Authors: Paul Ableman
“I had to go for my appointment,” I protest. “You sent me off yourself.”
She does not find an answer to this at once and goes on ladling soup into a dish.
“I don’t know where you’ve been,” she then resumes, not very convincingly. “We do our best for you.”
“I know that, Susan,” I affirm, rather troubled by the
implied
reproach.
“Anyway,” she goes on, a little more gently, “I’ve laid out some shadow—”
She breaks off, listens and then quickly hustles me out of the kitchen, saying:
“There. That’s Arthur. You’d better get up to bed quickly. We don’t want him to find out.”
I allow her to propel me towards the stairs and, when she has ceased urging me physically, I continue on up them by myself, but I am nevertheless puzzled by her manner. Surely, it was by Arthur, or in collaboration with Arthur, that these therapeutic sessions were initiated? I am rather too tired,
however,
to brood long about it, and, later, I merely lie and watch the night and try not to listen to Arthur and Susan wrangling below. As the night dies, at its last thrust, when the special bells tinkle throughout the system, Maria strays strangely into my room. She stands wanly by the bed-post, talking of a patient and termless martyrdom. Then, having asked rhetorically what I derive from the moon: “I can’t stay,” she informs me, “in this arcade. You live in the shadow of the world-spider.”
And she walks out through the deepening purple shadow of the world-spider in which I lie for many speculations. Soon, Silas and the laughing sisters rise in the furthest heavens and disport themselves rudely and rurally. Every so often Silas jumps up from his starry hay-stack and strides a little way towards an orator who is declaiming nearby, oblivious of the rustic sport. Silas stands with one foot a little advanced, fists clenched and a frown of hostile incomprehension on his face and watches the orator. Then Lola raises herself, calls, and Silas hurries eagerly back to the sisters. For ages this pastoral comedy has been proceeding in the furthest heavens, and who shall number the earthly lovers that have finally, in orchards and palm groves, on beaches and lawns and in cozy bedrooms, lain quietly on their backs and pointed to Silas and the sisters
playing their eternal parts?
The stars fade, pulled back on strings by the impresario, and grey wash is splashed on the sky. The city quivers like a rising camel and transmits its subjects furiously through channels. But in our suburban bower all is yet calm.
“I will keep this calm,” I promise myself strenuously. “This morning, I will climb in sequence.”
And so I lie calmly, watching the light being thinned as great casks of transparency are emptied into the outer air. Soon, Arthur comes in.
“Poor old chap,” he commiserates when I have confided that I hardly slept a wink. “You mustn’t pay any attention to Susan, you know. I understand she–er–gave you a false impression.”
“I thought it was a false impression,” I echo gladly. “I couldn’t remember it very clearly, but I was sure you were privy to the affair.”
“Yes, of course,” confirms Arthur briefly. “As a matter of fact it was my idea—at least—I certainly enthused over it. Now then, old son, how are these therapeutic sessions going? Are they going well?”
“Not too badly, Arthur,” I admit. “The Commissioner is a very sound adviser, and I’ve had my social circle immeasurably extended.”
“Met all sorts of people, eh?” he chuckles. “Well, I’m glad you’re moving about a bit. Now then, I thought this morning we might review things a bit, see how we stood, where we stand and so forth. Have a chat. Straighten things out. Might we not?”
Arthur’s words gladden me in spite of the fact that I sense that he is not being candid, that he has one or possibly dozens of ulterior motives for his suggestion. In spite of this
perception,
then, I sit up gladly, but, as I do so, I lose the sense that my gladness is in any way connected with Arthur and feel an elusive assurance that it stems from the absence or temporary
eclipse of certain knowledge. But almost at once I see that my gladness is at least compounded with genuine exhilaration at the lovely morning, showering our bricks with bounty once more. And then a further constituent reveals itself as
appreciative
memory of my new-found friends, including the voluptuous Miss Carpet and the estimable and potent Gore.
“What are you getting at, Arthur?” I inquire gaily, but he frowns, unable to tolerate the piercing of his petty hypocrisy. A moment later, however, he surprises me, as I find he is always capable of doing, by smiling a little guiltily and
admitting:
“There’s no deceiving you, old son. I should have known that. All right, let’s be candid.”
Arthur now reviews the situation as he had originally
intended
to do. Downstairs, Maria and Susan can be heard
quarreling
as they prepare his breakfast and boil my egg.
Occasionally
they can also be heard kicking at a loose bit of carpet as they hush each other to listen for his descent. Doubtless they realize that there is something distinctive about the morning, both from the unusual length of time that Arthur is taking and also from some domestic tribulation, possibly connected with a spout. So poignant is the impression they make on this
particular
morning that Arthur occasionally responds to it even while weaving the events of the last few periods into a narrative. This narrative is not very clear and every time Arthur responds to the sounds of voices or motion from below, and his reponse may be either an impatient gesture or comment or an unconscious modification or lapse of memory, it becomes still less so.
“Listen to them,” he remarks at one point, for a moment totally diverted from his narrative. “Listen to those special sounds. They’re working with liquids this morning.”
“That’s true, Arthur,” I agree, but I ask him to resume the narrative so that I can examine it for discrepancies.
“Well, it goes on about recent and relatively recent events,” he continues. “You know most of it, the sort of things. We’ve tried different things and now we’re trying this. I admit, I wasn’t always as patient and tolerant as I might have been, but there are things to be said in my defense. Still, I haven’t set out to defend myself. As a matter of fact, I came in to ask you about the Commissioner.”
“The Commissioner?” I ask, not understanding at first why he should be interested in this personage.
“Yes, I thought he might be able to help me.”
Arthur explains in what way the Commissioner might be able to help him and, later that morning, when I keep my appointment with the Commissioner, I raise the matter.
“You feel that you owe him something?” asks the
Commissioner
, his mild, intelligent face set in an expression of
attentive
gravity.
“I didn’t say that,” I rejoin quickly. “Perhaps you could think of me as cable or conduit, utterly neutral, incapable of assigning values to what I transmit.”
“I’m afraid we don’t work like that,” declines the Commissioner.
“Well perhaps you could work like that for once,” a voice, loud in unexpected support of my petition, unexpectedly
intervenes
, “or change your ways.”
“My rebel nephew,” murmurs the Commissioner, turning towards the lofty doors, guarded by men, through which Gore has just impetuously entered. “Are you concerned in this
matter
, nephew?” he asks Gore.
Before we have a chance to examine and discuss the matter in any real detail, however, a woman brings in the newly
prescribed
milk which is designed to reduce fatigue in those
working
under the immense pressure of events.
“I’ve only brought one glass,” she specifies.
The Commissioner looks with composed inquiry from Gore to myself.
“I don’t think,” he begins, “my fiery nephew—”
“Wants any milk?” Gore rudely interrupts. “Well, you’re both right and wrong, Uncle. Right in thinking he doesn’t want any milk and wrong in thinking he doesn’t want any milk.”
At this Gore turns and moves glumly to the window from which he watches various vessels and bulks lumbering in the vicinity. He turns back long enough to dismiss the milk with a restless or contemptuous gesture but the Commissioner,
possibly
rather too benign, or merely timid and experienced to fight Gore with his own weapons, is making undignified signals meant to instruct the woman to get more milk. Suddenly,
however
, a more resolute expression comes over his face and he says clearly and authoritatively:
“I think this milk is very silly. Coffee would be better. Get us some black coffee and instruct anyone you see to bring some dossiers.”
The woman grumbles resentfully, and it is plain that,
possibly
owing to long association with the department, a good deal of latitude is allowed her, but she replaces the Commissioner’s glass on her wooden tray and goes out.
Gore now turns ferociously on his uncle.
“Stop wasting our time,” he snarls. “You’ve always done your best to waste the time of myself and of this colleague and to madden me. You’re responsible for having tried to madden me during the recent war.”
I am interested to see how this eminent public servant will counter this direct assault, particularly in view of all the
circumstances
that make the incident such an exemplary test case. I can not help admiring, and noticing with approval, the way in which the Commissioner counters the sheer expanse of
his chamber by dominating it from a nodal point. Thus, with one foot carelessly raised, the knee bent and the boot resting on some knobs, he sways backwards and forwards carving
invisible
theorems with the sweep of his spectacles.
“That’s very true,” he says, nodding sagely, and at first I feel disappointed, thinking that he is merely trying to disarm Gore by a measure of superficial agreement, but than I see that, while partially correct, this interpretation, in fact, fails to do justice to his strategy and tact. “That’s very true and yet I don’t as yet feel inclined to offer you my desk. Do you take my point?”
“Uncle,” begins Gore, apparently contrite, “I really must beg—”
Wait, wait—” cries the official, “you mentioned a recent war? Did that incommode you?”
At this Gore nods thoughtfully, thinking of the various flues of combat he had to measure. He thinks also of demolition squads, the troops’ parrot and the other stimulating and
invigorating
experiences. He smiles rather wistfully.
“I once got chalk on my uniform,” he muses. “It was during an operation in a chalky climate. Below us were the ruins of a town, or possibly an unscathed town—” but at this, he pauses and appears to be thinking hard. “As a matter of fact, I think it was just a low pit full of old tins and flies. It was one of those summer days when the sky is a thin, transparent white and, in chalky districts, a dry perfume is drawn out of the scrub. For several days a great deal had been happening, but now it was a little quieter with only the distant roar of assault, strange flashes and whipping sounds. I had become separated in some way from some soldiers and forced to take shelter on a sort of chalk bank or declivity and there, huddled close to the side, I waited extectantly for rabbit-pie. When I got back to the sack, I was rebuked for having acquired a power of lurid depiction
but it was put to good use later by the authorities. Almost at once the war ended and everyone kept saying ‘We are nearly certain the war has ended.’ As a matter of fact, I think they were all dazed from the horror and deprivation of the last few years for they showed a lust for some things and a desperate resolution and all the soldiers and—”
While Gore recruits his memory, his uncle thumbs expertly through some dossiers that have finally been produced. One of these, I notice with interest, is a dossier about the war and it also has another claim on my attention as being about a certain “Fugitive—female” whom I can not help associating with a princess I once knew. The Commissioner discerns my interest and, with a tolerant smile, edges the file towards me.
“Of course, I can’t permit you to inspect official records,” he remarks, pointedly looking towards a predecessor “living in a picture” on his wall.
I take up the dossier casually but Gore, clearly having
recovered
his militancy, strikes it from my grasp, shouting:
“Don’t touch it!” He glares at the Commissioner who merely makes the slightest movement of his head, as if to say “Youth? Will it ever succeed to, if not the wisdom, at least the
composure
, the—” But Gore continues angrily, “It’s all
contaminated
, everything you can see. And everything out there.” His gesture is sufficiently sweeping to include about half the
sidereal
universe but I assume that he is referring to three
messengers
idling near a ledge.
What emerges unmistakably is that Gore feels a considerable degree of hostility towards his uncle.
“And all that he stands for,” supplements Gore.
“What do you suppose I stand for?” asks the Commissioner mildly, warding off requests for his presence.
“Nothing really,” admits Gore, making another of his
bewildering
reversals, “but you know how this departmental stuff affects me? It’s merely different generations, conventions and so forth at bottom. If you like I’ll pace, relatively peacefully, about this chasm, possibly venting my feelings sometimes in a glower but nothing more, while you conclude your
arrangements
.”
He does as he has suggested and the Commissioner tells me briefly about the latitude he is forced to display and then bids me a cordial farewell. It is only much later, when, Gore having suggested some refreshments, we have descended into the latest and most fashionable post of refreshment, that I remember Arthur’s affairs. At first, I feel that I should return
immediately
but Gore prevents me.
“No,” he insists. “We’ll dispatch a message.”