The Centre of the Green (8 page)

“Thank you.” And Mr. Monney tucked the address away in his wallet, and went downstairs to find out about trains.

It was all problems for Mr. Monney. The journey was a problem. If he left by the early morning train, he could probably get there and back in one day. What
explanation
could he give at the post-office for his absence? He would have to say he had been ill; it would not be
completely
a lie, for already he could feel one of his headaches coming on. He hated to be absent, for he had always taken such a pride in punctuality and regular attendance, but he supposed it could not be helped: indeed, if that were all! Even fares were so expensive nowadays. They did not have day returns, he discovered, to Newton Abbot.

Now here he was, waiting in the living-room of the Baker’s cottage, while from the mantel a gold clock in a glass case ticked out the time. He was tired and grubby. He wore a macintosh, and held his dark hat with both hands in front of his stomach. He was all grey, and
furtive
, and
civilian
—the very picture, Colonel Baker decided as he entered the room, the very picture of a blackmailer.

Mr. Monney said, “It was Mr. Julian Baker I wanted to see.”

“I’m his father. I think you’d better talk to me.”

Mr. Monney had come all this way specially, and now they wouldn’t even let him see Julian. He felt faint with
embarrassment, and with not having eaten. “It’s a private matter really,” he said.

“I know all about it. My son has already told me everything.”

“I don’t see——”

“He hasn’t tried to hide anything from his family. I’m sorry if that’s rather spiked your guns.”

“Guns?”

“Everyone here already knows about the whole dirty business, and we quite understand. There’s no profit to be made out of threatening to tell us.”

Mr. Monney was confused. “I don’t want to cause trouble,” he said. “I only wanted to see——” It was monstrous that they should keep him from talking to Julian. And the way this man was going on! “I don’t want to distress you or your good lady,” he said. “There’s no question of that, but I have come a long way.” They didn’t even ask him to sit down, or offer him a cup of tea. “I’m quite prepared to wait.”

“That won’t be necessary. We can deal with the matter ourselves. It shouldn’t take long.” The Colonel remembered that in cases of this nature the first thing is to establish that the girl is of bad character. “I suppose you’re quite sure that my son is the father?” he said. “I gather that there’s room for doubt.”

Mr. Monney stared at him, and dropped his hat. The Colonel let it lie, and continued, “Come now, you must know your own daughter. And you must know as well as I do that this thing wouldn’t stand up in court for a moment. The question is, What’s best to be done?”

“That’s what I came … came to——”

“Exactly. Well, you won’t find us ungenerous. There’s to be no question of blackmail. We won’t pay blackmail; that’s understood. But when it comes to help with the
hospital bills and that sort of thing, that’s another matter, eh?”

Mr. Monney remained where he was, staring at the Colonel, and for the first time the Colonel began to have doubts. He saw that Mr. Monney was tired, and sick with worry. During most of their conversation he had kept his glance turned a little away, because the idea of dealing with a blackmailer disgusted him so, but now he was held by Mr. Monney’s eyes, and their expression was not sly nor bold. On an impulse, he picked up Mr. Monney’s hat, and handed it back to him.

Mr. Monney said, “What’s that you were saying about Betty?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does. What was it?”

“I said—well, I may have been wrong. A bit hasty, I suppose. I’ve no doubt there were faults on both sides. After all, Julian’s a grown man.” But this was weakness, and his wife trusted him to settle the fellow. “Just the same——”

“I don’t know what this has got to do with you, I’m sure,” Mr. Monney said. “I came here … it wasn’t easy to get away. I wanted to sort things out. And I no sooner get into the house——”

“Now, look here——”

“Who told you that about my daughter? It wasn’t Mr. Baker; he knows better. There’s never been a word, never a hint of anything like that, and he knows it. I have to—to
ask
her to go out and enjoy herself; she won’t go else. I came down here because she’s sick and in trouble, and you——You people! You think the world belongs to you.”

“My son said——”

“Why did he run away and come here, leaving his wife like that, and making me follow him? Why did he
send you to talk to me, using words like blackmail and that? Why didn’t he come himself? I didn’t ask for money. I wanted to talk it out straight. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to do what was best. And you——The first thing you thought….” Mr. Monney’s hands were trembling, and he twisted his hat as if he would tear it apart. He felt his head go dizzy. Lord, if he didn’t go away quick, he might fall down. Anyway, it did no good talking. The words wouldn’t come out right. “I did wrong in coming here; I see that now,” he said. “I should have known better than to expect help from him. Educated people aren’t always the wisest; I’ve often read that, and I should have remembered it. I know better now.”

The Colonel said, “Wait, Mr.—er——” but Mr. Monney brushed past him into the hall. “You’ll hear from me when I’ve decided,” he said, “you’d better tell him that,” and was gone.

Colonel Baker returned to the kitchen. Charles said, “It’s all right, Father. It’s sixteen. I’ve remembered now,” but the Colonel did not hear him. “‘Fraid I’ve made rather a mess of things,” he said, and suddenly, ridiculously, his eyes filled with tears, and because he could not speak any more, he went on out into the garden, and left the two of them sitting there.

*

That night Mrs. Baker dreamed a dream.

All she owned were three tall trees, and she had erected a fence around them to keep them safe. But when the fence was in position she could not survey the whole of it at once, and she was forced to keep running round and round it to make sure that nobody broke through and stole the trees or harmed them. She was kept so busy running around the fence that she could never give enough attention to the trees themselves, and
she grew more and more anxious for their safety and more and more tired from the running. After a while one of the trees was stolen—or at any rate disappeared—so she began to run faster than ever, but when she stopped to look again, the second tree had gone also. Only one was left. So Mrs. Baker went to this tree, and around it she clasped her arms, hugging and gripping it ever more tightly so that the warm sap ran freely down her face and breast. With this happy sensation, she awoke.

It seemed to her as she lay in bed and watched the moonlight through the open window that sleep had
refreshed
her, and allowed her to see things more clearly. If she had not had to defend him to the others, she would have realized sooner that most of what Julian had told her that morning was false, or if not false, at least the emphases were wrong. After all, she should have
remembered
that with Julian the truth came never at the first interrogation, but gradually and in sections, each section giving a different depth to what had gone before. She had no doubt at all now that Julian had behaved very badly, both to this unfortunate girl and to his own wife. That would all have to be arranged somehow, but Colonel Baker was not the man to arrange it. She did not feel angry with him for his mishandling of the situation so far; it was simply that he did not understand. He did not know Julian as she did. He did not know any of the boys. How could he, who had come back from the war a stranger to them, who was even now more uncle than father?

No, she could not depend on others; she must take care of Julian herself. He was weak. He had always been weak, always run away when demands were made upon him. Very well, it was better not to make demands. Weak people must be protected; that is what the strong are for. Julian must be kept out of trouble. How? He
could not be sent back to London, back to his office, back to his wife, back to all the racking worry and strain. He had run home for safety, and if he did not find it—
I’ll kill myself
, he had said once,
I won’t go back to school. I’ll kill myself;
of course he had not done it, but the thought had entered his mind. Nobody could protect Julian but she, who had always done so. He must stay with her, stay away from temptation. He must give up his job; it would be no hardship. He need not be idle. He could find something to do locally—teach or something; she would think of something. But for the time being at any rate he must stay at home where he would be safe.

*

On Tuesday two letters arrived. One was for Colonel Baker from Mr. Monney, the other for Julian from Penny.

This was the Colonel’s letter:

Penny’s letter to Julian was typed on her portable Olivetti, and read:

Julian read the letter while his mother watched him. He read it twice, and then put it back in the envelope. “He’s not going to sue me or anything,” he said.

The Colonel said, “So he tells me.”

“Penny wants me to stay down here for a bit.”

“Let me see, dear,” Mrs. Baker read both letters, and
then she said, “Yes, she’s quite right. There’s nothing; you can do. You’ll be better off at home.”

“Suppose so.”

The Colonel said, “But surely——” and was silent.

“I think I’ll have to go back to work soon,” Charles said.

“Will you, dear?” said Mrs. Baker. “I’m so sorry. It hasn’t been much of a holiday for you with all this worry. And I expect you needed the rest.”

CHAPTER THREE

Town and Country

“C
harles, this is Curly. Curly, this is Charles.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

“How do you do?”

The doctor said, “Actually it’s a bit exhausting, all this cross-introduction business. Shall we introduce ourselves? My name’s Peter, as most of you know already.”

“Charles.”

“Curly.”

“Ethel.”

“Myra.”

“David.”

“Anne.”

“Waters.”

“Is that your first name or your second name?” Curly said.

“It’s my name.”

They had met in a room at the Institute. It was a comfortable room, but it lacked character, even the character of being institutional. Indeed, that seemed to be the point of it; the room would have no associations for them but what they themselves put into it. There was a grey Wilton carpet on the floor, comfortable armchairs arranged to face each other in a circle, metal ash-trays on the arms of the chairs, velvet curtains of dove grey to
frame the dusk of the London evening, misty blue
water-colours
on walls distempered a light grey.

They stood about, not yet at ease. Ethel said, “Where shall we sit?” She was a flat-faced, middle-aged, definite sort of woman, who wore a thin cashmere sweater, a string of cultured pearls, and alligator shoes. You felt that she had been taking charge of meetings for most of her life, and since Peter didn’t show much sign of being in charge of this one, leadership fell into her lap as if it belonged there.

“Anywhere you like,” Peter said.

Ethel plumped herself down in one of the chairs, and diffidently the others followed her example. The two seats on either side of Ethel were occupied last. Waters took one, and Peter himself the other.

Next to Peter was Myra, a woman about six feet tall, who managed to make herself look even taller by wearing a hat with a long green feather sticking straight up at the back. Neither Ethel nor Anne were wearing hats, but Myra kept hers on. Next to Myra was Curly, and then Charles, who was already beginning to regard Curly as an ally. He was by far the youngest of the group—perhaps in his early twenties—and all that one could see of his skin was covered with freckles. It was as if somebody had stood him, stark naked, in the centre of a studio, and flicked gold paint at him with a stiff brush. Curly’s hair was red-gold and tightly curled, and a fine pelt of reddish hairs could be seen at his wrists. He looked scrubbed. Where the rest of the group were marked with little wrinkles, tics and tightnesses, with acidities and allergies and the various signs of stress, Curly’s face was smooth and candid, except for the puzzled lines on his brow with which, Charles felt, he must surely have been born. As he sat there, with his hands resting uncomfortably on his knees, Curly said to Charles, “I dare say it won’t be so
bad really when we get down to it,” and Charles replied, “I’m sure it won’t”.

Anne, on Charles’ other side, was as grey as the room. Sharp-nosed and anxious, she picked at the hem of her skirt with a long, tense, index finger. And beyond her David, with the face of a failed actor. Then Waters. Then Ethel. There they all were, seven of them and the doctor, sitting in a circle, defenceless, facing each other.

Each of them, after a first swift glance at the others, looked down at the carpet, or at his own legs, or at the arms of the chair. There was a silence. They waited for Peter to give them a lead. Then Ethel said, “Well, what do we do now?”

“I thought we might talk a bit. We’ve got about an hour. Or a bit longer, if you like.”

“Talk? What about?”

“I thought you’d probably decide that for yourselves.”

“Well, really, how on earth are we supposed to know?” The rest of the group were silent, resenting Ethel’s leadership, and resenting Peter’s lack of it.

Peter said mildly, “If you don’t already know what you want to talk about, why did you go to the trouble of coming here?”

Anne said, “I live in Wimbledon. It took an hour. I had to change twice. Once at Earl’s Court and once at Charing Cross.” She had lifted her gaze from her lap, but she looked only at Peter.

“Exactly.”

Ethel said, “Oh Christ! Come off the pot. You know perfectly well why we came.”

“Why?”

Curly said, “You told me we could help each other like. Maybe. I mean, we could help each other put things right.”

“What’s wrong with
you
then?” Ethel said.

Charles said, “I don’t think you ought to ask him that.”

“Why not?”

“He’ll tell us if he wants to. You mustn’t ask him.”

“Are you his keeper or something?” Ethel laughed. “Really!” she said, “I’m not psychic, you know. If he wants me to ‘help him’, he’d better say what’s wrong. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me soon enough. I’m bloody neurotic. At least that’s what everybody says, so I suppose they must be right.”

Curly began to blush, and his freckles became darker, almost like blotches. “Well, I do have this trouble,” he said. “I don’t like talking about it really.” He paused, took a deep breath, and went on. “I’m shy, see? I’ve always been shy, even when I was just a kid. I dare say there was a lot of reasons for it, like my dad being in prison, and them saying in school I was dirty, and the kids not wanting to sit next to me. So I’m really very shy.”

There was another pause, lengthening into a definite silence. They were all watching Curly now, attentively, like cats at a mouse-hole. Ethel said, “Is that all? It’s not much,” and the others no longer resented her; they felt she spoke for them all. Curly blushed an even deeper red, and stared ahead of him, focussing his eyes on blankness. When he began to speak again, his voice was unnaturally high and controlled. “No, I had this trouble, you see,” he said. “Wanting to … expose myself like. In public. I couldn’t help it, you see. Of course there was complaints. I’m on probation, as a matter of fact.” A pause. “That’s why I’m here.” Another pause. “It’s quite mad really, because I’m not like that.”

In the silent room, the simultaneous release of breath from the six of them was like a surrender. Then Charles said, “And I’m here because I tried to commit suicide, if you want to know.” He could almost hear the click, as
the others turned their heads like vultures in his direction. Now Curly had rejoined the community, and Charles was the one in the middle. The session was under way.

*

In Devon the days went slowly by. Being at home did not bring peace to Julian after all. He was bored. He had made his gesture, committed his decisive act, and now it was done, time the enemy was still there, stretched before him like an endless worm. “The worm that dieth not”— that was time. Hell, Eternity, Heaven were three names for the same thing. He felt the trivial routine of life at home closing over him. What was there to do but get up late, read the papers, go for walks, gather vegetables from the garden, lay the table, help to wash up, watch the television, go to bed early? He was tied to the cottage and the unfrequented fields, since he avoided even errands to the village, knowing that already the villagers must be asking what young Mr. Baker was doing at home all this while and where was his wife.

So Julian avoided all but his own mother and father, and of those two, his father avoided him. Between Colonel Baker and his son there was a barrier of shame. The Colonel was ashamed of his son, and ashamed of himself, for both had failed, he as a father and Julian as a man. The Colonel knew what his son should do, but he had abdicated his responsibility to see that it was done. He was embarrassed. He had nothing to say, and was in any case afraid of saying anything. So he kept out of his son’s way and out of his wife’s way. As for Mrs. Baker, she had long ago lost the habit of conversation. It was enough for her that she could see Julian, touch him, minister to him, protect him. In the old days, when the boys had returned to her after some absence, she had enjoyed the drawn-out ritual of a chat, pulling out and
devouring all the information she could, until she had made those days of absence as much a part of her as if the boys had not been away at all. Even now when Julian went out for a walk she would want to know where he had been, but such inquiries took up little time now that he was always conveniently within reach.

Julian grew restive. He was not a lustful person, and his mind was not filled with what the Catholics call “lustful thoughts”. That was not the basis of his
compulsion
. Julian’s philandering was not out of lust, but for its own sake. Each casual adventure was an exercise in building—in building the shell of a personality behind which he could hide, always the same shell, but always needing to be rebuilt for each new encounter. This shelter was twofold; not only against the world, but against time, for time was consumed in the act of
building
. As long as the process lasted, he was engaged in it, all consciousness of time and self absorbed in it. He was like a snail run mad, gone off the rails, making again and again the same complicated shell out of the secretion of its own intestines. And when he could do so no longer, he itched and pined.

On his mother’s advice, he had written to the County Education Committee, offering himself as a supply teacher. He had filled out a form, had it acknowledged, thereafter nothing. Soon the school holidays would begin, and all chance of work of that sort would be gone. Was there anything else he could do to break the routine? What
could
he do? Should he go back to London, try for another job? He would have to do that eventually in any case. (Perhaps the Agency would take him back. Other people had breakdowns, and were reinstated afterwards. It was almost expected of the “creative people” from time to time.) But not yet, not until he had heard again
from Penny—though that would only be to say that she needed money for the girl’s operation.

Money! What was he going to do about money? He spent none here, but there was nothing coming in. As for his bank balance, he did not even know whether that was in credit or not; there was always a time in the middle of the month when the figure of the balance changed from black to red, and remained red until a salary cheque arrived to right it. All very well for Penny to go on about his paying for this abortion, but with what?

It seemed to Julian that whenever he tried to think seriously about what he should do, he was brought up short by an impossibility. It wasn’t fair. He got no credit for trying. It wasn’t easy to “take a grip on himself”, and think about unpleasant things, and when he did, all that happened was that he saw the unpleasantness more clearly. “Facing facts”, when you couldn’t do anything about them, was like wilfully hitting your head against a wall. Soon Julian developed the knack of turning his mind away from an unpleasant fact before he came to it, but since there were so many unpleasant facts about his position at this time, his mind became rather fuzzy and confused, incapable of consecutive thought. Even Julian realized this, but he told himself that it would be all right when he had something to do.

When eventually the County Education Committee did write from Exeter, asking Julian to finish the term as a supply teacher at Garrett St. Angus Primary School, about ten miles away, everyone was relieved. It solved nothing, of course, but at least it would make life easier for the next four weeks. Julian could borrow a bicycle for the journey, Mrs. Baker said; she would make
sandwiches
for his lunch and have a hot meal ready for his return.

It was all very well, Charles thought, to call this “Group Therapy”, but there wasn’t much feeling of
belonging
to a group, and what there was had to be built up afresh at the beginning of each new meeting. Perhaps one became part of the group without knowing it, perhaps only someone outside the group could realize its
coherence
, but to Charles himself, looking from the inside, it was no more than a shifting pattern of alliances and
hostilities
, with the nearest approach to a group feeling when they all turned together on one member to attack him.

Today it was Anne, who always came late to their twice-weekly meetings.

“I can’t help it.”

“Of course you can.”

“It isn’t an easy journey. I’ve got to change twice. I told you that.”

“You could start earlier.”

A silence from Anne. Then David said, “It’s not worth arguing about. It’s so obvious. She’s late because she wants to make an impression on Peter. She wants him to feel she’s something special, so she makes him wait for her.
We
all come on time, more or less, but Peter’s got to realize Anne’s different from us. That’s what she wants, anyway.”

This divided them. Some felt that David had been
unkind
, and was showing off. “He’s been reading a book,” Ethel said. Others wished to know how Anne would defend herself. But Anne only said, “Maybe”.

A silence. Ethel said, “I suppose this is going to be one of our stop-and-go sessions.”

Charles did not feel that he wished to talk about
himself
, and searched for a harmless subject. “Last time Ethel was telling us about her travels,” he said.