Complete Works, Volume IV (21 page)

VOICE 1
Lady Withers plays the piano. They were sitting, the three women, about the room. About the room were bottles of a vin rosé, of a pink I shall never forget. They sipped their wine from such lovely glass, an elegance of gesture and grace I thought long dead. Lady Withers wore a necklace around her alabaster neck, a neck amazingly young. She played Schumann. She smiled at me. Mrs Withers and Jane smiled at me. I took a seat. I took it and sat in it. I am in it. I will never leave it.

Oh mother, I have found my home, my family. Little did I ever dream I could know such happiness.

VOICE 2
Perhaps I should forget all about you. Perhaps I should curse you as your father cursed you. Oh I pray, I pray your life is a torment to you. I wait for your letter begging me to come to you. I’ll spit on it.

VOICE 1
Mother, mother, I’ve had the most unpleasant, the most mystifying encounter, with the man who calls himself Mr Withers. Will you give me your advice?

Come in here, son, he called. Look sharp. Don’t mess about. I haven’t got all night. I went in. A jug. A basin. A bicycle.

You know where you are? he said. You’re in my room. It’s not Euston Station. Get me? It’s a true oasis.

This is the only room in this house where you can pick up a caravanserai to all points West. Compris? Comprende? Get me? Are you prepared to follow me down the mountain? Look at me. My name’s Withers. I’m there or thereabouts. Follow? Embargo on all duff terminology. With me? Embargo on all things redundant. All areas in that connection verboten. You’re in a diseaseridden land, boxer. Keep your weight on all the left feet you can lay your hands on. Keep dancing. The old foxtrot is the classical response but that’s not the response I’m talking about. Nor am I talking about the other response. Up the slaves. Get me? This is a place of creatures, up and down stairs. Creatures of the rhythmic splits, the rhythmic sideswipes, the rums and roulettes, the macaroni tatters, the dumplings in jam mayonnaise, a catapulting ordure of gross and ramshackle shenanigans, openended paraphernalia. Follow me? It all adds up. It’s before you and behind you. I’m the only saviour of the grace you find yourself wanting in. Mind how you go. Look sharp. Get my drift? Don’t let it get too mouldy. Watch the mould. Get the feel of it, sonny, get the density. Look at me.

And I did.

VOICE 2
I am ill.

VOICE 1
It was like looking into a pit of molten lava, mother. One look was enough for me.

VOICE 2
Come to me.

VOICE 1
I joined Mrs Withers for a Campari and soda in the kitchen. She spoke of her youth. I was a right titbit, she said. I was like a piece of plum duff. They used to come from miles to try their luck. I fell head over heels with a man in the Fleet Air Arm. He adored me. They had him murdered because they didn’t want us to know happiness. I could have married him and had tons of sons. But oh no. He went down with his ship. I heard it on the wireless.

VOICE 2
I wait for you.

VOICE 1
Later that night Riley and I shared a cup of cocoa in his quarters. I like slender lads, Riley said. Slender but strong. I’ve never made any secret of it. But I’ve had to restrain myself, I’ve had to keep a tight rein on my inclinations. That’s because my deepest disposition is towards religion. I’ve always been a deeply religious man. You can imagine the tension this creates in my soul. I walk about in a constant state of spiritual, emotional, psychological and physical tension. It’s breathtaking, the discipline I’m called upon to exert. My lust is unimaginably violent but it goes against my best interests, which are to keep on the right side of God. I’m a big man, as you see, I could crush a slip of a lad such as you to death, I mean the death that is love, the death I understand love to be. But meet it is that I keep those desires shackled in handcuffs and leg-irons. I’m good at that sort of thing because I’m a policeman by trade. And I’m highly respected. I’m highly respected both in the force and in church. The only place where I’m not highly respected is in this house. They don’t give a shit for me here. Although I’ve always been a close relation. Of a sort. I’m a fine tenor but they never invite me to sing. I might as well be living in the middle of the Sahara Desert. There are too many women here, that’s the trouble. And it’s no use talking to Baldy. He’s well away. He lives in another area, best known to himself. I like health and strength and intelligent conversation. That’s why I took a fancy to you, chum, apart from the fact that I fancy you. I’ve got no one to talk to. These women treat me like a leper. Even though I am a relation. Of a sort.

What relation?

Is Lady Withers Jane’s mother or sister?

If either is the case why isn’t Jane called Lady Jane Withers? Or perhaps she is. Or perhaps neither is the case? Or perhaps Mrs Withers is actually the Honourable Mrs Withers? But if that is the case what does that make Mr Withers? And which Withers is he anyway? I mean what relation is he to the rest of the Witherses? And who is Riley?

But if you find me bewildered, anxious, confused, uncertain and afraid, you also find me content. My life possesses shape. The house has a very warm atmosphere, as you have no doubt gleaned. And as you have no doubt noted from my account I talk freely to all its inhabitants, with the exception of Mr Withers, to whom no one talks, to whom no one refers, with evidently good reason. But I rarely leave the house. No one seems to leave the house. Riley leaves the house but rarely. He must be a secret policeman. Jane continues to do a great deal of homework while not apparently attending any school. Lady Withers never leaves the house. She has guests. She receives guests. Those are the steps I hear on the stairs at night.

VOICE 3
I know your mother has written to you to tell you that I am dead. I am not dead. I am very far from being dead, although lots of people have wished me dead, from time immemorial, you especially. It is you who have prayed for my death, from time immemorial. I have heard your prayers. They ring in my ears. Prayers yearning for my death. But I am not dead.

Well, that is not entirely true, not entirely the case. I’m lying. I’m leading you up the garden path, I’m playing about, I’m having my bit of fun, that’s what. Because I am dead. As dead as a doornail. I’m writing to you from my grave. A quick word for old time’s sake. Just to keep in touch. An old hullo out of the dark. A last kiss from Dad.

I’ll probably call it a day after this canter. Not much more to say. All a bit of a sweat. Why am I taking the trouble? Because of you, I suppose, because you were such a loving son. I’m smiling, as I lie in this glassy grave.

Do you know why I use the word glassy? Because I can see out of it.

Lots of love, son. Keep up the good work.

There’s only one thing bothers me, to be quite frank. While there is, generally, absolute silence everywhere, absolute silence throughout all the hours, I still hear, occasionally, a dog barking. I hear this dog. Oh, it frightens me.

VOICE 1
They have decided on a name for me. They call me Bobo. Good morning, Bobo, they say, or, See you in the morning, Bobo, or, Don’t drop a goolie, Bobo, or, Don’t forget the diver, Bobo, or, Keep your eye on the ball, Bobo, or, Keep this side of the tramlines, Bobo, or, How’s the lead in your pencil, Bobo, or, How’s tricks in the sticks, Bobo, or, Don’t get too much gum in your gumboots, Bobo.

The only person who does not call me Bobo is the old man. He calls me nothing. I call him nothing. I don’t see him. He keeps to his room. I don’t go near it. He is old and will die soon.

VOICE 2
The police are looking for you. You may remember that you are still under twenty-one. They have issued your precise description to all the organs. They will not rest, they assure me, until you are found. I have stated my belief that you are in the hands of underworld figures who are using you as a male prostitute. I have declared in my affidavit that you have never possessed any strength of character whatsoever and that you are palpably susceptible to even the most blatant form of flattery and blandishment. Women were your downfall, even as a nipper. I haven’t forgotten Françoise the French maid or the woman who masqueraded under the title of governess, the infamous Miss
Carmichael. You will be found, my boy, and no mercy will be shown to you.

VOICE 1
I’m coming back to you, mother, to hold you in my arms.

I am coming home.

I am coming also to clasp my father’s shoulder. Where is the old boy? I’m longing to have a word with him. Where is he? I’ve looked in all the usual places, including the old summerhouse, but I can’t find him. Don’t tell me he’s left home at his age? That would be inexpressibly skittish a gesture, on his part. What have you done with him, mother?

VOICE 2
I’ll tell you what, my darling. I’ve given you up as a very bad job. Tell me one last thing. Do you think the word love means anything?

VOICE 1
I am on my way back to you. I am about to make the journey back to you. What will you say to me?

VOICE 3
I have so much to say to you. But I am quite dead. What I have to say to you will never be said.