A Closed Book (12 page)

‘It's a heavenly day today, today!

What a heavenly day today!

It's a heavenly day for makin' –

Hey!

What do you say?

Goin' my way?

Wanna make hay?

On this heavenly day, today, today,

This heavenly day today!'

A heavenly day? What, rather, a strange day it’s been. And what a strange person John is. And what a strange person I am, for that matter. Blindness, though, does make strange bedfellows. If anyone had told me I’d offer house room to an individual who had actually had the gall, the vicious gall, to take advantage of my blindness, I would have called him a cretin. And yet there he is, a man who committed an offence akin to stealing sweets from a baby, there he is, asleep in the room next to mine. No matter that he was responsible for giving me my marvellous title, I cannot forget that John also did that. But why? Why? Could he really have been trying to please? It’s possible, yes. Yet any intelligent person would have realized, would have known from a kind of intimate conviction, that it was absolutely the wrong thing to do, that it was the act of a moral philistine. It’s true, to be sure, that we all of us commit acts we know to be stupid and callous and wrong-headed, we know to be all of that even as we commit them. It’s what is called human nature. To err is human. And John too is human.

‘What on earth is that racket?’

‘John!’

‘Sorry? Oh, it’s you, Paul. Sorry, what?’

‘Can you please turn that off, whatever it is.’

‘Oh. Right.’

‘There. Sorry about that.’

‘Thank heaven! Where was it coming from?’

‘My radio. I have a little portable radio. Didn’t I mention it to you?’

‘No, you didn’t.’

‘Oh well, yes, I have.’

‘Did it have to be so excruciatingly loud?’

‘I’m sorry. I thought you were in the bathroom. I didn’t think I’d be disturbing you.’

‘I took my bath last night. So what was it?’

‘The music?’

‘Yes, John, the music.’

‘The Who.’

‘The what?’

‘Not the What, the Who. They’re a rock group. Sort of
passé
now, I guess, but –’

‘I know who the Who are. I’m not a dinosaur, you know. For your information, Freddie Ashton once commissioned me to write the argument, as it’s called – with, I assure you, very good reason – the argument of a ballet to music by Pete Townshend. Wasn’t he one of the Who?’

‘Yeah, he was. And did you?’

‘I did. It was called
Rigmarole
.’

‘
Rigmarole
? Afraid I’ve never heard of it.’

‘Not many people have.’

‘A flop?’

‘A hideous flop. As it deserved to be, I may say, with its cacophony of a score. Still, I did get to meet Townshend, which was a mildly vertiginous experience for both of us.’

‘You two hit it off?’

‘Our encounter was, let us say, a semi-success. He hung on my every
other
word.’

‘This time, John, I fear I cannot hear you smile. Perhaps it’s because you feel I might have said that before?’

‘No, no. I was just thinking of you and Pete Townshend together. You have to admit it’s a bit of a mindblower.’

‘Would you like to paw the hem of my dressing-gown?’

‘Well, no, thanks all the same, Paul. I’m not
that
much of an admirer. Impressed none the less. Coffee?’

‘Please.’

‘You must have been quite upset to hear of his death.’

‘Whose death?’

‘Pete Townshend’s, of course.’

‘Pete Townshend? Pete Townshend is dead?’

‘Why, yes. Why, Paul, I’m sorry. You didn’t know, did you?’

‘Well, obviously I didn’t. Pete Townshend dead? Poor fellow, what did he die of?’

‘He was assassinated.’

‘Assassinated? You mean
murdered
?’

‘Sorry, of course I mean murdered. I’m sorry, Paul, I’m being – it just seems so strange that you – but of course you couldn’t be expected to have heard about it. It happened, oh, two years ago, a bit more than two years ago. He was gunned down by a fan. Well, by some young druggie who claimed to be a fan. Outside the Groucho Club. It made front pages all over the world.’

‘Yes, well, I never do see front pages, as you know. Or any other pages, for that matter.’

‘But, you know, John, what with … I mean to say, I’m really starting to think that maybe I should.’

‘Should what?’

‘Pay more attention to what’s going on.’

‘I’d be happy to read the newspaper to you if you like.’

‘Yes, that’s an idea … Yes, that might be … Pete Townshend dead … In a funny way I’m rather sorry to hear that. Not that I … Not that I ever knew him well or ever … Yes, maybe you
could
start to read the news headlines to me. One isn’t a saint, after all, one isn’t a monk. Blind as one is, one does continue to live in the
world. I say, John, you wouldn’t have a newspaper here, by any chance?’

‘Actually, I do. I got one in the village this morning when I went to buy the milk.’

‘Which is it?’

‘The
Guardian
.’

‘The
Guardian
? Oh well, never mind. Read from it anyway, will you? Just skim the essential information off the top.’

‘Now?’

‘Why not?’

‘All right. Here’s your coffee.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Want anything to eat with that?’

‘No thank you. Just some headlines.’

‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here. The prime minister has just arrived in Havana. First time a British premier has visited Cuba since Castro assumed power. Questioned about the trip, Mr Cook sought to make it clear that –’

‘Mr
who
?’

‘Cook.’

‘Let me get this straight. What’s his name? His first name? Roger, isn’t it?’

‘Whose?’

‘Cook! Cook!’

‘Robin.’

‘Robin Cook! And Robin Cook is prime minister?’

‘Yes, of course he is.’

‘But – but what about Blair? Don’t tell me he’s dead too?’

‘Blair resigned.’

‘
Resigned
? You’re saying Blair
resigned
? Already? When? And why? What’s going on, John? What in heaven’s name is happening to the world?’

‘Things change, Paul. Things change.’

‘Never mind the philosophy. Just tell me why Blair resigned.’

‘Well, they tried to keep it a secret, but there are some secrets that simply can’t be kept. He has AIDS.’

‘AIDS? Tony Blair?’

‘Afraid so. It got into one of the tabloids. The
Mirror
, I think. Then, naturally, all the other newspapers were obliged to pick it up. Why, were you an admirer of his?’

‘Don’t be grotesque. It’s just that – good grief, man, don’t you see? I never knew! I never knew! And now that I do know, I don’t just feel blind, I feel so very
stupid
. And I refuse, I categorically
refuse
, to believe that a blind man has to be stupid.’

‘Well, I don’t –’

‘Oh, just go on, will you.’

‘There’s been a terrible massacre in Northern Ireland.’

‘Nothing new there. I’d have been surprised if you’d said there hadn’t been a terrible massacre in Northern Ireland.’

‘The Reverend Ian Paisley was one of the victims.’

‘And they say there’s no such thing as good news. Go on.’

‘Bill Gates has announced he’s a born-again Christian. He’s decided to bequeath his entire fortune to charity.’

‘Never heard of him. Go on.’

‘O. J. Simpson has committed suicide.’

‘Good riddance. Go on.’

‘Madonna is set to marry the actor Michelangelo DiCaprio.’

‘Heard of her, never heard of him. Go on.’

‘Princess Diana has been sighted in Bhutan.’

‘What?’

‘Princess Diana has been sighted in Bhutan.’

‘You’re pulling my leg.’

‘No, really. It says here that a group of American tourists claim to have seen Diana on a knoll.’

‘On a what?’

‘A knoll.’

‘What’s an oll?’

‘A knoll? A little grassy hill?’

‘Oh, a knoll! You must learn to pronounce it correctly. Knoll.’

‘Knoll.’

‘Go on.’

‘Well, they claim they saw her standing on a – on a knoll in Bhutan holding her two arms out in front of her in a beseeching manner. Then she seemed to fade away. Anyway, that’s what it says.’

‘What tripe. What absolute fucking garbage. If that’s what the world has become – and I don’t mean Diana, I don’t only mean Diana, I mean what the
Guardian
deems fit to plaster over its front page – if that’s how things have changed, then I can only say I’m well out of it.’

‘You want me to continue?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Ah? Now I wonder who that can be?’

‘I’ll get it.’

‘Could you?’

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, hello. Long time no see. Paul, it’s Mrs Kilbride.’

‘Oh, not too badly, considering.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘As it happens, we have. If I say so myself.’

‘No, I’ve been doing all the cooking.’

‘John, tell her we’ve been eating
extremely
well. Tell her you’ve turned out to be quite the little chef.’

‘Sir Paul wants me to tell you we’ve been eating
extremely
well. That I’ve turned out –’

‘No, of course not. He was only teasing.’

‘Yes, he was!’

‘Come on, Mrs Kilbride. What’s happened to that famous Glaswegian humour of yours?’

‘Yes, I have.’

‘Yeah, that too. But what about you? When are we going to have you back here?’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh, I see. When did you –’

‘No, no, of course not. How is he?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs Kilbride. No, you’ve got to be at Joe’s side. But I’m sure it’ll turn out to be a false alarm.’

‘True. As you say, even so.’

‘Absolutely. And –’

‘I realize that, Mrs Kilbride. And I’m not going to tell you not to worry, because I know you’re going to anyway. But until he’s had the tests the very worst thing you can do is start imagining things.’

‘Well, yes, but –’

‘Uh huh.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Look. No, just – no, no, listen to me.’

‘Listen to me. I’m sure Sir Paul agrees with me that you’ve got to stay with Joe as long as you have to. He’s actually nodding at me as I speak.’

‘Tell her that if there’s anything I can do for them, either of them, just to let me know. Anything at all they might need. Money, anything.’

‘You hear that, Mrs Kilbride?’

‘Of course, of course, he just meant that –’

‘Yeah. Whatever.’

‘Okay, yes. And –’

‘And give Joe my very best.’

‘From me, too, John.’

‘That was Sir Paul again. He wants you to give Joe his best too.’

‘All right.’

‘All right.’

‘Bye.’

‘Yeah, well, bye now. We’ll speak. Bye.’

‘Bye.’

‘Good grief, John, what a woman! Why is it impossible to get some people off the phone?’

‘She sounds terribly worried.’

‘Did I understand correctly? Joe is seriously ill?’

‘He seems to have some kind of pneumonia. He’s been told he has to have tests.’

‘Ouch. The dread word.’

‘She’s afraid it might be cancer. Lung cancer.’

‘Lung cancer. Oh God. Joe’s been a three-packet-a-day man for as long as I’ve known him.’

‘For the moment I suspect it’s all in her head. What it means, though, is that we’re going to be on our own a bit longer than expected.’

‘Hmm. Think you’ll be able to cope with the cooking? Or shall I try to arrange for someone else to come in? Though heaven knows who.’

‘Of course I’ll be able to cope. I really do enjoy cooking for two. And it hasn’t interfered with our work so far, has it?’

‘No, to be honest, it hasn’t at all. Pity, though. In a way, I’ll miss Mrs Kilbride. Most of the time she sets my teeth on edge. Yet I do rather enjoy having the old bag around the house. Heaven only knows what would become of me if you weren’t here.’

‘But I am here, Paul.’

‘That’s right. You are.’

‘And unless you’d like another cup of coffee –’

‘No thanks. No, it’s time for work. All going well, we ought to be able to finish what we’re doing by the morning’s end.’

‘So you said yesterday.’

‘Hmm, yes.’

‘A penny for your thoughts, Paul.’

‘What sort of day is it today?’

‘What sort of weather, you mean?’

‘Yes. It feels sunny.’

‘It is. It’s a beautiful day. There’s a real sense of spring in the air. When I went into the village this morning, I noticed little clumps of crocuses and daffodils on the common. You feel the new year is finally getting its act together. Why do you ask?’

‘Ask what?’

‘About the weather.’

‘Ah, well, you see, John, if we do manage to finish by midday, then rather than launch into a whole new section I might ask you to make one of your little excursions.’

‘To London?’

‘No, no. To Oxford.’

‘Oxford?’

‘Yes, I’d like you to drive over to Oxford and do another little recce for me. It’s less than an hour from here. Take your camera. And the notebook, of course.’

‘Any particular area of Oxford?’

‘Well, of course a particular area. I’m not writing a travel guide, you know. I want you to visit my old
college. Hertford. I need a good, detailed description of the building and its grounds.’

‘So you’re finally going to deal with the past?’

‘Mmm.’

‘What about the period of your life before and after Oxford?’

‘What about it?’

‘Do you also plan to write about your childhood? Your adolescence? Oh, and weren’t you once briefly a schoolmaster?’

‘Who told you that?’

‘What?’

‘That I was a schoolmaster?’

‘Well. No one, really.’

‘No one told you? It’s just one of those facts of life you didn’t have to be told?’

‘Honestly, I can’t remember where –’

‘Can you see me as a schoolmaster?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I seem to remember having schoolmasters who weren’t unlike you.’

‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’

‘Frankly, Paul, I didn’t mean much of anything by it. Is something the matter?’

‘Let’s just drop the subject, shall we? As for my early life, I told you before that mine is not destined to be a conventional autobiography. On the rare occasions,
on the very rare occasions, that I read autobiographies, I always skip the earliest years – the author’s childhood, his family tree. Who cares? Every childhood is more or less alike. If I’m reading the book at all, it’s because I’m interested in the subject when he
ceases
to be a child, when he’s already become the sort of person who deserves a biography in the first place. Anyway, that’s the way
I
feel. And since I do feel that way, I certainly have no intention of forcing my own childhood down the reader’s throat. All right?’