The Jury (35 page)

And then, suddenly, on the last day of her life, he saw
Daphne coming towards him. She had not seen him: there was time to dodge. Alternatively, he could pass her by without a word, without a sign. Would that be effective or merely theatrical? Would it make her reluctantly admire him, make her feel humble and unworthy, make her think wistfully of all she had lost in him? Or would she merely smile to herself, derisively, saying: Poor Brian! What a pity he isn't even a gentleman! Worst of all, she might fail altogether to see him, and then a chance of being in her thoughts, somehow, anyhow, it didn't matter how, would have been lost for ever.

And now she had seen him. What should he say, and do? He would not avoid her: the prospect of pain was too enticing.

“Hullo, Daphne!”

He had decided to be casual, genial, man-of-the-world. Polite he would be, but not frigid; friendly, but quite independent. He would say “Yes?” and “Well, well!” and things like that, all in a vein of irony so delicate as to leave her quite baffled. After all, he said to himself, one does not wear one's broken heart on one's sleeve: already he was feeling his way into his role.

“Hullo!” said Daphne. “What are
you
doing in Regent Street?”

“Just walking about,” said Brian, with an air of humour. “And you're shopping, I suppose?” “In a way,” admitted Daphne.

“Oh, I wasn't accusing you,” returned the genial fellow. “Shopping's an innocent occupation. I'm all for it.” My God, he thought, I sound like a muscular Christian. Or a hearty schoolmaster. Or a fatuous young man trying not to be sheepish.

“What a lovely day!” said Daphne, and the way she said it, alas, made the day still lovelier. Before he could answer she asked, in a rather different tone: “How are you, Brian?”

In another moment she would offer him her hand and say good-bye. He didn't want that yet. Forgetting to be casual he asked quickly: “Are you in a hurry?”

“Well …” She hesitated. “Not for a minute or two.”

“Couldn't we have a cup of tea?”

“Yes, I'd like to. But it'll have to be a hurried one, I'm afraid.”

“Oh,” said Brian airily, “I haven't much time myself. Day's work to do yet. There's a place down here on the left. …”

She supplied the name. “That'll do quite well.”

“Now I come to think of it,” said Brian, “I believe we went there once before, didn't we?”

This was dangerous ground, and it would have pleased him to explore it further while they sat facing each other over the teacups. To talk of the past with friendly indifference, with bland unconcern, what a triumph that would be, and how oddly disconcerting for Daphne! “How young I was then!” he might say, with a carefree laugh. But the conversation did not take that turn, for Daphne, who had quickly thrown off the moment's confusion, now plied him with questions about himself.

“How are you, Brian? You don't look very well.”

“Don't I?”

“Thinner than ever,” said Daphne. “And tired. Are you tired?”

He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled. On reflection he feared it must have looked like a 'brave' smile.

“You ought to take care of yourself,” she admonished him. “Two lumps, isn't it, and not much milk? There's a lot of illness about at this time of the year.”

“So I've heard.”

“Are you still in the same rooms?” she asked. He nodded. “Why don't you find somewhere else? The rooms are nice enough. Very nice indeed. But the district is so cheerless, don't you think?” Detecting a hint of bitterness in his smile she withdrew her eyes from his and added self-consciously: “I know it's not my business, but …”

“It might have been,” said Brian. He couldn't resist it, though it spoilt his high resolve to maintain an inscrutable front. “Anyhow there's no need to apologize for taking a benevolent interest in me.” His voice took on an edge, half sarcastic, half self-pitying. “I'm in no danger of misunderstanding it.”

“Thank you for snubbing me,” said Daphne.

There was no resentment in her tone, and for that reason he was instantly ashamed of his wish to hurt her. Yet he
could not let her get off so lightly. “The truth is, Daphne, you'd like to be a sister to me, wouldn't you? You've got the traditional good woman's passion for collecting brothers.”

“Dear me!” She laughed. “That sounds more like Mark than you.”

“Mark?” Brian's heart leapt. His jealousy began smelling out the offal it would feast upon.

“Mark Perryman,” said Daphne. “I thought you knew him. Didn't you meet him at our house?”

“Oh, Perryman. Yes, I know Perryman. Great friend of yours, isn't he?”

“Yes. Roderick's known him ever since Cambridge days.”

Clever, thought Brian. But not clever enough. He stared at her. “I didn't mean he was a great friend of your husband's.”

She met his stare blankly. “But he is, all the same.”

“I meant of yours,” insisted Brian. His mouth began to twitch.

“Of mine too,” she agreed. She looked at him steadily, not liking what she saw. “What did you have for lunch today, Brian?”

He uttered a short theatrical laugh. “Two double whiskies.”

“Anything else?”

“Food is bad for the stomach,” said Brian.

“Do you mean you're living on whisky?”

“Good old whisky. Bad for the memory. That's why I like it.” He was not drunk, nor even shamming drunk. He was merely wretched, and eager, in his wretchedness, to say anything that would draw her attention to himself. “Food bad for the stomach. Whisky bad for the memory. That's how it goes.”

She looked away from him, embarrassed and unhappy. “Is this your way of punishing me?”

Out of the corner of her eye she saw him put two fingers into his waistcoat pocket and bring out a white tablet, which he dropped into his tea.

“What's that?” she asked, with nervous suddenness.

“The innocent aspirin,” said Brian jauntily. “I'm not proposing to die at your feet. Have no fear.”

Daphne began pulling on her gloves. “I must go.” She smiled rather sadly. “This meeting hasn't been quite a success, has it?”

Brian watched her with a sick smile. “Yes, hurry up. You mustn't keep Perryman waiting.”

She was already on her feet, but at that she sat down again, and faced him intently. “Listen, Brian. You're talking the most terrible nonsense. You don't believe what you're saying or hinting: you only want to make me unhappy. But no one can make me unhappy today …”

“Of course not,” said Brian quickly. “Your heart is filled with Perryman. The manly Perryman. Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not Perryman, it profiteth me nothing.”

Ignoring his words, she went on. “Something's happened to me today. Inside me. And I shan't be unhappy any more. … If only you'd stop thinking about yourself, Brian.” The smile with which he greeted this piece of counsel made her flinch. But she persisted. “I know I'm a funny one to preach. I'm desperately sorry about—about us. I treated you shamefully. But a lot of things have happened to me since then. I feel about ten years older … and ten years happier. Things have come straight somehow. And …” Laughing, she ended on an anticlimax: “I feel as though I were going to have flu.” She rose from her chair. “Good-bye. Do come and see us if you'd like to. Ring up some time.”

For a moment she stood smiling down at him, visibly the same Daphne, yet different, remote, beyond reach both of his malice and his desire.

CLIMBING the stairs to Goodeve's top-floor flat, Mark Perryman was accompanied by the ghost of a younger Mark, the man who had occupied his skin ten years ago. For in those days he too had lived on a top floor in a mean street, and he too, for a brief and callow season, had subjected the weekly papers to a fusillade of lyrics. Just the kind of lyrics, moreover, that were nowadays contemptuously derided by angry young gentlemen like Brian Goodeve. Fortunately, very few of Mark's poems had been printed, and he soon became engaged in pursuits of a more remunerative kind, special
reporting, personal paragraphing, stunt articles, editorial activities, and the writing of slick copy for the Dexter Shirt or the Quantum Fountain-pen. But it was the lyrics that completed the parallel with Brian Goodeve, whom one thought of first as a poet, though one hadn't read his poetry, and indeed there was precious little of it to read. Forgetting his immediate errand for the space of half a second, Mark renewed the sensation of that bygone age when he had been twenty-five. So much had happened in those ten years, he was now so mellow and disillusioned and age-encrusted, that he was constrained to smile at that former ingenuous self. How young I was then! he thought, with a sentiment hovering between envy and derision. In the very moment of enjoying the sentiment he was able to observe himself enjoying it, and to observe himself observing himself. He perceived that the experience was spiced with self-complacency, and, mocking himself for that, found further occasion for self-complacency in the fact that he mocked himself. This too he perceived, recognizing with a grin the recurring decimal of vanity. But, though the process was endless, he had other things to do than observe it. He passed the shut doors that were ranged round the first and the second landing, with only a moment's idle speculation about the lives they were hiding from him, and so came, a little out of breath, to the self-contained flat at the top, where, as he had begun to believe, a secret that more nearly concerned him awaited discovery.

He seized the knocker and knocked with unusual decision. By the flutter of his pulse he knew himself to be a little excited. Listening with an intentness that made him feel theatrical, and rather self-conscious, he heard an inner door open and footsteps approaching.

The door was flung open. With his untidy head resting against its edge lolled the lean young man, Brian Goodeve.

“I don't know if you remember me?” said Mark.

“Eh? Of course I do. Perryman.”

“Thought I'd look you up. Hope you don't mind.”

Brian laughed, as though laughing himself out of a dream. He appeared to be in an advanced stage of spiritual dilapidation. “Good old Perryman!” he said, with some difficulty.

“Come and have a drink, Perryman old boy. Jolly nice to see you. Jolly nice. Jolly.” He opened the door wider and waved his guest into the room at his back. “Sit down, old boy. Cigarette. Hoping you'd come. Tha' 's right.”

Mark, lighting a cigarette, took in the whole scene at a glance. The half-empty whisky-bottle and the untouched siphon of soda-water were superfluous hints of the difficulties he anticipated. The gas-fire was at the point of death. “Gas running out, old boy,” said Brian, noticing his glance. “No shillings.” Confound the fellow, thought Mark: he's quick enough, in spite of the whisky. He produced a shilling, saying “Catch!”, and the young man left the room and went into the kitchen, whence Mark could hear him coming to terms with the meter.

Returning he said: “Have a whisky and soda, Perryman.” Thoughtfully, he had brought a tumbler with him.

Mark was already at the table. “Thanks very much. May I help myself?” He helped himself. “You're not looking awfully fit, Goodeve.” Seeing the beginning of his host's movement towards the bottle he added quickly: “I'll do that for you. You sit down.” He poured a sprinkle of whisky into Brian's glass and filled up to the brim with soda-water. “Here you are, my son. Too much spoils the taste.”

“Generous fellow,” said Brian. “You think I'm drunk. That's what it is.” Mark took the opposite chair in silence.
“Do
you think I'm drunk, Perryman?”

“All gentlemen are drunk at ten o'clock,” said Mark blandly. “It'd distress me if you were sober.”

“Ah, that's where I've got you,” answered Brian. “I'm not a gentleman, see? Nearly, but not quite. That's where I've got you, Mr Bloody Periwinkle. No gentleman.”

Mark raised his glass. “Well, whatever you are, here's to you!”

Having taken a sip of his scarcely discoloured soda-water, Brian sank back into his chair, and the silence, to Perryman's sense, became full of his despair. The artificial gaiety was already sponged from his face, which, hollow-cheeked and puffy-eyed, haggard and inattentive, had lapsed into an expression of infinite wretchedness. Mark restrained an impulse to ask him if he had slept in his clothes. The silence went on
and on, every moment of it adding to the tale of Brian's misery. With a pre-conceived idea of the answer, Mark asked himself: What has brought him to this?

“So you were hoping I'd come, were you?” said Mark.

Brian roused himself, as though surprised to find that he was not alone. “What?”

Mark tried another gambit. “It was at the Roderick Stroods' house that we first met, wasn't it?”

Brian started, scowling. “Was it?”

“Bad business about them,” said Mark. No answer. Mark felt that he was wasting his time and making a fool of himself. In desperation he changed his tone somewhat. “Listen, Goodeve. I want to talk to you. … Are you listening?”

“What d'you want? Have another drink.”

Mark got out of his chair and placed himself in front of the gas-fire, bestriding what should have been the hearth. “Look here. You knew Daphne Strood pretty well, didn't you?”

“What about it?” said Brian. The question angered and tortured him. “Have you come here to crow over me, you bastard?” For the moment he had forgotten that he no longer, after Daphne's express denial, believed in his theory that Perryman had been her lover. He hated the fellow, wished him dead.

“My dear chap,” said Mark patiently, “I haven't the least idea what you mean. I thought you were a great friend of hers: that's all. As a matter of fact I had the honour of her friendship too.”