Jerusalem the Golden (3 page)

After a while, it occurred to her to wonder what had happened to Clelia Denham and her independent drink. She looked round for her, and there she was, talking to a completely disconnected man, and looking, from time to time, at her watch. There was still no sign of her father. Clara looked at her more closely, and wondered, as
soon as she did so, why she had not bothered to look at her before, because she repaid inspection. She still looked rather restless and annoyed – sullen, almost, Clara might have thought, if the word had not implied a heaviness that was not there. She was listening very intently to the disconnected man, with her head on one side; from time to time she would nod, or speak, but not at length. Her face, though not noticeably beautiful, had a hard, fine outline, and a shape very much its own; wedge-shaped, one might have called it, though it would have been hard to say which part composed a wedge. And her hair fell in a solid heavy piece, straight-edged, stopping sharply midway between chin and shoulder; it was dark, and it had a weight that made it look as though it were well cut, though it was not. It looked, as the hair of Japanese children looks, as though it might be composed of wood and not of hair, so distinct were its outlines, so uniform and massy its swing. She seemed to be wearing no make-up, and her clothes were bizarre, though in no way ostentatious; her skirt was very short, and made of black velvet, and over it she wore a long maroon jacket with brass buttons and epaulettes. They were not fashionable garments, but they spoke of confidence; Clara felt, suddenly, that her own outfit, though quite becoming and unexceptionable, lacked nerve. She was in truth so unsure of her own taste that she restricted herself to wearing the most negative, unassertively simple things that she could find; the principle was, she knew, sound in itself, and her face quite good enough to appear to advantage above a grey wool jersey, but nevertheless, watching Clelia Denham, she felt that there were fashionable flights quite within her style that she had never yet had the courage or the knowledge to attempt.

When Clelia abandoned her stranger and joined Clara’s own conversational cluster, Clara was pleased, and would have liked to have spoken to her, but could not think of anything to say. So she listened. Samuel Wisden seemed to know her quite well, for when she arrived he embarked upon some complicated discussion of some third party called Robert, who had, it emerged, recently pulled off some coup of some deeply obscure nature. The point was whether this would be bad or good for Robert. Samuel seemed to think that it would be
bad for him, but Clelia took the line that without this unexpected stroke of success poor Robert would merely have gone from bad to worse. ‘Look,’ she said from time to time, ‘don’t think I’m saying he
deserves
it, God knows he’s the last person to deserve anything, I know quite well what ought to happen to him, I really think he’s quite shocking, and quite, quite indefensible, but I really can’t help liking him, I keep telling myself how awful he is, and then every time I see him I can feel this stupid great smile spreading all over my face. Because he’s so nice, he really is nice, you can’t deny it. And now this has happened he’s even nicer. And since
all
he is is nice, then he might as well be it, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t agree with your basic premise,’ said Samuel. ‘I don’t think he’s nice.’

‘Oh
well
then,’ said Clelia, spreading her hands in eloquent yet modest emphasis, ‘in that case I can’t see why you even bother to think about him.’

‘Well, one can’t help thinking about him,’ said Samuel. ‘Especially in view of this new thing …’

And so they went on. Clara was highly impressed by the way in which the plight of Robert was gradually turned into a public discussion; Peter, Eric Harley and his friend, and finally she herself were all drawn into the debate, and found themselves talking at some length about the psychological and philosophical basis of the plight, which Clelia had somehow managed to convey to them in a classic structural sense, as a case far removed from the contaminations of the inconveniently unknown personality upon which it rested. Clara thought such transpositions implied a high intelligence, as well as a hopeful generosity of communication, and she watched with increasing attention. She began to realize that she was in the presence of the kind of thing for which she had been searching for years, some nameless class or quality, some element which she had glimpsed often enough, but which she had rarely at such close quarters encountered. A kind of excitement filled her, not unlike the excitement more frequently experienced, of love. And rarer than love. Because Clara had always supposed that such people as Clelia, so strange, so lovely, so clever, so undismaying, must somewhere
exist, but she had never yet seen quite such a promising, hopeful example: and she had begun to think that she had created herself, through her own imagination, the whole genre. She had wanted such people to exist, so dressed, so independent, so involved; she had needed them, so she had presupposed them. And here, as she slowly realized, was a woman who was the thing that she had presupposed. She stood, and watched the felicity of her own invention, and experienced the satisfaction of her recognition.

Sebastian Denham did not turn up. When closing time was announced, Clelia broke off in mid-sentence, looked at her watch, and said, ‘Oh hell, what about my father, he’s forgotten me.’

She said it very crossly, but to herself. And as though she had expected to be forgotten.

‘I’ll drive you home,’ said Samuel.

‘I thought you lived in Dulwich,’ said Clelia.

‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ said Samuel.

‘What’s the point of saying you’ll drive me home then?’ she said.

‘Well, I would,’ said Samuel.

‘You know you wouldn’t,’ said Clelia. ‘Anyway, I’ll go on the bus. As a matter of fact I’m rather glad he forgot me, he gets horribly depressed by these readings. And since he’s forgotten me, I can call in on Colin on the way back.’

‘How
is
Colin?’ said Samuel, eagerly, implying heaven knows how many possible afflictions; Clara thought they were in for another elaborate dissection, but Clelia seemed not to be interested in Colin, for she said very absent-mindedly, ‘Oh, he’s fine, thanks. More or less fine.’ Clara was disappointed. But Clelia immediately made up for this reticence by a far more enticing comment; she started to tie her black head square on, and said, ‘Well, I must go, I must get back to the baby. They simply have no idea about that baby, I’ve got into such a state that I hardly dare leave the house.’

‘How
is
the baby?’ said Samuel, with an eagerness only slightly less marked than that with which he had greeted the names of Robert and Colin.

‘Oh it’s all right,’ said Clelia. ‘But it’s teething. And nobody else
wakes up for it in the night. So I never like to stay out after they’ve gone to bed. And Mama’s taken to going to bed at nine o’clock these days, she hates Martin so violently. It’s pathetic, really. Excuse me, I must go to the Ladies’.’

‘I’ll go to the Ladies’ too,’ said Clara. She had been wondering where it was for the last hour, and had been unable to see it; she was as diffident about asking for Ladies’ Rooms as she was about ordering drinks. So she followed Clelia into the varnished depths of the pub, her mind full of a host of suppositions about Robert, Colin, Martin and the inexplicable baby; she was aware of an emotional situation of unparalleled density and complexity, of some dark morass of intrigue. And she had been, over the last few years, rejecting simplification after simplification solely in the hope of discovering just such a spirit of confusion. She was surprised by some of the elements of the confusion: she had never suspected that a mention of a vague baby could cast such a strange light upon a person. Nor had she expected that mothers and fathers would feature in any profitable way. Babies, mothers and fathers had hitherto been for her the very symbols of dull simplicity. She saw that she had been wrong about them, and possibly therefore about other relations of life.

The Ladies’ Room was through two doors, down half a flight of stairs, through a yard, and up another half flight of stairs. She would never have managed to find it alone, as it was inadequately sign-posted. She envied Clelia her certainty, and wondered whether knowledge or instinct had led her directly there. There were two water closets; Clara hurried, because she did not want Clelia to leave before her, but when she emerged Clelia was still there, dragging a comb somewhat roughly through her thick hair. The comb was encountering some resistance. Clara combed her own hair, and powdered her nose. She wanted to speak, but could not think what to say. Clelia did not speak. Finally, seeing the moment evade her, in some misery, Clara said, ‘And do you write poetry too?’ because it seemed an interesting question, and one that must at least be answered. And it was answered. Clelia, staring at herself with some dislike in the mirror, said, ‘I certainly do not.’ And her tone, as she
said this, could only have been called, and in quite simple, inescapable terms, rude. She spoke rudely.

Clara was taken aback. Rudeness was somehow not what she had expected. Flippancy perhaps, coolness more possibly, disinterest almost certainly, but not rudeness. She was dismayed: half of her, more than half of her wished to withdraw quietly and quickly away from such offence. But at the same time, she was saying to herself, really, I did not deserve it, there
was
nothing wrong with my question, there is no reason why I should not ask her a question, she does not know me, I am younger than she is, she has no right to be rude. And she heard herself saying, to her own surprise:

‘Why did you speak to me in that way?’

And she was surprised because for once she had said exactly what she had been thinking. She did not usually do anything of the sort. She waited to see what would happen.

Clelia turned round from the mirror, and looked at her, and said, ‘What?’

Clara repeated her question.

Clelia said, ‘I don’t know what you mean, how did I speak to you? What was wrong with it?’

Clara, thinking that she had after all nothing to lose and everything to gain, said, ‘You were rude.’

Clelia stared. She looked amazed, but no longer annoyed.

‘Oh hell, was I really?’ she said.

‘Yes, you were,’ said Clara. ‘I asked you a perfectly ordinarily stupid question, and you were rude. And anyway, it wasn’t such a dreadfully stupid question. I mean, why shouldn’t you write poetry? A lot of people do. Your father does. It might run in the family. Why shouldn’t I ask you if you write poetry?’

Clelia began to look rather upset. She even began to comb her hair again, fretfully, at a loss. And then she said,

‘Well, really no reason at all. No reason at all why you shouldn’t ask me. But no reason why I shouldn’t be rude, either, was there?’

‘I thought you ought not to be rude to me,’ said Clara, deciding it was worth taking a risk, deciding, in fact, that a risk was bound to
pay off, ‘because I was at a disadvantage. And I don’t think people should be rude to people who aren’t in a strong position.’

Clelia thought this over.

‘I quite agree with you, in principle,’ she said. ‘But why do you imagine yourself to be at a disadvantage? What was it about you that I should have noticed, and shown mercy to? Why shouldn’t you instead have been merciful to me, and not asked me such a bloody silly question?’

‘You’re older than me,’ said Clara.

‘Not much,’ said Clelia.

‘And you belonged here and I didn’t,’ said Clara.

‘What did they say your name was?’ said Clelia.

‘Clara,’ said Clara. ‘Clara Maugham.’

‘Clara,’ said Clelia, ‘what a pretty name. Almost as nice as mine. Rather like mine, in fact.’

‘I used not to like it,’ said Clara.

‘I can’t see that my coming with my father means that I had any right to be here, that I belonged here, in any spectacular way,’ said Clelia. ‘And why shouldn’t you belong here even more than me? I never come to this theatre, I hate this theatre, I hate experimental plays.’

‘Does it do experimental plays?’ asked Clara.

‘Of course it does,’ said Clelia. ‘How ever did you manage not to know that? You must have known it.’

‘I didn’t know it,’ said Clara. ‘And now you see that I can substantiate my disadvantage.’

‘I should call such ignorance a positive
blessing
,’ said Clelia. ‘But I take your point. Wherever can you come from?’

‘I come from Northam,’ said Clara. ‘It’s a town in Yorkshire. But at the moment I’m at the University. At Queen’s College.’

‘Ah,’ said Clelia. ‘I see. You’re reading English.’

‘No, I’m not,’ said Clara.

‘Then whyever, if I may ask without being rude, did you come to this thing? I can never understand why anyone comes to these things.’

‘I came with Peter. Peter de Salis.’

‘Oh, I
see
,’ said Clelia.

‘I don’t suppose you do,’ said Clara, feeling that she should make her relationship with Peter clear, and not quite liking the tone which Clelia adopted towards her escort.

‘Oh,’ said Clelia, correcting herself, delicately correcting her intonation, ‘Oh yes, I see.’

‘He just thought I would be interested,’ said Clara.

‘And were you?’

‘Yes, I was interested. I was interested to meet you,’ said Clara. Clelia put her comb back in her bag and pulled her skirt straight, but not disinterestedly, on the contrary, as though something had been settled between them.

‘I must be going,’ she said. ‘The buses take so long. And the baby really does wake. Though I was lying when I said Martin doesn’t hear it, he always hears it, but he can’t kind of do anything with it when it wakes.’

‘It isn’t your baby?’ said Clara, following her back through the corridors towards the bar.

‘No, it’s not really,’ said Clelia, ‘but I feel kind of responsible for it. Sometimes I pretend it’s mine. But if it were, I wouldn’t call it it, would I? Poor little thing. It’s a he, really.’

‘How old is he?’ said Clara.

‘I’m not exactly sure,’ said Clelia. ‘Somewhere in the nine-month range, I imagine. Look,’ she added, ‘if you give me your address when we get back there, I’ll give you a ring, and you must come and see me and I’ll tell you about it.’