Jackson's Dilemma (30 page)

‘Yes.’

‘I’m sorry. Why did he go?’

‘I think he just got fed up and wanted to move on. I say, would you like something to drink or eat? It’s quite late. Do stay for lunch!’

They looked at each other.

‘We’d love to,’ said Edward, ‘but we’ve got to go to London. We’ve got to do the rounds there! We’ve so much wanted to see you, you’ve been such a friend — I hope you understand about the wedding.’

‘Yes, of course. I shall expect to come to the party - perhaps it could happen here — ’

‘We’ll send you a card,’ said Anna.

They all stood up.

‘Why, hello!’ said Benet to Bran, who had materialised from the garden. ‘But
you’
ll go to the wedding, won’t you!’

Bran said nothing. Edward said, ‘Of course! Come along then.’

Chatting about the heavenly weather they drifted into the house and out at the front door where Edward’s red Jaguar was standing. Benet waved them goodbye.

 

 

 

When the Jaguar had stopped outside the front door of Hatting Hall, Bran, who had been silent in the back of the car during the journey, jumped out, announced that he was going ‘to visit Spencer’ and, running back towards the front gate, disappeared. In his presence Edward and Anna had exchanged a few remarks. ‘How solitary Benet seems.’ ‘He’s got his books.’ ‘He’s sorry about Jackson.’ ‘Yes — I wonder what happened there?’

Now, after watching Bran’s departure they mounted the steps in silence. The door was partly open, letting in the sunshine. They entered the large hall, dark by contrast.

Montague appeared, smiling.

‘Oh, Montague,
thanks
for arranging the flowers so beautifully!’ said Anna. She had already made friends with the staff. She followed Edward into the drawing room, closing the door behind her. He was standing with his back to her, looking out on the garden. She put her arms round his waist and leaned her head against him. ‘Edward, my dear love - do you still love me?’

‘Don’t be silly!’ He turned round, and holding her as in a dance, propelled her to the enormous sofa which faced the fireplace. They fell down clasping each other onto the sofa.

As they adjusted themselves into a sitting position she said, ‘Of course you are worrying about Bran and — ’

‘Bran is
thinking
again.’

‘Good thoughts, happy thoughts — ’

‘I’m worrying about you.’

‘What
they
think?
They
don’t think!’

‘I’m afraid you’ll stop loving me, you know I bring catastrophe. I have already brought confusion.’

‘Edward,
don’t
— I shall cry - I love you - I’m so happy, you must not stop me from being happy, you must not stop Bran from being happy. It’s what I’ve always wanted and he has always wanted.’

‘I hope he’ll like that school.’

‘Your school. You liked it.’

‘No I didn’t.’

‘Oh you, you’ve never liked anything!’

‘Except you - and Bran—’

‘And now you’ve got us. Oh Edward, darling, don’t cry—you’re thinking about — ’

‘I think about
that
every moment of my life.’

‘You mean Randall — Oh my dear - ’

‘Don’t say anything, I’m crying for you, for us — ’

‘It’s a sort of prayer, you said that yesterday - It is a prayer, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I do wish we were married. It’s taking such a damned long time, I thought - ’

‘It’s very soon now. And so is lunch. And I shall be the Mistress of Hatting! Come!’

 

 

 

 

Mildred was now beginning a little to wish that she had gone to India after all. Why had she so suddenly cancelled that journey, made void those tickets? She had held so attentively in her mind so many pictures of that future, she saw herself moving humbly among the barefoot poor, the starving, dressed in a stained and dusty sari. Women whom she had known were
out
there, Mildred had had no doubt that she would soon be among them and among innumerable others, Christians, Buddhists, Hindus, Muslims, servants of God or of gods. Was that not something ultimate? Not just busily, efficiently, to feed the poor, but to do so in humility, out of love, out of deep spiritual belief, as
servants.
Sitting, kneeling, upon the ground, in the dust. There where she had wished to be and now would never be. What
now
could she do, what great worthy thing, what profound humility could she achieve, which was not itself an act of pride and self-satisfaction? Well, do I want to be a
saint,
she thought. That way is a mystery, a long long servitude, a complete loss of self, an utterly new being, a cloud of unknowing.

Such a tumble of thoughts distracted Mildred as she sat, or more usually stood, in the crowded Underground train which in the morning (some mornings anyway) carried her from her tidy little town flat to the dirty miserable
dangerous
area of London where her Anglican priest lived, himself in a tiny shack, among his poor. His name was Lucas Begbrook. His parents were Methodists, but forgave his High Anglican curtsies and candles. Mildred knew of course that she belonged to Owen. Why then had she decided to go to India, was it to achieve an absolute severance? Because she had begun to disapprove of his drunkenness, and his chamber of Horrors or because she was just tired of him, or that she had realised that Elizabeth Loxon could look after him just as well? Actually all
that
was more likely to make her stay! More potent still, Mildred had now become aware of the fact that Lucas was, at any rate a little, in love with her. Was she in love with him? At least he came to her in her dreams.

 

Coming back in the afternoon in a less crowded train Mildred makes her way, as often, to the British Museum, going to the Indian Gallery. Here she goes first to the god Shiva to whom she bows, and to Parvati his wife who is also the river Ganges, how gently he turns to his dear wife with whom Mildred identifies. Now Shiva, a snake about one arm, dances, he has become Shiva Nataraja, four-armed dancer in a circle of fire. The god Krishna, also he dances, avatar of Vishnu, guide of Arjuna, yet still a cowherd god who plays the flute and dances with the milkmaids, his divine power convincing each one that she is the only object of his love. His flute he plays, this dark-skinned ancient being from the past of time. He saves his followers, an adolescent with a tiger-claw necklace, lifting up a mountain. He dances upon the opened hood of the royal cobra Nagas, Kala Nag. Mildred dreams of glowing birds flying in darkness, of cobras stretching out their hoods, and dear Ganesh, and dear Ganga, Ganges. Buddha incarnate in Vishnu. So Shiva with Parvati, Shiva dancing in a wheel of fire, Krishna with his milkmaids giving himself to each.

She had not discussed ‘worship of idols’ with Lucas. She felt, emanating from the images, these live beings, a profound warmth of passion, of love, that of the gods themselves but also of their numberless worshippers. In India, at every street corner, the god with garlands round his neck. This was religion, the giving away of oneself, the realisation of how small, like to a grain of dust, one was in the vast misery of the world - and yet how vast the power of goodness, of love, like a great cloud, lifting one up out of the meanness, the deadliness, of the miserable ego. Worship. Ecstasy. These gods - and animals, Shiva with snakes about his neck. Snakes. Kala Nag. Worms, tiny creatures, she picks up off pavements and lays carefully in gardens. Innumerable beings. Shiva with his delicate uplifted hand, smiling upon Parvati, while round about them whirl creatures innumerable. The Ganges, the Thames, Mildred with tears in her eyes, turning away. What chaos, what suffering, such passion, such love, such infinity, she felt faint, she might fall to the ground. These gods -
and Christ upon His Cross.

 

She left the room and instinctively made her laborious way to the front of the building where the cool Greeks lived. She went automatically towards the Parthenon Frieze. The huge room was almost empty, there was a visiting group at the far end, nearer two or three solitaries. Mildred stood, calming herself, breathing deeply, not looking at anything, her eyes glazing over as if by the sea. She stood still, her arms hanging by her sides. How terribly strange the past was. Another civilisation, another image. Then suddenly something else, a mystery, Jackson. Surely Jackson would come back - or would he? Was he not after all a very strange being, a wandering avatar, and as she thought of him there arose a dim line of high mountains. And suddenly she thought, surely such a being could easily destroy himself, and tears rose in her eyes.

Mildred quickly blinked. Near the door, standing near to the Frieze, one of the solitaries, was a boy, young, a schoolboy. The boy was looking at her. She thought, can he be Bran? - He is Bran! I saw him with Edward and Anna, only they rushed off so quickly. The boy stood still. Mildred moved. He was looking at her. She wondered if he would recognise her. She went towards him.

‘Hello, Bran. Do you remember me? I’m Mildred.’

‘Yes.’

‘Your mother came round with Edward. They’ll soon be married, won’t they.’

‘Yes.’

‘That will be lovely.’

Bran looked at her silently. Then he said, ‘I shall have a pony.’ After that he turned to study the activities of the Frieze.

Mildred looked at them too. All this was so familiar to her. There was a boy, a thoughtful boy, about Bran’s age, quietly helping a rider, perhaps his father, to adjust the length of his tunic, while the riderless horse moves on.

Bran said, ‘There’s a boy.’

‘Yes, he is — ’

As she looked at him she thought, just now he looks like
Edward,
how amusing! Of course he’s
just
like Lewen. What a handsome child he is! Alas, that Lewen never lived to see him.

She said, ‘You’ll be going to school here in the autumn, won’t you, you’ll like that. They’ll teach you Greek. I expect you already know some Latin.’

Bran, turning towards her, said, ‘I know all Latin, and most Greek.’ After which he returned his attention to the Frieze.

Mildred, disconcerted, said, ‘Oh, that’s good! How nice to meet you, of course we’ll meet again, I’m sure you’ll be happy here. Goodbye, Bran,
au revoir.
’

‘
Au revoir,
Mildred.’

Mildred hurried away, immensely gratified by the farewell! She thought he sounds so like a French boy. That’s charming! I expect he knows lots of languages! Oh I do hope he will be happy here - such a lovely child! And she wished that she had a child, and that that child was Bran.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Benet put down his pen. What was the use of going on like this? Innumerable others had done it better. His love-hate for Heidegger, and for Wittgenstein, was better kept to himself. He was not a scholar. He had really
done,
nothing. Long ago he had thought of writing a novel. He had begun one. It was put away somewhere. He had got nowhere with it anyhow. People, or some people, had once thought well of him. He had risen high in the Civil Service, he still studied, or at least read, philosophy. He had been a leader, an organiser. Or was all that really being done by Uncle Tim? Tim in his later years when he lived mostly at Penn, he had been the centre, the charmer, the star - far more interesting than Benet! Depression, thought Benet, as he rehearsed these thoughts. That’s it. Depression.

He was living, for the present, at Tara, and doing his work, such as it was, there. The weather had changed. Cold winds were blowing over London. It had been a dark afternoon. Now it was beginning to rain. He thought, it’s the end of the season. The game is finished. It’s all over. I’d better go back to Penn. But he didn’t want to do that either. Things were changing, the younger generation were taking over,
they
were now in charge. Well, he should have noticed that years ago! Of course Marian would never return, he would never go to Australia. Edward was marrying Anna, she would run Hatting Hall, the great parties would be there, the centre of gaiety, the centre of activity, the centre of power, would be there. Edward would be transformed, he
was
transformed, he was now the strong man, the Lord of the Manor as his father had been. Now everything would fall into the lap of Lewen’s grandson. Benet was pained by his inability to communicate with Bran. He felt that Bran regarded him with hostility. Such a beautiful boy, Lewen’s son, soon to be a tall youth, at last to inherit Hatting Hall. How amazing, who would have imagined it, that Anna should marry Edward! And who, Benet wondered, would inherit Penndean?

These were some of Benet’s fleeting and painful thoughts. However now he had an even more piercing pain in his breast. Jackson was gone. ‘Who is to blame him?’ as Owen had exclaimed after Benet had, miserably, foolishly, divulged the contents of his letter of dismissal. Of course the others had been questioned, but had nothing to offer. They think ill of me now, Benet said to himself, adding that he deserved such a judgement. So the days went by and Benet began to feel that he was isolated, refusing invitations and now (he felt) ceasing to receive them! He had never, he thought, felt so unhappy, except when Tim died. And how close to me Jackson came
then—
only I thrust him away. What’s the matter with me? Is it just that I am ashamed of having written such a hasty angry cruel letter? I might have uttered my reasonable displeasure in a cooler tone. Was I not rationally displeased when Jackson went about helping others? Many such considerations were produced as excuses for Benet’s irritated outcry. But, as he well knew, a fiercer and more fiery anguish was burning in his heart, a helpless yearning for something lost forever. He loved Jackson, and he had killed him, or rather killed himself.

 

At that moment the front door bell rang. Benet hurried out into the hall. He opened the door. It was raining. Rosalind and Tuan were standing on the doorstep. Benet was for a moment confused. Surely these two did not go together. He said vaguely, ‘Oh — hello - do come in — ’