Getting It Right (41 page)

She dropped the empty packet on the floor and picked up another one – tearing it open with practised speed, and cramming the first cake into her mouth almost whole as though to catch up on
the split second pause that the change from one packet to the next involved.

Eventually he managed to say something. ‘Minnie, what’s the matter? Why are you doing this?’

With her mouth full she answered: ‘Having a binge.’ She sniggered, retched, put her hand over her mouth and swallowed several times; she was swaying slightly. Then she dropped the
new packet of cakes and reeled over to where there was a tin of Coke with a straw standing in it. She drank until the tin was empty, whereupon she chucked it on the floor, and then kicked the tin
with her foot. The room was littered with cartons and packets of food; with waste paper and empty Coke tins. By the unmade bed was a bucket and a filthy towel. She saw him looking round, and said:
‘Too far to the lavatory when I throw up.’

A part of him wanted to turn round, and rush for the door to flee the scene for ever. But he couldn’t do that. He’d come to help her; he’d got to try and help her.

‘Listen; stop that for a minute.’ She had resumed eating. ‘Stop that and talk to me.’

‘Oh no!’ she said. She shook her head slowly several times. ‘No – I won’t do that because I don’t want to. That’s why not.’

‘All right, go on eating and talk to me.’

There was no response to this; she simply went on eating.

‘Where’s your sister?’ he asked as conversationally as he was able.

‘She’s away. For a week . . . That’s how I got the Coke. And some other things. On her account. Much less to carry . . . I said – a children’s party.’ She
sniggered again and bit into another cake.

‘Minnie, I came to say that I’m sorry I ran out on you on Saturday.’

She looked confused, and then said: ‘Why are you here? I don’t want anyone here. I don’t like you.’ She tore at the cake packet and a cake rolled out of it on to the
floor. She tried to bend down to pick it up, but lost her balance and ended up on her knees. She whimpered, grabbed the cake and pushed it against her mouth with the palms of her hands: the
whimpering was suddenly cut off. She stayed for a minute with her hands against her mouth, rocking slightly. Then in a quite different voice she said: ‘I’ve got
such
a
pain.’ Before, she had been watching him; now, she looked straight ahead – at nothing.

Compassion seared him. ‘Have you?’

‘Mm.’ It was scarcely audible. Then she gave an odd little laugh, not at all like her previous noises. ‘It
never –
goes. It doesn’t matter what I
do.’

He knelt in front of her.

‘Minnie, it could matter, honestly. You need some help.’

She looked at him with such pure hatred that again he felt scorched. ‘Oh no, I don’t. You mean pass the buck and have someone paid to treat me like a looney. Don’t think I
haven’t been through all that. People trying to get me to be like them.’

‘They wouldn’t do that. They’d want to help
you.
’

‘You know what people are like? They’re like
you.
You just want
someone else
to help me. To get me off your back. Like she wanted to get me out of her stomach. I
thought you were different.’ She groped about on the floor and found the half-eaten packet of Jaffa Cakes, and bit into one. ‘I’ve given up all that. Now I just put things on top
of it. Have a binge.’ She filled her mouth and then mumbled: ‘You just piss off.’ She started retching – tried to get up, failed, and began crawling towards the bucket.
Struggling with his revulsion, he fetched the bucket over to her – the stench was dreadful and his stomach heaved. He left her hardly knowing what he was doing – just had to get out;
shut the basement door, ran up the steps, held on to the area railings and was reluctantly, agonizingly sick.

It was raining, but not so hard. He lifted his face up to the sky to get some of the cool, fine rain on his skin: then he realized that his teeth were chattering and that his body was beset by a
spasmodic shuddering. He knew he’d got to do something about her, but his mind seemed to have seized up; if he tried to think at all about it, he started feeling that he might vomit
again.

After a bit he walked slowly away from the house – aimlessly: he didn’t know the district, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he’d better find a telephone box.
Who should he ring up? A doctor – but how did one find a doctor to ring? Nine nine nine; then he’d have to ask for an ambulance, and they’d ask him what was wrong; how did one
explain what was wrong?

‘This girl’s on an eating jag; I can’t stop her – I think she’s been doing it for at least two days – possibly more.’ Did people die of what Minnie was
doing? He didn’t know. He hadn’t the slightest idea. And how was anyone who
did
go to rescue her to get in? He very much doubted that she’d open the door to anyone a
second time, and there were bars on the windows. Then he thought of her parents. He didn’t know their number, but he ought to be able to get it.

He found a telephone box, got through to Directory Enquiries, explained that he only knew the name and not the address in Weybridge, and managed to get the girl batting enough for him to look
for it. But she came back with the news that the number was ex-directory. Oh Christ! ‘Well, could you get through to them and ask them if they would be prepared to speak to me? It’s
about their daughter: she’s very ill. Please do – I don’t know what else to do.’

‘Have you rung for an ambulance?’

‘It’s not quite like that, but it really is serious – I’m not making it up. Would you just
ask
them?’

There was a pause, and then the operator in a resigned voice said: ‘Hold on.’

Eventually, he got through to what he recognized at once to be Sir Gordon, and explained as quickly and simply as he could what was happening to his daughter. Sir Gordon listened, interposing a
few grunts that gave no indication of his feelings. ‘Have you rung her doctor?’ was all he said.

‘No – I don’t know her doctor.’

‘Suppose I’d better ring him. Can’t come up myself, I’m expecting a call from Chicago. Can’t you stop her?’

‘No – no, I can’t. I can’t do anything with her.’

‘You could take the drink away, couldn’t you?’

‘It isn’t drink – it’s food. I think she’s been eating nonstop for days.’

‘Only left here on Sunday evening.’

‘For God’s sake, it’s Wednesday now!’

‘Don’t you take that tone with me, young man!’

‘I’m not taking any tone with you. I’m just warning you that your daughter’s in a seriously bad way, so that you can do something about it. And you’d better do
something about it.’ He had a brainwave. ‘She might do anything. Set fire to Sheila’s house – or anything.’ That was a stroke of genius. The idea of family property being at risk clearly shook the old monster.

‘I’ll get on to her doctor right away,’ he said at once, and in a far more anxious tone of voice.

‘Right. Well, I’m also telling you that
I
can’t do any more about her: I’m handing her back over to you. Good-bye.’ And he rang off.

That was that. His knees were shaking and his head throbbed. He also felt near to tears – a concomitant for him with being sick – something that hardly ever happened to him and
filled him with retrospective revulsion. He looked at his watch. It was time to walk over the railway bridge and meet Harry in Marine Ices. But he didn’t want coffee – however good
– he wanted a brandy and ginger ale – the drink he kept for dire emergencies . . . And he wanted a Wilhelm II like he had hardly ever wanted one in his life before.

The telephone box was immediately outside a pub. He hesitated – then decided that he’d better fetch Harry first.

Harry was waiting for him.

‘We’re going to a pub.’

Harry looked up from his coffee and at once got to his feet. He paid for his coffee as they walked out. He didn’t say anything until Gavin had ordered his drink – and Harry’s,
a small sherry – and they had carried them to a quiet corner. Gavin got out his cigars and began lighting one. His hands were shaking.

When he had lit it, he looked at his friend and tried to speak, but felt his eyes simply filling with tears. Harry said:

‘You knock that back and I’ll get you another one. Plenty of time.’

He finished his drink, and by the time Harry returned with a refill he felt steadier, and told him.

‘And of course I don’t
know
that her father
will
actually do anything. When I was talking to him on the phone, I sort of assumed he would, but once I’d rung
off I began to feel bad about him not.’

‘I don’t see how you could have done more.’

‘Well, I could go and stand outside the house now, couldn’t I, and see if somebody does come to look after her.’

‘You could, I suppose, but what are you going to do if they don’t?’

‘I – don’t know. I thought of ringing nine nine nine, but then I didn’t know whether to ask for the police or an ambulance. I don’t see how the ambulance people
could get in if she didn’t want them to. And the police don’t go breaking into people’s houses because they’re
eating –
I mean they can’t be expected to
assume she’s eating herself to death, can they? Or can they?’

‘I don’t suppose she’ll do that. It all sounds a bit to me as though she’s done this kind of thing before. She sounds as though she’s anorexic.’

‘She may be – whatever that is. But I feel
responsible
, Harry – that’s what I mean.’

‘You may
feel
responsible, but you aren’t. And as you aren’t you’ve got to recognize that she’s a neurotic and get on with your own life. Neurotics are
always trying to make other people feel responsible for them. They’re often very good at that. It’s often their only idea of a relationship.

Don’t you start letting it be
your
only idea of one.’

He sounded so steady and certain that Gavin felt a mixture of relief and irritation.

‘Don’t you ever feel responsible for Winthrop?’

‘Of course I do, sometimes. I feel everything about him. Sometimes one of the hardest things is standing back and letting them get on with whatever it is they want to get on with –
even if you think you can see it’s going to spell disaster.’

‘I mean,’ Gavin persisted, ‘you have terrible rows, don’t you?’

‘We have
shattering
rows. I used to think I wouldn’t be able to stand them.’

‘Well,
I
couldn’t. I mean, I couldn’t live with somebody if that was always liable to happen.’

‘If you counted up all the things you don’t think you could stand before you started living with anybody, there wouldn’t
be
anyone for you to live with. You
can’t take out a kind of emotional insurance policy with people. You can’t love somebody by a process of elimination.’

‘But on your basis – any of us could live with anybody.’

‘You get little internal messages about
which
people that are quite sound if you listen to them. But not if you smother them with judgements and things like social approval and
them
not
being a whole lot of things that you’re afraid of. The trouble with you, dear child, is that you’re a judger. You judge everyone from morning till night, starting with
Gavin Lamb . . . I have the impression that you’re always lying in wait for yourself – waiting to pounce. And, if you’re so hard on yourself, you’re bound to be a bit hard
on other people.’ He looked into the bottom of his very small sherry glass and said: ‘I think a certain party has had enough of my moralizing. Shall we go and find some food?’

Which they did, and Gavin was grateful to Harry both for what he had said and for his not going on saying it – as many people might have done. They ate a large curry, and it was not until
they were almost finished and had ordered lychees that Harry said:

‘By the way, what with all the
drama
of this evening, I nearly forgot to tell you: Dmitri’s left Joan.’

‘Oh!’ Gavin stared at him in dismay. ‘Really left?’ He could imagine someone like Dmitri doing a good deal of blackmailing about going or staying.

‘Yes. He’s gone off with some Greek millionaire he’s been seeing in France. Doing up their yacht or something. No – he’s gone, all right.’

‘Where’s Joan?’

‘She’s back. I gather she’s pretty shattered. She’s always been afraid it would happen, but she’s always thought it wouldn’t actually
happen.
’

‘Have you got her telephone number? She’s not in the book.’

‘I haven’t. Winthrop may have. I’ll ask him, if you like.’

‘Yes,’ Gavin said. ‘I would.’

‘Gavin!’

‘Hullo, Mum.’

‘Is that you?’

‘Yes, Mum – it’s really me.’

‘Don’t you be cheeky – this is the expensive time for phoning but I never seem to get you in the evenings.’

‘I’ve been out.’

‘Oh – so that’s what it was. Are you all right?’

‘Yes. I’m fine. How’s Aunty Sylvia?’

‘As well as can be expected . . . I didn’t have to tell her about Timmie, Gavin – she knew. That’s why she never asked about him – she knew all the time . . . The
hospital says they may let her out at the weekend . . . If they do, we shall be coming back on Monday. If they don’t – we shall have to see . . . It’s the funeral tomorrow.
I’ll send a wreath from you; I thought you’d like me to.’

‘Yes, Mum, do.’

‘Is the house all right?’

‘Yes – everything’s all right. Don’t hurry back because of me, Mum, I’m perfectly okay.’

‘You’re not warming up any of those pies twice, are you?’

‘No.’

‘Because you know what’ll happen if you do a thing like that?’

‘It’s okay, Mum. How’s Dad?’

‘He’s laying a floor in their sun lounge. Under my feet all day. If it’s not one thing, it’s something else. Well, I’ll be saying good-bye to you now, Gavin –
we’re not millionaires.’

This conversation meant that he couldn’t finish the washing-up (from the night before last) without risking being late again. He put everything to soak in the sink, shoved the empty milk
bottle outside the front door and set off. If she
was
coming home on Monday, it meant cleaning up the house a bit; it was beginning to look dusty – not a question of specks, to each
one of which she paid furious and daily attention, it was more a miasma; he had a feeling that he could write his name with his finger on the top of the telly – something that would not go
down at all well.