‘I’m sorry, Venetia,’ he said. ‘I’ve been in a blind panic this last hour. I was just about to ring you.’
Silence on her end. Then, in a sad, quiet voice that made her sound like a young girl, she imparted the third memorable arse-fuck of That Day: ‘My Monty is dying.’
‘What? How? What of?’
‘He had a heart attack this morning. A whopper. The doctors thought he might pull through but then he had another one. He’s unconscious now.’
‘I’m so sorry, Venetia! Jesus! I’m so very sorry. What can I do?’
An exhalation of breath made ragged by fought-back tears. ‘Don’t tell Betts until after she’s recovered from the birth.’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘And ring me as soon as the baby’s here.’
‘Yes, I’ll do that.’
‘And Bart?’
‘Yes?’
‘If it’s a boy, don’t you think – well, wouldn’t it be fitting if you named him Montgomery?’
What was he supposed to say to that? He couldn’t say no, could he? ‘Of course, Venetia.’
‘It would mean the world to him – I mean, if he were conscious and able to… do you think if I were to whisper it into his ear, he might hear me?’
‘It wouldn’t hurt to try.’
‘Montgomery Dawes. That’s a strong name, don’t you think?’
‘Certainly. It’s got a good – it’s got a nice ring to it. But – well – I was going to name him Jonathan. But if—’
‘Oh,’ she said, that ‘Oh’ appearing in Bart’s mind like a sad little smoke ring, moon-white and quick to disperse. She laughed. Horribly. ‘So many dead names to choose from… so many… There’s your father’s name too. I hadn’t even considered that.’
‘Oh, no – I wouldn’t name my child after him. I hated him.’
‘I know you did. I know.’ She blew her nose and sniffed. ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, Bart.’
There was a vase of daffodils on the desk. He dimly realised that his eyes had been focused on them this whole time. One particular petal – crooked but fleshy.
‘Wouldn’t it be strange,’ she continued, ‘if the baby came and at the same time, Monty… imagine if his soul flew from here to – oh, I’m saying all sorts of ridiculous things now. I’ll let you go, Bart. Goodbye.’
‘Mr Dawes?’
He jumped. It was Doris.
‘Your sandwiches are ready when you want them. And I’ve done you a malted milk for your nerves.’
‘Thank you,’ he said softly. And then his face crumpled and he was crying.
‘It’s a trying time for a husband,’ said Doris, touching his arm gingerly, as if she were a dog trainer unsure of the hound’s temperament.
A pinched, yellowish, mewling she-critter with tiny grasping hands tipped with the thinnest, most delicate slices of fingernail, arms and legs marbled blue, red and yellow as her circulation clashed with the cold air, a puffy vulva, goose-pimpled and already dribbling out urine, the dark eyes rolling around their sockets, unseeing, tiny mouth opening and closing, opening and closing. Absolutely beautiful.
Why couldn’t he stop crying?
Bettina gazed at him through opium-sunk eyes. She reached out and patted his thigh. ‘Let Del get a blanket on her, Meow. She’s getting cold.’
He nodded, sniffing, and passed the baby to Delores, who promptly swaddled her in a woollen blanket before passing her back to him, smiling with all the gums showing around her huge yellow teeth.
‘I could do with a cigarette,’ said Bettina.
‘Now, Bettina—’ began Del.
‘If I want a cigarette, I shall have a cigarette. Meow, darling, give me a cigarette, will you?’
Bart carefully balanced the baby on his thighs and took out his cigarettes, lighting two. ‘It should be a cigar, really,’ he said.
‘I don’t like cigars,’ she said. ‘I don’t think anyone does. I think men just pretend to.’
‘How do you feel?’ he said.
She propped herself up on the pillow and began to smoke, eyes closed. ‘Euphoric,’ she said, tonelessly.
‘Are you – is that sarcasm?’
‘No, I meant it. I’m just so exhausted. How do I look?’
It was strange – she looked terrible: haggard, crusty-lipped and squinty-eyed, her complexion ruddy. Yet beautiful. The most beautiful she’d ever looked. And it was the same with the baby – a little troll thing, said his eyes. But his heart saw perfection. It was a kind of drunkenness of perception. ‘Delicious,’ he said.
‘Bart – it was awful. I’m never doing it again.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ chipped in Delores, who was pulling the curtains open at the other end of the room.
Bart cradled the baby in one arm, smoking with the other. The sun had gone down outside and it was getting dark. Bettina looked tiny in the huge bed. He imagined Monty in his own huge bed, which he could well remember; as a boy he’d often sneaked into the grown-up world of the Wyn Thomases’ master bedroom to nose through their alien artefacts – stiff underwear with odd clasps and ribs of whalebone shooting off in incomprehensible directions, strange metal contraptions for cleaning the ears or draining the sinuses, jars of haemorrhoid ointment, potted orchids everywhere, their soil peppered with fingernail shavings and what looked like pubic hair, a toffee tin filled with war medals and cufflinks. Monty’s Boer War medal was the newest and shiniest. He’d imagine a younger, leaner Monty in khakis, wiping sweat and blood from his brow with a rag while smoking a cheroot.
He’d once masturbated over Monty.
Twice, actually.
Well, a handful of times. But not to excess. Not with any regularity.
In the fantasy, Monty saved Bart from drowning in the sea. He clutched Bart to his chest to keep him from thrashing, calmly treading water and whispering reassurances – ‘I’ve got you, boy, I’ve got you.’ His chest was solid and warm. He swam him back to shore. They threw themselves onto the sand, panting, and Bart noticed Monty’s stiffy (huge, of course), and Monty noticed Bart noticing it, and there was a pause, a beat, and Monty grabbed Bart and shoved his tongue into his mouth.
Monty was not an attractive man. He certainly wasn’t a nice man. So why these fantasies?
Too easy.
Delores was looming over the bed, still smiling, but glancing at Bart with an air of expectation. His cue to leave. They had business to discuss – there was the matter of feeding (Bettina unequivocally wished to use bottled milk to save her breasts from sagging) – and then rest for the mother. And then some horrible fucking news for the mother. He lifted the baby up to his face and sniffed her head. Creamy, slightly earthy. Lovely.
‘Are we still set on Tabitha?’ he said. ‘I can see her as a little Tabby.’
‘I think it’s perfect,’ said Bettina.
He nodded. ‘The next one can be Jonathan.’ Or Montgomery. ‘We’ll accrue the complete dead set.’
‘I told you, I’m never doing this again.’
He handed her the baby and kissed her head. ‘You did wonderfully. I’m so proud of you.’ And he quickly left before the tears could start again.
Chapter 19
April 1928, Bergman and Hutchinson, Sussex
The monkey was a capuchin – she remembered learning about capuchins in her children’s encyclopaedias; they were small and intelligent and the males dominated everything. This one was tinged red with white fur on its face. It was hunched inside a small bell-cage hanging from the ceiling, nibbling a brown apple core.