Jackson's Dilemma (35 page)

 

 

 

Owen staggered out of the bathroom, swinging the door, and made his way to bed. He gazed at the bed, frowning, then sat down heavily upon it. He had turned the light off in the bathroom but the light was still on upon the dressing table. He staggered across and put it out, now finding himself in complete darkness. He moved cautiously toward the bed and fell upon it, as suggested by Mildred. More turning and fumbling found him a light switch beside the bed. He edged the blankets out from under him and struggled with the top sheet, humping himself up and pulling it. He managed to get his legs between the sheets and blankets and wriggled himself down inside. One of the pillows fell upon the floor. Reaching down unsuccessfully to find it he somehow put out the bedside light. He squirmed back, discovering another pillow in the dark, and rolled himself at last into the centre of the bed where he could put his head down. He felt a bit ashamed of being quite so drunk in front of Mildred. Well, why bother. Would she be off one day, perhaps soon, with her gods or rotten Lucas? Tuan had been snaffled by Rosalind. Jackson had wrapped himself in a cloak of mystery, was it worth trying to unwrap him. How strange that he had had him in his house and shown him things he had shown to no one else. Jackson had been in his kitchen inventing eggs and things - how exactly did he escape? Owen could not remember. He simply vanished. I shall flounder back, thought Owen, I’ll get hold of him again. How could I be so taken by that weirdo, that snake in the reeds? Benet does not deserve him, I’ll get hold of him, I’ll hold him down and teach him to paint - Christ - so
he
’s got into the scene as well - Christ, I must paint, I must try to be worthy of being a painter, I must invent, I must create, I must kneel, I must start as if from the beginning. Owen adjusted his head and then went quietly to sleep. He dreamt that he was a slug crawling slowly along the ground, and Piero and Titian and Velázquez and Carpaccio and Turner were standing round him and looking down at him with faintly puzzled frowns, and he was shouting up at them, but his voice was so miserably tiny, he was sure they could not hear him, and when he tried to wave his horns at them he suddenly realised that
slugs do not have horns.
Not even
that,
he thought in his dream.

Usually now Jackson did not allow Benet into the kitchen except, and that very briefly, as a spectator. On this occasion he allowed Benet to assist him a little before the ‘wedding’ feast, but Benet was not to rise from the table, and Jackson, though pressed by some of the guests, was the only person to move about, bringing and removing the items. When the stampede into the garden occurred Jackson was not seen, and it was assumed, rightly, that Jackson, smilingly, rejecting help, such as had been proffered by less well-trained visitors, had disappeared to deal personally with the washing up. Benet, after seeing off all the departing guests, the young lovers being already in bed in the ‘old part’, listened to the still continuous sound of crockery in the kitchen, and of course did not interrupt it. Later there would be silence, when Jackson retired to copious ground floor quarters beyond, while Benet went to his big usual first-floor bedroom with the view of the garden.

However, though he undressed, he did not go to sleep, but sat upon his undisturbed bed in his pyjamas with socks and slippers. His thoughts continually returned to Jackson and the meeting on the bridge. This surprising evening continued with their walking all the way through the night from the river to Tara. Benet was all the time in terror of Jackson suddenly disappearing and never being seen again, he was also very afraid of
annoying
Jackson. Jackson however was relaxed as if it were just a stroll through London after a pleasant evening. Benet’s suggestion of food, not repeated, was not picked up. In any case Benet was all the time absorbed in Jackson’s presence and also his conversation. The presence alone flustered Benet, who felt that he must inform Jackson of what was going on in his absence, for instance that Edward had married Anna, and Tuan had married Rosalind. Or did perhaps Jackson already
know
- perhaps indeed more than Benet - of these happenings? There was also, now seeming far in the past, the news of Marian, that she was alive, also married, and in Australia. Benet also recalled, though with no intention of revealing it, his visit to Owen, who had entered so profoundly into his sorrow, suggesting even that by now Jackson had killed himself with grief! Benet had then summoned up his dream, that Uncle Tim was looking at him, and then looking down at the floor, where there was a long black shadow. These horrors, were they to be divulged also? Afterwards Benet did not know for sure
what
he had said on that night - he had certainly rambled on with his confessions. But what had Jackson said to him? He could scarcely remember anything except for the very last bit, which had caused Benet considerable anguish. They were now very close to Tara. What would happen? Benet thought — the worst. They stopped at Tara, at the bottom of the steps. Who would speak first? Benet said hastily, ‘Listen,
please,
do come in - let’s have a drink — I mean - I am asking you to forgive me - will you please come back again to stay, and be with me - as a friend you know - please, Jackson?’ Jackson had stood, looking at Benet with, as Benet thought, a rather dreamy look. He said, ‘I’m sorry, I must go. As for what you say, I think you should consider it. I shall come back here, if I may, between twelve and one, in a week, or let us say about two weeks, and see how we both feel.’ After this he turned and walked away.

 

Benet waited for two weeks. Jackson returned after two weeks and a day. Benet had waited in anguish, distracted if he did not come, if he
never
came - and also wondering what on earth he was to say to him. What he decided on, and what he said, when Jackson appeared, was uttered at once, ‘Listen, I want you to stay with me, to be with me now
as a friend, not
as a servant. Of course that’s so now, isn’t it? I want that you should live with me permanently -
please.
Of course you’ll be perfectly free - ’

These were Benet’s first words, standing opposite Jackson in the drawing room. Benet trembled.

Jackson, smiling faintly, looked at him, then said, ‘Such an arrangement, if attempted, must of course be between equals.’

Benet said, ‘I am sorry,
of course
I take that for granted.’

‘And I cannot guarantee that I will stay here or indeed anywhere permanently.’

‘Well, of course. I just want you to be here as my friend — ’ Jackson looked pensively away, then said, ‘Well, all right, let us give it a try.’

‘Thank you! Then what about a drink to celebrate? Here is a bottle and two glasses - ’

‘I have noticed them. A glass of water please, then I shall go. I shall be back in three days.’

‘Let me drive you over in the car?’

‘No, thank you.’

‘So now you will live in the house - ’

‘If you don’t mind I would rather stay in the Lodge.’

When Jackson left, Benet felt a sudden outburst of joy. He put his hand to his heart and sat down in the drawing room on a chair near to the door. Then he sat there for some time, beginning to wonder whether these ‘arrangements’ might not in the end break his heart.

 

 

 

 

Now all was silent in Penndean, and Benet, as he sat upon his bed, was rehearsing what had happened since the great day of the re-entry of Jackson into Tara. ‘Benet’s friends’ were all pleased to hear of Jackson’s return and of his new status and even came over formally to greet him, though many, especially the love-birds, were more concerned with their own immediate lives, and the phenomenon, now time had passed, was settling down into ordinary. Jackson, now visible much more than Benet, might be spoken of (by some perhaps ambiguously) as ‘Benet’s friend’. He was promptly made famous as a cook, and urged to write a cookery book. He still worked in gardens, Benet’s and those of others, did shopping, was an electrician, a carpenter, a maker of things, a mender of things, a man of all trades. Indeed he was revered as such. Life at Penn and at Tara went on almost as usual. Benet was now at least confident that he was the person closest to Jackson. With this, he held silently to his heart the final pronouncement concerning the Lodge.

Jackson now read a great deal, perhaps he had done so before, he was often in the library when Benet was in his study. They sat together in the evenings in the drawing room and talked, ‘yarned’ as Benet said, Benet recalling his parents, his childhood, his first memories of Uncle Tim, how his father derided Tim, how Benet came to love him. Benet also chatted of his various travels, but had not yet ventured to mention Venice. Of Jackson’s past nothing was said. ‘A strange kind of human being,’ Owen had called him. Jackson read, having read many of them already, all Tim’s books, those about India and the East, also Tim’s favourite novels. Benet had noticed earlier, and remembered now from a repartee at dinner, that Jackson had probably read Tolstoy, at least he had been able to defend Sonya. He had certainly read Shakespeare. Benet had talked freely about his own work, as it concerned Heidegger and Hölderlin, these interested Jackson and he encouraged Benet to go on, indeed insisted that he should. Of course the talk often returned to Uncle Tim, and Benet had only lately remembered, he did not recall when or why, that Uncle Tim had told him once that Jackson knew some oriental languages. Of this nothing was said. The close observers, such as Owen and Mildred, and Edward who sometimes came over by himself, agreed that the pair were ‘getting on very well together’. Benet knew however that there was a border over which he could not take a step. That ‘stoppage’ at first distressed Benet, but in time he took to it, finding in it a kind of tender vibration. More ultimate was Jackson’s throwaway remark, ‘I cannot guarantee that I will stay here or anywhere permanently’.

After a while visitors became less inquisitively frequent. Ordinary life went on. Rosalind Berran, now Abelson, was to have a baby. (Never mentioned by Tuan except once passionately to Benet: ‘Oh let it be a boy!’) Marian Bjerke was also about to have a baby, she and Rosalind kept up a constant correspondence. Priscilla Conti (Priscilla was a professional singer) came and talked a lot with Jackson and they sang together. Benet had never heard Jackson sing. ‘A wonderful voice,’ Priscilla said, as she dashed back to Italy. Jackson had occasional private conversations with Oliver Caxton, these took place in the Lodge at Tara. Jackson more often, and regularly, visited Owen, with whom he often stayed for a long time. So things were changing. Most profoundly disturbing to Benet was that Mildred had introduced Jackson to Lucas Begbrook, and that they were probably generating ‘holiness’ between them! All these private visitations Jackson of course mentioned to Benet but did not discuss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The dawn was now perceptibly present, introducing a transparent curtain of pale blue. The rising sun was gently making his presence felt. The revellers of the previous night were still asleep, Edward and Anna were asleep, Owen and Mildred were asleep, Tuan and Rosalind were asleep, Benet was asleep. Bran was not asleep. He made his way cautiously down the big stairway and tip-toed towards the back of the house, here he unlocked a small door which led out into the garden. As he hurried across the grass his shoes and socks were wet with dew. The pale gravelled path was also damp, waiting for the sun to warm it. Bran, taking another key from his pocket, unlocked a green slatted wooden door, carefully locking it behind him. He was making for the stables. His nearness was already now being announced, as his feet crunched more gravel and again more paving. He heard a faint little cry, almost like that of a cat. He hurried on to where Rex’s head was visible, over the lower door of the stable. Bran ran forward and threw his arms round Rex’s neck. The pony whinnied again as Bran rubbed his brow gently against the warm fur, then standing back and drawing his hands down Rex’s nose and over his wet black nostrils. They looked at each other, the boy and the pony, with their wild eyes, both young, both passionate, they looked at each other with amazement, and with passion and with love. Bran said, ‘Not yet, my pretty one, my dear, goodbye for a little, I shall come back soon.’ In an instant then he turned and ran, listening to the high whinny of the little pony, he ran zigzag avoiding the front of the house, darting along an alley of yellow privet and crossing another gravel path and slithering down a grassy slope towards a well-kept brick wall. He climbed over the wall at his particular place, falling, then stumbling into the long grasses and dashing across the tarmac road. He climbed over a five-barred gate and ran upwards now, panting, across a field, then through another gate. He stood a while breathing deeply by a hedge, then walked on, slipping through another hedge into another field. Here he stood, breathing hard, looking anxiously about. Then in the still slight hazy morning light he saw the big hunter coming slowly towards him. He called softly, ‘Spencer, Spencer,’ as he walked now to meet him, and in a sudden clumsy embrace they met, Bran clutching at the great neck and seeking for the great head, as the horse leant down towards the boy. Bran felt a strange feeling on his bare arms where a big strong tongue was licking him. Clumsily he reached to get an offering, a carrot, out of his pocket, but Spencer was not interested, and had now removed his tongue to Bran’s face. Bran then began to walk slowly across the field, the horse following, and stopped again reaching up his arms to the horse’s neck, stroking his huge face, looking into his beautiful eyes, and tears came to Bran as he said his name and felt with his hands the warm smooth tense skin; and it was as if he were holding up all the world. He had been thus to the field more than once, but this visitation had something very special, painful, a burning sensation, as if there were flames licking them both, lifting up their faces to the heat of the risen sun. Bran found himself sobbing. He lay against the horse’s side, pressing up against the shoulder, thrusting his hand into the mane, as if by Spencer’s gentle movement, the horse and he were one. At last the ecstasy was passing, and Bran said to Spencer, ‘I am sorry, oh I am so sorry,’ apologising for not being able to be, with and for the other, something perfect. He detached himself, kissing the warm fur, murmuring, ‘I’ll be back again,’ and turned away and ran back across the field. Before he reached the hedge he fell, his ankles tangled by thick bindweed. He hurried on, the way he had come, down the hill. Spencer followed him slowly as far as he could. He was very old and tired. Bending his elegant legs he lay down in the long grass.