In the Time of Greenbloom (40 page)

“Oxford's very expensive,” he said, “and they're not so well-off as they once were.”

Her little chin stuck out and her lips mouthed a pout of disdain. For the smallest part of a moment he saw her as being Jewish: a tiny wrinkled woman in a shop, bargaining. “If they have not the money they should not incur the expense or the
ris-sk
; a potter does not fire flawed china.”

“No,” he said.

“Horab, too, is difficult; but he is gifted and after this he is going to be
terrible
. If I am to manage him at all I shall need to be alone with him.”

“Because of his mistake?”

“Yes. We shall have to keep up the pretence that this is France all the time until we leave. Horab will drink non-stop until we are out of Ireland; he hates it, he calls it the Island of Taints! It upsets his whole philosophy and he won't be able to write about or even to quote Wittgenstein until we are safely out of it. I am quite sure that at this very moment he will be drinking poteen or something with that little Irish jockey. That is what is delaying him.”

“How on earth will you manage?”

“Oh, I will let him drink just enough to keep him confused, and all the time until we leave I will pretend to act as his interpreter, talking to such people as we meet in
patois
. He will know that I'm not really; but it will save his face,” she paused, “not exactly that, you know; Horab is not afraid of being thought foolish; it
iss
simply that he has to be protected, like all great thinkers, from the unrealities of life; what Wittgenstein calls—”

John got up. “Do tell me,” he said, “who
is
Wittgenstein?”

From her place on the grass she blinked up at him a little abstractedly.

“Wittgenstein is a comparatively young philosopher who was born in
Vy'enna
, educated there and at Charlottenburg and Cambridge. It was money well-spent; he published his first work in 1921, and though it owes something to your Bertrand
Russ-ell
—a ssilly materialist whom Horab despises—it attracted great attention from the logical positivists.”

“I'm afraid I've never heard of them. Couldn't you just tell me what Wittgenstein really believes?”

“Oh!” She stood up stiffly swaying a little as she found her balance. “I don't think anybody really
knows
that; and Wittgenstein would not
want
them to! You see, he is a mystic who believes that mystics can express nothing that can ever really be understood by anybody. He says that his book was intended to draw a limit to the expression of thought; and at the end of it he says ‘
that whereof one cannot speak, one must be silent
'. This excites Horab very much; it implies that by Mathematics and Logic the true meaning of the whole of the New Testament is beyond Man's power either to
express-ss
or to understand.”

“Really?”

“But yes.”

“Do you mean that it isn't true?”

“Not at all. It is neither true nor false, it is simply a mistake, something that could never convince because it concerns things outside the limits of the thoughts which can be expressed.”

“And is that very important?”

“To Horab it is very important, and to millions of others too; because, if Wittgenstein is right, then they are not waiting for something that has already happened. Horab does not like waiting even for things that are
going
to happen; it makes him very angry.”

“Then why does he hate Bertrand Russell if he is a backer of this Wittgenstein man?”

Rachel frowned, the contraction of her eyebrows was as quick as the shuffle a bird gives its wings when it is cold. “Oh John, there is no
time
. Tell me, are you feeling better now?”

“Yes thank you.” He was for a moment a little nervous of her. “I'm sorry to go on about it all, but somehow all this France and Ireland business seems to be connected with Wittgenstein. Everything has happened so strangely since yesterday afternoon. Later on I'll have to try and sort it out and then it may not be possible to ask questions because I suppose I may never see either of you again?”

She turned her back on him and began to walk over to the road. When she spoke it was as though she were speaking to herself. “Horab, you
may
see; I know you will hear of him! but I'm afraid it is true that
we
may never meet again.”

He stayed where he was and called out to her. “You sound very sure!”

“I
am
sure—very soon I shall be leaving England. I am going back to
Vy'enna
. I am going to get married.”

She walked on and leaned her back against the white rail of the racecourse.

“Married?” he called out. “Who to? To Greenbloom?”

From where he stood he saw the quick secrecy of her smile as she answered:

“No. Not to Greenbloom—to a friend of his.”

“But—” he said.

Behind them they heard the braying of a motor horn; they turned simultaneously and faced the group of trees which received the end of the narrow white road. In a few moments a very old Citroen came rolling out of the shadows kicking
up the dust as it bounced along over the flints. When it drew nearer they saw that Greenbloom was driving and that the caretaker was sitting beside him singing happily.

John hurried over to Rachel as the car drew up.

“Ah,
merveilleux
!” said Rachel. “How lovely to ride in a Citroen again! with this we shall soon be in Paris.”

From his place beside Greenbloom the caretaker favoured her with a splintering smile and then burst once more into song:

“
Eau pray de ma blahndie,
Kale Fé Bongh … Fé Bongh
…”

he sang. He stopped suddenly and putting an arm round Greenbloom said “
aise tarte mi leur French. Arme chantan' French sang
.”

Greenbloom ignored him. “We are not going to Paris,” he said thickly. “Get in everyone. We are going to collect petrol in the village and then we are leaving by air.”

“But
mon cher
! It is so beautiful here.” Rachel climbed under the rails and leaned in through the window of the Citroen. “John has not seen anything yet; he has not even seen
Le Tour Eiffel
.”

“He will see it later. Tomorrow he will see the Tower of Beni Hassan in Rabat. I have decided to move on South to the Desert. There is no time to be lost; we have telegrams to dispatch and there is much to be done before we take off.” They got in silently and Greenbloom turned the car. John whispered to Rachel:

“Where is Rabat?”

Greenbloom turned round, “Rabat is in French Morocco,” he said curtly. “No distance at all from Paris. We shall fly South, refuel at Cannes, and cross the Mediterranean this evening.”

He put his foot down on the accelerator and the Citroen swept away with them into the cold shadows underlying the throng of the trees.

No movement but will make its havoc
In the moted air. Have you watched the stir
Of dust behind you on the stair, the hassock
Yield its quota to your prayer
?

 

“What I can' unnerstan',” sang Cledwyn Jones in his Rhondda English, “iz why the old man iz censorin' all the letters this past faëw weeks. Humphrey takes them up to his study before breakfast an'
he
brings them down and hands them out
purs'nally
; he never ewsed to do it, well what for's he doin' it now?”

Across the table Stuart winked at John. “It's a mystery, ‘Cardiff' old boy! he's probably got on to your police record in South Wales; agree, Bowden?”

“Yes,” said John, remembering his new name just in time. If only Stuart weren't so invincibly ‘Haileybury' with his confounded surnames. Across the top of his coffee cup Cledwyn's little Welsh face was watching him closely.

“Well I think you may be right there, Jimmy, but I'm bettin' it's not me he's on to. I'll swear it's somethin' to do with John here.”

“Why?” asked John casually, watching the waitress at the far table.

Cledwyn looked cunning and it suited him, “Something Humphrey said, that's why.”

“Oh
Humphrey
!” said Stuart. “Humphrey, the Homo Henchman, what did he say?”

“I ask him what wass the idea an' he squeezed my arm—”

“Big thrill—”

“'Ee squeezed my arm and said, ‘Ask Mr Bowden, sir; Mr Bowden should know'.”

“Horrible hints!” Stuart drawled. “The plot thickens! Mystery at Rooker's Close among Mr Ikey Victor's strictly public-school, strictly arseward—that is to say backward—Young Gentlemen.” He blew out a cheekful of Turkish cigarette smoke. “Trouble with Jones is that he's always
looking for intrigue an' dirty goin's on in the woodshed, isn't he, Bowden?”

“He's Welsh,” said John, trying to look disinterested. He gestured at the waitress, “I wouldn't mind a date with her, would you? Haven't seen that one before, wonder where Flora is.”

“The usual,” said Stuart, “she suffers terrible, poor gal.”

But Jones was not to be deflected; chewing his square fingers, a habit which enraged John, he continued to observe him carefully.

“Beginnin' of term,” he went on, taking advantage of a corner of skin on his thumb, “there wass a policeman in with the ol' man, an' ever since 'e's been censorin' our letters and what Cledwyn wants to know is why. 'E hass no right to do it. He even censors Peter's from the Bank, so there must be something funny goin' on.”

“Rot!” said John. “It's only the Special Constable racket. He likes to keep in with the Police, all Jews do, and with Victor it's part of his English pose like his interest in cricket and the ‘Trench-Fever' nonsense every time he gets a stomach ache.”

“Shake!” said Stuart. “Still, he must have been somewhere near the front line at some time or another or he wouldn't have got a wound stripe.”

“Probably an explosion in the Lats,” said John. “Well behind the lines. I only ever met one Jew who would have
fought
in a war—”

“And that was
Greenbloom
!” said Stuart. “Don't tell us, we know.”

John reached out for a biscuit.

“If you'd met him—” he began.

“Hey! steady on with the biscuits, you've taken the last.”

“It's O.K., I'll order some more! 'S'one way of getting introjuiced.” Jones got to his feet and sidled over to the waitress. They saw the jaunty smile, the over-brilliantined hair, almost the cock of a little tail.

Stuart looked at John.

“
Not
strictly Public School, Bowden,” he said, “but I suppose one must learn to mix.”

“He's all right,” said John, “he can't help being Welsh.”

“I bet they've got plenty of money.”

“Must have, or he wouldn't be here. Old Nosy sticks the fees up every term. Still, he gets results.”

“Does he, Hell! I very much doubt if he'll ever get
me
through. I've failed the School Cert three times already and this is my last shot. If I get ploughed this time the Governor is threatening me with a job in a bank like dear little pansy Peter.”

“How awful!”

Stuart's face twisted. “God! He
is
a wet.”

“Poor Devil!”

“There but for the Grace of God—! Bowden old boy, you've only got to lose your father, have nice blue eyes and flaxen curley-wurls and get landed into Rooker's Close at the age of twelve by your doting mummy and you're there for life with a brand new ikey mo for a daddy!”

“Not me! I'd have walked out years ago.”

“That's what you think! But suppose your dead daddy had settled money on you, bonds and bills of sale,” Stuart gestured with his hands, “and supposing he'd made old Stinkbomb a trustee and that Mummy had ever such great faith in a fine converted churchman like Mr Gilbert Victor, what then?” He looked up as Jones resumed his place. “We're talking about Peter,” he said.

“Man, he's pretty! but he serves for Father Delaura Sundays and that lets you out. If it weren't for Peter you'd all be running round the Altar with bells and candles every Sunday in the term.”

“Personally I like my Christianity in small doses,” said Stuart, “and not mixed up with bed-time kisses from the old man.”

“It's a funny set-up when yew come to think of it,” said Jones.

“Unhealthy!” said Stuart. “Worse than a public-school.
Mind you, I think it's only fatherly affection gawn wrawng; but all the same, if the old—started trying to buss
me
evewy night after I'd said my pwayers I'd let him have it right in the—”

They were both a little shocked by the coldness of his tone, the venom which distorted his dark-eyed face; but it was a pleasurable shock like an execution.

“What about Humphrey?” suggested John.

“God knows! He's obviously a homo: signet rings, belted overcoats, face-lotions and pointed shoes,
and
he's in the old man's confidence. My governor'd bust an artery if he knew the half of it; but I don't tell him.” He glanced at his watch, “Talking of which, what about this afternoon, Jones? Are you game?”

“Effery time! Effery time, man!” Jones patted his pocket and it jingled. “'Ear that? That's for the petrol and there's enough over for whateffa blows up at the tea-dance.”

Stuart turned to John. “What about you?”

“No thanks, I'm not risking it. One of these days you'll both get nabbed.”

“In
Worthing
, perhaps! He's got choir-boys dog-collars and Church workers planted all over the town, to-say nothing of dear Humphrey's Saturday afternoon off from his so-called buttling; but Brighton's as safe as houses.”