The Black Halo (8 page)

He went over and refilled our glasses, all except Edward’s, who said that he was quite happy. One could never tell what he was thinking. He let his wife do all the talking and sat quietly
listening. One couldn’t imagine him saying or doing anything rash. One could however quite easily imagine him in a coldly computerised ship absorbed in instruments.

‘Isn’t that interesting?’ Lorna said to him. ‘A hermit. Imagine that. And, tell me, does he stay entirely by himself?’

‘He does,’ said Dougie, ‘in one of those huts the RAF used to have. And he doesn’t speak to anyone. He had the same routine today,’ he said, turning to me.
‘He took a piece of paper out of his pocket with the messages written on it but he didn’t speak. Funny thing, the people are turning against him. The children were shouting after him
after he got on his bicycle.’ As he was speaking Dougie’s voice was becoming slurred and lazy.

‘I can imagine it,’ I said.

‘And another odd thing. Stork’s wife went in front of him in the queue, though she had no right to. But you know her. And he just accepted it. I wondered what he would do. He just
smiled but didn’t say anything.’

‘Is he dumb or something that he doesn’t speak?’ Lorna asked.

‘Not at all,’ said Dougie. ‘He’s not at all dumb. He just doesn’t want to speak at all.’

‘That’s really odd, isn’t it, Edward,’ said Lorna. One couldn’t imagine her not speaking.

‘It is,’ said Edward.

‘Still,’ said Dougie, ‘if he’s got the money I’m not going to refuse him his provisions.’

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘How do you mean?’ said Dougie, as if he had detected some hint of argumentativeness in my voice.

‘It’s just,’ I said, ‘that he doesn’t seem to care for the village. He belongs to it and he doesn’t belong to it. He’s a villager and he
isn’t.’

‘Well,’ Dougie answered, ‘he’s a man anyway. He’s a human being.’

‘I suppose,’ I said, ‘it depends on how you define a man.’

‘I don’t understand,’ said Dougie again.

‘Well,’ I persisted, as if driven by an inner compulsion, ‘a man is someone who lives in society. He can’t be said to live in society.’

‘That’s true in a way,’ said Lorna as if thinking deeply and trying to follow what we were saying. Her husband was taking it all in, his hand round his glass which had still
quite a lot of whisky in it.

‘Yes,’ said Dougie, ‘but you’re not going to say that because he doesn’t bother with the village I shouldn’t sell him provisions.’

‘And there’s another thing,’ I said. And I told them about Kenneth John and what the Clamhan had told me.

Lorna looked at me in astonishment or pretended astonishment. ‘Well, there seems to be goings on without doubt. And where is he now?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said and then speaking to Edward, ‘He used to be in the Merchant Navy, you know, in his youth. He was all over the world. Hong Kong, Valparaiso, the
lot. He’s well over seventy now and he just went and left his wife like that. He took the bus and he wouldn’t speak to anyone and he went off to town and no one’s heard of him
since.’

‘Isn’t that extraordinary?’ said Lorna, finishing her vodka. ‘Isn’t that quite extraordinary?’ Her husband agreed that it was.

‘You say he was over seventy?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘and he left his wife. He had apparently been saying that he should be like the hermit, fancy free. Of course he never really settled down.’

‘More of us should do that,’ said Dougie jokingly as he refilled the glasses again, including mine. ‘More of us should do that. Leave our wives, I mean. A lot of people want to
do that.’

‘Do you want to do that?’ said Lorna to her husband.

‘No, I’m quite happy. In any case, I’m in the Navy already.’

‘I’ll tell you something though,’ said Dougie whose voice was becoming even more slurred and his face redder. ‘It’s a question of principle, isn’t it? I mean
if the hermit – whoever he is – wants provisions from me I’m bound to sell them to him. Else why was I fighting the Germans, tell me that.’

‘That’s a point,’ said Lorna brightly, looking from me to him as if she were watching a tennis match.

Dougie repeated what he had said.

‘After all, we’re living in a democracy, aren’t we? At least, that’s what they call it.’

Democracy, I thought. Is cancer a democracy? Cancer is what destroys the unity of the cells, the Greek polis. Maybe the hermit was a cancer. Was that what he was?

‘Still,’ I said, ‘if a lot of people start to leave their wives because of him that will be something else again. You won’t find the women talking about
democracy.’

Dougie was about to say something, I felt sure, about women not being democratic anyway but then looking at Lorna he stopped himself in time and merely remarked, ‘Well, all I can say is
what did I fight the Germans for? I’ll tell you,’ he went on forcefully, ‘I fought the Germans so that hermits can buy their groceries at my shop even if they don’t want to
speak to me. That’s why I fought the Germans.’

‘And quite right too,’ said Lorna as if to a child. ‘Quite right too. Though on the other hand Charles has some right on his side as well. Still it was odd about that old
man.’

‘It was,’ I agreed. ‘It was very odd.’

I was looking out of the window at the moon which was rising bright and stunningly clear above the sea. Pure lovely moon, pure merciless moon. There was a long pause in the conversation which no
one seemed to wish to break. I felt comfortable and yet at the same time I was restless. Soon I would have to leave. That is what is so odd about lonely people, they want to be alone and yet they
do not want to be alone. There were times when I needed solitude like food and drink and other times when I couldn’t bear it.

The fact was I didn’t particularly care for Lorna or Edward. They seemed to me to be artificial superficial people who could not see and did not wish to see anything profound. They were
made uncomfortable by deep discussion. I was much more interested in Dougie than I was in them, though he was being rather incoherent about the Germans.

Suddenly he said, looking at me in what he imagined must be an affectionate roguish manner, ‘I hear that you’re getting your milk every morning.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘that’s true. I thought I’d buy fresh milk every morning.’

‘And very nice too,’ said Dougie as if he were back in his wartime barracks again and using the sort of language he might have spoken then. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting her
in the corn,’ he said. ‘Still, every man to his own taste.’

‘And who is this?’ said Lorna, looking at me almost roguishly. ‘I detect something.’

‘Oh, you can detect something all right,’ said Dougie. ‘She’s a stunner. Mind you, she’s pretty young.’ And he laughed. I was angry but remained smooth on the
surface.

‘There is nothing in it,’ I said, ‘but a pure business transaction.’

‘Ah, you old rogue,’ said Dougie again. ‘There’s depths to Charles that you wouldn’t believe,’ he told the others, going over to pour himself another whisky.
‘She’s a stunner. A real hum-dinger.’

This went on for some time till finally around eleven o’clock I said I would have to go.

‘You don’t have to go yet,’ said Dougie. ‘The night’s still young.’ In the old days I would have left even earlier when my wife was alive and in fact there
was really no reason why I should be leaving at eleven o’clock as I could stay in bed as long as I wished. Nevertheless I wanted to leave. The pressure of words without meaning was beginning
to tire me. And also I was wondering if other people were saying or hinting what Dougie was saying and hinting. With him it was just words and not for a moment did he believe that there was any
truth in what he was saying but other people in the village might be less charitable. The trouble was that though as far as I was concerned nothing had happened, the desire was there, and this was
what prevented me from being angrier.

The moon above the sea which I could see so clearly through the large window reminded me of her, the circles of light on the water. Great white breast of the moon, lovely unattainable Diana,
stunningly lovely.

I insisted on leaving. At the door Dougie said that I must not be offended by his chatter as it was all a joke. He seemed suddenly drunk and pathetic while behind him stood his brother so cool
and remote and collected.

Perhaps, I thought, the village does this to us. It doesn’t present us with enough challenges, it allows us to run to seed.

Astoundingly, Lorna put her face up to be kissed and as my eyes approached it, it looked grained and rutted like a close-up picture of the moon. There was a smell of stale perfume from her and
altogether she reminded me of a string bag such as one might carry home from a shop. Edward’s clasp was cool and faint. They were still standing at the door when I left. I wondered what they
would say about me in my absence. Poor Charles, Dougie might say, he’s getting old and narrow-minded. Imagine saying all that about the hermit! But I knew that Dougie was serious about
democracy and the Germans, he was fair and straight and kind. Maybe, I thought vaguely, I shall come up against him. Perhaps he too is my enemy. Or rather perhaps I am his enemy. I waved and then
they went into the house and the square of light closed.

And I began my walk home.

As I walked along I thought of myself as a tramp without destiny, without purpose. I had worn my best suit to visit Dougie as I always did on a Friday but nevertheless I thought of myself as a
tramp. The fact was that since my wife died I had had trouble even with maintaining my clothes in a reasonable condition, quite apart from my trouble with cooking. I couldn’t be bothered with
darning my socks and often I just threw them away when they were holed and bought new ones. A lot of my jackets had buttons missing and I couldn’t be bothered sewing new ones on. And this was
really absurd since I had all the time in the world but at the same time I couldn’t spare the time to sew buttons on jackets or darn my socks. I could hardly be bothered making food for
myself.

As I walked along I could see the hermit’s hut in the distance. Perhaps he was now sleeping quietly and peacefully while I was walking along the road to my lonely house, restless, yet not
wishing to go back to it. The sky above was bright with moonlight. Even the Greeks, it occurred to me, must have had trouble with their cooking and their clothes. But of course nothing of that was
mentioned in their philosophy. They seemed so wholly concerned with the merciless mind, like the moon that raced between the clouds, remote and hard, and so goldenly unlike the stones which Murdo
took home for his house. Imagine what it must be like to compose a house of moons.

And as I walked along thinking of the hermit and his hut and the planes rising from it into the night sky on their unimaginable missions, black planes headed for their destiny of dumbness and
silence, I heard above the noise of the running stream another sound. It was the sound of dancing. I halted and listened. Every Friday night the young people would dance to the music of the
accordion at the end of the road. They had been doing this for generation after generation – at first it had been the melodeon – and they were doing it tonight. The wheel circled, night
was an affair of whiteness and perfume, the ring of erotic flesh. And I myself in the past had sometimes joined in the dance. And many of the girls with whom I had danced had now become old and
flabby and fat and had varicose veins. But now if I were to enter that circle they would all withdraw from me as if I were a ghost and the accordion player would stop playing and there would be a
dead silence. But in the old days it hadn’t been like that. In the light of the autumn moon the world appeared brave and brilliant, the future lay before us all, our feet derived strength
from the earth as we danced and we were young. There was no disease in the world, no sorrow, nothing but certainty. The dance was the symbol of eternity which repeated itself endlessly. Now it was
merely a nostalgic charm. But perhaps that was the image I should have been seeking for, the image of the dance, not the image of silence and dumbness. If only one could live forever in the world
of the dance, if only we had the luck. But, no, I didn’t even dance very well and now I wouldn’t be able to dance at all. Time had slowed me down, made my body stiff. I would find it
undignified to dance. I would be too aware of those forces which were like a high wind trying to break up the dance. How could one be so innocent again? How could one have the fierce animal eye
that gazed at the moon and tried to stare it down?

And as I walked along I thought that if I had a bomb I would destroy this village where my idealism had died. Here my heart which had burned with fervour had turned to ashes. It was all the
fault of the village and its people. They too easily had lost their vision of the dance and because of that I had lost it too. The dance to them was frivolous, it was a stage in their lives which
had to be transcended so that they could settle down and raise families and cultivate their land. But what, I thought, if the dance itself is the centre of the world? For in the dance we do not
consider what other people may be thinking about us, we are not looking for hidden meanings in their conversations. In the dance we put out our hand and we grasp another hand and the two hands are
mortal and warm. We are all together in the dance creating together whatever our souls and minds are like, an image of harmony. In the centre of the dance there is no fear, no horror. There are no
skulls staring at us from the centre of the dance and no cries of pain are heard.

And these thoughts and wishes brought me to the house and to my own door. I have to say at this point, if I have not said it already, that when I go out I always leave the door unlocked: there
is no history of stealing in the village. I switched on the light and there sitting in my chair was my wife. She had always sat there and for a moment in my slightly drunk state I didn’t find
it wholly odd that she should be there. She always used to sit by the fire knitting or sewing in that very chair with the blue cover on it.