Authors: Christopher Isherwood
‘You mean, he wasn’t enjoying himself?’
‘Jim, not enjoying himself? He was having the ball of his life! For a while, I thought I’d never get him out of England again. And, you know, he fell wildly in love with that pub? The rest of the house is very attractive, I must admit. There’s an upstairs sitting-room which you could really make something out of. And quite a big garden. Jim wanted us to buy it, and live there, and run it together.’
‘What a marvellous idea! Oh, what a shame you couldn’t have!’
‘Actually, it wouldn’t have been utterly impossible. We made some inquires. I think we could have persuaded them to sell. And no doubt Jim would have picked up pub-running, the way he did everything else. Of course, there’d have been an awful lot of red tape, and permits, and stuff. . . . Oh yes, we talked about it. We even used to say we’d go back this year and look into the whole thing some more —’
‘Do you think – I mean, if Jim – would you
really
have bought it and settled down there?’
‘Oh, who knows? We were always making plans like that. We hardly ever told other people about them, even you. Maybe that was because we knew in our hearts they were crazy. But then, again, we did do some crazy things, didn’t we? Well, we’ll never know, now. . . . Charlotte, dear, we are both in need of a drink.’
He is suddenly aware of Charlotte saying, ‘I suppose, for a man, it
is
different —’
(
What’s
different? Can he have dozed off for a couple of seconds? George shakes himself awake.)
‘— you know, I used to think that about Buddy? He could have lived anywhere. He could have travelled hundreds of miles across nowhere, and then suddenly just pitched his tent and called it somewhere, and it
would
have been somewhere, simply because he said so. After all, I mean, isn’t that what the pioneers all did in this country, not so long ago? It must have been in Buddy’s blood – though it certainly can’t be, any longer. Debbie would never put up with that sort of thing. . . . No, Geo, cross my heart, I am honestly not being bitchy! I wouldn’t have put up with it, either, in the long run. Women are like that – we’ve simply got to hang on to our roots. We
can
be transplanted, yes – but it has to be done by a man, and when he’s done it, he has to stay with us and wither – I mean water – I mean, the new roots wither if they aren’t watered —’ Her voice has thickened. Now she gives her head an abrupt shake, just as George did, a few moments ago. ‘Am I making any sense at all?’
‘Yes, Charley. Aren’t you trying to tell me you’ve decided to go back?’
‘You mean, go back Home?’
‘Are you sure it
is
Home, still?’
‘Oh dear – I’m not sure of anything – but – now Fred doesn’t need me any more – will you tell me, Geo, what am I doing here?’
‘You’ve got a lot of friends.’
‘Certainly I have. Friends. And they’re real dears. The Peabodys and the Garfeins, especially, and Jerry and Flora, and I am very fond of Myrna Custer. But none of them
need
me. There isn’t anyone who’d make me feel guilty about leaving them. . . . Now, Geo, be absolutely honest – is there anyone,
anyone at all
, I ought to feel guilty about leaving behind?’
There’s me
. No, he refuses to say it. Such flirting is unworthy of them, even when drunk. ‘Feeling guilty’s no reason for staying,
or
going,’ he tells her, firmly but kindly. ‘The point is, do you
want
to go? If you want to go, you should go. Never mind anybody else.’
Charley nods sadly. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
George goes into the kitchen, fixes another round. (They seem to be drinking up much faster now. This one really should be the last.) When he comes out again, she’s sitting with her hands clasped, gazing in front of her. ‘I think I shall go back, Geo. I dread it – but I’m beginning to think I really shall —’
‘Why do you dread it?’
‘In a way, I dread it. There’s Nan, for one thing —’
‘You wouldn’t have to live with her, would you?’
‘I wouldn’t have to. But I would. I’m sure I would.’
‘But, Charley – I’ve always had the impression that you loathe each other?’
‘Not
exactly
loathe. Anyhow, in a family, that’s not really what matters – I mean, it can be beside the point. That’s hard to explain to you, Geo, because you never had any family, did you, after you were quite young? No, I wouldn’t say loathe. Though, of course, when I first got to know Buddy – when she found out we were sleeping together, that is – Nan did rather hate me. I mean, she hated my luck. Of course, in those days, Buddy
was
a dreamboat. Any sister might have felt jealous. But that wasn’t the biggest part of it. What she really minded was that Buddy was a G.I. and that he was going to take me back to live in the States when we were married. Nan simply longed to come over here, you see – so many girls did, after wartime England and the shortages and everything – but she’d have died rather than admit it. She felt she was being disloyal to England, even to want to come. I do believe she’d have far sooner admitted to being jealous of me with Buddy! Isn’t that a laugh?’
‘She knows you and Buddy have split up, of course?’
‘Oh yes, I had to tell her at once, right after it happened. Otherwise, I’d have been so afraid she’d find out for herself, in some uncanny way, and that would have been too shaming. . . . So I wrote to her about it, and she wrote back, such a beastly quietly triumphing letter, saying now I suppose you’ll
have
to come back here – back to the country you deserted; that was what she implied. So of course I flew right off the handle – you know
me
! – and answered saying I was blissfully happy here, and that never never would I set foot on her dreary little island again.
Oh, and then – I’ve never told you any of this, because it embarrassed me so – after I wrote
that
letter, I felt most terribly guilty, so I started sending her things; you know, delicatessen from those luxury shops in Beverly Hills, all sorts of cheeses and things in bottles and jars. As a matter of fact, living in this so-called land of plenty, I could hardly afford them! And I was such an utter idiot; I didn’t once stop to think how tactless I was being! Actually, I was playing right into Nan’s hands. I mean, she let me go on sending all this stuff for a while – which she ate, I presume – and then
really
torpedoed me. Asked hadn’t we heard in America that the War had been over quite some time, and that bundles for Britain were out of date?’
‘Charming creature!’
‘No, Geo – underneath all that, Nan really loves me. It’s just she wants me to see things her way. You know, she’s two years older; that meant a lot when we were children. I’ve always thought of her as being sort of like a road – I mean, she
leads
somewhere. With her, I’ll never lose my way. . . . Do you know what I’m trying to say?’
‘No.’
‘Well, never mind. . . . There’s another thing about going back Home – it’s the Past; and that’s all tied up with Nan, too. Sort of going back to the place where I turned off the road, do you see?’
‘No. I don’t see.’
‘But, Geo –
the Past
! Surely you can’t pretend you don’t know what I mean by that?’
‘The Past is just something that’s over.’
‘Oh really – how
can
you be so tiresome!’
‘No, Charley, I mean it. The Past is over. People make believe that it isn’t, and they show you things in
museums. But that’s not the Past. You won’t find the Past in England. Or anywhere else, for that matter.’
‘Oh, you’re tiresome!’
‘Listen, why not just go back there on a visit? See Nan, if you want to. But, for Christ’s sake, don’t commit yourself.’
‘No – if I go back at all, I’ve got to go back for good.’
‘
Why?
’
‘I can’t stand any more indecision. I’ve got to burn my boats, this time. I thought I’d done that when I came over here with Buddy. But, this time, I’ve got to —’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’
‘I know I’ll find it all changed. I know there’ll be a lot of things I’ll hate. I know I’ll miss all these supermarkets and labour-savers and conveniences. Probably I’ll keep catching one cold after another, after living in this climate. And I expect you’re quite right – I
shall
be miserable, living with Nan. . . . I can’t help any of that. At least, when I’m there, I shall know
where I am
.’
‘Never in my born days have I heard such utter drooling masochism!’
‘Oh yes, I know it sounds like that. And perhaps it is! Do you suppose masochism’s our way of being patriotic? Or do I mean that the other way round? What fun! Darling, shouldn’t we have another tiny drink? Let’s drink to the masochism of Old England!’
‘I don’t think so, darling. Time for our beds.’
‘Geo –
you’re leaving
!’
‘I must, Charley.’
‘But when shall I see you?’
‘Very soon. That is, unless you’re taking off for England right away.’
‘Oh, don’t tease me! You know perfectly well I’m not! It’d take me ages, just to get ready. . . . Perhaps I never will go, at all. How could I ever face all that packing and the saying goodbye, and the
effort
? No – perhaps I never will —’
‘We’ll talk more about it. A lot more. . . . Goodnight, Charley dear.’
She rises as he bends forward to kiss her. They bump awkwardly and very nearly topple over and roll on the floor. He steadies her, unsteadily.
‘I should hate so to leave you, Geo.’
‘Then don’t.’
‘The way you say that! I don’t believe you care if I go or if I stay.’
‘Of course I care!’
‘Truly?’
‘Truly!’
‘Geo?’
‘Yes, Charley?’
‘I don’t think Jim would want me to leave you here alone.’
‘Then don’t leave me.’
‘No – I’m dead serious! You remember when you and I drove up to San Francisco? In September, it must have been, last year, just after you got back from England —’
‘Yes.’
‘Jim couldn’t come up with us, that day. I forget why. He flew up the next day and joined us. . . . Well, anyhow, just as you and I were getting into the car, Jim said something to me. Something I’ve never forgotten. . . . Did I ever tell you this?’
‘I don’t believe so.’ (She has told him at least six times; always when very drunk.)
‘He said to me, you two take care of each other.’
‘He did?’
‘Yes, he did. Those were his exact words. And, Geo, I believe he didn’t just mean, take care. He meant something
more
—’
‘What did he mean?’
‘That was less than two months, wasn’t it, before he left for Ohio. . . . I believe he said,
take care
, because he
knew
—’
Swaying a little, she regards him earnestly but dimly, as though she were peering up at him, fishlike, through all the liquor she has drunk. ‘Do
you
believe that, Geo?’
‘How can we tell what he knew, Charley? As for our taking care of each other, we can be certain he’d have wanted us to do that.’ George puts his hands on her shoulders. ‘So now let’s both tell each other to get some sleep, shall we?’
‘No, wait —’ She’s like a child, stalling off bedtime with questions. ‘Do you suppose that pub is still for sale?’
‘I expect so. . . . That’s an idea! Why don’t we buy it, Charley? What do you say? We could get drunk and earn money at the same time. That’d be more fun than living with Nan.’
‘Oh, darling, how lovely! Do you suppose we really
could
buy it? No – you’re not serious, are you? I can see you aren’t. But don’t ever say you aren’t. Let’s make plans about it, like you and Jim used to. He’d like us to make plans, wouldn’t he?’
‘Sure, he would. . . . Good night, Charley.’
‘Good night, Geo, my love —’ As they embrace, she
kisses him full on the mouth. And suddenly sticks her tongue right in. She has done this before, often. It’s one of those drunken longshots which just might, at least theoretically, once in ten thousand tries, throw a relationship right out of its orbit and send it whizzing off on another. Do women ever stop trying? No. But, because they never stop, they learn to be good losers. When, after a suitable pause, he begins to draw back, she doesn’t attempt to cling to him. And now she accepts his going with no more resistance. He kisses her on the forehead. She is like a child who has at last submitted to being tucked into her cot.
‘Sleep tight.’
George turns, swings open the house door, takes one stride and – OOPS! – very very nearly falls head first down the steps – all of them – oh, and unthinkably much farther – ten, fifty, one hundred million feet into the bottomless black night. Only his grip on the door handle saves him.
He turns groggily, with a punching heart, to grin back at Charlotte; but, luckily, she has wandered away off somewhere. She hasn’t seen him do this asinine thing. Which is truly providential because, if she
had
seen him, she would have insisted on his staying the night; which would have meant, well, at the very least, such a late breakfast that it would have been brunch; which would have meant more drinks; which would have meant siesta and supper, and more and more and more drinks to follow. . . . This has actually happened, before now.