The Exhibitionist, page 20
Her daughters almost caught them. She should be cold with fear.
‘So how are you going to fix it?’ Leah’s yelling, as if Lucia has simply lost her key. It would make Ray furious, disharmony in earshot of his cronies, but Ray’s not here.
He bullies you, she imagines Priya saying, she of the firm upper arms and clean elegant flat. He betrayed you at the worst time in your life. Why should you care?
And it’s this, the thought of Priya witnessing the mess that is her life, which gives Lucia fire.
‘That’s enough shouting,’ says Jess’s mother. ‘Come here, both of you.’
So Jess does, and Leah. There is a strange stolen moment, as if they’ve dodged an accident and have a sliver of life to spare; Jess can picture them all without her. She clears her throat; Leah’s head turns, swift as a prison guard’s.
‘So?’ Jess says. ‘Is he?’
‘Is he what?’
Gillian’s right there. Jess pushes through it. She says: ‘Bad? Or, you know, “bad”. The Dr Mac sort of bad.’
Leah explodes. ‘Don’t you fucking start on that whole “real pain” bollocks. You are heartless, yeah, that’s what he always says, and he’s right. After so much hard work, exhausting physical, emotional labour, artistry . . . He’s just mounted an entire show, hasn’t he?’ She’s waving her finger, getting closer; roses of loathing bloom on her cheekbones. ‘Didn’t you notice, or was your head too far up your Puritan arse? You seriously don’t . . . How can you stand there saying that? How could pain like his be fake?’
‘Of course he feels it,’ says their mother mildly, but Leah blasts on.
‘You have never understood,’ she says. ‘Any of you. Or even tried . . . How much he suffers, and cares, and . . .’
‘Mum’s done ev—’
But Leah is in her groove. ‘He is the m—’
‘Hang on,’ says Gillian and they all shut up. ‘So, sorry, are we talking about his exhibition now? I know this is sensitive stuff, but really, we need to discuss it. The party line.’
Leah, standing straight, chin up, stares at the infidel. ‘What,’ she asks neutrally, ‘do you mean?’
Jess thinks: Careful. Her mother has put her hand on Gillian’s arm.
‘Well, it’s obvious,’ Gillian says, and Jess feels her eyebrows lift. ‘How to . . . handle it.’
‘Why would it need handling?’
‘For the . . . because . . . you know.’
‘No. Say it,’ says Leah, taking another step towards her aunt.
‘Because the exhibition wasn’t quite, it was very . . .’
‘What?’
Gillian is in peril, and she’s on her own. Leah looks powdery orange-white in the fake lamplight. The hem of her dark dress and her tights are muddied; there’s something dark on her hand. She narrows her eyes at Gillian.
‘Modest,’ says Gillian. ‘Shall we not fudge it?’
There is a noisy London silence; sirens, shop-grilles, laughing. A bottle breaks; everyone is always ready for danger, the shout in the night. Or, thinks Jess, maybe that’s me. She glances at her mother. She’s been known to pace, to do what might almost count as wringing of hands. But not tonight. She is, thinks Jess, only half here.
Leah is saying to Gillian: ‘Oh, is that what you think?’
‘Come on,’ says Gillian. ‘With the greatest respect, they were hardly—’
‘That show, those pictures that you’re mocking, cost h—’
‘I’m not—’
‘Cost him blood,’ she says. ‘Exhaustion. You wouldn’t understand.’
‘I’m s—’
‘This,’ Leah says, her voice shaking, ‘is his monument.’
Jess presses her lips together, looks away. There is a clamminess to the air; she is frightened for her sister, who loves and hates too much.
‘You think,’ Leah says to Gillian, ‘that you’re above us, don’t you?’
‘No! Of c—’
‘You think Dad owes you for the house.’
‘Well . . .’
‘He told me. It makes him sleepless; he has ulcers because of you, you and Uncle David. He’s trying to create and there’s constant pressure. So don’t you dare come here and sneer at his work.’
‘When . . . I think we only ever said once that—’
‘That house, our house, is the only thing keeping him from the grave.’
The ground wobbles. Sickness floats over her again; Jess closes her eyes, breathes fresh night air through her nose. Eating is supposed to help, she thinks; discreetly she rootles in her coat pocket for a mint, a nut. Mum’ll have something, she thinks, as Lucia steps forward.
‘Enough,’ she says. ‘Leah, don’t be rude. Just tell me what we’re dealing with. What he, Dad, needs.’
Tears shine prettily on Leah’s face. She snaps: ‘Think! It’s not hard. Or it wouldn’t be if—’
You can see the effort it’s costing their mother to keep calm. ‘If Dr Mac is pissed, though, how can we . . .’
‘We all know you assume I’m thick,’ Leah says, and Jess sighs, ‘but I nicked his book of scripts.’
34
Well, thinks Lucia. I’m not going to do it.
‘What’s going on?’ says Gillian.
‘Jess? Christ’s sake, get a move on,’ Leah is shouting. ‘It’ll take five minutes to go back for the car keys. Better bring an envelope too. And a pen.’
‘Wait,’ says Jess.
‘What?’
‘I can’t do it.’
‘Why not?’ says Leah.
‘All sorts of reasons. I’m too drunk.’
‘I saw you. You were barely drinking.’
Jess scowlingly says, ‘I was! That’s bollocks, for a start. You always think . . . I had at least three glasses and—’
‘Come on,’ says Leah. ‘Easy peasy, if you know the roads and you’re careful. Those rules are just advisory.’
‘Don’t,’ says Lucia wearily.
‘They are laws,’ says Jess. ‘So people don’t kill someone. He’s not, you’re not above . . . oh, forget it.’
‘What? Say it.’
‘Nothing.’
‘Go on. You were accusing our father. Who’s suffering.’
‘I’m just saying, because no one else will, it’s not OK. Drink driving, any of it. But when I try to explain, or, or stop him, he just laughs, as if—’
‘That’s by the by,’ Gillian points out. ‘As he doesn’t drive now.’
‘So Jess has to do it,’ says Leah.
‘I would, Mum, but . . . I feel rubbish.’
‘She does look peaky,’ says Gillian, reliably war-time.
‘Sweetheart,’ Lucia says, holding out an arm. Jess moves closer; Leah huffs. ‘Is something up?’ and Jess gives her a complicated look.
‘Oh,’ says Gillian. ‘Hmm. Well, anyway, I can’t with my knee. Not that I’m offering. I am not making my poor patella worse for anybody’s sake. Even for Ray.’
Leah’s swearing. Jess says, ‘Definitely?’
‘And it is illegal. Extremely. What if you’re caught?’
Leah looks scandalized. ‘We’re never caught. So Mum—’
‘Where is Patrick?’ asks Lucia. ‘I hope he’s OK.’
‘Can’t you just ring him?’
Leah says: ‘He’s meant to keep his crappy old phone on but it’ll be off. He doesn’t try.’
‘Oh,’ says Gillian. Here they are, their wares laid out as at a car-boot sale: their failures and shame. ‘So, Leah, why can’t you?’
Jess says: ‘She never learned. Conveniently.’
‘Stop it,’ says Lucia.
‘Martyn would,’ says Jess, ‘but he’ll be too drunk, please don’t ask him.’
‘So, Mum,’ says Leah. ‘Looks like you’ll have to be the hero.’
‘Lucia, I really don’t think any—’ begins Gillian.
Lucia swallows, sets her feet. ‘Actually,’ she says, watching her breath stream, ‘the thing is, yes I have, since, you know. My . . . operation. But, in the dark, stressed, I don’t think that I, well, should.’
‘It’s literally falling off a log,’ says Leah.
‘No it’s not. Not for me. It’s like all that stored information, Tube routes, everything, has evaporated. I couldn’t even tell you how to get to Camden.’
‘Camden?’ Leah says. ‘That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever h—’
‘Honestly. And even if I could, I can’t park.’
‘Everyone can park,’ says Leah.
‘To be clear, though, you have driven, though, since?’ Gillian asks.
‘All the time,’ says Leah. ‘She’ll be fine.’
‘When Ray insists, only. It’s hard to explain but . . . I really can’t.’
‘Well,’ says Leah. ‘You’re just going to have to try. I can’t do everything. It’s only the new chemist by Highbury Circus. You’ve been down Holloway a million times.’
‘I . . . it’s not simply the . . . working the car, or, you know, other drivers.’ She is trying not to sound like a child, or to give Leah ammunition. ‘But I honestly can’t remember how to get anywhere. Even which way to turn out of the gate. Please try to . . . There must be some other way, isn’t there? I could bus tomorrow.’
‘You have to go now. He needs it. You cannot want to, to deny Dad his medicine. Not tonight, of all nights.’
‘Is there really no one?’ asks Gillian reasonably. ‘For his, um, treatm—’
‘No,’ says Jess.
‘No,’ agrees Lucia.
‘Well.’
‘We can hardly ask a neighbour, can we,’ Leah points out, more tired-sounding now. ‘He hates all of them.’
Lucia’s visions are not religious, or moral; they are merely art. She’s seeing them as ants, threading through dust: she, the biggest, should be carrying something heroic, a leaf, a grain of rice, but she’s flagging, tempted to leave it. The Jessant is racing in the other direction, towards a promising blob of sweetness; poor Patrick is stumbling along with a bent leg, a bashed antenna. And Leah, determined angry Leah, is jostling to carry the rice grain by herself. If, thinks Lucia, in a dream of mandibles, I dump the grain, Leah has to carry it, and will. She thinks she wants to. But it is my duty to share the burden.
However, the last time she drove a car, giving Ray a lift to the Lord of Anglesey for a lock-in, she didn’t go home to await his call to collect him. The Anglesey is barely fifteen minutes’ drive, ten at night, but the rear-view mirror no longer makes sense; two feet on pedals, two hands in control while managing 360-degree observation and flicking on indicators, fans, gear-stick, like a one-man band, seemed unfeasible, reckless. She parked on a side street with Nina Simone and her sketchbook, which lay cold on her lap as she stared out of the window into the past. When he rang to summon her, she counted the minutes, one-Mississippi two-Mississippi, then drove back round and patiently waited until he appeared. Four hours, to avoid two tiny journeys.
‘I just can’t,’ she says.
‘He could die,’ says Leah, crying hard now. ‘You can’t suddenly withdr—’
‘OK,’ Lucia sighs. ‘OK.’
35
The Heath; Patrick knows it like a lover. He has picked it, swum in it, climbed it, hidden in it for his entire life, always by himself; that’s how you learn a place. When he’s collected his sleeping bag and torch and little stove, he’ll be fine.
But he’s not a wild man. He’d walk among the beeches all night, wants to do it, but a little thread of sense warns him that, unfed, in pain, this might be the end of his mind. So he’s stuck. His friends have not . . . persisted. He is alone.
Then he thinks of something. He’s heard about the vagus nerve, which somewhere deep in his spine or entrails can be agitated, as now, or calmed. And the way to calm it is cold water.
No wonder he’s been feeling so tangled and absorbent. When he washes in the house it’s a hurried bath for heat. He never immerses himself, experiences that shock to his core. He’s been soft without realizing; weak. A sluice of cold water will make him be a man.
Moonlight slicks the bonnet of their terrible car. It is matt with age and bird-shit; nervously she touches its cold flank. Tiredness makes her brain feel thick as spools of white sausage. Maybe terror, or longing, will keep her awake.
But the drive is worse than Lucia had imagined. She’s all right getting started, feeling quite proud of the coordination, but misremembers the Pembertons, which is Terrace which is Villas, so next thing she’s going up Junction Road. Ray would be hysterical. Past the flat where her friend Grace Collini lived, before she manages to wheedle her way through to the Holloway Road; a Christmas miracle. And yes, she remembers to turn left towards Highbury Circus but then, because this chemist is miles down the congested Holloway Road and she does seem to be capable of navigating, wants to show off, she boldly nips down Fairbridge, imagining Priya’s grin, and loses track entirely.
But it’s all going to be OK. She heads the right direction fast along Sussex Way, too much poke on a couple of corners; then, disaster. Any fool knows that the Seven Sisters Road heads up, north, or at least in the wrong direction; sick, breathing quickly through her nose like a trapped mouse, she weaves straight into the worst lane, the one towards the Sobell Centre, where, on so many grim Saturday afternoons, she waited in the car for a kid to return from a trampolining party: always tearful, smelling of sweaty elastic, needing an X-ray. There is no escape from the one-way system around it; she takes it three times while a heavy rain begins to pour off the windscreen, blurring the traffic lights, camouflaging all the youths she could accidentally kill. Tears stick to her lashes; she is praying aloud, to the God who clearly does not believe in her. The new Arsenal Stadium; along Drayton Park, past the HOT ROLLS! MATCH DAYS! SUPPORTERS ONLY signs painted on shuttered stalls and front rooms, the silent club-house, picked-at red transfers on children’s bedroom windows, then another dead-flower memorial to poor stabbed boys. Is that warning-light usually on? Twice she tries to pull over, to rescue the shredded A–Z from the boot; twice the hooting stops her.
She has hardly seen Jess, will pine for her, like a fool, the minute she’s gone. She’s perpetually lost in the micro-decisions of how to fortify Patrick, push him from the nest when he is ready to flutter. Ray’s probably right: she’s making him worse. And after this evening, Ray will be . . .
Imagine, she thinks, if I could not go back.
She takes a corner a little too quickly, almost clips a traffic island. And then, like a mountaineer staggering up an unexpectedly final peak, the Holloway Road again appears before her in all its betting-shop majesty. Grinning, dazzled, she considers, tentatively indicates left and begins to drive, second gear, don’t forget the hand-brake, towards Highbury. Priya would be proud, bar all the disasters; she can’t tell her a thing. She’s focusing so hard her mind hurts, yet she still forgets the permanent roadworks at the roundabout. By the time she follows the diversion signs to Arran Way where the famous late-night chemist waits, her face is a smear of sweat and heat and unhindered weeping.
And she is exhausted. She stops the car at an angle to the kerb; that’ll do. She heaves herself onto the pavement, squints at the green cross through the rain and there, in the smears of light and freezing wet, she understands.
36
‘Dad?’ tries Leah again.
‘Not interested.’
His room is dark. She’s sitting on a heap of books, like a troll guarding the gold. Pablo was meant to be at the show tonight, being impressed. That was the whole idea. What was he doing instead? Is this some sort of game-playing she doesn’t yet understand? Her father is calmer now he knows his medicine’s on its way, although Jess ought to have fetched it for him, shown him she cares. And he’s still so angry with everyone who came, who didn’t come, who failed him.
What about me? she wants to ask. I’m sitting here, still.
People were lovely about the exhibition. If they thought it was odd that he didn’t have more work, they said nothing. She won’t let herself think of the bare spaces; what he showed was brilliant, that’s what counts. Does he realize? She loves him too much to ask.
‘And those people from the library were there. And Jimmy from the pub. Jimmy worships you.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Loads of people. So much . . . admiration, though let’s face it, most of them won’t get it. Oh and did you see—’
‘Don’t tell me. OK, who?’
‘Sure? Well, even the Frog was there!’
‘As in Marie-Claude?’ He gives a snort of disdain.
‘Yes. That’s good, isn’t it?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Dad. It is. She was showing interest in your work. Maybe . . .’
He makes his ruminating sound. She’s starting to hope that he’s falling asleep, that she could sneak away, even phone Pablo. It isn’t Pablo’s fault; he’s a busy man, he didn’t mean to abandon them. One day quite soon, when they’re together all the time, she will help him get his restaurant going again.
‘Jesus Christ,’ says Ray loudly.
He’s sitting up, mouth open. Leah’s heart pounds. ‘What? You scared me. What? Dad?’
‘Thought of something. Did you see her in the show?’
‘Marie-Claude? Sorry, you mean . . .’ There are too many unmentionables, his ex-wife, his ex-osteopath, all the ex-friends. She wasted vital minutes herding them away from him, when she should have been keeping his spirits up, insulating him against the dark night, the years ahead.
‘Stupid, no. Your mother. Obviously. Did you or did you not specifically see her inside my disastrously hung and staged excuse for an exhibition? Airside?’
‘Not . . .’ Leah’s too tired to spin it. ‘You’re right.’
‘Precisely. So where was she?’
‘At the . . . door?’
‘No. Not all the time. Because – remember Sukie Blackstock, you’ve met her – she wanted to ask her about gluten-free and she wasn’t there.’
‘So . . .’
