The Boy Who Fell to Earth (35 page)

Merlin pushes me away. ‘Ugh! No cheesiness! That smile! Do
all
mothers want their boys to be little again, or is it just you?’

As he sips from the water bottle I hold to his lips I explain to him with faltering voice what’s happened – the crash, the coma …

‘Am I a figment of my own imagination then?’ Merlin asks suddenly.

After reassuring him, I try to explain more, about the hospital and the doctors, all the time scanning his face for signs of brain damage.

He interrupts once more. ‘Am I an organ donor?’

‘Well, yes …’ I shrug.

‘If I had died, it would have been so nice of a total stranger to give up almost all of themself to keep my organs alive, wouldn’t it?’

Elation engulfs me. Merlin is his normal, abnormal self. His light has not been snuffed out. I laugh with giddy abandon and glee, my arms warm around his neck. Despite his fractured ribs, he hugs me back with debilitating enthusiasm. It’s his usual hug – the kind of hug that will require weeks of intense physiotherapy, I think, euphorically, happy for once to be crushed.

I feel reborn, as though I’ve just discovered that the earth rotates around the sun and that the moon dictates the tides. Nurses are suddenly boiling around the bed, prodding and probing. People are on pagers summoning other people. But all I can do is kiss his golden head.

‘Is there anyone you’d like me to call?’ asks the same nurse who admitted us all those long, terrifying days ago.

I’m about to say no – that there’s only ever been Merlin and me. But then I pause. Because it isn’t true. There’s also my mum, Phoebe, Archie … hell, I’m so jubilant I nearly call the woman in the brothel.

My mother returns from the cafeteria with two mugs of steaming tea. Her laughter is incredulous at first and then vibrant with relief and affection. Tea spilling to the floor, she ruffles Merlin’s hair. ‘Thank God you’re okay. I have a trip to Argentina to study tango planned,’ she adds, between elated sobs, ‘followed by a stint in Colombia restoring a butterfly habitat.’

‘Of course you do, Mother,’ I laugh.

‘And I thought maybe you’d like to come, Merlin, dear? When you’re all better?’

South America? Drug cartel capital of the world? My first reaction is to pull him protectively to my chest. But the umbilical cord is stretched to twanging point. ‘If you’d like to, sure,’ I say to my son. ‘It’s your life.’

‘Actually, my life goals are simple,’ Merlin philosophizes. ‘Socially, I want to make as many friends as possible. Personally, I would love to visit Sydney, China, the Galapagos Islands, Japan, the moon and possibly Mars. But South America would be mesmerizing and has everything your heart could contend.’

My own heart expands like an accordion to hear him talk so.

Phoebe arrives next, wet mascara pandaing her eyes. ‘When you’re all better, Merlin, and we’ve got our pay rise, maybe you’d like to fly with me on a couple of my European trips. Rome? Barcelona? Moscow?’ she enthuses. ‘Now that I’m single, I’ll have more time.’

‘Single?’ my mother and I say in unison.

‘I didn’t want to say anything … but Danny’s having an affair. With the au pair. You know how lazy men are. They’ll just use anything that’s lying around the home. It started before Christmas. October actually. I’ve been taking so much HRT – which is mare’s urine, by the way – that I’m practically steeplechasing and eating hay. But I still wasn’t enough for him. He’s run off with her.’

My mother’s lioness focus shifts from Merlin and me on to my sister. ‘The worm! The cad … There is one good thing, though, dear. The man’s going to have to go through the menopause twice.’

We laugh as my mother cradles her oldest daughter. Life is going on, in all its messy glory.

When Archie arrives he laughs so ecstatically that he sprays my face with his happiness. His eyes also look suspiciously moist.

‘Don’t go soft on me now, you wicked old horn dog.’

‘I never go soft in the places that count,’ he swaggers. ‘Now Merlin’s well again, I guess I’m superfluous. You’ll now have a man in the house to do your DIY. Meaning I’m not needed at all …’

‘I don’t know. I still have some needs … Many of them special.’

Archie twinkles at me before biffing Merlin good-naturedly on the arm. ‘Let’s get you back into the saddle, kiddo, then take you down to the casino and get roulette rash makin’
money
out of that bloody amazin’ memory of yours. Or maybe you could just break into the Kremlin’s computer system and we can sell the info to a foreign superpower?’

My immediate reaction is to rebuke the Aussie larrikin. But then I shrug. ‘Okay. If that’s what Merlin wants.’

‘You have a wonderful memory too, Mum,’ Merlin says, matter-of-factly. ‘For forgetting things.’

I laugh, because he’s right. I forgot how much I love and need my friends and family. And I forgot how much they love and need me. My mother and sister and I cling to each other once more, in an exhausted embrace, like boxers nearing the end of a final bout.

The door rasps and Jeremy and his mother sidle inside. My ex-mother-in-law’s face is full of expectation. ‘Any changes?’ she asks, with eager hopefulness. ‘Can you tell yet?’ She peers expectantly at Merlin as though he’s an experiment in a test tube. ‘Or is it too early?’

Jeremy looks as uneasy and as evasive as a schoolboy summoned to see the headmaster about how the math-teacher’s bottom got glued to the chair. He kisses Merlin perfunctorily on the forehead before taking me aside.

‘The papers are printing hatchet jobs. Journalists are clamouring for comments about my private life. They never understand the complexities. Life is not black or white. It’s beige more than anything … I’m begging you not to talk to them,’ he said in the flat, lifeless voice of a man who can see that the writing on the wall probably includes his name.

‘You know, Jeremy, you’ve always been a bit of a snob. Like the way you’re always saying how most people only use 10 per cent of their brains. Well, you only use 10 per cent of your heart. And that’s the worst kind of heart trouble. No defibrillator can save you,’ I tell him.

‘We could prevent you from becoming tabloid toast though,’ my sister interjects, ‘for a price.’

‘Personally, I’d prefer nailing your nuts to an ants’ nest,’ my mother lambasts. ‘Wouldn’t you, Lucy, dear?’

My mind is electric, filled with the present. ‘I think I could be encouraged to maintain radio silence,’ I say. ‘But only if you write Merlin a cheque so large that when I cash it the whole bank bounces.’

Jeremy’s eyes glitter with rage. ‘That’s blackmail.’

‘Not black, more
beige
,’ I taunt.

‘Yes, exactly,’ my mother cackles. ‘Stealing money from a lying, thieving cheat isn’t robbery, dear, it’s irony.’

I leave my family to finalize the deal and turn back to my darling son.

‘So, Veronica,’ I hear Merlin say to his paternal grandma, ‘is love sewing sequins on to the world for you on this dazzling day?’

My ex-mother-in-law’s hopeful expression falters.

‘Today are you living for tomorrow? … When you see animals squashed on the side of the road are they really suicides?’ he then asks her. ‘Maybe they’re just depressed? Maybe they need a talking doctor? … Are they real animals or are there humans inside laughing at me? … Do you have funny thoughts about Archie when you’re in the shower? … I do.’

Veronica’s mouth becomes loose and her eyes unfocused. ‘He’s just the same,’ she says, with profound disappointment.

And I nod appreciatively. Yes, my son lives in a parallel universe. But it strikes me now that it’s quite a captivating place to dwell.

‘So, what does the future hold for me?’ Merlin asks the stethoscope-wielding doctor. ‘Is the world my oyster?’

The doctor looks taken aback. But I diagnose a yes. And Merlin will grow into a pearl, grain by gritty grain.

A nurse opens the blind with a snap. The room is seared with light. I look out at the seamless winter sky. It’s a frosty morning. The hospital garden is wrapped in winter, like a gift.

‘It’s intriguing, being me,’ Merlin suddenly says.

With his sky-blue eyes, blond curls and persimmon-red mouth, my son has the bearing of a mischievous cherub. ‘It really is,’ I agree.

Merlin smiles at me. And I smile back. With our eyes. It’s a language Jeremy will never master – the secret language of the heart.

Another doctor arrives. She asks me the name of my son. ‘Merlin … I called him Merlin because I wanted him to be different. And he is,’ I tell her, proudly. ‘Mesmerizingly, intriguingly, dazzlingly.’

Acknowledgements

Writers make a living out of lying. But for injecting the fact into the fiction, I would like to thank the following people:

My beloved sisters Elizabeth and Jennifer, who always cast a perspicacious eye over my first draft.

Heartfelt thanks also to second-draftees, Max Davidson, my literary coven Amanda Craig, Jane Thynne, Veronique Minier and Kate Saunders, and especially Julius and Geoff Robertson. For vernacular veracity, thanks to Gerard Hall for medical tips, Emma Woodhouse for teaching insights, Brian O’Doherty for musical fine tuning, Dennis McShane, Alan West and Joan Smith for political verisimilitude.

My gratitude also to my publishing team, most of all Larry Finlay for all his kind encouragement and Cat Cobain for her nuanced editing. And last, but never least, to Ed Victor, the Ed-ocet missile of agents, and Maggie Phillips.

But most thanks of all to my darling son Julius and dear daughter Georgie, who inspire me every day.

About the Author

Kathy Lette
first achieved
succès de scandale
as a teenager with the novel
Puberty Blues
, which was made into a major film. After several years as a newspaper columnist and television sitcom writer in America and Australia, she wrote ten international bestsellers including
Mad Cows
(which was made into a film starring Joanna Lumley and Anna Friel),
How to Kill Your Husband and Other Handy Household Hints
(recently staged by the Victorian Opera, Australia) and
To Love, Honour and Betray
. Her novels have been published in fourteen languages around the world. Kathy appears regularly as a guest on the BBC and Sky News. She is also an ambassador for Women and Children First, Plan International and the White Ribbon Alliance. In 2010 she received an honorary doctorate from Solent Southampton University.

Kathy lives in London with her husband and two children. Visit her website at
www.kathylette.com
and on Twitter
@KathyLette
.

Also by Kathy Lette

Men: A User’s Guide

To Love, Honour and Betray

(Till Divorce Us Do Part)

How to Kill Your Husband

(and Other Handy Household Hints)

Dead Sexy

Nip ’n’ Tuck

Puberty Blues

Altar Ego

Foetal Attraction

Girls’ Night Out

Mad Cows

The Llama Parlour

For more information on Kathy Lette and her books, see her website at
www.kathylette.com

TRANSWORLD PUBLISHERS
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First published in Great Britain
in 2012 by Bantam Press
an imprint of Transworld Publishers

Copyright © Kathy Lette 2012

Kathy Lette has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

This book is a work of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Version 1.0 Epub ISBN 9781409031543
ISBNs 9780593060834 (hb)
9780593060841 (tpb)

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