Somebody Loves Us All (27 page)

Paddy left a message for Murray Blanchford at the hospital, reminding him that he said he’d call, and then he cleaned up the kitchen. It was still too early to ring anyone else or to go next door to see his mother. He put on his cycling gear and took the lift to the basement.

The floor above where his bike was stored in the lock-up was
for residents’ car parks and he could hear a car starting up and the automatic gates sliding back to let it out. There was no one else around. He hadn’t yet had the chance to explain anything about his mother to Geoff Harley, who’d found her and brought her up to them and so was probably entitled to a few facts. Still Paddy was pleased not to run into him now.

Outside the day was boringly blustery, the sort of conditions that turned even a short easy ride into something more effortful. He went down to the harbour and biked past Te Papa along the waterfront, moving against the thin stream of commuters heading towards Lambton Quay. The harbour was a mess of whitecaps, the water jerking around as though being carried in a bucket. Above him a silent passenger plane that looked too big and heavy and close tipped jerkily on its wing and entered the clouds. There were people on that plane, poor souls, most probably doing nothing more than going to Auckland for a day’s work. It was his thought; it was also what his mother was prone to offer whenever she saw a plane. She hated flying. Not a phobia Margie in Vancouver believed in. Paddy cut back towards Mount Victoria, completing a small circuit of hill streets before rewarding himself with a homeward downhill coast.

In forty minutes he was back at the apartment, where he showered and, having forgotten to drink water after the ride, he drank some directly from the showerhead. It was warm and it made him feel sick at once. To act on such an impulse was curious. It wasn’t something he’d done since he was a boy and he regretted it. There was now this liquid sitting on top of what he’d drunk the night before. He stood over the toilet bowl and slowly the nausea passed.

He had some cold water from the jug in the fridge and ate half a banana and a piece of cheese while looking at the paper. Then he remembered to check for phone messages.

Pip introduced herself as Philippa from Africa, ‘your mother’s ancient relative’. She apologised for calling so early. She said she’d talked to Helena last night and she was very grateful to get the news on Teresa, although now she knew she should have
been in touch the moment his mother had left her house. She’d spent a lot of time thinking about her during the night. ‘I was sworn to secrecy, Paddy. She said she needed a little more time. Clearly that was wrong. I’m very sorry.’

Pip was coming to Wellington that day and she’d like to meet him if it was possible. Did he remember her at all, she wondered? The last time she’d seen him was at his father’s funeral.

She spoke in a quiet, even voice that dropped to a whisper at the end of sentences. Paddy imagined her smiling as she said her words, which were clipped precisely in a British way though they spread and opened on certain sounds.

She said she hadn’t told Teresa that she was coming down and perhaps it was best if he didn’t mention the visit. Despite everything, they’d spent a ‘most marvellous’ time together, full of ‘memories and tears and laughter’—
lawfter
—but there was something that she’d like to talk to him about. She gave her phone numbers.

Pip answered at once when he rang. She was just walking out the door, she said. Paddy invited her to come for lunch at the apartment, or they could meet at a café if she preferred not to risk seeing his mother, if secrecy was utmost. She laughed and apologised for giving the impression that the meeting had to be all hush-hush. There was probably very little need for precautions of any kind. ‘I was just hoping to speak to you on your own for a bit, Paddy.’ It wouldn’t take long. Then she could see Teresa, she was desperate to see dear Teresa, and without making a nuisance of herself, to offer any assistance, if only to sit in a room with her, keep her company, or do the shopping, whatever. ‘I’m a free agent now,’ she said.

He thanked her and they arranged the lunch. She knew a great place for strawberries on the way down. After further negotiations, they settled on meeting at midday, then they could do the lunch thing with Teresa, and eat strawberries.

‘Can I just say, Paddy, how wonderful it will be to meet you after all this time. Of course I’ve been reading you for a long time, your column online. I often thought of writing you an
email, a fan letter. It sounds silly but to be even distantly related to someone so distinguished is enough to feel excitement and pride.’
Prahd
. ‘But listen, I’m not fully convinced of the wisdom of speaking to you about the subject I have in mind. So if during the course of driving to Wellington I change my mind, I hope you won’t be too annoyed.’

He told her it was very intriguing and that he was looking forward to seeing her again, whatever she had to tell him.

‘She’s a very strong woman, your mother,’ she said. ‘Living alone all this time.’

After finishing the call, Paddy went downstairs into his office and sat in his clinic chair, listening hard. At first he thought he heard something through the wall. Then he became aware that it was coming from his own ear. It was the old figure leaving the room. Paddy went upstairs and in the bathroom he turned on Helena’s electric toothbrush. The act was more in the spirit of random experimentation than any developed theory and in this way it was a bit like drinking the warm water from the shower. He switched off the toothbrush and walked out of the bathroom. The sound in his ear had gone.

When he rang his mother’s number, the phone went unanswered for a while and then it clicked through to her voicemail. Here was Teresa as she’d been, asking him to please leave a message, speaking in her old clear unaccented voice—that is, accented in the familiar way, in the way of their family too. It gave him a shock. He remembered that after the death of a friend, the friend’s widow couldn’t bear to change the answer phone greeting and so you listened to the voice of your dead friend saying he’d get back to you soon. This wasn’t as hopeless. Teresa was alive and she lived next door after all. But it wrenched him briefly. He put down the phone without leaving a message. Where could she be? It wasn’t late, almost 10am. She could still be sleeping, or showering. Or she could simply not be answering her phone. Would she have the confidence to pick up the phone and speak to whoever was there?

He decided to go next door and knock on her door. He
also took their key to her apartment. He was prepared to enter now.

There was no response to his first knocking but after a while he sensed someone waiting behind the door and he spoke, letting her know who it was. He knocked lightly again, aware that the noise carried swiftly and clearly along the corridor. Finally, the door opened a little. He couldn’t see anyone through the gap.

‘Bonjour?’ he said.

‘Don’t,’ said his mother, her voice a thin rasp. The protest was desperate.

He asked if he could come in and the door opened wider.

His mother stood against the wall, appearing to use it for support, though the moment she understood he was staring at her, she attempted to stand straight. She even managed a weak smile. ‘Paddy,’ she said. ‘I’ve just woken up.’ She put out a hand to steady herself once more against the wall and knocked a little picture that was there. The picture appeared to confuse her. Who had put that up? It was a still-life oil painting of a bowl of fruit. It had hung in their old house in a similar position, by the front door. On one of the lemons there were a couple of brushstrokes that looked like two eyes and as a girl Margie had drawn a nose in black pen to finish the face. There was nothing experimental here, just plain defacement. It went unnoticed for days until finally at the dinner table their father said, ‘I think we have a budding artist in the family.’ Margie instantly went red, stood up and ran from the room in tears, saying, ‘It wasn’t me! It wasn’t!’

The next evening their father told her they’d arranged for her to take art classes on Saturday mornings. Impossible to tell whether this was a very subtle piece of punishment—as punishing as their father could be—or a hopeless misreading of Margie’s malevolence.

His sister went along perhaps three or four times to the lessons then stopped going. The still life by the front door remained her only work, since despite cleaning, the nose remained in ghostly outline and it became known as ‘Margie’s painting’ after that.

Paddy straightened it.

‘Margie’s painting,’ said Teresa, suddenly finding the information at her command once more. During the move, she’d been adamant about keeping it.

His mother looked ghastly. She looked neglected, and not simply for the ten or twelve hours since he’d last seen her, but neglected for days, weeks, longer. What had Murray Blanchford been thinking to suggest they could keep things normal? What had Paddy been thinking to go out drinking with Lant?

She was in a white nightie that was dotted in places with sweat. The nightie had ridden up one thigh, exposing the mottled skin of her upper leg and the edge of her underwear. He quickly pulled the damp material down. She accepted this with a quick look of annoyance. She knew something was wrong but she didn’t know what exactly. Had she lost weight? Her hair was pressed in a wet mass against her forehead. He took her hand and led her into the sitting room where she brought herself down with a thump onto the sofa. She seemed surprised by this fall and opened her eyes wide, as if she’d only that moment woken up properly.

‘Hello, Paddy!’ she said, perhaps seeing him for the first time.
Ello Padee
.

Had everything at the door been forgotten now? ‘How are you, Ma?’

Her gaze wandered uncertainly around the room though gradually she seemed to be gaining focus and alertness. She saw an object and nodded, as if mentally ticking it off. The table with my green vase. Tick. The cabinet with my glasses and bowls. Tick. The cord to pull the blinds up and down. Tick. Through there: my kitchen. The door to my bedroom. The inventory may have been more sophisticated than that or there may have been no such ticking at all. Whatever was happening, the process worked. Something began to reshape her features. When she turned to him again, her face was more animated, intelligent-looking. She’s almost herself, he thought. The stare was collected and then it grew faintly ironic. She brushed her
hair away from her eyes with one deft movement of her hand. She said to him, ‘You look terrible.’

In the context, this was quite witty; she also meant it and she was almost certainly right. The early morning rise, coffee with Helena, the bike ride—this all represented a long false dawn. He had started to feel seedy and rough. African Pip would be there in less than two hours.

He told his mother he’d been out with Jeremy Lanting and had got in late. Then he asked her whether she’d eaten any breakfast. She was unsure about this and Paddy went into the kitchen to see whether there was any evidence of activity. The benches were clear. He looked in the dishwasher and that was also empty. He made tea for them both and some toast with marmalade, which was her favourite, while she went to the bathroom. When she came back she was wearing her dressing gown and her hair was brushed. She said she’d decided to wait until after he left before having a shower, if he could bear to look at her in her current state. ‘Oh, Paddy,’ she said. ‘I—’

‘Never mind,’ he said.

They sat together in the kitchen without saying much while she ate the toast and drank her tea. Soon the colour returned to her cheeks. He watched her flex her foot which she did tentatively at first as if unsure how far to go with it. The movement and control she had seemed to satisfy her. She also rotated her left shoulder, feeling at the joint. She stood up suddenly and was clearing the cups and plates away before he had a chance to stop her.

‘Your sister rang,’ she said.

‘Margie?’

‘At some point in the early morning I was dead to the world and then I found myself with the phone in my hand talking to Margie. I don’t think I’d called her.’

He was looking at his mother’s mouth. The articulation was clear and very frontal. He’d been reading up on the French accent. Most vowels weren’t diphthongised as they were in English. The French speaker of English therefore tended to stress
vowels evenly, in effect substituting pure vowels for diphthongs. ‘What did she say?’

She sat down again at the table, folding her serviette and smoothing it in front of her. ‘She said I should go and live in Montreal.’

The effect on her face was to produce animation, which was new. The absence of diphthongs meant her mouth was moving much more rapidly than in English English, changing position after almost every syllable. There was no relaxation. He stared. ‘No she didn’t.’

‘She did! First she’d asked me to say things, pronounce words. She was testing me, I think. It was a strange experience. Maybe I passed the test? “Very cute, Ma,” she kept saying. “Very cute.” Oh, she sounded quite— In Montreal, they’d accept me, she said. So I said, but I don’t know any French, Margie. How would it help? The whole conversation was surreal and maybe I’m getting it wrong. Anyway, I don’t think she’s very happy about it.’
Appy
.

‘It’s Margaret, she’s not very appy full stop. Don’t worry about her.’

She looked up at him sharply. It was his imitation that had wounded her. ‘Paddy, it’s not how I sound is it?’

‘Sorry, I was exaggerating.’

‘No, I’m ridiculous.’

‘Why ridiculous, there are sixty million people who sound like you when they speak English.’

‘As a second language. This is my first. My only.’ There was dread in her gaze now. ‘And why are you looking at me all the time?’

He apologised again. ‘Most of the English that’s spoken in the world today comes with some sort of accent. Well, come on, actually
all
the English that’s spoken. All of it! I’m speaking with one right now. What’s the big deal?’

‘That’s just a clever thing to say.’ She’d spoken with bitterness.