been born, that’s why.
— Then you’re not my dad yet.
— Not yet. Wait a bit, son-to-be. Wait until 1937, and then give it a few months before you learn to speak. Your first word might be ‘Da-da’, unless your mother-to-be decides otherwise. But one thing is certain, I will have some part in bringing you into the world.
The fresh-faced man in front of him was clearly Frank Chapman’s younger self, but the voice and the sentiments it was expressing belonged to someone more sophisticated than the father of the Sunday walks.
— Da-da, he said, and laughed. — I am a Dadaist.
— Harry?
The reliable, redoubtable Nancy Driver was at his side.
— It’s so quiet, Nancy. Where are the wailing women?
— Gone for good, I hope. I pity the other mourners at their mother’s funeral.
— She died?
— While they were here, screaming their heads off. She’d had two strokes before she was brought in and a massive heart attack when they were in full throttle. It was all very distressing, Harry. God rest her soul.
— Amen to that, he almost said.
— Dr Pereira will be seeing you later this morning. Can we expect a poem after he’s finished with you?
— I think that could be arranged. I have something life-enhancing in mind.
— I’m pleased to hear it. We need some good cheer to compensate for what we’ve been through this morning.
‘Good cheer’? He hadn’t heard the phrase in an eternity: ‘Be of good cheer’ was in the books and plays he read in childhood.
— If good cheer is what you want, I’ll do my best to provide it.
— You’re a sweet man, Harry.
He would take issue with that judgement, if he had the energy. How could she know, and declare unequivocally, that he was sweet?
— I wish I were.
— You’re sweet while you’re in here, and that’s all that concerns me and my staff. So many of our patients are unsweet, if I may coin a word.
— I understand.
It remained a mystery to Harry Chapman, after a lifetime of writing about the curious ways of human beings, why certain people – few, in his experience – were pleasantly and gently disposed towards their fellow creatures. They seemed not to suffer from the usual sins of pride, envy, avarice and sloth as they carried out their daily tasks. Leo was one such, a kindly intellectual, and so was Aunt Rose, who was barely educated. There were others he’d encountered who had shamed him with their selflessness.
— Rosy Glow’s got a dirty secret or two, if you ask me.
— I’m not asking you, Mother. I wouldn’t dream of doing that.
— She’s craftier than she looks.
— She looks fine to me.
— She’s no Virgin Mary –
— If I ask you, which I won’t. Do shut up.
— I suppose you think it’s clever, speaking to your mother as if she was muck on your shoe.
— Shut up. In the name of all that’s decent, shut up.
Marybeth Myslawchuk wondered who it was he was telling to shut up in such an unhappy-sounding voice.
— Oh, someone from my past, Marybeth.
— Someone unpleasant?
— Sometimes.
— Dr Pereira’s on his way to you. Veronica and I will make your bed spick and span.
Which they did, with their customary brisk efficiency. Veronica helped him out of his gown and into a fresh replacement, which smelled of bleach.
— Eau d’hôpital , he said. — The latest in perfumes.
— I’ve inhaled worse.
— I’m sure you have, Veronica.
The stench of humanity, Harry Chapman thought. That’s what she’s referring to. Perhaps, in the last three or four days – he was now unsure how many days had passed – he had made his own contribution to the general malodorousness. A resonant, rancid fart had awoken him in the middle of the night – a terrible harbinger of whatever was to be located in his stomach.
— Good morning, Harry. Or should I say ‘afternoon’, as it’s past twelve o’clock?
— Good afternoon, then, Dr Pereira.
— I have spoken to my colleagues and the three of us have decided
— Then you’re not my dad yet.
— Not yet. Wait a bit, son-to-be. Wait until 1937, and then give it a few months before you learn to speak. Your first word might be ‘Da-da’, unless your mother-to-be decides otherwise. But one thing is certain, I will have some part in bringing you into the world.
The fresh-faced man in front of him was clearly Frank Chapman’s younger self, but the voice and the sentiments it was expressing belonged to someone more sophisticated than the father of the Sunday walks.
— Da-da, he said, and laughed. — I am a Dadaist.
— Harry?
The reliable, redoubtable Nancy Driver was at his side.
— It’s so quiet, Nancy. Where are the wailing women?
— Gone for good, I hope. I pity the other mourners at their mother’s funeral.
— She died?
— While they were here, screaming their heads off. She’d had two strokes before she was brought in and a massive heart attack when they were in full throttle. It was all very distressing, Harry. God rest her soul.
— Amen to that, he almost said.
— Dr Pereira will be seeing you later this morning. Can we expect a poem after he’s finished with you?
— I think that could be arranged. I have something life-enhancing in mind.
— I’m pleased to hear it. We need some good cheer to compensate for what we’ve been through this morning.
‘Good cheer’? He hadn’t heard the phrase in an eternity: ‘Be of good cheer’ was in the books and plays he read in childhood.
— If good cheer is what you want, I’ll do my best to provide it.
— You’re a sweet man, Harry.
He would take issue with that judgement, if he had the energy. How could she know, and declare unequivocally, that he was sweet?
— I wish I were.
— You’re sweet while you’re in here, and that’s all that concerns me and my staff. So many of our patients are unsweet, if I may coin a word.
— I understand.
It remained a mystery to Harry Chapman, after a lifetime of writing about the curious ways of human beings, why certain people – few, in his experience – were pleasantly and gently disposed towards their fellow creatures. They seemed not to suffer from the usual sins of pride, envy, avarice and sloth as they carried out their daily tasks. Leo was one such, a kindly intellectual, and so was Aunt Rose, who was barely educated. There were others he’d encountered who had shamed him with their selflessness.
— Rosy Glow’s got a dirty secret or two, if you ask me.
— I’m not asking you, Mother. I wouldn’t dream of doing that.
— She’s craftier than she looks.
— She looks fine to me.
— She’s no Virgin Mary –
— If I ask you, which I won’t. Do shut up.
— I suppose you think it’s clever, speaking to your mother as if she was muck on your shoe.
— Shut up. In the name of all that’s decent, shut up.
Marybeth Myslawchuk wondered who it was he was telling to shut up in such an unhappy-sounding voice.
— Oh, someone from my past, Marybeth.
— Someone unpleasant?
— Sometimes.
— Dr Pereira’s on his way to you. Veronica and I will make your bed spick and span.
Which they did, with their customary brisk efficiency. Veronica helped him out of his gown and into a fresh replacement, which smelled of bleach.
— Eau d’hôpital , he said. — The latest in perfumes.
— I’ve inhaled worse.
— I’m sure you have, Veronica.
The stench of humanity, Harry Chapman thought. That’s what she’s referring to. Perhaps, in the last three or four days – he was now unsure how many days had passed – he had made his own contribution to the general malodorousness. A resonant, rancid fart had awoken him in the middle of the night – a terrible harbinger of whatever was to be located in his stomach.
— Good morning, Harry. Or should I say ‘afternoon’, as it’s past twelve o’clock?
— Good afternoon, then, Dr Pereira.
— I have spoken to my colleagues and the three of us have decided
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