Mortaumal - 3. Dying, The Lawyer, Self-Defence & Pissed Off

Dying

Shrude sagged to the ground, coughing slightly.

‘Grandad! Are you all right? Thanks for sending that horrible woman away. Are you alright?’

‘Just a little tired, Mort. I’m not used to confrontation. A person like that is a great black hole that sucks all joy, life and decency from the air. Its lucky she went or I’d have suffocated. Perhaps you’d fetch me a glass of water?’

Shrude rallied and after a meal seemed to be his usual self, but Mort remained worried.

‘Grandad, I’m sorry I didn’t realise you were getting so sick. Are you sure you’re going to be all right? Shouldn’t you go to a doctor?’

Shrude gazed affectionately at the only living thing he loved without restraint, and wished he had a stronger grip on life. But he had to be honest; anything else would be an unforgivable deception. Mort was ten; old enough to understand. He patted the cushion beside him on the couch. Mort sat and leaned against him while Shrude gently stroked his shoulder.

‘I’m worn out, Mort. Made of inferior stuff, apparently. I’ve been to doctors because I don’t want to leave you any sooner than I have to. It seems my heart is falling to bits, my liver doesn’t process toxins and my gut is host to unpleasant visitors that prevent me digesting properly.’

Mort could scarcely speak from fear. ‘Can’t they do anything in hospital, Grandpa?’

‘When you’re my age, Mort, you have to keep away from those places. There’s nothing they can do except keep me alive longer than I would if I didn’t go.’

‘Isn’t that good?’

Once they’d cut me open, filled me with drugs and sewn me back together again, I’d be useless. They wouldn’t let me come back here; I’d be sent to a nursing home and spend every day in bed, drugged, probably in pain, wishing I was dead, useless to you and Nasturtium. And this could go on for years and years, a living hell. And no matter how hard I pleaded, they would not let me die until they’d used the last drug and performed the last operation.

‘You see, lawmakers are mostly religious and frightened to die in case they go to hell, so they’ll do anything to stay alive. Ridiculous, as they’ll all die eventually. They reckon a person who has decided it is time to die is insane and should be prevented from killing themselves no matter how ill they are. And anyone knows about this and doesn't stop them is helping them, and therefore a criminal. I’ve had as good a life as I deserve, and the years with you have been the best. If I thought doctors could fix me up so I could live longer the way I’ve been until now, then I’d try it, but they all say there’s no hope of anything except becoming a vegetable in a nursing home for years and years. So I’m going to refuse to let them get their claws into me. Do you understand?’

‘Yes,’ Mort whispered.

‘And will you be pleased for me, once I’m dead and no longer sick, and not be too sorry for yourself?’

Mort could scarcely speak. Tears were pouring over his cheeks, running into his mouth and his throat seemed too thick to speak. But he managed a husky, ‘Yes. I’ll be pleased for you when you’re dead, and try not to be too sorry for myself.’

‘Good lad. And if anyone is stupid enough to arrange a funeral for me, refuse to go. It’ll only make you sad and not help you cope. I won’t be there to see and they’ll probably get an idiot witchdoctor to say insanities about god and heaven and all that crap, like they did with that nasty bully. No child should have to listen to that nonsense, it undermines sanity. Keep me in your head and heart as I am, not as I’ll be when I’m dead, and in that way we’ll always be together.’

‘Yes, Grandpa.’ Unable to restrain his tears, Mort buried his face in his grandfather’s shirt. ‘Grandad. I love you so much.’

‘And I love you just as much, so don’t worry... you’ll have me around for a long time yet. But if anything should happen to me, I’ve made arrangements for you to live with Fystie, Amy and Leo. You’ll be happy with them I think.’

‘Yes,’ Mort lied. He loved Leo and Fystie, but disliked Amy. But now wasn’t the time to say so.

‘Tomorrow after school we’ll go together to the lawyer to settle everything.’

The Lawyer

Leo was already in the waiting room of Messrs. Trimm, Kutt and Payste who, according to their sign, were experienced in Family Law, Wills, Testaments and Bereavement. Mr. Trimm lived up to his name, being of average height, stocky with no suggestion of fat. He was pale of skin, and neatly packaged in a lightweight suit, white shirt and tie, and shiny tan shoes. His elegantly cropped, chestnut hair and neatly trimmed beard would have reassured even the most finicky female. He stood when his clients entered and offered a perfectly manicured hand, greeting both Leo and Shrude by their first names, like old friends. His greeting of Mort was sincere and unaffected, so Mort liked him immediately and was prepared to trust him to the end of the earth.

The two adults left the room and Mort sat on a chair that had been placed opposite the lawyer’s at his large desk. Mr. Trimm took some papers from a drawer, placed them on the table, then looked at Mort as if searching his face for permission to speak. Apparently he found what he was looking for, and in a cool and accurate manner explained the situation.

‘What I’m telling you today is totally private, Mort. Even Leo doesn’t know about it. That means no matter who asks you about it, they have no right to know, and you must not tell them! If anyone persists in asking, you must make an excuse to go away, telephone me immediately, and tell me about them.’ He passed Mort a card. ‘These are my details, phone numbers and addresses. Keep it handy, and if you lose it, come and get another. Copy the details into your diary or wherever you keep important records. Ok so far?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. Repeat what I've just told you.’

Mort was word perfect.

‘Excellent. My first name’s Marshall. I’m doing this as a friend of Shrude, so you might as well be a friend too. Ok?’

‘Yes, Marshall.’

‘Good. It’s quite simple. Your grandfather sold his property to me five years ago, but retains the right to live there until either he dies or moves voluntarily away. The money has been put into an interest bearing account in your name. That was the best way I could think of to ensure no one will dispute the Will when he dies. There’s a small Trust Fund for Nasturtium’s needs, but that’s all. It means you are a relatively wealthy young man, although I’ll keep control of the money as your legal trustee until you turn eighteen.’

‘But... I don’t understand. Why is it a secret?’

‘If your mother hears about Shrude’s illness, she is likely to appear and demand her inheritance. He is determined she will get nothing, because if she got her hands on it you would be left with nothing. If we keep this a secret, she will imagine Shrude frittered away his fortune over the last five years, as there will be no trace of it. Whenever you need more money than the allowance stipulated in Shrude’s Will, phone or come and see me, and I promise to be sensible while keeping your best interests at heart. You won’t need any money for daily living if you go to live with Leo, because he will be receiving money for fostering you, and there’s some in that for your pocket money. Is everything clear so far?’

‘Yes,’ Mort nodded, brushing away a tear.

‘Good lad. Now, all the paperwork is complete. The Child Welfare people have approved Amy and Leo’s suitability as foster parents in the event of Shrude dying, so the only question for me is, do you want to go and live with them? That’s why I asked Shrude and Leo to wait outside, so you can be perfectly honest. Neither will be offended whatever your decision.’

‘I love Leo and Fystie, but I don’t like Amy, but I’d sooner live with them than anyone else, and I don’t want Grandpa to die and…’ Tears erupted. Great sobs wracked his frame and he curled into a ball in the large chair, sobbing silently. Marshall hurried around the desk and knelt beside the boy, cradling him in his arms, stroking his hair, murmuring soft, calming nothings, silently cursing himself for having spoken so impersonally.

Mort looked up through tear-blurred eyes and whispered, ‘Sorry.’

‘Never apologise for feeling strongly about anything. Your tears do you credit. It is I who should apologise for speaking so clinically. I’ve been a lawyer too long. You’ve been very brave and I admire you, and I like you even more now I’ve seen you are worthy of your grandfather.’

Mort and Shrude returned home, leaving Leo with Marshall, who had invited him to come and see his most recent etchings.

A week later, Mort was called out of class. When he saw Amy in the Principal’s office he knew what was coming and bravely followed her to the car.

His new home in a housing estate on the fringes of the city was very different from the large private block filled with fruit trees and vegetables where he had lived since birth. The unlined concrete block bungalow sat on its five hundred square metre patch of land in a row of identical dwellings, separated from each other by low wire fences. A few scraggly palms were all that remained of once dense rainforest, and of privacy there was none. His bedroom boasted a bed, chair, small built-in wardrobe and desk. The window looked onto a covered verandah that ran the length of the house, where Fystie spent most of his time when not as school.

Once his few possessions had been transferred, Mort felt slightly better and managed to put on a brave face, keeping his tears and sobs private and quiet. He didn’t want to know about their problems and they were doing enough for him without having to cope with a sadness that only he could cure. Problems shared may sometimes be problems halved, but sadness shared becomes a burden for everyone and too often prevents healing.

Dewey-eyed but true to his word, Mort refused to go to his beloved grandfather’s funeral, thus earning the contempt of Amy who refused to listen to his reasons, and the admiration of Leo who did.

A sense of duty prompted him to visit Nasturtium in her bright, clean nursing home. She seemed perfectly contented, had no idea who he was, and ignored him, so he never went again.

Self Defence

Amy hated working in the supermarket. Leo loved working in the gymnasium. They seldom spoke, so didn’t argue. The atmosphere in the house wasn’t tense, but neither was it relaxing when both were in the room. Fortunately, shift work made it possible to avoid each other most of the time and there was always one person at home to look after Fystie. Mort and Fystie’s unusually deep friendship was the sole reason Amy had agreed to foster the lad. Not because she cared about her son’s happiness, but because Mort would relieve her of some of the burden of care.

Fystie spent his days at a special school for disadvantaged children. He was smart, observant, and a caustic commentator; therefore an amusing companion. Fortunately perhaps, few people, including his teachers, were able to understand his tart remarks. Mort slipped easily into their lives, eventually stopped wetting his bed [which Leo had assured him was perfectly normal] and crying himself to sleep, and never tired of retrieving things that Fystie’s spastic muscles kept tossing around or dropping.

A large storage shed attached to Jezebels Gymnasium was sublet to one of Leo’s friends for self-defence classes. Amy was opposed to Mort’s attending, as she thought men were quite aggressive enough without learning to fight. In vain did Leo explain that the boy would be learning self-confidence along with self-defence. She could see no difference between attack and defence so when her wishes were ignored, decided it was yet another proof her husband was deliberately undermining their marriage.

Excited and apprehensive, Mort joined a dozen other boys three afternoons a week and applied himself with his usual single-minded determination to becoming a martial arts expert. Hugh, the instructor, a lean, fit man in his thirties, kept the lessons focussed, practical and uncomplicated. Politeness was demanded, but there were no mystical ceremonies, no Oriental names for moves, and the students were free to wear whatever they liked as long as it didn’t restrict movement.

Hugh wore a speedo because the less he wore the more information his students received about arm, body and leg positions. He considered traditional martial arts costumes to be an anachronism and an unnecessary expense, perverting a skill grounded in reality by giving it a quasi-religious twist. Fitness and quick reflexes require a mind tightly focussed in the present, not on some ancient myth. Most boys followed suit when they realised how sweaty any extra clothing made them.

After a few minutes of relaxation activities at the beginning of the sessions, instruction was practical and down to earth. Each lesson focussed on a new skill, and revised older ones. Hugh would choose an attack mode, then teach the correct defence response, which was practiced until it became reflex. After a few weeks all students knew what to do if someone threw a punch, came from behind, grasped their wrists, tried to leg trip them, grabbed them around the neck and so on.

Hugh constantly reminded his students that the first and best option is to run away, and they should never provoke a fight. If fighting was inevitable, then they should disable their opponent quickly and walk away. It was self-defence, they were learning, not revenge or attack.

The results were visible after only a few sessions. The students stood taller and took more interest in the world around them. The mere fact of knowing a few moves that would at least stop their attacker long enough so they could make their escape, changed everything for lads who’d spent their lives in nervous apprehension of others. Boys for whom a slightly cringing stance with averted eyes had become second nature, thus attracting bullies, began to walk confidently and look others in the eye, because the knowledge that if their opponent wasn’t too much bigger they could make him sorry he’d picked a fight, did wonders for self esteem.

Mort lost the slightly nervous cringe that had so annoyed Amy, began to join in mealtime conversations, and was no longer always nervously on the lookout for bullies. He now had a weapon—himself. The first time someone tried to intimidate him, he stood straight and looked the prick in the eye, feet slightly apart, hands ready for action. The would-be bully turned away with a pathetic sneer. Mort was so elated he shared his delight at dinner. Leo was thrilled; Amy sniffed her displeasure.

Hugh taught his students that bullies can tell by someone’s posture if they are mentally weak or strong. ‘Strutting and cringing are both signs of weakness, and calm modesty is a sign of strength,’ he drummed into them if they began to get cocky. While most of Hugh’s philosophical asides passed over the heads of his students, Mort missed nothing and spent many hours thinking and discussing the ideas with Fystie.

His eleventh birthday passed without mention. Living in a place with no privacy he needed to keep at least some secrets, and his birthday was one.

Pissed Off

To his dismay, Mrs. Pettie had not forgiven his grandfather’s invective. She liked girls but barely tolerated boys. ‘Sugar and spice and all things nice, that’s what little girls are made of,’ she taught them to chant. ‘Slugs and snails and puppy dog tails, that’s what little boys are made of,’ the girls learned to shout gleefully. Mrs Pettie belonged to that unpleasant breed of teachers who seek popularity by publicly ridiculing students who were too polite or nervous to challenge her. She measured her success by the amount of laughter generated as she mispronounced spelling errors and rolled slightly protuberant eyes at other mistakes. As her victims were usually boys, the girls rejoiced in this further proof of male inferiority.

Mort, whose previous teacher had appreciated his enthusiasm and inventiveness, was dismayed to discover he was a dunce at everything that really mattered. He didn’t sit still, his spelling was atrocious, his writing unreadable, he interrupted, asked too many questions and was an intolerable know-all. His work was usually returned looking as if a chicken had been decapitated over it.

Mort’s wildly diverse interests made it unlikely he would be a brilliant scholar, but with a sympathetic teacher he could have been good. Things came to a head one hot Friday afternoon. Everyone was chattering, impatient for the weekend, when Mrs. Pettie called the class to attention and held up Mort’s latest effort at creative writing, an epic poem about a Warrior Prince who saved a city. He thought the story was so exciting that she would finally admire him, and smiled in pride when he realised his work had been chosen.

She called him up to her table to collect it, but instead of handing it to him, asked the class if they’d like to hear what Mortaumal had written.

Mort’s heart sank. That was the tone she used when preparing to make someone feel rotten.

‘Yes, yes, yes…’ It seemed the whole class wanted to be amused by Mort’s discomfort.

Mort’s unsmiling, silent stoicism in the face of yet another public humiliation was interpreted as being unable to take a joke, an unpardonable sin in others.

Sliding forward in her chair as if offering a rare treat, she adjusted her glasses and the class waited with bated breath for the next hilarious instalment of Mort madness. Giggles turned to guffaws as the woman deliberately mispronounced his metaphors and ridiculed his rhymes. Mort held his tongue and controlled his breathing and temper as his defence teacher had taught him, allowing his attention to wander while the class laughed and the pressure on his bladder increased.

‘Stand still, boy!’ Mrs. Pettie snapped as he jiggled his feet, increasingly desperate for a piss.

Concealed from the waist down by the large wooden desk, Mort looked vacantly at a point well above his audience’s heads while lifting the leg of his shorts and aiming half a litre of warm urine onto the rear of the teacher’s seat. It soaked through the thin skirt and pooled behind her. He was flicking off the last drops when Mrs Pettie felt something warm and wet, stared back in horror, then leaped to her feet.

‘You filthy little bastard!’ she shrieked, landing a solid backhand on the side of his head that threw him across the room.

Deadly silence.

‘Mort’s bleeding,’ someone said nervously.

Blood was gushing from the back of his head where he’d hit the edge of the wastepaper bin. It didn’t hurt, and he was fully aware of what was happening, but Mort wasn’t silly. He remained ‘unconscious’ until the ambulance drove him away. At the hospital he gave Leo’s gymnasium phone number, and by the time he’d received three stitches and a sweet drink, Leo had arrived. When he proved he knew about delayed concussion, Leo signed a form and was given permission to take his ‘son’ away. Mort spent the afternoon behind the scenes at the gymnasium, filling himself with sandwiches and soft drinks brought by sympathetic staff curious to see Leo’s new ‘son’.