Four Gated City (55 page)

It was no joke, for having compared himself to Max Beerbohm, and got every other conceivable side-benefit from his situation, the fact remained, he had conquered London-what other peaks could there be? After that, it could only be all downhill.

Mark had suggested America: after all, it was at least three years since Graham had been there. Graham had returned to New York and was a great success. He had taken away jazz; he went back with Marxism, which had all the charm of novelty, for no one could remember hearing anything like it, their own communists all having been silenced for years, either being in prison, or departed to take refuge in London, or dead from suicide, or in mental hospitals. In fact so far behind them was the age of Joe McArthy, enormous numbers of people could not remember it, and were saying it never had happened. One thing was certain, no one would believe that it might happen again. As Graham said, bringing back the news of America’s liberalism and love of freedom:’ They are all such darling, kind, marvellous people-I tell you, Mark, I felt as safe there as I did when I went to Moscow.’

But, having come back, what now? Keeping his hand in, he arranged for a production of
The Tempest
which was, quite clearly, Shakespeare’s message about the under-privileged: Caliban was an African, and the programme notes drew comparisons with South Africa. He did
Toad of Toad Hall
(a parable about the class society) for a theatre in Shaftesbury Avenue. Then-what? He needed a new field to conquer. Should it be television?

The problem was still unsolved when they reached Hammersmith Bridge, where a friend of Graham’s lived who had promised to go on the committee. The ease with which this person had agreed reminded Graham of Mark’s intransigence and he began pressuring Mark to join the committee. Mark said yes, provided he
didn’t have to go to committee meetings. Graham, new to politics, thought this was not workable.

Mark then developed his view, which was that on these occasions, when Britannia our Mother is in a state of moral indignation, the less said the better.

‘Well, really, you’re not suggesting we should simply not do
anything
? ’

‘Not at all, you should do as much as possible, as quietly as possible. Because then it will all blow over-otherwise heads will roll, and scapegoats will have to be found.’

‘Blow over! The whole situation is disgraceful!’

‘I dare say. But when they’re tired of homosexuality they’ll start on something else, there’s always got to be something.’

Graham could not see this: there being no substitute for experience. He believed that if he argued long enough with Mark, Mark would be bound to change his mind, since he, Graham was obviously in the right, and Mark both pusillanimous and ill-informed.

Still arguing, they arrived home to find Patty there: she had got a lift, and was waiting to see Mark and Graham.

The house seemed full of people of all ages; and music came from several sources. The kitchen and the drawing-room being occupied, the four went into the empty dining-room.

Patty was embarrassed: also, agitated.

These were public, or professional attributes: underneath she was angry, something quite different, because she had hoped to spend a pleasant evening at Margaret’s, but had to come chasing into London to calm people down-as usual.

When she had arrived back among the guests with the news that Mark would sign the petition, and that Graham was to go into London with him, Margaret murmured well, that’s all right.

She would have been happy to let it go, let things slide: but letting things slide was both her talent and her downfall: through not saying anything, allowing people to gather what they might, Mark was in a false position. She knew that, but could not quite see where it was her fault. She was in a false position too, most profoundly so, and any embarrassment Mark might be feeling was nothing to hers.

Discovering that her third, and she had hoped, last husband, was, at least partially, homosexual, had caused her anguish-but
apart from a dry word or two dropped to Patty, a great chum, she had not said much, save that ‘at my age, companionship is what counts’. This was felt as a valuable lead by a great many women in need of one. But taking this stand, was quite different from finding herself at the heart of a public battle on principle. She was annoyed with her stepson, but could not say so. Why did people always have to be on platforms, and making statements, and creating fusses? (Her attitude, in short, was rather like Mark’s, only neither could see it.) She was desperately sorry for her poor John who had been away, staying with his aged mother, well out of the fuss and limelight and the people who eddied around her, Margaret, so conscientiously on his side; but she did so wish everyone would find some other house to make a centre, or one of the centres, of protest. But she could not say so.

Now, she kept quiet while someone who had not realized that Mark Coldridge was Margaret Patten’s son, made some remarks about his living with two women, about heterosexuals being so much more immoral than homosexuals, etc. etc. This made her angry, and her head ached. For like many other people, while she was prepared to wish homosexuals every kind of happiness and success in their private pursuits, she would rather this did not mean her supporting their claims to moral superiority. The same person went on to say that he was not surprised Mark Coldridge took this attitude; his novels showed him to be a natural reactionary; conservative, and indeed, authoritarian.

At which Margaret snapped that that was nonsense, Mark was a communist ‘as she thought everyone knew’.

No one knew; the new epoch had obliterated all others.• The person who had spoken was enlightened in a whisper that he had been attacking her son; and her interjection was put down to natural annoyance.

After a silence, the subject was changed, and someone took Patty aside to say that Mark ought not to be associated with the committee, if he was a communist-it would make things very tricky. In which case, Patty said, she ought not to be either, she was in the same position.

Embarrassment was now general. The atmosphere of the sunny afternoon was all darkened with annoyance, embarrassment and doubt. Someone inquired-what all this was about anyway? Quite
so, but it was too late to find out. The afternoon had gone wrong. Margaret made her headache public and guests began to leave.

Patty knew that these circles being as they are, feeding on gossip, talebearing and malice, Mark could expect a telephone call pretty soon, giving him an account of what had happened. In which case, tired of the whole business, he would probably back out. Patty knew what her job was: this was her job; what in fact she earned her large salary for.

She was going to be, as always, a lightning conductor, a kind of earth. Therefore did she stand in the dining-room, privately angry, indeed, longing for bed and a nice read and a glass of cold milk, but apparently full of public concern and feeling.

‘It is too bad, ’ said Graham, ‘I’m simply not going to stand for witch-hunts of any kind. And if Mark has to stand down, I go too.’

‘Oh, nonsense, ’ said Mark, ‘for goodness’ sake have a sense of proportion.’

The telephone rang. It was Margaret, wanting to tell Mark that he was not to believe ‘any stories about her-no, she wouldn’t go into details, but what he heard wouldn’t be true-that was all’.

She rang off. Mark said:’ Look, three days ago I told you, Graham, that I’d sign a petition. That’s what I shall do. It’s perfectly simple.’

‘Oh, no really, it’s too …’ Graham exclaimed and objected, while Patty did too, watching both to see how the matter balanced, and glancing at Martha from time to time so that Martha might add fuel, or damp it.

Patty knew that this kind of emotional blow-up must run its course. Graham must use up an allowance of moral indignation about misdirected moral indignation, and Mark, a slow-burning, stubborn man, must smoulder until Graham stopped, while Martha’the silent sort, damn her!’ wouldn’t be much help … sometimes in the theatre, with a suitable female there, Patty could get such an incident over in a couple of minutes. For years Patty had been fulfilling this function without being conscious of what she did. Sometimes, knowing that outwardly she fizzed and exclaimed while inwardly she remained cool, she might have let out a self-parodying Jewish ‘Oi, oi, oi!’ And when people had said she was hysterical, she had been humorously indignant:’ What, me hysterical?’ At some point, a mechanism had become clear to her: she could often direct it. But not with these two men, one so violent, so sentimental; one so slow to ignite.

Suddenly Martha put an end to it: she remarked ‘In that case, if people are going to stand on principle, then I don’t think Mark, or you, or Margaret should be involved at all-you’re all family and people working with you might be embarrassed …’ At which Graham exploded into a hundred expostulations about her absurdity-he was very rude. She then became silent; he, raging at a silent woman, could not stand it, and went charging at her, in what looked like an attack but turned into some effusive kisses: Oh God, Martha, I’m so terribly terribly
sorry
I don’t know
what
…

It was over. Patty wondered, had Martha done it on purpose?

At any rate, she seemed to be employing tactics when she asked Graham to go into the kitchen to find out if Lynda wanted the table laid in here, and for how many, and asked Mark to see if Paul was all right.

The two women were left alone.

‘God knows how you stand it, ’ said Martha.

‘It’s the theatre, love, it’s the theatre!’

‘It’s not the theatre-it’s everything. However

Graham now passed the door, and put his head round to say that Lynda thought they’d eat in the kitchen.

Patty had pushed a chair back from the long formal table, and had sat, off-guard a moment, smoking with her eyes shut.

The room was hardly used, they all preferred the kitchen. Patty, a jolly fat child in her fashionable nursery dress, sat like a little girl in the heavy, grave, grown-up scene.

‘Did you do all that on purpose?’ asked Martha suddenly. ‘Did you?’

The little girl opened a pair of extraordinarily shrewd dark eyes, and winked at Martha. She shut them again. ‘Golly, ’ said Martha. ‘I’ve just had a sort of-yes.
Of course
.’

‘Of course, ’ said Patty, flat.‘But I tell you, it takes it out of one, it takes … do you think I could have a lie-down before supper-if you are asking me to supper? Please do. I couldn’t face my lonely room tonight.’

‘What’s happened to Eric?’

Oh, you may ask.’

In another mood, Patty would have discussed it: but the bare bones of her problem remained the same. She was too old for a’real’ marriage. Unless she wanted some old man, or an emotional cripple, she wouldn’t get married at all; in the meantime she was
on’the older woman roster-I suppose someone has to do it-it’s a social function I suppose …’ She had been making inquiries about adopting a child.

Martha sent her up to sleep in her room; and went to the living-room.

There sat Graham deep in a big sofa, with the two girls on either side of him. He sat all held into himself, his two hands caught between his knees, chin lowered, eyes inflamed. Jill and Gwen, two fair, lustrous blue-eyed morsels were sitting by their witty uncle Graham, but gazing with passionate admiration at their cousin Francis, and his lovely friend Nick Anderson, who had come with him from school. The two handsome boys, the lovely little girls, were engaged only with each other: outside their charmed circle, two Africans, Phoebe’s friends, watched a London scene in polite curiosity, and Graham allowed it to be understood that he suffered torments of lust, for he might dandle, kiss and browse among the bosoms and cheeks of mature women as much as they liked, but here was his truth.

‘Are you all right?’ inquired Martha, looking at Graham, with every intention of mockery. And he raised his swollen eyes and muttered:’ No, I’m not.’

‘Wouldn’t you perhaps like to come and help me lay the table, Graham dear?’

‘No.’

‘I take it you are staying to dinner?’

‘Yes.’

‘I suppose Lynda knows?’

‘Surely she must!’

Martha went to the kitchen, where Lynda was alone, cooking. She wore a dress, which meant that she intended to eat with them. She often cooked meals these days, but at the last moment escaped downstairs: many people upset her.

She looked much better. She had put on some weight. The battle of the drugs had not been entirely won, because she took sleeping pills sometimes, but then, as she said, so many people did. A year before she had cracked again, suddenly, over Mark’s assumption that being better meant she was well—he had again suggested she could come back upstairs and be his wife. She had refused to go into a hospital, public or private, even though Dr Lamb had promised she would not be given drugs: she did not trust him, she
said. Privately she told Martha that also, she did not trust herself: in an atmosphere where everyone took drugs, where one was expected to take them, she would. She could not stay in the basement, by herself, for she knew she was going to break things, and cry and scream-Paul was in the house now all the time; Francis was in and out from his new school; what was to be done? Suddenly everyone remembered Dorothy and talked about her-she was dead.

A suicide attempt had succeeded; they believed this had not been Dorothy’s intention. Remembering Dorothy, always so kind when Lynda was’silly’, Lynda got depressed, became worse. Martha looked about for a flat somewhere where Lynda could be silly in comfort. They found one, at enormous expense. Lynda found out how expensive it was, and began blaming herself for everything. A nurse went with Lynda to this flat, and rang up every evening to report on Mrs. Coldridge: a bit better today I think, no, on the whole not so well, I’m afraid … Suddenly Lynda came home, asked them to dismiss the nurse and the flat, and announced she was all right. The nurse reported that she had been extremely quiet and well-behaved.

Quiet, trying very hard, Lynda had been ever since. The bad area of strain was-Lynda and Paul. Paul now hated Lynda shrilly and cruelly, which was one reason why she found it hard to come to meals. Lynda simply said that Paul was too much for her. She did not understand how badly he had been let down. She did not believe she was a person who had anything to give; she did not believe she had given Paul anything during that long long period when in fact she was his only friend. Withdrawing from him she could not be made to see that she was taking anything away.