After a few minutes, when he thought I was OK, Stuart
stood up.
‘Where are you going?’ I asked. I had a horrid premonition. I had to stop him going out on deck.
‘Just thought I’d get Oliver some Gauloises,’ he said. ‘Duty free.’
I wasn’t sure I was controlling my voice. ‘He doesn’t smoke,’ I said. ‘He’s given up.’
Stuart patted me on the shoulder. ‘I’ll get him some gin, then,’ he said, and wandered off.
‘Oliver doesn’t smoke,’ I found myself whispering after him.
I watched the door. I waited for Stuart to come back. We had to escape without being spotted. I felt as if our happiness depended upon it. I made a fuss about being first in the queue going down to the car-decks. The stairs were just as wet and dangerous as when we’d got on. Stuart had bought some Gauloises anyway. He said he’d put them away for a bit and give them to Oliver when he started smoking again.
What’s happening?
Oliver
I got them home safely. That was all I wanted. Perhaps you foresaw some clangorous maritime encounter, with streaming sou’westers and a vessel torn symbolically between pitch and roll? But in any case, the sea was calm, and I got them home safely. I got
her
home safely.
9: I Don’t Love You
Stuart
Something’s come over my friend Oliver recently. He says he’s taken up running; he says he’s given up smoking; he says he’s planning to pay back the money I lent him. I don’t really believe any of this, but the fact that he even says it means that something’s come over him.
That business about the phones, for instance. Suddenly, the other evening, he starts asking me about all the new sorts of mobile phone on the market – how they work, what their range is, how much they cost. I suppose he’s planning to put a earphone into that skip he drives. It’s the last thing I’d expect of Oliver. He’s so … retro. I don’t think you’ve grasped how retro he is. He probably comes across as arty and a bit careless, but it’s much worse than that. I don’t think he’s equipped for the modern age, quite frankly. He doesn’t understand about
money or business or politics or machines; he thinks black vinyl gives a better sound than CDs. What can you do with someone like that?
Oliver
I have to be near her, do you understand? I have to win her, I have to earn her, but first I have to be near her.
I think I know how those farouchely stubborn seekers of popular approval feel, as they endure the pedestrian trudge that leads finally to the green leather benches of the Palace of Westminster and the right to hawk insults at one another. House to house, like the Fuller’s brush salesman or carbon-crusted chimney-sweep of yore. Except that such creatures have long since departed our streets, along with the yodelling muffin man, the taciturn knife-grinder and the smiling Wolf Cub offering a Job for a Bob. How the picturesque old trades, the pack of Happy Families, are withering. Who comes calling at your door nowadays? Only the ardent burglar seeking your absence; the fretting fundamentalist demanding your conversion before Judgement Day; the swaddled housewife in trainers assaulting the letter-flap with a sheaf of Tenpence Offs, a miniature sample of fabric conditioner and the calling-card of some fly-by-night cabby; these, and the prospective MP. May I count on your vote? Fuck off, fartface. Oh, how interesting. If you’ve got a moment I’d love to explain our party’s view on the matter. Slam! Then on to the next house where they slyly accept a poster and bin it as soon as your back is turned; and then to the next where support is promised if only your party in exchange guarantees to persecute, imprison and preferably
execute certain categories of non-white-skinned people. How do they do it? Why do they go on?
At least the constituency in which I sought election was a small one, and the varieties of available humiliation were limited. I was received as a thief, a well-mannered rapist, bucketless car-washer, double-glazing runner, not to mention corrupt informant that some of them tiles is loose, Ma’m, and we just happen to be in the area with a long ladder so why not call it eighty quid? Yet I was no more than a modest petitioner for lodgment. Just a room for occasional use over a few months, cash in advance of course, sorry no baby-sitting. A couple of funny looks later and I realised I also had to head off the perception that I wanted to hire a sex cave for
outré
rumpy pumpy with a slew of bimbo victims. Screenwriter, you see, demands of studio, absolute solitude essential, come and go as I please, often not there, vagaries of genius and its errant locomotion, several forged references available from heads of Oxbridge colleges, principals of Shakespeare Schools, even one on House of Commons paper. Not a vagrant, not a burglar, just fucking Orson Welles, that’s who you’d be helping, Missus, and I won’t need to use the phone ever.
It nearly worked at number 67, which would have been ideal. But she offered me a nice sunny room under the eaves at the back. So I affected to quail before Mr Sol’s power-drill rays. My tender talent needed the succour of northern light. Any chance of the front …? But no. And so I trailed my plodden way to number 55, where a monkey-puzzle tree twirled in the front garden and the windows suffered painfully from glaucoma. The lych-gate creaked and left its prickly signature of rust upon the palm (I’ll get it fixed, Ma’m!); the bell rang not
at all unless obliquely pressed by a nor’-nor’-westerly thumb. Mrs Dyer was tiny; her head sat on her spine like a sunflower on its stalk; and her hair had passed through its albid phase and was now the colour of a Gitaned forefinger. She had a room, north-facing; she used to enjoy ‘the films’ herself until her eyesight got poorly; she didn’t want any money in advance. I couldn’t bear it. Half of me wanted to say, Don’t trust me, you don’t know me, it’s dangerous for you to take people at their word, you so frangible, me so robust; the other half wanted to say, I love you, come away with me, sit on my knee, I’ll always remember you. You so full of your past, me so full of my future.
Instead, I said, ‘I’ll fix your gate if you like.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with it,’ she replied rather firmly, and I felt unspeakable tenderness towards her.
So here I am, a week later, aloft in the canopy of my monkey-puzzle tree, staring out across the darkening street, waiting for my love to come home. She’ll soon be here with her stocks of quilted kitchen towel, her milk and butter, jams and pickles, loaves and fishes; with her verdant washing-up liquid and a jumbo pack of Stu’s repugnant breakfast cereal which he will shake jauntily each morning like a pair of maracas.
Sh-chug-a-chug. Sh-chug-a-chug-chug
. How shall I hold myself back? How stop myself swinging down through the branches to help unload her little car?
Loaves and fishes. I bet Stuart sees her basically as a good little shopper. Whereas for me she works miracles.
Gillian
I was unpacking the car when the phone went. I could hear it in the house. I had a carrier bag in each hand, some bread under my arm, the house keys in my mouth, the car keys still in my pocket. I kicked the car door shut, put down a bag, locked the car, picked the bag up, ran up the path, stopped at the door, dropped the bread, couldn’t find my house keys, put down my bags, remembered the keys were in my mouth, opened the door, ran in, and the phone stopped.
I didn’t really mind. What used to irritate me doesn’t so much any more, and even quite boring things, like doing the shopping, are almost fun. Shall we try this? I wonder if Stuart likes sweet potatoes? And so on. Ordinary stuff.
The phone went again. I picked it up.
‘Sorry.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Sorry. Oh, it’s Oliver.’
‘Hello, Oliver.’ Little Miss Brisk again. ‘What are you sorry about?’
There was a silence, as if I had asked him a very profound question. Then he said, ‘Oh, er, I thought you must be busy. Sorry.’
Suddenly there was a burst of crackle on the line and some juddering. He sounded a long way off. I thought he might have run away, and was ringing to apologise for his previous calls.
‘Oliver, where are you?’
Again, a long silence. ‘Oh, I could be anywhere.’
Suddenly I had this vision of him having taken an overdose and phoning to say goodbye. Why should I think that?
‘Are you all right?’
Then his voice became clear again. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I’m better than I’ve been for a long time.’
‘Good. Stuart’s been worrying about you. We both have.’
‘I love you. I’ll always love you. It won’t ever stop.’
I put the phone down. What would you do?
I keep trying to think whether I’ve ever encouraged him. I never intended to. Why do I feel guilty? It’s not right. I haven’t done anything.
I put him off the idea of going shopping with me. Or rather, I just told him it wasn’t on. Now he says he wants to come and see me working. I told him I’d think about it. I’m going to be very firm and straightforward and businesslike with Oliver from now on. Then he’ll see there’s no point fooling around and pretending to be in love with me. But I won’t tell Stuart. Not yet, I’ve decided, maybe never. I think he’d be … dashed by it. Or he’d think about it too much. And if Oliver wants to see me – which might be a good idea if I can talk some sense into him – then I’ll only do so if I’ve cleared it with Stuart first.
There. That’s what I’ll do. That’s my decision.
But I know why I feel guilty. Perhaps you guessed. I feel guilty because I find Oliver attractive.
Mrs Dyer
He’s a very pleasant young man. I like to have young people about the house. I like a bit of coming and going. He’s writing something for the films, he says. Promised me a free ticket for the opening. They’ve got their lives before them, the young, that’s what I like about them. He offered to
fix the gate, but there’s no point in that. It’ll see me out.
I was coming back from the shops the other day when I saw him get out of his car. I was in Barrowclough Road, near the baths. He got out of his car and locked it and set off ahead of me. When I got home he was already in his room, whistling away cheerfully. I wonder why he left his car in Barrowclough Road. It’s two streets away, and there’s lots of parking outside the house here.
Perhaps he’s ashamed of that car of his. Even I could see it was rusting away.
Oliver
I was a tad mogadonic, but that was on account of being poo-scared. Still, I did it, I proved it!
I had them to dinner at my principal residence, having prepared a
tagine
of lamb with apricots, which I teased with a husky Australian Shiraz from the Mudgee River. Quite a frisky combination – friskier than Stu and Gill, that’s for sure. Faced with this living miscegenation, I had spells of getting all minimalist, which rendered things a bit tense. I felt like Eugene Onegin listening to that tiresome Prince hymn his Tatyana. Then Gillian blabbed to Stuart that I wanted to come and watch her at work.
‘Hush, my treasure,’ I urged, ‘
pas devant!’
But Stuart is so effervescent, so bloody
méthode champenoise
nowadays that I could have gone down on my knees to his wife and he would have accepted my explanation that I was tacking up her hem. ‘Jolly good idea,’ he said. ‘Always meant to do that myself. Very tasty this,’ he went on (not alluding to the succulent Gill). ‘Is it veal?’
After coffee I announced myself eager for the fleecy crook of Morpheus’ shoulder, and they buggered off. I gave them a three-minute start then Bogartishly gunned my heap. (In truth I had to coax and canoodle a reluctant spark from my grumpy and costive engine block. But then, isn’t life just like motoring?) Now Stuart, you should know, is rancidly smug about finding his way through London without so much as crossing a bus-route – his driving is all Kilburn cut-throughs and dinky dives along back-streets tumescent with sleeping policemen. Whereas Ollie happens to have spotted that nowadays there is no such thing as a short-cut in London: all the back roads are clogged up by master cartologists such as Stu, petrol-pinching aficionados of kink and gully who spin their Oldsmobile Mantras into canny U-turns like instructors on the skid-rink. All of whom have been second-guessed by Ollie, who romps his plodmobile (definitely not a Lagonda!) gaily down the Bayswater Road, barrels up Piccadilly, even throttles back on the vacant Euston Road to give the competition a sporting chance.
I had time to seminarise Mrs Dyer on the lesser masterpieces of Norman Wisdom before skipping to my room, whistling like one struck by sudden nocturnal inspiration. Then I turned out the light and settled at the window amidst the bottle-brush fronds of monkey-puzzle. Where were they? Where were they? Had the tortoise turned turtle in some sulphurous cul-de-sac? If he … But ah, there’s the gunmetal glint I seek. And there’s her profile, so heart-rendingly unaware …
The car stopped. Stuart jumped out and pattered plumply round to Gillian’s door. As she got out he burrowed into her like some nesting beast.
A sight to deliquesce the bowels. I bantered little with myself as I drove home later that night.
Gillian
He was very calm. I was jumpy. I suppose I expected him to pounce or something. He saw the radio propped on the little stool and asked me if I played it while I worked. I said I did.
‘Play it, then,’ he said quietly.
There was a Haydnish sonata, a gentle piano tracking up and back in patterns which you could half anticipate even if you’d never heard the piece before. I began to relax a bit.
‘Tell me what you’re doing.’
I stopped and turned.
‘No,’ he said. ‘Just talk to me as you do it.’
I went back to the picture. It was a little winter scene – the Thames frozen from bank to bank, people skating, and children playing round a bonfire on the ice. Quite jolly, and quite filthy, having hung in the banqueting hall of a City guild for centuries.
I explained about doing tests under the line of the frame, about beginning with spit on a tiny swab and working your way up through various solvents, about finding the right solvent for the glaze. How the glaze may vary across the picture. How some pigments come off more easily than others (reds and blacks always seem more soluble when I’m cleaning with ammonia). How I tend to start with the boring bits like the sky and then reward myself later with an interesting part like a face or a patch of white. How all the enjoyment is in the cleaning and almost none in the retouching (this surprised
him). How old paint cures, so that a 17th-century painting is in fact much easier to clean than a 19th-century one (this also surprised him). And all the time I was talking I rolled my swabs back and forth over the frozen Thames.