What to read: Patrick Melrose, a novel about a drug addict and alcoholic struggling to cope with childhood trauma

2024 Author: Malcolm Clapton | [email protected]. Last modified: 2023-12-17 03:44

Lifehacker publishes an excerpt from the book by Edward St. Aubin, which formed the basis for the famous miniseries with Benedict Cumberbatch.

Patrick walked to the well. In his hands he tightly gripped a gray plastic sword with a golden hilt and knocked down the pink valerian flowers that grew on the wall that fenced the terrace. If a snail was sitting on a fennel stalk, Patrick would hit it with his sword to throw it to the ground. It was necessary to stomp on the thrown snail and run away headlong, because it became slimy like snot. Then he came back, looked at the fragments of a brown shell in soft gray flesh and wished he had crushed it. It was dishonest to crush the snails after the rain, because they went out to play, bathed in puddles under wet leaves and pulled out their horns. If he touched the horns, they jerked back, and he also jerked away his hand. He was like an adult to the snails.

One day he happened to be at the well, although he was going in the wrong direction, and therefore decided that he had discovered a secret short path. Since then, when no one was with him, he walked to the well only by this path. Through the terrace where the olives grew, and yesterday the wind ruffled their foliage so that it turned from green to gray, and then vice versa, from gray to green, as if someone was running their fingers over the velvet, turning it from dark to light.

He showed the secret path to Andrew Bannill, but Andrew stated that it was too long and that the usual path was shorter, so Patrick threatened to throw Andrew down the well. Andrew got scared and cried. And before Andrew flew to London, Patrick said that he would throw him out of the plane. Henna-henna-henna. Patrick never flew anywhere, he wasn't even on the plane, but he told Andrew that he would hide and file the floor around his chair. Nanny Andrew called Patrick a nasty boy, and Patrick told her that Andrew was a slobber.

Patrick's nanny is dead. Mom's friend said that she was taken to heaven, but Patrick himself saw how she was put in a wooden box and lowered into a pit. And the sky is in a completely different direction. Probably, this aunt lied everything, although, maybe, the nanny was sent as a parcel.

Mom cried a lot when they put the nanny in the drawer, and said that she was crying because of her nanny. Only this is stupid, because her nanny is alive and well, they went to her by train, and it was very boring there. She treated Patrick to a tasteless cake, in which there was almost no jam inside, but only nasty cream on all sides. The nanny said: “I know you like it,” only that was not true, because he explained last time that he didn’t like it a bit. The cake was called a shortbread, and Patrick said it was probably made from sand. Mom's nanny laughed for a long time and hugged him. It was disgusting, because she pressed her cheek to his, and the loose skin hung like a chicken neck from the kitchen table.

And in general, why does mom need a nanny? He no longer had a nanny, although he was only five years old. The father said that now he is a little man. Patrick remembered going to England when he was three years old. In winter. He saw snow for the first time. He remembered standing on the road by the stone bridge. The road was covered with frost and the fields were covered with snow. The sky was shining, the road and hedges glittered, and he had blue woolen mittens, and the nanny held his hand, and they stood for a long time and looked at the bridge. Patrick often recalled all this, and how then they sat in the back seat in the car, and he lay down on his nanny's lap and looked into her face, and she smiled, and the sky behind her was very wide and blue, and he fell asleep.

He climbed the steep path to the laurel tree and found himself at a well. Patrick was not allowed to play here, but he loved this place the most. Sometimes he climbed onto the rotten lid and jumped on it like on a trampoline. No one could stop him. We didn't really try. Black wood was visible under the cracked bubbles of pink paint. The lid creaked ominously, and his heart skipped a beat. He didn’t have the strength to move the lid completely, but when the well was left open, Patrick threw pebbles and lumps of earth at it. They fell into the water with a resounding splash and shattered in the black depths.

At the very top, Patrick raised his sword triumphantly. The well cover has been slid. He began to look for a suitable stone - large, round and heavy. A reddish boulder was found in a field nearby. Patrick grabbed him with both hands, dragged him to the well, lifted him onto the side, pulled himself up, lifted his legs off the ground and, hanging his head down, stared into the darkness where the water was hiding. He grabbed the side with his left hand, pushed the boulder down and heard it flop into the depths, saw the water splash, the sky reflected in the wrong light on the disturbed surface. The water was heavy and black as oil. He shouted into the well pit, where at first dry bricks turned green and then blackened. Hanging even lower, you could hear the wet echo of your voice.

Patrick decided to climb to the very top of the well. The shabby blue sandals fit into the cracks between the masonry stones. He wanted to stand on the side above the well pit. He had already done this, on a bet, when Andrew was visiting them. Andrew stood at the well and whined: "Patrick, don't, get off, please." Andrew was a coward, and Patrick was not, but now, as he squatted on the side, with his back to the water, his head was spinning. He stood up very slowly and, straightening up, felt the emptiness calling him, pulling him towards itself. It seemed to him that if he moved, he would certainly slide down. In order not to stagger inadvertently, he clenched his fists tightly, curled his toes and stared intently at the trampled earth by the well. The sword was still on the side. The sword had to be raised in commemoration of the feat, so Patrick carefully stretched, overcoming the fear that bound his entire body with an incredible effort of will, and grabbed the scratched, wriggled gray blade. Then he hesitantly bent his knees, jumped to the ground, shouted "Hurray!" He slapped the blade on the trunk of the laurel, pierced the air under the crown and grabbed the side with a dying groan. He loved to imagine how the Roman army was surrounded by hordes of barbarians, and then he appears, the brave commander of a special legion of soldiers in purple cloaks, and saves everyone from inevitable defeat.

When he walked through the woods, he often recalled Ivanhoe, the hero of his favorite comic book. Ivanhoe, walking through the forest, left a clearing behind him. Patrick had to bend around the trunks of pine trees, but he imagined that he was cutting his way and walking majestically along the forest at the far end of the terrace, felting the trees to the right and left. He read all sorts of things in books and thought about it a lot. He learned about the rainbow from a boring picture book, and then saw a rainbow on London streets after the rain, when spots of gasoline on the asphalt blurred in puddles and rippled with purple, blue and yellow circles.

Today he did not want to walk in the forest, and he decided to jump on the terraces. It was almost like flying, but here and there the fence was too high, and he threw the sword to the ground, sat on the stone wall, dangled his legs, and then grabbed the edge and hung in his arms before jumping off. The sandals were stuffed with dry soil from under the vines, so twice they had to take off their shoes and shake out the clods and pebbles. The lower into the valley he descended, the wider the gentle terraces became, and one could simply jump over the fence. He took a deep breath as he prepared for the final flight.

Sometimes he jumped so far that he felt like Superman, and sometimes he ran faster, remembering the shepherd dog that chased him down the beach on that windy day when they were invited to dinner at George's. Patrick begged his mother to let him go for a walk, because he loved to watch the wind blow up the sea, as if breaking bottles on rocks. He was told not to go far, but he wanted to be closer to the rocks. A sandy path led to the beach. Patrick walked along it, but then a shaggy fat shepherd dog appeared at the top of the hill and barked. Noticing her approach, Patrick rushed to run, first along a winding path, and then straight, along a soft slope, faster and faster, taking huge steps and spreading his arms to the wind, until he finally descended the hill onto a semicircle of sand near the rocks, where the most big waves. He looked around and saw that the shepherd remained far, far above, and realized that she still would not have caught up with him, because he was rushing so swiftly. Only then did he wonder if she was chasing him at all.

Breathing hard, he jumped into the bed of a dry stream and climbed a huge boulder between two bushes of pale green bamboo. One day Patrick came up with a game and brought Andrew here to play. Both climbed a boulder and tried to push each other off, pretending to be a pit full of sharp debris and blades on one side and a pool of honey on the other. The one who fell into the pit died from a million cuts, and the one who fell into the pool drowned in a thick, viscous golden liquid. Andrew fell all the time because he was a slobber.

And dad Andrew was a slobber too. In London, Patrick was invited to Andrew's birthday, and there was a hefty box in the middle of the living room with gifts for all the guests. Everyone took turns taking gifts out of the box, and then ran around the room, comparing who got what. Patrick stuffed his present under the chair and followed the other. When he took another glossy package out of the box, Andrew's dad came up to him, squatted down and said: “Patrick, you already took a present for yourself,” but not angrily, but in such a voice as if he were offering candy, and added: “Not good if one of the guests is left without a gift. Patrick looked at him defiantly and replied: “I haven’t taken anything yet”, and Andrew's dad for some reason became sad and looked like a slobber, and then said: “Okay, Patrick, but don’t take any more gifts.” Although Patrick got two gifts, Andrew's dad didn't like him because he wanted more gifts.

Now Patrick played on the boulder alone: he jumped from one side to the other and wildly waved his arms, trying not to stumble or fall. If he did fall, he pretended that nothing had happened, although he realized that it was not fair.

Then he looked dubiously at the rope that François had tied to one of the trees by the stream so that he could swing over the channel. Patrick felt thirsty, so he began to walk up the path through the vineyard to the house, where the tractor was already rattling. The sword turned into a burden, and Patrick tucked it under his arm, offended. One day he heard his father say a funny phrase to George: "Give him a rope, he will hang himself." Patrick did not understand what this meant, but then with horror he decided that they were talking about the very rope that François tied to the tree. At night, he dreamed that the rope turned into an octopus tentacle and wrapped around his throat. He wanted to cut the stranglehold, but could not, because the sword was a toy. Mom cried for a long time when she saw him dangling in a tree.

Even if you are awake, it is difficult to understand what adults mean when they talk. Once he seemed to have guessed what their words really mean: "no" means "no", "maybe" means "maybe", "yes" means "maybe", and "maybe" means "no", but the system didn't work, and he decided that they probably all meant "maybe."

Tomorrow grape pickers will come to the terraces and start filling the baskets with bunches. Last year, François drove Patrick on a tractor. François had strong hands, as hard as wood. François was married to Yvette. Yvette has a golden tooth that is visible when she smiles. Someday Patrick will put in gold teeth - everything, not just two or three. Sometimes he sat in the kitchen with Yvette, and she let him try everything that she cooked. She handed him a spoon with tomatoes, meat or soup and asked: "a te plaît?" ("Like?" - fr.) He nodded and saw her golden tooth. Last year, François put him in a corner of the trailer, next to two large barrels of grapes. If the road was bumpy or it was going uphill, François turned around and asked: "a va?" ("How are you?") - and Patrick replied: "Oui, merci" ("Yes, thanks"), shouting over the noise of the engine, the squeal of the trailer and the rattle of brakes. When they got to where the wine is made, Patrick was very happy. It was dark and cool, the floor was being poured with water from a hose, and there was a sharp smell of juice that turned into wine. The room was huge, and François helped him up the ladder to the high platform above the wine press and all the vats. The platform was made of metal with holes. It was very strange to stand high above with holes under my feet.

Having reached the press shop along the platform, Patrick looked into it and saw two steel rolls that were spinning side by side, only in different directions. The rolls, smeared with grape juice, spun loudly and rubbed against each other. The bottom rail of the dais reached Patrick's chin, and the press seemed to be very close. Patrick looked into her and imagined that his eyes, like grapes, were made of transparent jelly and that they would fall out of his head, and the rolls would crush them.

Approaching the house, as usual, along the right, happy flight of the double staircase, Patrick turned into the garden to see if the frog that lived on the fig tree was still there. Meeting a tree frog was also a happy omen. The bright green frog skin looked glossy smooth against the smooth gray bark, and the frog itself was very difficult to see among the bright green, frog-colored foliage. Patrick only saw the tree frog twice. For the first time, he stood for an eternity without moving, and looked at her clear outlines, bulging eyes, round, like the beads of his mother's yellow necklace, and suckers on her front legs that firmly held her on the trunk, and, of course, at the swelling sides of a living body chiseled and fragile, like a precious piece of jewelry, but greedily inhaling air. The second time, Patrick reached out and gently touched the frog's head with the tip of his index finger. The frog did not budge, and he decided that she trusted him.

There was no frog today. Patrick wearily climbed the last flight of stairs, resting his palms on his knees, went around the house, went to the entrance to the kitchen and pushed open the creaky door. He hoped Yvette was in the kitchen, but she wasn't there. He jerked open the refrigerator door, which echoed with the chime of bottles of white wine and champagne, then went to the pantry, where in the corner on the bottom shelf there were two warm bottles of chocolate milk. With some difficulty, he opened one and drank a soothing drink straight from the neck, although Yvette did not allow this to be done. As soon as he got drunk, he immediately became sad and sat down on the locker, swinging his legs and looking at his sandals.

Somewhere in the house, behind closed doors, they played the piano, but Patrick did not pay attention to the music until he recognized the melody that his father had composed especially for him. He jumped to the floor and ran down the corridor from the kitchen to the lobby, and then, prancing, galloped into the living room and began to dance to his father's music. The melody was bravura, wavering, in the manner of a military march, with sharp bursts of high notes. Patrick jumped and bounced between tables, chairs and around the piano and stopped only when his father finished playing.

- How are you, mister master maestro? - asked the father, looking at him intently.

“Thanks, okay,” Patrick replied, feverishly wondering if there was a catch in the question.

He wanted to take a breath, but with his father he had to gather and concentrate. One day Patrick asked what was the most important thing in the world, and his father replied: "Notice everything." Patrick often forgot about this admonition, although in the presence of his father he carefully examined everything, not quite understanding what exactly should be noticed. He watched how his father's eyes moved behind the dark glasses of his glasses, how they jump from object to object, from person to person, how they linger on everyone for a moment, like a fleeting glance, sticky, like the swift tongue of a gecko, furtively licking something very valuable from everywhere … In the presence of his father, Patrick looked at everything seriously, hoping that this seriousness would be appreciated by the one who follows his gaze just as he himself follows his father's gaze.

“Come to me,” my father said. Patrick took a step towards him.

- Raise your ears?

- No! - shouted Patrick.

They had such a game. Father stretched out his arms and pinched Patrick's ears with his thumb and forefinger. Patrick clasped his father's wrists with his palms, and his father pretended to lift him by the ears, but in fact Patrick was holding on to his hands. Father stood up and lifted Patrick to eye level.

“Open your hands,” he ordered.

- No! - shouted Patrick.

“Open your hands and I’ll let you go right away,” my father said imperiously.

Patrick unclenched his fingers, but his father was still holding his ears. Patrick hung on his ears for a moment, quickly grabbed his father's wrists and yelped.

- You promised that you would let me go. Please let go of your ears.

His father was still holding him in the air.

“I taught you an important lesson today,” he said. - Think for yourself. Don't let others make decisions for you.

“Let me go, please,” Patrick said, almost crying. - Please.

He could hardly contain himself. His hands ached with fatigue, but he could not relax, because he was afraid that his ears would come off his head in one jerk, like golden foil from a jar of cream.

- You promised! he yelled. His father lowered him to the floor.

“Don't whine,” he said in a dull tone. - It's very ugly.

He sat down at the piano again and began to play the march.

Patrick did not dance, ran out of the room and rushed through the lobby to the kitchen, and from there to the terrace, into the olive grove and further into the pine forest. He reached a thicket of thorns, slipped under the thorny branches and slid down a gentle hillock into his most secret refuge. There, at the roots of a pine tree, surrounded on all sides by thick bushes, he sat down on the ground, swallowing sobs that stuck in his throat like hiccups.

No one will find me here, he thought, gasping for air, but spasms squeezed his throat, and he could not inhale, as if his head was entangled in a sweater, and did not hit the collar, and he wanted to free his hand from his sleeve, but it got stuck and everything was twisted, but he could not get out and was suffocating.

Why did the father do this? Nobody should do that to anyone, thought Patrick.

In winter, when the ice covered the puddles, frozen air bubbles remained in the ice crust. The ice caught them and froze them, they also could not breathe. Patrick really didn’t like it because it’s unfair, so he always broke the ice to release the air.

No one will find me here, he thought. And then I thought: what if no one here at all finds me?

The mini-series "Patrick Melrose" with Benedict Cumberbatch in the title role has become a high-profile novelty of the year. It is based on the eponymous series of books by British writer Edward St. Aubin. The first three stories out of five can already be read in print, the final two will be published in December.

The protagonist of the book - a playboy, drug addict and alcoholic - tries to curb his craving for self-destruction and restrain the inner demons that have appeared as a result of childhood trauma. If you miss the subtle British humor spiced with a good dose of drama, be sure to read the book.