3 The managerie

A cold January morning barely dawned. Fog spread thickly over London, stifling the daylight before it had a chance to assert itself. Only the lower branches of the bare trees, the first storeys of houses, the yellow glare of streetlamps, were visible as you stood beneath them. The fog hung heavy, unmoving, muffling the city’s waking sounds.

Gerald Fermin moved sluggishly around his house while his sister prepared his breakfast. From his bedroom with its drawn curtains he made his way to the bathroom whose frosted glass perpetually offered only murkiness outside, and then down to the kitchen where Selene sat in her flowered dressing gown, looking pale and withered in the fluorescent glow. It was a depressing morning, one of those mornings when winter stretches out its scrawny months for display in the worst possible light: a morning to make a middle-aged man feel the weight of too many winters past, to make a count of lost chances and a cynical assessment of present achievements.

Gerald sat at the breakfast table lost in his own murky thoughts.

‘Is anything wrong, Gerald?’ asked Selene.

‘Wrong?’

‘Your egg?’

‘No. No. Nothing wrong. I just need to wake up.’

Gerald seemed constantly tired. He seemed tired, dull, cold as a fish. He seemed so to everyone; to people in the street, to employees in the factory, to his sister. But perhaps only Selene remembered him as once being at all different; less tired, less dull, less cold, some twenty years ago when they had both been young. Then their parents had died in an accident at sea. The trauma of that tragedy had had a strange effect on them both.

Gerald had decided, at the age of twenty-eight, that it was his duty to guide his sister through the hazardous years between the late teens and late thirties. Selene had in turn considered it her duty to submit to Gerald’s care.

The most constant theme of Gerald’s care had been the need to minimise contact with other human beings. Consequently they were known to no one. No one knew what they were really like and, over the years, they had become mysteries to each other. The need for mystery, the need for reserve, had become a habit which they felt no inclination to break. Gerald would report at the factory every day, lock himself up in his little office in the attic and see people by appointment, make a mid-afternoon tour of inspection and in the evening quietly slip away home. About Selene even less was known; her ventures into the fresh air were a cause for comment and surprise. She had little need to go out. She knew no one. She did nothing. A telephone had been installed many years back and all goods were delivered to the large house with the large stone cat outside.

‘I must, yes, I must,’ muttered Gerald.

‘Must what?’ asked Selene.

The question went unanswered. It was time to start work and Gerald put down his napkin next to his untouched breakfast.

‘But, Gerald, your egg – you haven’t touched it.’

‘Never mind. No time now.’

‘What shall I do with it?’

‘Never mind. Eggs are plentiful. Selene, you should realise that.’

He spoke this as if imparting a universal truth. Which in a way it was, although Selene felt it hard to feel grateful.

‘I shall throw it out to the stray cat,’ she called, but already the house was empty.

Later that day Gerald sat in his office, surrounded by files. He had been busy reviewing the business. A number of interesting statistics had emerged. The factory employed twenty-eight production workers (twenty of them part-time women) and seven administrative people (including one part-time bookkeeper). The factory worked in two shifts : the morning shift from half past seven till twelve, the afternoon shift from half past twelve till five. Two vacancies existed on the afternoon shift. There were ten main lines manufactured at the present (although assembled might be a more accurate term), among them leads for dogs and identity collars for cats. Business was steady, there was even a trickle of export orders.

Outside, the fog had finally lifted, leaving a crisp, bright winter’s day in its wake. Inside, Gerald could not resist the impulse to look in the mirror that hung in the corner and see there, as if for the first time, a weak, drawn man, grey-haired with extremely sallow skin, old, prematurely aged. It was a shock; as if, like Dorian Gray, suddenly confronted with the very process of ageing. Why had he been touched by the passing years?

He jerked his head upwards and seemed to gasp for air, instinctively searching in his pockets for a packet of cigarettes there. He paused a while motionless and then drew his empty hand out of his pocket. The cigarettes were already on the desk.

When his secretary came in a little later she found him slumped forward over the desk, with his head cradled in his arms.

‘Mr Fermin!’ she gasped.

Gerald raised his head, as if it were a great weight.

‘Ah, Miss Swallow. Good afternoon. A cup of coffee, please.’

‘You gave me a fright. I thought there was something wrong when I saw you there like that. I didn’t like to think what had happened.’

‘Don’t then, A coffee, please.’

Gerald tidied the files on his desk. He piled them one on top of the other, leaving in front of him a single scrap of paper, snipped off by a gleaming pair of scissors. On the paper was a single name.

‘Miss Swallow, put me through to Robert Johnson.’

‘Robert Johnson?’ The name whimpered. ‘I believe he has a half-day holiday today, Mr Fermin. The dentist, I think.’

‘Then drop a note in to his house. I want to see him this evening. Eight o’clock will do. At my house.’

Miss Swallow gulped. Trouble for Robert Johnson? She could only hope so, but she feared it might be otherwise. After angling for her boss for so long, it was especially galling to have to be the messenger bringing this piece of news to a man she detested.

Gerald himself got up, a faint flush stealing, as if ashamed, into his yellow cheeks. He walked downstairs to the washroom, where he pushed the sleeves of his jacket up past his elbows, rolled the cuffs of his white shirt over the jacket sleeves, and plunged his hands into the bowl of warm water. He smiled to himself.

‘An heir is born,’ he murmured. He could almost have sung it.

A large and overfed tabby cat sat on the sideboard watching as Robert Johnson walked into the front room of his home. Robert’s mother was sitting on the sofa, staring at the television.

‘How was the dentist?’ she asked. ‘All right?’

Robert smiled.

‘Looks all right, doesn’t he, Timmy?’

The cat gave no reply, Robert smiled again. In the absence of any better training, smiling had become a form of conversation with him. He had ‘got on’, as his mother put it, by speaking only when spoken to; and smiling when a smile would do as well as a word. Besides, often, as on this occasion, a smile could avoid the need to speak and tell a lie.

‘A cup of tea would be nice,’ steering the conversation away from the subject of his untouched teeth.

‘I’ll put the kettle on, then. Come on, Timmy, you can have your dinner now.’

Robert sat down in an armchair. He was used to being fussed over. His mother’s world was a small one, but he was undoubtedly the centre of it, and had been for the last twenty-six years. His only possible rival – apart from the cat – had been his father who had died on active service in Italy in the last year of the war. There had been times, now and then, when Clara Johnson had worried that perhaps the lack of a father would make him weak. But she had never been strong enough to deny him anything – so she had pampered him, as she would a cat, and they had both snuggled down into the comforts of habit.

The doorbell rang and Mrs Johnson went to open the door. Soon she came back into the room, bearing a letter, bright-eyed with expectation.

‘Mr Fermin’s secretary,’ she said. ‘For you,’ holding out the letter.

Robert smiled and continued smiling as he read. When he had finished, he held it out to her.

‘I’m to see Mr Fermin tonight at his house.’

Mrs Johnson almost purred with satisfaction. ‘Well,’ she murmured, ‘well. I wonder what this could be.’

‘It might be nothing,’ he said, hating to build up hopes.

‘It must be something. He wouldn’t send for you in the evening otherwise. And at his house. Yes, it’s something.’

He could not refute it. The possibilities were too intriguing to be dispelled. His lean face, normally so skull-like, became almost animated.

‘I’d like that tea,’ he said.

He settled deep back into the armchair and his satisfaction. Such moments were a rare luxury. He allowed himself a further one by thinking of his’dentist’s visit’ that afternoon – in reality a long, lone drive at high speed up the M1 in his chief pride, his red sports car. A sudden panic spurted through him – perhaps Mr Fermin had found out?

‘Was it eight o’clock he said?’ asked his mother. ‘I’ll put your tea here. Will you wear your suit? Of course you will, it’s best to look smart. I’ll get your dinner ready.’

‘I’ve got some work to do. Just a bit. But I’d like dinner.’

He spoke so quietly, without accent or emphasis, that at times he finished speaking before you were really aware that he had even started – but the meaning seemed to penetrate. For all the quietness of his manner there was something feral about him, something feline.

Robert sat checking columns of figures, breaking off to eat his dinner. Then they sat, mother and son, staring in silence into the blazing fire; she with the cat on her lap, he with biro in his mouth. She would have loved to reach out and pat her son’s hair, smooth his hair into place, as she had used to do many years before. The hair was short and smoothed down with brilliantine, yet still she felt impelled to touch it. She held back, though, for fear of embarrassing him, perhaps too for fear of rejection which would be more painful than self-denial.

‘It’s almost time to go,’ she said at length.

‘I was just going.’

‘Do your tie up straight, it’s not quite right. And take these for Miss Fermin.’ She took a box of chocolates, an unwanted Christmas present, from the sideboard and handed them to Robert.

Mrs Johnson watched from behind the net curtains as her son went out into the bleak night, his hands in the pockets of his car coat. She saw him walk a short distance up the deserted street, then stop, turn around, seemingly to consider something. He walked back, unlocked the door of his sports car, and revved up the engine in one short burst. Then he got out again, locked the car, and continued his walk the thirty yards up the street. Like old friends, Robert and the stone cat seemed to smile weakly at each other as he passed through the front gate of the Fermins’ house.

Inside the house the clock chimed eight. Selene nervously raised her eyes towards Gerald, who sat lounging in an armchair with his eyes closed.

‘By the way, Selene, have we got any drinks handy?’ Gerald asked.

‘Get them out, will you?’

The room was lit only by a standard lamp. It was full of shadows. As Selene slid over to the sideboard, she was hardly more noticeable than one of the room’s shadows.

She was taking glasses and bottles from the sideboard when the bell rang. Inside the room a glassy tinkling continued after the electrical ringing had ceased.

‘Please don’t drop any of these glasses, Selene. Put them away carefully. I’ll just go and let our visitor in.’

The word – visitor – made her shiver. It was partly nerves, partly the memory of Gerald’s cruelty earlier that evening when she had asked who the visitor was – ‘Is it someone I know?’ Not that he had said anything cruel, merely that he had looked and his eyes had asked’How could you possibly know anyone?’.

Now Selene set the glasses on a table and peered through the crack of the door at the visitor arriving. Gerald was just opening the front door.

‘Hello, Robert. Thanks for coming. Let me take your coat.’

‘Thank you, Mr Fermin.’

‘Go on through. To your right.’

When Robert entered the sitting room he saw no one there.

Indeed he could see very little at all for the room was so dimly lit that he would have needed cats’ eyes to take in the details. Fish tanks lined the whole of one wall, providing some light yet at the same time adding to the submarine atmosphere of the room. The glints and flashes of tropical fish, like flash torches on a moonless night, could do nothing but emphasise the overall sombreness of the surroundings. The pervasive smell of damp, the small fire, the gloom all made Robert wish he could have kept his coat on.

Gerald came in, having hung Robert’s coat, saying: ‘Well, it’s pleasant to see you here,’ and Gerald almost sounded as if he meant it. ‘Have you met my sister, Robert?’

Gerald held out his hand towards the fire, as if presenting Robert to the blaze – but there was no one in the chair by the fire.

‘That’s strange, she was here just now. Perhaps she’s gone to bed.’

‘No, I’m over here, Gerald,’ came a soft voice from the corner and the two men looked around. Robert was startled to see Selene walking towards him, weaving sinuously through the clusters of furniture.

‘So pleased to meet you, Mr Johnson.’

‘I’m very pleased to meet you too, Miss Fermin. A small gift for you.’ And Robert held out the chocolates.

‘How nice of you. I’m most touched.’

‘It’s nothing really.’

‘Please sit down, Mr Johnson.’

Gerald was astonished. He had expected his sister to say no more than hello. It must be those romantic novels she reads all the time, he thought.

‘Would you like a drink?’ asked Selene. ‘Whisky?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Anything in it? No. And for you, Gerald, the same?’

‘With water in it.’

The sound of Gerald’s voice, or else the interruption caused by having to fetch some water from the kitchen, restored Selene to her accustomed state of confusion and shyness. She retreated bashfully to the kitchen, mumbling apologies.

‘No problems at the dentist, I hope?’ inquired Gerald, trying hard to be polite.

‘No problems,’ answered Robert. ‘He hardly touched me.’

Robert used words sparingly, with hostility almost, as if he were suspicious of them, that they would betray secrets if given too much free rein. Which they might well have done. Gerald was left with no option but to plunge straight to the evening’s prime purpose.

‘I dare say you realise, Robert, that I haven’t asked you round here for a social evening…although, of course, there’s no reason why it should not be that either. Combine the two, business and…society.’

Robert smiled.

‘The point is . . . the point is this. The firm’s been drifting along for years, and we’ve all been drifting along in the current with it. If you follow me?’

Robert continued smiling, and nodded as well to will Gerald on. Gerald, for his part, seemed embarrassed, perhaps by his unaccustomed use of metaphor. He was not used to making speeches such as the one he could see he would have to make; he would have liked rather more response instead of the fixed mask of Robert’s grin.

In the meantime Selene had returned to the room, composed again.

‘Please excuse me for the delay,’ she said. ‘I should have thought of this before you came, Mr Johnson.’

Selene took a glass of whisky over to Robert and one to Gerald. She came back with a jug of water and poured some into Gerald’s glass. Selene paused in the firelight with a coy smile.

‘You did say you preferred yours neat, didn’t you, Mr Johnson?’

Selene raised the jug, offering it, and Robert held out his glass.

‘Perhaps I will,’ he said. ‘Just a touch.’

‘Now sit down, Selene, please,’ hissed Gerald.

Selene started and looked round in confusion to find a seat where she would not be noticed. However, she was torn between a hard chair to the left and behind Robert, who was sitting in her favourite chair by the fire, and the settee facing the fire; and in her indecision she forgot that she was carrying the jug of water. Some of the water slopped over the side of the jug and into Robert’s lap.

There was a silence. The clock ticked loudly.

‘Mr Johnson, you’re wet,’ Selene said at last.

‘Selene, go to bed.’

‘Yes, Gerald, I’m so sorry.

‘No, please, Mr Fermin,’ said Robert with unusual daring. ‘Miss Fermin, it was nothing. I’m wet, but I’ll soon dry out in front of the fire. Please don’t go because of this.’

Selene looked appealingly towards Gerald, and Gerald, exasperated, motioned her to sit down on the settee. She remained there rigid, with her hands on her knees; or rather on the printed dress, her ‘party’ dress, that covered her knees. Robert sat, uncomfortably damp, unwilling even to show the fact, and took out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket as a diversion. Gerald accepted a cigarette and Robert’s offer of a light; Selene did not smoke.

‘Now, what we have to discuss is this,’ resumed Gerald. ‘How to stop the drift? Or even, whether to stop it?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Robert, seeing it was required of him. ‘We must.’

‘Good. We agree. So what’s needed?’

‘We’re too small.’

‘Quite right. We should expand. But selectively. What else?’

Robert hesitated. He was unsure of his ground. In truth he could see very little wrong with the company, he hardly gave it a serious thought, but he would have to make his minor doubts into major criticisms.

‘We’re a bit old-fashioned.’

‘True. Very true.’

‘We could develop some new lines. Perhaps use different materials.’

‘All true, Robert. We’re too ‘provincial’. We’re too hidebound. Now come and look at these figures. I can buy this leather – it’s selling cheap at the moment.’

‘That’s an awful lot of leather.’

‘Think big, Robert. We’ll really expand all our leather-based products. We’ll have to close down these three lines that means.’

‘But they make good profits.’

‘At the moment. But sales aren’t growing. It makes sense to concentrate our expertise, Robert. More specialisation is what we need. We’ll increase productivity too. I want to put you in charge of the development. I want you to handle everything. New production layout for the factory, increased storage area for really stockpiling raw material; changing the shift patterns to adjust, retraining where necessary; handling the publicity and launching a promotion campaign. Everything. I trust you, Robert. Come to me for advice, of course, but it’s going to be up to you to run it. Can you manage it?’

Tension crackled in Robert’s face, and the surface of the skin around his eyes trembled. He found some relief by shutting his eyes. It was all more, much more, than he had been expecting.

‘Would I have staff working for me?’ he asked, slightly desperately.

‘Robert, You’ll have the whole company working for you.’

‘I see,’ he said quietly, as if he did see it now for the first time. ‘That’s all right then.’

Slowly, bit by bit, the mask began to restore itself until the smile returned once more to Robert’s face, fixed and humourless. Gerald was perfectly satisfied with the performance.

‘You’ll do it then?’ he asked.

‘Of course, Mr Fermin. No problems. Thank you very much.’

Gerald knew it was a performance, but did not mind the insincerity. Robert was a transparent liar; for my purposes, thought Gerald, the very best kind.

Robert’s white face glistened with sweat and smiles. The fireglow, the self-satisfied excitement, the moisture on his skin, all gave a spark of life to his normally lifeless face. He had no need to say anything more, and he said nothing. Gerald got up, so did Robert, and they shook hands for once with a contact that was not clammy and cold.

‘Could we have another drink, Selene?’ asked Gerald.

Selene moved to the sideboard and brought the bottle of whisky. She too was excited. There was a feeling in the air that something startling had happened, that suddenly the outside world had opened its gates a little to her and, even if she could still touch nothing there, she could at least peek through the gap. The room, usually so immensely hollow, now seemed full of people and bustle. There was even a touch of merriment. Selene poured herself a drink as she congratulated Robert (so she called him) on his new appointment and wished him luck.

‘Is that whisky, sister?’

Gerald almost sneered the words, emphasising the word ‘sister’ as if to prove some point about their relationship. Selene was so ashamed she had no idea what to do. Her first thought was to run away. This was her normal course of action, but for once ignored. Her second thought was to tip the glass and bottle over Gerald’s facetiousness, as he sat there grinning in the depths of his huge armchair. But she thought better of that too; instead she hissed back:

‘Take that ridiculous smirk off your face, Gerald.’

The smirk immediately disappeared as Gerald’s chin dropped in astonishment. To recover he lifted his nose in the air and drew in deep breaths. This rite ended, he stared at his sister with the most withering look he could manage; Selene, limp and trembling, wilted into the armchair by the fire with the appearance of someone who would never rise to challenge authority again. Meanwhile Robert was baffled which face to wear. He looked solemn for the brother and sympathetic for the sister.

‘Selene, you have taken Mr Johnson’s chair.’

‘Oh…have I? I’m sorry.’

But, in spite of her apology, she seemed reluctant to abandon the chair. She clung to its cushion until her knuckles could be plainly seen to be white even in the light of the fire. At length she moved again to the settee. Robert took a place next to her, saying:

‘I’m very hot, and I’d rather sit here. Would you like your chair back?’

‘Oh. Thank you. Yes. But it is hot, isn’t it? I think perhaps, that I will remain here after all.’

‘Go and sit in your chair, Selene, and stop being so silly.’

Gerald was impatient to restore a business atmosphere.

Things had got too heated, which was far from normal in his home.

‘We’ve only just touched on things really, Robert,’ said Gerald. ‘I’ll explain in detail tomorrow. And we’ll talk about other things, salary and so on.’

Robert nodded and carried on smoking. He smoked in quick puffs, stubbing out the cigarette when he had half-smoked it and grinding it into the ashtray with what seemed like malice.

‘I hope your mother is keeping well, Robert?’

‘Quite well, thank you. Of course, she’s not really strong enough to go out far by herself. She has a cat to keep her company during the day while I’m at work.’

‘She always cared for animals, didn’t she?’

‘Especially cats.’

‘Ah, yes.’

‘I’d love to have a cat,’ put in Selene.

‘You certainly have a fine collection of fish,’ said Robert.

‘Oh, had you noticed them?’ Gerald seemed pleased. ‘Come over and have a closer look.’

The two men walked along the line of fish tanks, while Gerald reeled off the Latin names of the different varieties. Every so often he would bend closer to peer at something that caught his eye in the lower depths.

‘Will you have one final drink then, Robert?’ asked Gerald.

Robert merely held out his glass to Selene with a smile.

‘Have you far to go, Mr Johnson?’

‘Just down the road. Number four.’

‘Oh, is that all? That’s very convenient, isn’t it?’

‘It is at the moment. Though it is in the development area, of course.’

‘Oh, that’s nothing to worry about, Robert,’ said Gerald. ‘It will never happen. The Council’s been threatening us with that for ten years now. Besides they have to buy the houses first.’

‘Ours is rented. Anyway, they’ve already bought a couple.’

‘Have they? I didn’t know.’

‘What is this, Gerald?’ asked Selene. ‘What does it mean?’

Gerald gave a weary sigh.

‘I’ll explain later. It just means that the Council has some vague plan, as councils always must, a plan probably to be carried out when we’re dead, if at all, to knock down all the houses in the street and build a new council housing estate. As I say, it will probably never happen anyway.’

‘Oh dear, I wouldn’t like that. Upheavals. It’s bad enough having this prisoners’ home next to us.’

‘Prisoners’ home! Whatever do you mean?’

‘Didn’t you know, Mr Fermin?’ asked Robert. ‘It was in the local papers. Next door there is to be turned into a hostel for people coming out of prison.’

Like many people Robert seemed to enjoy being the bearer of bad news.

‘This is disgusting,’ said Gerald. ‘They can’t do that. That’s next door to us.’

‘Oh, they won’t care about that. That won’t bother them. It never does, not with these people. They’ll just do what they want and never mind you.’

The more he talked, the more Robert seemed to smoulder. As if, like a hot piece of coal, he were being brought to redness by an unseen bellows. And for the Fermins it was a strange sensation; Robert’s heat seemed to act as a catalyst of their anger. Normally they were slow to rouse, they would talk about everything dispassionately. Gerald decided it was time to call a halt.

‘Your mother will be wondering whatever has happened to you. I’d best be getting your coat.’

As Gerald went out, Robert turned his glinting eyes after him. He stubbed out his last cigarette, as if it were a drawing pin, and threw the butt into the fire. He spun round, startling Selene as he did so, and gave her a smile; not his customary vacuous smile, more a smirk, cruel, calculating.

‘It’s been nice meeting you, Selene. I hope we shall meet again.’

‘Oh, I hope so. That is, it would be nice…. We must… keep in touch.’

Selene shrank a little away from him, as if in fear, but at the same time she held out her hand to him. He took it and held it gently for a time in a loose handshake, while he looked at Selene, studied her, it seemed. She was middle-aged, her manner and appearance proclaimed that she was a spinster; but she was not unattractive, her figure was good, even youthful, and her nature gave a dreamy, vague, longing appeal to her features. Her clothes were absurdly out of date, but even that, paradoxically, gave her additional charm for the clothes were more elegant than the current fashion.

Robert heard Gerald coming, squeezed Selene’s hand and then shook it politely. Gerald handed Robert his coat and showed him to the door.

‘Come and see me tomorrow morning, Robert.’

‘Thank you, Mr Fermin. Thank you for everything.’

‘Not at all, Robert. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

As Gerald closed the door, Selene was already on her way upstairs.

‘I’m going to bed, Gerald. I don’t feel very well.’

Selene made her trembling climb up the stairs, and went straight to her bedroom. She did not switch on the light but went across to her window, stumbling in the darkness. Drawing back the curtain slightly, she saw Robert unlocking the door of his sports car and getting inside. Within seconds the car had been noisily revved up and driven out of Ophelia Street at startling speed, scattering a small group of men who were just emerging from The Lady Ophelia at the end of the street.

Shaking from head to foot, Selene retreated from the window. She undressed with difficulty and climbed into the old-fashioned brass bedstead that was the dominant feature of the room; touching herself, her own nakedness, with caution and hesitation, as if discovering her body for the first time.