Mackie


The tape had kept until last his mother’s unwelcome, unexpected voice. The answerphone had recorded the usual number of declined opportunities to leave a message, then had come Muriel’s warm voice to ask him to ring her after lunch. Lastly the sweet tone of Mother’s voice that hid her true nature.


Once strengthened with a cup of coffee Mackie replayed his mother’s message: would he please come to tea some day soon as there were important things about her Will she wanted to discuss. No ‘hope you are keeping well’, no ‘looking forward to hearing from you’ but no surprise, of course, lay in that. He delayed returning the call by busying himself with paper work and the tidying up of his desk. This didn’t last long enough and he knew this was an overdue opportunity to properly attack the remainder of his studio. Small pieces of dropped clay had dried out and been turned to dust under his feet; the two wooden armchairs had a fine coating, too, and the paint-stained blue bed sheet that protected the huge squodgy sofa would need shaking outside.


St Michael’s Studios were in the converted church now operated for artists by a charity, run on their behalf by Mackie. His studio and roomy office were highest and furthest from the front door. The Church had become Home. He liked it there.


In the studio four recently fired and glazed waterfowl rested on the window sill. He was pleased with these pieces and knew Muriel would be delighted to buy any one of them. He decided he would also give her one, the least he could do. On reflection, such a gift was about the only thing possible to do to show his feelings since funds were, as usual, alarmingly low. He descended the stairway and shook the bed sheet in the warm sunshine. On the ground floor he checked to see whether any of the other studios were occupied. He must remind two of the artists that their rent was overdue.


Back in his room Mackie sighed, filled his lungs several times ensuring a fully oxygenised system so that he could properly cope with his heart. He opened his diary and dialled.
‘Next Tuesday would be fine, Mother, but it will have to be lunch as I have a class in the evening'. Even a short conversation was normally enough, Mackie knew, to bring on another bout of angina but bright red warning lights also surrounded the request to help redraft her Will. In his head he sang his own version of that Al Jolson hymn to Motherhood, 'The sun shines West / the sun shines East / I know where / the sun shines least'. He dialled Muriel’s number.


Muriel’s gravelly voice and ‘Darling’ showed that husband Frank was away in his office. ‘Frank wants to see you about commissioning a sculpture. He’ll take you out to lunch and discuss it with you, Mackie. Its for the reception area that’s being redesigned. One of your animals or birds, I expect, probably not a nude. Something very expensive, too, remember that, Mackie - its out of the firm’s money - not that it makes any difference to Frank, as you know - did I tell you he's thinking of buying one of those little jet-planes? He says can you make it for lunch next Friday at his office and onto somewhere. Bet it’s The Winged Victory - if so, they do a wonderful Italian pigeon thing stuffed with some sort of sausage - but everything there is wonderful, Mackie. And remember to charge an absolute bomb for this commission. Nuclear. He can afford it. And you’re worth it, darling. But Mackie, I haven’t asked after you. Are you OK? You sound, well, tired’.
Mackie said, ‘Oh I’m fine, Muriel, fine. Found myself sitting with my thumbs tucked inside clenched fists which can't be a good sign but almost certainly due to having phoned my mother’.


Meeting Frank without Muriel held a quite irrational threat. Well, no, not irrational despite what Muriel had said. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mackie, stop worrying! He doesn’t see you as my type! He knows you’re not my type! You’re not six foot and tanned - you don’t play tennis - you’re bloody near penniless - you travel only by bus and tube, never by taxi - you wear brown corduroy trousers - you couldn’t afford to take me to The Winged Victory - you wouldn’t know a good wine by its label - clearly, you’re not my type! How could you possibly be? Mackie? If you looked the type Frank thinks would be my sort you know I’d loathe you, darling’. Muriel had gathered things back into her bag and checked her appearance in the dust layered mirror. She stared at herself for a few moments. ‘How could he see you as I do?’ and added, ’Also I told him you were infatuated with model Lucy. I thought it best. He can well believe that. He’s seen her naked once or twice when collecting me from the evening-class. And she is so lovely; she radiates. I must go, must dash, God, look at the time! How it flies when you’re enjoying yourself, Mackie, darling. And I did’.


* * * *


Mackie was early. A stroll up the street and back should fill out the time. He ought to have worn a coat against the unseasonable weather.


Mackie saw the pub sign. ‘A bit of Dutch’, he said out loud. He sat by the window looking across the street to the high Georgian buildings opposite, homes of the past that had become the expensive offices of solicitors and lawyers, financiers and accountants, architects and publishers. And in particular, just visible at an acute angle, the stylish offices of Norton Finance with its rooms now being turned into the best of today’s style, hidden behind the renovated Georgian facade. ‘In which’, said Muriel Norton, ‘you will find Frank’s personal assistant Judy Someone making good use of the expensive upholstery or more likely the deep pile of the pricey porridge-coloured carpet, Mackie. I’m positive, absolutely sure that something’s going on. She’ll be after his money. Must have a bloody good idea what he’s worth’.


With yet more time to waste Mackie strolled to the corner and then crossed the road to avoid a column, a pack, a tidal wave of schoolgirls leaving a conference hall. Mackie turned back to find the doorway of Norton Finance, arriving there exactly on time.


There was a brief moment to take a belated check on his appearance as a reflected arm rose in perfect timing to meet his own hand on the lever in the inner glass door. The black rough-silk suit had been an expensive buy in the distant past and as long as he didn’t try to button the front he was still pleased with its stylish, casual look which did much, he felt certain, to deflect people from the several signs of wear. The expensive madras-cotton shirt, a present from Muriel at Christmas, was a perfect complement. Despite the threat of The Winged Victory he’d deliberately omitted a tie which, in any case, would have looked bizarre with the multicoloured shirt and a tie’s absence was also excused by Mackie on the grounds that since he was an artist he was expected to be an unconventional dresser. Wearing the shirt had been a small act of, what?, defiance? risk-taking? risk taking! Scarcely. Unless, of course, she’d bought Frank an identical shirt as well. Surely not? The receptionist was a minor Hollywood star; if Frank’s secretary looked better than that then Muriel’s worry was understandable.


Mackie wondered if Frank (who knew Mackie’s income to be low) would suggest again that he looked after his financial affairs. ‘At no cost to you, Mackie. Glad to be of assistance. My gift to someone I admire, Mackie. Please!’. Frank’s core business was a large pool of internationally acclaimed authors, actors, artists and musicians who drew in stratospheric fees. Frank had looked puzzled at the figures that Mackie had eventually presented to him. ‘You’d be better off driving a bus’, he had said.


He enjoyed the comforting warmth of the foyer as he waited for Frank’s secretary to respond. Somewhere in this foyer he was expected to place some sort of sculpture. The reshaping of the interior had given enough floor space for something impressive and the stairwell allowed for whatever it was to rise quite high. The warm greeting as Mackie was ushered into the spacious office reminded him of how much he liked Frank.


* * * *


The train taking him to central London sank into the snaking black tube. The meeting with his mother had gone well in spite of the surprising and dangerous subject of rewriting her will. Mackie saw himself reflected in the grey-black window opposite, blurred by the double image of the double glazing, that image of himself some two or three weeks after being interred. How soon before the Technicolor Decline, the white hair, the red face, the yellow toenails, the blue feet? His neat moustache fused with his mouth to give the impression he was crying out. He tried a huge smile to see if this improved things but he could see only the face of a madman. Slightly turning to the left and the right to see a three-quarter view made little difference. A fellow passenger three seats down on the other side recrossed his legs and began tapping his fingers on his briefcase. A man and a woman came in and sat opposite Mackie. She said sourly, ‘It’s your choice. You choose’, to which the man made no reply. His station raced into view and slowed to a halt.


* * *


Mackie saw Oscar Millet perched on the kerb looking for a taxi a moment before Oscar saw him, too late to slide away behind other pedestrians as he had on a previous occasion many years ago. Oscar’s delighted roar of ‘Mackie!’ sent shame curling around the embarrassment. ‘How wonderful, Mackie! Years! Since when? Don’t think about it! How are you? What a stroke of amazing luck! Can’t let this moment go! Look, lunch at the Arts Club? How about it?’.


Settled into the wide leather seat and the fat briefcase stowed under his feet Oscar breathed in and beamed a delighted smile. ‘You look well, Mackie! What are you up to these days? Busy-busy? What are you doing?’
‘Well’, said Mackie, ‘I run a workshop, sort of classes for drawing, sculpture, that sort of thing, mainly evening-classes plus looking after the various studios that artists rent; it’s a Trust thing. I sort of manage the premises’.
‘Really? Well. Sounds OK to me. Yes, indeed! A lot less stressful than my damned work, I bet’. The drinks arrived and Oscar took out his spectacles and studied the menu. Oscar crossed expensive legs and wagged an expensive foot up and down. Mackie was pleased he was dressed reasonably well. He looked around and said, ‘I’m glad they no longer insist on ties, Oscar. Why doesn’t an Arts Club demand sandals and paint-covered smocks?’.


Oscar’s mobile trilled and during a succession of yes’s and no’s Mackie marvelled at the way others had made such a success of their lives. Not that he examined these things too closely. He knew he had walked up a seesaw that had tipped down at an early point but what was the value in identifying that past moment now? And Mackie avoided defining the particular qualities, those enviable qualities that Oscar and the others had gathered or grown, for to do so meant listing their absence in himself. How had those who had once scrabbled painfully alongside him found some golden stairway?


Oscar had made fame and fortune, Anthony and Morris too. Mackie glimpsed them from time to time in journals and magazines, read their names in award ceremonies. They circled in another land, they slipped effortlessly from one rising thermal to another, they shared time and table with the great and the good, jetting to and fro, flinging themselves into - ‘Very tempted, Mackie, to ditch a lot of what I do and return to a modest studio life, do my own thing. Certainly could afford to. But I do enjoy the excitement of large scale commissions, Mackie, working alongside architects. Got myself into light and computers and glass as well as bronze and steel and so forth’. Oscar’s smile showed a glimpse of gold behind perfect teeth. ‘I see Anthony and Morris quite a bit. Whatever happened to Piercy, Mackie?’.
‘No idea’, said Mackie, unclogging his tongue.
‘I thought if anyone would know it would be you, such close friends, I thought?.
'Gone. Vanished', was all Mackie could manage.
'He was doing damn well, offers of a wonderful position in America, I believe’, said Oscar.
‘No idea’, said Mackie, wishing his mouth had shaped the words into a more throwaway sound.


 A feint shadow crossed Oscar’s eyes. ‘More or less kept up to date with people until about the time of your and Katherine's divorce, Mackie. Wasn’t a good time, I expect’.
‘Well, no’, said Mackie.
‘And I believe you lost your daughter in all that? A nasty blow. Must have been’.
‘All in the past’, said Mackie.
‘A clever little thing as I remember. And pretty.’
'All behind me’, said Mackie.
Oscar nodded. His face and hands were tanned and his long silver hair fell way down beyond his collar.

They moved into the restaurant. The food arrived. To Mackie's suggestion that they split the bill, 'Nonsense! All my idea. And you're not allowed to pay, anyway, members only pay. It's so good to see you, Mackie. It really is. And are you still doing those lovely ceramic creatures and such? Good! I used to so admire them! Do you think a second bottle?’.

Oscar delved into an inside pocket and brought out a business card. ‘In town to see my wonderful financial advisor. And I’m off tomorrow, back in London God knows when but give me your number Mackie and we’ll meet up again for sure’.
Mackie said,‘I’d love to, Oscar’.


A thin, cold drizzle had begun by the time they left the club. Mackie stood on the pavement with Oscar as a taxi was flagged down. ‘Can I give you a lift anywhere, Mackie? Sure? And, Oh, if you’re still doing any of those lovely pottery birds or animals, Mackie, I’d love to buy one or two. Seriously. I mean it. Feel privileged to own one. Put two aside for me, please. See you later in the year! Absolutely wonderful!’.


Mackie made his way to the underground station. No, it hadn’t been a good time; all behind me, all in the past. All of fifteen or so years ago. And he had disappeared, too, of course, never mentioning, never explaining the whys and wherefores of his senseless betrayal with the lovely Clare (and, God Almighty, he’d taken a few second to recall her name! How could that be? How could that possibly be!) all of which had provided the grand excuse for the swift bag packing and ticket buying and himself too shrivelled with guilt to make demands and, anyway, it was better for the golden child that, that, that, and if only he’d known of the Other Man at the time! Then he might have fought for custody. But. And he was never, had never been, would never be in a position to provide for her as her successful, rich bastard of a stepfather could.


A voice at knee level asked, ‘Any spare change?’ and Mackie stopped and returned the three steps back to the seated figure robed in a sleeping bag. He bent forward and said ‘Anyone ever told you you’re a stupid’ and he stopped there. He knew he was angry with himself; meeting Oscar had opened wounds and he turned away to join the throng descending into the underground station.


* * * *


Mackie stirred the instant coffee and finding he was out of milk put in two teaspoons of sugar. He sat back to look at the macquette, a twisting stylised nude around which spiralled a dozen small doves. It was the largest, most ambitious thing he’d undertaken. He was very pleased with it; he thought he had managed something of Muriel in the simplified face and wondered if Frank would recognise that.


He sipped his drink and wondered how the Will business was going. Mother’s solicitor would have made the changes she wanted and must by now have already sent it for her signature. He was pleased with the revision which had rescued the inheritance from waste, seen niece Becky reinstated and the main part of Mother's estate (for what it was worth) equally divided for him and sisters Marie and Doris as requested by Mother. Mackie was satisfied to hear her say that the alterations were something she had been thinking about for some time. Being made the executor was something he hadn’t wanted, suggesting the solicitor took on the job. Not that there’d be much from this Will, surely, for the house was worth little and Mother’s bank account of unknown ingots probably didn’t amount to much, how could it?. And then Mackie remembered that none of her grandchildren held his mother in affection. She was so damn self-centred and unloving, quite unlovable. Evil sister Marie spent so much effort cultivating her. For her money, for the inheritance, of course. And Mother had shown blind support for daughter Marie in her catastrophic marriages and disputes. God, the wreckage around Marie! That blind support, that admiration for the whirlwinds of those dramas that had damaged husband, children, neighbours and colleagues had also seen Mother lapping up the second-hand emotion, thrilled by the deceptions and the intrigues in which she was invited to assist. Quite unrelated to these thoughts, came a memory of many years back when paying a rare visit to her, of entering the room to see Mother sitting before the television intently watching an American grandmother of the monkey-face variety and with a white bonnet of permed hair, saying to a fat adolescent boy, ‘Ah kin only open the dower - yew hev to wok thru!’, the soap-opera ending on that note with the boy looking suitably contrite and the grandmother looking sickeningly wise and self-satisfied and Mackie knew from the faint smile and the pitch of her body that his mother was filing away the scene for some future embarrassing re-enactment.


The telephone rang. Mother’s crisp, rehearsed voice said, ‘I’m keeping the old will. It’s perfectly all right as it is. I don’t need your help anymore, thank you’. Mackie said, ‘Whatever you like, Mother and do give sister Marie my very best wishes’. The phone went down.
Mackie sighed and looked at the ceiling. Evil Marie had been there, discovered the new Will and argued Mother out of it. That’s what had happened. He rang the solicitor who said, ‘These things happen all the time, Mr Mackie. By-the-way, she’s made a joint bank account with her daughter, your sister Mrs Marie Phillips. I advised against it, but’.


* * * *


The design for the figure and the swirling doves in their clever stylised form had been rapturously received by Frank. They now stood in Mackie’s studio in their completed state, fired and glazed. Mackie was pleased with the results. He walked round and round his creation; the subtle glazes were more beautiful than he’d hoped and there was an even greater element of Muriel in the face of the twisting, sensual figure. Not that Muriel saw that. Louise had modelled for the body and she, too, had been delighted. ‘Wow, Mackie!’, she had said. The base of Portland Stone would be delivered soon and placed in the centre of Norton Finance’s foyer. In eighteen day’s time the figure was to be transported and fixed in place. It had been a very hard, busy time of long hours. He felt exhausted and knew he looked tired.


‘We have a place in Norfolk, Mackie. Frank and I would be happy for you to spend the next two weeks there. The sea’s not far away. You could do with a complete rest, darling. And Frank’s away for four days when I could come and stay, too. That would be wonderful, Mackie! We could take our time over everything, darling. Come on! You can get one of the other artists to look after your classes. I intend to bring you a hefty part-payment in cash, Mackie, to make the break go well for you. No arguments, not negotiable!’.


Too good an opportunity to turn down, he told himself. And needed, as well, he admitted. His seldom-used holdall waited downstairs for one of Norton Finance’s drivers to arrive. ‘Please, Mackie. My pleasure. For God’s sake, man, the damn vehicle is there for such use!’, Frank had said.


He made an instant coffee and saw the light on the answer-phone was blinking. Sister Doris’s recorded voice, cold and suspicious. She said, ‘Thank you for your explanation and the copy of the Will that now isn’t. Who knows what’s going on. Marie has had Mother staying with her for weeks. She’s home now and I’ll go see her on Friday. Let me know your holiday telephone number’.


At the door he could see a large car waiting. He picked up his bag stuffed with very warm clothes against the wind of the Norfolk coast.


* * * *


A fit, wind-scorched Mackie collected his mail, just one letter and a large white envelope, and ascended the stairs. The sculpture stood in a pool of greenish light from the big window. Yes, it was pretty good. He dropped his holdall and sank into the squodgy sofa, glad to be back. The envelope said ‘Mackie’ in Muriel’s handwriting. A finger in the flap opened it in a ragged tear as the phone rang. Doris’s cold, accusing voice, ‘You’re back!’.
‘No telephone there, Doris. Sorry. It seems they all use mobiles’. A pause. Doris said,‘Mother’s dead. Heart attack’.
Mackie found he had held his breath. ‘When?’.
‘The day after I visited’.
'Doris, how awful for you! When’s the funeral?’.
‘Last Monday’. After a few moments she said, ‘Are you still there? You wouldn’t wanted to have been there’. Another pause. ‘There was a completely new Will. You get a small token sum of money. Marie and I share the estate’.
‘Well, I suppose it can be agreed that we all share as she had originally intended, despite her new unpleasant wishes’, said Mackie. Another longish silence.
‘We’re sticking by the terms of the Will’, said Doris. And then, ‘Look, I’ve got to go’ and Mackie hurriedly said, ‘Just a moment, Doris, one moment. My token bequest will be going to charity and did you know that Mother and Marie had a joint bank account? Mother’s bank account, that is? So, it’s all Marie’s now, Doris. Surprise, surprise. Bad luck! Marie’s a greedy shit. But half the house should be ample for someone like you who’s neither selfish nor needy’.


Mackie clumsily made an instant coffee. He was trembling. He pulled out Muriel’s letter.


Three sheets. ‘Darling, Frank is having a grand dinner at the office to celebrate the refurbishment. I’ve made sure some very useful people will be there for you to meet as well as a few fellow creative folk, Frank's clients. Here’s the list of those invited and the seating plan so you know who you’ll be sitting next to. See you before then, though. Kisses. Muriel’. A name or two he was familiar with and then ‘Gordon Pierce’ blurred his vision. ‘No!'. The paper shook. He called aloud, ‘Not possible! How can it be? Not possible, not possible! Enough is enough!' and then he saw ‘Katherine Pierce' and the sheets of paper fell from his hand. He shouted at the ceiling, ‘Why? Why now? Just when. After all this time’. A pain grew in his chest and he fumbled for the container in his pocket. He wanted to scream but the sound was a rackety, throaty noise. With a struggle he clambered out of the sofa and picked up his coat and holdall.


A blundering descent down the long worn stone staircase, his shoes making the same slap, slap, slap of her sandals as she rushed towards him along the school corridor in that last wrenching meeting so many years ago, the same rhythm as his pounding heart, and she, leaping up into his arms and her legs wrapping themselves around him, that joyous face and that lacerating cry, ‘At last I’ve found you!’.


Out onto the grey-green york-stone paving with its flaking wafer-thin strata, to the huge iron gate in its coating of grey grime, to the buzzing cars and vans. A taxi, the window descending on a young questioning face. Mackie stood mute. ‘Oh, anywhere!’, he said. The driver smiled. ‘How about Kings Cross Station?’, he said, 'or Waterloo?'.


’Waterloo sounds absolutely right’, said Mackie and clambered in.