Patricia and Malise by Susanna Johnston Page A

Malise stood before the picture in his mother’s bedroom; his eyes watering. His body shook and he sobbed as he pleaded ‘Patricia, for Patricia.’
    â€˜No, Malise. It’s to go to The Gwid.’ Christian reasoned to no avail as Malise found unexpected words.
    â€˜Mother. Mother. Patricia is your daughter. I am her father. Please understand.’
    The picture, notwithstanding Malise’s grovelling, was removed with resolute skill by lads in overalls.
    Christian summoned the local doctor who ordered Malise a strong sedative and sent him to bed. He remained there as his childhood portrait was removed and re-hung in his father’s new bedroom.
    He stayed, on the doctor’s advice, mildly sedated for weeks and reverted to childhood, but not childhood as he had lived it, for now he cried and uttered in a squeaky voice. He was muddled, futureless and hopelessly in love with a dream. He was a father. His boy’s name was Antonio. His mother the girl with curling lips and a pink ribbon. Malise had metamorphosised into an irresponsible, wanting creature.
    A single man who worked for the Air Force rented the main part of the farm house – accepting the arrangement that Malise and Christian share their own bedroom, small sitting room and kitchenette at the back.
    Malise’s wits went quickly – but not, exactly, by the day. Some weeks were better than others. On a good day he wandered in the garden as autumn and then winter came round – believing himself to be a rationalist and frenziedly anti-clerical.
    Christian became his warden and, before long his ‘memowy.’
    At night the younger brother read aloud from tracts that still lay beside his bed – in honour of their late mother.
    Malise sometimes interrupted fearing that he had left a spotted handkerchief in a wheelbarrow at the foot of the shrubbery.
    Most days he took to walking briskly, and with his head held high as in the past, to the village shop where he bought large bunches of ripe bananas. They became speckled and slimy pretty soon. Then he would take them and bury them, using a heavy spade, to the bottom of the shrubbery near to where he had fought back, crawling about with a bushman’s saw to lay the enemy low.
    At times he appeared to be no more than a shapeless, speedless body of anguish.
    Once only, he developed a desire to make love to Christian as they lay on their hard beds in the dark. Neither man was young; Christian flabby in striped pyjamas. Malise yearning for any for any form of gratification.
    â€˜Would you like to try it again Christian?’
    â€˜No, thank you Malise. Never again.’
    Christian was in command.

 
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    The old people settled at The Grid. Alyson played bridge during most hours of the day whilst her husband snoozed.
    It was not the merriest of Christmases that year. Christian drove Malise to the old people’s home where Alyson awaited them at the entrance.
    â€˜Daddy’s not feeling very Christmassy I’m afraid. They say it’s the time of year. I’ve ordered turkey and plum pudding but it’s to be eaten cold – staff are short over the holiday.’
    Malise stood stiffly and said nothing as Christian gave his stepmother an unwilling kiss.
    Nobody spoke much during lunch, although Alyson and Christian did their best to disguise the silence of the others. The father was completely gaga.
    By a quarter past two, the brothers had returned to their scanty quarters at the back of the house. Cold lunch had not taken long to polish off.
    About six weeks later a letter came addressed to Malise. It was opened by Christian and came from Giovanni, the one to have put Malise in touch, in the first place, with the Lucca apartment. He had, he said, written in Italian but a kind friend had translated it for him into English.
    â€˜Dear Mr Mc Hip.’ In earlier days they had been on Christian name terms. ‘I write to you in