The Sacred and Profane Love Machine (31 page)

‘We probably saw at about the same time then,’ said Emily. ‘What I saw was that I had to make you choose. What did you see, if I may, to make things perfectly clear, trouble you for an account of that?’

‘I saw,’ said Blaise, "what I’ve really known all along, that you are my truth. For me you are the way the truth and the life. Only here can I be totally myself. I should have been faithful to this right at the start, only I fumbled and delayed out of sheer cowardice, and then being faithful began to be too painful and I deceived myself into thinking that I’d changed. But I hadn’t changed. I ought to have been professional enough with myself to see the impossibility of change. But before Harriet
knew
I was simply spellbound, simply paralysed.’

‘And now you’re free.’

‘And now I’m free.’

‘And you’re mine. Really. Absolutely. For ever. That’s your choice.’

‘That’s my choice.’

‘If you ever go back on these words,‘ said Emily, ‘I will kill you. Not pain. Death.’

‘Oh my queen ...’ he murmured.

A few minutes later they were locked in each other’s arms in a taxi bound for Putney.

Monty awoke into an immediate scene of fear. He could not for a moment think where he was and why. He found that he was lying on the floor in his drawing-room, his head upon a cushion and a blanket over him. There was a strange light in the room. It was the full moon, now well risen above the orchard, sailing in a clear sky which it had turned to a glossy dark blue and shining straight into the room. This it must have been which prised his eyelids apart. But why was he there at all? Monty got up stiffly and went to turn on the light. Then he remembered the scene at Hood House, Edgar, David. But the room was empty. Who was it who had given him that cushion and that blanket? What had David thought after he woke up with Monty’s head on his shoulder and Monty’s arm round his neck? He looked at his watch. It was three o’clock.

He went out into his kitchen wondering if he was hungry. He was not. Did he want a drink? He did not. He realized that he had a headache and ate two aspirins and drank a lot of water. Then he heard the dogs barking in the Hood House garden. He went out through the kitchen door and stood for a while on the lawn which was glistening with dew which the moonlight was making to resemble hoarfrost. They would all be in bed over there. The dogs often barked pointlessly at night. Monty walked across the lawn, leaving a trail of frosty footprints, and turned the corner into the orchard. Now as he made his way down the clipped orchard path between the quiet pale presence of ladies lace in the long grass, he saw lights ahead of him. Lights were still on downstairs in Hood House, in the kitchen and, evidently, in the drawing-room. Monty reached the line of white foxgloves and began to climb the fence.

The fence, scarcely five feet high with the transverse slats on Monty’s side, did not present any serious obstacle to an agile and sober man. However, as soon as he put his foot on the lowest slat the dogs, who had fallen silent, started up again, rushing down the garden in a black torrent and barking and snarling in a very unpleasant way. Monty, now sitting on top of the fence, hesitated. Ajax was jumping up alarmingly near his ankles. To preserve these he jumped quickly, saying as ferociously as he could, ‘Get out of my way, damn you! Get away!’ The dogs retired, but returned again to give him a snarling and uncomfortably close escort up the garden. Monty, hurrying and holding his hands high, kept up a now more conciliatory barrage of talk along the lines of ‘Come on now, stop it, you know me, I’m not a burglar, that’s it now, who’s a good boy then’ and so on. The talk paid off, Monty was not bitten, and as he approached the house the animals drew-back a little, except for Seagull who showed, in a mixture of animosity and respect, signs of not having forgotten being kicked on the day before.

As there appeared to be nobody in the kitchen, Monty walked along the side of the house where the uncurtained drawing-room windows were casting their light upon a feathery laburnum and an absurdly green
rhus cotinus.
He approached the windows and peered in. A strange sight met his eyes. Edgar and Harriet, Harriet leaning on Edgar’s arm, were pacing the room, deep in talk. They reached the end, turned and proceeded back, then turned again. It looked, from the mechanical nature of their movements, as if they had been doing this for some time, and Monty thought he could discern a track made by their pacing feet in the thick Indian carpet. Harriet was gesturing towards the garden, doubtless in comment upon the dogs. She was, to Monty’s eyes now, a weird figure. She had put on a long cashmere shawl over her dress which, deprived of its belt, billowed below with the effect of a shapeless robe. Her long darkish glowing hair was, as Monty had never seen it before, undone and streaming down her back, making her look, in spite of her pale tired face, ridiculously young. She looked too, so robed, with tangled streaming hair, like a priestess, like a sibyl. Edgar, shambling beside her, bent and dishevelled, much the worse for wear through sleeplessness and drink, his jacket torn, without a tie, seemed to be receiving from her advice, possibly admonishment. Socrates being instructed by Diotima perhaps.

Monty approached the window and tapped. The two inside turned in exclamation and shock. The next moment Edgar had lifted the sash and Monty was climbing in. He scarcely had his two feet up on the carpet when Harriet enveloped him. The cashmere shawl wrapped his shoulders, then slipped to the ground, he seemed to be veiled by her flying hair, her arms were round his neck, his arms round her shoulders. He held her so for a moment, closing his eyes, feeling the plump warmth of her shoulders, the cold light touch of her hair. Then he stepped back, turning her round, moving away. Edgar and Harriet now both stared at him, haggard.

Wondering what sort of curious picture he made himself, Monty said in as flippant a manner as he could immediately put on, ‘Well, well, where’s everybody?’

‘That’s what we would like to know!’ said Edgar portentously.

‘Where’s David?’ said Monty. Had David given him that cushion and that blanket? He hoped so.

‘He’s upstairs asleep,’ said Harriet.

‘What are you two up to?’ said Monty.

‘We’re waiting for Blaise,’ said Edgar.

‘What’s happened to Blaise then?’

‘Emily McHugh ran out,’ said Harriet, ‘just after you went away with Edgar’ (Edgar groaned) ‘and Blaise ran after her. We’ve heard nothing since.’

‘I shouldn’t think there’s any mystery,’ said Monty, feeling annoyed with both of them, but relieved to find that he could still function as a rational being, ‘Emily was upset by stupid Edgar,’ (Edgar groaned again) ‘Blaise saw her home and since it was so late decided to stay the night’

‘Of course that may have happened,’ said Harriet. ‘I wouldn’t mind his – staying – since it was so late – but why hasn’t he telephoned? He must know that I – that I – she bit her lips drawing them in in a hard line, and tears mounted to her eyes, certainly not for the first time that evening.

‘Oh my dear -’ said Edgar.

‘Have you telephoned Emily’s flat?’ said Monty.

‘Harriet doesn’t know the number, and it’s not in the book,’ said Edgar.

‘I think you should go to bed, Harriet,’ said Monty. ‘It’s stupid to upset yourself by staying up like this and all for nothing. Obviously by the time Blaise got to Emily’s place he thought it was too late to ring you, he thought you’d be asleep. Have some sense and don’t act the tragic queen so! You go to bed. If Edgar wants to do penance by staying up on duty all night he can. I might even stay with him. Now off you go.’

‘No – no – I can’t go to bed – I couldn’t sleep – supposing something’s happened to Blaise, he may have had an accident

- I feel so – everything’s suddenly become a nightmare -I must see Blaise, I must – I couldn’t possibly go to sleep in this state – I’m so distraught, I feel I’m going mad.’

‘My dear, my dear,’ said Edgar, also clearly not for the first time that evening, ‘I am so sorry, I am so dreadfully sorry, I was awful —’

‘You’re very kind,’ said Harriet, ‘you’re both very kind. Oh, Monty, thank God you’ve come.’ She clasped his arm.

‘Well I’m hungry,’ said Monty. ‘Do you mind if I eat some of these sandwiches, since we’re going to keep the vigil together? And I wouldn’t mind some beer, if there was any.’

‘There’s some in the fridge,’ said Harriet. They went all three to the kitchen, and sat round the kitchen table with the sandwiches and some cold lager. Monty and Edgar ate and drank, while Harriet sat between them, pleating up the red cloth and staring out into the garden where the dawn had already subdued the moon and made the lawn and trees colourlessly present in ghastly grey immobility.

‘David wouldn’t speak to me,’ said Harriet. ‘When he came in he just passed me and wouldn’t speak. And I saw he had been crying so.’

‘He’ll recover,’ said Edgar. ‘Boys do.’

‘He’s not – just a boy – he’s such a – deep person.’

‘Don’t grieve, Harriet,’ said Monty. ‘This is a bad moment, but things will sort themselves out.’ God knows how though, he thought. I’m talking nonsense. A gust of sheer desire for Sophie’s presence came over him, as if some distant door had been opened. If only she were somewhere and he could go towards her. At worst times, her simple presence had been complete defence, total comfort. At worst times, when she was angry, when she was lying, when she was dying.

‘Oh God – if only Blaise would come – if only he’d ring —’

‘He’s probably on his way back,’ said Edgar. ‘He’s been held up, and without the car it’ll take ages. He’ll turn up any moment now.’

‘I suddenly feel,’ said Harriet, ‘as if he might never come. There are "nevers" in people’s lives. People go away, people die, it does happen —’

‘I think I’ll just go to the lavatory, if you’ll excuse me,’ said Monty. He left the kitchen, closing the door behind him, and went up the wide curving stairs which the big arched window showed quite clearly now in the horrible increasing light of day. On the upper landing, he paused. All was still. Then in the silence he could hear David breathing. Monty tiptoed to the door of David’s room and very carefully depressed the handle. He stole in.

David, still wearing his shirt, lay half covered by the bedclothes, his neck twisted as if in agony, his hair, as if in horror, streaming straight up across the pillow, one arm trailing towards the ground, in an attitude resembling Wallis’s picture of the death of Chatterton. His face, once again made remote by sleep, blanched and smoothed by the vague light, looked like a beautiful death mask. Monty stayed and gazed at the sleeper for nearly two minutes and then soundlessly left the room. How mad, to hope to be consoled by a young boy, and one who was cram full of his own miseries anyway. To reveal his own emotional needs to David would be a folly, possibly a crime.

As Monty was gliding back down the stairs the telephone began to ring in the hall. Harriet came racing out of the kitchen with Edgar after her. Edgar turned on all the lights. Harriet had already lifted the receiver.

‘Oh – darling – thank God – yes – yes – of course – oh, yes, why didn’t I think – of course you did – I was so worried, but- it’s all right now – yes, I’ll go to bed now, I’ll sleep, don’t you worry – yes, see you then – oh I am so relieved – thank you, my darling, thank you for ringing – thank you, thank you -’

Harriet put the telephone down and moved to the stairs. In the suddenly brilliant light Monty saw her weary face all relaxed now, all smoothed and sweetened, radiant with relief.

‘So you see, it was all right?’ said Monty, questioning.

‘Yes – yes – perfectly all right – I simply forgot – he’s with Magnus Bowles – this is the day when he sees Magnus – he saw Emily to her train in London and then he went on to Magnus – he tried to ring me earlier but there was a breakdown and he couldn’t get through. He’s having his usual all-night session with poor Magnus. Blaise is so kind to Magnus, so scrupulous, he never puts him off. So that’s all right, you see. Thank you and thank you. Now I think I’ll go to bed.’

‘Good night then,’ said Monty. ‘I’m going to bed too.’ He let himself out of the front door, nearly falling over Buffy who was lying on the step, and ran to the gate, followed by listless barking. Somewhere the sun was up. The road was brightening, entirely empty and full of detail, like a picture awaiting its central figure. But I am the central figure, thought Monty, seeing himself, black clad, haggard and wild as the others, his shirt collar up on end, his dark hair disordered, running along the road to his house as if horribly pursued. He hastened up the path and was fumbling for his front door key when he realized that he was in fact pursued. Fat Edgar, his colourless pale hair goldened by the vivid light, looking crazy and suddenly resembling his younger, his undergraduate self, a beseeching look upon his pink face, had swung in the gate.

‘Monty – may I —’

‘What was the name of that school?’ said Monty.

‘You mean where Binkie-? Bankhurst.’

‘Well, tell them I’d like the job, if they think I could do it.’

‘Oh good – shall I make an appointment for you to? Monty, may I come in and-?’

‘No.’

‘But where am I to go at this hour? You see, my club —’

‘Go to hell,’ said Monty. ‘Go back to Harriet. She’ll give you a bed. She might give you her bed. That’s what you’re after I suppose.’ He went in and closed the door behind him. Why in God’s name did I say that, he said to himself. I don’t even think it. How can I have been so foully vulgar and unkind? I must be going mad after all.

He went into the drawing-room. The
Iliad
was still lying upon the table. He had fetched the book in order to amuse Edgar by a test of his Greek. Only it was no test, since he knew that particular passage by heart. He shut the book with a slam. He picked up the blanket and began to go slowly upstairs. He felt Sophie’s ghostly inaccessible being speechlessly about him. It fled away beneath the earth, gibbering faintly. But no, it was an illusion. She was nothing and nowhere, not a presence, not in any place.

‘This one’s very sweet,’ said Harriet to Luca. But of course they had already made up their minds.