Edward Aubyn - The Patrick Melrose Novels - Never Mind, Bad News, Some Hope, and Mother's Milk

Patrick moved towards the edge of the bandstand to have a closer look. There were probably thousands of Chilly Willys and it was absurd to think that this one was ‘his’. Chilly had sat down again after playing his solo and Patrick stood in front of him frowning curiously, like a child at the zoo, feeling that talking was a barrier he couldn’t cross.

‘Hi,’ said Chilly Willy, over the sound of a trumpet solo.

‘Nice solo,’ said Patrick.

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re not … I knew someone in New York called Chilly Willy!’

‘Where’d he live?’

‘Eighth Street.’

‘Uh-huh,’ said Chilly. ‘What did he do?’

‘Well, he … sold … he lived on the streets really … that’s why I knew it couldn’t be you. Anyway, he was older.’

‘I remember you!’ laughed Chilly. ‘You’re the English guy with the coat, right?’

‘That’s right!’ said Patrick. ‘It is you! Christ, you look well. I practically didn’t recognize you. You play really well too.’

‘Thanks. I was always a musician, then I…’ Chilly made a diving motion with his hand, glancing sideways at his fellow musicians.

‘What happened to your wife?’

‘She OD’d,’ said Chilly sadly.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ said Patrick, remembering the horse syringe she had carefully unwrapped from the loo paper and charged him twenty dollars for. ‘Well, it’s a miracle you’re alive,’ he added.

‘Yeah, everything’s a miracle, man,’ said Chilly. ‘It’s a fuckin’ miracle we don’t melt in the bath like a piece of soap.’

* * *

‘The Herberts have always had a weakness for low life,’ said Kitty Harrow. ‘Look at Shakespeare.’

‘They were certainly scraping the barrel with him,’ said Nicholas. ‘Society used to consist of a few hundred families all of whom knew each other. Now it just consists of one: the Guinnesses. I don’t know why they don’t make an address book with an especially enlarged G spot.’

Kitty giggled.

‘Oh, well, I can see that you’re an entrepreneur manqué ,’ said Ali to Nicholas.

* * *

‘That dinner at the Bossington-Lanes’ was beyond anything,’ said Ali Montague to Laura and China. ‘I knew we were in trouble when our host said, “The great thing about having daughters is that you can get them to fag for you.” And when that great horsy girl of his came back she said, “You can’t argue with Daddy, he used to have exactly the same vital statistics as Muhammad Ali, except he was a foot and a half shorter.”’

Laura and China laughed. Ali was such a good mimic.

‘The mother’s absolutely terrified,’ said Laura, ‘because some friend of Charlotte’s went up to “the Metrop” to share a flat with a couple of other county gals, and the first week she fell in with someone called “Evil John”!’

They all howled with laughter.

‘What really terrifies Mr Bossington-Lane,’ said Ali, ‘is Charlotte getting an education.’

‘Fat chance,’ said Laura.

‘He was complaining about a neighbour’s daughter who had “a practically unheard of number of Os”.’

‘What, three?’ suggested China.

‘I think it was five and she was going on to do an A level in history of art. I asked him if there was any money in art, just to get him going.’

‘And what did he say?’ asked China.

Ali thrust out his chin and pushed a hand into his dinner jacket pocket with a thumb resting over the edge.

‘“Money?” he boomed. “Not for most of them. But you know, one’s dealing with people who are too busy struggling with the meaning of life to worry about that sort of thing. Not that one isn’t struggling a bit oneself!” I said I thought the meaning of life included a large income. “And capital,” he said.’

‘The daughter is impossible,’ grinned Laura. ‘She told me a really boring story that I couldn’t be bothered to listen to, and then ended it by saying, “Can you imagine anything worse than having your barbecue sausage stolen?” I said, “Yes, easily.” And she made a dreadful honking sound and said, “Well, obviously, I didn’t mean literally. ”’

‘Still, it’s nice of them to have us to stay,’ said China provocatively.

‘Do you know how many of those horrid porcelain knick-knacks I counted in my room?’ Ali asked with a supercilious expression on his face to exaggerate the shock of the answer he was about to give.

‘How many?’ asked Laura.

‘One hundred and thirty-seven.’

‘A hundred and thirty-seven,’ gasped China.

‘And, apparently, if one of them moves, she knows about it,’ said Ali.

‘She once had everyone’s luggage searched because one of the knick-knacks had been taken from the bedroom to the bathroom or the bathroom to the bedroom, and she thought it was stolen.’

‘It’s quite tempting to try and smuggle one out,’ said Laura.

‘Do you know what’s rather fascinating?’ said Ali, hurrying on to his next insight. ‘That old woman with the nice face and the ghastly blue dress was Bridget’s mother.’

‘No!’ said Laura. ‘Why wasn’t she at dinner here?’

‘Embarrassed,’ said Ali.

‘How awful,’ said China.

‘Mind you, I do see what she means,’ said Ali. ‘The mother is rather Surrey Pines.’

* * *

‘I saw Debbie,’ said Johnny.

‘Really? How was she looking?’ asked Patrick.

‘Beautiful.’

‘She always looked beautiful at big parties,’ said Patrick. ‘I must talk to her one of these days. It’s easy to forget that she’s just another human being, with a body and a face and almost certainly a cigarette, and that she may well no longer be the same person that I knew.’

‘How have you been feeling since dinner?’ asked Johnny.

‘Pretty weird to begin with, but I’m glad we talked.’

‘Good,’ said Johnny. He felt awkward not knowing what more to say about their earlier conversation, but not wanting to pretend it had never happened. ‘Oh, I thought of you during my meeting,’ he said with artificial brightness. ‘There was this man who had to switch off his television last night because he thought he was putting the presenters off.’

‘Oh, I used to get that,’ said Patrick. ‘When my father died in New York one of the longest conversations I had (if I is the right pronoun in this case) was with the television set.’

‘I remember you telling me,’ said Johnny.

The two men fell silent and stared at the throng that struggled under wastes of grey velvet with the same frantic but restricted motion as bacteria multiplying under a microscope.

‘It takes about a hundred of these ghosts to precipitate one flickering and disreputable sense of identity,’ said Patrick. ‘These are the sort of people who were around during my childhood: hard dull people who seemed quite sophisticated but were in fact as ignorant as swans.’

‘They’re the last Marxists,’ said Johnny unexpectedly. ‘The last people who believe that class is a total explanation. Long after that doctrine has been abandoned in Moscow and Peking it will continue to flourish under the marquees of England. Although most of them have the courage of a half-eaten worm,’ he continued, warming to his theme, ‘and the intellectual vigour of dead sheep, they are the true heirs to Marx and Lenin.’

‘You’d better go and tell them,’ said Patrick. ‘I think most of them were expecting to inherit a bit of Gloucestershire instead.’

* * *

‘Every man has his price,’ said Sonny tartly. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Robin?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Robin, ‘but he must make sure that his price isn’t too low.’

‘I’m sure most people are very careful to do that,’ said Sonny, wondering what would happen if Robin blackmailed him.