Fifty-Minute Hour (40 page)

He turned back to the screen, watched the credits rolling, the sun-kissed suave commercials for other people's holidays, other people's mothers; always sugar-coated, always silver-lined. The next programme was a game-show, its ageing host, Les Dunkley (saved by toupee and fake tan), already cracking his first joke.

‘I tried Lady Grecian on my hair. The grey's still there, but my dandruff all went black.'

Hurricanes of laughter, hailstorms of applause. Bryan scanned the cache of prizes dazzling into view – a microwave, a video recorder, a portable TV, a bulging Christmas hamper complete with turkey, Christmas pudding, and what Les called ‘all the trimmings'. He tried a different tack with Lena, as ajar of cranberry sauce loomed into crimson close-up.

‘I thought you'd like the change, Mother. You always say how tired you are of cooking Christmas dinner. Well, this year someone else can cook it and you can put your feet up.'

‘Bryan!' Lena cheetahed from her seat, knitting lashing like a tail. ‘You're not telling me we'll be away for … for Christmas?'

‘Yes, Mother.'

‘But that's impossible.'

‘Impossible?'

‘We're always home at Christmas.'

‘That's why you need a change, Mother.'

‘Don't tell me what I need, boy. You don't imagine foreigners can cook a Christmas dinner?'

‘Yes, they can. It said so in the brochure. “A traditional Christmas dinner with turkey and mince pies.” ' He didn't add that the seminary had no restaurant of its own, so they were being ‘bused' for all their meals to a small ‘family-run' hotel, where they would have to eat in several different sittings, due to the smallness of the premises. He prayed they'd get first sitting in the evenings. The latest one was past his Mother's bedtime.

‘But I've already bought the mincemeat,
and
the brandy butter. In fact, I've stocked up for a month, at least. You saw the bill at Tesco's.'

‘It'll keep.'

‘Keep? You think a turkey keeps? Or Brussels sprouts?'

‘But you haven't bought the turkey, Mother, or the …'

‘I've ordered it, haven't I, went to all that trouble asking for a fresh one, just for Mr Fusspot here. Frozen would have done for me –
and
half the price, I'll have you know. And d'you think I'd spend those hours and hours stirring Christmas puddings till my arm was dropping off, just to feed my own face?'

‘You only made the one, Mother.'

‘So one pudding's not enough now. You want half a dozen, do you?'

‘We can take it
with
us, Mother. And the brandy butter, eat them in our room.'

‘And encourage rats? Or cockroaches?' Lena subsided in her chair, rubbed her swollen fingers. Bryan looked the other way. His own hands always itched and throbbed if he watched her scratch her chilblains. He'd never seen chilblains on another single person in his life, let alone such bad ones. His Mother's circulation was obviously defective, her health poor generally. It wasn't just her leg, which was bad enough, for heaven's sake, with its constant dragging pain (and which was probably half the reason why she was so often tense and irritable), but all her other ailments. He felt a pang of conscience. The house was cold and damp, needed proper central heating, complete rewiring, a new effective damp-course. If he didn't have John-Paul's bills to pay, he could afford all the repairs, relieve his Mother's inflamed misshapen fingers, her bouts of sinusitis, her frequent chesty coughs. He buttoned up his jacket. He was feeling cold himself now, the feeble one-bar fire failing in its efforts to beat the frost and fog outside. The temperature was rising on the screen, though; Les cracking out his questions as two new contestants, all teeth and grins and glasses, giggled from their gold and purple stands.

‘Can ducks sink?'

‘No, Les.'

‘Sorry, Babs, you're wrong. Ducks sink if they're moulting.' Les tugged his coal-black toupee. ‘I'd better keep tight hold of this or I'll end up in the drink. Ready, Tony? Your turn now. When did car ignition keys first come into use?'

‘Er … 1921.'

‘No, they were still driving Roman chariots in 1921. The answer's 1949. It made wife-swapping parties much more civilised. It was murder throwing your starter-handle on the table.'

‘And what d'you suppose you're going to use as money?'

Bryan jumped, swung back to Lena. ‘Pardon?'

‘Well, I don't expect it's cheap abroad, especially not at Christmas. How can we afford to go gadding off to Rome, when you told me just last month you'd had another pay cut?'

Bryan searched the screen for answers, longed to fold down like a camping spoon, to avoid this line of questioning. He'd spent four long years explaining to his Mother that there was never any money left for luxuries or extras. In fact, he was using all the cash he'd save on four weeks of John-Paul, but his Mother didn't know John-Paul existed. He was beginning to wish he didn't. That avaricious doctor had made everything far worse – four years of debt and lies. Even the lies themselves seemed every bit as difficult as they had been at the start, despite his constant daily practice over fifty-one long months. He still found it most distressing to have to kick the truth aside, blast it into bits, when he actually revered Truth, sought it in the universe. He fiddled with the cover on the chair-arm (placed there by his Mother to prevent his dirty – twice-washed – hands from fouling up the furniture); tried to sound ingenuous as he prepared his next deceit.

‘Er … you know that chap at work, the one who stole my wallet?'

‘Stole it
twice
, you mean.'

‘Well, he's feeling very guilty now and he's offered us this holiday as a sort of restitution.'

‘Tell him I'd rather have the cash, please. The cooker's playing up again and I doubt if it will last till …'

‘He can't give us the cash, Mother. He's already spent the lot.'

‘So how can he afford holidays in Rome?'

‘He … he …' Bryan blew his nose, to gain himself some time. John-Paul had once remarked that the easiest and safest course was to aim to tell the truth. Just let his doctor try! Tell the truth to Lena and he'd land up in his bedroom with his bottom smacked and his pocket-money docked for half the year. He'd like to dock John-Paul's fees, lock him in his bedroom and never let him out. He didn't make things easy. He'd faced much the same hazards trying to tell his therapist that he'd booked a trip to Rome as he was experiencing with his Mother – had nowhere near succeeded after two relentless sessions. Every time he'd mentioned the word ‘pilgrimage', John-Paul had tried to relate it to his therapy, made deep but futile comments about ungratified religious needs he was seeking to fulfil, no longer as a patient but a pilgrim. He'd also linked it to his so-called ‘negative transference', suggesting that his patient was now reacting to him not just as hostile parent, but as inadequate spiritual mentor, who must be replaced by an Almighty Omnipotent Father. In the end, he'd just lain there saying nothing, trying to think up some diversion (or even kidnap-plan), which would dispose of James, John-Paul, his Mother, in one dramatic daring coup, freeing Rome for him and glorious Mary.

‘
Well
?' his Mother urged.

‘He … works for a travel agent.'

‘So they employ common thieves now, do they? No wonder this country's in the state it is. Teachers fathering babies on their pupils, travel agents picking people's pockets. Well, tell him straight your Mother doesn't like abroad, and could he please arrange something nearer home. Bournemouth's nice in winter. I saw an advert in the
TV Times
for Christmas at the Seaview. They've got a conjuror on Christmas Eve and a Mystery Tour on Boxing Day. And if you want a proper English turkey instead of some scrawny foreign bird …'

‘It's
booked
, Mother. We're not allowed to change it. Everything's arranged.'

‘You've no right to arrange my Christmas, Bryan, without consulting me.'

‘But I wanted it to be a surprise.'

‘Well, you've got what you wanted, then. I
am
surprised – shocked, in fact – deeply shocked that my only son doesn't value Christmas in the comfort of his home, but has to drag his poor old Mother to a dirty dangerous country, then call it a surprise.'

‘I'll … I'll go and make some tea, Mother.'

‘You've
had
tea, Bryan – three cups. And that's another thing – you won't get tea in Rome. That woman in the ironmonger's went to France last year and she said they'd never
heard
of teapots. And then they expect us to join the Common Market.'

Bryan faltered in the doorway, eyes back on the screen, where Les was being fondled by a sixteen-stone pensioner in a purple lurex catsuit and lilac hair to match. The disembodied audience kept braying, whooping, shrieking, every time Les cracked a joke or a contestant got an answer right. Dramatic chords and fanfares screwed the tension tighter, the music near-hysterical when Anthea from Ipswich won a thirty-piece dinner service in a pattern called ‘Argave'. The revolving silver stairway and spangled turquoise backdrop made their own small sitting-room look shabby and low-key – the chairs fawn and hard and bony like his Mother, the drooping curtains skimpy and unlihed.

‘Bryan, while you're up, go and get the brochure, dear.'

‘What brochure?'

‘The brochure for the holiday. I'd like to have a look at it.'

‘I … er … left it in the office.'

‘Silly boy.'

Bryan glanced at her, surprised. She sounded almost affectionate, had even called him ‘dear', was obviously relenting. Perhaps now she had recovered from the double shock of ‘abroad' and no home turkey, she was touched her son had thought of her and was acting like the loving boy she always seemed to crave, booking her a holiday, so she'd be spared the usual chores. His guilt screwed up three notches. He
hadn't
thought of her … only of himself. She'd hate a crowded dormitory in some old and draughty seminary; would never cope with the Spanish Steps or the narrow cobbled alleyways of Rome, when her leg played up so cruelly even in their wide and level High Street. Whatever happened, she mustn't read the brochure – all those pious references to Mass and Benediction, and the ‘cradle of our Roman Catholic Faith'; the daily expeditions to catacombs, basilicas, churches, churches, churches; the conducted tours of Christian Rome, the papal audience. He'd just have to go and check on it, hide it somewhere safer in his room.

‘Just … popping to the bathroom, Mother.'

‘Well, don't be long, and don't leave all the lights on, and be sure you …'

He bypassed the chill bathroom, sneaked into his own room, extracted the brochure from deep inside the mattress-cover, which meant dismantling half his bedding. He smoothed the blankets straight again, sat down on the bed, re-read the opening paragraphs which introduced the pilgrimages – not just to Rome, but to other Catholic centres. He liked the word ‘pilgrim', the idea of suffering hardship, heat or cold or hunger, in travelling to an object of devotion – in his case holy Mary. The brochure mentioned Mary constantly – as Blessed Virgin, loving Mother, Queen of Angels, Queen of Peace, Comfort of the Afflicted, Gate of Heaven. Mary was all those things and more – his Virgin and his Mother, his own private grace and comfort, the source of future bliss.

He read on a bit further, admiring the two pictures of Mary with a gentle smile, Mary with superb though well-draped breasts. ‘We have every confidence that you will return from your pilgrimage with a renewal of both faith and hope, and spiritually and physically refreshed. No one leaves Our Lady empty-handed. Mary's precious gifts include the gift of healing, the gift of strength, the gift of perfect love.'

Perfect love. Bryan prayed it would be his – and strength, as well – he needed that most specially; not just mental strength to outwit James and stand up to his Mother, but the physique of Tarzan, the shoulders of King Kong. Even more miraculous to return with Mary on his arm, Mary to himself; a Mary humbly grateful to escape from James's lewdness and find real and lasting happiness with …

‘
Bryan
!'

He catapulted to his feet, stuffed the brochure down inside his underpants, turned to face the door. Not his Mother, just her querulous voice, resounding through the landing and the hall.

‘What are you doing up there? You know it's not your bath night. We'll have to ration water even more now, if we're going to spend our Christmases abroad.'

He limped downstairs, the crumpled brochure rustling in his groin. The game-show was just finishing, an elated couple exclaiming with delight as their Mystery Prize was revealed in vibrant colour on the screen – a holiday for two on a sun-drenched island paradise. He watched them kissing, hugging in excitement, as palm trees and gold beaches passed before their marvelling gaze. He closed his eyes a moment, saw himself and Mary on their own island paradise, the palm trees whispering in the breeze, the lazy surf frothing round their ankles, mangoes and bananas plopping off the trees. She drew him close, pushed up her grass skirt and the heavy perfumed flower-wreath which encircled her sweet neck. ‘The Mystery Prize,' she murmured as she pointed to her naked breasts, the honey-filled moist valley which …

‘What's that rustling, Bryan?'

‘Banana trees – grass skirts.'

‘You're mumbling, dear, as usual. I can't hear a word you say.'

‘Er … mice.'

‘
Mice
?' Lena dived into the kitchen to find a trap, daub poison on the cheese. He watched her go, withdrew the guilty brochure from his groin. Worse than guilty – shameless. The pages were quite damp, sticky, glued together. He shut his eyes again as he mopped himself, recovered. ‘Thank you, Mary,' he whispered very softly. ‘Gate of Heaven, Comfort of the Afflicted.'