Schooling (23 page)

Watty dropped into his swivel chair. He could spend a full day in it, only getting up for the lavatory and I am not certain even then. Chewing paper in my secret aisles, I would hear a terrific noise and look up to see the Barrister rolling madly toward me, propelling himself forward with his heels as he shouted, Where’s the good brain God gave you and find that damn notice. It was only by the grace of said God that the plane of the floor was as true as it was. Any dip in the grain and old Watty would have pitched himself through one of the plateglass windows in front or tipped backwards into a pile of collecting hairballs coughed up by the dying tabby he refused to put out of my misery.

Miranda. I leaned against Watty’s desk for support, my legs buckling in agony. I looked up at her, attempting a sort of apologetic yet at the same time charming smile, one clearly indicating, Legs! Who can help the devils! But from the alarm she registered, I leered like a madman. Miranda. Dark and lovely on reliable legs, she reduced me.

Sit down, my darling, Watty said, oblivious. Darling was too much. A nonsensical torrent blurted forth. I lunged to the storage room to collect myself. Leaning miserably against the cold brick, I had the striking thought that a body is not simply vehicle for a brain, but contributes, rightly or wrongly, for better or worse, to some kind of whole. I was disturbed by this—I don’t think I can call it anything less than a revelation—for I had invested heavily in cogitation to the exclusion of even an elementary understanding of physiology. I was in no mood to be overtaken by systems I could not fathom, never mind control. I had neglected my biology studies and now I was paying the price.

The bricks were cool. I was content in the back room. I certainly took no guilt at shirking, after all, it was Watty’s fault I had been reduced to such a state. I felt better. I had read of hot flashes though I had understood them to be confined to women. I became confident that I had suffered a momentary instability. The day was hot, and it suddenly occurred to me that it was after four and I had not eaten lunch. There were reasons for my collapse. I kissed a brick, I don’t know why.

I gathered myself to reenter the front room, quickly trawling for thoughts not sexual or deviant. This was more difficult than it seemed. I was seventeen, and in my experience, attempts to avoid a subject usually compelled it, my mind being somewhat contrary by nature. I tried to chase down an innocent boyhood memory.

I had begged my father to take me fishing for perhaps a year when he finally succumbed. The fishing sites in Gwydyr were limited, though as a six-year-old I believed I could catch a trout in rainwater if I set my mind on it. We left at dawn. I made us black bread and ham sandwiches, there was not much to eat that year and the meat was an extravagance. I packed the food on top of our rain gear, jumpers and a tin of worms I had spent three days digging out of the garden. Upon our arrival at the fishing spot, I don’t know how it happened, did I heave out the gear in my excitement to get to the worms? Was I cold? Anxious for a jumper? All I remember was the slow arc the worm tin carved in the air as the sandwiches flew up over the water. They’re still good, I cried, lunging down the bank toward the river. No. Da held me back with one arm, the other crooked around our rods. Please Da, they can dry out. But we could see the bread was already beginning to sog and drift into pieces. And the sun was not strong enough. We stayed to fish. This was my first memory, an uneasiness as I waited for dinner hour to approach, for Da to begin shifting as his hunger mounted, unable to resist—and who could blame him—throwing me a glance or two as he tasted our lost sandwiches. The restorative powers of this memory on my legs and breathing were not great.

The back room smelled of coal though it was too damp to store a lump. A funny trick a mind can play when senses won’t collaborate. It smells of coal, says your nose. Yet it’s damp, replies your skin. Then cognition chimes in, What would coal be doing in the storeroom, addlepate? Time moved forward. My legs were legs again and I was becoming less agitated and more irritated. Who was this woman, alright, creation then. Even if she was Watty’s daughter, what right did she have to come barging into a place of business dressed as she was with legs in stockings and a skirt, a skirt that. Well, how did she sit down? Yes, the more thought I gave it, the more I was appalled by the lack of respect I had been shown. It was an affront. Without further ado, I charged back into the front office, my legs serving me well on this occasion.

She was leaning forward, I shall never forget it. In emphasis or reiteration, difficult to tell. As if the Barrister were the most charming person on the globe. Head at an angle as if she hoped that Watty might release another nugget as compelling as the last. This, when after three weeks I could tell you that old Watty’s antics on the office furniture was about as fascinating as it got. Emerging from the memory of my father, my distressed self at six, I wondered had I ever looked at my father as Miranda was looking at hers, with such kind indulgence?

Don’t be shy, Watty said with a fart. Then she turned, killing me. She had hair in waves. Don’t ask me to describe the style, I’m no good. But I know it shone. Well for God’s sake, the lamp was directly above her, I’m not a sentimentalist. Her eyes, a sort of green. Did she want me to join the two of them, I couldn’t tell. Her knee was bent, right over left. Soft. Curved like a comma. I began a sentence I wanted parsed.

There’s the files to—file, I said intelligently. Language, as I’ve mentioned, not my strong suit.

Well those can wait, it was she who said it not Watty, from whom I took my orders. We must get to know each other, she continued. My father’s been telling me how helpful you’ve been.

I struck a pose, yes I admit it. Braggadocio. Hands casually in pockets, back against the wall. In truth, of course, it was for support, out of deference to the buckle in my knees. Ah, I said. As I’ve mentioned, my reply to the beguiling. She was a vision, but then I’m prone to exaggeration. I waited for something intelligent to surface, but only the banal swam up. Have you come from London? How long are you planning to stay? It was more interview than conversation. Feeling myself beginning to slide down the wall, I directed my hands from their home in my pockets to a fingertips-bent, one hand against the wall support, a position I had seen Mr. Mortimer take up when in the deepest contemplation. That eased the situation for the time being and we chatted amiably with the Barrister interjecting from time to time but mercifully resisting any temptations for snot excavation. In such a case, I would not have known which way to look. The idea of giving Miranda a glance she might interpret as judgment of her father, the pain that might cause her, was enough to bring on a finger cramp. I managed to balance myself to a standing position, vigorously rubbing my hands but furrowing my brow in an air of erudition to suggest that finger massage was the sort of distracted habit found in genius.

She knew a boy I had known at Monstead, an insufferable lout in my opinion but I agreed with her assessment that he held England’s hope for political reform or some insanity. He was two years older than me, closer her age than mine and I found myself jealously speculating as to the nature of their relations. According to Miranda, in the years since leaving school, Brickman had established himself as indispensable to some member of the government. Sycophant, no doubt, to some sausage wreaking havoc on the working class.

There’s a rumor, she leaned closer to convey a secret, I bent to hear it but she adjusted her shoe, That Brickman was affiliated with the Resistance.

At this I snorted. Yes, snorted. The
French
Resistance, I asked, or the Prefect resistance to not enough sugar? I couldn’t help myself. In truth what I remembered best about Brickman was his penchant for taking cutlery between thumb and forefinger, targeting the back of a junior’s head and unleashing said weapon with the vicious flick of a Japanese throwing star. He and his cohorts gained much amusement from it. Having been a victim to this torture myself, I know a fellow can not easily forget the shock of impalement while engaged in a mildly pleasant activity, refilling a jug of tea or stooping to address a classmate. Though it must be added, if one were not the target, it was fairly amusing to see a fellow’s face quickly fall. But the notion that Brickman led or was involved in any worthwhile organization was ludicrous. Really, did old Brickman aim forks through knotholes as Poles quivered beneath the floorboards. Oh anyone is capable of changing I suppose.

In order to deflate the Resistance comment, I gave an inquisitive lift to my eyebrow, a sort of Good old Brickman How is the Old Boy expression. At this point in the game, I had no friend in integrity. Deftly I maneuvered the conversation to the nature of her involvement with Brickman. She imparted that it was innocent. I would have had trouble seeing them together, Brickman appraising a fork over a meal in a French restaurant. But I was glad to hear it directly.

Well I should let you blabla, said she, gibberish about getting back to work while she had errands to finish. Your father took me to the Algernon once, I mentioned. It was lovely there. An invitation so obvious I blushed.

Back in the storeroom the sloppily mortared bricks gave no answers. In her absence. Why hadn’t the bricklayer troweled better. It would trouble me always.

Da and I were eating when she came by the house. I had purchased a chicken on the way home, and we sat at the table attempting potatoes that were stones near the middle. With cooking, timing is all. At the knock, Da went out for the door, Gregor often came by when he gauged we’d be at supper. I heard her voice. Gregor’s never sounded like glass. A piece of chicken went down the wrong way and a bone caught in my windpipe. I could have died. I was more concerned with humiliation. I jumped up, gasping for air. Throwing my midsection against the sink dislodged the bone. They came in. Mr. Watson’s daughter, Da repeated. I leaned back against the sink sending a prayer to my legs. She took my chair and Da pushed over the step he used for the taller cabinets. I perched.

We spoke, I don’t remember much of it. I recall Da saying I can’t imagine how my son landed that job with your father, Teddy never was one for numbers. I didn’t know what to do with that. A father mistakes his child for himself. You see it all the time. I scraped at something on my trousers, well nothing. You could see Da was impressed by Miranda, though not so happy over her nationality. After an awkward silence while Da finished his chicken and ate around the potato centers, he shooed us into the front room. Go on now, tying a cloth around his waist for the dishes.

It was still too light for a lamp. Miranda picked up the china dog and barked at me.

Yes.

Replacing it, she said, Are you a good cook?

My timing’s still wrong, I said and blushed for the phrase seemed to take on a different meaning.

She told me she had instructed her father to bring us to the Algernon the following Sunday. Then we spoke about Brickman, it seemed he was to be our common subject. I contrived ways to tell her about myself. I was seventeen, forgive me for needing to convey more than I wanted to hear.

Last night I had a dream, I said. Miranda said nothing, so I continued. I dreamed I was a girl. I dreamed I had long hair and wore slippers. I sat at a table full of strangers, at the head of which a woman sang the most beautiful aria. As I was listening I accidentally scraped a boy’s foot with my ankle. The whole table turned to stare at me, disgusted. Flirt, they shouted, Flirt. These strangers frightened me but I could not explain myself. Then the singer leaned down to me and said, He told me about you. What? I begged to hear it, What did he say? Oh, the singer whispered, He said, Oh, the simple allowance of the girl.

Baffled, Miranda shifted her attention to the window.

I attempted clarification. Being a girl is the same as a boy. It struck me as I spoke that this was a wholly unsuitable topic of conversation so early in our acquaintance. I tried again. Or that I know what it’s like to be a girl.

Do you?

The remark humbled me which it was intended to do. Well of course not. Still, I thought perhaps I did. It might have been a time to return to Brickman, I could think of several cryptic ways to imply his stupidity while appearing congenial.

And what is it like to be a girl then, Ted?

Well I couldn’t say I knew exactly.

I’m simply trying to understand which part of the dream made you feel this way. Was it having long hair?

A trap was being set, I knew it. Caution was called for. There was the Algernon the following evening, my father in the kitchen with the dishes and a dish towel slung around his waist, there was no chance I was going to fuck this up. Not if I could help it. At the same time, I’ve mentioned before, I was seventeen. Opinionated. A difficult trait to mask.

I should go I suppose, she stood. I have to make my way back before dark. It was the invitation I came to extend.

I walked her down our lane. It’s this, I said. In my dream I felt they could tell me what I was. Brushing that horrible boy’s ankle was a mistake, yet their opinions were formed. On the other hand when the appraisal was flattering, I was happy to accept. The simple allowance of the girl. Why should it make me so happy?

I can’t say I understand, she said. I was sorry I had ever brought up the dream at all. Did she think I was peculiar, homosexual or taken to wearing ladies underpants? It was a lot to bear.

We stood at the end of the lane where the hedges ended and the road began. I would walk her another mile to her door but while we were still hidden, I stopped. A lozenge of white throat lay abandoned by the drape of her scarf. Without thinking, I drew the lapels of her coat to cover it. My hands frighteningly near her breasts. You’ll contract a cold with that exposed, said I. She thanked me, we were silent the rest of the way.

There were more biddies than before. Eavesdropping, Watty established that some type of gymkhana had taken place with horses and the lot. Men passed by with trousers that bagged at the knee, jodhpurs they were called, and high shiny boots favored by the fascists. Wives, well, women too ugly to be mistresses, absently tapped their thighs with riding crops as if urging themselves on. To what. Spending. The Algernon was used to this type of event. In autumn they held hunts, sausages called it population control, a favor to the farmers because the foxes ate their chickens. You knew some plaid-clad banger would vomit up this profundity. As if, in that case, the farmers wouldn’t mind a swarm of inbred hounds, chased by twenty-five alcoholics on the brink of a coronary, destroying their land in order to give one geriatric fox a nervous breakdown. Not that I cared one way or the other.