

We had entered the summer months now and summer is a time that I loathe. The heat makes my hands sweat, but far worse than that, summer is the time of the year most frequented by mosquitoes.

I was terrorized by mosquitoes; they rushed into flat six during the day and lined themselves upon the ceiling of my bedroom, during the night they swooped down and bit me.
The mosquitoes bit me on the legs, on the arms and on the face. Mosquito bites are dangerous things. The little bits of my skin that swelled up into small red mounds itched. And when I itch in this way I want to scratch myself desperately. I want nothing more in the world than to scratch. But I cannot scratch. Scratching is the enemy of gloves. Bothered and broken mosquito bites after scratching leave a stain on the tips of cotton fingers. I cannot scratch with my hands. So, during summer months, I wandered miserably around the world of Observatory Mansions rubbing my arms against window ledges or my legs against the sides of doors. And I was altogether miserable. When I stood on my plinth and closed my eyes I could sometimes achieve outer stillness but never the inner stillness that the job required, for all I could think about was the itching of a thousand mosquito bites.