Somebody Loves Us All (39 page)

Half in the shade, by the library, one figure sat by herself, her knees drawn up, looking blankly out at the square. He recognised her at once, even without fully seeing the face. There was something in the body’s sullen pose, in its coiled aggression, that gave him her identity at once. The knees had to be hugged to stop them flying out, to prevent this person from exacting vengeance on the foolish sunbathers, the studious students, the shining filigreed suspended world. And here at a glance was the wide white forehead, the flattened nose. She was covering it with her hands but it was easy to imagine, yes, the surly mouth.

Somebody loves us all.

Did he hope she might not see him? Was she hoping for the same? But they were something to each other, weren’t they.
Helena had joined their lives together. He waved at her and walked over.

‘Hey, Thompson, what are you looking so happy about?’ she said.

‘Oh, Price, it’s possible you know.’

‘What is?’

‘Happiness.’

‘Did you make some poor kid speak properly again? Me talk purty.’

‘My mother doesn’t have a brain tumour.’ He’d not meant to say it.

‘Okay,’ she said, not pausing before answering.

‘That’s pretty much how we feel too.’

She looked up at him. ‘Right.’

‘On your break?’

‘Not working,’ she said. ‘Got the sack, got the boot.’

‘From?’

‘My mother. Mothers, huh? They put you through the ringer.’

‘Sacked from the school?’

‘You didn’t know? The morning of the review, she calls me in first thing. She says, “Price, we’re going to have to let you go.” I thought she was kidding at first. Then she said contract is finished, which was true, sort of. Thanked me for the job I’d done. And that was that. I’m out of there. Stressing about whether I’d ruin the review. Okay, I took the hint.’

‘I had no idea.’ Somehow he was proud of them both, mother and daughter.

‘No? Well, it was a crap job anyway.’

‘Data entry.’

‘Aren’t they two of the worst words in the English language?’

‘A lot of the people sitting in this square are probably doing data entry for a living.’

‘Poor fuckers.’

‘What next then?’

‘Always got the film-making, Thompson.’

‘Indeed,’ he said.

‘You don’t take that seriously, I know.’

‘I do.’ The denial was so weak they were both grinning.

‘Of course you do,’ she said.

‘Medbh was telling me about it.’

‘Medbh.’ She uttered the name with disgust almost.

Disgust that he’d used it?

They looked around the square. ‘Listen, Dora. I’ve been meaning to say. Well, I’m with your mother—’

‘Know that, Thompson.’

‘Yes! All right. We live together and I want that to last—forever. I can’t imagine that stopping, changing. And you’re part of that. I don’t have kids, don’t know the first thing about that really. But we’re together. The three of us, I mean. You’re included. So, I don’t know. But, okay, listen. I’d like you to call me Paddy.’

‘What?’

‘Call me Paddy.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘Go on, call me Paddy.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why not though?’

‘I don’t see you as a Paddy.’

‘But I am a Paddy. Then call me Patrick if you prefer.’

She shook her head. ‘Sorry, Thompson.’

The tourists had moved to the top of the steps that led to the bridge where his mother had walked. They were lining up the harbour with their camera, in the distance the hills around Lower Hutt. It would go in the album, or on the hard drive. They would show people when they got home. Look where we went. Yes, he thought, he lived in a glorious place, fully deserving of any act of preservation. Look. Very gently he bent down to her and feeling a warmth towards this person he’d never felt before, he said as tenderly as he could, ‘Then fuck you Price.’ He began to walk away.

‘Hey,’ she called out. ‘Great news about your mother. And see you around, Thompson.’

He turned and saw that Dora had a camera to her eye, filming him.

The next day was Saturday and Gorzo called. It was 10am. Helena answered the phone at the same time Paddy picked up the one in his office.

Paddy held off announcing himself. They didn’t know he was there.

She said at once that she’d put Paddy on for their talk but Gorzo had already started to speak about his mother’s birthday, which was that day. He hoped they hadn’t forgotten. It was important to the family that Paddy and Helena come to the party. Also Paddy’s mother. The two mothers, the two matriarchs. Two great old ladies. Well, she told him, that was very kind.

They shared a connection, he and Paddy, he said, that no doubt she knew about. Yes, she said, Tony’s son, of course. Paddy spoke about it often, how wonderfully Jimmy had worked at his rehab and what a success he’d become.

‘Okay, sure, Jimmy got us into it,’ Gorzo told her. ‘But what I was meaning was our fathers.’

‘I see,’ said Helena.

‘Both our fathers dead at the same age. Me and Paddy were the same age, I mean.’

‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Doesn’t make us the same. Look at our lives. He’s an educated thinking type, and I’m a stupid Greek. But, you know.’

‘It’s a bond.’

‘It’s a bond, I think. You know, all the time I’m thinking about my Dad, oh boo hoo I lost my Dad, what a miserable kid I am. But that’s all wrong. Why? Because of my mother. Because of what she does. What happened, it made our mothers very important and that’s what we honour today. Is your mother still alive, Helena?’

‘No.’

‘Too bad. Your father?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘Mmm. You must be an interesting person. Hey, Helena, we’ll see you tonight. Now is he there? Is Einstein there?’

Gorzo had read the paper, the new ‘Speech Marks’ column. Read it fast at first because today was the day, as Paddy well knew, since he was coming to the party, his mother’s hundredth and there was a shitload of things to do, and Helena was coming too, with Paddy’s mother, all of them. Read it so that this poor guy doesn’t have to get on his bicycle and come out to the Hutt, looking for him. Then he had to slow down because he was reading this rubbish about it being the farewell column, what was that about?

‘It’s my last column, Tony,’ said Paddy.

‘That’s the bullshit I was talking about.’

‘Time to say goodbye.’

‘Time to say bullshit.’

‘No, it’s gone on long enough. I’ve run out of things to say. Time to let the other guy have his moment in the sun.’

‘What other guy? You got shafted? Some young hotshot?’

‘No, no. Just—time, you know.’ There was no one else lined up. In fact he’d had no communication at all from the paper since sending in the column.

‘I think you were at a low ebb,’ said Gorzo. ‘You wrote it in a low state of mind.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘I have had a lot on my plate.’

‘I think you wrote it because for one week I miss making the call and that’s the straw on the camel’s back. No one loves me, no one cares.’

‘Not quite.’

‘See, Paddy, you and me. We’ve been through thick and thin, haven’t we?’

‘We’ve been through thick at least.’

‘Ha! But this is why I know you. I know you’re not a quitter.’

‘This is resigning though, bowing out. This is not quitting. I’m not quitting.’

‘So what am I reading this bullshit “Thanks to my readers over the years” column for?’

‘Tony, here’s the funny thing. I quit and no one notices. Really no one does care. No one at the paper even reads the thing!’ Probably the deputy editor and the editor were reading it right now for the first time, or not reading it. They’d see it was there perhaps, the stupid out-of-date cartoon, and turn the page. In Paddy’s experience journalists read papers, especially their own, in purely spatial terms, in blocks. How many columns of type here and over here. The advertising. They looked at shape, the distribution of picture and headline, and then lastly, a quick run over the squiggly bits filling each column, the words. Yes, a good-looking paper. He thought of Murray Blanchford complimenting his mother on her nice brain. Once he’d accidentally received an email between two sub-editors. The message read, Here’s Skid Marks. ‘They just see the copy and go, oh fine, another “Speech Marks”.’

For a moment this information seemed to have stopped Gorzo. The idea of Patrick Thompson’s marginality, his faded power, his irrelevance, disturbed the flow. Had he, Tony Gorzo, been following the wrong man all these years? ‘So I’m—… I’m going to write a letter.’ He sounded half-hearted.

Paddy was on the point of telling Gorzo about the skid marks line. ‘You?’

‘Letter to the editor, I’m doing it.’

‘You never wrote a thing in your life.’

‘And I’m starting now! Tell me the fucking address.’

‘It’s the address of the fucking paper, Gorzo, you idiot.’
Paddy had begun to laugh.

‘Tell me. Dear Sir, Madam, what? Dear Arsehole?’

‘God.’

‘Dear God. Okay. “Dear God, It has come to my attention.”’

He expected his mother to turn the invitation down flat. She didn’t know Tony Gorzo except by name, through Paddy’s reports. And after all she’d been through, which indeed Gorzo knew nothing about. Her temperament even before this had been to decline and decline. In social gatherings outside the family, outside Paddy and Stephanie, she acted awkwardly. Her conversation was forced. She grilled people for a few moments then went quiet, or she appeared to be playing with them in some obscure ironical way, making little comments that might have been malicious had she not appeared so mild. Her voice trailed off. People were frankly puzzled by his mother. In truth, he’d never liked watching her talk to anyone outside the family and over the years had probably contributed to her isolation by failing to extend opportunities to her in which she could practise a wider repertoire. Did that sound too clinical? Yes. Anyway, the old picture he’d created of a mother shutting things down for her children had to be corrected. He wanted her shut down too? Or maybe she just preferred to be left alone. Then the Internet had been invented. She was back playing that too, though not as often, she said. She’d become a little bored with Cushion, her diplomacy pool game. It seemed she was the cleverest player in the universe and he believed it.

When he told her about Mrs Gorzo’s party, she said yes at once. ‘What shall I wear?’

‘You don’t have to come.’

‘Am I invited?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then I’ll come. I’ll say yes. It’s a chance to go back to the Hutt.’

‘It’s Petone,’ he said.

‘Close enough.’

The car park outside the bowling lanes was almost full. They got one of the last spaces, guided to it by a teenage boy with the squat Gorzo build, wearing a reflector vest over his suit. He opened their car doors for them.

Fairy lights hung from the veranda, transforming the setting quite magically. Had things been painted? Cleaned certainly. There was a grotto effect, all sparkles and tinsel, and hanging on the outside wall, in a ring of small light bulbs, a framed black-and-white photograph of Mrs Gorzo as a young woman. The gaze was solemn: an instructed sort of look, with slightly staring eyes as if she’d had to hold them open for a long time, but her mouth suggested another spirit, playful and self-delighting. They stood in front of the image for a few moments. ‘She looks like trouble,’ said Helena.

Near the entrance, they signed a giant birthday card. It was covered in messages for Tony’s mother, often addressed on the card as ‘Mrs G’ or ‘Yaya’. Inside, the place was packed. There were children of all ages; mothers holding babies; old men talking in groups; women who looked as old as Mrs Gorzo, all in black. Trestle tables lined the bowling lanes and people were finding their seats. The roof was hung with more fairy lights. In the far corner, a string quartet played—they were dark-haired high school-age girls. At the counter with the cash register, women were taking people’s street shoes and handing out bowling shoes.

‘What size, darling?’ said one of the women to Helena. She’d worn boots, a skirt. Helena was laughing as she sat down and pulled the boots off. Beside her, Teresa was being fitted experimentally—a woman in her sixties was down on her knees, testing sizes against his mother’s foot, as in a shoe shop.

He put on his 10s. He knew the drill. Then he heard his name being called. Tony, wearing a brown suit and a blue tie,
approached and gave him a hug. ‘Yassou file mou! My friend! You came!’

‘Was there ever any doubt?’

‘And this must be Helena. A Greek name of course.’ He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘Welcome! And this, I know this person. Kalispera, good evening. Madam, I am honoured. I am Tony.’ He bowed and took Teresa’s hand, pressing it to his lips.

‘Efharisto,’ she said.

‘You know Greek?’

‘No, I Googled. Thelo ena poto.’

Tony turned to Paddy and Helena. ‘Look at this, she says she wants a drink. I like this woman! From Google!’

‘Me lene Teresa.’

‘It’s very impressive. All these years, your son never learns a word of Greek.’

‘You’ve never said a word of Greek to me,’ said Paddy.

‘I wrote the phrases on my wrist,’ she said.

‘No, you didn’t,’ said Tony.

‘Look.’ Teresa rolled up her sleeve and showed them the tiny writing that extended almost to the crook of her elbow.

Tony took her wrist and read the phrases. ‘Pos se lene? What is your name? Apo pou eisai? Where are you from? Okay, this is good stuff. I love it, you know. Should do it myself.’

Teresa pulled her sleeve down. ‘Something that’s not there, is “I feel funny in these shoes.”’

Tony looked at her feet. ‘Are they the wrong size?’ His own bowling slippers were brown, to match his suit. The ensemble, marvellously, worked. Many of the other men looked bad, their trousers sagging unsupported at the cuffs. It occurred to Paddy that Gorzo might have engineered this advantage.

His mother moved up and down in them, reconsidering. ‘You know, Tony, they’re actually extremely comfortable.’

‘I know! At home, this is what we wear. Exactly this. Ela. Come, you must meet someone.’ He started to lead Teresa off through the crowd. He hadn’t seemed to notice Teresa’s French accent at all. Well, there’d been such a swirl of languages. But
he’d had no issues with it. Surprisingly, he had a good ear. Gorzo lived in exactly this flow. Turning back, he said to Paddy and Helena. ‘I tried, I tried very hard. But you are on Table Two. Okay? It’s the problem with this effing family. All the aunts, cousins roll in, you can’t move. I got you shifted up from Table Four, in Siberia. So it’s not a bad outcome. But the good thing. Your mother, Table One.’

‘She’s Table One?’ said Paddy.

‘Sitting beside my mother. Even before I knew about the writing on her arm. I made it happen. Okay.’ He winked at them and moved off.

‘He’s the man to know,’ said Helena.

‘Did you know about that stuff written on her arm?’

‘I saw her in the back of the car, looking down. She must have been memorising it.’

They found their places, exchanged connections with the people around them: a retired couple from Kilbirnie, also Greek, who’d owned a sports shop; the London-based middle-aged daughter of a cousin on Table One, travelling with her father to make sure he arrived in one piece; and a couple whose five-year-old son sat between them. The father of the boy had been Jimmy Gorzo’s best friend through school. No, he hadn’t been there on the night of the accident on the beach, though he had visited Jimmy in hospital. He’d brought him comics. What did Paddy think of Jimmy’s accent now? ‘I have a tough time talking to him,’ said the father. ‘I want to say, cut the crap, speak normally, you’re back in New Zealand. It’s a put-on, right?’

The retired sports shop owner said to them, ‘Gorzo, originally, where do you think that name comes from?’

Paddy said he didn’t know much about Greece. The man opened the question out to the whole table. Where was the name Gorzo from? No one knew. ‘You don’t know?’ There was a shaking of heads. ‘Hungary,’ said the man with strange, bitter emphasis. Then he sat back, content to have outed the hosts.

A bell was rung, bringing the room to silence. At Table One, Tony rose to his feet. ‘Okay, okay. Before we get started, I got
some announcements to make. It’s nine dollars fifty an hour and if anyone throws ten strikes, I give them a free game!’ There was laughter and people called out things. ‘That’s a good deal, I think. Anyway, shut up everyone and behave, don’t you know my mother’s here.’ There was more laughter and some whistling. ‘Behave! So, I gotta say thanks to you all for coming, for some it’s been a long journey. There are some from Ngaio. No, no. I understand some of you have lost your luggage, or at least that’s your excuse for wearing those terrible clothes you got on. Just kidding. Seriously, it means a lot to me and my family and especially to the person we’re honouring and celebrating tonight that you made the effort. Tonight is only the first event and we’ll be seeing a lot of you over the next few days. Hope we don’t get sick of each other, eh. But before we eat, let’s put something in our glasses, you’ve all got something on the tables, and if you haven’t we’re firing those useless boys from Dino’s. Hi, Dino! You out there somewhere?’

‘Table Four, Tony,’ a voice called out.

‘Table a Hundred!’ yelled someone else.

‘Lucky’s you gotta seat at all,’ said Tony. ‘There’s people from Patras sobbing in the car park.’ A cheer went up. Someone started singing and was quickly shushed.

Tony’s wife, Ellie, who was sitting beside him, poked him in the leg with her knife. ‘Hey! All right, all right, getting stabbed up here. Right. And maybe you gotta stand for this, don’t they darling?’ He bowed in Ellie’s direction. She nodded. Her ears carried great golden loops that moved and shimmered. ‘I think so. Everyone stand, except not you, mana. You deserve a break. Sit back and enjoy it. As many of you will know, it’s very hard for my mother to ever sit back and enjoy anything. Tonight she said she wanted to help in the kitchen. Actually she’s tied to that chair with rope. Nobody try to take her dancing. So.’ Tony held up his glass as everyone stood. ‘You know. Chronia pola, mana!’