Recovery and the Return of Ethan Hart (25 page)

7

As she would tell me more than once in future years, and had told me more than once in past years too, I arrived early on the morning of Easter Sunday…“and thereby did me out of my lovely chocolate egg, you devil.”

“Why?”

“Because you made me feel so ill. I got a thrombosis on account of you!”

(“How to pave the way for chronic guilt,” was what I felt like saying. But at the age of three—or, equally, thirteen—I had to express my sentiments with care, even when merely teasing.)

Expressing my sentiments with care wasn't easy. There were endless pitfalls. “What a precocious little fellow you are!” my father once observed, fondly. “Don't tell me we've a genius on our hands, I don't think I could stand it!” Pitfalls and temptation, especially when I started school…I had a strong propensity to show off.

Yet it was easier to handle in the playpen. For instance when I heard my mother tell a friend about Errol Flynn's sex appeal in
Mutiny on the Bounty
I may have practically ached to correct her, but I knew it wasn't possible.

And when on that same afternoon I listened to their optimistic reference to the Munich Pact I wouldn't even have wanted to reveal the truth.

I remembered peace for our time, naturally. I remembered such dates as September 3
^rd
1939 and May 8
^th
1945. I remembered Hiroshima and Nagasaki. In fact I remembered all the major events of the next half century about as clearly as most people would, except in the rare cases when a warning could have been instrumental in averting catastrophe. Hence although I knew that Mahatma Gandhi and Dag Hammarskjöld and John Kennedy and Martin Luther King and President Sadat were all going to be assassinated, and even in what order, I had no idea of the dates or the places. On my fortieth birthday, fifteen years before, I had read that on the previous day two Boeings had collided on the ground at Santa Cruz airport in Tenerife, killing over five hundred passengers, which was one of the few disasters I could normally have dated with exactitude; but now I should have to wait another forty years to read of it again. I knew about the enforced mass suicide of an American religious cult in which nearly a thousand people poisoned themselves or were shot, yet I'd forgotten it happened in Guyana in '78 and that the leader of the sect was called Jim Jones. I'd forgotten such unnecessary happenings as the Aberfan slagheap tragedy and the My Lai massacre and the destruction of a Korean Airlines plane in Russian air space; such things as Chernobyl and the Exxon Valdez spill, the Alpha Piper oil rig and the Zeebrugge ferry disaster.

I'd forgotten, even roughly, such recent dates as that of the explosion above Lockerbie or those on which the two Sicilian magistrates, Falconi and Borsellino, were blown up by the Mafia. I'd forgotten the name of the Yorkshire Ripper. And so on. And so on. I should never be allowed to change the course of history.

I didn't even know any longer that Timothy Evans had been hanged for a murder he didn't commit, or the year in which Marilyn Monroe ended her own life, or the names of the people taken hostage in Beirut. Although I spent countless hours in trying to pinpoint such pieces of information it was always wholly useless.

“But it's inevitable I shall be changing history,” I'd said to Zack, in the flat he had apparently never inhabited. “In small ways. Others will work in those offices I won't return to; on the other hand, the jobs I do take will now be closed to their original holders. And even more than that…I'll be changing it because I won't be marrying the same woman, and this time will father a son who doesn't die. Besides, it's always possible I may have other children.”

“Oh, well,” Zack had conceded, “changing it in small ways, yes.” In fact, to me they didn't seem so small. (I had thought, a little tipsily, I should like to have a large family.) “In time, of course, a descendant of yours could hugely influence the history of the world, but this wouldn't be allowed to happen until…what's the date on Monday? Right, the 30
^th
…that's the one unbreakable restraint. After that, it's up to you.”

“Not merely a restraint,” I'd said. “An impossibility.” For I could hardly imagine becoming a scientist, say, and as a brilliantly creative thirty- or forty-year-old discovering a cure for heart trouble or cancer; or a preventative for AIDS before the disease was even heard of.

(And I didn't yet know, on that warm Saturday evening in Nottingham, in a house overlooking the cemetery, that some forty hours later I myself should be coming into such close contact with AIDS or that I myself should then be stricken down with heart trouble.)

My views on Zack—as must be evident from all of this—had once more undergone a change. Not only had he existed and kept his promise, I had delightful proof he still existed. (Was
still
the proper word?) One afternoon as my mother was pushing my pram through the town—I think she'd paused to look into the window of the Bucks Library, on the corner of Woodside Close—there was suddenly a handsome and familiar face gazing down at me and a finger playfully prodding at my tummy. “Who's such a pretty baby, then?” He was wearing a tweed jacket, shirt and tie, and even a trilby, despite the fact it was a pleasant day in June; and after I'd got over my surprise, though emphatically not my pleasure, I reflected a little dryly—remembering only jeans and T-shirt in March—that possibly there were
some
fashions he liked a good deal less than others.

Though on the whole, I supposed, he was more accustomed to wearing jackets than T-shirts.

“Who's such a pretty baby, then?”

To my mother no amount of admiration could appear way-out, especially if it came from a singularly attractive young man who remembered to ask all the right questions as though he were genuinely interested in hearing the answers. “You obviously like babies,” she said. “Have you any of your own?”

“I'm not married,” Zack replied.

“Do you live in Amersham?”

“No. Just a flying visit.”

“I thought it strange I'd never noticed you.” She then inquired if he were here on business.

“In a manner of speaking.”

“A man of mystery,” she laughed. “But what a shame!”

How forward she was, what an unobservant child I must previously have been.

“And here were you thinking,” he said, “you might have found yourself a babysitter?”

I wanted to ask him how many such come-ons he normally received in the course of any one day; he heard me, naturally, and gave a surreptitious wink.

“You must be very proud of Ethan.”

“There's never been a baby like him! And that's not just a foolish mother speaking, everybody says the same. He's so
happy
. He smiles and gurgles and looks at you all the time as though he really understands what you're telling him. And would you believe it, he never cries! Honestly! He never cries! Well, only
very
occasionally, when his nappy needs changing and he's got no other way of letting you know, poor little scrap. And he slept through right from the day we left the hospital. My friends say he's a miracle.”

“Are you a miracle, poor little scrap?”

“Piss off!” I gave a winning smile and gurgled irresistibly. It should have felt so odd—this reversal of our generations.

“I wonder if babies ever have problems,” Zack asked.

“Not Ethan,” said my mother.

“My greatest problem,” I told him, “is sheer boredom. Obviously I sleep a lot but when I'm awake I don't find sucking my toes incredibly stimulating—even though I still can't get over my ability to do so, and intend to keep it going for as long as I possibly can.”

My mother might be talking but there was something about the tilt of his head which assured me I had his full attention.

“My biggest frustration is that I don't have the strength to climb out of my cot and lay my hands on a good book. My biggest regret is that, apart from the toe-sucking, I don't feel much of a sense of wonder. And also…”

He glanced round at me in encouragement.

“Also, I'm a bundle of neuroses. Fifty-five years' worth of phobias and foibles—which is something, Zack, I truly didn't bargain for!”

I'm not sure how he managed it but it was as if he'd asked me to go into detail.

“Oh, all sorts of little irritations which make my stomach tighten and give me nervous indigestion. And I know this is devoid of sense but being so young doesn't mean I can't be hypochondriacal. My mother never seems to air the washing properly, my woollies often feel quite damp. Apart from that, there's the whole question of noise. Soundtracks from the cinema downstairs, people hacking in the street, dogs barking, the revving up of cars and motorbikes—there may be fewer of them but they take longer to warm up. All that kind of thing. Do you think you can help?”

He nodded, although ostensibly in reply to something my mother had just been telling him. A feeling of great calm possessed me.

“Won't you choose an occasion next time when we could have a proper conversation?”

But he shook his head, with pursed lips. He said, “You know, this is such a quiet and charming sort of place, I wish I could get to Amersham more often. But sadly all the things one has to see to in this life…! Ah, well. No rest for the wicked.”

My mother laughed. “But just in case you should ever grow less wicked, we live in the flat above the cinema. There, you can see it from here. The Regent.”

“Thank you,” he said. He took out a notebook and wrote down the address. “My name's Zachary Cornelius, by the way.”

“Mine, Sally Hart.”

I admired the thoroughness with which he played his role. I told him so. “But what I'd really love to know is who you are when you
aren't
playing a role.”

He put away his pen. I realized I couldn't receive any answer now. I wondered if I ever would.

Yet even as I wondered it (I wouldn't have thought this possible) I fell asleep. Next thing I knew, my mother and I were back at home. I speculated on whether Zack had departed by train or whether he had some other means of transport. I speculated both on where he might have gone and, still more engagingly, into what period. I felt privileged he'd paid me a visit but, despite his pursed-lip claim, didn't imagine lack of time could really be a problem. I hoped he'd very soon return.

I also felt gratified that my mother had spoken of me as she had. I aimed to be just about the most considerate baby ever known to man. (Obviously, apart from Jesus.) An equally exceptional boy and youth. But at the same time I didn't want to get labelled as a goody-goody or a bore.
Fine athlete with a kind heart, cheerful disposition, inquiring mind
… That would do. There wasn't a single good experience I meant to miss out on—although of course I would; you'd need a hundred lives, not simply two, to do all the things that were worth doing, see all the places, meet all the people. Even a hundred would be nowhere near enough. And that was what made my present incapacity all the more frustrating.

So there were certain drawbacks even in those early days. I hoped
especially
in those early days.

On the other hand, in spite of these, I had begun almost from the start trying to live for the moment: something I'd often attempted before but quickly grown discouraged over—always because after a week, or a day, when all the elation had worn off, I had simply found it too demanding. Now, though, I believed I should be able to develop a mindset which, with time, might become automatic. Live for the present.
In
the present.

At any rate, to kick off with, I was determined fully to appreciate my room: the one in which I'd slept till I was twenty-two, when the Regent had been demolished, to make way for a frozen food store. The room was certainly small, but small could equal snug. Also, it gave me back a view of the sky that would remind me now of the walls and ceilings in Cromwell Street, however much repudiated by the landlord, a view which even in my prior existence had constantly exerted a beneficial influence—providing interest, providing aids to contemplation. (And this time, I vowed, I
would
save up to buy myself a telescope.) The room likewise restored to me something I might have been at risk of losing, something which had always given me such pleasure, be it derived from gunshot blast or lion's roar or the clash of steel on armour—or just the sympathetic laughter of a streetwise blonde. I mean the soundtracks which floated up to me six nights a week and which were gaudily woven into the fabric of my youth.

Originally I'd liked the westerns best, and maybe that was still true, although I was regularly disappointed to find I'd gone to sleep before the final shootout. If the picture were a murder mystery Dad would tell me who the villain was and fill me in on the story as best he could; at most I was allowed actually to see one programme a week, although frequently I did a trade and saw two second-features—sometimes on a Wednesday and Saturday, so that I could flesh out the work of my imagination (yet this could often prove an anticlimax)—sometimes on a Monday and Thursday, so that for the next three nights I was able to have the enjoyment of a mental re-run. I seldom bothered with the musicals, but nevertheless it was agreeable to have Bing Crosby or Dan Dailey or Betty Grable sing me softly to sleep on occasion.

The room, judged solely as a room, wasn't extraordinary; but it had been
mine
, a place of warmth and withdrawal during the day—and at night, because of my view of the sky, a launch pad for starships and manned rockets, which had eventually succeeded a well-worn magic carpet and the albatross upon whose back I used to fly…especially on Sundays, when the cinema was closed, and especially in winter when the comfort of my bedclothes emphasized the magnitude of my blessings. My reacquisition of this room—along with the books, pictures, records, ornaments that would gradually reappear as part of it—this alone could have compensated for any drawbacks arising out of my frustration.