‘It’s no use saying I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘because I am.’ He stared at me, and I stared at him, wondering why the hell I’d let myself in for this. Pearl, holding the champagne, glared at us both as if we were pulling some fast trick on her, and at me in particular so that I knew she finally didn’t like me at all. My one ambition was to get into a simple situation, but no sooner had this deep wish struck than I knew it to be impossible. I couldn’t even hate my father for what he’d done to my mother, now that I’d found him, meaning that he was no use to me at all. And I was glad I couldn’t put him to this use, for he was unable, because of this, to sap my strength. At the same time he had none to give me. Meeting him like this was just one more experience for me to mull over from time to time. While we drank the champagne he looked at me, a strange glimpse, almost as if he were afraid in some way. He was certainly shocked, and I had the feeling that he might go off and hang himself in an odd moment of boredom or emptiness at some time in the near-future. But this crazy idea passed off, and he asked me all about my life. I refused to tell him anything at first, saying he only wanted to know so that he could put it into one of his novels. Then he started to cry and said this was true, which made me laugh, while Pearl ran for some pills, so I told him what I thought he wanted to know about myself, which had no connexion whatever to the truth. Some time later I said I was going to the toilet, but I picked up my coat and walked out of the flat, not even bothering to say goodbye.
I went round Sloane Square a few times, then got into a phonebox and dialled Moggerhanger. The line was dead, and when I looked down I saw that the paybox had been ripped out. At the next one I phoned Blaskin’s flat, listening for him while two men stood outside waiting to come in after me. ‘Hello?’ said Blaskin.
‘This is Michael.’
‘I thought you were in the toilet?’ he shouted.
‘I left. I’m in Hampstead. Listen, I never want to see you again. I’m not your son and you’re not my father, so get that into your stream of consciousness.’
I slammed the lid down before he could reply, and pushed my way out of the box. Halfway to the World’s End I realized I’d yet to phone Moggerhanger. At the next booth I got straight through to him. ‘I’m going to Geneva the day after tomorrow,’ I said. ‘Pindarry and Cottapilly will be off to Zurich in the morning.’
‘I shan’t forget you for this. You’ve got a place in my heaven from now on.’
‘Can you put me on to Polly?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ he said, and I could see him trying to laugh, ‘she went to Geneva, to see her old schoolfriend. I expect she’ll be back in three or four days. If you’re lucky she might be waiting for you when you get there.’ This was the best weather forecast for some time, and wishing him goodnight I got back into fresh air and headed for the river. The thought of a few days by the lake with Polly put my head above the clouds, made all my mix-ups seem very small indeed. I thought that if I kept my nerve, watched myself, played my cards right; if I was patient, cool, and prayed for the upkeep of my luck, repeated all such clichés as if they were prayers, then I’d sail out of this tricky patch unscathed and happy. I’d haul down the skull and crossbones and henceforth live at Upper Mayhem under my purple banner of bliss with sweet Polly Moggerhanger for ever and ever.
Sleep was deep and dreamless that night, and it’s as well that it was. I’d expected a quiet and uneventful day on my own before the trip to Geneva, but during breakfast the phone rang. I didn’t want to answer it, no matter who was trying to needle through. I counted the times it rang, thinking it couldn’t go on to more than fifty, but at the thirteenth I lost patience and picked it up. ‘Hello?’ I said sharply.
‘Michael? It’s Bridgitte.’
I’d expected Polly, Leningrad, my mother, Blaskin, Moggerhanger himself, but not Bridgitte. Why couldn’t I expect everything, even the unexpected? ‘How are you, my own sweet darling? I’ve been phoning you for days and days.’
‘You liar,’ she screamed. ‘I’ve been trying to get you.’
‘What’s wrong?’ She was crying again, and her sobs went through to me. I was getting used to women crying, and was beginning to feel sorry for them when I heard it, no longer feeling just annoyed. ‘What is it, love? What can I do for you?’ I almost pleaded, till I pulled myself together and stopped it.
‘Come over to the house,’ she said, ‘now. It’s Smog.’
‘I’ll be right over on the number-two helicopter,’ I said. ‘What’s gone wrong?’
‘Dr Anderson was killed last week, in a car crash on the motorway. Oh, that’s all right, don’t be sorry. He was buried the day before yesterday. I don’t care. But Smog won’t eat. He’s curled up in the dark, and won’t open his eyes.’
I slammed the phone down without giving her time to finish, picked up my coat and ran.
I flagged a taxi at the end of the street, and told him to get up to Hampstead like a jet because I’d just heard that my son was ill and in danger of his life.
‘Leave it to me, mate,’ he said, and drove over the first junction with the light just changed to red. ‘I shan’t kill you,’ he laughed, ‘just rest back and try not to worry.’ He went up through Chelsea and Kensington, over the Park and through St John’s Wood. I offered him a cigar. ‘Light it and pass it in,’ he said. I couldn’t see much of his face, but he wore a cap and seemed about forty, and had glasses on. ‘Whatever you do,’ he said, ‘don’t worry. Things’ll be all right. Take it from me. Kids often go off a bit, but you’ll pull him round. How old is he?’
‘Seven.’
‘That’s all right. Under five, and it might be touch and go. What’s wrong with him?’
‘Don’t know. Wife just phoned. Can’t get much out of her.’
‘Women!’ he said. ‘Never mind, mate. They do their best.’
‘And more,’ I said. So we went on, and soon he was pulling up by that open flight of steps climbing the green bank of the garden. I gave him two quid, but he pushed one back. ‘Don’t skin yourself. Just get going.’
‘All the best,’ I shouted, going like Batman, but feeling sick.
I called for Bridgitte. She wasn’t in the living-room. Half the furniture had gone, and there were suitcases all over the floor. Of course Smog was upset. How could he grieve in an atmosphere like this? I had a sudden vision of the brutality of the world towards children, and ran down the stairs into the kitchen. A saucepan of milk was boiling over on the electric stove and causing a great stink. She wasn’t there so I ran upstairs, on to the bedrooms, looking in each one till I found her.
She stood by the window, staring outside: ‘I saw you on your way up.’
‘Then why the bloody hell didn’t you come down and let me in?’ I was full of rage, then saw Smog in the bed, curled up. He seemed to be asleep. ‘What’s the trouble?’ I lowered my voice in case he was. I knew she wanted me to kiss and comfort her, but I was too concerned about Smog to feel much sympathy for her distress. She wore a black sweater, and a black skirt, black stockings, and black carpet slippers with black pompoms in the front — as if she’d really fitted herself out for mourning day and night. I suppose she had a black nightdress, and stuffed herself with black wadding if she was having a period.
Smog groaned and turned over, facing me without opening his eyes. ‘He’s drunk warm milk,’ she said, ‘for the last four days.’
‘And you haven’t got a doctor?’
‘Not yet. His mother came to the funeral, then went off and left us. She’s gone up to Scotland.’
‘I suppose he sleeps all the time?’
She lit a cigarette, and nodded.
‘Go down and make him some Quaker Oats,’ I said, ‘and cool it with milk and butter. Put plenty of sugar in. I suppose you can do that?’