The Book of Evidence (13 page)

He turned his raptor's gaze on me.
Sold
, he said, and it was almost a whisper, sold, not gave. He smiled. There was a brief silence. He was quite at ease. He was sorry, he said, if 1 had c o m e in the hope of seeing the pictures again. He could understand that I might be attached to them. But he had got rid of them almost at once. He smiled again, gently. There were one or t w o quite nice things, he said, but they would not have been comfortable, here, at Whitewater.

There you are, father, I thought, so much for your connoisseur's eye.

I wanted to do something for your mother, you see, Behrens was saying. She had been ill, you know. I gave her much m o r e than the market value — you mustn't tell her that, of course. She wanted to set up in business of 85

sonic kind, I think. He laughed. Such a spirited woman! he said. There was another silence. He fiddled with his knife, amused, waiting. I realised, with some astonishment, that he must have thought I had c o m c to demand the return of the collection. Then, of course, I began to wonder if despite his protestations he had cheated on the price. T h e notion bucked me up immensely. Why, you old scoundrel, I thought, laughing to myself, you're just like all the rest of us. I looked at Anna's profile faintly reflected in the window before me. What was she, too, but an ageing spinster, with her wrinkles and her dyed hair — probably Fly mi serviced her once a month or so, between hosing down the car and taking his moustache to the barber's for a
trim
. D a m n you all! 1 poured myself a brimming glass of wine, and spilled some on the tablecloth, and was glad. Oh dark, dark.

I expected to be asked to stay the night, but when we had drunk our coffee Anna excused herself, and came back in a minute and said she had phoned for a taxi. I was offended. I had c o m e all this way to see them and they would not even offer me a bed. An ugly silence fell.

Behrens at my prompting had been talking about Dutch painters. .Did I imagine it, or
did
he glance at me with a sly smile when he asked if I had been into the garden room?

Before I realised it was the gilded salon that he meant he had passed on. N o w he sat, head trembling, his mouth open a little, staring dully at the candle-flame. He lifted a hand, as if he were about to speak again, but let it fall slowly. T h e lights of a car swept the window and a horn tooted. Behrens did not get up. So g o o d to see you, he murmured, giving me his left hand. So good.

Anna walked with me to the front door. I felt I had somehow made a fool of myself, but could not think how, exactly. In the hall our footsteps sounded very loud, a 86

confused and faintly absurd racket. It's Flynn's night off, Anna said, or I w o u l d have had him drive you. I said stiffly that was quite all right. I was asking myself if we could be the same t w o people w h o had rolled with Daphne naked on a bed one hot Sunday afternoon on the other side of the world, on the other side of time. H o w could 1 have imagined I had ever loved her. Y o u r father seems well, I said. She shrugged. O h , she said, he's dying. At the door, I don't k n o w what I was thinking of, I fumbled for her hand and tried to kiss her. She stepped back quickly, and 1

almost fell over. T h e taxi tooted again. Anna! I said, and then could think of nothing to add. She laughed bleakly.

Go h o m e , Freddie, she said, with a w a n smile, and shut the door slowly in my face.

I knew w h o w o u l d be driving the taxi, of course. D o n ' t say anything, I said to him sternly, not a word! He looked at me in the mirror with a mournful, accusing eye, and we lumbered o f f d o w n the drive. 1 realised I had nowhere to go.

I T IS S E P T E M B E R . I hav e been here n o w for t w o months . It seems longer than that. T h e tree that I can glimpse f r o m the w i n d o w of my cell has a drab, dusty look, it will soon begin to turn. It trembles, as if in anticipation, at night I fancy I can hear it, rustling excitedly out there in the dark.

T h e skies in the morning are splendid, immensely high and clear. I like to watch the clouds building and dispersing.

Such huge, delicate labour. T o d a y there was a rainbow, when I saw it I laughed out loud, as at a wonderful, absurd j o k e . N o w and then people pass by, under the tree. It must be a shortcut, that way. At nine c o m e the office girls with cigarettes and fancy hairdos, and, a little later, the dreamy housewives lugging shopping bags and babies. At four every afternoon a schoolboy straggles by, bearing an enormous satchel on his back like a h u m p . D o g s c o m e too, walking very fast with an air of determination, stop, give the tree a quick squirt, pass on. Other lives, other lives.

Lately, since the season began to change, they all seem to m o v e , even the boy, with a lighter tread, borne up, as if they are flying, s o m e h o w , through the glassy blue autumnal air.

At this time of year I often dream about my father. It is 88

always the same dream, though the circumstances vary.

T h e person in it is indeed my father, but not as I ever knew him. He is younger, sturdier, he is cheerful,' he has a droll sense of h u m o u r . I arrive at a hospital, or s o m e such large institution, and, after much searching and confusion, find him sitting up in bed with a steaming m u g of tea in his hand. His hair is boyishly rumpled, he is wearing someone else's pyjamas. He greets me with a sheepish smile. On impulse, because I am flustered and have been so worried, I embrace him fervently. He suffers this un-accustomed display of emotion with equanimity, patting my shoulder and laughing a little. T h e n I sit d o w n on a chair beside the bed and we are silent for a m o m e n t , not quite k n o w i n g what to do, or where to look. I understand that he has survived something, an accident, or a shipwreck, or a hectic illness. S o m e h o w it is his o w n foolhardiness, his recklessness (my father, reckless!), that has g o t him into danger, and n o w he is feeling silly, and comically ashamed of himself In the dream it is always I w h o have been responsible for his lucky escape, by raising the alarm, calling for an ambulance, getting the lifeboat out, something like that. My deed sits between us, enormous, unmanageable, like love itself, p r o o f at last of a son's true regard. I w a k e up smiling, my heart swollen with tenderness. I used to believe that in the dream it was death I was rescuing him f r o m , but lately I have begun to think that it is, instead, the long calamity of his life I am undoing at a stroke. N o w perhaps I'll have another, similar task to perform. For they told me today my mother has died.

By the time the taxi got me to the village the last bus to the city had left, as my driver, with melancholy 89

enjoyment, had assured me w o u l d be the case. We sat in the darkened main street, beside a hardware shop, the engine purring. T h e driver turned around in his seat, lifting his cap for a rapid^ one-finger scratch, and settled d o w n to see what I w o u l d do next. O n c e again I was struck by the w a y these people stare, the dull, brute candour of their interest. I had better g i v e h i m a n a m e — it is R e c k , Fm afraid — for I shall be stuck with h i m for a while yet. He w o u l d be happy, he said, to drive me into the city h i m s e l f I shook my head: it was a g o o d thirty miles, and I already o w e d him m o n e y . Otherwise, he said, with an awful, ingratiating smile, his mother m i g h t put me up — M r s R e c k , it seemed, ran a public house with a r o o m upstairs. T h e idea did not appeal to me, but the street was dark and grimly silent, and there was something very depressing about those tools in that shop w i n d o w , and yes, I said faintly, with a hand to my forehead, yes, take me to y o u r mother.

B u t she was not there, or asleep or something, and he led me up the back stairs himself, g o i n g on tiptoe like a large, shaky spider. T h e r o o m had a little l o w w i n d o w , one chair, and a bed with a h o l l o w in the middle, as if a cadaver had lately been r e m o v e d f r o m it. T h e r e was a smell of piss and porter. R e c k stood smiling at me shyly, kneading his cap in his hands. I bade h i m a firm g o o d n i g h t , and he withdrew, lingeringly. T h e last I saw of h i m was a b o n y hand slowly pulling the d o o r closed behind him. I walked back and forth once or twice gingerly, the floorboards creaking. D i d I w r i n g my hands, I w o n d e r ? T h e l o w w i n d o w and the sagging bed g a v e me a vertiginous sense of disproportion, I seemed too tall, my feet too big. I sat on the side of the bed. A faint radiance lingered in the w i n d o w . If I leaned d o w n sideways I could see a crooked chimney pot and a silhouette of trees. I felt 90

like the g l o o m y h e r o in a R u s s i a n novel, b r o o d i n g in my bolthole a b o v e the d r a m s h o p in the village of Dash, in the year D o t , with my story all b e f o r e m e , waiting to be told.

i did not sleep. T h e sheets w e r e c l a m m y and s o m e h o w slippery, and I w a s convinced I w a s not the first to h a v e tossed and turned b e t w e e n t h e m since their last laundering.

I tried to lie, tensed like a spring, in such a w a y that as little of me as possible c a m e in contact w i t h them. T h e hours w e r e m a r k e d by a distant churchbell with a peculiarly dull note. T h e r e w a s the usual b a r k i n g o f d o g s and b e l l o w i n g o f cattle. T h e s o u n d o f m y o w n fretful sighs infuriated m e .

N o w and then a car or a lorry passed b y , and a b o x of lighted g e o m e t r y slid rapidly over the ceiling and d o w n the walls and p o u r e d a w a y in a corner. I had a r a g i n g thirst. W'aking d r e a m s assailed me with grotesque and b a w d y visions. O n c e , on the point of sleep, I had a sudden, dreadful sense of falling, and I sprang a w a k e with a j e r k .

T h o u g h I tried to put her o u t of my m i n d I kept returning to the t h o u g h t of A n n a Behrens. ^WTiat had h a p p e n e d to her, that she should lock herself a w a y in that drear m u s e u m , w i t h o n l y a d y i n g old m a n for c o m p a n y ? B u t perhaps n o t h i n g had happened* perhaps that w a s it.

Perhaps the days j u s t w e n t b y , o n e by one, w i t h o u t a sound, until at last it w a s t o o late, and she w o k e up o n e m o r n i n g and f o u n d herself stuck fast in the m i d d l e of her life. I i m a g i n e d her there, sad and solitary, b e w i t c h e d in her m a g i c castle, year after year, and — oh, all sorts of m a d notions c a m e into my head, I am t o o embarrassed to speak of them. A n d as I w a s thinking these things, another t h o u g h t , on another, m u r k i e r level, w a s w i n d i n g and w i n d i n g its dark skein. So it w a s o u t of a m u d d l e d conflation of ideas of k n i g h t errantry and rescue and r e w a r d that my plan originated. I assure y o u , y o u r h o n o u r , this is no sly a t t e m p t at exoneration: I only wish to explain 91

my motives, I mean the deepest ones, if such a thing is possible. As the hours went on, and stars flared in the little w i n d o w and then slowly faded again, Anna Behrens m e r g e d in my m i n d with the other w o m e n w h o were in s o m e w a y in my care — D a p h n e , of course, and even my mother, even the stable-girl, too — but in the end, when the d a w n came, it was that D u t c h figure in the picture in the garden r o o m w h o hovered over the bed and gazed at me, sceptical, inquisitive and calm. I g o t up and dressed, and sat on the chair by the w i n d o w and watched the ashen light of day descend u p o n the r o o f t o p s and seep into the trees. My mind was racing, my b l o o d fizzled in my veins. I k n e w n o w what I w o u l d do. I was excited, and at the same time I had a deep sense of dread. T h e r e were stirrings downstairs, I wanted to be out, out, being and doing. I started to leave the r o o m , but paused and lay on the bed for a m o m e n t to calm myself, and fell at once into a p r o f o u n d and terrible sleep. ft was as if I had been struck d o w n . I cannot describe it. It lasted no m o r e than a minute or two. 1 w o k e up shaking. It was as if the very heart of things had skipped a beat. So it was that the day began, as it w o u l d continue, in the horrors.

M r s R e c k was tall and thin. N o , she was short and fat. I do not r e m e m b e r her clearly. I do not wish to r e m e m b e r her clearly. For G o d ' s sake, h o w m a n y of these grotesques am I expected to invent? I'll call her for a witness, and y o u can do the j o b yourselves. At first 1 thought she was in pain, but it was only a terrible, tongue-tied shyness that was m a k i n g her duck and flinch. She fed me sausages and rashers and black p u d d i n g in the parlour behind the bar (it was the executioner w h o ate a hearty breakfast). An intricate
silence
filled the r o o m , I could hear myself swallow. S h a d o w s h u n g d o w n the walls like fronds of c o b w e b . T h e r e was a picture of Jesus with his dripping 9 2

heart on s h o w , d o n e in thick shades of crimson and cream, and a p h o t o g r a p h of s o m e p o p e or other blessing the multitudes f r o m a Vatican balcony. A feeling of g l o o m settled like heartburn in my breast. R e c k appeared, in his braces and shirt-sleeves, and asked coyly if everything w a s all right. G r a n d , I said stoutly, grand! He stood and gazed at m e , smiling tenderly, w i t h a sort of h a p p y pride. I m i g h t h a v e been s o m e t h i n g he had left to p r o p a g a t e overnight. A h , these p o o r , simple lives, so m a n y , across which I h a v e d r a g g e d my trail of slime. He had not once m e n t i o n e d the monies I o w e d h i m — even on the p h o n e he had apologised for not waiting for m e . I rose and e d g e d past h i m in the d o o r w a y . Just p o p p i n g o u t for a m o m e n t , I said, get a breath of air. I could feel my horrible smile, like s o m e t h i n g sticky that had dripped on to my face. He n o d d e d , and a little flicker of sadness passed over his b r o w and d o w n his sheep's muzzle. Y o u k n e w I w a s g o i n g to do a flit, didn't y o u ? W h y did y o u not stop m e ? I don't understand these people. 1 h a v e said it before. I don't understand them.