The Green Knight (60 page)

Time passed. The tea in the mug was cold. He must do something, he must put on his shoes, he must go for a walk, he must make the bed, he must clean the room. At least he could read the Bible, which was there before him on his bedside table. He picked it up and opened it at random, and read how God had told Ezra to tell the children of Israel to put away their alien wives and the children of such wives. Oh the weeping and the sorrow, the tears of women, the cries of children. He thought, I have no wife and no children, I have put away my dog and he has forgotten me. Magnus Blake has forgotten me and I have forgotten him. He closed the Bible. During this time the memory of his dream had been departing from him, and remained only like a coloured blur. He recalled however with great clarity the words of Virgil to Dante, which Father Damien had written to him and which Clement had translated. ‘Your will is free, upright and sound, it would be wrong not to be ruled by its good sense'. Only I haven't got such a will! thought Bellamy – rather he pictured Virgil turning away into the twilight knowing that he and his beloved pupil will never meet again. Tears came into Bellamy's eyes. He chided the tears. Someone was tapping on the window, but he paid no attention. He thought I am weak, I am useless, and I
feed
upon my own weakness. The tapping grew louder. Bellamy looked up, he stood up. He pulled back the net curtain. Someone was outside looking in. It was Emil. And beyond Emil in the roadway was Emil's big Mercedes.

Clement mounted the steps to the door of Lucas's house and rang the bell. Silence. He rang again, a more lengthy ring. After waiting for a while he moved back onto the pavement and examined the windows, for the day was dark enough to warrant a light inside. Nothing.

Two days had passed since the events at Peter Mir's house. On the previous day Clement had visited his agent and had one of his usual inconclusive talks. He had also visited the incompetent little theatre whose affairs he was supposed to be concerned with and discussed the usual lack of money. Then he had lunch at a little Italian restaurant in the Cromwell Road. Then he had gone to see a much acclaimed film about a wife killing her husband's mistress. Then he had some drinks and a cheese sandwich at a pub in the Fulham Road, returning then to his flat where he switched off the telephone. He had no wish to converse with any of the persons in yesterday's drama. He felt as if something had been completed and he would never see any of those people again. He watched some football on television. He took a sleeping-pill and went early to bed.

The next day, waking to a sense of variegated misery, and still unwilling to hear Louise or Bellamy moaning or speculating about Peter, he began to feel at first a desire, and then an anguished passionate need, to go and see Lucas. He was now haunted by Peter's words ‘Look after your brother'. Why had he not gone yesterday to see Lucas, why had he not
run
to Lucas at once? He felt a devouring wish to see Lucas, to hear his scathing ironical voice, to
tell
him everything that had happened, even perhaps to
discuss
it with him. It had occurred to him that he, and everyone involved in Peter's ghastly ‘party', must be feeling guilt – helpless guilt perhaps. (Or is helpless guilt not guilt?) They had muffed it, there had been a betrayal. Something should have been done which was not done. Now he wanted to hear Lucas laugh, he needed Lucas's protection, he had always needed it. He went back to the steps and along the paved path inside the railings, found the gate open and went down the passage into the garden. He stood back on the lawn where the rain, which had ceased now, had muddied the remains of snow. He surveyed the house, it was dark. He went up to the drawing-room windows and peered in. Supposing Peter's knife had contained a deadly poison which would take effect later and not be detected? Would he see Lucas lying dead upon the floor? All was as usual. The portrait of Clement's grandmother gazed at him from above the fireplace. He climbed up the cast-iron steps to the balcony, he peered into the bedroom. No inert figure lying on the bed. He even called out ‘Luc! Luc!' No one. He laid his head against the cold damp glass and groaned. He climbed down the wet steps and went back along the passage to the front of the house. He crossed the road and stood there again staring at the house. ‘Look after your brother.' Had he looked after him? Clement recalled their last meeting. He forgave me, I forgave him, he knows I did. Did that mean unbelieving what had happened? Oh Christ, does it matter now what happened? Anyway, if Lucas has done away with himself, it certainly won't be because of guilt feelings about
me
! It had started to rain again. He blinked. Just at the door some shadowy apparition seemed to have, at that very instant, composed itself. The figure of a woman, raising up her hands. The woman vanished. Clement moved. Then he saw her again standing on the pavement. It was Louise. He crossed the road.

‘Why, Clement, you startled me.'

‘You startled me. There's no one there.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes. Why did you come here?'

‘I suddenly felt terribly anxious about him – and I wanted to see him, to talk to him and – and ask him things – '

‘Don't ask him things, Louise, anyway he wouldn't tell you, he'd just upset you. Now I'll take you home in my car.'

‘Why did you come here?'

‘Because he's my brother.'

‘Because Peter told you to.'

‘No.'

‘You don't think he – '

‘No. Come on, we're getting wet. Why should we
bother
about that tiresome quarrelsome blighter? He can look after himself. Louise, stop being so
sentimental.'

‘Well, you came – but of course you are – I do wish I had come to see him earlier, I blame myself very much – '

‘There's my car. Are you coming with me or not?'

 

 

‘You're sure they won't mind our being in the Aviary?'

‘Of course not. Are you afraid of them? Moy's gone to see Miss Fitzherbert, you know, her painting teacher. I'm glad someone is taking her in hand. Aleph's in Scotland, we had a card from her today. Sefton's in the British Library. It's just as well Moy is out, you know she's so bothered when you're in the house.'

‘Poor child. I hope she is recovering.'

‘Yes, it's just a childish crush. Would you like a cup of coffee?'

‘No thanks, you have one. Oh
God
!'

‘Clement, don't be upset. You look as if you're going to cry! We shall see him again soon.'

‘Lucas is such a – '

‘Sorry, I didn't mean Lucas, I meant Peter. I thought of going to the clinic, Jeremy rang up and gave me the address. But Jeremy thinks we should leave it for a while – I mean, I believe, that Peter really needs to rest, and if we all turn up, if any of us turn up, it will over-excite him.'

‘Yes, I agree, better leave it.'

‘Emil thinks so too. He rang up, he says Bellamy is staying with him.'

‘Really? I wanted Bellamy to come home with me. Oh – never mind – '

‘Emil is generous. How's Joan, is she still with you?'

‘As far as I know she's with Cora. She'll look after her.'

‘But wasn't she staying with you?'

‘No.'

‘Aren't you
worried
about her?'

‘Well – no – yes.'

‘Harvey said he thought she was considering suicide. She uses some phrase like going somewhere – going to Humphrey Hook, like going to the devil – meaning suicide, or drugs – '

‘Who's Hook?'

‘He's the devil.'

‘I'm going to him too.'

‘Perhaps we should ring up Cora and warn her – no, that would be too interfering.'

‘I agree.'

‘Somebody should be keeping an eye on her all the same.'

‘Are you implying that I should? You seemed to think, or professed to think, that she was staying with me. She was not.'

‘You know her best.'

‘Nothing follows from that.
You
are the one who looks after people,
you
are the great mother figure, you are
mother
to us all! Let's change the subject. When is Aleph coming back?'

After Clement had gone Louise went upstairs to her bedroom and looked into her mirror at her staring eyes, her eyes wide with terror and remorse, about to fill with tears. She thought, why am I deliberately
destroying
myself? Am I
mad
?

 

 

 

 

‘So you agree we should not try to see him at once?'

‘I suppose so.'

‘
You
especially.'

‘I'd upset him. Christ, how I think how I'd upset myself!'

‘He has been on the crest of the wave. He has exhausted himself. Now comes the nemesis, which he must be helped to endure.'

‘You mean he is a manic depressive and needs medical help.'

‘I would not quite put it so, I do not
know
. I just think it wise to have an interval. And he himself accepted the doctor's authority. Indeed, in coming back to his house, he asked for it.'

‘Yes – but I see it – with another meaning.'

‘You know, Bellamy, I am not saying these things with any selfish motive. I am selfish, I have selfish motives, but here I am trying to see clearly.'

‘Emil, I understand that you are not saying this just because, etc. You say it out of your wisdom, in which I profoundly believe. It's just that there is such a strong – force – which draws me to him – and I must believe in that force too.'

‘Love, yes. But sometimes love must sacrifice itself in order to remain love. And indeed I too must give up – but enough of that. You will see him again, your abstention is just for this time. You will stay with me for this time? So we need not argue about that any more?'

‘I will stay – for now – thank you.'

‘Good. Many of your things came in the car, and we will fetch the rest tomorrow. You have paid the rent, have you not?'

‘Yes, I've paid this quarter and the next quarter. I suppose someone will want that poor little room. What an awful thing poverty is. Oh Emil, what anguish it all is, it
all
is. When I wanted to go into the monastery it was just because of
that
. But I wasn't worthy, I was pretending. Please understand, Peter
remembered
his goodness, he discovered himself again, and that he had a mission – '

‘Yes, yes, there was a revelation – '

‘He will need me, he will need you – you know what that sort of faith is – '

‘So in a way I am still just a simple-minded Lutheran, it was in my childhood, these things go deep. With what charming simplicity he told us about the lie, that he was not a great doctor, but just a rich butcher!'

‘Emil, you still don't understand – '

‘I do, I do, I respect your saint, these things are mysteries. Have some more whisky.'

‘No, no, I've already drunk too much, I must go to bed. Oh, Emil – thank you – you know – '

‘Yes, yes, I know. But one further thing before you have that bath you've been dreaming of.'

‘Yes?'

‘You must get your dog back. He shall live with us. I love dogs.'

 

 

 

Two more days later (it was Saturday) Moy, always up first, had, in this order, run downstairs in her nightdress, let Anax out into the garden, dressed, given Anax his breakfast, drunk some tea, eaten a piece of toast, washed up, and set the breakfast table for the others. She saw with disapproval the careless way in which Louise had piled up the dinner plates, putting the plates with the flowers on in the same pile as the plates with the birds on. She divided the piles, so that each plate was with its family. Today Moy had planned to pay a visit (involving a train and a bus) to her painting teacher Miss Fitzherbert, who lived south of the river in Camberwell. South of the river was a strange romantic land, like another city. Moy had briefly, tactfully, omitting the swan, conveyed to Miss Fitzherbert her failure with Miss Fox. Miss Fitzherbert, who had by now overcome her annoyance at Moy's sudden absence from school, had suggested that Moy should come and see her to discuss other art schools, and, equally important, other modes of approach to them. Sefton came down, then Louise. Moy who did not like ‘hanging about', finding it was not yet time for her to leave for Camberwell, considered taking Anax for a run on the Green, decided not to, and sat in the kitchen drawing Sefton. Louise, who had become (the children noticed this but did not comment) unusually preoccupied and aloof, went out early to do some shopping, refusing Sefton's usual Saturday help. Sefton, abandoning Moy and her sketch, disappeared into her room. Moy came out of the kitchen and sat on the stairs. She tried to think of Peter and how he had said to her ‘You and I know each other'. But now all his words seemed senseless, utterances of incoherent despair. Louise never spoke of him, and Sefton refused to. It was as if they were ashamed. Moy decided that, after all, there was time to run Anax upon the Green. She rose and put on her coat and picked up Anax's lead. Hearing the familiar jingle he came tearing down the stairs nearly knocking her over. She managed to fix the lead to his collar while he kept jumping up at her and licking her cheek. The postman arrived, thrusting some letters through onto the floor. Moy, who hardly ever received any letters, usually put the few that arrived on the kitchen table without looking at them. This time, picking them up, she looked through them (there were only four and two were bills) in case there was another card from Aleph. What she saw at once however was an envelope which was
addressed to her
, Miss Moira Anderson. She put the others in the kitchen, and quieting Anax sat down again on the stairs and opened the strange letter, wondering what it could be. She could not place the writing which looked faintly familiar. The letter ran as follows: