A Word Child (19 page)

‘None of that, Crystal. Prayer is better. Do you know what dear old Tommy told me in a letter? She said she had forgiven me on behalf of God!'

‘You never told Tommy?'

‘No. And I never will. Whatever happens. But, Crystal, listen. I haven't said this to you yet. I've told Arthur.'

‘Told Arthur — when?'

‘Last night.'

‘Everything?'

‘Yes.'

‘Oh dear — ' said Crystal. ‘Oh dear — ' The big golden eyes were filling with tears.

I was appalled. ‘But Crystal, I thought you'd approve, be pleased — I felt — if you're going to marry him — it was a kind of gesture — and he is so — and I had to tell someone — didn't you want him to know?'

‘No. I didn't want him to know. I didn't want
anybody
to know. I didn't want it to
exist
as anything that people knew. I want it not to have happened at all. And one of the things about Arthur was that he didn't know — '

‘Oh my God!' I said. I felt exasperation. Had I got to play the instrument of Crystal's sensibility forever? She was stupidly vulnerable. ‘Brace up, Crystal. All these things did happen. Keeping them secret isn't going to unhappen them. I haven't spoilt Arthur for you. Arthur's got to grow up. You've got to grow up. There are terrible things in the world. Anyway, Arthur ought to know that he's getting a murderer for a brother-in-law!'

‘What did he say?'

What did he say? I had not paid much attention to what Arthur said, half the time as I was talking I was unaware that Arthur existed. ‘It doesn't matter what he said. He talked some guff about forgiveness. Now, Crystal, stop crying. I don't see why I should have to put up with your bloody tears as well as everything else.'

Crystal mopped her eyes with her hands, then began to fumble under her skirt for the handkerchief which she still kept in her knickers like a little girl. ‘I wish we still believed in Jesus Christ and that he could wash away our sins.'

‘Washed by the Blood of the Lamb. Remember all that old stuff? Washing in somebody's blood — what repellent images one cheerfully put up with in one's childhood. Over and over like a mighty sea, comes the blood of Jesus rolling over.'

‘It's the love of Jesus, not the blood of Jesus.'

‘Well, since there's no Jesus it'll have to be your love that saves me, Crystal, so don't stop praying, will you?'

MONDAY

I
T WAS now Monday afternoon (it looks as if nothing ever happens on Sundays, but just wait a while), getting dark, which consisted in a yellowish twilight which had persisted all day thickening into a yellowish darkness. Big Ben's lighted face had not been extinguished since morning. I sat at my desk looking at that friendly countenance and trying to compose my letter of resignation. The thought of searching for another job and doing so rather briskly, since I had no savings, filled me with frightened exhausted dejection. Someone (Reggie?) had purloined my fountain pen, and I was struggling with a steel-nibbed dip-pen which I had got from the stores, and which spluttered the ink merrily about in intervals of scratching holes in the paper.

Sunday had passed somehow. I went to the cinema twice and got drunk in the intervals. I also walked a good deal. There are so many kinds of walking. I walked a special kind of metaphysical sad London walking, which I had walked before, only I performed it now with an almost ritualistic intensity. In Russian there is no general word for ‘go'. Going has to be specified as walking or riding, then as habitual or non-habitual walking or riding, then as perfective or imperfective habitual or non-habitual walking or riding, all involving different verbs. The sort of walking which I indulged in on that Sunday deserved a special word to celebrate its conceptual peculiarity.

During the later part of Monday morning one of Arthur's lame ducks who had just come out of prison and had celebrated this by getting drunk, came round to find Arthur and obtain some more money to get drunker. I helped Arthur to get him out of the building. Arthur had not returned, presumably being unable to shake off his bibulous friend, or perhaps being engaged in escorting him to a suitable place of refuge. The porter at the door, having vainly opposed ingress, reported to Freddie Impiatt, who came to see me as if it was my fault, and gave me a sort of dressing down while Reggie Farbottom and Mrs Witcher giggled in the background.

After lunch however a rather more respectful attitude became evident. When I came in Reggie was eagerly imparting something to Mrs Witcher. They fell silent when I arrived, staring at me.

‘I say, Hilary, is it true that you and Jopling are old friends?'

‘No.'

‘There you are, Reggie, I told you it couldn't be true.'

‘But you do know him, don't you, I was told you were old friends, that you were at school together.'

‘They couldn't have been,' said Edith. ‘Hilary's miles younger.'

I sat down in my protected nook, in the yellow beam of old Big Ben. I would miss that.

‘Hilar
ee
! Don't you answer when people speak to you any more?'

‘I didn't think an answer was required.'

‘You do know him though? They were saying in the bar you knew him well.'

‘I used to know him very slightly. We haven't met for years.'

‘Fancy Hilary knowing Jopling!'

‘I didn't know Hilary knew anybody.'

‘We'll have to start calling him Mr Burde now.'

‘Mr Burde, hey there, Mr Burde — '

And so on and so on.

I made up my mind to go home early. I could not write the letter of resignation and could not do anything else either. The work had already gone dead on me. I decided to adopt a device which I sometimes adopted when depressed, to get onto the Inner Circle and go round and round until opening time and then go to the bar either at Liverpool Street or Sloane Square, according to which was nearer. This system weighted the balance slightly in favour of Liverpool Street if I took the westbound line, and of Sloane Square if I took the eastbound line, since there were fifteen stations between Liverpool Street and Sloane Square on the former route and twelve on the latter route. I attempted to let some immediate chance decide which direction I took. The element of gamble distracted the mind a bit, though not so much as being in bed with Biscuit would have done.

I intended of course to go and see Clifford Larr as usual in the evening. He knew my tantrums and how to ignore them. I did not really believe that my outburst in the park could have ended our friendship. He had already taken a reprisal in the form of his indiscretions on Thursday, and would I hoped be satisfied, though he might still be bloody-minded enough to refuse to see me or simply to be absent. But there was always, with such a man, also the possibility of his suddenly deciding that one had gone too far and that all was over. This possibility began, as the day went on, suddenly to ache on its own, a perceptible special pain among all the others, making thought impossible, prompting flight. Soon after four o'clock I got up and glided quietly out of the room. Reggie and Edith were playing noughts and crosses. Arthur had still not come back.

I went to the cloakroom and put on my overcoat and cap. I could never bring myself to sport a trilby or a bowler; the cap provided some protection even though it signally failed to cover the ears. I could not descend to the Arthur woolly beret level. I set off down the stairs. I always used the lift to come up, the stairs to come down. The lift carried the hazards of social life. It was a concession to old age that I no longer walked up.

The stairs were, in accordance with government standards of economy, very ill lit. I had descended two flights and was descending a third when a stout elderly man turned the corner from the lower landing and began slowly to mount towards me, holding onto the banisters. We passed each other. For a second I saw his face. I reached the next landing and turned the corner. I held onto the wall for a moment, then sat down on the stairs at the top of the next flight.

Arthur was just coming up. ‘I say, Hilary, what's the matter? Are you all right? Are you feeling funny?'

I said, ‘Go away.'

‘Hilary, can I —?'

‘Go away!'

In order to escape from Arthur I pulled myself up and went quickly on down the stairs, leaving him staring after me. I went out into the street.

I had had a flash of the blue eyes before he passed, otherwise I might not have recognized him. He was partly bald and had become stout. He had the gait and bearing of an older man, much older than me, older than his own years. He also had, even in that glimpse, the air of a grandee, a public man. Perhaps this had contributed to the effect of age. But what was even more devastating than seeing him was being seen by him. I had intended to be far away when Gunnar Jopling came. Now: he had seen me. But had he recognized me, could he, in those few seconds, have done so? Of course I had not changed as much as he. On the other hand, he could not possibly have been expecting to see me. No, he had not looked at me. He had surely passed by, preoccupied, not seeing.

By this time I had got myself, somehow, in a state of unconsciousness, onto the Inner Circle, direction Paddington. I went over the incident again and again in my mind. It was so dark, we passed so quickly. I was wearing a cap, no, no he could not possibly have known me. But we had passed each other on the stairs, our two bodies had passed within two feet of each other. I could have touched his sleeve. I sat in the train with my face in my hands. A kindly old lady asked me if I was all right, and when I did not reply thrust a pound note into my pocket. I felt a second or two of gratitude.

Hours passed and it was opening time. The Inner Circle roulette determined on Liverpool Street, which I was rather glad of and must unconsciously have voted for by taking the Paddington direction. Liverpool Street has a terrible shoddy doomridden end of the world majesty about it, like some place out of Edgar Allan Poe. I got drunk standing on the platform, watching the trains come and go. At last I got onto a train myself and went to Gloucester Road.

There had been a glimmer from the sitting-room window. The glass panel above the door was lighted up. I let myself in with my key as usual. ‘Hello, Clifford.'

‘Hello.'

He was in the kitchen, chopping an onion.

‘Did you expect me?'

‘No.'

‘Didn't you —?'

‘You said you were not coming.'

I glanced through the dining-room door. The table was laid for one. The chessboard occupied my place. I got out knives and forks and a glass and one of the sissy place mats that Clifford used and laid a second place on the shining mahogany. I moved the chessboard, problem and all.

I went back to the kitchen. ‘I'm sorry I was so bloody.'

‘OK.' He smiled, not at me, sweeping the chopped onion into a red simmering mess in a saucepan.

That at least was all right.

I sat down on the chair I usually occupied while Clifford was cooking. I was glad to see him. I needed to talk to him.

‘Can I have a drink?'

‘It sounds as if you've had one.'

I helped myself.

‘I saw Gunnar this afternoon.'

Clifford was interested and turned to look at me though he did not arrest his cooking operations. ‘Really? In the office? Did he pin you to the wall, incoherent with rage?'

‘I don't think he recognized me — we passed on the stairs — I don't think — after all, he doesn't know I'm there.'

‘He does.'

‘
What?
'

‘Freddie told him.'

‘Oh —
Christ
! And you told Freddie. That was bloody thoughtful of you, wasn't it. How do you know Freddie told him?'

‘Freddie, artlessly chattering at a meeting, said he had told Gunnar about you and Gunnar had said how nice. Come, don't look like that!'

‘Oh — Have you seen him?'

‘Not yet, as it happens, but I expect I shall soon. He's going to be on the spot as from tomorrow.'

‘
Tomorrow?
I thought it was going to be weeks.'

‘Well, it isn't.'

‘I'm leaving the office, of course.'

‘Why “of course”?' said Clifford, wiping his hands on some ornate kitchen paper and pouring out some sherry for himself.

‘Well, obviously. I can't stay around in that place meeting him on stairs and in doorways. I couldn't stand it, and I don't see why he should have to either. Consideration for him dictates my instant departure. Surely you can see that.'

‘I'm not so sure. I don't think you should run away.'

‘Run is exactly what I'm going to do,
run.
'

‘I think you should stay at the office and sit it out and see what happens.'

‘To amuse you?'

‘Well, it
would
amuse me, but not just for that, for your own sake.'

‘For
my
sake?'

‘And for his.'

‘You're mad,' I said. ‘He must want to vomit at the idea that I'm in the building. Oh Christ in heaven, I wish you hadn't told bloody Freddie. If Gunnar didn't
know
it would somehow be so much easier, I could simply slip away and — '

‘I agree with you, as it happens. And I admit it was inconvenient of me to tell the Impiatts, though you understand why I did it. But it does, I think, make a difference that he knows. I think it means that you must stay.'

‘I don't see that!'

‘If Gunnar had never known you were there or had any special cue for thinking about you, OK. But now that your continued existence has been brought to his attention it would be rather ill-mannered of you to vanish at once.'

‘Ill-mannered?'

‘Yes. If you whisk away after this little reminder, this little shock, you may be minimizing your own distress, but you will be increasing his. And, if I may say so, I think you are in duty bound to sacrifice your interests to his.'

‘What on earth are you talking about?'

‘He is a bogyman to you. And no doubt, you are a bogyman to him. You said yourself that he would want to vomit simply at the idea that you were in the building. If you just vanish you produce the nausea without any cure.'

‘There is no cure.'

‘There may be no
cure,
but I think it might help him if he were just to see you a bit around the place and get used to seeing you and find that the world doesn't end after all. He might also like to reflect upon the difference between his station in life and yours, it could cheer him up a bit.'

‘This is macabre. It wouldn't cheer me up.'

‘But the point is, isn't it, that you must sacrifice yourself. It's a tiny little service which you can perform for him, and I think that you ought to perform it, regardless of your own feelings.'

‘This is an insane argument.'

‘It's a pretty insane situation and, as you say, for the outsider, interesting. What will happen? How will you both behave? The unexciting answer is, I'm afraid, perfectly. Rut this in itself will do a tiny bit of good in the world.'

‘You seem very concerned for his welfare.'

‘No. I'm just being impartial. As you know I never particularly liked Gunnar in the old days. I was told he had charm, I could never see it. He just seemed to me pretentious and conceited. No, no, I'm offering you what I think is a sound moral argument. I'm not suggesting you should try to talk to each other! Of course that would be impossible. But if you can nod affably on the stairs this may be a good thing for him and even possibly for you.'

‘Affably! We will hardly be feeling affable!'

‘Of course not. That's not the point. You must just be there, undergo him, let him pass you by. I don't suggest that you stay on forever. But I think you should stay on for six months.'

‘No,' I said. ‘No.' I could see the force of Clifford's argument all the same, and I hated it. Ought I to ‘expose myself' to Gunnar as to a menacing ray? Ought I to stay on to be a spectacle to him, to accept at close quarters, his silent hatred and contempt; and then at last creep away and hide? There was something hideous and frightening about this. But could it be that I ought to do it, could it be that Clifford was right and that this was a sort of small service which I could render to Gunnar, something which I could as it were, after all, give him? And even if it were so, was I prepared to give him anything? Did I not hate him for the damage which I had done him? He had wrecked my life and Crystal's.