Matters of Life & Death Read online

  ‘A little archery.’

  ‘No.’ His wife seemed taken aback.

  ‘The boys can use your bow. They could draw that. Easily.’ The doctor walked away towards the garage and came back with a bow and a quiver of six arrows which he gave to his wife. Then he went back and came out with a target which had cobwebs hanging from it. He walked past them and set it three-quarters of the way down the garden.

  ‘Adult toys,’ he said. Then he straightened his face. ‘This is not a toy. People could get killed.’ He dropped his cigarette and trod it with his toe into the grass. His wife took one more inhale and did the same.

  ‘Ask King Harold,’ she said.

  ‘He got it in the eye,’ said the boy.

  His younger brother clapped his hand to his eye and staggered about gasping, ‘Agghhh.’

  ‘OK – enough. Enough. Who wants to go first?’

  The boy shrugged and indicated his younger brother. The doctor’s wife sat down on a concrete step and crossed her legs. The doctor talked them through the equipment in such detail.

  ‘Watch carefully. Everything I say to your brother also applies to you. This groove at the bottom of the arrow is called the nock.’

  The boys just wanted to be firing arrows. Eventually the doctor took one from the quiver and notched it onto the string. He pulled the bow and aimed at the target.

  ‘Make sure the string touches your lips.’ He released the arrow and it flew silently and stuck in the edge of the target. ‘I’m not used to your bow, darling.’

  ‘Nothing to do with the fact that we haven’t shot for about five years.’

  He laughed. Then fitted the younger boy up to shoot.

  ‘At least move the target a little closer,’ said the doctor’s wife. Whenever the younger boy did shoot the arrow, it slanted into the grass well to the left of the target. His brother laughed and sneered.

  The doctor noticed this and said, ‘I hope you can do as well.’ The doctor handed him the bow, then an arrow. The arrow had a brass tip which looked like a bullet. He notched it on the bowstring and drew the bow just as he’d been shown. There was a great feeling of power – like a spring wound as tightly as it would go. He shot the arrow and it ended up in a flower-bed at the foot of the wall.

  ‘Not bad at all. Better distance,’ said the doctor.

  They continued practising for some time and they all cheered loudly when the older boy’s arrow stuck into the straw at the outer edge of the target. The telephone rang in the house.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said the doctor and hurried away. It was the older boy’s turn to shoot. The doctor called out to his wife and as she jumped to her feet the boy saw the white undersides of her thighs. She ran inside leaving the boys alone in the garden. The boy drew the bow and aimed at the target. He held fire. The thought in his head was that it was possible to kill his brother here – in this walled garden, away from everyday life. Then there would be two funerals. He could say it was an accident. At the pictures he had seen arrows thwack into the bodies of US Cavalrymen. He could see it now – this one in his fingers piercing his brother’s pale blue shirt. The blood welling and gathering around the shaft as it protruded from his chest. He slowly turned the weapon on his brother. He stood there with his mouth half open, mouth breathing, squinting his eyes against the sun.

  ‘You’re not allowed to do that,’ said the younger boy.

  ‘Where’s your brother?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘In the bathroom.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So everybody’s hands are washed?’ said the doctor.

  ‘Including mine,’ said the doctor’s wife smiling.

  The younger boy came to the table with the backs of his hands glistening where he had neglected to dry them. The doctor said grace and they all bowed their heads after the doctor’s wife bowed hers.

  ‘What are you interested in?’ The doctor shook out his white linen napkin and looked first at the smaller brother, then the older boy.

  The silence was there until the older boy felt he had to say, ‘Dunno.’

  The doctor spread the napkin over his lap.

  ‘You’re at the grammar school?’

  ‘Yes. Going on to second year.’

  ‘Have you any hobbies?’

  The boy didn’t want to say he didn’t know again so he said, ‘Yes.’

  ‘What?’

  The boy thought for a while. Then said, ‘Painting by numbers.’

  ‘That’s interesting. How many have you done?’

  The boy hesitated and the younger boy said, ‘One. He’s done one. But he never finished it. He only did up to four.’

  ‘I did finish it. I did all the colours.’

  ‘He only did two of the blues and two greys.’

  The doctor’s wife interrupted, ‘Now boys I’m sure it’s not worth fighting over. What was it of?’

  ‘A garden.’

  ‘How I would love to have this all the time. Bickering and refereeing. You are wonderful children . . .’

  ‘Phyllis . . .’ said the doctor and she stopped talking. She looked down at her plate. The doctor lifted his spoon from the white tablecloth and began his soup. The others did likewise.

  ‘And you, little man? What school are you at?’

  The younger brother sucked in the hot soup with a slurping noise.

  ‘I’m not a man,’ he said. ‘I’m in Primary Seven.’ The doctor’s wife smiled. As did the doctor. There was silence at the table when the two adults refused to ask any more questions. Eventually the doctor spoke.

  ‘Your father was a great man,’ he said. ‘It’s so seldom one person can make a difference.’

  All their spoons chinked against their plates and nobody said anything for some time.

  In his single bed his younger brother began crying. But he tried to disguise it – keeping it in. This started the boy off too and he cried into his pillow trying to cloak the sound he was making – a silent kind of open-mouthed girning, with tears wetting his face and the pillow. He stopped to hear if his younger brother had stopped. Silence. Except for downstairs. There was music playing. He didn’t know what time it was. It was still quite light. He didn’t know if he had been asleep or not.

  After dinner they had played cards. Knockout Whist, Old Maid, Beggar-My-Neighbour. Then the doctor had left to drive down to the boys’ house to pay his respects. The doctor’s wife said it was her duty to stay at home – not to babysit, they were far too old for that – but just to keep an eye.

  The boy listened hard and heard the regular breathing of sleep coming from his brother’s bed. He was thirsty. He’d have to get up. Did too much crying make you thirsty? Was there a loss of moisture? He didn’t want to call out as he might do at home. And he needed the toilet. He got up and went to the bathroom. Afterwards he stood at the head of the stairs and listened down. The music had stopped long ago. Lights were on all over the place but he couldn’t see anyone. Where was the doctor’s wife? He could be down and get his drink of water from the kitchen and nobody would notice.

  He began down the runner of carpet on the black staircase. The boards creaked a little but nobody came to see who or what was making the noise. In the kitchen there were glasses in the draining rack. He filled one and sipped from it. The refrigerator made him jump by quivering into life. With the glass in his hand he moved out onto the parquet tiles of the hall. There was a ticking noise coming from somewhere – not like the ticking of a clock, it was too slow for that. He walked towards the sound. It was in the room with the dance floor. He looked in and saw the doctor’s wife sitting in a tall armchair – at least he saw her legs. Her back was to the door. The lid of the radiogram was up and a record was revolving slowly – clicking in the overrun. The room was full of twilight from a yellow band in the sky. There was something about the way her legs were sprawled that looked strange. He walked towards her. Was she dead? Was it something to do with the light? He peered around the wing of the armchair. She was fast asleep
, her mouth half open, her head slumped. She would wake with a sore neck if she slept like that for long. Still the record clicked regularly. He turned and with his right hand lifted the needle off. The noise stopped. Then she wakened. At first she looked glazed and bewildered, as if she didn’t know where she was. Or who he was – a boy in pyjamas standing in front of her. She opened and closed her mouth drily several times.

  ‘Oh, how thoughtful of you,’ she said, taking the water from his hand. She gulped it down and sighed when she had finished. ‘Thank you. Just what the doctor ordered.’ As well as cigarette smoke there was a strange smell in the air. Not perfume – but like perfume. She set the empty glass down on a low table beside her chair. There were several bottles on it – a half-filled green bottle, a wine bottle – empty glasses, a half-filled ashtray. ‘I’m such a mess.’ She sat forward and had a double-handed scratch with her fingers through her hair.

  ‘Where’s Gabriel? Is he not home yet?’ The boy didn’t know so he shrugged. ‘What time is it?’ She squinted at her watch. ‘Oh my God. A quarter to a lemon.’ She turned to the small table and finished the drink in her glass and smacked her lips. She poured herself another drink and lit a cigarette. That was the perfumed smell. ‘A gin is not a gin without ice,’ she said and levered herself up from the armchair. She came back from the kitchen with her glass ringing and the cigarette in her mouth. ‘I feel I want to dance. Will you do me the honour, Tony?’ The boy didn’t know what to say. ‘Can you do a quickstep?’

  The boy shook his head. He couldn’t be rude to people who were looking after him. But he wanted to run.

  ‘I thought not. But it’s really quite easy.’ She switched on a red side light and stood in front of him. ‘Right. To begin at the beguinning. That’s hard to say at this time of night.’ She went to the table and stubbed out her cigarette. She placed her hands on his shoulders and showed him the steps. Looking down she realised he was in his bare feet. ‘I don’t want to tread on your tootsies.’ She unhooked her feet from her high-heeled sandals and kicked them to one side. Then she stood with her feet together and sighed. ‘Ohh I have such bunions.’

  She continued to teach him the steps and move him around. He felt ungainly and reluctant. His head was almost to the height of her shoulder and he could smell her perfume and another strange smell like onions. When he made mistakes with his feet she laughed uproariously – doubled over at times. He didn’t see what was so funny. His face was hot and he was sure he was blushing. Once or twice she grazed his cheek with her breast. It was a soft feeling. It gave and he wanted to touch it again out of curiosity – like the wallpaper. ‘Now music will sort the whole thing out. Listen to the music – really listen – and the dance will come to you.’

  She turned away from him and played the record on the turntable. The music breathed out. ‘Heaven, I’m in heaven.’ She began to sway in time to the singing voice. ‘And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak; and I seem to find the happiness I seek, when we’re out together dancing cheek to cheek.’ She laid her hands on his shoulders and pressured him into moving. ‘No – don’t look down,’ she said. ‘You’re good – you’re getting the hang of it. Move to the music.’ She crooned the words along with the singer.

  She said, ‘Gabriel says dance is about not getting in each other’s way gracefully.’ Then she added as if it was an afterthought, ‘I think it’s about knowing – about knowing each other. And wearing gorgeous clothes. There is no sight in the world to beat a man in a dress suit. Love is everything.’

  The boy tried to humour her. She made him attempt to dance again. His bare feet scuffed and bumped against the springy floor. He trod on her but she seemed not to notice. She seemed not even to be speaking to him. She said, ‘For me dancing is a matter of life and death. Can you imagine what it would be like to be in an iron lung?’ Somewhere a door closed but she seemed not to notice.

  The doctor stood in the doorway of the dancehall room and switched on the main light which was shaped like a chandelier. She blinked and stared in his direction. He slowly removed his hat and hung it on the hall stand.

  ‘Gabriel,’ she said. ‘I’m just teaching our guest the rudiments.’

  ‘Ot-way are-hay oo-yay ooing-day?’ he said.

  ‘Othing-nay.’ She took her hands off the boy’s shoulders. The record came to an end and began ticking again.

  ‘Oo-tay uch-may ink-dray.’

  ‘No, only a little. I felt so sad when they went to bed.’

  ‘My parents talk that language too,’ said the boy.

  ‘Of course,’ said the doctor, smiling. ‘I forgot – it was they who taught it to us. They said it was a code for talking in front of you.’

  ‘But I got to know what they were saying.’

  ‘We speak it even though we don’t have any children,’ said the doctor’s wife.

  ‘Ime-tay or-fay ed-bay. You have a difficult day tomorrow. Your mother sends her love.’

  ‘Gabriel, dance with me. Let’s demonstrate the quickstep for him.’

  ‘Phyllis – you’re being . . . The time is out of joint.’ The doctor’s glance went to the boy.

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘There’s no time like the present.’ She lurched to the side of the floor and got into her high-heeled sandals. From the window sill she took a box and sprinkled something from it whispering onto the floor.

  ‘Lux perpetua,’ she said and turned to the boy. ‘Soap flakes – to allow the feet to glide.’ She put the record on again. ‘A bit more volume.’ And raised her hand to invite the doctor to dance. He stared at her and nodded his head a little in disbelief. ‘Heaven, I’m in heaven,’ and they were away across the floor, their bodies close, their feet in time. The doctor, when he turned, rolled his eyes to the boy – to let him know he was just humouring his wife who was being more than a little foolish. The fingers of their upright hands were interlaced. The doctor’s hand at her back was cupped as if holding something precious. Their feet skimmed and her dress swished and outlined her thin body as she traversed the floor. The boy now knew the tune and knew where it was going. They moved as one person, their legs scissoring together to the music. They had variations – sometimes dancing side by side – sometimes swinging out away from each other and slingshotting back together again. She threw back her head and her red hair fell and swayed. The doctor’s back was straight, his chin elegantly proud. The boy felt as if he was watching his parents. If they didn’t dance like this – and he had never seen them dance at home because they had rugs on the floor and the room was too small – it is how they would have wanted to dance.

  He felt he couldn’t leave the room and go back up to bed because the doctor and his wife covered so much of the floor so quickly. He would be trampled or would at least cause them to interrupt their dancing and he didn’t want to do that. So he stayed where he was and watched. He joined his hands behind his back the way he had seen the doctor do earlier in the garden and leaned back against the wall. The wallpaper in this room was also like velvet. The pattern was of green bamboo and moved beneath his hand. He caressed it behind his back as he watched the dancers.

  Something moved in the doorway. It was his brother. The loud music must have wakened him. His face looked crumpled and sleepy and he stood with bare feet on the threshold.

  ‘Dance with your brother,’ shouted the doctor’s wife.

  ‘That would look stupid,’ said the boy but not loudly enough for it to be heard. It was enough that at that moment he was glad he hadn’t killed him in the garden earlier.

  The music stopped. And the doctor and his wife ended their dance, he mock bowing and she inclining her head in gratitude for being asked. The only sound now apart from the ticking of the record was their loud breathing.

  ‘I see we are all here now,’ said the doctor looking at the boy in the doorway.

  ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ The doctor, still panting, went over and squatted down before the boy standing on the threshold.

  ‘I’m not
surprised. At her volume,’ he said and looked at his wife. ‘Now boys you have a difficult day tomorrow. You’d better get some sleep.’

  ‘I’ll waken us at half eight,’ said the doctor’s wife.

  ‘And I’ll run all of us in for ten o’clock mass.’ By now the two brothers were together at the foot of the stairs. The doctor was touching each of them on the shoulder. ‘Oh, I forgot to say. Ben, Tony – it is now definite. The Bishop will attend the funeral. Not many people that happens to. You should be very proud. Goodnights apiece.’

  The boys began the stairs. When they were halfway up the elder boy looked round. The doctor’s wife was in tears, watching them climb.

  THE CLINIC

  It was still dark. He was never up at this time, except occasionally to catch a dawn flight. He picked up his sample, his papers and the yellow card. The bottle was warm in his hand. He was about to go out the door when he remembered. Something to read, something to pass the time. In the room with the book shelf he clicked on the light. The clock on the mantelpiece told him he was running late. He grabbed a small hardback collection of Chekhov’s short stories and ran.

  It was mid-November. People’s Moscow-white faces told how cold it was. Breath was visible on the air. The traffic was ten times worse than he was used to. He turned off into the hospital and got lost a couple of times before he saw the Diabetic Clinic sign. He parked ages away and half hurried, half ran back. He was breathless going through the door only to find that the place was upstairs. He was about eight minutes late and apologised. The receptionist shrugged and smiled, as if to say – think nothing of it. That made him mad too. He had been so uptight trying to get there on time and now, it seemed, it didn’t matter very much. If there was one thing worse than worrying, it was wasted worrying. He was asked to take a seat.

  The waiting room was half full even though it was only twenty to nine. There was a row of empty seats backing onto the window. He sat down, glad not to be close enough to anyone to have to start a conversation. A Muslim woman in a black hejab talked to her mother who was similarly dressed. The language was incomprehensible to him but he was curious to know what they were talking about.