Authors: Christopher Isherwood
‘Don’t be silly, Charley.’
‘Even if you had had children, it wouldn’t really be the same. This Mother and Son thing – I mean, especially when you’ve had to bring him up without a father – that’s really hell. I mean, you try and you try – but everything you do or say seems to turn out wrong. I smother him – he said that to me once. At first I couldn’t understand – I just couldn’t accept it – but now I do – I’ve got to – and I honestly
think
I do – he must live his own life – right away from me – even if he begs me to, I simply mustn’t see him for a long long while – I’m sorry, Geo – I didn’t mean to do this – I’m so – sorry —’
George moves closer to her on the couch, puts one arm around her, squeezes her sobbing plumpness gently, without speaking. He is not cold; he is not unmoved. He is truly sorry for Charley and this mess – and yet – la felicidad remains intact; he is very much at his ease.
With his free hand, he helps himself to a sip of his drink, being careful not to let the movement be felt through the engaged side of his body.
But how very strange to sit here with Charley sobbing and remember that night when the long-distance call came through from Ohio. An uncle of Jim’s whom he’d never met – trying to be sympathetic, even admitting George’s right to a small honorary share in the sacred family grief – but then, as they talked, becoming a bit chilled by George’s laconic
yes, I see, yes
; his curt
no, thank you
, to the funeral invitation – deciding no doubt that this much talked-of room-mate hadn’t been such a close friend, after all. . . . And then, at least five minutes after George had put down the phone, when the first shock-wave hit, when the meaningless news suddenly meant exactly what it said, his blundering gasping run up the hill in the dark, his blind stumbling on the steps, banging at Charley’s door, crying blubbering howling on her shoulder, in her lap, all over her; and Charley squeezing him, stroking his hair, telling him – the usual stuff one tells. . . . Late next afternoon, as he shook himself out of the daze of the sleeping-pills she’d given him, he felt only disgust: I betrayed you, Jim; I betrayed our life together; I made you into a sob-story for a skirt. But that was just hysteria; part of the second shock-wave. It soon passed. And meanwhile Charley, bless her silly heart, took the situation over more and more completely – cooking his meals and bringing them down to the house while he was out, the dishes wrapped in tinfoil ready to be reheated; leaving him notes urging him to call her at any hour he felt the need, the deader of night the better;
hiding the truth from her friends with such visibly sealed lips that they must surely have suspected Jim had fled the State after some sex-scandal – until at last she had turned Jim’s death into something of her own creation entirely, a roaring farce. (George is grinning to himself, now.) Oh yes indeed, he is glad that he ran to her that night. That night, in purest ignorance, she taught him a lesson he will never forget – namely that you can’t betray (that idiotic expression!) a Jim, or a life with a Jim, even if you try to.
By now, Charlotte has sobbed herself into a calm. After a couple of sniffs, she says ‘sorry’ again, and stops.
‘I keep wondering just when it began to go wrong —’
‘Oh, Charley, for Heaven’s sake, what good does that do?’
‘Of course, if Buddy and I had stayed together —’
‘No one can say that was your fault.’
‘It’s always both people’s.’
‘Do you hear from him nowadays?’
‘Oh yes, every so often. They’re still in Scranton. He’s out of a job. And Debbie just had another baby – that’s their third – another daughter. I can’t think how they manage. I keep trying to stop him sending any more money, even though it is for Fred. But he’s so obstinate, poor lamb, when he thinks something’s his duty. Well, from now on, I suppose he and Fred will have to work that out between them. I’m out of the picture altogether —’
There is a bleak little pause. George gives her an encouraging pat on the shoulder. ‘How about a couple of quick ones before that stew?’
‘I think that’s a positively brilliant idea!’ She laughs quite gaily. But then, as he takes the glass from her, she
strokes his hand with a momentary return to pathos, ‘You’re so damned good to me, Geo.’ Her eyes fill with tears. However, he can decently pretend that he hasn’t noticed them, so he walks away.
If I’d been the one the truck hit, he says to himself, as he enters the kitchen, Jim would be right here, this very evening, walking through this doorway, carrying these two glasses. Things are as simple as that.
‘So here we are,’ Charlotte says, ‘just the two of us. Just you and me.’
They are drinking their coffee after dinner. The stew turned out quite a success, though not noticeably different from all Charlotte’s other stews; its relationship to Borneo being almost entirely literary.
‘Just the two of us,’ she repeats.
George smiles at her vaguely; not sure yet if this is a lead-in to something, or only sententious-sentimental warmth arising from the wine. They had about a bottle and a half between them.
But then, slowly, thoughtfully, as though this were a mere bit of irrelevant feminine musing, she adds, ‘I suppose, in a day or two, I must get around to cleaning out Fred’s room.’
A pause.
‘I mean, until I’ve done that, I won’t feel that everything’s really over. You have to do something, to convince yourself. You know what I mean?’
‘Yes, Charley. I think so.’
‘I shall send Fred anything he needs, of course. The rest I can store away. There’s heaps of space under the house.’
‘Are you planning to rent his room?’ George asks – because, if she
is
leading up to something, they may as well get to it.
‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly do that. . . . Well, not to a stranger, anyhow. One couldn’t offer him any real privacy. He’d have to be part of the family – oh dear, I
must
stop using that expression – it’s only force of habit. . . . Still,
you
understand, Geo. It would have to be someone I knew most awfully well —’
‘I can see that.’
‘You know, you and I – it’s funny – we’re really in the same boat, now. Our houses are kind of too big for us, and yet they’re too small.’
‘Depending on which way you look at it.’
‘Yes. . . . Geo darling – if I ask you something – it’s not that I’m trying to pry, or anything —’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Now that – well, now that some time has gone by – do you still feel that you want to live alone?’
‘I never wanted to live alone, Charley.’
‘Oh, I
know
! Forgive me. I never meant—’
‘I know you didn’t. That’s perfectly all right.’
‘Of course, I know how you must feel about that house of yours. . . . You’ve never thought of moving, have you?’
‘No – not seriously.’
‘No—’ (This is a bit wistful.) ‘I suppose you wouldn’t. I suppose – as long as you stay there – you feel closer to Jim. Isn’t that it?’
‘Maybe that’s it.’
She reaches over and gives his hand a long squeeze of deep understanding. Then, stubbing out her cigarette
(brave, now, for both of them) she says brightly, ‘Would you like to get us some drinks, Geo?’
‘The dishes, first.’
‘Oh, but darling, let’s leave them, please! I’ll wash them in the morning. I mean, I’d
like
to. It gives me something to do, these days. There’s so little —’
‘No arguments, Charley! If you won’t help me, I’ll do them alone.’
‘Oh,
Geo
—!’
And now, half an hour later, they’re back in the living-room again, with fresh drinks in their hands.
‘How can you pretend you don’t love it?’ she is asking him, with a teasing coquettish reproachfulness. ‘And you miss it – you wish you were back there – you
know
you do!’ This is one of her favourite themes.
‘I’m not pretending anything, Charley, for Heaven’s sake! You keep ignoring the fact that I
have
been back there, several times; and you haven’t. . . . I’m absolutely willing to admit that I like it better every time I do go. In fact, right now, I think it’s probably the most extraordinary country in the world – because it’s such a marvellous mix-up. Everything’s changed, and yet nothing has. . . . I don’t believe I ever told you this – last year, in the middle of the summer, when Jim and I were over there, you remember, we made a trip through the Cotswolds? Well, one morning, we were on this little branch-line train, and we stopped at a village which was right out of a Tennyson poem – sleepy meadows all around, and lazy cows, and moaning doves, and immemorial elms, and the Elizabethan manor house
showing through the trees. And there, on the platform, were two porters, dressed just the same way porters have been dressed since the nineteenth century. Only they were Negroes from Trinidad. And the ticket-collector at the gate was Chinese. I nearly died of joy. I mean, it was the one touch that had been lacking, all these years. It finally made the whole place perfect —’
‘I’m not sure how I should like that part of it,’ says Charlotte. Her romanticism has received a jolt, as he knew it would. Indeed, he has told this story to tease her. But she won’t be put off. She wants more. She is just in the mood for tipsy day-dreaming. ‘And then you went up North, didn’t you,’ she prompts him, ‘to look at the house you were born in?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell me about it!’
‘Oh, Charley – I’ve told you dozens of times!’
‘Tell me again –
please
, Geo!’
She is as persistent as a child; and George can seldom refuse her, especially after he’s had a few drinks.
‘It used to be a farmhouse, you know. It was built in 1649 – the year they beheaded Charles the First —’
‘
1649
! Oh, Geo – just
think
of it!’
‘There are several other farms in the neighbourhood much older than that. . . . Of course, it’s had a lot of alterations. The people who live there now – he’s a television producer in Manchester – have practically rebuilt the inside of it. Put in a new staircase and an extra bathroom and modernised the kitchen. And the other day they wrote me that they now have central heating —’
‘How horrible! There ought to be a law against ruining beautiful old houses. This craze for bringing things up to
date – I suppose they’ve caught it from this bloody country.’
‘Don’t be a goose, Charley darling! The place was all but uninhabitable, the way it was. It’s built of that local stone which seems to suck up every drop of moisture in the air. And there’s plenty, in that ghastly climate. Even in summer, the walls used to be clammy; and in winter, if you went into a room where the fire hadn’t been lighted for a few days, it was cold as death. The cellar actually smelt like a tomb. Mould was always forming on the books, and the wallpaper kept peeling off, and the mounts of the pictures were spotted with damp —’
‘Whatever you say about it, darling, you always make it sound so marvellously romantic. Exactly like Wuthering Heights!’
‘Actually, it’s almost suburban, nowadays. You walk down a short lane and there you are on the main road, with buses running every twenty minutes into Manchester.’
‘But didn’t you tell me the house is on the edge of the moors?’
‘Well, yes – so it is. That’s what’s so odd about it. It’s kind of in two worlds. . . . When you look out from the back – from the room I was born in, as a matter of fact – that view literally hasn’t changed since I was a boy. You still see hardly any houses – just the open hills, and the stone walls running over them, and a few little white-washed dots of farms. And, of course, the trees around the old farmyard were planted long, long before I was born – to shelter the house – there’s a lot of wind up there, on the ridge – great big beech trees – they make a sort of seething sound, like waves – that’s one of the earliest
sounds I remember – I sometimes wonder if that’s why I always have had this thing about wanting to live near the ocean —’
Something is happening to George. To please Charley, he has started to make magic; and now the magic is taking hold of him. He is quite aware of this – but what’s the harm? It’s fun. It adds a new dimension to being drunk. Just as long as there’s no one to hear him but Charley! She is sighing deeply now with sympathy and delight; the delight of an addict, when someone else admits he’s hooked, too.
‘There’s a little pub high up on the moors, the very last house in the village – actually it’s on the old coaching road over the hills, which hardly anyone uses now. Jim and I used to go there in the evenings. It’s called The Farmer’s Boy. The bar parlour has one of those low, very heavy-looking ceilings, you know, with warped oak beams; and there’s a big open fireplace. And some foxes’ masks mounted, on the wall. And an engraving of Queen Victoria riding a pony in the Highlands —’
Charlotte is so delighted that she actually claps her hands. ‘Geo! Oh, I can just see it all!’
‘One night we were there, they stayed open extra late, because it was Jim’s birthday – that is, they shut the outside door and went right on serving drinks. We felt marvellously cosy, and we drank pints and pints of Guinness, far more than we wanted, just because it was illegal. And then there was a “character” – that was how they all described him, “oh, he’s a character, he is!” – named Rex – who was a kind of a rustic beat. He worked as a farm labourer, but only when he absolutely had to. He started talking in a very superior tone, to impress us.
He told Jim, ‘You Yanks are living in a world of fantasy’! But then he got much more friendly, and when we were walking back to the inn where we were staying, absolutely plastered by this time, Rex and I discovered something in common; we both knew Newbolt’s
Vitae Lampada
by heart, we’d learnt it at school. So of course we began roaring out, “play up, play up, and play the game!” And when we got to the second verse, about the sands of the desert being sodden red, I said, ‘the colonel’s jammed and the gatling’s dead’, and Rex thought that was the joke of the year, and Jim sat right down on the road, and buried his face in his hands and uttered a terrible groan —’