The Red Door (40 page)

‘He was a great philosopher you know and he used to go to the cinema regularly – gangster films mainly he liked. Imagine that! You should read him, he was very honest.’

Then without transition he began to talk about Sophocles. ‘You know the thing I find extraordinary about him,’ – for some reason he stood up and began to walk about the room
– ‘the thing I find extraordinary about him is that he did so much and especially – do you know what I find most extraordinary of all? – that he served in the army!

‘Nowadays people serve in the army and then they write a book about it. That’s putting it in reverse you know. It shouldn’t be like that at all. No, you don’t find
anything about his experiences in the army in Sophocles. He doesn’t exploit them. He just lived.’

Abruptly he sat down again and leaning forward said, ‘He just lived. Isn’t that fine? To be able to do what Sophocles did.’

Of course I understood what he was saying but I couldn’t become enthusiastic – yet in a way he seemed to be enthusiastic – sometimes stabbing forward with his finger –
but he didn’t make me enthusiastic. It was as if – like Wood – he could be thinking of something else while he was talking.

‘Nowadays they talk of their military experience and of women and of drink – but do we find these in Sophocles? No, we don’t. That’s what we must understand – what
did make the Greeks great? He lived till he was ninety – he took part in his civic duties, he served in the army and he wrote all these plays. That’s greatness. Especially serving in
the army.’

At that moment I heard a tram rocking past into the blue lights and he himself stopped as if he had heard a gun exploding.

Then suddenly he began to talk about Gilbert Murray. ‘I once met him,’ he said, ‘an Australian. But I don’t like his translations. You know, he served on the League of
Nations. He should have concentrated on his translations. Would you care to see . . . ’ Suddenly he got up saying, ‘I think I have somewhere here a review I wrote for the Classical
Studies on his . . . ’ And he went straight to a magazine, took it out and it opened at the correct page. I read the review. It was I thought indecisive and rather mean at the same time.
‘One is not sure that . . . ’ However I said it was quite good.

‘About your own work, that’s reasonable. It’s got the classical . . . spirit, you know,’ said he, pleased with my praise. He was flattering me for some reason.

‘Excuse me a moment.’ He almost pranced out leaving me alone in the room. I felt desolate and an emptiness throbbed through me. I looked at the clock: it said 8.15. I looked at the
books but had no inclination to read them. I noticed that the lamp-shade was red.

In a minute or two he returned. ‘I was ordering tea,’ he said.

Then for some reason or other I heard myself saying that I couldn’t stay for tea. I listened to my own voice with astonishment: it was creating a number of the most plausible lies, the
main one being that the landlady had invited me to see TV and he himself knew as a student what these landladies were like. He was listening with his mouth open and agreeing now and then. Then I
noticed a certain pride being drawn up over his face like a drawbridge.

‘Of course if you can’t stay,’ he began. I said I wished to but I couldn’t and then with an attempt at humour – there was that essay he had set us! He half laughed.
I found myself walking to the door as if across a great space. He said he had been going to show me some of his translations, but of course . . .

I repeated I was sorry. At the door he began with a sudden curious depth to his voice but at the same time jocularly:

‘And what do you think of us?’

I stared.

‘Of the lecturers.’

‘Oh,’ I mumbled, ‘different from school . . . mature . . . more interesting . . . very different . . . ’

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘isn’t it? I remember when I went to university first . . . ’ Then he stopped. ‘But I’m keeping you.’

He opened the outer door and we looked out into the night which had a chill dryness and a lot of stars.

‘The strange thing about Sophocles, you know,’ he said, ‘was that he served in the army. A man of action.’ He seemed to stand more upright. ‘Nowadays . . . he would
have written his memoirs.’

I walked down the path to the gate, half-running. I turned to wave but the door had been shut.

Not very far from the crossroads I was approached by a big fat red-faced drunken woman who asked me for a shilling. I seem always to be approached by these people. I gave her the money and
strangely enough I looked after her with pleasure as she rolled on huge and healthy and happy to wherever she was going. She called me ‘dear’.

So that was the visit. Peculiar. I doubt if I shall go again. I worked again after coming home but somehow . . . No, I won’t let you down. Still there was something odd . . .

George comes in now and again. His girl friend is coming up on Saturday and he wants me to meet her. I don’t know. He too is uneasy these days. Of course he goes out oftener than me
– to dances, etc. – but there’s a hectic quality about him. Perhaps he’s seeing too many bodies and going to hospitals too much.

Once he brought some records in and played me some jazz. It’s really powerful music, blasting. We have nothing like it in Gaelic.

‘What do you think of that, eh?’ he said, his red hair falling over his face. ‘Isn’t it tre
men
dous?’ He’s got a trick of emphasising the middle
syllable – tre
men
dously! Sometimes he plays on his trumpet in an almost religious manner – and I think he’s quite good – very serious. He bought a small trumpet for
little Bertie and it’s funny to see them playing together. He’s very fond of children. But I’m afraid he doesn’t like the college woman. ‘Too prim,’ he said. And
even me he considers prim but he says there’s hope for me.

One night at 11 o’clock he was sitting on my bed looking down at the floor and listening to a record. Then he suddenly switched it off and said to me: ‘You know you may not know it
– clever as you are – but you are on the side of life. I can tell. It’s the way you listen – and that wistfulness of yours as if you were listening for . . . a different
music.’ I don’t even know what he means.

I’m sorry you don’t think I should go to visit him. It’s true enough that we only have a fortnight but it doesn’t matter really. I think you would like him, however. I
think I told you before he doesn’t drink. Why are you asking me again? Something’s disturbing him though I don’t know what it is. Last night he talked about the hydrogen bomb and
about his parents and about the fishing. ‘It’s so far away, somehow,’ he said. ‘All that. Don’t you find that?’ I said nothing. Then he made one of his sudden
changes of mood and said: ‘Never mind, we’ll hear what Mr Bryden (our landlord) has seen in the pictures this week.
The Son of Hippocrates
or
Hippocrates Rides
again
.’

I’m sorry to hear this squabble continues. It’s indecent. Now I must work. And I am working. Harder than ever since I was up at the lecturer’s.

Did you say Alasdair was dying? I hope not. He was a good man. There’s too much dying in our island.

Goodnight,

Your loving son,

K
ENNETH

PS By the way it
was
Sunday George and I went for that walk.

I have nothing much to write about tonight except that I was thinking how in the city at night the lamp-posts are so separate from each other like professors studying the road.
At home it isn’t like this. At home there is moonlight connecting ditches and so on. Here it isn’t like that. In the city you are freer, yet . . .

The romance between Jake and Joan goes on. Joan is what one would say fleshily pretty with a prettiness that will run to fat. Her smile goes outward in a curiously candid manner. And Jake still
blushes! George insists that they call him in for their first child and hands her a plate full of vegetables. I couldn’t do that. He is so natural and never offensive. Why aren’t we
like that? He was telling us of the fishing, how the boats used to go out in the evening in the sunset and how they’d come back again in the cold sunrise. He spent most of his trips cooking.
Once according to himself he filled the soup with sugar instead of salt and imitated the crew’s expressions as they drank it. Even the landlady was in hysterics. I think Jake and Joan will
get married eventually. She’s only nineteen but girls get married earlier here. I often wonder why at home marriages are so late. I have ideas about it, and I’ve been reading some of
the works of a man called Freud lately. He’s very interesting. Why aren’t we taught about him in school? I seem to know very little really.

I often wonder too why I used to be ill so often when I was young. All that bronchitis and asthma every summer. It was very strange. And those mustard baths. And the sun on the partition. I am
never ill here at all. I have never felt so well, even though I work hard.

Sometimes in the evenings after supper we sit in the dining room by the fire, George and I and Miss Burgess the lecturer (she is small and plump and sews a great deal). We argue –
rippingly – I never realised how splendid it is simply to argue. George talks about the hydrogen bomb, but as I said before he seems to be an echo of someone else. He’s not really
interested, except that he once said something which set me thinking: ‘Is the image of hell connected with the hydrogen bomb?’ That’s interesting, you know. And he’s
mischievous too. He asks the landlord what pictures he’s seen and the landlord who’s very slow (with a moustache and white teeth) explains all about the picture at great length. He is
not really a good narrator and is soon tangled up. For example he was telling us about
The Goat Woman Strikes Back
, and George was questioning him freely as if it had been an argument by
Russell.

‘And why did she put a spell on him? I want to know. We must be reasonable.’

I thought this was funny since he seemed to take a pleasure in discomfiting the landlord (no, that’s not true, the landlord didn’t realise his leg was being pulled). We sometimes
listen to the songs on the radio and sometimes he asks me about home. It’s incredible to him that they don’t like dancing, that we daren’t walk outside on Sundays, that we
don’t have cinemas . . . However, I defend us. Mind you, there’s something in what he says.

I don’t go to dances, because I
enjoy
reading and studying. I
enjoy
books. They are like food to me. Or at least have been . . . Though sometimes I grow tired. I
don’t read Latin and Greek all the time. I’ve been reading Eliot and Camus and . . . but there are so many.

I sometimes go to the café in the morning for coffee. It’s a small café run by an intelligent man of thirty-five who speaks and acts like a student himself and has a sort of
crackling wit. Behind the café there is a lawn and on fine days – most of the days have been fine – we sit out at the back under the trees in the speckled sunshine on yellow
deckchairs. Will we ever be as happy as this again? The bells, the ivy, the conversation, the books, the sun.

Coming home yesterday I saw two men fighting at a street corner. Neither of them was drunk so far as I could see. I watched their faces. They were terrible with hatred, not blind, because they
were looking at each other as if they could kill each other. One of them brought his knee up at the other’s stomach. And yet was the expression on their faces not hatred at all but fear? Two
ragged boys were watching them at the edge of the lot, but all the others like me hurried past. I had soon forgotten them.

I’m sorry to hear about Alasdair but he was quite old, wasn’t he? I suppose we have to accept that. Once I didn’t accept it so much but was terrified. Now, I see that one must
learn to take it as it is.

The thought has just occurred to me. I wonder what Mr Mulgrew would have said if he had seen that fight. Sophocles must have seen worse and yet it’s not there, not really. Strange!
‘What has Sophocles to do with us?’ George asked me. What indeed! And the library with its sculptured busts of alabaster? What have they? That has to be answered.

Yes, I go to church every Sunday but Mr Wood has very little to say. In fact he has nothing to say. He has invited me to his home but I shan’t go. I would only be hypocritical.

I am working as hard as ever. I hope to do well. I drive myself to work every night. There are more distractions here than at home but so far I’ve maintained my hard work.

George often asks me about you. He seems very interested in my early childhood illnesses. Last week he sounded me but said I was as clear as a bell. He says that sometimes he envies me for my
background but at other times . . . I don’t see what you have against George. I like him very much.

I think you should be going out more. I really do. It’s not good to depend on one person so much.

George’s girl friend is coming here tomorrow. I shall be interested to see what she is like.

Anyone would think from your letter that I was leading a dissipated life. I can assure you I’m not. And after all, you were at Lowestoft yourself when you were only sixteen. I know it was
cold and miserable and the fishing was dreadful but it was a way of life.

Your loving son,

K
ENNETH

Well, Fiona was up visiting George this afternoon and I’m not sure that I like her very much. She is quite unlike anyone I’ve met before, not I mean physically but
mentally and in her style. I don’t know, but the girls at home seem vague somehow, they’re not keenly interested in
anything
. But this girl thinks like a man: she has a cutting
edge to her. After we had dinner and all the others except George, Fiona and I had gone to their work we went out to the lawn in front of the house and sat down on deckchairs. No, that’s not
true, George sat on a deckchair: Fiona and I sat on the ground. George, I thought, was looking rather unsure of her. He lay back in his striped deckchair with his hands clasped behind his red hair,
listening. Another thing by the way is that Fiona wears slacks. She
cross-examines
one and I don’t like that. In fact I dislike it immensely.