Crescendo (21 page)

Before the towel was handed back they were in love. Freeman could see them now, the bright rough stripes in blue and white tumbled between them, Gay's eyes downcast, Peter's wide, filled with surprised yearning. Less than six months later they married, and now their first child was on its way.

Yes, it was difficult to decide whether Peter was boon or bane. It was good that Gay should marry. But Freeman could not rid himself of the uncomfortable certainty that her chosen husband was inferior, to, unworthy of, his daughter. Since Freeman himself had come up from the gutter, naturally—though he laughed at himself for saying this: jealousy and pride were more natural than tolerance, he knew well—naturally he had no objection to Peter's birth, which was modest, to his education, which was elementary, or to his
resources, which were meagre. Peter belonged to the “lower middle class”; he had lived before his marriage in a small house in a respectable little terrace in Hudley with a widowed mother and an elder sister, both in Freeman's opinion persons of stubborn dreariness; he earned his living as some kind of clerk in Ashworth Town Hall—Ashworth, not Hudley, because Peter wished to be elected to the Hudley Town Council and therefore must not be one of its employees lest he make himself ineligible. The Hudley Town Council was to be merely a stepping-stone towards Peter's political career, of course; he meant to enter Parliament and end up as a Cabinet Minister. And he might well do so, thought Freeman, laughing again ruefully; Peter was just the kind of man one met in high, though usually not the highest, political place. He had fixed plans of sociological reform, to which he was able to devote a quick intelligence, a good memory, a considerable fluency and a great capacity for work; he was conscientious in detail, and studied the relevant subjects with care and attention. But there was a soft spot somewhere in his character, a spot of decay, which would spread under the pressure of a political career. Was it conceit? Partly. The lad was young, of course, jejune indeed, with that kind of naïveté which consists in aping sophistication; but he would grow out of that. Self-interest? To be fair: not quite. No: the soft spot—or perhaps it was a hard spot, a calloused spot; at any rate it was diseased tissue, a centre of corruption—consisted in Peter's belief that the end justified the means. (He had said as much in that argument they had had yesterday evening.) Peter believed in the deliberate acquisition of power, he admired the use of “clever” tactics to acquire it, and to further its acquisition thought a certain lack of scruple justifiable—thus, though genuinely dedicated to serving humanity in the mass, he was apt in the process to override individual human rights and think this proper.

At the time of the marriage Freeman and the young couple
had agreed, on Freeman's suggestion, to divide High Royd between them. Freeman had made the proposal partly to keep Gay at his side, partly to keep her from the dreary little house in Hudley, belonging to Peter's mother who disapproved the match, which was all Peter had as yet to offer his wife, and partly because Freeman thought the pooling of household expenses would prove an advantage to Gay and Peter. The gable arrangement made the division of the house easy, and both parties promised to keep scrupulously to their own rooms unless invited, merely eating their meals together in the kitchen. But in practice, of course, among people anxious not to hurt each other's feelings, it did not work out quite like that, and the three saw a good deal of each other.

Fortunately Peter was out all day on weekdays, and often in the evenings too, pursuing his studies or attending political meetings. (Tonight, for instance, the day being Tuesday, he had gone straight from work to the Hudley Technical College, so that Gay and Freeman had eaten their evening meal alone together.) But even so, the frequent contacts with his son-in-law were often a trial to Freeman. On Peter's glib fluency, his resonant voice, his naively expressed “advanced” views, his cocky, sandy crest, Freeman felt he could have managed to look with fatherly tenderness; as for Peter's sensual love for Gay, Freeman knew his Freud and was on his guard against his own sexual jealousy. But the blemish in Peter's character, his cheerful casuistry, angered him. He hated to think that Peter would guide his daughter's life; hated too to think that on Peter and his like would rest the responsibility of steering the world through the problems created by nuclear fission. A fine mess they'd make of it! Moreover, Freeman had been humiliated recently to discover that the advantage of the pooled household expenses was mutual; it seemed his lawyer was right and he was really temporarily hard up.

With characteristic honesty he had at once imparted this discovery to Peter. At this Peter, his fresh face colouring,
exclaimed that it was an honour to be of any—any—for once he stumbled amongst words, rejecting
assistance
and
advantage
and not immediately finding a less patronising substitute.

“It is an honour to live under the same roof with you, sir,” he finished at length emphatically.

“Perhaps he's a good lad at heart, after all,” thought Freeman.

But all the same Freeman did not feel he was as much master of his house as when the conferring of benefits had been all on his side, and he thought he discerned on Peter's part a continually diminishing deference to Freeman's views, an increasing stubbornness in upholding his own.

So it would be idle to deny that since Freeman's retirement, and especially since Gay's marriage, Freeman had experienced some moments of deep and bitter depression. But that was only to be expected. The right behaviour towards such depressions was to use them in one's art, and Freeman was using them thus at present; he was designing—solely for his own pleasure, he told himself, though secretly he believed his designs would be used some day and used with triumph—some magnificent stormy sets for
King Lear
. He cheered up now at the thought of them; whistled in a preoccupied style; jingled the coins in the pocket of his handsome loose brown suit; winked at the cat Simon which passed him in a cool but not unfriendly fashion on its way to the last ray of sunshine on the wall; and regarded once more the vast wild prospect which he had grown to love.

“How fearful,
And dizzy 'tis to cast one's eyes so low!”

The wind was rising; clouds in the west were beginning to obscure the setting sun. Rain might be on its way. It was perhaps appropriate, thought Freeman with a smile, that at this rather chilling moment when the golden glory of the sky was sinking to grey, he should see his landlady laboriously
climbing the curve of Brow Lane, a stout, cross figure. Yes, even at this distance, decided Freeman, who did not like Mrs. Eastwood, she looked cross.

“O fat white woman whom nobody loves,
Why do you walk through the fields in gloves?”

A vulgar, disagreeable, narrow-minded woman. She had twice sprung upon him like a tigress, just because he was a few days late in sending his monthly cheque for the rent, and her behaviour at High Royd, though perhaps meant to be civil, had been as disagreeable as her errand. She had a way of setting her mouth, the heavy lips slightly awry, which gave her a contemptuous, sardonic look, as a prelude to the utterance of some piece of coarse disparagement in the guise of praise. (For example, on seeing Gay in her flowered red skirt, she set her lips and gibed: “A lot of people like those bright clothes nowadays.”) But what had she come for this time? She was out of sight now, but had reached the side of the house no doubt, for Simon with a look of disgust in every limb came leaping round the corner to avoid her. Yes, here she was, exuding Philistinism from every fleshy pore. With a sigh Freeman stepped up the little flagged path to meet her.

2

“Have a drink, Mrs. Eastwood?” said Freeman after she was seated, turning towards his rather “amusing” little bar—a scarlet and white painted trolley.

“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Eastwood in her gibing tone. “A cellarette on a tea trolley; that's a new idea.”

“What can I do for you, then?” said Freeman.

He turned a chair round, seated himself astride and leaned against the back; he also put on the kindliest smile he could manage and tried to feel in charity with all men. It was a
difficult exercise to include Mrs. Eastwood, but for a moment he managed it by considering the tones of her hair and coat as a problem of the palette.

“Well—I've come about the rent, you see,” said Mrs. Eastwood.

“The rent! I paid you three months' rent last week,” exclaimed Freeman, surprised.

“Three months!” exclaimed Mrs. Eastwood, surprised in her turn. “Well, that's not the point,” she added. “You didn't really pay at all, now did you, Mr. Freeman?”

“I don't understand you,” said Freeman stiffly. “I gave you the equivalent of three months' rent at least.”

“I don't want any equivalent,” said Mrs. Eastwood, setting her lips. “I want my money. I've brought that back, what you gave me I mean.”

She fumbled in her shopping bag and drew out a small white-framed painting. It was in fact one of the most famous of Freeman's designs: a superbly dramatic backcloth for a play of northern industrial life, showing mill chimneys soaring black behind mean streets, against a deep blue evening sky. Fiammetta had had it framed because it was such a treasured possession, and Freeman had parted from it with great reluctance. But at the time of Mrs. Eastwood's last call to demand the rent he had really very little money handy, and not much immediate hope of gaining more. (The idea of an appeal to his son-in-law just crossed his mind but was of course at once dismissed: Peter might imagine Freeman was really embarrassed for money; he would tell Gay and she would be distressed.) So, as the local subject of the Northern Night picture would make it particularly acceptable, he took it down from the wall and gave it to his landlady in lieu of rent. He now saw this cherished sketch, unglazed as it was, drawn carelessly, unwrapped, from a shopping bag. Mrs. Eastwood held it out to him.

“I don't really care for it, not really,” she said. “Those ugly
mill chimneys and that. Besides, the blue's not right, you see—it doesn't go with the eiderdown in my bedroom.”

Freeman perforce took the picture from her outstretched hand. He made a great effort, perhaps the greatest in his life, to keep his temper, though the blood beat in his temples.

“Will you have another picture instead? One with the right blue this time?” he said, smiling.

“I'm not bothered,” said Mrs. Eastwood.

Freeman was well aware that in the West Riding nowadays this form of words indicated a blunt refusal. Suddenly and completely he lost his temper; it swirled away on a wild blast of rage. He sprang to his feet.

“Damn your mean ignorant little soul!” he shouted. “You know nothing of art, and what you don't know you despise. It's such people as you who destroy all that's good and beautiful.”

“There's no call for you to shout at me, Mr. Freeman,” said Mrs. Eastwood, her heavy jowls flushing crimson. “I just want what's owing to me, that's all. I want my rent.”

“The picture was worth a year of your rent.”

“That's what
you
say,” returned Mrs. Eastwood coarsely. “I'd rather have the money.”

Freeman began to tremble.

‘
This extract has been removed due to copyright issues
'.

“That's you, Mrs. Eastwood, except that you wouldn't know an angel if you saw one.”

“I know I don't want a twopenny-ha'penny picture when I see one,” cried Mrs. Eastwood. “I want my rent.”

“Very well. You'll lose by it. I'll send you a cheque.”

“I'd rather have the money if you don't mind,” said Mrs. Eastwood smugly. “If you'd money in the bank to pay me with you'd have sent a cheque before.”

Freeman with a violent movement threw down the picture on the settee and flung out of the room. Outside the door, with
angry fingers he plucked out his wallet and counted the notes it contained. They were not enough to satisfy Mrs. Eastwood. Exclaiming with rage, he ran up the stairs to his painting room, and crossing to a chest of drawers which stood there, began to ruffle up their contents—he knew he had a small
cache
of money somewhere. He was well aware that the imperfect old floor would betray every movement of his heavy frame to Mrs. Eastwood below, but would not demean himself by trying to act quietly. Ah, here was the money! He counted it. There was still not quite enough. By raking all the silver out of his pockets Freeman at length made up the exact sum. He descended.

He simply could not bring himself to lay the money in Mrs. Eastwood's hand, so he threw it down on the table beside her. Mrs. Eastwood laid down her bag and counted it carefully. The spectacle of her thick fingers smoothing out the notes and telling the silver coins aroused in Freeman a furious impatience amounting to physical nausea. She finished and put the money carefully away in her bag. She rose.

“Well, thank you, Mr. Freeman,” she said in a tone of satisfaction. “I'm glad we're on a straight edge again. It's always better, isn't it? Of course it'll be May in a couple of weeks and the rent will be due again, but meanwhile we're on a straight edge, aren't we.”

Freeman in silence flung open the door which led into the little garden. Mrs. Eastwood sailed cheerfully through.

“Well, good evening,” she said, triumphant.

“Goodbye, madam,” said Freeman, bowing.

3

Freeman slammed the door behind Mrs, Eastwood and stood there motionless.

For a moment rage seemed to course furiously through his whole body, setting it ablaze. Then the rage sank, succeeded
by a searing humiliation. Everything in his life that made him particularly vulnerable—his mother's lack of love for him in childhood, Freda's rejection, his loss of Fiammetta, Gay's marriage, the failure of his last set of designs, his loneliness, the physical oncoming of old age—everything he had tried to forget or to anaesthetize by courage—had been excoriated by the rough fingers of Mrs. Eastwood; every sensitive spot in his mind had been pricked into quivering pain. As a man he was no longer wanted: he was no longer a husband or a lover, his protective function as father had been superseded by Gay's husband; his physical frame was beginning to decay. As an artist, though not in full activity he had hoped still to maintain himself honourably, but if he was so utterly rejected by the people—by the people of his own county—if what he had regarded as one of his best achievements on their behalf was coarsely laughed at by the West Riding—then it was useless to work any more. Perhaps even his lectures at the Hudley Technical College, it struck him in a scorching flash, had been a failure too; he had not been invited to give a second course. His financial embarrassment was not temporary and superficial, but deep and permanent. He was useless. Despised, rejected, totally unwanted; a bore, a nuisance, a liability; a drag on Gay.