A Word Child (33 page)

‘Neither have I,' I said. ‘I have never stopped feeling guilty and — ' My words lacked conviction. What place could there be in this conversation run by Gunnar for any sort of asking of pardon?

‘I don't think I want to know about your feelings,' said Gunnar. He said it judiciously, not vindictively. ‘I have been entirely selfish in demanding this conversation. And it is not without its risks.'

‘You mean we might fight?'

‘No, no, of course not. I mean, where old awful things in one's mind are concerned, a mistake or an accident could have serious consequences.'

‘A mistake or an accident?'

‘Yes. All our words are so loaded. You could say something which I could never forget.'

‘I must be careful what I say then, mustn't I,' I said. He was cool, I was becoming cold. I thought, he has grown old after all, he has become a pompous ass. He has taken this risk, but he will not allow anything violent or truthful to emerge. And I cannot tell the truth, I have almost trained myself not to. And we are not in the presence of anything which can compel truth from us. What would it be like anyway, that explosion? The room would clatter and break after all.

‘Quite,' said Gunnar. He was silent for a moment. We had both put our glasses down on the table without drinking.

‘But can you not formulate what you want? Do you want actually to discuss the past?'

Gunnar was silent again for a bit. Then he said, ‘No. I don't think so. I used to think I wanted to. Do people who have been in concentration camps together reminisce? I doubt it. I have spent years in deep analysis. I have talked about it all so much — '

The idea of Gunnar describing all
that
to some enigmatic man in Hampstead or New York made me feel sick. I said impatiently, ‘What do you want then?'

‘I thought I wanted to talk about Anne,' said Gunnar.

The name quivered in the room, seeming to make it tremble and ring.

‘But you don't want to?' Did I? I desperately wanted something, which I could now as if for the first time glimpse and which could only be got here, and which I was not going to be allowed to receive.

‘Possibly it is enough simply to utter her name in your presence.'

‘You have done so,' I said. ‘What else do you want to do in my presence?'

‘It is as if,' said Gunnar, ignoring my remark, gazing at the fire, ‘I wanted at last to get rid of Anne. That may seem a terrible way to put it. But — you see — it isn't the real Anne of course. The real Anne is dead.'

There was a silence in which I could hear my own heavy breathing, as if I were gasping for air, and his too.

‘She is dead,' said Gunnar, picking it up as if it were a line in poetry, sighing, ‘and gone from us and we must respect her — absolute — absence.
She
is out of this. What remains is a sort of a — foul ghost. I have felt this especially — because it has been so — awfully unfair to — to people one lives with now.'

I was silent, spellbound. I wanted now to hear where his eloquence would lead him.

‘Her ghost,' he said slowly, ‘not her at all, but something else, made up out of the vile stuff, the rags and tatters of my mind, and sopping up somehow, blackened and stained by, all that awful hatred and passion for revenge — '

‘Hatred of me?'

‘Yes. I somehow — made her carry it. Do you understand?'

I was not sure. But I felt the hatred and it paralysed me.

He went on, ‘If she had been killed in an aeroplane crash or had died of cancer, I would have been shattered with grief but I would have recovered. But since she died — as she did die — I have never been able to divide — in my soul — that grief from a sort of living burning hatred and a — wickedness which is so deep — it is the deepest thing of all — '

Is there nothing deeper than wickedness then, I wondered. But I did not say this because it was dawning on me, and with a terrible final sense of despair, that really Gunnar did not want me to talk at all. As he had said at the start, he did not want to know about my feelings. I had said to myself, I had said, oh God, to Kitty, that I was to be merely an instrument. This was surely the perfection of penance, of restitution, to work mechanically for the wronged one, to work in silence as on a treadmill, asking nothing for oneself. But I had never, even when I spoke of it, pictured an operation which, for me, was to be so totally profitless.

‘How will talking to me help this?' I said coldly, stupidly, playing my role.

‘It is no good talking to an analyst,' said Gunnar as if he had not heard me. ‘In fact I have never said
this
to an analyst. I have only just really been able to formulate it since you came into the room. I have got to get rid of her, not of
her,
but of this filthy ghost thing — and let her alone and let her be alone as the dead should be — at last — and doing that means — getting rid of
you.
'

It sounded, in that faintly sighed-through silence, like the announcement of intention to commit murder, and it occurred to me with a strange poignancy that if Gunnar were now to try to kill me I should not resist. There would be no raging and wrestling to and fro, only the blood upon the Aubusson carpet. I said coldly, almost nastily, ‘Well, I'm quite ready to be got rid of. At your service. How do we set about it?'

‘We are doing it,' said Gunnar. ‘You see, I imagined you as — as if you were a sort of — dreadful being — a sort of vile cruel malevolent — killer.' His voice trembled.

‘I suppose I was.'

‘No. That's the point. You were just a — just a — '

‘Poor fish, victim of chance, muddler, little lecherous adulterer — '

‘Well — '

‘And now you can
see
it.'

‘And now I can see it. And that brings with it — a sort of pity for
her
— which enables me — which may enable me — to leave her alone. You see — what was so awful was that I blamed her too.'

This was a simple enough idea but as he said it I realized that though I had perhaps conceived it I had never felt it. Poor Anne, oh poor Anne. If only I could utter those words. But the cure was not for me, nothing here was for me. I had simply to be quiet and to run the hazard of the ‘mistakes and accidents', those things which might be said and never forgotten. I was there to be exhibited, to be despised, to be seen at last, not as a murderous villain, but as a small mean semi-conscious malignancy, a cog in the majestic wheel of chance.

‘It was a muddle,' I said. ‘There was — an accident.'

‘Yes,' said Gunnar softly, still not looking at me, ‘if I could only see — and feel — that.'

‘Do you want me to — ?'

‘Of course not.'

There was a short silence, he staring at the fire, moving his head gently to and fro, his blue eyes vague, as if some gentleness were coming to be in them. But not for me. I felt exasperation, misery, fear, the trembling in the lower jaw, coldness.

Gunnar picked up his glass and gulped a little. He said, ‘It is remarkable.'

‘What is?'

‘The effect of saying certain things, of simply thinking certain things, thinking them perhaps for the first time, in your presence. It's a remarkable — catalyst.'

‘Hadn't you better hire me on a permanent basis to sit in the corner of the room like a dog? Your guests wouldn't mind, would they?'

‘It's better than — my God — all those years of analysis, all those conceited analysts, how I hated them, all those tens of thousands of dollars — One of them said this actually.'

‘That you should see me?'

‘Yes. “Why don't you just go and have a look at the guy?” he said.'

‘You've looked. Has it done the trick? A little early to tell.'

‘It is early to tell,' said Gunnar, and his eyes were very dreamy now. ‘But I think — that — whatever can be done is done — and I won't be waiting for it any more. And after all when it comes it's something very simple, a dialectical change, the end of a nightmare, the breaking of something which can now naturally fragment away.'

‘I don't quite understand,' I said, ‘but I hope you're right. How do we continue the treatment?'

‘Oh, there will be no need for me to trouble you again,' said Gunnar.

‘I know you said “once” but I — It now seems to melt's certainly no trouble to me — I'd be very glad to turn up — '

‘No, no,' said Gunnar. ‘It's much better left as it is. Another meeting would weaken it — '

‘And of course there are the risks!'

‘Yes. I am sorry to be so enigmatic and self-centred but I have been forced to live very much inside my own mind.' He hesitated. ‘Of course I am being perfectly selfish — '

Was this a cue? I could not think, I could not feel, and the moment passed.

Gunnar was being objective again. ‘This much I suppose I learnt from analysis, to pull emotion, feeling, what lies deeper and more awfully close to the live heart, out into the open a bit more; to apprehend connections and let terrible things own their feelings without disguise. To let the dog see the rabbit, as we used to say, and let the rabbit also see the dog. Only this is awfully hard to do. This is why the analyst helps, and why — '

‘I have helped.'

‘You have helped, just by standing here like a — '

‘Deaf and dumb child or a bedpost or — '

‘Yes, yes. I am most grateful. Something has certainly changed, and such changes are usually irreversible. One's deep mind is indifferent to time. You are here, you will be here, the efficacy will not fade — '

‘Except that I will not be here.'

‘You will not be here. After all, that would be impossible, wouldn't it?'

‘Impossible.'

‘I mean — '

‘Naturally I am going to resign from the office,' I said. ‘There is no need for you to run the risk of meeting me on the stairs. Since I shall be tunelessly available in your mind as a curative agency, it would be a pity, would it not, if the real me were to intrude.'

Gunnar smiled at the fire. ‘I am glad,' he said, ‘that you have turned out to be this sort of person. It has made this exercise of pure egoism on my part so much easier.'

‘What sort of person have I turned out to be?'

‘I feared — oh — emotions — appeals, sentiment, something — mushy. I feared
you
might need help.'

‘How do you know I don't since, as you say yourself, you are unwilling to investigate my feelings?'

‘Well, one has one's impression. Of course you have resented being used. Your annoyance may even have been valuable.'

‘Annoyance?'

‘I mean, it has kept the temperature down. That is what I needed. I am very grateful. There was something else I thought of asking you, but I think after all — I needn't. Thank you. Thank you.'

‘Success of exhibit A.'

‘And I do appreciate what you say about leaving the office. Of course I expected you to go. May I offer you my best wishes for your next employment?'

‘Thank you.'

‘And now — I believe you said you came without a coat?'

I moved towards the door. As I came out the smell of Kitty's perfume seemed exceptionally strong. I walked down the stairs with Gunnar's heavy tread behind me. I reached the front door and opened it. The cold air reached in and grabbed me.

‘Well, that's all, is it? I'm glad it was satisfactory.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘I think we did well, yes, as well as possible in the circumstances.'

‘I shall be leaving the office at once.'

‘Good. Thank you. Good-bye then.'

‘Good-bye.'

Neither of us moved to shake hands. I marched out and the door was promptly shut behind me.

I walked on into the embankment garden, then turned to look back at the house. Did I imagine it or was there a face looking out from a darkened window on the second floor? I walked on and crossed the road to the river. The tide was in, high against the wall, smelling cold and faintly rotten, carrying its jostling debris almost to within reach of my hand. The wind was blowing in sharp cutting gusts. I began to walk along in an eastward direction, then turned north towards the King's Road.

Gunnar had had his revenge after all. This was better, far better than physical assault, better than smashing my face in or breaking my ribs. I felt I had suffered a sort of spiritual evisceration. I had had the ass's head of a mean and petty cynicism placed upon me and I had worn it. I closed my eyes and ground my teeth at the thought of the things I had said and the tone I had used. And how I would remember and remember! Gunnar had claimed to have me tunelessly available: and I too had with me forever this image of the thing that I had seemed, that I had been. I had accepted Gunnar's implied assumption that I did not care deeply, that I had become a little smart hard sarcastic resentful man. Did he believe this of me? Probably, and this was the ruthless logic of the matter which I must endure, it was not really necessary to Gunnar to form any view of my state of mind. If he was prepared to make the after all considerable concession of admitting that I could help him, he had surely the right to use me as he pleased. He need not trouble himself to make out what I thought. He may even have felt that it would be indelicate to do so. It had suited him, in the light of his paramount need, to regard me as a cynic, and I had done everything I could to confirm his view. And he had said good-bye. They had all said good-bye now, Biscuit, Gunnar, Kitty. The whole extraordinary business was over. And I was back where I belonged, where my childhood had condemned me to be, alone, out in the cold without a coat.

MONDAY

‘W
HAT's the matter with Hilary?' Edith Witcher asked Reggie Farbottom.

‘He's moping about his girl.'

‘What's she done, got pregnant?'

‘No, got slung out of the panto.'

‘Poor old Hilo, after all that intriguing. No wonder he looks as if he was going to be sick.'

‘He does look green, doesn't he.'

‘Perhaps he's got the 'flu as well.'

‘Shall we try and communicate with him?'

‘It's like sending a space probe to Mars trying to communicate with Hilary.'

‘Never mind, let's try. Hilary!'

‘Hilar
ee
! Yoo-hoo! Hilo!'

‘Yes?' I was at my desk and they had been talking behind my back. It was a cold yellow morning, now Monday, Big Ben visible.

‘Hilary, are you receiving us?'

‘Yes.'

‘Are you all right? Have you got the 'flu?'

‘Yes. No.'

‘What does he mean, yes, no?'

‘Yes, I'm all right. No, I have not got the 'flu.'

‘Hilary — '

‘Yes?'

‘What are you writing there? I bet it's not office work.'

‘It's a letter to his girl.'

‘As a matter of fact, it's my letter of resignation.'

‘Of course, he couldn't possibly stay on after his girl had been slung out of the panto, he's got some dignity!'

‘We are in luck, this is one of Hilary's witty days.'

I scaled up my letter of resignation and sent it off by Skinker, who also asked me, but more kindly, if I was feeling all right. Skinker had recovered from his 'flu, and told me all about it, but Arthur was apparently now down with it. This was good news since I could do without seeing Arthur at present and also he would not be expecting me tomorrow since he knew how I felt about virus infections. I had now one month in which to find another job. It would not be easy.

I felt desperately tired and did not even try to work. I had come back to the flat about midnight. I did not inquire at what time Tommy had given up waiting for me. I left the office at about twelve and telephoned Crystal from a call box near Scotland Yard. I very rarely telephoned her although I knew that she would be made glad by hearing my voice, and that she was sitting there at home sewing, lonely and thinking about me.

‘Hello. It's me.'

‘Oh — good — darling.'

‘What are you doing?'

‘Sewing.'

‘What are you sewing? Is it the cocktail dress for the new lady?'

‘No, I've finished that.'

‘Is it nice?'

‘Smashing.'

‘What are you sewing?'

‘I'm altering a child's coat for the woman next door.'

‘Oh. Crystal — '

‘Yes?'

‘You're not being unhappy about that — what you said to me last time?'

Silence. Crystal's tears gathering. ‘No.'

‘Don't be. I'm sorry I was awful. I'm sorry I didn't stay and eat the fish cakes. Were they nice?'

‘I didn't eat them then. I ate them cold for Sunday lunch. They were nice.'

‘I'm glad. Crystal — '

‘Yes?'

‘Don't be sad, I couldn't bear it if you were sad. It doesn't matter, nothing in the past matters. I mean, of course it matters, but I should be so wretched if you — '

‘I'm all right. Don't worry about me, darling, I'm perfectly all right. Really. Really and truly.'

‘That's my good girl.'

Silence.

‘Crystal, could I come to supper on Wednesday evening?'

‘Yes — yes, of course — '

‘Good, usual time. See you then.'

She would never ask to see me. She would wait, always, she would wait.

I ate my lunch at the Sherlock Holmes, or rather I drank my lunch accompanied by a few potato crisps. I returned to the office about half past two. Edith was not there. I could hear Reggie's voice in the Registry, upraised in some passage of sexual badinage.

I went to my desk and glanced mechanically at my in tray. A letter from Gunnar was lying on the top.

I seized it and pulled it open, leaning forward over the desk and gasping.

There is one other thing I want to ask you and then I shall cease to trouble you. It will take two minutes only. Perhaps you will step down to my room some time this afternoon.
G.J.

I sat down and for about ten minutes concentrated on breathing normally. Then I got up and began to walk down the stairs towards the first floor. I wished heartily that I had not drunk so much at lunch, but I could not possibly have waited, I had to see Gunnar at once. I passed Clifford Larr on the stairs. We ignored each other.

As I reached Gunnar's door I had another crisis of breathing. I stood for a moment, then fearing to be observed I knocked, heard the murmur within, and entered.

He was alone, sitting as before in the semi-dark, behind the big desk with the green-shaded lamp. His shoulders were hunched up in a defensive attitude and I could see his eyes anxiously peering. He looked so vulnerable that for a moment I felt as if last night had been wiped out and we were to have, after all, another chance. However he spoke very coldly, and with the same slightly mocking, slightly contemptuous and absolutely constraining politeness.

‘I am sorry to trouble you again, it will not take much of your time. I mentioned yesterday that there was one other relevant thing into which perhaps I need not go. But I find it is necessary to do so after all if I am, from my own point of view, which is all I know or wish to know anything about, to clear this matter up.'

Standing in front of him, also in darkness, I watched his large formidably clean right hand, moving nervously on the desk in the circle of light, shifting papers and trailing about. ‘Yes?'

‘This may seem a curious request, but — I wonder if I could just once, I repeat just once, and just briefly, visit your sister?'

This was completely unexpected. I felt a confused frightful emotion and total uncertainty about how to answer. Was Gunnar assuming that I knew, or that I did not know, about what had happened, if it had happened? I said, ‘Why?'

‘I want to see her. Not at my house. Preferably at her flat or wherever she lives.'

‘Just like you wanted to see me?'

‘No,' said Gunnar, ‘not just like that.'

‘What makes you think she isn't married and living in New Zealand?'

‘I found her name in the London telephone book.'

I was silent for a moment or two. He was examining his hands. I said, ‘I'll ask her.'

‘Will you? That's good of you. And let me know by letter one way or the other, either in the office or at Cheyne Walk. I am free on Wednesday evening, or next Monday.'

‘I'll let you know.'

‘Thank you.'

The words were dismissive. I stood a moment, then, as he still did not look at me, I turned on my heel to go. I stopped at the door. ‘By the way, I have sent in my letter of resignation.'

‘That's good. It remains for me to repeat my good wishes and say good-bye again.'

‘Good-bye.' I went out.

I hurried straight on downstairs and out of the office, once more coatless. The east wind was cutting through the yellowish murk. I reached a brightly lit telephone box.

‘Crystal. Hello. It's me again. It seems to be telephone day.'

‘Hello, my dear.'

‘Crystal, listen. I've seen Gunnar.'

Silence.

‘Listen, he wants to see you.'

Silence.

‘He says briefly and just once. Shall I tell him to go to hell?'

‘Did you talk about — ?'

‘No, of course not. He didn't say anything and neither did I. But, Crystal, darling, you don't have to see him. I felt I had to tell you, it would have been wrong not to, but really there's no point, is there, and it would upset you — '

‘Does
she
know?'

‘No, she doesn't know.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes. She said — Never mind, I'm sure. And Gunnar doesn't want you to come to his house, he'd come to you.'

‘He'd come
here
?'

‘Yes, why not, he's not God. But really I think — '

‘Yes, I'll see him.'

‘Crystal, you don't have to — '

‘I want to. When will he come?'

‘Oh Christ. He said would Wednesday evening — or next Monday — '

‘Tell him Wednesday.'

‘But you're seeing me on Wednesday.'

‘I must see him, darling — and I couldn't wait till Monday — I'd like to see him — the earliest he can come — '

‘Oh, all right. I hope you know what you're doing. I'll say between seven and eight on Wednesday.'

I rang off and stood rigid and paralysed in the lighted box until an impatient person waiting outside began to tap on the window. Ought I to have told her?

I went slowly back to the office. There was an official letter accepting my resignation with regret and pointing out that since I was under fifty I would forfeit my pension rights. I wrote a note to Gunnar giving Crystal's address and saying she would see him on Wednesday between seven and eight. Reggie and Edith were playing battleships. Out of sheer kindness of heart they asked me if I would like to play. I must have been looking terrible.

At five o'clock I left the building. The cold yellow day, which had never had any real daylight in it, was thickening into a misty fog. Great waves of gauzy yellow obscurity were rolling in from the river. I was beginning to walk along with the usual mob in the direction of Westminster station when I became aware that I was being followed by Biscuit. When I reached Parliament Square corner, instead of turning towards the station I crossed the traffic onto the big island in the middle of the square where the statues are. I walked along, away from Churchill, and sat down on a seat at the far end, opposite Big Ben, underneath the statue of Dizzy (I always loved Dizzy because of Mr Osmand). For a moment I thought that this manoeuvre might have lost me Biscuit, but she appeared, padding through the gloom, and sat down beside me. The traffic encircled us, the fog hid us, nobody was near. Big Ben struck the quarter hour. I gave a groan and put my arms around Biscuit and laid my head on her shoulder, nuzzling beneath the dropped hood of her duffle coat, feeling with my cheek through the rough material the frail prominence of her collar bone.

‘Biscuit, I'm done for, I can't stand it any longer, they're killing me.'

‘No, no — '

‘I've even lost my job. Look, Biscuit, how much do you really know about this business?'

‘Nothing. How can I, I am a servant. But won't you tell me? Perhaps I could help you.'

‘I'm a servant too. Maybe I could get a job as a butler. Perhaps Lady Kitty would take me on.'

‘Please tell me, Hilary.'

‘I bet you know all about it, you secretive oriental girl. Why are you here anyway? I thought we'd said good-bye.'

‘I've brought you a letter.'

‘Oh no!'

‘Here.' She brought the envelope out of her pocket and thrust it into my hand. Kitty's writing.

‘Look, Biscuit, you stay here, will you? I'll just take a turn and read this.'

I left her and walked away along the path. Big Ben's bright hazy face said five-twenty. I stopped beside some gloomy bushes with seemingly black leaves which stirred a little in the wind, dripping water. A lamp across the garden gave a little light. I opened Kitty's letter.

That meeting you had with Gunnar was no good at all, it was worse than useless. I listened at the door, I hope you don't mind. It has not helped him at all, he is absolutely wild as if he might go mad. You must see him again, you simply must, and you must not let him run the conversation, you must somehow break him down. I am very upset. I will explain. Please come to Cheyne Walk at six on Thursday. Gunnar will be elsewhere. Do nothing until you have seen me.

K.J.

I put the letter away and raised my face to Big Ben, and Big Ben shone upon it. London, which had been an inert listless noisy mass of senseless dark misery about me was suddenly taut, humming, clarified. There was a road again from me to Kitty. She needed me. I would see her again. I would see Gunnar again. All would yet be well.

I walked slowly back to where Biscuit was sitting, legs outstretched, hands in pockets, gazing expressionlessly at the moving mass of passing cars. She turned and looked at me as I sat down. She had put her hood up again. ‘You are pleased with your letter.'

‘Yes.'

‘You look quite different.'

‘Yes. Tell her — just — that I will come.'

She began to get up but I pulled her back, and thrust the hood away from her face. In the light of the distant lamp, in the light of Big Ben I saw her pale little face looking up, all wet and glistening with the damp fog. And now suddenly she looked so tired, almost old, a little old woman from the East. I put my arms round her and laid my lips against her cold mouth. Then the next moment she was struggling fiercely in my grasp like a wild animal. Her feet slithered on the wet pavement, she got up, thrusting me away, then as I began to rise and she turned to go she hit me hard across the face. Something struck my coat and fell to the ground at my feet. Then Biscuit was gone.

I sat down again. The blow, though perfectly deliberate, had been mainly the swinging impact of damp duffle coat sleeve, rather resembling the proverbial slap in the face with a wet fish. I began to peer at the ground to see what it was that had fallen. There was nothing there but a stone. I picked it up. A blackish smooth elliptical stone. I stared at it. It was the stone which I had given to Biscuit in the Leningrad garden, years and years ago, on the first occasion when we met. I put it in my pocket. I pondered. I found myself, for some reason or other, thinking about Tommy. There was no doubt that I was a failure. I had been cruel to Tommy. I had lost my job. Biscuit had slapped me. Possibly, to leave aside more serious failings, I was a cad. But at six o'clock on Thursday Kitty would be waiting for me at Cheyne Walk. I got up and made my way slowly to the station and took the train to Sloane Square and sat in the bar. After a whisky and ginger ale peace descended. I had an occupation: counting the hours till Thursday evening. I felt almost happy.