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

‘But it’s not just money that corrupts people,’ said Jacqueline d’Alantour. ‘We had the most wonder-fool driver called Albert. He was a very sweet, gentle man who used to tell the most touching story you could imagine about operating on his goldfish. One day, when Jacques was going shooting, his loader fell ill and so he said, “I’ll have to take Albert.” I said, “But you can’t, it will kill him, he adores animals, he won’t be able to bear the sight of all that blood.” But Jacques insisted, and he’s a very stubborn man, so there was nothing I could do. When the first few birds were shot, poor Albert was in agony,’ Jacqueline covered her eyes theatrically, ‘but then he started to get interested,’ she parted her fingers and peeped out between them. ‘And now,’ she said, flinging her hands down, ‘he subscribes to the Shooting Times , and has every kind of gun magazine you can possibly imagine. It’s become quite dangerous to drive around with him because every time there’s a pigeon, which in London is every two metres, he says, “Monsieur d’Alantour would get that one.” When we go through Trafalgar Square, he doesn’t look at the road at all, he just stares at the sky, and makes shooting noises.’

‘I shouldn’t think you could eat a London pigeon,’ said Sonny sceptically.

* * *

‘Patrick Melrose? You’re not David Melrose’s son, by any chance?’ asked Bunny Warren, a figure Patrick could hardly remember, but a name that had floated around his childhood at a time when his parents still had a social life, before their divorce.

‘Yes.’

Bunny’s creased face, like an animated sultana, raced through half a dozen expressions of surprise and delight. ‘I remember you as a child, you used to take a running kick at my balls each time I came to Victoria Road for a drink.’

‘I’m sorry about that,’ said Patrick. ‘Oddly enough, Nicholas Pratt was complaining about the same sort of thing this morning.’

‘Oh, well, in his case…’ said Bunny with a mischievous laugh.

‘I used to get to the right velocity,’ Patrick explained, ‘by starting on the landing and running down the first flight of stairs. By the time I reached the hall I could manage a really good kick.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Bunny. ‘Do you know, it’s a funny thing,’ he went on in a more serious tone, ‘hardly a day passes without my thinking of your father.’

‘Same here,’ said Patrick, ‘but I’ve got a good excuse.’

‘So have I,’ said Bunny. ‘He helped me at a time when I was in an extremely wobbly state.’

‘He helped to put me into an extremely wobbly state,’ said Patrick.

‘I know a lot of people found him difficult,’ admitted Bunny, ‘and he may have been at his most difficult with his children – people usually are – but I saw another side of his personality. After Lucy died, at a time when I really couldn’t cope at all, he took care of me and stopped me drinking myself to death, listened with enormous intelligence to hours of black despair, and never used what I told him against me.’

‘The fact that you mention his not using anything you said against you is sinister enough.’

‘You can say what you like,’ said Bunny bluntly, ‘but your father probably saved my life.’ He made an inaudible excuse and moved away abruptly.

Alone in the press of the party, Patrick was suddenly anxious to avoid another conversation, and left the tent, preoccupied by what Bunny had said about his father. As he hurried into the now-crowded drawing room, he was spotted by Laura, who stood with China and a man Patrick did not recognize.

‘Hello, darling,’ said Laura.

‘Hi,’ said Patrick, who didn’t want to be waylaid.

‘Have you met Ballantine Morgan?’ said China.

‘Hello,’ said Patrick.

‘Hello,’ said Ballantine, giving Patrick an annoyingly firm handshake. ‘I was just saying,’ he continued, ‘that I’ve been lucky enough to inherit what is probably the greatest gun collection in the world.’

‘Well, I think,’ said Patrick, ‘I was lucky enough to see a book about it shown to me by your father.’

‘Oh, so you’ve read The Morgan Gun Collection ,’ said Ballantine.

‘Well, not from cover to cover, but enough to know how extraordinary it was to own the greatest gun collection in the world and be such a good shot, as well as write about the whole thing in such beautiful prose.’

‘My father was also a very fine photographer,’ said Ballantine.

‘Oh, yes, I knew I’d forgotten something,’ said Patrick.

‘He was certainly a multitalented individual,’ said Ballantine.

‘When did he die?’ asked Patrick.

‘He died of cancer last year,’ said Ballantine. ‘When a man of my father’s wealth dies of cancer, you know they haven’t found a cure,’ he added with justifiable pride.

‘It does you great credit that you’re such a fine curator of his memory,’ said Patrick wearily.

‘Honour thy father and thy mother all thy days,’ said Ballantine.

‘That’s certainly been my policy,’ Patrick affirmed.

China, who felt that even Ballantine’s gargantuan income might be eclipsed by his fatuous behaviour, suggested that they dance.

‘I’d be pleased to,’ said Ballantine. ‘Excuse us,’ he added to Laura and Patrick.

‘What a ghastly man,’ said Laura.

‘You should have met his father,’ said Patrick.

‘If he could get that silver spoon out of his mouth—’

‘He would be even more pointless than he already is,’ said Patrick.

‘How are you, anyway, darling?’ Laura asked. ‘I’m pleased to see you. This party is really getting on my nerves. Men used to tell me how they used butter for sex, now they tell me how they’ve eliminated it from their diet.’

Patrick smiled. ‘You certainly have to kick a lot of bodies out there before you find a live one,’ he said. ‘There’s a blast of palpable stupidity that comes from our host, like opening the door of a sauna. The best way to contradict him is to let him speak.’

‘We could go upstairs,’ said Laura.

‘What on earth for?’ smiled Patrick.

‘We could just fuck. No strings.’

‘Well, it’s something to do,’ said Patrick.

‘Thanks,’ said Laura.

‘No, no, I’m really keen,’ said Patrick. ‘Although I can’t help thinking it’s a terrible idea. Aren’t we going to get confused?’

‘No strings, remember?’ said Laura, marching him towards the hall.

A security guard stood at the foot of the staircase. ‘I’m sorry, no one goes upstairs,’ he said.

‘We’re staying here,’ said Laura, and something indefinably arrogant about her tone made the security man step aside.

Patrick and Laura kissed, leaning against the wall of the attic room they had found.

‘Guess who I’m having an affair with?’ asked Laura as she detached herself.

‘I dread to think. Anyhow, why do you want to discuss it just now?’ Patrick mumbled as he bit her neck.

‘He’s someone you know.’

‘I give up,’ sighed Patrick who could feel his erection dwindling.

‘Johnny.’

‘Well, that’s put me right off,’ said Patrick.

‘I thought you might want to steal me back.’

‘I’d rather stay friends with Johnny. I don’t want more irony and more tension. You never really understood that, did you?’

‘You love irony and tension, what are you talking about?’

‘You just go round imagining everybody’s like you.’

‘Oh, fuck off,’ said Laura. ‘Or as Lawrence Harvey says in Darling , “Put away your Penguin Freud.”’

‘Look, we’d better just part now, don’t you think?’ said Patrick. ‘Before we have a row.’