Patricia and Malise Read online

  No more but best wishes for your great tasks. I will endeavour to take a different route when I bicycle through Lucca – until I know you are no longer living there for I hate the idea of hurting you further. I will make enquiries at the bar. Yours in deep regret for any misunderstandings. Patricia.’

  Had his letters in some way ‘put her off’?

  He had taken much trouble over them. Even reminded her of his trousers. It was unimaginable. All his thoughts were centred around her. Not that he wanted Andrea to leave her. God forbid! The last thing he needed was to find himself supporting a wife on his meagre income – possibly a child too – if he turned out to constitute the guilty party in a divorce.

  He had no idea what to do next or how to handle his desires which were still exceedingly strong.

  Surely, he would find her on her bicycle. There were not that many cycling routes through the ancient city. Were he to track her down, then there was every chance that, upon sighting him, (particularly with the two tightened notches) she would melt in a moment.

  He wrote again.

  ‘My very dearest Patricia. Whoa there! Your letter landed me with a bomb shell. I can only believe that you have been struck by pangs of conscience. I respect you for that. You have a delightful husband and I have no wish to hold myself responsible for breaking up a happy family such as yours. However, I don’t see why we may not continue to meet – when it suits your domestic life of course – and continue to pursue the wonders that we were able to provide for each other. ‘

  Many screech marks later, he finished the letter by telling her more of his self-sacrificing experiences.

  He stalked off again to the post office, pleased with the epistle. Pleased, too, that he hadn’t humbled himself. Mc Hips were a proud people.

  ‘.

  34

  It was aggravating to see Christian behaving in a contented fashion. He drove in and out of the gate in his ‘old banger’ and enjoyed moving furniture around in preparation for the great changes in their household. Malise began to have doubts as to what these changes were in aid of – apart from the advantage of preserving his property for the future with Christian there to look after things and an income for letting out most of the house. That income was needed for upkeep – garden and maintenance. His father’s own money was to pay for what was left of the old couples’ lives at The Grid.

  He read and re-read Patricia’s letter. What particularly flabbergasted him was her writing of avoiding him in Lucca. Not even a last meeting. He wondered if Antonio had suspected anything on the occasions when his mother left him alone in an unlit house to spend euphoric hours on the prickly mattress.

  What he refused to accept was that his charms had faded in her mind.

  He did not hear from her again.

  Weeks passed.

  School term, in Italy, had begun. It irked him that he still paid rent, albeit very little, for the apartment high up among the church bells.

  Nights with Christian were a torment. His brother snored loudly and contentedly – no demons crippling his heart.

  They were no longer on speaking terms but each man had a Teddy bear at his side. The floor was covered in the same drear linoleum that had provided a base for their early togetherness.

  Malise’s efforts to sleep were riddled with pain and anxiety. He, who had deemed himself equal to any crisis, was now helpless.

  He woke early each morning.

  One morning in particular.

  Christian was still breathing like a grampus and Malise noticed that his own slippers were not beside his bed as usual although his brother’s were in place. He had, it transpired, left them in the bathroom. Out of character.

  He also began to worry that he had misplaced deeds of the house and other papers left by the solicitor for him to re-read.

  He did find the papers and his confidence was partially restored. These slight aberrations, he supposed, were the direct result of shock.

  One evening there was a kerfuffle. Alyson mislaid her pills. The ones that were normally propped up beside the clock on the mantelpiece. Malise did not remember throwing them into a dustbin and the mystery was never fully resolved although he had a dim inkling of his own responsibility concerning the drama. He had always despised medication. New prescriptions had to be sent for and Alyson was fretful and accusatory.

  Christian’s disenchantment with him had not taken root until after the war and it came to him that, apart from that, he had never been rejected; not by Mr Scarlatti, Dawn, debutantes, foreign lasses. Not by Patricia – until now. Something like pandemonium overtook him; deep uncertainty; unhappiness, fear and acute panic. His hands shook and his feet tightened into cramp. Sometimes he fed recklessly on illusions as he reeled emotionally about. Blood pounded through his veins. Hot and cold. Rejection petrified him.

  Antonio must have snooped. Reported matters to his father. His father was a smoker; neurotic. A showdown had followed and he, Malise, had not been there to comfort Patricia. It was not, then, a case of rejection but a circumstantial case of discovery.

  One evening he forgot to pull the plug after going to the lavatory. Later he returned to flush it.

  On a shelf in the downstairs hall squatted a fat, black, heavy telephone with a big dial on the front of it. If making a trunk call, (anything other than local) those wishing to get in touch had to finger an O to get through to the exchange. During a ‘trunk’ call pips sounded if the talking went on for over three minutes. People often rang off very suddenly on hearing these pips as it meant they were going to have to start paying all over again. Alyson, when talking to her bed-bound cousin (after six in the evening when words cost less) nearly always cut the conversation short; mid-word. ‘Bye!’ she would scream as she dropped the receiver like a toasted chestnut.

  To dial a number abroad it usually took ages to get through. Malise considered the idea and one afternoon, when Alyson had lumbered into the garden and everyone else seemed to be out of the way, he asked the exchange to put him through to Patricia’s Lucca number.

  Her bewitching voice answered ‘Pronto.’

  Malise shouted ‘Hello. Malise. Malise Mc Hip here.’ But she hung up on the instant.

  Alyson had just returned, grumbling, to the hall.

  ‘I hope you’re all right dear. Has the telephone been playing up? I see you are close beside it. They say it’s been affected by the weather.’

  Malise glared at her, pushed past and walked out of the front door. From the gravel, beside the giant cannonball, he picked up a large, colourful pheasant’s feather and walked with it, through the farmyard and past the barn where, in wintry weather, he had scrambled about with the teenage Dawn. He climbed the style and wandered into a field where he saw a large number of cowpats. Searching carefully, he decided on the biggest one in view, strode towards it and placed the feather into its middle – standing it upright. Then he returned – more or less satisfied with something but he knew not what.

  There never had been a television set in the house. The wireless was the one that had entertained Christian as he listened to Just William and Monday Night at Eight O’clock – but seemed to be broken. No light relief.

  With glassy eyes, he re-read Mr Scarlatti’s letter and drew a ring around the last sentence ‘no one has lost what I have lost – all early hopes.’ Malise found it ironic that his hopes had not even been particularly early ones.

  Ruggles was stationed in the piazza beneath the high apartment for which he still paid rent but, for no reason that he understood, he did not return there. Hopes for Patricia had all but fizzled out.

  With the help of the solicitor, muddled thinking from a grumpy Christian and kind neighbours, the old couple were moved into The Grid. The day before this happened, a small furniture van arrived to fetch belongings destined for the old people’s home. For some unspoken reason, the old man insisted that the painting of Malise as a child was to be amongst the possessions he wished to keep with him. A hazy reminder of his wife
and her final icon. As it was about to be dismantled, Malise stood before the picture in his mother’s bedroom; his eyes watering. His body shook and he sobbed as he pleaded ‘Patricia, for Patricia.’

  ‘No, Malise. It’s to go to The Gwid.’ Christian reasoned to no avail as Malise found unexpected words.

  ‘Mother. Mother. Patricia is your daughter. I am her father. Please understand.’

  The picture, notwithstanding Malise’s grovelling, was removed with resolute skill by lads in overalls.

  Christian summoned the local doctor who ordered Malise a strong sedative and sent him to bed. He remained there as his childhood portrait was removed and re-hung in his father’s new bedroom.

  He stayed, on the doctor’s advice, mildly sedated for weeks and reverted to childhood, but not childhood as he had lived it, for now he cried and uttered in a squeaky voice. He was muddled, futureless and hopelessly in love with a dream. He was a father. His boy’s name was Antonio. His mother the girl with curling lips and a pink ribbon. Malise had metamorphosised into an irresponsible, wanting creature.

  A single man who worked for the Air Force rented the main part of the farm house – accepting the arrangement that Malise and Christian share their own bedroom, small sitting room and kitchenette at the back.

  Malise’s wits went quickly – but not, exactly, by the day. Some weeks were better than others. On a good day he wandered in the garden as autumn and then winter came round – believing himself to be a rationalist and frenziedly anti-clerical.

  Christian became his warden and, before long his ‘memowy.’

  At night the younger brother read aloud from tracts that still lay beside his bed – in honour of their late mother.

  Malise sometimes interrupted fearing that he had left a spotted handkerchief in a wheelbarrow at the foot of the shrubbery.

  Most days he took to walking briskly, and with his head held high as in the past, to the village shop where he bought large bunches of ripe bananas. They became speckled and slimy pretty soon. Then he would take them and bury them, using a heavy spade, to the bottom of the shrubbery near to where he had fought back, crawling about with a bushman’s saw to lay the enemy low.

  At times he appeared to be no more than a shapeless, speedless body of anguish.

  Once only, he developed a desire to make love to Christian as they lay on their hard beds in the dark. Neither man was young; Christian flabby in striped pyjamas. Malise yearning for any for any form of gratification.

  ‘Would you like to try it again Christian?’

  ‘No, thank you Malise. Never again.’

  Christian was in command.

  35

  The old people settled at The Grid. Alyson played bridge during most hours of the day whilst her husband snoozed.

  It was not the merriest of Christmases that year. Christian drove Malise to the old people’s home where Alyson awaited them at the entrance.

  ‘Daddy’s not feeling very Christmassy I’m afraid. They say it’s the time of year. I’ve ordered turkey and plum pudding but it’s to be eaten cold – staff are short over the holiday.’

  Malise stood stiffly and said nothing as Christian gave his stepmother an unwilling kiss.

  Nobody spoke much during lunch, although Alyson and Christian did their best to disguise the silence of the others. The father was completely gaga.

  By a quarter past two, the brothers had returned to their scanty quarters at the back of the house. Cold lunch had not taken long to polish off.

  About six weeks later a letter came addressed to Malise. It was opened by Christian and came from Giovanni, the one to have put Malise in touch, in the first place, with the Lucca apartment. He had, he said, written in Italian but a kind friend had translated it for him into English.

  ‘Dear Mr Mc Hip.’ In earlier days they had been on Christian name terms. ‘I write to you in some distress. The apartment in Lucca that you rent from my cousin seems to have been empty for many months. No rent has been paid and several of your possessions are still there. Books, a wireless, camping equipment (including a folding tent), some samples of brickwork and a camera. Then outside, is an interesting car, an old Lagonda, which takes up space for others. Nobody knows where the key is for this car. My cousin is anxious to re-let the apartment and neighbours are getting upset about the car. The spare key to the apartment has been kept by a kind store holder in the large piazza and they had, on my cousin’s instructions, let themselves in to see if your things were still there. Please can you reply to me here at the British Museum and explain this mystery.

  Christian answered the letter, apologised, told of Malise’s dementia and reassured Giovanni that the rent was to be paid and that he, possibly accompanied by Malise , would make plans to go to Lucca to sort things out as soon as it was possible to do so.

  Malise stood, rigid and pale, and almost appealingly submissive as Christian plotted the journey. Most of the time his mind seemed to be dead blank. Sometimes it stirred and he added a comment or two.

  ‘Yes. Lucca. Very pleasant. Bells. Many bells.’

  But he was of no practical use and Christian went ahead showing masterly power – trimming his brother’s hair, shaving his face and cooking his meals. Malise was still able to scramble into his clothes and to use the lavatory where he nearly always forgot to pull the plug.

  Before winter was over the brothers went together to Lucca. No key to the apartment was to be found amongst Malise’s few possessions and Christian suspected him of having thrown it away in one of his rare but recurring fits of petulance. Malise was certainly in no state to travel alone and Christian enjoyed taking full charge.

  In the town they met with the store holder who kept the spare key. Christian borrowed it with gratitude and the help of a dictionary. Malise almost galloped up the seventy-nine steps with glazed but shining eyes as though something tugged at him. Once there they were deafened by bells and in amongst an unmade bed, kitchen equipment and detached oddments including brick samples. Food and rubbish, it transpired, had earlier been removed by the neighbours who held the spare key. Malise stood by the window and, ape-eyed, looked at the basket attached to the rope as, Christian with unprecedented practical skill, put Malise’s belongings together with the intention of wrapping and posting them during the days to come. He located the key to Ruggles under the ancient brick where it had been hidden, pocketed it and planned to decide, later, what on earth to do with the wretched car.

  Malise spoke once or twice but never using more than a word at a time.

  ‘Comestibles. Ruggles. Tent. Tent. Tent.’

  Between tasks, wrapping and posting – two crates sent by sea – they ate sandwiches and drank coffee at the bar in the main piazza – the one outside which Patricia had fallen from her bike. Now they sat indoors as winter was not over. Although two of the waiters greeted him with warmth, Malise showed no signs of recognition. He just sat and, mindlessly, munched slowly on a sandwich.

  One day, late in the morning, Christian ordered slices of pizza to be warmed up as Malise stared at the rails of a staircase that wound up to a sign saying ‘Cabinetto.’

  There was a gust, a whirlwind. Christian turned and saw a boy, no more than nine or ten years old, race towards Malise calling ‘Sir. Sir. Where were you? I’ll find Mamma. She’s talking with her friend, at the back there. Drinking coffee.’

  Having given his order, Christian returned to where Malise, unconscious of the excitation with which he had been greeted, sat. The boy had raced to retrieve his mother and was dragging her back towards the object of her mortal terror.

  Patricia, clearly heavily pregnant, nodded a polite greeting towards each man. It was not long before she took stock and realised that Malise had no idea who she was; what escapades they had shared or how great had been her dread of seeing him again. All four, including the boy, were silent and confused.

  Malise had mentioned to Patricia, whilst flailing in the tent, of a younger brother with a feeble temperament. No feeb
leness now. He took note of the size of her stomach and wondered. Dates fitted. A Mc Hip in there?

  Christian smiled. Patricia, stunned and frightened, told her son that they must leave immediately. She seized his hand and whipped him towards the door as the boy nagged. ‘Sir. Capitano. Why did he not know us? Who was that silly man with him? He kept laughing at his own jokes. Were they jokes?’

  Faster and faster, she tugged him away, fearing her own fantasies. Had she really, less than a year ago, rolled about in a tent with that mad man? Left her son in his charge? Quite clearly he was demented. Had he been to Lucca since the tightening of the notch in his trousers? In that case she had been extremely fortunate not to have bumped into him before. Maybe his ugly brother had come especially to rescue him.

  Did she hold any responsibility for the loss of his sanity?

  The pizza, sizzling, was placed before the two men. Malise, still ape-eyed, asked his brother ‘Who was that charming woman? Did she know me?’

  It was the longest sentence he had spoken in many months but Christian found no answer to it. He was occupied in confirming dates in his head. How lucky, as it turned out, that Malise, before losing his wits, had confided in him on the topic of his love affair the previous summer. Had told of a son called ‘Antonio’. It all fitted.

  36

  Patricia’s terror of bumping into Malise in Lucca had been so fierce that she barely considered her own peculiar behaviour during the summer holiday. Aberration surely. After his letters arrived she did, at least, know that he had been crawling about in the undergrowth in Hertfordshire and tightening notches in his trousers. He had left her with no impression, though, that he might not return to Lucca at any moment.

  She shuddered, trembled and her nerves quivered as she bicycled through the town wearing a black scarf and with a beret, hiding her hair, pulled well down – keeping her head as low as she dared – in terror of falling off again and of hearing his formal voice and a touch of jest saying ‘Scusisignorina. I believe we have met before.’