Eyeless In Gaza (44 page)

Anthony felt her body droop limp and heavy in his arms. So heavy indeed, and with so unexpected a weight, that he
almost lost his balance. He staggered, then braced himself and held her up more closely.

‘What is it, Joan?'

She did not answer, but leaned her forehead against his shoulder. He could feel that if he were now to let her go, she would fall. Perhaps she was ill. He would have to call for help – wake up the aunt – explain what had happened . . . Wondering desperately what to do, he looked about him. The lamp in the hall projected through the open door of the drawing-room a strip of light that revealed the end of a sofa covered with yellow chintz. Still holding her up with one arm about her shoulders, he bent down and slid the other behind her knees; then, with an effort (for she was heavier than he had imagined), lifted her off her feet, carried her along the narrow path of illumination that led into the darkness, and lowered her as gently as her weight would allow him on to the sofa.

Kneeling on the floor beside her, ‘Are you feeling better now?' he asked.

Joan drew a deep breath, passed a hand across her forehead, then opened her eyes and looked at him, but only for a moment; overcome by an access of timidity and shame, she covered her face with her hands. ‘I'm so sorry,' she whispered. ‘I don't know what happened. I felt so faint all of a sudden.' She was silent for a little; the lamps were alight again, the stretched wires were vibrating – but tolerably, not to excess. She parted her hands once more and turned towards him, shyly smiling.

With eyes that had grown accustomed to the faint light, he looked anxiously into her face. Thank God, she seemed to be all right. He wouldn't have to call the aunt. His feeling of relief was so profound that he took her hand and pressed it tenderly.

‘You're not cross with me, Anthony?'

‘Why should I be?'

‘Well, you have every right. Fainting like that . . .' Her face felt naked and exposed; withdrawing her hand from his grasp, she once more hid her shame. Fainting like that . . . The recollection humiliated her. Thinking of that sudden, silent, violent gesture of his, ‘He loves me,' she said to herself. And Brian? But Brian's absence seemed to have been raised to a higher power. He was not there with an unprecedented intensity, not there to the point of never having been there. All that was really there was this living presence beside her – the presence of desire, the presence of hands and mouth, the presence, potential but waiting, waiting to actualize itself again, of those kisses. She felt her breast lift, though she was unaware of having taken a deep breath; it was as though someone else had drawn it. ‘He loves me,' she repeated; it was a justification. She dropped her hands from her face, looked at him for a moment, then reached out and, whispering his name, drew his head down towards her.

‘Well, what's the result?' Mary called from the sofa as he entered. By the gloomy expression on Anthony's face she judged that it was she who had won the bet; and this annoyed her. She felt suddenly very angry with him – doubly and trebly angry; because he was so spiritless; because he hadn't cared enough for her to win his bet in spite of the spiritlessness; because he was forcing upon her a gesture which she didn't in the least want to make. After a day's motoring with him in the country she had come to the conclusion that Sidney Gattick was absolutely insufferable. By contrast, Anthony seemed the most charming of men. She didn't want to banish him, even temporarily. But her threat had been solemn and explicit; if she didn't carry it out, at least in part, all her authority was gone. And now the wretch was forcing her to keep her word. In a tone of angry reproach, ‘You've been a coward and lost,' she said. ‘I can see it.'

He shook his head. ‘No, I've won.'

Mary regarded him doubtfully. ‘I believe you're lying.'

‘I'm not.' He sat down beside her on the sofa.

‘Well, then, why do you look so glum? It's not very flattering to me.'

‘Why on earth did you make me do it?' he burst out. ‘It was idiotic.' It had also been wrong; but Mary would only laugh if he said that. ‘I always knew it was idiotic. But you insisted.' His voice was shrill with a complaining resentment. ‘And now God knows where I've landed myself.' Where he'd landed Joan and Brian, for that matter. ‘God knows.'

‘But explain,' cried Mary Amberley, ‘explain! Don't talk like a minor prophet.' Her eyes were bright with laughing curiosity. She divined some delightfully involved and fantastic situation. ‘Explain,' she repeated.

‘Well, I did what you told me,' he answered sullenly.

‘Hero!'

‘There's nothing funny about it.'

‘What! did you get your face slapped?'

Anthony frowned angrily and shook his head.

‘Then how
did
she take it?'

‘That's just the trouble: she took it seriously.'

‘Seriously?' Mary questioned. ‘You mean, she threatened to tell papa?'

‘I mean, she thought I was in love with her. She wants to break it off with Brian.'

Mrs Amberley threw back her head and gave utterance to a peal of her clear, richly vibrant laughter.

Anthony felt outraged. ‘It's not a joke.'

‘That's where you make your mistake.' Mary wiped her eyes and took a deep breath. ‘It's one of the best jokes I ever heard. But what do you propose to do?'

‘I shall have to tell her it's all a mistake.'

‘That'll be an admirable scene!'

He shook his head. ‘I shall write a letter.'

‘Courageous, as usual!' She patted his knee. ‘But now I want to hear the details. How was it that you let her go as far as she did? To the point of thinking you were in love with her. To the point of wanting to break it off with Brian. Couldn't you nip it in the bud?'

‘It was difficult,' he muttered, avoiding her inquisitive eye. ‘The situation . . . well, it got a bit out of control.'

‘You mean, you lost your head?'

‘If you like to put it that way,' he admitted reluctantly, thinking what a fool he had been, what an utter fool. He ought, of course, to have retreated when she turned towards him in the darkness; he ought to have refused her kisses, to have made it quite clear that his own had been light-hearted and without significance. But instead of that he had accepted them: out of laziness and cowardice, because it had been too much of an effort to make the necessary and necessarily difficult explanation; out of a certain weak and misplaced kindness of heart, because it would have hurt and humiliated her if he had said no – and to inflict a suffering he could actually witness was profoundly distasteful to him. And having accepted, he had enjoyed her kisses, had returned them with a fervour which
he
knew to be the result only of a detached, a momentary sensuality, but which Joan, it was obvious now (and he had known it even at the time), would inevitably regard as being roused specifically by herself, as having her for its special and irreplaceable object. An impartial observer would say that he had done his best, had gone out of his way, to create the greatest possible amount of misunderstanding in the shortest possible time.

‘How do you propose to get out of it?' Mary asked.

He hated her for putting the question that was tormenting him. ‘I shall write her a letter,' he said. As though
that
were an answer!

‘And what will Brian say about it?'

‘I'm going to stay with him tomorrow,' he replied irrelevantly. ‘In the Lakes.'

‘Like Wö-ödsworth,' said Mary. ‘What fun that'll be! And what exactly do you propose to tell him about Joan?' she went on inexorably.

‘Oh, I shall explain.'

‘But suppose Joan explains first – in a different way?'

He shook his head. ‘I told her I didn't want her to write to Brian before I'd talked to him.'

‘And you think she'll do what you ask?'

‘Why shouldn't she?'

Mary shrugged her shoulders and looked at him, smiling crookedly, her eyes bright between narrowed eyelids. ‘Why should she, if it comes to that?'

‘REORGANIZATION . . .' ‘READJUSTMENT . . .'
‘
WRITING
down of capital values in the light of existing trade conditions . . .' Anthony lifted his eyes from the printed page. Propped up on her pillows, Mary Amberley was staring at him, he found, with an embarrassing intentness.

‘Well?' she asked, leaning forward. Hennaed to an impossible orange, a lock of tousled hair fell drunkenly across her forehead. Her bed-jacket opened as she moved; under soiled lace, the breasts swung heavily towards him. ‘What does it mean?'

‘It means that they're going bankrupt on you.'

‘Going bankrupt?'

‘Paying you six and eightpence in the pound.'

‘But Gerry told me they were doing so well,' she protested in a tone of angry complaint.

‘Gerry doesn't know everything,' he charitably explained.

But, of course, the ruffian had known only too well; had known, had acted on his knowledge, had been duly paid by the people who wanted to unload their shares before the crash came. ‘Why don't you ask
him
about it?' he said aloud, and in a tone that implied some of the resentment he felt at having
been dragged, this very evening of his return from New York, into the entanglements of Mary's squalid tragedy. Everyone else, he supposed, had fled from her since she'd started taking that morphia; alone of all her friends, having been out of England for half a year, he had had as yet no opportunity and been given no reason to flee. Absence had preserved their friendship, as though in cold storage, in the state it was in before he left. When she had asked him urgently to come and see her, he had no excuse to refuse. Besides, people exaggerated; she couldn't be as bad as they made out.

‘Why don't you ask
him
?' he repeated irritably.

‘He's gone to Canada.'

‘Oh, he's gone to Canada.'

There was a silence. He laid the paper down on the coverlet. Mrs Amberley picked it up and re-read it – for the hundredth time, in the absurd and desperate hope that there might, this hundredth time, be something new in it, something different.

Anthony looked at her. The lamp on the bed-table lit up the profile she presented to him with a ruthlessly revealing brilliance. How hollow the cheeks were! And those lines round the mouth, those discoloured pouches of skin beneath the eyes! Remembering how she looked when he had seen her last, that time in Berkshire, only the previous summer, Anthony was appalled. The drug had aged her twenty years in half as many months. And it was not only her body that had been ravaged; the morphia had also changed her character, transformed her into someone else, someone (there had been no exaggeration at all) much worse. That engaging absence of mind, for example, that vagueness, of which, as of yet another feminine allurement, she always used to be so irritatingly vain, had now degenerated into almost an idiot's indifference. She forgot, she wasn't aware; above all, she didn't care, she couldn't any longer be bothered. Grotesquely dyed (in the
hope, he supposed, of regaining some of the attractiveness which she could not help noticing that she had lost), the hair was greasy and uncombed. A smear of red paint, clumsily laid on, enlarged her lower lip into an asymmetrical shapelessness. A cigarette-end had burned a round hole in the eiderdown, and the feathers fluttered up like snow-flakes each time she moved. The pillows were smudged with rouge and yolk of egg. There was a brown stain of coffee on the turned-back sheet. Between her body and the wall, the tray on which her dinner had been brought up stood precariously tilted. Still stained with gravy, a knife had slipped on to the counterpane.

With a sudden movement, Mrs Amberley crumpled up the paper and threw it from her. ‘That beast! He absolutely forced me to put my money into this. And now look what's happened!' The tears overflowed, carrying the black of her painted eyelashes in long sooty trickles down her cheeks.

‘He did it on purpose,' she went on through her angry sobbing. ‘Just in order to harm me. He's a sadist, really. He likes hurting people. He does it for pleasure.'

‘For profit,' Anthony almost said; but checked himself. She seemed to derive some consolation from the thought that she had been swindled, not from vulgarly commercial motives, but gratuitously, because of a fiendishness allied to and springing from the passion of love. It would be unkind to deprive her of that illusion. Let the poor woman think the thoughts she found least painfully humiliating. Besides, the less she was contradicted and diverted, the sooner, it might be hoped, would she stop. Prudently as well as considerately, he contented himself with a non-committal nod.

‘When I think of all I did for that man!' Mrs Amberley burst out. But while she recited her incoherent catalogue of generosities and kindnesses, Anthony could not help thinking of what the man had done for her; above all, of the terms in which Gerry was accustomed to describe what he had done.
Gross, extravagantly cynical terms. Terms of an incredible blackguardism. One was startled, one was set free into sudden laughter; and one was ashamed that such inadmissible brutalities should contain any element of liberating truth. And yet they
were
true.

‘All the most intelligent people in London,' Mrs Amberley was sobbing. ‘He met them all at my house.'

‘These old hags!' Gerry Watchett's voice sounded clearly in Anthony's memory. ‘They'll do anything to get it, absolutely anything.'

‘Not that he ever appreciated them,' she went on. ‘He was too stupid for that, too barbarous.'

‘Not a bad old bitch really, if she gets enough of it to keep her quiet. The problem is to give her enough. It's uphill work, I can tell you.'