I was at Christian’s house where they had taken Priscilla. Later I was with Rachel in a garden. This was no dream. And somebody was flying a kite.
I found a note from Rachel waiting, and Rachel herself came early, very early, soon after I had arrived, to tell me what had happened: how Priscilla had become upset, how Christian had telephoned, how Arnold had come, how Francis had come. When I failed to appear Priscilla had become as fretful as a little child awaiting its tardy mother, tears, fears. Late in the evening Christian had carried Priscilla off in a taxi. Arnold and Christian had laughed a great deal. Rachel thought I would be angry with her. I was not. ‘Of course you could do nothing if
they
decided otherwise.’
Priscilla was wearing Christian’s black
négligée
and sitting upright against a pile of snowy pillows. Her deadened dyed hair was unkempt and scanty, her face without make – up looked soft, like clay or dough, the wrinkles lightly imprinted upon its puffy surface. Her mouth drooped extremely. She could have been seventy, eighty. Christian was in dark green with real pearls and the radiant look of one who has organized and controls a successful gathering. Her eyes were glistening and moist as with washed tears of laughter or the tears people shed when they are pleased and touched. She kept combing her undulating red – brown hair with thin pretty fingers. Arnold was boyish and excited, apologetic to me but constantly exchanging looks with Christian and laughing. He wore his’ interested writer’s air’: I am merely a spectator, a watcher, but one who
understands
. His face was sallow and sweaty and he kept pulling his floppy colourless hair down over his pale clever eyes in a deliberately childish way. Francis was sitting apart and rubbing his hands, once he silently clapped them, his little close – set bear’s peepers roving over the company. He kept nodding towards me as if he were bowing, and murmuring, It’s all right, it’s all right, it’s going to be all right, it’s going to be all right.’ Then he thrust his hand down inside his trousers and started scratching with a preoccupied air. Rachel was standing still with the stillness of one who apes repose but is really embarrassed. She smiled vaguely, her sugary – pink lipsticked lips parted a little, her smile broadening, fading then broadening again, as if under the impulse of private thoughts, but not very convincingly.
‘It’s not a plot, Bradley, don’t look like that.’
‘He’s furious with us.’
‘He thinks you’re holding Priscilla as a hostage!’
‘I am holding Priscilla as a hostage!’
‘Whatever happened to you? Priscilla was terribly upset.’
‘I missed the train. I’m very sorry.’
‘Why did you miss the train?’
‘Why didn’t you telephone?’
‘How guilty he looks! Look, Priscilla, how guilty he looks!’
‘Poor Priscilla thought you’d been run over or something.’
‘You see, Priscilla, we told you he’d turn up like an old bad penny.’
‘Be quiet everybody, Priscilla’s trying to say something.’
‘Bradley, don’t be cross.’
‘Silence for Priscilla!’
‘Did you get my things?’
‘Sit down, Brad, you look awful.’
‘I’m sorry I missed the train.’
‘It’s going to be all right.’
‘I did telephone.’
‘Did you get my things?’
‘Dear Priscilla, don’t throw yourself around so.’
‘I’m afraid I didn’t get your things.’
‘Oh I knew it would go wrong, I knew it would, I knew it would, I told you so!’
‘What happened, Bradley?’
‘Roger was there. We had a chat.’
‛A chat!’
‘You’re on his side now.’
‛Men always stick together, dear.’
‛I’m not on his side. Did you want me to fight him?’
‛Battling Brad the Bruiser!’
‘You talked to him about me.’
‘Of course I did!’
‘They agreed that women were hell.’
‘Well, women are hell!’
‘Is he unhappy?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was the house all dirty and awful?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what about my things?’
‛He said he’d send them on.’
‘But didn’t you bring anything, not anything?’
‛He said he’d pack them up.’
‘Did you ask him specially about the jewels and the mink?’
‛He’ll send everything on.’
‘But did you ask him specially?’
‘It’s all right, it’s going to be all right.’
‘Yes, I did!’
‛He won’t send them, I know he won’t – ’
‛Priscilla, will you please get dressed?’
‛He won’t send my things ever, he won’t, he won’t, I know he won’t, I’ve lost them forever and ever!’
‛I’ll wait for you downstairs. Then we can both go home.’
‘Those jewels are all I’ve got.’
‘Oh but Priscilla’s going to stay here with me.’
‘Did you look for them, did you see them?’
‘Priscilla, get up, get dressed.’
‘Aren’t you, darling, going to stay here with me?’
‘Bradley, you mustn’t talk to her like that.’
‘Brad, be reasonable. She needs medical attention, she needs psychiatric help, I’m going to engage a nurse – ’
‛She doesn’t need a nurse, for Christ’s sake.’
‘You know you’re not a looker – after, Bradley.’
‘Priscilla – ’
‘After all, look what happened yesterday.’
‘I think I must go,’ said Rachel who had so far said nothing, still smiling vaguely as at secret thoughts.
‘Oh please don’t go.’
‘Is it too early for a drink?’
‛You are not going to take over my sister. I will not have her pitied and patronized.’
‘No one’s pitying her!’
‛I pity her,’ said Francis.
‘You can just shut up, you’re leaving here in three minutes, the real doctor is coming and I don’t want you arsing around – ’
‘Come on, Priscilla.’
‛Steady on, Bradley, maybe Chris is right.’
‘And don’t call her Chris.’
‛You can’t have it both ways, Brad, disown me
and
– ’
‛Priscilla is perfectly well, she just needs to pull herself together.’
‛Bradley doesn’t believe in mental illness.’
‘Well, neither do I as it happens, but – ’
‘You are all persuading her she’s ill, while what she needs – ’
‛Bradley, she needs rest and quiet.’
‛Is
this
rest and quiet?’
‘Brad, she’s a sick woman.’
‛Priscilla,
get up
.’
‘Brad, do stop shouting.’
‛I think I really must go.’
‘You do want to stay here with me, don’t you, darling, you said so, you want to stay with Christian?’
‛He won’t send my things, I know he won’t, I’ll never see them again, never.’
‛It’s going to be all right.’
In the end Rachel and Arnold and Francis and I left the house together. At least, I just turned and walked out, and the others followed somehow.
The scene had been taking place in one of the new rooms which belonged to the upstairs flat in the old days. It was a pretentious, but now shabby, room with an oval ‛film star’ bed and the walls covered with pseudo – bamboo. I felt trapped there as if some trick of false perspective were bringing the ceiling down at such a sharp angle that a step would bring it into contact with my head. There are days when a tall man feels taller. I towered above the others as above puppets and my feet were many inches above the floor. Perhaps this was still the effect of drink.
Out in the street some blackness boiled in my eyes. Sun, filtered through hazy cloud, dazzled me. People loomed in front of me in bulky shadowy shapes and passed me by like ghosts, like trees walking. I could hear the others hurrying after. I had heard them clattering down the stairs, but I did not look round. I felt sick.
‛Bradley, you look as if you’ve gone blind, here, don’t walk out into the roadway like that, you ass.’
Arnold had hold of my sleeve. He held on to me. The other two crowded up, staring.
Rachel said, ‘Leave her there for a day or two. Then she’ll have recovered and you can take her away.’
‘You don’t understand,’ I said. My head ached and my eyes were intolerant of the light.
‘I understand perfectly, as a matter of fact,’ said Arnold. ‛You’ve just lost this round and you’d better relax. I’d go to bed if I were you.’
‛I’ll come and look after you,’ said Francis.
‛No, you won’t.’
‘Why do you keep shading your eyes and screwing them up like that?’ said Rachel.
‘What made you miss the train?’ said Arnold.
‛I think I’ll go to bed, yes.’
‘Bradley,’ said Arnold, ‘don’t be cross with me.’
‘I’m not cross with you.’
‛It was all an accident, my being there I mean, I called in because I thought you’d be back, then Christian rang and then she turned up, and Rachel had had about enough of Priscilla and there was no sign of you. I know it seems hurtful, I do understand, but really it was just common sense, and it amused Christian so much, and you know how I love a scandal and a little bit of turmoil. You’ve got to forgive us. We’re not all conspiring against you.’
‘I know you’re not.’
‛I only went along today because – ’
‛Oh never mind. I’m going home.’
‛Let me come with you,’ said Francis.
‘You’d better come with me,’ said Rachel. ‛I’ll give you lunch.’
‘That’s a good idea. You go along with Rachel. I must go to the library and get on with my novel. I’ve wasted quite enough time on this little drama. I’m such an incorrigible Peeping Tom. You’re sure you’re not cross with me, Bradley?’
Rachel and I got into a taxi. Francis ran along beside it trying to say something, but I pulled the window up.
Now at last there was peace. Rachel’s big calm woman’s face beamed upon me, the beneficent full moon, not the black moon dagger – armed and brimming with darkness. The bruise seemed to have faded, or perhaps she had covered it with make – up. Or perhaps it had only ever been a shadow after all.
Feeding my hangover, I had consumed a lunch which consisted of three aspirins, followed by a glass of creamy milk, followed by milk chocolate, followed by shepherd’s pie, followed by Turkish delight, followed by milky coffee. I felt physically better and clearer in the head.
We were sitting on the veranda. The Baffins’ garden was not big, but in the flush of early summer it seemed endless. A dotting of fruit trees and ferny bushes amid longish red – tufted grass obscured the nearby houses, obscured even the creosoted fence. Only a hint of pink rambler roses between the trunks suggested an enclosure. The garden was a curved space, a warm green shell smelling of earth and leaves. At the foot of the veranda steps there was a pavement covered with the mauve flowers of creeping thyme, beyond this a clipped grassy path starred with white daisies. It stirred some memory of a childhood holiday. Once in an endless meadow, just able to peer through the tawny haze of the grass tops, the child who was myself had watched a young fox catching mice, an elegant newly minted fox, straight from the hand of God, brilliantly ruddy, with black stockings and a white – tipped brush. The fox heard and turned. I saw its intense vivid mask, its liquid amber eyes. Then it was gone. An image of such beauty and such mysterious sense. The child wept and knew himself an artist.
‘So Roger’s blissfully happy?’ said Rachel, to whom I had told all.
‘I can’t tell Priscilla, can I?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Roger and that young girl. God, it sickens me!’
‘I know. But Priscilla is the problem.’
‘What am I to do, Rachel, what am I to do?’
Rachel, relaxed, barefoot, did not reply. She was gently stroking her face where I had imagined the bruise. We were reposing now in deck chairs. She was relaxed yet animated, in a characteristic way: what Arnold called her ‛exalted look’. A bright expectancy blazed in her pale freckled face and in her light brown eyes. She looked alert and handsome. Her reddish golden hair was deliberately frizzed out and untidy.
‛How mechanical they look,’ I said.
‘Who? What?’
‘The blackbirds.’
Several blackbirds were walking jerkily about like little wound – up toys upon the clipped grass path.
‘Just like us.’
‘What are you talking about, Bradley?’
‘Mechanical. Just like us.’
‛Have some more milk chocolate.’
‘Francis likes milk chocolate.’
‛I feel sorry for Francis, but I do see Christian’s point.’
‛All this intimate friendly talk about “Christian” makes me feel ill.’
‘You mustn’t mind so much. It’s all in your head.’
‘Well, I live in my head. I wish she was dead. I wish she’d died in America. I bet she killed her husband.’
‛Bradley. You know I didn’t mean any of those violent things I said about Arnold the other day.’
‘Yes, I know.’
‛In marriage one says things which are, yes, mechanical, but it doesn’t affect the heart.’
‘The what?’
‛Bradley, don’t be so – ’
‛How heavy mine is, like a great stone in my breast. Sometimes one feels suddenly doomed by fate.’
‘Oh brace up, for God’s sake!’
‘You don’t hate me for having seen – you know, you and Arnold, the other day – ’
‘No. It just makes you seem closer.’
‛I wish, I wish she hadn’t met Arnold.’
‘You’re very attached to Arnold, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‛It’s not just that you care what he thinks?’
‛No.’
‘It’s odd. He’s awkward with you. I know he often hurts you. But he cares very much for you, very much.’
‘Do you mind if we change the subject a bit?’