The Late Hector Kipling (25 page)

‘Cos it hasn’t been sold!’

Jesus fucking Christ, that one hurt my ear. My guts are full of riot police.

‘Well, just tell him it is, Mum!’ Now I’m shouting.

She hangs up.

I ring straight back. No answer. I try again. No answer.

Another flash of lightning. Another crack of thunder. Hail like hot coals.

I try again. This time she picks up and gets right down to it.

‘Hector, what happened on the night of your show?’

‘What do you mean what happened?’

‘I spoke to Eleni . . .’ She lets it hang in the air. And it really does hang. It hangs magnificently.

‘And?’

‘You haven’t spoken to Eleni once since she went to Greece.’

‘It’s the Cretan phone system, Mum.’

‘She said that someone had damaged one of your paintings.’

‘Oh that,’ I say, a little relieved that she’s not back onto the bath incident. ‘Yeah, some bloke threw something at
God Bolton
, but it’ll be fine.’

‘So then I rang Lenny and he said that you’d disappeared.’

‘Er, yeah. I suppose I did.’

‘So where have you been? And who’s the lass whose bath you were in?’

‘Mum, have I mentioned a lass?’

‘No, but you’ve mentioned a bath.’

I take the deepest breath I think I’ve ever taken.

‘Mum, you are so not on the right track here.’

‘Why haven’t you phoned Eleni?’

‘I told you, it’s the—’

‘Her mother is dying.’

‘Mum! I know that! Don’t you think I don’t know that?’

‘So what with not calling me, whose husband’s on his deathbed, and not calling Eleni, whose mother’s on her deathbed, what is it that you’ve been up to that’s more important?’

I might as well be in a small, smoky room, with an old Anglepoise lamp shining in my face.

‘Up to?’ I stutter.

‘There’s a lass.’

‘Mum, there’s not a lass.’

‘There is, there’s a lass.’

‘Not a lass.’

‘A lass.’

‘Mum, this is getting surreal now.’

‘Don’t use your big words on me.’

‘You know what surreal means, Mum. We’ve talked about it a million times. Salvador Dalí, that mad Spanish fella.’

‘Ooh, don’t talk to me about him. This is no time to be talking to me about him. He once did a number two in the corner of his studio and painted it.’

She’s been reading the colour supplements again.

‘Yeah. And why shouldn’t he?’

‘Listen, Hector,’ she barks, really meaning business, ‘let me tell you one thing – you are not going to do a big number two in the corner of this family and paint it. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of all this art. Why can’t things just be normal? What’s wrong with just seeing things the way we see them? Isn’t that enough?’

‘Mum, we’ve been over this. You know it’s—’

‘Now you’d better come home and explain yourself She’s hissing. I’ve never heard Mum hiss. ‘You’d better ring Eleni and explain yourself – if you can. You’d better get rid of this trollop with the bath and sort out what’s important.’

‘Mum, there is no trollop.’

‘Of course there’s a trollop.’

‘Why does there have to be a trollop?’

‘A mother knows these things.’

I double over, and then squat in the phone box. ‘How do mothers know these things?’ I snap, genuinely curious.

‘So there
is
a trollop!’

‘She’s not a trollop.’

‘Oh my God!’

‘She’s American.’

‘Oh no, my God!’

‘She’s American and she’s really—’

The line goes dead.

Well, that went well.

Idea For a Piece: Record all conversations with Mum from now on. Transfer them to Dictaphone tapes. A hundred Dictaphone machines on the gallery floor, full volume, all playing Mum. Call it
Love
.

I walk back to the bench, sit down in the weather, and weep for fifteen minutes.

I walk, through the hail, to the newsagent on Beak Street and buy three more phone cards. In the next half hour I call back at least ten times. There is no answer.

Let me say this: I know a lot of things. I read and talk and listen and watch and I know a lot of things. But I don’t know this: I don’t know what to do.

Rosa’s not a trollop. Rosa’s a poet. How am I gonna tell Mum that Rosa’s a poet? How am I gonna tell Mum that Rosa’s hand around my throat, squeezing the sorry life out of me, as a million other sorry lives were pumped out of me, is worth all this duplicity? How am I gonna say all that to Mum? Well, I’m not, am I? I’m obviously not.

What am I gonna say? That I love this woman? And wait till she meets her? Wait till Mum meets Rosa? Mum wouldn’t like Rosa. Mum loves Eleni. Mum would detest Rosa. And why does it all matter? Christ, I need to see Bianca. I really need to see Bianca.

‘Hello? Bianca?’

‘Hector?’

‘I’m in a phone box in Soho.’

‘It’s Bianca.’

‘Bianca, I know, I just called you.’

‘Hector, your show was magnificent. You are such a talent. Those faces!’

‘Bianca, listen.’

‘And Eleni, that glorious painting of Eleni. That was my favourite.’

‘Bianca, I want to speak to you about Rosa.’

‘Oh no, Hector. That girl I met? She’s not well.’

What the fuck’s she talking about? ‘How do you know she’s not well?’

‘A therapist knows these things.’

‘Mum!’

‘What?’

‘Bianca!’

‘Did you just call me Mum?’

‘No!’ I want to die. I want lightning to strike me in the groin. Right here, right now.

‘I need to talk about this girl.’

‘I’ll say one thing, Hector. You should forget about her—’

I hang up and march out of the Square towards Piccadilly. The pavement rushes past like I’m on a bicycle.

I can’t forget about her. I want to forget about her. I so want to forget about her. But if forgetting is just not happening, then how the fuck do you forget? By thinking about forgetting? But thinking about the thing you want to forget only enforces the . . . Oh, I don’t fucking know! Yes, yes. I’ll forget her. But I may be gone some time. If you want me, I’ll be down the pub.

BOX STREET, BOW, LONDON

I’m lying on top of Eleni’s piano, plucking the hair out of my eyebrows. Soon there will be nothing left.

I’ve managed to put Rosa out of my mind. No, really, I have. The night was a dreamless sleep and when I woke up I woke up suddenly and leapt straight out of bed. I felt a little raw and blistered for the first half hour, but then I took a shower and even sang a little George Formby ditty, ‘With My Little Stick Of Blackpool Rock’. I’ve hardly thought about her at all. I had a breakfast of orange juice and toast, and I’ve decided to cut back on the booze. Maybe even stop altogether. In fact yes – stop altogether. No more fucking booze. No more fags. Well, less fags. Let’s not go mad. No more booze and less fags. And try to eat some vegetables. Maybe take some vitamin supplements. Do some push-ups.
Call Eleni. Call Mum. Maybe fly out to see Eleni. There’s nothing stopping me flying out to be with Eleni. But what if Dad gets worse? What if Mum’s stopped picking up the phone and Monger can’t get through? Or what if Monger’s just some top-quality fruitcake and just went home the other day? Or what if he does buy the fucking settee and it makes no difference? What if Dad’s beyond help? Christ, what if he dies? I don’t want Dad to die. I don’t want anyone to die. Really, I don’t. All that stuff I said before, I didn’t mean it. I can’t fly off to Crete with my father in hospital. I should go home to Blackpool. There’s nothing stopping me. I could call a cab right now. Why not? But what if Eleni’s mother dies and I’m in Blackpool? I don’t want Sofia to die. I don’t want anyone to die. I only want Rosa to die. To die in my head, or my heart or my gut or my groin, or wherever the fuck it is that she’s set out her stall. But it’s all right. She’s on her way out. She’s fading. I’ve hardly been thinking about her. I’m not thinking about her. And even if I do find myself thinking about her I’ve developed a discipline of simply punching myself in the head three times and screaming ‘Get out!’ Which seems to be working.

I might just sit down on the sofa with a cup of apple-and-ginger tea, and read a book. Here we go. Someone recommended Paul Auster’s
Leviathan
so I bought it a few weeks ago and now I’m plumping up the cushions and boiling the kettle. I haven’t had a fag yet. I’m doing really well. I’ve been up for two hours and I haven’t had a fag. So I suppose that it’s all right to have one now. Yeah, I’ll just have one now, whilst I’m waiting for the kettle to boil.

Fuck, I feel a bit dodgy now. That tea and those three fags have turned my guts into a swamp. I might just have to lie down. Whatever. At least I’m not thinking about Rosa. She hasn’t come into my head once. Thank Christ for that, because it was really starting to worry me that I was obsessing about her so much. Much better now. Now that she’s only hanging around in the wings. When I was obsessing about her she was right there, centre stage, beautifully lit. But now she’s hardly there at all. Soon she’ll be gone and I’ll lock the stage door behind her.
Soon she’ll be out of here and I can get on with the day. In fact I think she is gone. Almost gone. Maybe she’s completely gone. Yeah, yeah, you know what? I think she’s completely gone.

Leviathan
, chapter one: ‘Six days ago, a man blew himself up by the side of a road in northern Wisconsin.’

Oh Christ.

I’ll put on some music. I’ll have a fag and put on some music. I think there’s a couple of beers in the fridge. It’s early but it might take away this gut ache. This is not a good day to give up the booze. I’m doing myself no favours, giving up the booze today. I put on some Gregorian chants and lie back on the sofa. There we go. Better now. I stare at the black spot on the ceiling. I close my eyes and wonder how Monger’s getting on. I’ve become quite accomplished at spotting when lucid thought turns into dream, and it’s turning right now. One minute I can see Monger ringing Mum and Dad’s bell, sniffing the plants in the porch. I can see Mum opening the door and inviting him in. I can see him stopping to look at the watercolours in the hallway and complimenting Mum on her hairdo. But then Monger floats up to the ceiling and can’t get down. Mum goes and gets the broom. She ushers him along the ceiling but when he reaches the stairs he flips over onto his front and slides up to the top floor. The landing ceiling’s too high for her to get at him with the broom, but it’s OK cos Dad comes out of the bedroom and starts firing at him with a tiny bow and arrow until he hits home. Monger bursts and falls to the floor. Mum collects the debris in a bucket and fries it up with some onions. They both sit there in front of
You’ve Been Framed
, forking bits of rubber Monger into their green, purple-toothed mouths. But this is not a dream. It might have been a dream, had the doorbell not rung.

Well, everyone else has had a good cry, why not Lenny? I never thought I’d live to see the day, but there he is, slumped in the chair, wet bald head, like a buoy in a storm. Who’d have thought.

‘I’ll kill her. I will fucking kill her.’

‘Who will you kill?’

‘Who do you think? Brenda.’

‘Lenny mate, calm down, calm down. What’s happened? What did she do? Just tell me so I can help.’

‘She’s . . . she . . .’

There’s a long thread of snot hanging down between his left thumb and the floor.

‘She what?’

‘She’s destroyed the piece.’

‘The piece?’

‘I got home after your show the other night and she’s chucked something all over my settee piece, blood or something, she’s slashed the cushions and smashed the window. She’s a fucking head case. She’s totally fucking out of her mind, Hec.’

I take a long drag on my cigarette and blow out three blue rings. Well, well. There goes one problem.

‘Why’s she gone and done that?’ I say.

‘Cos she’s seriously, dangerously fucking insane, I’m telling you.’

‘But there must be a reason.’

Lenny straightens up and his beautiful face is so sodden with tears and snot, I take Eleni’s tissues from the piano and hand him one.

‘She thinks that I’ve been fucking Rosa.’

I catch my breath. My brain sprouts whiskers and I catch it again. ‘Rosa?’

‘Yeah.’

‘B-but . . . how does she know about Rosa?’

‘She doesn’t know about Rosa. There’s nothing to know. Rosa was round my house the other night and she . . . she came round so that we could go to your show together and she said she had to get changed. She had a bag with her and she had to get changed. And somewhere along the way a bra’s been left behind. So . . . so Brenda comes home and finds this bra.’

A bra? I didn’t see any bra. I scoured that house for things like bras. I didn’t see a bra. Did I? Maybe I did see a bra but thought it was Brenda’s. Obviously Brenda’s more attuned to these things. Obviously Brenda knows a foreign bra when she comes across one.

‘A bra?’

‘Rosa’s fucking bra. So I try to explain and she’ – he’s really breaking up now – ‘and she disappears upstairs. I can hear her screaming and thrashing. And then I hear her footsteps . . .’ Sob, sob, sob. Come on, Lenny, come on. Get on with it. I need to know all this. ‘I hear her footsteps on the stairs, and then I hear the front door slam. I go upstairs, right up to the top floor. And there’s my piece. There’s my fucking piece in fucking tatters. Fucking ruined. Stained, slashed, smashed, fucking destroyed. Completely fucking decimated. I’m not going back. I’m never gonna go back.’ And he lies down on the floor and curls up into a ball. A big, tall, bald, sobbing ball. Who would have thought.

I blow out some more smoke rings. I have one question.

‘So did you?’

‘Did I what?’

‘Did you fuck Rosa or not?’

‘No!’ snaps Lenny. ‘Listen to what I’m saying. She just had to get changed. She went into the bedroom to change. I stayed downstairs. Don’t you start, I’ve been through all this with Brenda. She just got changed and somehow left a bra behind. I don’t fucking know. How do you explain that to your bird and expect her to believe it?’

‘Well, I suppose . . .’ What is it that I suppose? I’m not really thinking straight. I know he needs advice, but I’m not sure that I have any. ‘Well, I suppose . . . er . . . I suppose that it is a little bit suspicious having a girl round at the house in the first place.’