The Old Man and Me (11 page)

Me by all that’s holy. Mine. And I wanted it right now, not then. More than anything in the world. What’s more I needed it. I must plan...

Toss and turn. My arms were giving me terrible trouble. Under the pillow, over the pillow, straight down by my sides, dangling over the edge of the bed, everywhere I placed them they stuck out, got in my way. Oh to be able to unhook them. What did I usually do with them? Toss and turn. Money. What simple problems Dody had. Love. As if that had anything to do with anything. It must have been nearly dawn before I dropped off.

The sound of a distant bell calling me faintly, chillingly...ah, I think I know...Test it rhythmically. Yes, there it went again. Brng brng...brng brng...The telephone.

Waking from the innocent sleep into the corrupting day; bereft of mother, father, lovers, all gone; dead. What was the dream—teeth pulled or an arm broken? Loss...irretrievably with the tide running out, stranded on dry land. And now it begins: the corruption of the sands. First, the gay innocent-seeming umbrellas for the gay innocent-seeming betrayals. Then the beach chairs: the beginning of age is it? Or the beginning of
dis
-crimination. Have you enough money to rent one? Yes? Careful then,
here
not here. A better part of the beach here in this special section it’s—well—more choice. There’s
this
part—and the other. Y’know? The pace quickens: suntan oil, bodies, hotels, shops, restaurants, snack bars, the railway tracks. Smoke, filth; the City.

The telephone bell kept ringing. The apartment felt empty. Barefoot I ran down the hall towards it, towards wakefulness. As I ran there were torn from me the last shreds of innocence, of purity of images, purity of the last shreds of belief, of hope for the restoration of all the separate parts of a loved one into one pure Whole; torn from me all hope of a pure pearly dawn on a beach.

“Yes?” I said into the telephone, vague and anxious. “Yes, hello, yes?”

“Hello.”

“Who is it?”

“I’m disappointed. I recognized your voice.”

“Oh yes, of course.” And my heart began pounding. “But I’m easier to recognize than you,” I said collecting myself. “I mean who else could I be except Dody?”

“And who else but me?” he countered.

“There you have me.”

“Well then, how are you today?”

“I’m fine.”

We were both fine and there was a pause.

“What are you doing?” he wanted to know.

I was getting the telephone wire untangled and I told him so and there was another pause so I asked him the same question.

“I’m staring at the ceiling.”

“How does it look?”

“Neat.”

There was another pause. I decided not to help it out. Let him carry the ball.

“I’m spending this weekend with some dear friends of mine in Shropshire—” he began (twinge of disappointment on my part), “Sir Rupert and Lady Daggoner, and I wondered if you’d care to join me” (followed by twinge of excitement), “I thought perhaps if it was agreeable we’d go down by train. Much the best way to see the English countryside. We’d leave on the Friday arriving
in time for tea. Country clothes. But they dress for dinner. And the women wear their jewels,” he added with what seemed to me undue emphasis, conscious as I was of not having any. It jittered me half awake as I was and I almost snapped back, Hell, do I have to be told
everything
?, but sanity reigned and I realized he was only trying to be helpful.

“Thanks for the hint,” I laughed. “And thanks for the invitation too. Only I don’t know if I can make it—” I stalled
automatically, marvelling at the strength of my reflex—the never-
appear-too-eager one, for of course nothing would have stopped me. “I’m hardly awake,” I explained, “I’ll have to look at my diary first.”

“Your engagement book,” he corrected me.

“Oh?” said I interestedly. “So what’s a diary then? Scribble scribble about my big thoughts of the day?”

“No. That’s a journal.”

“I see. Well, look, I haven’t got my
thing
with me now. I’ll let you know as soon as I can. I’ve got to get dressed and stuff first. Suppose I call in an hour?”

“You’re coming over here?”

“What for?”

“Ah,
telephone
, you mean. If you’re calling, it means you’re coming to see me.”

“Help,” I groaned. “I’m too sleepy for all this.”

“And grouchy too,” he reprimanded me. “What were you doing to keep you up so late last night?”

“Ummm—this and that, this and that,” I murmured noncommittally.

“Well my dear, mind you
call
as soon as you can. And then I’ll
call
Lady Daggoner because she wants to
call
and invite you personally.”

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir.” I was very crisp and military.

“Crosspatch.” Then he softened. “I did so enjoy yesterday,” he breathed, “I do so much look forward to seeing you again.”

So then I in turn softened myself. “Oh so do I.” And we said goodbye and hung up.

I saw C.D. at Paddington Station before he saw me and paused to admire the sight. What a fine figure he cut in his rich country plumage: soft woven tweeds, suede shoes, dark green woollen shirt and a bundle of weeklies rich in reading matter and informed opinion tucked under his arm. Radiating joy, confidence, and anticipation he shone like a beacon in contrast to the milling crowd: the careful ones checking and rechecking their tickets, luggage and timetables; the frantic ones overburdened and rushing in all directions; the grim, the sorrowful, the dull, the anxious, the bored. In the midst of them all, there he stood. At ease and at leisure and at home.

We greeted each other and he steered me expertly down the ramp alongside the train and into the exact compartment desired, where he skilfully arranged our bags and cosily settled into his seat with an air of putting on his slippers and pulling out his pipe. We were travelling First Class. There was no doubt about that. It said so on the window pane next to me and on the door to the compartment. It said so on the two glass panels on either side of the door and on the window on the other side of our corridor. Altogether it said so not less than five times.

“What are you thinking?” asked C. D.

I shifted, trying to arrange myself so that the scratchy upholstery wouldn’t prickle my back too much. “Kind of old-fashioned,” I said.

“These carriages are twenty years old, I believe,” he explained placidly.

“Is First Class very much more expensive?” I asked, for looking into the various carriages as we had gone along I hadn’t been able to perceive any difference.

“Oh yes, quite a bit.”

First Class. What an insane waste of money. And his clothes. Damn his clothes. You didn’t need a trained eye to see that they were pretty expensive too. There was a moment, I am here to tell you! I remember it as clearly as if it were passing in front of me right now. Every single thing about it. Every single thing in that compartment. The blue and yellow pattern of the scratchy upholstery. The carpet under foot with BR woven into it. The seat opposite with one, two, three, antimacassars for one, two, three heads. The luggage rack above them. The posters saying Clacton-on-Sea and St. Ives, Cornwall. The train gave a lurch and a start and so did my brain, for a milestone had been passed. Henceforth I was to take strictly a proprietary interest in the way he spent his—the way he spent my money; I was never again able to indulge in any objective curiosity about how he amused himself with it. I begrudged him even his weeklies.

I turned and stared moodily out of the window. The English countryside. Nothing but railway banks for miles and miles with a lot of weeds, Queen Anne’s lace, buttercups and daisies. So what? Then backyards. It was a nation of backyards, with a Roman viaduct thrown in here and there for incongruity. And the colour of sullen suburban brick did nothing for the angry skies. Rain, stop, rain, stop, went the weather. It almost depended which window you were looking out of. We passed the town of Shifnal and the town of Wednesbury and I thought they were pretty funny names to an American but decided they were really not funny enough to comment on so I let it go. But then we stopped for ever at a couple of stations with people standing right out in the open on the opposite platform waiting for the other-way trains, some sitting on wheelbarrows because there weren’t any benches, and I thought I ought to point that out to C. D. How much trouble could it be to put a couple of benches there for the poor rain-soaked wretches?—even if you didn’t build them a shelter? But when I turned to say as much I saw that his glasses had slipped forward on his nose and his head was sunk in his chest and he was fast asleep.

By the time we had reached our destination I had written off the English countryside—or rather the English railwayside—as one big mess but I must admit I could not do the same with the liveried chauffeur or the magnificent car awaiting us; nor with the acres and acres and acres of ground we travelled across from
the Gatehouse to the Manor.

There was a lot of uniformed staff activity in the entrance upon our arrival and in the midst of it a plump jolly-looking woman wearing a wild print blouse that was wreaking havoc with a rough herringbone tweed skirt. She greeted us heartily and immediately began giving orders for the disposal of our luggage. In the confusion I assumed she was the housekeeper, and by the time C. D. had corrected this misconception with a shy, embarrassed off-hand introduction, it was too late to make much of meeting my hostess, Lady Daggoner. In fact I was already halfway up the stairs in pursuit of my luggage.

“We’re putting you in your old room, Cos, and Miss Flood goes in the Blue,” she carolled upwards. “Come right down after you’ve had a wash. You’re in time for tea.”

When I reached the room my bag was there, the maid was not—though it was her black uniform that had led me to it. It was a kind of magic. During my entire stay I was to catch only three brief glimpses of her and yet her handiwork was everywhere. The room was beautiful. Large and light and airy and, of course, blue, with exquisitely delicate mouldings picked out in white running along the ceiling. Out of the windows I could see the vast expanse of rolling green lawns and giant trees. I pondered: should I unpack? “Come right down after you’ve had a wash,” had said the lady of the house. Better obey the command to the letter. So I didn’t unpack because she hadn’t told me to. And I did have a wash because she had. In an old-fashioned washstand in a corner of the room which pleased me no end for the quick flicker of
superiority it gave me. Really, these old English houses, they certainly had their jolly little inconveniences, did they not? I supposed there was some communal bathroom way at the end of the corridor—too, too boarding-house. And then, to my chagrin, I discovered through a half-open door that I had my own bathroom as well. Hell.

C. D. was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs and we went into the drawing-room together. Introductions again. This time by the hostess but in the same off-hand embarrassed manner as C. D. and acknowledged, I noticed, with equal off-hand embarrassment. I began to wonder if the reason for this might not be just that: embarrassment at having to introduce anyone to anyone else in these particular charmed circles where of course Everyone was supposed to know Everyone already. Whatever the reason, I must confess they showed a remarkable lack of interest in meeting me and for my part I was able to stifle my own. There was a Mr. and Mrs. Something, a Colonel Something, a Miss Something, three growing children, an elderly Mrs. Something-Something and a couple of dogs who bounced all over me and were the friendliest souls there. Except suddenly for old Mrs. Something-Something, who had presented me with a very limp hand earlier in the
proceedings, but who, upon realizing that I was the American invited, went completely out of her skull. She swooped down, carrying me off to a chair almost inside the huge roaring fireplace, explained that she was Pamela’s—Lady Daggoner’s—mother and began showering me with attentions. What about tea? She knew Americans didn’t always care for it. Would I prefer a whisky? Or a cocktail? And was I comfortable? Not freezing? She knew how unsuited Americans were to this climate; the English would keep their houses so cold. No, I didn’t want a drink, thank you, and yes I loved tea, and no I wasn’t freezing, not at all, and yes, yes, I was comfortable,
really
(I was boiling). Was I interested in the Dance, she wanted to know. She meant of course the Modern Dance, so much stronger and more meaningful than that wishy-washy ballet. She had a delightful young American friend, Clara Hatch, a Modern Dancer, I must have heard of her—who used to come here for visits and poor girl at the end of the first weekend broke down and confessed she positively loathed the outdoors. I was not to allow anyone to bully me into showing me the grounds unless I was absolutely sure I wanted to go out. “Pam,” she was calling out to our hostess, “do get this child a jersey, she must be numb with cold.” In vain I protested, I was soon wrapped in a thick cardigan praying I wasn’t perspiring visibly. Tea went round. I heard a lot more about Clara Hatch though I have no idea what because I had absolutely switched off until something in Mrs. Something-Something’s anxious face made me realize she’d asked me a question she wanted answered.

“Yes,” I replied, and this pleased her because it made yet another bond between her and Clara and myself.
They
read them all the time and she’d put two perfectly corking spine-chillers by my bed-table. Clara’s favourites. Poor Clara, when she came to visit them in the country utterly exhausted from these fatiguing and often thankless tours of England and Europe, she would lock herself up in her room and read and rest, read and rest. I was to try the John Dickson Carr first. Had I checked out again so soon? But no, it was merely a conversational sweep. She was talking about those murder-mysteries and this one, she said, was Clara’s absolute favourite.

Tea was over. People were drifting out of the drawing-room by the french windows. It looked beautiful outside: the sun had broken through and was blazing steadily towards its setting. I longed to join them. I was even asked to by my hostess who wondered if I’d care to accompany her around the grounds with C. D. I would have liked nothing better but “Now, Pam—” began the mother warningly, so I declined, not feeling up to upsetting the old lady by sprinting outdoors after the trouble she’d gone to to save me from it.