The Glass Mountain (16 page)

39

The girl with frizzy hair and car trouble is on duty again. ‘She's brighter today,' she chirps, ‘but there's someone with her. Oh, I see they've left —'

Now even outside visiting hours he's allowed in for a few minutes. They almost welcome him.

He makes for room 21. Outside the door he sees a tall white haired man and another nurse whispering together.

‘Ossie …' Essie goes to reach out. Stick arms fall back onto sheets.

She might look brighter, pinker today. Or is he getting used to it? He doesn't know. Everything else is the same. Though the lavender's gone.

It's high noon and a sulphurous sun streams through glass, beaming shards of gold.

She smiles, a gurgling underwater smile. ‘Ossie … remember … our wayfaring?

He is silent. He stares into a streak of golden blanket, traces patterns in the cotton, the circles and squares. Squares and circles.

‘I gave ya helmet, like ya said, to this kid who'll look after it real virtuously — an' the sidecar's gone back.'

‘Ossie …' The voice he hears belongs to someone else. Someone lost in a faraway wood. ‘Please … read … to me.'

The book is on the table. He finds the place where he stopped a lifetime ago.

Her breathing's hard. Her eyes ask things. He can't look into them. He opens the book and begins:

‘ “The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay … He saw clearly how plain and simple — how narrow, even — it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the splendid value of some such anchorage in one's existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there …” '

He stops.

‘Ossie?'

There's a flash of silence then a sound. A sound that's wrenched from the depths of his gut, of his brain and his blood, of his very being. He flings down the book, locks eyes with eyes that flicker as a light does before it goes out.

‘Ossie?'

‘I'm him,' he chokes. ‘I am, Essie. Ya said so yerself. I'm that little mole … an' ya gonna leave me … heave off an' leave me. Sheralyn an' all of ya. I'm stuffed, Essie. I'm stuffed for life …'

‘Ossie …' Her hand lifts, drops. ‘Ossie …'

‘I gotta go,' he says. ‘I gotta go.'

40

He rips from the room. The lift's closed. He shoots down the stairs — pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat-pat, Level 8, pat-pat-pat-pat … 7, 6 , 5, into the street. He's killed her, she's dead. He'll go back — she's dead now. There's a war being waged inside his chest, behind his eyes.

He walks into town and then makes for his river. Slips, scrambles, slides, reaches the spot. There'll be safety here. Space to think. But today something has blocked the sun. Some newly grown branches have blocked the sun. It can't smile on the silver stream. It's eyeless. Like death.

And the river's song is a lament.

But even here in this place of shadows there beats the rhythm of wing and fin, of fern and willow. And where life exists, love exists … Love stops the dark from closing up …

But what if he's killed love? Again he's clawing through brambles, scrambling up cliffs.

He runs, limpity limpity limp along roadways and laneways back to where plane trees grow from asphalt and a bike is waiting.

‘I gotta see her.'

A nurse stares, sees dark eyes, hollow eyes — pain. ‘The doctor's with her,' she says.

‘I'll wait.'

‘I'm sorry, Ossie. No visitors. Doctor's orders.'

‘But ya see …'

‘She's very distressed.'

‘I did it.'

The woman smiles. ‘The cancer did it.'

‘Ya don't understand —'

The nurse does. She's seen it, heard it before.

‘I can make her better, see.'

‘Look,' she says, ‘come back in an hour. I can't promise anything, but come.'

An hour. Again he walks, the other way this time, up country lanes and down. An hour. You can live a lifetime in an hour. At least find a cure for pain. Or learn to dance.

He goes back again and again. The third time he notices her daughter, Marjorie Butcher, coming out. Her head is down and she holds a handkerchief to her lips. ‘Please,' he whispers, ‘just for a moment.'

‘Sorry.'

It's late afternoon now. He stands beneath a plane tree, his eyes fixed on a window. He goes to knock a cigarette out of a packet and stops. For he hears a voice, the words blurred warmly from drink. “Actions speak louder than words, Kid.”

He'll pick more pink an' mauve outa the little garden that he made her … Yeah.

Lavender in a circle and daisies. Again he snips carefully. He doesn't want to spoil the symmetry, the line, the pattern she keeps in her head.

‘Ossie!'

He looks up. Sheralyn is waving from a window and beckoning him over.

‘I guess they're for her,' she says.

‘Yeah.'

The director of nursing pours coffee. She glances up and holds the gaze.

‘What's wrong?'

‘Sheralyn, if she dies today I've killed her.'

‘That's ridiculous.'

‘I have.'

‘Ossie, she's very low. I rang a little while ago. She could linger a bit but would we want that? She's in a lot of pain.'

‘I gotta see her.'

‘Whatever it is, she knows you wouldn't hurt her.'

‘But I did. An' I have. See, she wanted me to read to her again. An' this bit was about Mole, who she reckons I'm like. An' she's right, 'cos there he is in his little underground world an' all, an' he's happy until Ratty an' them come along an' show him what's above ground an' how very excellent it is, an' the little mole doesn't know what's what anymore … An' I'm him, Sheralyn. Essie was right. See today, for the first time, I knew real properly, that I'm not a pit viper any more. Not one of the gang. An' that's sad too, 'cos they looked after me, like I was their baby or something, when no one else wanted to … An' then I came here. With you an' Essie an' Horace an' Dan an' all of them … An' I learned about books an' rich an' wonderful words an' how to think a different way. An' be proud of who I am. An' clean too. An' wear good clothes like this jacket ya gave me. An' not to feel bad about myself … That the past didn't matter — only what ya did today … An' today when I saw them an' the shit an' stuff, the agro when they're pissed an' all of it, I knew I wasn't one of them any more. Not better. Just changed. An' then Essie, who's done more than anyone, is gonna rack off … I was nothing before. But I knew who I was an' where I was going. I'm still nothing, but the difference is, now I don't … An' that's worse.'

41

Ossie stands in the white morning light. The sky's turning a pale powder blue. And, rising in the east, a gentle sun is colouring the world in pink. The birds know. The word's around. It's a perfect day.

He waits at the lifts and watches the various-shaped human pieces jigsawing around the board busily finding their places, the right bits to interact with.

Ding! On the 9th floor it's the same.

‘Can I go in?'

‘Just for a few minutes.'

Today the room's different. The whiteness has gone. A genii with a magic brush has painted it pink. The walls, the floor, the sheets, the cotton blanket. Her. Painted pink on her cheeks, her lips, on everything. Painted it warm. Happy.

‘I'm sorry Essie,' he whispers.

A smile hovers, spreads. She draws in air and tries to speak. The breath's noisy. Each breath's noisy. She's hardly there.

‘See ya flowers? From ya little garden? … I'm sorry for what I said, Essie. I've been so unhappy.'

She smiles again. ‘Dear Ossie …'

He watches her pink body talking pain. Pink pain. He walks to the window and looks into a perfect day. Below, kids play around trees and kick up leaves. Their laughter wafts up.

He walks back to the bed. Back to the window. Back to the bed.

‘Is it bad, Essie? Real bad?'

‘Oh Ossie …'

‘I'll get someone —'

‘No … No' The breath comes harder, louder. The childhood sound of coins jangling in a money box.

‘Whatcha want me to do, Essie?'

She sucks in life. Her eyes roll back. He leans closer. ‘Ossie … can't bear it … any more —'

‘Essie?'

‘The pain …'

‘Oh Essie …'

‘Please, Ossie … help me … pills …'

Today on the small pink table is a small pink bottle. Pink water and a glass …

‘These?'

‘Yes.'

He feeds her one — a sip. Two — a sip. Three …

‘More.'

She closes her eyes. Below on a shelf is cotton-wool in puffs of pink. He dips one in the glass and draws it across her forehead, her cheeks. Dips again … Again …

Outside, the morning grows in colour, turning pink to gold. Along the street a troop of kids in twos straggle behind their teacher. At the lake a new adventure playground's being opened.

Her skin is yellower then sunlight. Her lips. Her cheeks.

‘Ossie …' He leans closer. ‘Hold my hand.'

He holds her hand, watches sunlight deepen along the floor, the ceiling, the low murmuring airconditioner in the wall, the slats angled on the window, the light above the bed, the instruments, the cords, wires, tubes, the buttons, red, black, green, the pump-like thing …

He hears the tick of the clock, the beat of a muffled drum …

On the bed he sits and holds her hand.

Suddenly small eyes flicker open and look into his. She sucks in breath. The coins in the money box clattering shattering …

‘Darling boy …'

‘Oh Essie, don't leave me, don't die. I got no one in the world if you leave me …'

‘I won't leave you … I'll be with you … always … Ossie, don't cry … Don't cry … You'll know I'm there … I promise'

Outside a dog barks. An aeroplane hums overhead.

‘I love you, Essie,' he says.

‘I love you … too.'

She closes her eyes. He hears her breath, feels a pressure on his hand. She's trying to squeeze it, like she used to.

‘Ossie … tell me about … wayfaring.'

‘Well, I reckon anyone'd say our wayfaring was just about the most excellent wayfaring there ever was. There was this fog, see, so existential only real synonymous wayfarers'd be round an' about in it. Like us, Essie, like you an' me … Like I said, in this real existential fog we started out —'

‘Letter …'

‘But not before we heave this very excellent letter under the front door like they do in them murder mysteries when they've gotta differentiate clues an' all … An' we roll up the highway, Essie, just you an' me an' the fog, an' ya waved ya little hanky 'cos ya were most coagulated to know if I was happy …'

‘Happy …'

‘An' Essie, I was. I don't reckon ya'll ever know how happy —'

‘Shh … It's alright …'

From below comes the muted hiss of the garbage collectors stop starting along the street. An ambulance's low-pitched wail.

‘Ossie …'

‘Yeah?'

‘Sing to me.'

‘Sing? Aw Essie, I dunno those sorta —'

‘Sing.'

And Ossie sings:

“When the red red robin

Comes bob bob bobbin'

Along … along

There'll be no more sobbin'

When he starts throbbin'

His old … sweet song

Wake up wake up you sleepy head

Get up get out of bed

Cheer up cheer up the sun is red

Live love laugh and be … happy

What if I've been blue

Now I'm walkin' through

Fields … of flowers …”

Silently the door opens and a nurse comes in. She makes a quick examination.

‘It won't be long now,' she says. ‘That's the death rattle.'

‘No,' says Ossie, ‘she's just singing.'

42

He crumbles the earth beneath his fingers, disturbing worms that wriggle under daisies and lavender.

Around him people gather, observe the silent homage.

‘W-w-we'll look a-after it, Ossie.'

‘All present and correct.'

‘Thanks Horace Major. An' Henry?'

‘Henry's with m-m-me.'

Ossie gets up, brushes off dirt and walks down the drive to the main entrance and the office of the director.

‘Kate said ya wanted to see me.'

‘Come in,' says Sheralyn. ‘Sit down.'

‘Bit dirty —'

‘Go on.'

He sits, stares at his hands, at ragged jagged nails, bruised and bitten.

‘Ossie, you've stopped biting your nails.'

‘Aw Essie.'

Fingers curl into fists.

Sheralyn's speaking, ‘I've been working out what I'm going to say. They want me to speak at the service.' She pauses. ‘Is there anything you'd like me to add?'

‘Life's what matters, Essie said.'

Sheralyn scribbles. ‘Good.'

She blows her nose, fumbles about in papers. ‘A Mr Adrian Chalmers wants to see you,' she says. ‘He rang earlier. Here's his card. I made a tentative appointment for 10 o'clock tomorrow morning. Is that okay?'

‘What's a lawyer want to see me about?'

‘I've no idea. Will I confirm it?'

‘'Spose so.'

‘And Ossie —'

‘Yeah?'

‘When you go, make sure you —'

‘Sheralyn, Essie says I look distinguished in my denim jacket.'

They smile. Neither trust themselves to speak.

The director of nursing is thumbing through a book of quotes. She glances up. She's heard a familiar sound. She goes to the door.

‘Dan!'

Sheralyn Smythe wants her man to hold her tight, so very tight. But Dan O'Donnell walks straight into the office.

‘Close the door, Sherry.'

‘What?'

‘And sit down. You don't have to hurry with that now.'

Sheralyn stares from the man to the papers strewn on her desk, to the open book of quotes.

‘Why?'

‘There's going to be a post-mortem.'

‘That's absurd.'

‘And an inquest.'

‘What?'

‘There is, Sherry. And it gets worse. Seems someone fed her morphine. Enough to kill a fuckin' horse.'

‘Dan —'

‘A nurse found it.'

‘Found what?'

‘The bottle on the bedside table. There were a lot of tablets missing. It's been sent off to forensic.'

‘Oh God!'

‘CID will be coming up.'

‘Homicide?'

‘Sherry, you're shaking.'

‘I'm cold — so very cold.'

It's as though someone has opened the window and let in a chill and bitter wind. Like the beating of wings, black and terrible.

He draws her to him.

‘I don't suppose' — Sheralyn pauses — ‘I don't suppose she could have taken them herself?'

‘They said that would have been impossible.'