Patrick White - The Eye of the Storm

When she had fetched the lilac one, she drew it on reverently enough, over the fretful wisps of unnaturally natural hair and meek patches of scalp. The lilac climax appealed to a religious sense Flora Manhood thought she had discarded outside the weatherboard church down the road from the banana farm: she had wanted a miracle and it wasn’t granted; unless, possibly, whenever she assisted at Elizabeth Hunter’s resurrection.

Now she backed between the furniture, feeling her way with her heels, with outstretched hands trembling between the pressures of emotion and air, till she reached the best distance from which to contemplate what in one sense was nothing more than a barbaric idol, frightening in its garishness of purple-crimson, lilac floss, and fluorescent white, in its robe of battered, rather than beaten, rose-gold, the claws, gloved in a jewelled armour, stiffly held about the level of the navel, waiting apparently for some further motive which might bring them to rest on the brocaded lap.

In spite of her desire to worship, the younger woman might have been struck with horror if the faintly silvered lids hadn’t flickered open on the milkier, blank blue of Elizabeth Hunter’s stare. Then, for an instant, one of the rare coruscations occurred, in which the original sapphire buried under the opalescence invited you to shed your spite, sloth, indifference, resentments, along with an old woman’s cruelty, greed, selfishness. Momentarily at least this fright of an idol became the goddess hidden inside: of life, which you longed for, but hadn’t yet dared embrace; of beauty such as you imagined, but had so far failed to grasp (with which Col grappled, you bitterly suspected, somewhere in the interminably agitated depths of music); and finally, of death, which hadn’t concerned you, except as something to be tidied away, till now you were faced with the vision of it.

It was the spectre of death which brought them both toppling down. Mrs Hunter suddenly twitched as though someone had walked over her grave. Sister Manhood herself was stroked into gooseflesh.

‘Am I looking — well?’ The purple lips quivered with the necessity for confirmation.

Even if the nurse could have found a satisfactory answer, she was too distracted to offer it, what with Lottie Lippmann’s far from obligatory crackle of excitement in the hall; men’s voices; a thudding on the stairs; again men’s voices, mounting, louder.

Elizabeth Hunter’s armoured fingers descended to her lap, ascended to where her breasts had been; then the hands fell like the Fabergé they were. ‘He’s come, has he? He’s come!’

Sister Manhood couldn’t answer. Each of them was threatened by an imminence; but Elizabeth Hunter was the more afraid: her enamelled face was cracked with terror.

‘Do you think he’ll remember me?’

You couldn’t console this poor old doll; you didn’t know how to, any more than you could ever help yourself.

And then the door was opening: it was Mr Wyburd, his business suit, his correctly-mannered face, both ravaged by a day in which too much had happened. The solicitor might disjoint his fingers in trying to fit himself out with the right attitude and expression, as well as find words of an accuracy more painstaking than those he normally used. The old man looked properly grilled.

After muttering his way past the superfluous nurse, raising his voice, though he must have known it annoyed his client (deaf is something I am not Arnold whatever else) he managed to utter, ‘Mrs Hunter — he’s here! Sir Basil — heugh heugh!’

The laugh sounded awful: it creaked so; it obviously wasn’t what he had intended. But nervousness, the nurse could see, more than nervousness — fright, had aged the solicitor. He had had almost more than he could take, as he stood twisting the signet ring with the blue stone, practically peeing, you felt, in those baggy trousers.

But what was inevitable, for everybody, happened: Sir Basil Hunter entered.

His mother’s anguish was audible. What of his? Because the nurse did not know him, except from the legend of his career as told in pictures by the magazines, she could not guess. And now, faced with him in the flesh, she was further dazzled by the aura of charm and brilliantine the great actor was wearing.

On catching sight of the figure in the wheelchair, Sir Basil hesitated the tick of a second, as though he had found an understudy waiting on the spot where his leading lady should have been; then (your performance is what matters; curse the management only after the curtain calls) he continued across the carpet with that distinctive limp, probably a mannerism before it had set in slight gout, but which never weakened the power of his attack. One shoulder slouched a shade in advance of the other, he was presented in fact, though not objectionably, sideways to the audience of two, a hand outstretched beyond the custom-made cuff visible by a couple of inches at the end of his perfectionist sleeve.

He spoke, and the nurse thrilled to the riches in the voice. ‘Darling — what a homecoming!’

As for the former goddess become a trembly woman, she, too, recovered her technique, her rings reaching up to clutch at her lover, his shoulder if she could get there, as soon as he arrived at her side. ‘How I’ve waited, dearest! I believe the fat lambs mean more to you than I.’

Again Sir Basil hesitated, but drove himself at the understudy.

When Elizabeth Hunter rallied. ‘Why — Basil? Basil! Whatever happened in Bangkok?’

Sir Basil drew out of his breast pocket an enormous, enormously monogrammed, immensely expensive handkerchief to mop up what he hadn’t reckoned with: not from an understudy.

‘People, Mother. And then, I had a kind of — not exactly a turn — but needed a few hours rest. That’s the only reason, darling.’

SHE was looking at him. ‘You were never — I shan’t say deceitful, Basil — but often disappointing.’

He parried it with Olympic expertise. ‘Isn’t disappointment something we’ve got to expect the moment we put our mouths to the nipple?’

Then they were clawing at each other; their ‘darlings’ richocheted off the rosewood while they played their scene.

‘I was not,’ Elizabeth Hunter panted between kisses, ‘what you would call a natural mother. I couldn’t feed you — in spite of all that raw steak — as I must have told you — it seems. But that, you see — darling — hasn’t deprived you of — of nourishment.’

As he knelt beside her, exposing his still considerable profile, while she buried her rings in his hair in an effort to reintegrate the fragments of a relationship, probably neither of them was more than formally conscious of an audience: which is how it becomes on those evenings when all the elements of a performance, on either side of the footlights, are perfectly fused.

HE SHOULD have remembered his right knee was having one of its bad spells. In his response to the theatre of reunion, while disguising the shock of finding the Lilac Fairy standing in as his rehearsed-for mother, he had thrown himself at her feet, and was now paying the penalty for giving too much too soon. But he owed it to her — to them.

‘Bless you,’ he said, ‘Mother.’ He kissed the claw which had finally disentangled itself from his hair, and distinctly felt the sympathy streaming out towards him, the rapport he was establishing with the whole auditorium. (The nurse was quite a dish as far as he could tell, still only from out of the corner of an eye.)

He got up wincing for his age, his gout (left the pills in the bathroom cupboard in Eaton Place; not that they ever did much good). But the audience hadn’t noticed; at least the nurse hadn’t: she was too much like rapturous youth at its first play. He wasn’t so sure the old Wyburd was on his side.