Naomi Alderman - The Lessons

He seemed to think something along the same lines, for he took up Jess’s hand suddenly and rested his cheek on it.

‘Thank you for coming for me,’ he said. ‘I knew you would. You always would, wouldn’t you?’

Jess put her arm around his shoulders.

He looked up at us from his seat. ‘Let’s go home.’

Later that evening the rest of us had a conversation — the kind of conversation we seemed to have a great deal in our final eighteen months at Oxford and subsequently — around the question of what could be done about Mark.

Simon, his legs up on the elephant-foot stool, was unconcerned.

‘It’s just normal, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘That’s just the way Mark is, and it’s not as if he’s done anything dangerous, is it?’

I had not mentioned his driving to any of them but Jess.

‘If you ask me,’ said Franny, ‘it’s the normal response of any bloke who went to a public school. They all come out mad. Either totally repressed or totally unable to control themselves.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Jess, ‘but he wasn’t at public school for long, was he? It’s more down to his mother, I think. Hyper-critical, hyper-indulgent. No wonder he’s confused.’

I wondered about all of this. There seemed to be more to Mark’s personality to me than could be easily explained away by reference to his upbringing. Some urge towards self-destruction that was more primal than that. I thought of the figure on the crucifix, and of the ease of Mark’s circumstances, and of a phrase I had seen written in one of Mark’s essays: ‘A pain-free life is unbearable.’

I wanted to explain this but all I could come up with was, ‘I don’t think he can change. Not by himself.’

The group nodded and became quiet.

‘Do you not think,’ said Emmanuella after a while, ‘that we must save him? For his own good, rescue him?’

‘That’d be fine,’ said Simon amicably, ‘if it were, you know, not completely impossible.’

Emmanuella was silent.

‘I don’t know, Manny,’ said Franny, popping a grape into her mouth from the fruit bowl on the table, ‘isn’t salvation something only your God can offer?’

I had come to know Father Hugh’s notes by their envelopes, by the curlicued hand and the slight cigar whiff of them. And the next morning, when one arrived at Annulet House, I knew that something had gone wrong with my calculations.

James,

Written in haste. I received a garbled message yesterday afternoon from you regarding our young friend. Called at the house this evening, no answer. I am concerned, as I am sure you can imagine. Please call me at once; I am in contact with Rome.

Yours sincerely,

Fr Hugh

This note threw me into a panic. It was 9 a.m. and Mark might be awake or asleep, there was no way of knowing. The reference to Rome was ominous. Had Father Hugh consulted with Isabella or with the Vatican? Was Mark’s mother on her way here at this very moment? I telephoned at once.

‘James.’ Father Hugh’s voice was calm and even. ‘I’m so glad you’ve called. Tell me precisely what’s happened, please.’

‘Um,’ I said, ‘it was nothing, Father Hugh, nothing really. It’s been sorted out now. I didn’t mean to leave you a message. I thought I’d told the porter not to.’

‘I’m glad to hear it’s been sorted out, James, but what actually happened?’

‘Oh, it was nothing, not really.’

‘George mentioned a police station, James.’

I wondered suddenly what Father Hugh could do if he suspected I was lying to him. Could he call my college? Report me to the university?

‘I … made a mistake.’

‘A mistake?’

‘Yes, I, it was just a joke, just one of Mark’s jokes.’

Father Hugh was silent for a moment.

‘George said you sounded quite alarmed,’ he said.

‘Oh, I … Well, yes, I was taken in by it myself.’

‘What sort of a joke,’ said Father Hugh, ‘was he making?’

‘Umm …’ I said, ‘nothing. He didn’t say anything. I made a mistake.’

‘James,’ said Father Hugh, ‘I think I understand. You should come and see me in my office, where we can talk privately. Without any chance of being overheard . Come this afternoon, James.’

And I thought again of my college and of Father Hugh’s influential friends and of the fact that Mark might come down at any moment.

‘Yes, Father Hugh,’ I said.

Mark was up early that morning. He was subdued and restive, moving from room to room, making himself cups of coffee and leaving them to get cold. I told him, in as few words as possible, about my blunder with Father Hugh. When I’d finished he took a deep breath in and let it out slowly.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, lighting a cigarette with trembling hands. ‘Tell him. What does it matter?’

‘Seriously?’

He drew deeply on his cigarette. His fingernails were tobacco-stained.

‘What’s the worst they can do? Only take the house away and send me to some horrible clinic somewhere.’

‘Really?’ It was so hard to know which of the things he said were real and which imagined.

He smoked his cigarette down to the quick and began another.

‘Listen, James,’ he said, ‘I’m only telling you this because my family seem to want to get their claws into you. They think you’re my friend. I don’t know why. Probably because you took the blame for the music box. It doesn’t matter.’ He sighed. ‘You remember I told you that I had a breakdown? It was after my parents split up, when my mother was dragging me round Europe with the idea of giving me an education. It wasn’t anything serious. I took too many drugs and got into a few fights. But you know how religious people are. My mother sent me to live with a bunch of monks.’ He smiled. ‘As if she thought there was no such thing as a gay monk. Anyway, it’s all over now. I’ve been better for years. But I’m trying not to give them an excuse to tell the trustees to stop my money, OK? That could make it difficult.’

‘Right,’ I said.

‘That’s all though. Just temporarily difficult.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He lit another cigarette.

Father Hugh was waiting again with sherry and beaming smiles.

‘James,’ he said, ‘how marvellous of you to come. Now we can have a proper chat.’

‘Yes,’ I said, accepting the sherry and seating myself on the sofa.

‘I was glad that you telephoned, James. I entirely understand that one can’t always be as direct as one might wish about such things. Especially not in a shared house, shared spaces. But now, tell me what happened.’

‘Nothing happened, Father Hugh.’

Father Hugh’s smile cracked a little.

‘Nothing? Come, come. There’s no need to prevaricate now.’

‘Nothing happened,’ I said.

I sipped a little more sherry. Father Hugh frowned.

‘It is quite clear to me that something happened, James. Mark was taken to the police station. It is imperative that you tell me precisely what occurred.’

‘Nothing, Father Hugh,’ I said, ‘nothing happened at all.’

‘Now look here,’ he began angrily, then, calming himself, said, ‘James, perhaps you don’t understand the severity of what we’re discussing here.’

‘We’re not discussing anything, Father Hugh.’

Father Hugh leaned back in his chair, kicking out his cassock again in that disturbing fashion.

‘James, our friend Mark is a very disturbed young man. Has he told you what happened in Italy six years ago?’

I looked at him innocently over the brim of my glass.

‘No, I can see that he has not. Well then, I am forced to tell you in order that you should understand the severity of the situation. Six years ago our friend Mark suffered a mental breakdown. It took the form of wild and erratic behaviour. We are not talking of mere high spirits, James. He became physically violent to his mother on several occasions. And more than that, he behaved to her in ways that were entirely inappropriate.