Dying to Know You (18 page)

I knew if it went wrong, neither of them would have anything more to do with me.

“Will you go and see?” I asked.

She smiled and said, “Course I will! Did you think for one second that I wouldn’t?”

I laughed.

We were friends again.

She got up.

I was going to, but suddenly felt quite done in.

Mrs. Williamson waited. “Are you all right? You don’t look so good.”

“The bloody ’flu,” I said. “Overdone it a bit, first day out. Enjoyed myself too much.”

“Have a lie down on the sofa in the sitting room.”

“Kind of you. But, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll just slope off home and go to bed.”

“You sure? Shall I get Karl to drive you?”

“No, no. You go and see him. Very important. I’ll manage. Really. Say good-bye to him for me, and tell him I’m sorry to duck out but I’ll be in touch.”

“Of course! And you’re sure you’ll be OK?”

“I will. Honestly.”

As soon as I got home, I went to bed and was a goner for the next five hours. When I woke, I felt like I’d been squashed by an avalanche.

NEXT DAY, A SUNDAY, I MADE A BET WITH MYSELF THAT MRS.
Williamson would phone to ask how I was.

By the way, how do you make a bet with yourself? With whom are you betting? This brings me back to that endlessly puzzling, endlessly fascinating question: When I’m talking to myself, whom am I talking to and who is doing the talking? Are we all in fact two people, not one? Are we all One and Another? What I know is that I have an “everyday self,” the one who does things, says things, deals with the ins and outs, ups and downs of daily life, and another, an “inner self,” the one I think of as my real self, the self who observes everything my everyday self does, comments and judges, praises and dispraises, considers what would be best to do and not to do, and assesses the results.

Whichever one of me bet Mrs. W. would phone is the one who won. (But won what?)

Typical of her thoughtfulness, she waited till late morning, in case, as she said, I wanted to sleep in.

We exchanged the usual routine conversational strokes: How was I this morning? Much better, thank you. And her? Very well, thank you. Had I recovered from yesterday? Yes, and how much I’d enjoyed our meal. And how much she had too.

Those pleasantries out of the way, I asked whether she had gone to see Karl in the shed.

Yes, she had.

What did she make of what she saw?

She’d been so surprised, she didn’t know what to think.

So what had she said?

Nothing. She didn’t have to. As soon as she’d looked at the things on the workbench, Karl told her they were little models.

“I said, ‘Models of what?’ He said they were models of sculptures he was thinking of making full sized. I asked him where he got the idea from. He said he’d seen some sculptures when he went with you the other day, and he just felt he wanted to make something like them. So he was trying out some ideas with bits of wire because it would be too expensive to experiment with metal tubes and rods.”

“And what did you say?”

“I asked him why he hadn’t wanted me to know what he was doing. He said he didn’t want to show me till he was sure it wasn’t a passing fad. So I asked why he’d
shown them to you. He said you’d understand what he was trying to do, and it wouldn’t matter so much if he gave up after that. I asked him why he’d decided to show me now. Did that mean he’d go on? He said you’d told him it was wrong to show you and not to show me. He said he hadn’t meant to hurt me, but if I’d not liked what he was doing it would upset him and put him off. I said I understood now why he hadn’t told me. I was glad he was doing something that made him happy and I hoped he’d go on with it, and I’d help him any way I could. We gave each other a hug and that was that. I went back into the house and Karl went on working in the shed.”

I said, “So you didn’t talk about the models?”

“No,” Mrs. W. said. “Which was just as well, because I wouldn’t have known what to say. They just looked like bits of bent wire to me.”

I said, “That’s all they are, in a way.”

Mrs. W. laughed and said, “I’m sure he thinks they’re more than that, but what? Do you know?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

“He didn’t tell you?”

“No. I guess they represent ideas. Feelings. Thoughts.”

“You mean abstract art?”

“If you want to call it that.”

“I’m not too good with abstract art. I like art that looks like things I know.”

“Maybe most people do.”

“And you?”

“I like some and not all. I think some of it is a load of old tosh. Pretentious nonsense. Some of it is wonderful. But that’s true of everything, isn’t it?”

Pause.

Mrs. W. said, “D’you think he wants to be a sculptor? I mean professionally?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“He hasn’t said?”

“And I haven’t asked.”

“But if he does, won’t he have to go to art school, to learn how to do it properly?”

“Not necessarily. He could find a job as an assistant to a sculptor and learn that way.”

“You mean, like an apprenticeship? Like he learned his plumbing?”

“Why not? That’s the way it used to be done for centuries, till we all got hung up on going to college and getting bits of paper to prove we’re supposed to be able to do something we learn best by doing it.”

“But isn’t it hard to make a living as a sculptor?”

“Harder than making a living as a plumber, that’s for sure.”

“Oh dear!”

Pause.

“Will you encourage him, if he decides to do it as a job?” Mrs. W. said, her voice giving away her worry.

“You’d rather I didn’t?”

“Wouldn’t he be better off as a plumber and doing his sculpting as a hobby?”

“Well, let’s see how things develop.”

“But you’ll not push him into it?”

“No, I’ll not push him into anything.”

Pause.

“There’s something else,” Mrs. W. said.

“What’s that?”

“He had another visitor yesterday, not long after you’d gone.”

“Oh?”

“Fiorella.”

“
Fiorella!
What did she want?”

“To see Karl of course.”

“And?”

“I made her wait while I asked him. He told me to send her to the shed.”

“And?”

“And nothing! Karl came in about an hour later. I asked him where Fiorella was. He said she left by the back gate. I asked what she wanted. He said, just to see him. I asked if he’d shown her his models. He said he had.”

“And that was it?”

“That was it. You know my Karl well enough by now. If he doesn’t want to tell you something, wild horses won’t drag it out of him.”

“Well, that’s a turnup for the book!”

This bolt of news rather knocked me off balance. What was Fiorella up to? And what was Karl up to, allowing her to see his models? And what else went on between them? And why had she chosen that day to drop in on him uninvited? Or was she uninvited? Had something gone on between them which Karl preferred I didn’t know about? I felt pretty sure he’d have mentioned it, had he and Fiorella got together again. Or would he?

To be truthful, I felt miffed that he might be keeping something like this from me. But I knew, at the same time, there was no reason why he should confide in me—about this or anything else. And I had to confess to myself that feeling miffed was a sign that I was assuming too much, expecting too much, of our friendship, and that I was more concerned about him, and wanted to be closer to him, than I should allow myself to want.

The only thing I could think to say was, “Where is he now?”

But the way I said it gave away my too-keen interest.

“Gone fishing,” Mrs. W. said.

I thought it best not to go any further. And she must have thought so too, because she added,

“Is there anything you need? Anything I can bring for you?”

I said, no, thanks, I was OK.

Pause.

“You can call me anytime,” she said.

I knew she meant to reassure me.

We went though the usual chatter before ringing off.

I thought that would be it for the rest of the day and settled down to read the Sunday papers. But no.

THAT AFTERNOON, I CHECKED MY EMAILS. THIS FROM FIORELLA:

As you know everything about Karl, you are bound to know what he is doing with bits of wire. I went to see him yesterday. I know I said I wouldn’t. I know he doesn’t like surprises. (I think he is probably a control freak.) But I couldn’t help myself, I was desperate to see him, I wish I wasn’t but I was, I mean I still am. I thought he wouldn’t see me but he did. He was in the garden shed. I wouldn’t say he was exactly ecstatic. Very arm’s-length and hands-off, when what I wanted was close-up and intimate and hands-on. As a matter of fact, most of the time I was there I felt I was being watched, being observed, like I was some kind of laboratory specimen. Also like I was being tested and assessed
and examined. I tried to be cool and offhand and all that but when I’m unsure of myself I start to babble, yammer yammer yammer. I do wish I didn’t do this. It is so gauche. I know I’m doing it at the time and keep telling myself to shut up, but can’t stop myself, can’t help it, it really is a pain. So I went on blathering at him, it doesn’t matter what I said, about nothing really. And he just stood there listening and watching and saying nothing. Until after an age he asked me why I’d come—I said because I wanted to see him, no other reason—and he asked how I was getting on—school, chess, blah blah. I asked about him but he did that trick of answering my questions with questions about me. And instead of pushing him to talk about himself I stupidly rabbitted on again about myself. I think I do this, with him anyway, because what I really want to do is get hold of him and etc. etc. There’s just something about him that makes me want to do that, there’s something small boy and vulnerable about him and at the same time something terribly grown-up and strong and I have to admit I find that combination plus his looks, his body, etc., irresistible. I guess blathering on is a kind of compensation or something for not being allowed to touch him and hold him. I suppose I’m trying to touch him and hold him and kiss him with words.

Now I’m rabbitting on to you and not getting to the point. Why am I doing that? It’s important to know why you do what you do, especially the things you do without meaning to, don’t you agree? I know you agree because all your books are like that, which is one reason why I like them. So why am I rabbitting on to you now? (Pause for thought.) Oh dear, I don’t like what I’m thinking. (Pause for more thought.) Well, alright, what it is, I think, is—I don’t know how to put it without sounding stupid or bitchy—but I half resent you knowing Karl better than I do and seeing him all the time and I don’t, and half resent Karl knowing you and seeing you, because after all he only got to know you because of me talking to him about your books (which he hasn’t read, by the way, I know because I asked him yesterday, but then, you know he doesn’t read novels or anything he doesn’t have to, but only what he really wants to, and why he doesn’t). Does this mean I’m jealous? I hope it doesn’t. I hate the thought that I might be a jealous person. It’s such an ugly weakness. And am I being like some silly girl who comes wittering on because she thinks she’s been left out of the game and wants to worm her way in and be best friends with the other two and goes smarming up to them trying to ingratiate herself? God, I hope not!

The only way to stop wittering like this is to stop wittering. So:

LONG PAUSE FOR RECOVERY OF CALM.

Much later.

Here is my point in best exam-essay style:

I had not been in Karl’s shed, which he called his workshop, before, so everything in it was new to me. To stop myself blathering on I asked about the use of some of the tools and machines. Karl replied briefly. There were some bits of wire on the workbench, which I didn’t take any notice of, because I thought they were bits of rubbish. All the time, Karl was standing at the end of the bench, leaning back against it.