Read Online Chapman's Odyssey by Paul Bailey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Paul Bailey
Tags: General Fiction
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ticking over, babe.
‘Dear’? ‘Babe’? He felt warm, he felt cared for suddenly, he felt strangely and temporarily at peace. He knew there were phantoms, demons, sarcastic tormentors in his midst, but at this moment, for this moment, he was as contented as any old survivor could possibly hope to be.
‘Dear’? ‘Babe’? Take away the question marks, and leave behind ‘dear’ and ‘babe’. Terms of affection. These were terms he’d heard on the lips of lovers – terms he was hearing now, like soothing balm, from a plump and kindly woman, of whose existence he’d been unaware on Saturday morning. She was saying them with something close, or close enough, to conviction.
Tuesday
Joy did not come in the morning to Harry Chapman, who awoke in darkness with the pain in his gut as unendurable as it had been on the afternoon of his admission to hospital. The Duchess of Bombay was still emulating Lear on the heath as the paramedics helped him into the ambulance. He’d wanted to tell them the story of her unusual life, but they had advised him to stop speaking.
— Mr Chapman? What’s the trouble?
The questioner was a nurse he hadn’t seen before.
— Pain.
— Whereabouts?
— In my stomach.
Which he clutched now, as if to emphasise the location.
— I’ll be back in a minute.
Her minute seemed like an hour.
— I’ve spoken to Dr Pereira, she said. — He was a bit grumpy because he was fast asleep when I phoned him. He gave me precise instructions about what to give you.
Ah, the magic potion, the beautiful doctor’s secret wonder drug.
— What’s your name?
— Veronica.
— Put me out, Veronica. Put me out of this.
— I will, Mr Chapman. I promise.
She kept her promise, as he could see and feel, and soon he was in a place where pain was not even contemplated. The joyless morning was now serene afternoon or evening, it really didn’t matter which. He sighed with satisfaction – the long, easeful release of breath that grants expression to deep contentment. He was at rest, at last.
— Ah, poor dear, bemoaned a fat old woman with a husky voice and a moist eye, which had a remarkable power of turning up, only showing the white of it. She was wearing a very rusty black gown, stained with snuff, and a shawl and bonnet to match. Yet she looked pleased to see him.
— He’ll make a lovely corpse, she remarked to another black figure in the shadows, whom she addressed as Betsey. — He’ll look lovely laid out, with a penny on each eye, afore he goes off to his long home.
The gin on her breath caused Harry Chapman to think of Christopher, who in his last years consumed it every waking hour.
— He’s wandering, Betsey Prig. They all wander at the end.
— Are you Mrs Gamp? Mrs Sairey Gamp?
— You’re familiar, aren’t you? I am that same kindly widow woman, if it’s any business of yours. The sooner you die, the sooner Mrs Prig and myself will be renumerated for our services. So hurry up, won’t you?
— Don’t you mean ‘remunerated’?
— I mean what I say and I say what I mean and you just shut up and get ready to meet your Maker.
Jack, the ship-boy, Harry Chapman’s own creation, his skin-and-bone Cassandra, jumped into view and said:
— The winds are fair for you, Master Harry. You can still set sail on the ocean of life.
— Oh, thank you, thank you, Jack.
— And come to a safe harbour.
Harry saw the child of his imagining aglow with optimism. He’d come down from the high and giddy mast, and here he was chastising the hags who wanted Harry Chapman extinct.
— You will live, Master Harry. I have no fears for you. There are no black clouds looming.
Then the skinny lad said ‘Shoo’ and the drunken guardians of the about-to-be-born and the soon-to-be-dead vanished, leaving the cloying perfume of raw gin behind them.
— Back to work, Master Harry. It’s up the mast again for me.
— Goodbye, Jack. For the present.
After Jack had climbed out of sight, Harry
‘Dear’? ‘Babe’? He felt warm, he felt cared for suddenly, he felt strangely and temporarily at peace. He knew there were phantoms, demons, sarcastic tormentors in his midst, but at this moment, for this moment, he was as contented as any old survivor could possibly hope to be.
‘Dear’? ‘Babe’? Take away the question marks, and leave behind ‘dear’ and ‘babe’. Terms of affection. These were terms he’d heard on the lips of lovers – terms he was hearing now, like soothing balm, from a plump and kindly woman, of whose existence he’d been unaware on Saturday morning. She was saying them with something close, or close enough, to conviction.
Tuesday
Joy did not come in the morning to Harry Chapman, who awoke in darkness with the pain in his gut as unendurable as it had been on the afternoon of his admission to hospital. The Duchess of Bombay was still emulating Lear on the heath as the paramedics helped him into the ambulance. He’d wanted to tell them the story of her unusual life, but they had advised him to stop speaking.
— Mr Chapman? What’s the trouble?
The questioner was a nurse he hadn’t seen before.
— Pain.
— Whereabouts?
— In my stomach.
Which he clutched now, as if to emphasise the location.
— I’ll be back in a minute.
Her minute seemed like an hour.
— I’ve spoken to Dr Pereira, she said. — He was a bit grumpy because he was fast asleep when I phoned him. He gave me precise instructions about what to give you.
Ah, the magic potion, the beautiful doctor’s secret wonder drug.
— What’s your name?
— Veronica.
— Put me out, Veronica. Put me out of this.
— I will, Mr Chapman. I promise.
She kept her promise, as he could see and feel, and soon he was in a place where pain was not even contemplated. The joyless morning was now serene afternoon or evening, it really didn’t matter which. He sighed with satisfaction – the long, easeful release of breath that grants expression to deep contentment. He was at rest, at last.
— Ah, poor dear, bemoaned a fat old woman with a husky voice and a moist eye, which had a remarkable power of turning up, only showing the white of it. She was wearing a very rusty black gown, stained with snuff, and a shawl and bonnet to match. Yet she looked pleased to see him.
— He’ll make a lovely corpse, she remarked to another black figure in the shadows, whom she addressed as Betsey. — He’ll look lovely laid out, with a penny on each eye, afore he goes off to his long home.
The gin on her breath caused Harry Chapman to think of Christopher, who in his last years consumed it every waking hour.
— He’s wandering, Betsey Prig. They all wander at the end.
— Are you Mrs Gamp? Mrs Sairey Gamp?
— You’re familiar, aren’t you? I am that same kindly widow woman, if it’s any business of yours. The sooner you die, the sooner Mrs Prig and myself will be renumerated for our services. So hurry up, won’t you?
— Don’t you mean ‘remunerated’?
— I mean what I say and I say what I mean and you just shut up and get ready to meet your Maker.
Jack, the ship-boy, Harry Chapman’s own creation, his skin-and-bone Cassandra, jumped into view and said:
— The winds are fair for you, Master Harry. You can still set sail on the ocean of life.
— Oh, thank you, thank you, Jack.
— And come to a safe harbour.
Harry saw the child of his imagining aglow with optimism. He’d come down from the high and giddy mast, and here he was chastising the hags who wanted Harry Chapman extinct.
— You will live, Master Harry. I have no fears for you. There are no black clouds looming.
Then the skinny lad said ‘Shoo’ and the drunken guardians of the about-to-be-born and the soon-to-be-dead vanished, leaving the cloying perfume of raw gin behind them.
— Back to work, Master Harry. It’s up the mast again for me.
— Goodbye, Jack. For the present.
After Jack had climbed out of sight, Harry
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