The Bellwether Revivals (13 page)

‘Actually, no. Just the opposite. It’s the patients who feel undignified.’

‘Yes, but,
really
 … I don’t know how you can do it. Just on a practical level.’ Jane shivered at the thought. ‘I wouldn’t even do that for my own mother.’ She picked up her bread roll and began to butter it fiercely. There was a quiet in the room; eyes flitted across the table. It was as if everybody was looking at each other, wondering: Would
I
do that for you?

‘You know, I don’t even think about it any more,’ Oscar went on. ‘It’s just something that needs to be done, so I do it. It’s a perfunctory thing. Like it is when we all go.’

‘Stop. You’re ruining my gravy,’ Marcus joked, pushing his plate away. Everyone laughed.

Oscar thought back to his shift that morning. He’d gone in to see Mrs Kernaghan in Room 3. As he’d helped her out of bed, he’d noticed the smell, and then seen the way her nightdress was clinging to the backs of her legs, the liquidy stain on the bedsheets. Mrs Kernaghan had never had trouble with incontinence before. She’d
given him a look of terror when she realised what had happened. She’d said: ‘I knew it, I could smell it, but I hoped it was a dream.’ He’d drawn a bath for her immediately, and sent for one of the female nurses to wash her and clothe her for breakfast. Later, he’d spoken to Dr Paulsen about it, to warn him that he should be especially considerate of Mrs Kernaghan’s feelings today. ‘The old dam finally burst, huh?’ Paulsen had said. ‘I knew she wouldn’t be able to last out. It comes to us all in the end.’ Oscar had lost count of the times he’d bathed Dr Paulsen, sponged off the backs of his frail old legs. The first time, Paulsen had been silent, resigned to the indignity of it. The second time he’d said: ‘Now you’ve seen the worst of me.’ The last time, he’d said: ‘I shit more sense than I speak these days,’ and giggled.

‘Let’s change the subject, shall we?’ Theo said.

For the rest of the meal, Oscar evaded further interrogation from the Bellwethers. They talked mostly of things that affected the family: the upkeep of the house at Harvey Road, the débâcle (as Iris put it) of her last recital, her continuing progress with her studies. ‘She really set the benchmark with her transcript last year,’ Theo said, ‘but, Oscar, I keep telling her there’s still room for improvement.’ It was noticeable that when Theo pressed Iris about her grades, Mrs Bellwether held back from the discussion, and Oscar couldn’t tell if this was out of discretion or indifference. She was quick to ask Eden about the new Dean of his chapel—’Which seminary did he come from again?’—but seemed less interested in the scheduled repairs to the Harrison organ. Eden made no mention of Johann Mattheson or his theories in explaining how everyone had come to know Oscar. ‘It was one of those happy accidents,’ he said. ‘Iggy got talking with him outside the chapel after evensong, and I suppose we all just hit it off.’

Mrs Bellwether sat up, looking at Oscar with a new enthusiasm. ‘What were you doing at evensong? I thought you weren’t religious.’

‘The choir,’ Iris said. ‘He went to hear the choir.’

‘Oh, yes. The choir
is
magnificent.’

‘They’re a national treasure.’ Theo topped up his glass. ‘Jane, I meant to ask, how are your parents faring in Tuscany?’

‘They love it out there. Slowly getting used to the language.’

‘I should think so. Will you be going out to see them?’

‘After the exam term, maybe.’

‘School first, eh? That’s what I like to hear.’

While Theo quizzed the rest of them about their post-graduation plans, Oscar stayed around edges of the conversation, politely responding with smiles. Jane said she would likely take a job in publishing after her degree, though she really wanted to be a war correspondent like Kate Adie—‘Anyway, I’ve still got a whole year to decide on things.’ Yin was considering a return to California next year; he’d had some interesting offers from acquaintances in Palo Alto. ‘I know exactly zero about IT, but somehow they don’t see that as a drawback.’

Mrs Bellwether seemed to take for granted that Marcus would be going on to a Master’s programme: ‘There’s marvellous security in academia, if you’re smart enough,’ she said. ‘Just think, you and Eden,
postgraduates
—and Iris not far behind.’ Then, as if it were an afterthought, she turned to her daughter and said: ‘You haven’t said anything about my new paintings, by the way.’

‘They’re good, Mum. Accomplished.’

‘I think they’re fabulous, Mrs B,’ said Marcus.

‘Oh, yeah, totally,’ said Yin.

Mrs Bellwether clasped her hands together. ‘I’m so thrilled with them, I can’t tell you how much. And the artist is really quite lovely. So humble, for someone so talented.’

‘You make her sound like Rembrandt,’ Eden said.

‘Well, even Rembrandt was an unknown painter at one time in his life. I saw the sketches for her new exhibition—so wonderful.’

Eden’s face tensed a little. His eyes fell towards the tabletop and he began meddling with the salt cellar. ‘I’m sure they’ll make you a decent profit.’

‘That’s what your father said. I might auction one off for the church.’

‘Yes,’ Eden said, dourly, ‘that’ll go down well.’

They all retired to the drawing room after dessert. It had the conscious extravagance of a hotel lobby: leather sofas, candelabras, a grand piano, and a marble fireplace. Theo stood behind a rosewood cabinet, stacked with cut-glass decanters, and began removing the stoppers and sniffing the contents of each bottle, as if about to commence some explosive chemistry experiment. Eventually, he chose one and lifted it. ‘Alright. Who’ll share some Delamain with me? Oscar, I know you’re game.’ Theo raised one eyebrow.

‘Thanks, Mr Bellwether,’ he said, ignoring Iris’s suggestive cough.

‘Some of the best cognac you’ll ever drink, this,’ Theo went on. ‘Three grand for seventy piddling centilitres.’

‘Let’s all have some!’ Eden said.

‘Yes, I’m always up for Delamain,’ said Marcus.

‘Oh, terrific.’ Theo stared downwards, glue-eyed. He took eight glasses from the cabinet and poured a conservative measure of brandy into each of them. When he finished pouring, he looked at the decanter, as if trying to aggregate how many precious centilitres he had wasted on his guests. He dished the glasses out, one at a time.

They all sat drinking for several minutes, talking very little, until Eden jolted forwards in his armchair and said: ‘Would anyone like to hear something interesting?’

‘Depends what it is,’ Theo said.

‘Just a little article I found. I meant to tell you about it at dinner.’ He set his brandy down and stood up, digging his left hand into his trouser pocket. Oscar had never seen Eden dressed so smartly. The suit he was wearing was not ill-fitting, but it looked unusual on him, the way a military uniform looks on a child. He had on a pair of brown Oxfords that clashed with the
whiteness of his pinstripes, and the loop of his tie was visible underneath his collar. After a moment, Eden removed a folded square of paper and sat down again, opening it. ‘Really is an amazing story. I discovered it online, in the
New York Times
archives. Shall I read it to you?’

‘What’s it about, dear?’ Mrs Bellwether asked.

‘Hypnotism.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘Trust me. It’s fascinating.’

Iris drew herself forward on the sofa, but said nothing. She flashed a glance at Oscar.

‘Hypnosis by Handel in Downtown Manhattan,’
Eden began, reading in a slow, steady tone.
‘Dr
.
Marcelo Fernandez escorts his final patient of the day into his office and asks her to lie down on the couch
.
“Close your eyes
.
Try to relax,” he tells the woman
.
“Let me know if—” ’

‘Where exactly is this leading?’ Theo interrupted.

‘If you listen, you might find out.’ Eden opened his mouth to continue reading, but Theo stopped him, thrusting one arm forward as if to halt a train. ‘But it’s so interesting,’ Eden said. ‘There’s this man in New York who can hypnotise people in lieu of anaesthesia.’

‘Oh,
I see
.’ Theo gave a pitying laugh. ‘What is he, some kind of shaman?’

‘No, he’s actually a qualified doctor like you. Listen—’

‘Alright, son, put it away now. Let’s get back to our evening.’

‘Dad, he only wants to read it. You’re being a bit extreme,’ Iris said.

Oscar could tell by the calmness in her voice that she didn’t so much want to hear her brother’s article as to watch him expose his strangeness before their parents, but she was smart: she made it seem to Eden like she was firmly in his corner.

Theo said: ‘No, I’m being perfectly rational. I’ve seen the results of that kind of witchdoctory in my clinic too often, and I won’t hear another word about it.’

‘It does sound a little profane, darling,’ said Mrs Bellwether. ‘Your father doesn’t have to hear it if he doesn’t want to.’

Marcus and Yin remained silent, making eyes at each other.

Eden smiled. ‘Well, how about if I just leave it out for people? Over there on the piano. And if anyone wants to look at it, they can do so of their own free will.’

Theo inhaled his brandy and sighed. ‘Alright. Fine.’

‘Wait, we’re back on free will again?’ Jane said. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look over my notes from last time.’ She had a knack for diffusing the tension in a room. Oscar could see what the others liked about her: she was self-deprecating, constantly downplaying her intelligence and positioning herself as the slowest member of the group, when she might well have been the brightest of them all. She had a sense of humour that seemed naïve, but he recognised it as something more than that. It was her way of forging her own identity within the group: an endearing, calculated dumbness.

They sipped their brandy as Eden walked across to the piano and set the article under a vase of orange lilies. He sat down at the keys and began to play the sober chords of the funeral march. Everybody laughed, apart from Theo, who just gave a restrained smile.

‘Why don’t you play something for us, dear?’ Mrs Bellwether called out.

Eden seemed thrilled to be asked. ‘Yes. Sure. What would you like to hear?’

‘Anything you want to play is fine with me.’

‘Alright.’ Eden began to play a slow, melodious tune. The chords were soft and simple as a lullaby.

‘What is that? Chopin?’

‘It’s Schumann,’ Marcus said.

‘Ah, yes.’

‘Did you know,’ Eden called out over the music, his fingers still working the keys, ‘that Schumann had Manic Depression?’

‘Really?’

‘He was quite doolally with it near the end. Ended up throwing himself into the Rhine.’

‘This is one of his later works, isn’t it?’ Marcus said.

Eden nodded slowly. The gentle tenor of the piano idled through the room. ‘The
Geister Variations
. When he wrote this, he thought he was being guided by the voices of dead composers. I’m sure Theo wouldn’t have any patience for old Schumann whatsoever.’

‘Sshh,’ Theo said. ‘It’s poor manners to talk while you’re playing.’

Eden closed his eyes. The soft, sparse chords seemed to roll on forever.

When he finished, there was a thin smattering of applause, led by his mother. ‘Oh, Edie, I do miss that sound. I remember a time when it was all anyone could hear in this house, morning, noon, and night. It was like living at Carnegie Hall. Now we come down for breakfast—don’t we, Theo?—and we say to each other,
it’s so quiet
.’

‘What about Iris?’ Oscar said.

Mrs Bellwether cornered her eyes at him. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Didn’t you ever hear Iris playing her cello?’

‘Yes, of course we did.’ The skin on her chest became radishy; she fingered her locket. ‘I meant Iris too. You could always hear her out in the garden, playing something or other. She’s always played very nicely.’

‘Like a young Eva Janzer,’ Theo added. ‘I’ve always said that.’

‘But music’s never really been her passion, not like it is for Eden. Iris has more important things to focus on than the cello. She’s always wanted to follow in her father’s footsteps, haven’t you, darling?’

Iris just nodded. When all eyes were turned away, she gave Oscar a small kiss on the temple, and squeezed his knee, as if to
say, ‘Thanks for trying.’ He was glad to be that person for her, the voice who pleaded her case in runaway discussions.

‘So why don’t you come to the chapel any more?’ Eden asked his parents. ‘You haven’t been to a service all year.’

His mother looked at Theo, then answered: ‘You know we try to get out there as much as we can, dear. But it’s always so busy on Sundays.’

‘Weekends are tricky for us,’ Theo said. ‘You know that.’

‘Plus, there’s the parking in town midweek. Around King’s especially. So many tourists.’

‘Your mother prefers St Andrew’s these days. Much more convenient, and the new minister is quite entertaining. He has a way with a sermon.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Eden said. ‘It’s just that you said you’d come when you could.’

‘And we haven’t been able to, son. That’s all there is to it.’

Mrs Bellwether sat up very straight. She looked at Oscar as if he were one of her abstract paintings that she was training her eyes to appreciate. ‘Will you be staying over, Oscar? There’s plenty of space for you boys in the organ house. Jane can stay with Iris in the rectory.’

‘No, Mum, we’re driving back,’ Iris told her. ‘I have to go to the library first thing.’

‘You can drive there in the morning, can’t you?’

‘Yes, but, I don’t think Oscar—’

‘Of course. He must have to be at work early.’

‘Actually, tomorrow is my day off,’ Oscar said. ‘I’d be happy to stay.’

‘Well, that settles it.’

‘Are we calling it an evening already?’ Theo said, looking at his watch. ‘I suppose it
is
quite late.’ He downed the last of his brandy with a murmur.

Marcus and Yin both declined the offer to stay over. There was unfinished work that couldn’t wait another day. ‘We’ve got a
gruelling all-nighter planned,’ Yin said. ‘Too many distractions here.’ They bantered playfully with Mrs Bellwether for a while, until she agreed it would be better to let them leave. In the atrium, they said their goodbyes, donned jackets and scarves, and headed for Yin’s BMW.