Goodness (16 page)

Foul Medicine

I’m not a pig. In an attempt to recapture something of my relationship with Shirley I decide on a vasectomy, let’s see if we can’t get back to lovemaking. She says: ‘I’ll have forgotten how to do it. I can’t quite see why we ever bothered, it’s so much more hygienic without it.’ Though a week or so before the op she hugs me from behind, squeezes my crotch, and murmurs: ‘I can’t wait, if you knew how much I want you and want you.’

Since I’m determined no one at the office should know about the whole thing, I take a fortnight’s holiday during which time I arrange for the operation to be done privately in the London Clinic in Harley Street. Typically, Shirley informs my mother without first conferring with me, hence the day after the op, there she is at my bedside in her ancient black coat with the fake once-white fur inside the collar. The strap of her blue handbag, doubtless full of used paper handkerchiefs, is held on by a heavy duty safety pin.

My mother. She sold Gorst Road to the first buyer and then instead of getting a smaller place for herself and keeping the remaining cash for Grandfather’s expenses, she went and put the whole lot in Barclays for him with a standing order to pay the home (’it’s his money, love,’), renting herself the most miserable terraced house in derelict black Irish Cricklewood. Apparently through friends! It was a show of independence that took me by surprise, since I’d imagined she’d leave the whole property side of things to me. As it was she didn’t even ask my advice. We have scarcely seen each other since Shirley’s ‘conversion’.

Shirley said: ‘Why didn’t she stay in Park Royal. She’s
been there all her life. She’ll be lost in a new neighbourhood at her age.’ But although she knew no one in Cricklewood on arrival, Mother very quickly gathered the regular army of walking wounded about her. Indeed her ‘ministry’ is obviously flourishing now Grandfather is at last out of the way. People don’t have to pass his scornful cerberian gaze to reach the prayerfulness of her bedroom. So perhaps all things do work together for good for those that love God: my beating him up promoted her ministry, saved souls even.

She stands over my hospital bed the morning after my vasectomy, plastic shopping bag under her arm. We are embarrassed, but she tries to jolly her way over this.

‘How are you, love? Everything all right?’

Actually I’ve got quite a lot of pain. It was a more serious business than I expected.

She has brought grapes. Her face, though shiny and lumpy, radiates unshakeable kindness. We chat. She has been up to see Shirley. In my absence obviously. Over sixty now, she travels free on the buses. It’s quite a boon. She feels free to travel in a way she didn’t just a year ago. And isn’t Hilary coming on, certainly sitting up a lot straighter.

I say: ‘You don’t notice when you’re with her all the time.’

I ask her if she knew about Peggy. And immediately regret it. But I don’t want to be the only one who’s let her down.

‘She told me.’

Peggy would of course. Without thinking probably.

For a moment we are both silent in this tiny private bedroom I have paid through the nose for. The fittings don’t look much better than National Health frankly.

Why did I bother trying to hurt her? Surely some resolution, some accommodation can be reached at some point.

She must be thinking the same thing, because she suddenly says, lower lip trembling like a child’s: ‘Can’t we put all that nasty business behind us, George? Can’t we?’

The direct appeal catches me by surprise.

She says: ‘It was unfortunate Shirley confessed to me of
all people, and in front of you, but I could hardly refuse to hear her, poor girl, could I, the state she was in.’

How clever my mother is. She has brought me to tears. We are embracing.

‘At least we can be good friends,’ she murmurs, with a catch in her voice.

Then she sits down and tells me how awkward Grandfather’s being, refusing to obey any of the rules in the home and even biting one of the nurses. It’s his ninetieth birthday next week. The inmates will be having a little party. Perhaps I’d like to come. And then the Lord has been so good to her because her next door neighbour but one commutes regularly to Kilburn where the home is and so frequently gives her a lift back in the evening. Also there is a delightful girl from the church who may be going to rent her spare bedroom, which would be so nice.

There is always that faint persuasion in her voice, she can never let go, pleading with her son to believe that the Lord has indeed been involved in the daily itinerary of her neighbour, the housing needs of the Methodist girl; pleading with me to accept my martyrdom and join her on the way to heaven.

Shortly after she goes, Marilyn phones. ‘Can’t wait to have you without your sou’wester on,’ she says.

But I know I won’t be going to see Marilyn again. My strategy is complete at last. I was always a monogamist at heart.

For the second week of my fortnight’s break we’ve lined up a cottage in Suffolk, for holiday and, hopefully, celebratory hanky panky, if not actually lovemaking. Our first real holiday, as it happens, since Hilary’s conception nearly six years (centuries?) before. But when I come out of hospital, feeling pretty damn cool and relaxed actually, after four whole days on my back, the child has fallen ill again.

She has an acute kidney infection (perhaps like the George of
Three Men in a Boat
, the only thing she’ll never have is housemaid’s knee). And of course she always suffers severe side effects from whatever drug we give her. Shirley meets me sleepless and speechless at our rather fine old wistaria-framed
door as I return in a cab. The doctor wanted to put the girl in hospital, but Shirley has refused. I know there is no point in commenting on this, just as there is no point in remarking on the fact that we could easily afford to have a nurse in to do a few nights. Shirley must look after the girl herself. Because I think in a curious way she is embarrassed for Hilary with strangers. She doesn’t want to sense other people’s objective eyes coldly weighing up the truth of the situation. On her own she can nurse her illusions – or perhaps that is ungenerous, perhaps what I should say is, the choices she has made. She doesn’t want to hear them challenged by some kind, efficient girl. For my own part, of course, there is nothing more frustrating than having so much money at last after years of work and not being allowed to buy a little pleasure with it.

Hilary is in severe pain. Naturally, through the long nights and days that follow my return there will be no question of trying out my vasectomy. Though one evening Shirley does cling tight to me a moment in bed. She murmurs: ‘You know what I can’t believe about you, George.’ ‘What?’ ‘That deep down, after all your huffing and puffing and playing tough, you’re really a good man.’

I make no comment.

‘I’m glad you made up with your mother. I’ll have her over tomorrow to help if she’s free.’

Obviously everything gets chatted about behind my back. Fair enough I suppose. I never really imagined otherwise.

‘I don’t even really mind about this woman you’ve got at work. I understand the pressure you must have been under.’

‘What?’

A desperate half hour then trying to persuade her that all that’s over, that I only saw her once or twice, that I never really cared for her, etc., etc. And how did she find out, anyway? How, how, how? Shirley insists she doesn’t care. After all, she’s been unfaithful in her time. I insist that she should, she must care, it was a terrible thing for me to do, I want her to care, and I’m sorry, truly I am; that was the
whole reasoning behind the vasectomy after all, to get back to her and to family life after this second derailment. Which would never have happened had it not been for Hilary.

In the end, after maybe an hour’s persuasion I actually manage to get her involved in something resembling foreplay, kissing, fondling, albeit somewhat listlessly, when Hilary’s harsh cries interrupt us from the next room.

I offer to go since I’m on holiday. Anyway, there’s guilt to assuage. I pad down the landing.

The baby’s room has a red nightlight. It’s full of cuddly toys which Hilary has at last learnt to hold to herself and presumably draw some comfort from. The little girl is twisting and turning in her cot, buckled up with stomach pains. I pick her up. Not without some effort given the size she is now. She recognises me at once and whimpers. I push my cheek against hers on the side where the head lolls. Her skin, poor girl, is dry and burning. She relaxes a little, then doubles up with pain again. Her eyes screw tight. Since it’s impossible to sit her on one’s knee – she just collapses – I put her into a little tipped-back bucketseat kind of thing that we had cut for her from a huge cube of rigid foam rubber. This more or less immobilises her while keeping her sufficiently upright to take a few spoonfuls of medicine.

I give her a specially made up additive-free antibiotic and a sedative in heavy syrup. The antibiotic tastes foul and she refuses to open her mouth. I trick her by dipping my finger in the sedative syrup and smearing it lightly on her plump, child’s lips. She has the features of a five-year-old but utterly blank. Sometimes I force myself to use words like gormless, to remember what the hard world will think of her, how they will laugh, as once long ago my friends would laugh at Aunt Mavis. The coral lips are delicate though and faintly rubbery under my finger.

She falls for the syrup trick and opens her mouth. As soon as the spoon of foul-tasting medicine is in, I force the mouth shut to prevent her from spitting the stuff out. I manage to do this quite gently really. Firmly. Without frightening her. I’m not bad as a nurse. The only problem then is convincing
her that the syrup to follow really is syrup. In the end I have to press thumb and forefinger into her cheeks to force open the mouth. As soon as she gets the whole spoon of syrup I can give her two, three, four more spoonfuls. Double the maximum dose. From small red-rimmed brown eyes, she looks, or gives the impression of looking, in my direction, and there is a hint of appreciation. So that I sense how much within my power she is, her feverish infant body in that foam rubber chair we thought was such a clever idea.

For I could keep spooning and spooning this whole bottle of sedative, couldn’t I? Her mouth is open, eager. So why don’t I? Why not? Because I know that Shirley would see. Because I reason that the way they measure out these drugs it wouldn’t quite kill her anyway. Because it’s not the solution I’ve settled on and I simply can’t face reopening the whole discussion. Yet in the quiet of her little nursery room, with its red light warm on walls and blankets, on the Beatrix Potter frieze and on the shambles of soft toys people like my mother insist on buying for her as if she were capable of distinguishing one from another – in this cosy atmosphere smelling of cream and talcum and warm breath, I feel that this would be an acceptable, a humane way to do it. If only society would sanction it. If only everybody would say, yes, George, we forgive you, George, you are right, George, go ahead, kill your dragon, save your damsel (for I do love her). Yes, here and now. This would be the way. Spooning sedative to the child as she senses my friendly presence and enjoys one of her few sensual luxuries, the rich cloying sweetness of that syrup.

Are those red little eyes really looking at me? Is she asking me to do it?

But of course she can have no concept of such things. All she knows is her pain, her comforts.

She begins to whine and wriggle again. I lay her down and sing to her. Nursery rhymes. Christmas carols. I sing them with expression as if I meant them. I even sing, why I don’t know, ‘Rock of ages cleft for me’, insisting on the words of the last verse (When I soar through tracts
unknown/See thee on thy judgement throne . . .). I keep it up for half an hour, wondering how Shirley will rate this virtuoso performance on the domestic contribution scales. Will Marilyn be forgotten? Will I ever get a blowjob again? Finally I pull off the miracle and my little girl falls into an uneasy sleep. Feeling really pretty proud, I pad back to our bedroom, but Shirley is snoring soundly. Fair enough, she does have a filthy cold. I slip downstairs, pour myself a generous Glenfiddich and watch a European football match in which a Scottish team is soundly beaten.

Vasectomy Ball

Our tenth wedding anniversary, I think, should be excuse enough for a party, but Shirley says wrily, ‘Hardly an occasion for celebration.’ She’s not really objecting, though. It’s just that she never expected the idea of a party to come from me.

‘If you look at it as a life sentence,’ I suggest, ‘let’s say we’re celebrating completion of the first quarter. Why not?’

I’m straightening my tie. She’s copying things down from a recipe to complete a shopping list, writing rapidly, a sliver of tongue between her teeth as so often when she concentrates. Now she looks up.

‘You’re not serious, are you?’ She laughs. ‘Okay. I’m game. We can call it the Vasectomy Ball.’

Because yesterday we finally made love. And again this morning. Hence the pleasant atmosphere. I choose my moments.

I tell her: ‘You don’t want to spread that kind of news about, sweetheart, the phone’ll never stop ringing.’

Again she laughs. Then wrinkles her nose. She really doesn’t seem to care terribly much about my faithfulness or otherwise. In many ways she is more independent of me than I of her. I can’t really decide whether this is a good thing or not. I don’t want to feel free to do what I choose. I want her to want all or nothing, like me. Perhaps when she no longer has the child to exhaust all her energies . . .

Come the evening of that same day and she is positively enthusing about it – our Tenth Anniversary Party. A grand affair. In the space of a day the idea has taken on a milestone symbolism. George and Shirley back on the rails.

‘You see,’ she says happily, as we draw up the guest list. ‘There’s no reason why Hilary should prevent us from having a good time. It’s all in your mind.’

The girl is half sitting, half lying in her lap. At five and a half she has begun to chant the first ma-ma-ma’s and da-da-da’s that most babies start at six months. Shirley is very excited about this, though there is no sign of the sounds being referred to anything or anyone in particular. The little girl smiles continuously this evening from inside the frame of her gloriously thick chestnut hair which Shirley keeps brilliantly washed and brushed. Her only real asset, it picks up faint hints and depths from the discrete wall lighting which proved such a wise and fashionable choice. When tickled under her tubby chin, she giggles. She hasn’t been ill for upwards of a fortnight now, and since a dietician suggested we substitute cow’s milk with goat’s, she has definitely been less irritated and irritable.

These are the blessings Shirley counts with a religious mathematics she might have learnt from my mother, i.e. add this hundredth to that thousandth, multiply by whatever crumb or fragment is available and then lift to the power of a small sop and somehow you can cancel out negative figures with untold noughts after them.

‘No reason at all,’ Shirley goes on, kissing the child’s fat cheeks as I scribble out the names. ‘We should have started doing this ages ago. I mean, if we can’t go out, obviously we’ll have to have people come here. And if we don’t invite them they’re not going to come, are they?’

I don’t remark that they used to invite themselves. Instead I say: ‘I haven’t exactly been preventing you from inviting them, have I?’

‘No, but you’re such a monster of purpose, always working or reading medical journals or planning trips to consultants. It’s as if you were always putting off living to some distant date when you’ll have sorted everything out.’ She lays a hand on the inside of my leg and looks into my eyes. ‘I’m glad you’re beginning to let be at last. If you don’t insist on its being a tragedy then it isn’t.’

The touch has a definite promise of sex.

She giggles. ‘Perhaps it’s to do with the op. Less hormones about or something. You’re mellowing out.’

I haven’t seen her so silly and girlish in years, though the silver strands are daily thickening in her once copper hair.

‘We’ll invite everybody,’ she says. ‘Even if we haven’t seen them in years and years. We can clear the lounge and dining room for dancing and set out a big buffet in the kitchen and breakfast room. How much money can we afford to spend?’

‘Anything. Doesn’t matter. No object.’

‘Great, now, let’s see . . .’

But what is George Crawley really thinking inside the dark lumpy 900ccs or so which is his brain, which is me? Obviously I am feeling terribly tender toward my suddenly excited, though definitely ageing wife. I am thinking how smart I’ve been to renew our relationship before the great event, to have her feel I’m on her side at last. And I’m genuinely heartened by the thought that after all we’ve been through this renewal can still occur and be so warm and genuine. I’m thinking that in a way I’m doing this for her sake even more than mine. But at the same time I am wondering if perhaps she isn’t right, could she be?, if perhaps we mightn’t be happy like this, if I shouldn’t have let be ages ago, if I oughtn’t to give the whole thing up and just enjoy the incongruous adventure of hosting a party. Suddenly surprising myself with all these heterogeneous thoughts, I shake my head to chase them all away. They rise and flutter like birds surprised by gunshot, leaving nothing behind. I wonder, where is my identity in all this chaos of feeling and reflection? Who am I? All I can sense is a feverish darkness gathered around an even darker purpose. I have given myself to the decision now. It won’t be reconsidered.

‘And for booze? Couple of hundred quid cover it do you think? Er, Earth to George, come in please. The booze. How much?’

Oh.’ In a daze, I say, ‘The more the merrier.’

Another thought wings across the dark night sky of my spirit: the more booze, the faster the place’ll go up in smoke.

Three weeks on; D-Day minus five days. I am now absolutely determined that the day after, Sunday the tenth, I shall feel only regret for my beautiful home, its three reception rooms, four bedrooms, delightful conservatory and garden (in the meantime I have checked that the insurance is more or less adequate; could have been better but one can’t alter it now). I shan’t fear detection, for of course I have planned the thing so well, and from the forensic point of view my tracks will be perfectly covered. Clearing the dining room to dance is going to mean cramming four highly inflammable armchairs into my little study, which, as fortune would have it, is directly below Hilary’s room with only plaster and timber between. Ten minutes, max fifteen. All things work together for good . . .

For it will be an act of goodness, the first time I will have channelled everything that I know is abrasive and unpleasant in my character into a gesture of love greater and more healthy than anything my mother or Shirley with their interminable self-sacrifice could manage. I will have the courage of my convictions.