Death in Brunswick (18 page)

He heard faint music from ahead. It was somehow Oriental but with western melodies, a bit like Borodin but folksier. It was unfamiliar but interesting. He abandoned himself to the movement.

Almost imperceptibly he was slowing down. He felt the first touch of fear.

Coming to a standstill, he hovered in the darkness. Dim yellow circles appeared, spinning with the music, growing brighter and then coalescing into a ring of light, unbearably bright, like a spotlight. He could see tiny motes drifting in the beam.

Into the circle came a bent figure, stooping, its hand held above its head. It was dancing.

The music grew louder and faster. Loose clothes flapping, the figure turned and capered. It raised its round head and grinned: Mustafa.

The music grew frantic. Mustafa, his feet flying, waved and beckoned. Carl tried desperately to wake up. Mustafa beckoned again, but not to Carl. Carl knew who was coming.

On the edge of the bright circle he saw its grey-white rags and one narrow tattered foot.

He woke, crying hoarsely. He lay rigid in his bed, his eyes straining into the dark. The door opened. Against the dim light, he saw the pale thin hair, the white draperies hanging—he screamed.

‘What is it, dear? Carl! Are you all right?'

‘Oh Mother! Oh
God
!'

She sat on the bed. Blindly he lifted himself and fell into her arms. She patted his head awkwardly.

‘Dear, you're shaking.'

‘I had this
dream.
Jesus, Mother, I thought you were…'

She held him, his cheek against her pendulous breast.

‘What's wrong, dear? Tell me.'

He drew back, ashamed and alarmed.

‘No, Mother, I'm all right, it was just a bad dream.'

‘What
is
it, dear? Is there something bothering you? You've been so quiet lately.'

‘I'm not sleeping too well, that's all.'

‘Do you want one of my sleeping pills, dear?'

‘I don't know, Mother, they're not too strong, are they?'

‘No, dear. I'll just give you one. You'll feel much better.' She got up and left.

He lay back, fighting his mind.

It's not fair—they sneak up on you! They wait till you're asleep.

His mother came back, switching on the light. She held the vial of pills and a glass of water.

‘I
can
only give you one, dear. I seem to be nearly out of them…here you are.'

He swallowed the pill eagerly.

‘Thanks, Mother. Sorry to wake you.'

‘That's all right. I'll wait till you go off again, shall I?'

‘No, no. Really. I'll be all right.' Carl was terrified of talking in his sleep. ‘You go back to bed…You going to church tomorrow?'

‘Yes, dear, of course…' she hesitated. ‘Why don't you come…if there's something worrying you…'

‘I might just do that.' He felt drowsy. ‘Yeah, I
will
.'

‘Dear, I
am
pleased.' She bent and kissed him. ‘Good night, Carl.'

‘Good night Mother. Listen, I…'

‘Yes, dear?'

‘Ah…nothing.'

*

Mrs Fitzgerald knelt heavily beside her bed. She pushed away the mat and planted her knees painfully on the cold lino, offering up the discomfort, her eyes on the little picture of the virgin propped on her bedside table.

She started a Rosary. As she went mechanically through the Hail Marys, she spoke directly to the picture, her mind wandering a little. She was very tired.

‘Dear Mother of God, I'm praying to you for my son. Let him be happy, please. That's all I ask. I know it's my fault—the way he is. We spoilt him when he was a little boy. I couldn't help it—he was such a dear. I remember him so well…in the garden at Sackville Street, playing with his sister. He looked so sweet. But then when he grew up he wouldn't do what I wanted. He was so naughty—and his father passed away and I couldn't control him. Holy Mother, I know he would have been a better man if I had had the money to send him through college. He could have been a doctor or a lawyer or even a chemist. Look at Doctor Lee with his beautiful suits. Now he's a chef. I know he hates it. He looks so tired, poor boy. I know he's rude to me but he can't help it. I'm an old woman. I nag him.
I
can't help it. Now he's got something awful on his mind. I mustn't be worried, Holy Mother, you know that. Please don't let it be anything shameful. I hope it's nothing to do with that girl who rings up. Sophie, is it? I do wish he was still with dear Prue. She was so sensible, and dear little Lilly—you'll look after her, won't you? It's hard when you can't see your grandchild. Let me see her before…Maybe it would be better if it happened soon, then he would have his grandfather's money. But I'm
frightened.
You know what the pain's like and the being sick…Dear Holy Mother, I'm too tired to finish the Rosary but…'

She started the Litany, losing her way in the ancient praises.

‘Tower of the Sea—no, that's not right.'

Gasping a little, she lowered her shoulders to the edge of the bed and pulled herself up onto it. Her heart was thumping irregularly, and there was a deep pain starting under her arm.

She lay breathing deeply as her doctor had taught her. She turned painfully and took a pill bottle from the bedside table, knocking over the holy picture. Her heart leapt and twisted, and a pressure built up under her chest. Crossing herself fumblingly, she slipped a tablet under her tongue.

It always seemed a miracle…Soon her heart fell into a smoother rhythm. The pain retreated—waiting.

She straightened the picture.

‘Thank you, dear…' She sighed.

Exhausted, she lay on her back. Her nightie rucked up, her thick ruined legs showing. How they throbbed!

That was old age. Lots of small pains leading up to one big one—but it was just as well it was like that, otherwise how would anyone bear the last agony without…what was the word? The sin?…
Despair.

She hauled herself up in the bed, got under the clothes and composed herself for sleep, crossing her arms on her breast as the nuns had taught her. She remembered Carl's malicious glee when he had seen her like this. He had told her, laughing, that the sisters had wanted you to do this to stop you…she couldn't even think about what he had said…sometimes he was very bad.

She reached over to the table again, for her sleeping pills.

Only three left? She was puzzled. Still, her memory wasn't very good these days…

She took a pill and turned out the light.

As the drowsiness came, she thought, as she often did, of her heart attack. With the pill doing its work she could think about that time without horror.

She had been to her brother John's for dinner and her daughter had worried her all night, snapping and baiting her son-in-law. They hadn't been happy together for some time.

She had smoked too much and yes, she supposed she had had too much wine. She felt ill and they went home early. When she had got home she had been sick. But not just once…terrible bouts of vomiting till she had groaned like an animal. She remembered with shame how she had been sick over her daughter's hands as they held a bowl.

Then the bad pain started…like…like…she knew it was stupid but it felt just like someone was trying to squeeze a tennis ball through a narrow pipe in her chest; at every push, the pain grew worse.

Then the ambulance had arrived. The men called her ‘darling' and carried her down the stairs, flopping like an old doll.

Then the oxygen and the needles and she knew she wasn't going to die just yet…And it was funny, but it was only then that she could pray properly. It all seemed like years ago…but it wasn't.

She turned her head and looked at the luminous crucifix on the wall; her son-in-law had given it to her.

‘Such bad taste, but he's a good man—I'm sorry, our Lord, but I can't pray to you tonight. I don't feel I
know
you.' Anyway, she thought, her inhibitions weakened by the sleeping pill, you probably worried your mother too!

*

At ten the next morning, Mrs Fitzgerald was putting on her face for Mass. She squinted shortsightedly into the steamy mirror and wiped it with an annoyed gesture.
Really, this bathroom is a disgrace. Still it's better than when I came.

She had put up a new shower curtain and cleaned the crust of ages from the bath, but it was still squalid.

She smoothed a thick layer of liquid make-up over her nose and cheeks and down over her chins.
Dear, I am getting stout again. But I
do
look better.

After the heart attack her flesh had melted away alarmingly, leaving the skin hanging in ugly folds.

She put on her lipstick.
What a pretty mouth I had…It was so soft.

Now her lips seemed to have shrunk and thinned; this puzzled her since she still had all her own teeth.
I must get that boy to the dentist.

Powdering her face vigorously, she looked at her reflection.
Nothing the matter with that!

She fluffed up her thin hair, sprayed it and put on her dressing gown.

Going through the kitchen, on her way to dress, she lit a cigarette.
Where's that boy?

‘Time to get up dear…we'll be late.'

There was silence from Carl's room; she knocked briskly and went into her bedroom.

Opening her underwear drawer, she considered and then took out her best long-line corset. Puffing a little, she eased it on…how it did hurt! Grunting as she pulled it up, her eyes caught the mild, compassionate gaze from the bedside table.

I can't very well offer this up, now can I? It's very uncomfortable—still, I don't want the boy to be ashamed of his old mother.

She rearranged herself in the lycra and pulled on her support stockings. She caught sight of her back view in the wardrobe mirror.

Oh dear, I do look a figure of fun. Still, with a nice frock…it's not every day your son takes you to church. After all these years!

She put on a grey silk dress, her pearls, and a pair of very high heels. Tottering a little, she went out to wake Carl.

She knocked on his door again.

‘Yeah, yeah,
all right
Mother, I'm up, I won't be long.'

She sat down in the living room and looked around with some satisfaction; the curtains were clean and the furniture polished. There was a vase of fresh flowers on a stereo speaker. A new rug covered the grimy sea-grass.

That boy really
needs
me.
She thought of the previous night.
He was rather sweet, just like when he was a little boy. What nightmares he had then—how he used to cry! He still needs a cuddle, even at his age…

Simple happiness filled her.

And now he's coming to church. If only he'd hurry—
I'll
get him going!

She smiled to herself and slipped a cassette into the stereo: Mahler's Fifth.

As the trumpets swelled, Carl flung open his bedroom door.

‘Oh Mother! For Christ's sake! You know I can't bear that crap.'

He was wearing his blue shirt and narrow dark tie, and his grey trousers.

‘Well, it did hurry you up, didn't it dear? You
do
look nice, but you haven't had a shave. Off you go—quickly now!'

Carl peered at her.

‘You look very chirpy this morning, Mother.'

‘Yes, dear, I'm pleased you're coming to Mass. But I
don't
want to be late, so do hurry.'

Carl went out.

Still, it's only just round the corner.

She lit a Rothman's Plain and sat waving her plump hands to the music.

Carl came back, his pale face marked with the weals of a hasty shave. He flicked the off button on the stereo.

‘All right, Mother, got everything? Let's go.'

‘Just my bag, dear, and my pills…be a good boy and get them for me. On my bedside table.'

Carl started into her bedroom. The phone rang by his ear. He flinched and stared at it…

‘Aren't you going to answer it?'

‘Yes, yes, Mother.'

He picked up the receiver. It was Sophie.

‘Hello, Carl?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Listen, Carl, I got to see you, I got to tell you something…'

‘Look, I can't for a while, I told you, my mother…'

‘No, this is important.'

A pang of fear shot through him—she
couldn't
know anything.

‘What is it? Tell me now, for Christ's sake.'

‘Carl, I missed my period…and I'm never late…Look, I've got to see you. I'm at Auntie Martha's. She's out…can you come over? I told you about Dad and that. If I have to tell him…You said you…Carl, I
got
to leave home!'

Carl looked at his mother; she was sitting placidly, not listening in a marked manner. The first real hatred rose in him.
You fucking old…
He calmed himself.

‘OK, Sophie, look…I'll take care of it! I can't talk now, I have to take Mother to church. Ring me later, OK? Everything'll be all right…trust me.'

‘Yeah, OK Carl, but you'll fix it up, won't you? I got no money since the club closed…and I can't get another job.' She was crying.

He felt protective, lustful, fearful and very angry all at once. His voice shook slightly.

‘Look,
don't worry
, I'll take care of everything…ring me later.'

He put the phone down and stood staring at his mother.

This's all I need. No money. No job. Sophie needs an…And…and that other thing…And this bloody old bitch is still hanging round! Christ! I'd like to…!

He raised that icy numbness…

‘What's wrong, dear? Are you all right? You are coming, aren't you? Who was that?'

‘It was only Sophie, Mother,' he said calmly, ‘you know, that girl from work. She's in a bit of trouble, she…'