The Book of Evidence (8 page)

across and patted the girl's hand and told her not to mind me. I stared. What had I done? T h e child sat with eyes fixed on her plate, groping blindly for her knife and fork.

Her cheeks were aflame, I could almost hear them hum.

Had a look f r o m me done all that? I sighed, poor ogre, and ate a potato. It was raw and waxen at the heart. M o r e drink.

Y o u ' r e not getting into one of your moods, are you, Freddie? my mother said.

H a v e I mentioned my bad moods, I wonder. Very black, very black. As if the world had g r o w n suddenly dim, as if something had dirtied the air. Even when I was a child my depressions frightened people. In them again, is he? they would say, arid they would chuckle, but uneasily, and edge away from me. In school I was a terror — but no, no, I'll spare you the schooldays. I noticed my mother was no longer much impressed by my g l o o m . Her smile, with that slight droop at the side, was turning positively sardonic. I said I had seen Charlie French in town. O h , Charlie, she said, and shook her head and laughed. I nodded. Poor Charlie, he is the kind of person about w h o m people say, O h , like that, and laugh. Another, listless silence. W h y on earth had I c o m e back here. I picked up the bottle, and was surprised to find it empty. I opened another, clamping it between my knees and swaying and grunting as I yanked at the cork. Ah! and out it came with a jolly pop. Outside on the lawn the last of the day's sunlight thickened briefly, then faded. My mother was asking after Daphne and the child. At the thought of them something like a great sob, lugubrious, faintly comical, ballooned under my breastbone. Jane — no, I can't call her that, it doesn't fit — J o a n cleared the table, and my mother produced, of all things, a decanter of port and pushed it across the table to me. Y o u won't want us to 50

w i t h d r a w , will y o u ? she said, with that grin. Y o u can think of me as a m a n , a n y w a y , I ' m stndent e n o u g h . I began earnestly to tell her about my financial troubles, but got into a m u d d l e and had to stop. Besides, I suspected she was not really listening. She sat with her face half-turned to the nickel light of evening f r o m the w i n d o w , r h e u m -

eyed and old, s h o w i n g the b r o a d b r o w and high cheekbones of her D u t c h forebears, K i n g Billyhs henchmen.

Y o u should have a ruff, m a , I said, and a lace cap. I laughed loudly, then f r o w n e d . M y face was g o i n g n u m b .

Jean carefully offered me a c u p of coffee. N o , thank y o u , my dear, I said gravely, in my grandee's voice, indicating my port-glass, which, I noticed, w a s unaccountably e m p t y .

I refilled it, a d m i r i n g the steadiness of the hand that held the decanter. T i m e passed. Birds w e r e calling through the blue-grey dusk. I sat b e m u s e d , bolt-upright, in h a p p y misery, listening to them. T h e n with a snort and a heave I roused m y s e l f and l o o k e d a b o u t m e , s m a c k i n g my lips and blinking. M y m o t h e r and the girl w e r e g o n e .

He died at evening. T h e r o o m w a s still heavy with the long day's heat. I sat on a chair beside his bed in the open w i n d o w and held his hand. His hand. T h e w a x e n feel of.

H o w bright the air a b o v e the trees, bright and blue, like the limitless skies of childhood. I put my a r m a r o u n d him, laid a hand on his forehead. He said to m e : don't mind. her.

He said to me —

S t o p this, stop it. I w a s not there. I have not been present at anyone's death. He died alone, slipped a w a y while no o n e w a s l o o k i n g , leaving us to o u r o w n devices.

By the time 1 arrived f r o m the city they had trussed h i m up, ready for the coffin. He lay on the bed with his hands folded on his breast and his eyes shut tight, like a child being g o o d . His hair w a s brushed in a neat lick across his forehead. His ears, I r e m e m b e r , w e r e very white.

51

Extraordinary: all that anger and resentment, that furious, unfocused energy: gone.

I took what remained of the port and staggered a w a y upstairs. My knees quaked, I felt as if I were lugging a b o d y on my back. T h e light-switches seemed to have been m o v e d , in the half-darkness I kept banging into things, swearing and laughing. Then I found my w a y by mistake into Joanne's r o o m . (Joanne: that's it!) She must have been awake, listening to me barging about, I hardly got the d o o r open before she switched on her lamp. I stood teetering on the threshold, g o g g l i n g at her. She lay in a vast, sagging bed with the sheet pulled to her chin, and for s o m e reason I was convinced that she was still wearing her j o d h p u r s and her b a g g y pullover, and even her riding boots. She said nothing, only smiled at me in fright, and for a wild m o m e n t I considered climbing in beside her, shoes and all, so that n o w she might cradle
my
p o o r whirling head in her p l u m p y o u n g a c c o m m o d a t i n g arm. I had not really noticcd before her extraordinary flame-red hair, the sight of it spread out on the pillow in the lamplight almost m a d e me cry. Then the m o m e n t was gone, and with a grave n o d I withdrew silently, like an old sad grey fading ghost, and marched at a careful, dignified pace across the landing to the r o o m where a bed had been m a d e up for me. There I discovered that somewhere along the w a y I had mislaid the port.

I sat on the side of the bed, arms dangling between my knees, and was suddenly exhausted. My head fizzed, my eyes burned, but yet I could not m a k e myself lie d o w n to sleep. I might have been a child c o m e h o m e after a day of wild excursions. I had travelled far. Slowly, with underwater m o v e m e n t s , I untied my shoelaces. O n e shoe dropped, and then —

I
WOKE WITH A DREADFUL START
, m y ears r i n g i n g , as i f there had been an e x p l o s i o n in my head. A d r e a m : s o m e t h i n g a b o u t m e a t . It w a s light, b u t w h e t h e r it w a s d a w n or still dusk I w a s n o t sure. G r e y . N o r did I k n o w w h e r e I w a s .

E v e n w h e n I realised it w a s C o o l g r a n g e I did not recognise the r o o m at first. V e r y h i g h and. l o n g , w i t h lofty w i n d o w s that c a m e d o w n to the floor. S h a b b y , t o o , in a peculiar, o f f e n d e d w a y , a s i f i t w e r e conscious o f o n c e h a v i n g been an i m p o r t a n t place. I g o t up carefully f r o m the b e d and w e n t a n d l o o k e d d o w n a t the l a w n . T h e grass w a s g r e y , and there w e r e p i g e o n - c o l o u r e d s h a d o w s u n d e r the trees.

M y brain t h u d d e d . I t m u s t b e d a w n : i n the o a k w o o d , under an iron sky, a solitary bird w a s testing o u t the lightening air w i t h a single repeated flute-note. I pressed m y f o r e h e a d against the w i n d o w - p a n e , a n d shivered a t the c l a m m y , cold t o u c h of the glass. I h a d been travelling f o r the best part of a w e e k , w i t h scant f o o d and t o o m u c h alcohol, a n d n o w it w a s all catching up w i t h m e . 1 felt sick, s o d d e n , r e a m e d . M y eyelids w e r e scalding, m y spit tasted of ash. It s e e m e d to me the g a r d e n w a s w a t c h i n g m e , in its stealthy, tightlipped w a y , or that it w a s at least s o m e h o w a w a r e o f m e , f r a m e d here i n the w i n d o w , w r i n g i n g m y 53

hands, a strickcn starer-out — h o w m a n y other such there must have been, d o w n the years! — with the r o o m ' s weightless dark pressing at my back. I had slept in my clothcs.

T h e d r e a m . ( T h e court will need to hear a b o u t my dreams.) It c a m e back to me suddenly. N o t h i n g very m u c h happened in it. My d r e a m s are not the riotous t u m b l e of events that others claim to enjoy, but states of feeling, rather, m o o d s , particular h u m o u r s , gusts o f e m o t i o n , a c c o m p a n i e d often by e x t r e m e physical effects: I weep, or thrash my limbs, grind my teeth, laugh, cry out. On this occasion it had been a d r y retching, the ache in my throat w h e n I w o k e w a s w h a t b r o u g h t it back to m e . I had d r e a m e d I w a s g n a w i n g the r i p p e d - o u t sternum of s o m e creature, possibly h u m a n . It seemed to have been parboiled, for the m e a t on it w a s soft and white. B a r e l y w a r m n o w , i t c r u m b l e d i n m y m o u t h like suet, m a k i n g me g a g . Believe m e , y o u r lordship, I do not enjoy relating these things any m o r e than the court enjoys hearing them.

A n d there is w o r s e to c o m e , as y o u k n o w . A n y w a y , there I was, m u m b l i n g these frightful g o b s of flesh, my s t o m a c h heaving even as I slept. T h a t is all there was, really, except for an underlying sensation of enforced yet horribly pleasurable transgression. W'ait a m o m e n t . I w a n t to get this right, it is i m p o r t a n t , I ' m n o t sure w h y . S o m e nameless authority w a s m a k i n g me do this terrible thing, w a s standing o v e r me i m p l a c a b l y with folded arms as I sucked and slobbered, yet despite this — or perhaps, even, because of it — despite the horror, too, and the nausea —

deep inside m e s o m e t h i n g exulted.

B y the w a y , leafing t h r o u g h m y dictionary I a m struck b y the p o v e r t y o f the l a n g u a g e w h e n i t c o m e s t o n a m i n g or describing badness. Evil, wickedness, mischief, these w o r d s i m p l y an a g e n c y , the conscious or at least active 54

doing of w r o n g . T h e y do not signify the bad in its inert, neutral, self-sustaining state. T h e n there are the adjectives: dreadful, heinous, execrable* vile, and so on. T h e y are not so m u c h descriptive as j u d g m e n t a l . T h e y carry a weight of censure mingled with fear. Is this not a queer state of affairs? It makes me w o n d e r . I ask m y s e l f if perhaps the thing itself —
badness
— does not exist at all, if these strangely v a g u e and imprecise w o r d s are only a kind of ruse, a kind of elaborate cover for the fact that nothing is there. Or perhaps the w o r d s are an attempt to m a k e it be there? O r , again, perhaps there
is
something, but the w o r d s invented it. Such considerations m a k e me feel dizzy, as if a hole had opened briefly in the world. W h a t w a s I talking about? My dreams, yes. T h e r e w a s the recurring one, the one in which — but no, no, leave that to another time.

I am standing by the w i n d o w , in my parents5 b e d r o o m .

Yes, I had realised that it was, used to be, theirs. T h e grey of d a w n was g i v i n g w a y to a pale wash of sunlight. My lips w e r e tacky f r o m last night's port. T h e r o o m , the house, the garden and the fields, all was strange to m e , I did not recognise it today — strange, and yet k n o w n , too, like a place in — yes — in a d r e a m . 1 stood there in my wrinkled suit, with my aching head and soiled m o u t h , wide-eyed but not quite awake, staring fixedly into that patch of sunlit garden with an amnesiac's n u m b e d amazement. B u t then, am I not always like that, m o r e or less? W h e n I think about it, I seem to have lived most of my life that w a y , stalled between sleep and w a k i n g , unable to distinguish between d r e a m and the daylight world. In my m i n d there are places, m o m e n t s , events, which are so still, so isolated, that I am not sure they can be real, but which if I had recalled them that m o r n i n g w o u l d have struck me with m o r e vividness and force than the real things surrounding me. For instance, there is the hallway 55

of a f a r m h o u s e w h e r e I went once as a child to b u y apples.

I see the polished stone floor, cardinal red. I can smell the polish. T h e r e is a gnarled g e r a n i u m in a pot, and a big p e n d u l u m clock with the minute-hand missing. I can hear the farmer's w i f e speaking in the d i m depths of the house, asking s o m e t h i n g of s o m e o n e . I can sense the fields all around, the light a b o v e the fields, the vast, slow, lates u m m e r day. I am there. In such r e m e m b e r e d m o m e n t s I am there as 1 never was at C o o l g r a n g e , as I seem never to have been, or to be, anywhere, at any time, as I, or s o m e essential part of m e , was not there even on that day I am r e m e m b e r i n g , the day I went to b u y apples f r o m the farmer's wife, at that f a r m in the midst of the fields. N e v e r w h o l l y anywhere, never with anyone, either, that was m e , always. E v e n as a child I seemed to m y s e l f a traveller w h o had been delayed in the m i d d l e of an urgent j o u r n e y . Life w a s an unconscionable wait, w a l k i n g up and d o w n the platform, watching for the train. People g o t in the w a y and blocked my v i e w , I had to crane to see past them. Yes, that w a s m e , all right.

I picked my w a y d o w n t h r o u g h the silent house to the kitchen. In the m o r n i n g light the r o o m had a scrubbed, eager aspect. 1 m o v e d about warily, unwilling to disturb the atmosphere of hushed expectancy, feeling like an uninitiate at s o m e grand, rapt c e r e m o n y of light and weather. T h e d o g lay on a dirty old r u g beside the stove, its m u z z l e between its paws, watching m e , a crescent of white s h o w i n g in each eye. I m a d e a pot of tea, and w a s sitting at the table, waiting for it to d r a w , when J o a n n e c a m e in. She w a s w e a r i n g a m o u s e - g r e y dressing-gown belted tightly about her m i d r i f f H e r hair was tied up at the back in a thick, appropriately equine p l u m e . It really was remarkable in colour, a vernal russet blaze.

Immediately, and not for the first time, I f o u n d m y s e l f 56

picturing h o w she must be flossed elsewhere, and then was ashamed, as if I had misused the p o o r child. Seeing me, she halted, of course, ready to bolt. I lifted the teapot in a friendly gesture, and invited her to j o i n me. She shut the door and edged around me with a panic-stricken smile, keeping the table between us, and took d o w n a cup and saucer f r o m the dresser. She had red heels and very white, thick calves. I thought she must be about seventeen.