A Closed Book (11 page)

‘Morning, Paul.'

‘Ah, John, it's you. A very good morning to you. Sleep well?'

‘Not bad. And you?'

‘Me? Oh, fine. Just fine, fine.'

‘I'm not used to finding you down here before me.'

‘No?'

‘Well, no. You been up long?'

‘An hour or so. It was such a glorious morning I didn't feel like stopping in bed.'

‘Glorious morning? Actually, it's overcast.'

‘Well, it felt glorious to me. What's the difference if you're blind? I'm up. And, as they say, rarin' to go. R, a, r, i, n, apostrophe – rarin'.'

‘I'll put the kettle on. You must be dying for your coffee.'

‘Oh.'

‘What's the matter, John?'

‘There
is
a pot of coffee here.'

‘Did
you
make it, Paul?'

‘Me? Of course not. I'm utterly helpless, as you know. No, if you feel like thanking someone, thank

Mrs Kilbride.'

‘Mrs Kilbride?'

‘Yes, Mrs Kilbride made the coffee. Have some.'

‘So Mrs Kilbride's been here?'

‘Uh huh. She forgot something. Her sewing basket, I seem to recall. I suspect she really wanted to snoop around the kitchen
and
the living room – to see what was what. In fact, she confessed as much.'

‘She find anything not to her liking?'

‘I really couldn't say. We just chatted about this and that. Aren't you having any coffee, then?'

‘Yes, of course. It's just that –'

‘Yes?'

‘Paul, there's something on my mind.'

‘Something on your mind?'

‘Yes, I've been meaning – I've been meaning to –'

‘If there's something on your mind, don't pick at it, man. We don't want it to scab.'

‘I've come to know you quite well, Paul, and in a funny way being around you has meant that my own – my own sensitivities have been refined. Just like a blind man's. Just like yours, in fact. I'm starting to pick up – what is it you call them? – nuances? I'm starting to pick up nuances better and quicker than I used to. The tone of your voice, for example. I've become sensitive to the slightest shading in your voice. Your sarcasm can be pretty heavy, you know, and then other times it's really quite subtle. Yet I can instantly hear it in your voice and I can usually tell what's coming. It's like I've sprouted antennae, like I hear things I never heard
before. I don't know if I'm making myself clear?'

‘What you're saying makes perfect sense. Go on.'

‘Well, this morning. This morning there's an edge to the tone of your voice which tells me something's definitely up.'

‘Ah. Meaning?'

‘Meaning? Meaning, I think, that you know something I don't.'

‘I know lots of things you don't.'

‘Putting two and two together, Paul, the tone of your voice combined with the fact that Mrs Kilbride was here, and we both know what a blabbermouth she can be, well, I may be sticking my neck out, but I'm willing to bet you – you already know about the jigsaw.'

‘I do.'

‘I was going to tell you, I really was.'

‘Oh yes? What were you going to tell me, John? What possible excuse could you find for deceiving a blind man?'

‘You have to believe me when I say –'

‘Why should I believe you? Why should I believe anything you say? I'm disgusted with you, John, I'm truly, truly disgusted. I won't pretend I'm more hurt than angry, for I'm not. I'm very angry indeed.'

‘You have every right to be.'

‘Deceiving a blind man? I can't get over it. That's
evil
, John, that's evil. How can you live with yourself?'

‘I know.'

‘Oh, you and yourself, you deserve one another!'

‘If you'll only let me explain –'

‘Explain? What can there possibly be to explain? What on earth did you hope to achieve by such pathetic chicanery?'

‘Just let me speak, will you? When I was in the National Gallery, when I bought the jigsaw –'

‘It's Holbein's “Ambassadors”, right?'

‘Mrs Kilbride told you?'

‘Mrs Kilbride? She wouldn't know Holbein's “Ambassadors” from a turtle's turd.'

‘So how did you find out?'

‘I felt it with my sensitive little fingertips. A jigsaw puzzle is in braille, after all.'

‘You did? Why, that's –'

‘Oh, don't be such an ass! I figured it out for myself. That's all you need to know.'

‘So, John? You were saying?'

‘It's true, there
was
no Rembrandt jigsaw, just as you suspected there wouldn't be. But, and don't ask me why, I decided to buy the Holbein instead. It was purely on impulse, it was just a whim. At that moment, I swear, Paul, I
swear
, I had absolutely no intention of passing it off as the Rembrandt. It just
seemed like – I don't know, it just seemed like a fun thing to buy. Then, when I got home, I mean when I got back here, and you asked about the trip, I don't know what came over me. You seemed so low, so depressed, I suddenly found myself telling you I'd managed to buy the right one after all. Paul, I only wanted to please you. Since you wouldn't be able to see it anyway, I didn't think it would make much difference one way or the other.'

‘I see. It was just an impulse. Just a capricious whim. Yet you actually sat down and did the Holbein. You finished it. You chose to keep up the illusion. You even let me dictate to you a passage from my book about how such a jigsaw puzzle wouldn't have to be imagined because it really existed. Why, John? For Christ's sake, why?'

‘God, I felt awful about that. I felt so awful – I felt so awful I was convinced you'd be able to hear the panic in my voice. I didn't know what to do. You must understand, I thought the jigsaw was to be just a – just a metaphor. I didn't realize you actually planned to write about it. I repeat, it was stupid thing to do, but it was to please you that I did it.'

‘Well, John, I confess I no longer know what to think.'

‘If you want me to leave, I'll understand. I'll pack
my bags and go right now if that's the way you want it to be.'

‘It's the way it ought to be.'

‘Then that's it? You want me to go?'

‘Oh dear God, I wish I knew!'

‘If you do go, it means you leave me here with what? With a handful of pages and an expensive, useless computer. On the other hand …'

‘All right. All right. Now listen to me, John. I want you to listen very carefully to the question I'm about to ask you.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘Then this is the question. Can I trust you?'

‘Paul, I –'

‘I may be mad, I may be digging myself into a deeper hole than ever, but can I trust you never to play such a stupid trick on me again? Never to humiliate me as you've done?'

‘I assure you, Paul, that wasn't at all my intention.'

‘Answer the question. Can I trust you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Very well, John. I'm prepared to accept that what has happened was an aberration. End of story. We'll have no more apologies, no more excuses. We'll never speak of it again.'

‘You mean you'd like me to stay?'

‘It's certainly what I seem to be saying.'

‘I really appreciate that, Paul.'

‘And, John?'

‘Yes?'

‘Get rid of the Holbein. Not just off the table but out of my house.'

‘I'll do it at once.'

‘One last thing.'

‘Yes?'

‘I just made some remarks to you that weren't very pleasant.'

‘Paul, I deserved them. You needn't apologize.'

‘I know you deserved them and I haven't the slightest intention of apologizing. It wasn't at all what I was going to do.'

‘Sorry.'

‘And I've told you before, stop saying sorry all the time. I don't like it.'

‘It's just a tic. I'll try to curb it.'

‘What I was going to say was that I made some extremely unpleasant remarks and one of them was something about “How can you live with yourself?” Do you remember?'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘And then, you may also remember, I added, “You and yourself, you deserve one another!”'

‘Yes.'

‘Note it down, will you.'

‘Right.'

‘Brrr. It's chillier than I thought.'

‘Maybe if you knotted up your scarf?'

‘Maybe you're right. Hold on a second.'

‘Yes, that's much cosier. Well, John, shall we take the opposite direction tonight?'

‘What, and walk out of the village altogether?'

‘No. Not if we turn right at the corner and go round the village counter-clockwise instead of clockwise.'

‘Okay.'

‘You know, Paul, when you speak of going round the village counter-clockwise, you make it sound a bit like the clock method. Church at eleven, pub at three, herd of sheep at nine.'

‘Sheep? Are there sheep out at this hour?'

‘Well, yes, yes. They're grazing on the field beyond the common.'

‘Goodness. What time
is
it?'

‘It's earlier than usual for us, don't forget. Just after seven.'

‘Even so. What about the common itself?'

‘Kerb. What about it?'

‘No children playing on the swings, I suppose?'

‘Actually, there are. Three.'

‘Can you make them out?'

‘Just about. Up on the kerb.'

‘Describe them to me.'

‘There are two young girls on the roundabout. Twelve-year-olds, maybe thirteen. They may even be twins. They've both got on what look like navy blue overcoats, though I could be wrong about the colour, it's already dark. Anyway, they've both got overcoats and scarves and they're both wearing what I think you call bobble hats.'

‘I don't seem to hear any girlish screams or giggles.'

‘They're just silently spinning around.'

‘And the other, the third child?'

‘That's a little boy, I think. Hard to tell from here. He can't be more than five or six.'

‘Disgraceful. He ought to be in bed. Probably got oafish parents just out of their teens. Couldn't care less what their offspring get up to. They should be made to pass a test before being allowed to reproduce. What's he doing?'

‘Standing there. Watching the two girls. He's a forlorn little creature.'

‘I bet he is. How's he dressed? Snugly wrapped up, I trust?'

‘Appears to be. He's got a bobble hat as well.'

‘And mittens? Is he wearing mittens?'

‘Mittens? Oh, I can't possibly tell from here. Kerb.'

‘Pity. I have a great fondness for children's mittens.'

‘Really?'

‘Mmm.'

‘May I ask why?'

‘I adore those little mittens that toddlers have. You know, the kind that are attached to their coat sleeves by a cord and dangle from their little wrists as they waddle about. Why I adore them I couldn't really say. I just do.'

‘Yes, I suppose they're quite cute. I mean – sorry.'

‘Why sorry?'

‘Because I bet you hate that word “cute”.'

‘No. No, I've nothing against it. Why should I?'

‘No reason. Just thought you might. Shall we walk through the churchyard? It's still open. Or else go straight on?'

‘Straight on, I think. Leave the dead in peace. Why don't you describe the effect of the church steeple against the sky?'

‘Well, it's very English. What you might call quietly dramatic. The steeple itself, as I'm sure you're perfectly well aware, is oblong and rather chunky. Not pointed. Not the soaring type that seems to sway against the sky as you watch it. It's got its two feet on
the ground, it's got no – it's got no – no Gothic pretensions.'

‘No aspirations to the sublime.'

‘Exactly. And it doesn't pretend to have. And the sky itself is English somehow. It isn't lurid, it isn't spectacular. Yet I still find it affecting in its modest way.'

‘Colour?'

‘The sky?'

‘Yes.'

‘Dark grey. Bluish-grey. Almost metallic. The clouds – there's a bank of them hovering over the church – the clouds are drifting but very, very slowly. Trying to catch them at it would be like trying to catch a clock hand moving.'

‘Nicely put. You know, John, you may well end up becoming a writer yourself one of these days.'

‘Coming from you, that's a serious compliment.'

‘I mean it. You have a real eye, a real visual imagination. Indeed, you've got too much imagination.
Viz
, as they say,
viz
the jigsaw puzzle.'

‘Look, Paul, I'd like nothing better than to apologize all over again for what I did. In fact, it's actually frustrating for me not to be able to keep on telling you again and again just how sorry I am – kerb – to keep on telling you just how sorry I am till I'm blue in the face from apologizing and you're blue in the face from listening
to me. But you did insist the subject was to be a closed book, so I'm just going to have to hold it in.'

‘What did you say?'

‘I said I'll just have to hold it in.'

‘No, no, no, before that?'

‘Before?'

‘Your exact words!'

‘I said the subject was a closed book.'

‘A closed book! Magnificent! That's it!'

‘That's what?'

‘A closed book, don't you see? A closed book!'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘Capital A, capital C, capital B. A Closed Book. The perfect title for
my
book!'

‘You mean instead of
Truth and Consequences
?'

‘Oh, I never did like that title!
Truth and Consequences
! So pompous! No, no,
A Closed Book
is ideal. It'll look wonderful on the cover. Just imagine it in Dillons or Waterstone's.
A Closed Book
! Just think of it. Who, now who, browsing in Waterstone's and catching sight of a book with that title, could ever resist opening it?'

‘Yes, I see what you mean.'

‘Jot it down, will you, jot it down. Not that I'm likely to forget.'

‘Right.'

‘
A Closed Book
… You know, John, I have you to thank for that. I know we've sworn not to talk about you-know-what but this, I must tell you, more than makes up for it.'

‘You really feel that strongly?'

‘I love it. In fact – Oh! Christ! Ow!'

‘Oh shit, Paul, that was my fault. I'm terribly sorry. I was so busy thinking about – well, I forgot all about the kerb. You all right?'

‘Well …'

‘No, seriously, I –'

‘Not to worry, not to worry. A blind man must learn to take the odd bump and bruise in his stride.'

‘I'm
really
sorry.'

‘Frankly, I'm so euphoric I barely felt it. Alighting on the right title for a book is one of the very few privileged moments in a writer's wretched existence. Well worth a stumble or two.'

‘It's amazing. I've never seen you so happy.'

‘You can't deny it's been a remarkable day. It began so catastrophically, didn't it? Yet, workwise, as the Americans say, workwise it's turned out to be deeply satisfying. How many words did we get down on paper?'

‘On the screen? Fifteen hundred and something, wasn't it?'

‘Our best yet. Then there were those delicious lamb cutlets you made for supper. And now this.
A Closed Book
. When you think about it, it's almost symbolic.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Why, don't you see? Apart from giving me the perfect title for my book, the phrase can also be applied to the unfortunate little incident of the jigsaw puzzle.'

‘Yes, Paul. Except, don't forget, that's precisely how it came up.'

‘Hmm?'

‘If you remember, it was when I was apologizing for the jigsaw incident that I used the phrase in the first place.'

‘Now now, John, don't go spoiling things.'