Make Room for the Jester (19 page)

‘You can say
that
again,’ she said with a laugh. ‘My God, you can say that.’ She lit another cigarette. ‘Listen – you watch your step, young man. You’ve got some of this all wrong. Now – I don’t mind you annoying the stuffed shirts of this town. Oh, no. But you’ve got some of it wrong…’

‘Very likely. Can’t know everything about them…’

‘Listen.’ She inhaled deeply before she went on. ‘Ever asked yourself who killed Jupiter?’

‘That’s not the point…’

‘Just you ask yourself, though.’ She looked at me. ‘Lew Morgan, here’s a question for a bright lad. Who killed Jupiter Vaughan? Go on, tell me.’

I was cornered, and I hated her. ‘I don’t know,’ I said.

‘Course you know. Who do people say killed Jupiter, then?’

‘Marius, I suppose,’ I said. Did she have to keep on
smiling like that? Was she blind, or something? Couldn’t she see Gladstone’s face.

She clicked finger and thumb at me. ‘Wrong,’ she said. ‘And this is the truth. Got it from the party concerned himself – and he loved talking about himself, I can tell you.’ She paused deliberately and looked, wide-eyed, at each of us in turn. ‘It was
Ashton
,’ she said. ‘Poor old Ashton, boozed up, went and shot his brother dead. But d’you know what Marius did? He took the blame…’

‘Protecting his brother,’ Gladstone broke in.

‘What for? Why protect him? It was an accident – that’s what everybody’d say. Why protect him? Why take the blame?’

‘Doesn’t alter anything, anyway,’ Gladstone said quietly.

‘Doesn’t alter?’ she cried, all exaggerated surprise. ‘Listen – don’t you see what Marius Vaughan really was? He was
mental
. Wanted to be everything. Old Ashton wasn’t
worthy
enough to take the blame for shooting his brother. Oh, dear me no. He was a soak, a hopeless soak. And Marius wanted to be
everything
…’ She went on like that, and she should have been screaming it out, her hair down over her face, and sweating… But she never even raised her voice, never stopped talking through a smile.

‘He was protecting Ashton,’ Gladstone said.

‘
Killing
Ashton, you mean,’ she replied. ‘That’s what he did…. Oh, I know what they tell you. Don’t speak ill of the dead. All that kind of thing. But you really should know about those two. They were the roughest going, both of them…. Well, maybe Ashton, being a boozer, couldn’t help it, but that other one – in a class by himself, he was….’

I was listening for Gladstone’s heavy breathing,
watching the words bite into him…. On and on, she went: I wasn’t even clear about what she was saying any more.

‘Straight from the horse’s mouth… take it for fact…. Bet you’ve never heard anything queerer than that, have you? Wanting to take the blame…. He even wanted to be hurt….’

And smiling still, and quiet-voiced, and laughing – like someone describing something comic at the pictures…. Can’t you see him? I wanted to cry out. Don’t you know what you’re doing to him?

‘…Marius made Ashton a hopeless case. You can see that, can’t you.’ She gave a little girlish laugh. ‘Don’t ask
me
why. I’m only a woman. Don’t ask
me
to fathom these things out… but it was war between them since they were small, and Jupiter was just something else to quarrel over… I mean, imagine quarrelling over who shot him! That’s what I call mental, that is… I told the police, you know. They came before the inquest, and I told them. And you know what else I told them?’ There was a knocking at the back of the house as she spoke. She heard it too: she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, pursed up her mouth, then smiled. ‘I told them that Ashton very likely had said no about the money. I even told them I thought Marius had probably
dared
Ashton to shoot him.’ She rolled her eyes and giggled. ‘And he did!’

For the first time, at that moment, she saw Gladstone’s face. ‘Hey,
love
,’ she cried, ‘whatever’s the matter? You’re the colour of paper, honestly.’ She leaned forward and put her hand on his knee. ‘Not going to be sick, are you?’

‘I’m all right,’ Gladstone said.

‘Hey – I’ve not up
set
you, have I? Look – I was only telling you the real truth in case you got yourself in big
trouble. If you made any more speeches and that, I mean.’ She reached out to touch his face but he drew back. ‘Don’t take it to heart,’ she said. ‘They weren’t worth it, either of them. Look – it cost me
three hundred
to find out.’ She tried to laugh, but it wasn’t a great success. She was uneasy now. ‘Hey – you’re all right, aren’t you, love?’

There was a dead silence. We heard the knocking again.

My tongue was dry but I managed to say, ‘Someone there.’

‘It can wait,’ she said. ‘Look, Gladstone, I thought we were chums…’

He was forcing himself to recover, even managed a strained laugh before he said, ‘We’re friends still. It was only that I thought you loved him.’ He said it in his
high-class
voice, too – and that only made her roll her eyes and giggle again. ‘We had a
business
arrangement!’ she said. She put her hands on her breasts and held them there. ‘That’s all we had,
honest
…’ She even fluttered her eyelashes.

Gladstone got up. ‘I think we’ll go now…’

I was at the door in a flash. ‘Listen…’ she said. She was on her feet too, rubbing her hands up and down her thighs. ‘Listen…’

‘You’ve got a visitor,’ Gladstone said.

‘Oh, look – listen – come round again and have a chat about it, will you?’

Gladstone bowed to her. ‘With pleasure. We’ll come – some time.’

‘I mean – I’ve en
joyed
talking to you.’

‘Been a pleasure…’

‘You’re all right? Really?’

‘Right as rain,’ he said. Then he overdid it by bowing
again which made her clap her hands to her mouth.

‘Honestly,’ she said. ‘I don’t know…’

‘Good night,’ he said and came slowly to the door, but once through it he was down the stairs in leaps, and was fumbling at the shop door. I ran after him, Eirlys crying out behind me. A box tripped me up, and by the time I reached the street there was no sign of him.

A fine drizzle was falling. I searched around for him, and found him eventually under a gas lamp on Harbour View, letting the rain fall on his face. ‘My dear old chap,’ he said, ‘old boy, dear old bean – I’ve just been sick.’ Then he began to laugh, but it wasn’t really laughing at all.

I went back to school, and they said you’ve done well, Morgan, well done my boy, but don’t let it get to your head now, and no slacking off, the sixth form is a big jump, a great big jump, we must stick to it, mustn’t we? And I said yessir, yesmiss, and thought all the time about Gladstone under that lamp, about Eirlys Hampson who had broken him with a giggle and a flood of talk.

Yet, once school was over, I came home to tea and did the keen schoolboy act for Meira. I didn’t go to see how he was; so the first news came from Dewi and Maxie.

‘Paralysed!’ Maxie said, hopping up and down on the pavement in his excitement.

‘Don’t be bloody stupid,’ Dewi told him. ‘Just lies there,’ he said to me. ‘Lies there on the sofa as if he’s fast asleep…’

‘In a trance then,’ Maxie said.

I stepped out on the pavement and closed our door behind me. ‘All right last night…’

‘It’s like he’s gone to sleep,’ Dewi said. ‘Like a mental collapse.’

That angered me. ‘What are you, then? A bloody doctor?’

‘That’s my theory,’ Dewi said evenly. ‘His nerves have collapsed.’

‘Bloody rubbish,’ I said, and buttoned up my new blazer and marched off down Lower Hill towards Gladstone’s. Paralysed! In a trance! Oh, God, I thought, is Dewi right?

We reached Gladstone’s door as the Rev A. H. Jones and Abraham Evans and Dr Gwynn were leaving. I held back, but they were around me in no time. ‘My dear boy,’ said the Minister. ‘Know him, don’t you?’ he said to the others. ‘My dear boy – Lew Davies…’

‘Morgan.’

‘Of course. We were only talking about you. Really brilliant,’ he explained to the other two. ‘Lives on
this street
.’

Dr Gwynn took over. ‘You are a friend of this – unfortunate boy?’ Dr Gwynn was all jowls and rimless glasses. He had a strong South Wales accent, and I had heard that his name had once been Jones, but he’d changed it to Gwynn because Jones was so common sounding. ‘You are a friend of Gladstone Williams, boy?’

‘What’s the matter with him?’ I said.

Dr Gwynn put a hairy hand on my shoulder and looked up at the grey skies for an answer. ‘Shock,’ he said.

‘Too many bothering him,’ said Dewi behind me. ‘Too many busybodies.’

 ‘What did that boy say?’ Dr Gwynn growled.

‘Ask him to help,’ said Abraham Evans through his white moustache. ‘Close friends. Bring him round…’

‘Boy,’ said Dr Gwynn, ‘we want you to go in there and talk to him.’

‘Talk to him,’ said Abraham Evans.

‘Yes, talk to him,’ said the Minister.

‘A little prayer, too,’ Abraham Evans suggested.

‘Psychological factors,’ boomed the doctor. ‘You may be able to reach him, bring him round.’

‘Shock him back, eh, Doctor?’ said Abraham Evans.

‘No shock,’ commanded the doctor, ‘on no account, remember… factors… deep rooted… I want to know what he says when he awakes, remember…’

I shook his hand off my shoulder. Three crows, I thought, grotesque old crows, black-suited, black-hatted. I wasn’t going to tell them anything, ever. I tried to push past the doctor, but he had once played rugby and his natural instinct was to push back. I made myself taller and looked him straight in his glasses and said, ‘Get out of the way…’

‘Tell them to piss off,’ Dewi whispered behind me.

Dr Gwynn held me for a moment to show how strong he was, then he stepped aside. Dewi opened the door of Gladstone’s house and in we went. ‘County School,’ they said, ‘manners, manners…’ Dewi banged the door in their faces. We leaned against it, the three of us, and listened to their protests. Then Dr Gwynn boomed above the rest, ‘Might do the trick, friends. Yes – might do the trick. And that boy will tell us…’

I looked at Dewi’s scarred face. ‘Never in this bloody life,’ I said.

We went into the kitchen, Dewi and Maxie making a show of stepping aside to let me go first. I didn’t know what to expect, and for a moment in my excitement saw nothing. But there were the children, crouched together on one side of the fireplace, wide-eyed and watching me; and there was Martha at the back door, a cigarette in her mouth and all messed up, but watching, too. They all looked towards the sofa. Gladstone was there under the blankets, and I thought then how he would have relished being in my shoes, faced with a comparable situation… and how he would have known exactly what to do, unlike me.

‘Gladstone’s sick,’ Dora said.

‘Go on, then, Lew,’ Martha said. Then added tearfully, ‘I can’t manage. Can’t really. Beyond me, it is.’

I went stiffly to Gladstone’s side and looked down at his face on the pillow. He was very pale, his mouth firmly closed, his eyelids as if they had been scaled down. This is how he’ll look when he’s dead, I thought – and oh, God, what am I supposed to do? Why are they all so quiet, so hopeful of me? Ought I to touch his face or his hand? What should I say? I stood there and gulped and tried to hold on to one racing thought after another.

‘Talk, then. Go on,’ said Martha, in the same voice as she must have used when she asked me to say something in French. A voice that expected magic.

‘When did it happen?’ I managed to say.

She came into the room. ‘This morning.’ She sat down and acted it for me. ‘Having a cup of tea. Like we always do. Then he
looks
at me all of a sudden. Oh – it was a look fit to send the shivers through you. Honestly! Then – he gets up and goes to the sofa and lies down. “Not so well?”
 I asked him. “Feeling sick, cariad bach, are you?” Not a word did he answer. He lies down and pulls the blankets over him – and goes off to sleep.’ Martha waved her hands helplessly. ‘I never thought. I mean, he never
took
anything. I told Doctor he never took anything…’ and by twelve o’clock she got worried and tried to wake him. ‘Pinched him, even!’ Then she’d sent for Dr Gwynn.

‘Fatal mistake,’ Dewi commented.

‘Very nice, he was,’ Martha protested. ‘Been giving Gladstone talks and everything…’

‘No wonder he’s sleeping, then,’ Dewi said.

‘It isn’t sleep, though,’ Martha said with a break in her voice. ‘Not real sleep at all…’

‘Never moved?’ I said.

Poor Martha broke down. ‘He’s got to have something to bring him round,’ she sobbed. ‘That’s what Dr Gwynn said. He wanted me – his mother – to talk to him…’

Dewi made a disgusted face.

‘Lew bach,’ Martha said through her tears, ‘say something to him. Dr Gwynn told me you’re to say something to him…’

I was leading actor again, my face a beetroot red, the palms of my hands wet. I knelt by the sofa. ‘Gladstone,’ I said, not to Gladstone at all but to the rest of them.

‘Any sign?’ said Martha, coming closer.

‘Gladstone – it’s me. Lew.’ I was too loud as well.

‘Say some more,’ she said. ‘Saw his mouth move then.’

Dewi came to my support. ‘I know what he was saying too,’ he said firmly. ‘He was saying to go away and leave me alone…’

I got quickly to my feet. ‘That’s the best thing,’ I said.

‘Did he really say that?’ Martha asked.

‘Course he did,’ Dewi went on. ‘How would you like to be woken up if you were enjoying a good sleep?’

‘The doctor said…’

‘Only having a good sleep,’ Dewi went on. ‘Leave him alone. He’ll wake up.’

I felt better now. ‘That’s right,’ I joined in. ‘He’ll be all right tomorrow…’

‘They can give them injections,’ Maxie said.

‘Listen to the lunatic,’ said Dewi.

I looked down at Gladstone while they had one of their arguments and I thought no, he’ll not wake up, he’ll never wake up, he’ll be like that for ever, like the ‘Lady of Shalott’ by Tennyson…. Oh, God, if only there was blood or a wound, something obvious like that. You’d know then why he was sleeping.

‘Percussion,’ said Maxie.

‘That’s
bands
, old fool,’ Dewi cried. ‘Concussion you mean – and you’re still wrong. Just let him sleep it out in peace. He’ll be all right.’

Everybody wanted Gladstone to be all right, so everybody agreed with Dewi. And I was more than glad because it let me out…. We all cheered up then: Walter said something comic, and Maxie made another one of his mistakes. There were smiles all round until Dewi suggested that we go. ‘No, stay,’ said Martha. ‘Stay, stay for a bit. He might come round tonight – you never know. Doctor said it might be a coma, like.’ So we stayed for an hour and tried a half-hearted game with the children. Gladstone never moved, though – never changed his position on the couch, even.

When we got outside, Dewi stopped saying it was going to be all right. ‘Gives you the creeps, Lew. Seeing him like that.’

‘We’ve got to think of something,’ I said. ‘I don’t know what – but something.’

‘Might be all right tomorrow,’ Maxie said, and we all agreed, but not very hopefully.

That was Monday night. Straight after school every day that week I went to see him, but he hadn’t moved – just lay there as if some terrible drug was working on him. On Wednesday, Martha said that a specialist was going to be sent for. ‘Who’s going to pay for that?’ she asked. ‘It’s not right, is it? He’s always been queer.’

Her attitude towards Gladstone changed as the days went by. She had stopped crying, and every time she spoke of him it was grudgingly, as if she resented his long sleep. ‘Just can’t keep up,’ she complained to me, and the dust everywhere, the ashes in the grate, the newspaper spread on the table, and the cigarette stumps proved how right she was. ‘Not been to work for a week,’ she said. ‘What’s going to happen to my babies, then?’ But she managed to get out to the Harp every night just the same.

‘You don’t want to be going round there so often,’ Meira said. ‘Might catch something…’

‘Sleep isn’t contagious,’ I said.

‘Contagious! Well – listen to the County School.’

‘My opinion,’ said Owen, ‘is that he isn’t right – never was.’

‘Tell me what right is,’ I said.

‘Well – like us.’ Owen laughed. ‘By damn, that’s not 
saying much, is it? Give me time and I’ll work it out for you.’ He made a move on the draughtsboard. ‘Don’t worry, Lew – it’ll clear itself.’

Owen and Meira refused to fight with me, which was annoying in a way because by Thursday I was all set for an argument, and dreamed hopefully of catching one of the jokers of Porthmawr with Gladstone’s name on his lips.

Polly said, ‘There was a case in Liverpool some years ago – exactly the same – only it was a girl…’

‘How could it be the same if it was a girl?’ I asked smartly, and Polly became dry and withering, and talked in her best legal manner of people who changed, of certain parties who altered.

Then Rowland Williams caught me up on the street. ‘You passed me,’ he said. ‘Never even looked…’

I said sorry, and that I had a lot on my mind. There was a week’s growth of black beard on his chin, and his eyes were bloodshot, but there was no smell of drink on him.

‘That’s the trouble,’ he said. ‘The mind’s the trouble.’ He looked down at his boots and added, ‘Thought you might not want to be seen talking to a comic character like me.’

I said that was soft for a start, then I told him about Gladstone.

‘I know,’ he broke in. ‘I know.’ And he was wringing his hands, almost breaking up in front of me, I thought. ‘It’s what happens,’ he said. ‘You show yourself and…’ He had to lean against a wall for a moment. ‘I’m all right,’ he said. ‘Been through worse and I’m all right.’ He gripped my arm tight. ‘Listen – know what the Nationalist Party’s done, don’t you? Burnt an aerodrome in Pwllheli to the ground! Know that, don’t you?’

‘Saw it in the paper, Mr Williams.’

‘But it isn’t enough,’ he went on, tightening his grip on my arm. ‘I’m with them, Lew – but they mustn’t stop there. They’re too late by a hundred years and more, but I’m with them…. It’s a great fire we want that’ll scorch away all the institutions of mediocrity – a great flame burning bright in the shabby dark, celebrating a dignity we have lost…. Oh, Lew bach, this bloody business between birth and death! We need a conflagration that will leave in its ashes a new birth, a fresh start…’

This was Rowland Williams, once so sharp, so lucid – and I wasn’t following him at all. ‘Didn’t know you were a Nationalist, Mr Williams,’ I said.

He came straight to attention. ‘Not talking about Nationalism,’ he snapped. ‘
Burning
is what I’m talking about. Can’t you understand? I’m talking about humanity, about being alive, about the cancer that’s eating away at head and heart…’ He turned on his heel and shuffled off up Lower Hill, muttering angrily. Had he been six feet tall and clean and handsome perhaps my mouth wouldn’t have shaped itself for a smile, perhaps I wouldn’t have said ‘Bloody hell!’ again and again as a substitute for laughing aloud.

On Friday night I waited until I saw Martha go out before I went over to Gladstone. I was tired of her always expecting me to perform the miracle. Three times that day I had been in a fight because someone had asked after the ‘sleeping beauty’: I was in no mood to talk to anyone.

Nothing had changed at Gladstone’s, except that the kitchen was dirtier still. The children were asleep, the
silence in the house still holding traces of their cries. I removed a dirty blouse which Martha had thrown down on the rocking chair and sat down. Gladstone didn’t seem to have moved at all. His face was the same, still
mask-like
, but paler if anything. The rash had cleared, but that was the only change. I sat there a long time, frustration gnawing at me, trying without success to will him awake.

Then, suddenly, the children awoke upstairs, shouting and protesting in a brief, sleepy quarrel. Automatically I looked up, and must have stayed liked that until the noise had died down. When I returned to my former position Gladstone’s eyes were open and his face was turned towards me, and he was smiling.

I jumped up, as if stung, and went on wobbly legs to him. ‘Well, good God,’ I said. ‘Good God.’

‘What on earth were you looking at up there?’ he asked, and raised himself up on the pillow.

‘Lie down,’ I said. ‘Lie down – you’re weak. I’ll fetch the doctor.’

His familiar laugh echoed in the kitchen. ‘A glass of water will do,’ he said. ‘I’m a bit parched. You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’