He was amazed at how he became used to being in the house without his parents. The first morning had felt a bit odd; Mrs Lamb had washed up their breakfasts – eaten at God-knew-what hour – and left him a final note about locking up carefully – even if he just went out to buy a paper. He had felt guilty at not being up to see them off, however it had not occurred to him that they could possibly be going earlier than himself. But his mother got extremely nervous about trains – not trusting them in the least not to leave twenty minutes earlier than they had promised to, and she was determined not to give any train the chance of doing that to her. So, to catch say a ten o’clock from Paddington, she would probably have left the house at seven. He had washed up his own breakfast, and then left in a hurry because he hadn’t allowed time in his morning schedule for even such a small addition. He had arrived in time for Mr Adrian to notice that he was late: to look at his watch, click his teeth and say that there was something he wanted a few words about whenever Gavin could spare the time. Gavin succeeded in not sparing it all the morning, which was a busy one.
Jenny had stumped up to him wearing her cork wedge sandals and said:
‘Have you done the list?’
‘What list? Oh – no – no, I haven’t. I’ve been thinking about it though,’ he added, partly because it was true, but chiefly because she had looked so transparently disappointed. They had worked hard together all the morning, which included Mrs Wagstaffe and her dog, Mrs Courcel, and an elderly lady who wanted her long, dank grown-out perm cut off. At one point, he had nipped out to the back for a quick cup of coffee and was shortly joined by Peter.
Gavin said: ‘Thanks very much for Friday evening. Hope Hazel’s okay.’
‘She came round in the end. I did all the washing-up – I think that made a difference to her. Women are quite tricky when you’re married to them,’ he explained.
‘I suppose they would be.’
‘What we never got around to asking you was, what did you think about the dinner?’
‘Oh – fine.’
‘I expect you to be perfectly frank.’
‘I enjoyed it.’
‘You didn’t think the main course was just a touch way out?’
‘Um – no. How do you mean exactly?’
‘For Hazel’s parents, I mean. They live in West Byfleet.’
‘I suppose it depends if you like aubergine.’
‘But it didn’t taste of them! I quite agree if it had tasted of them, they might find it a bit much. But with all that miso and bean curd I don’t think the average person would guess.’
Gavin tried to finish his coffee, but it was too hot.
‘Still, I asked you, and if that’s what you think, we must take it into account . . .’
‘Mr Gavin! Client’s ready.’
‘Thank you, Jenny. I enjoyed it,’ he lied again and saw Peter’s stern missionary face relax a little. On his way through to the salon, he remembered that he hadn’t rung Marge. In the end, he had had to leave that until his lunch hour (which was very late). He couldn’t risk using the salon’s telephone unless Mr Adrian went out, which he didn’t.
Marge hadn’t answered, so he hadn’t got hold of her until after work.
‘Poor Mum,’ she said. ‘She’s very close to Sylvia. And the little boy! Oh dear! How long is she going to stay in Swansea? Well, if you ever feel lonely, pop over to us, but I expect it’s a chance for you to whoop it up a bit there all on your own. Don’t worry, I’ll ring Mum at Uncle Phil’s.’
That first evening, he had gone home, realized he’d forgotten to take in the milk and walked into the empty house. It did not smell of washing as usual – just rather fusty. He had opened some windows, got one of the pies out of the freezer and put it in the oven. Then he had looked in the paper to see if there was anything he wanted to watch on television, but there wasn’t. He had looked round the room; it was spotlessly neat with absolutely nothing in it that was not functional, and it had seemed smaller without his parents there.
It wasn’t really the kind of room he liked, at all. He had decided then that he did not want to spend the evening in it. So he had made himself a supper tray, turned the oven to low and had had a bath – longer even than the ones his mother countenanced on a Sunday morning: only now he was able to have it with the doors wide open to his room as well as the bathroom, and his gramophone as loud as he liked. Also, when he had eventually finished his bath, he had realized that there was absolutely no need to put all his clothes on again. That first evening he had spent in his pyjamas and dressing gown, but he had felt vaguely uncomfortable in them – a bit like a convalescent. People who went about in their dressing gowns probably had special ones made . . . After that, he settled for jeans and a shirt too old to wear with a tie. He ate his pie and played the B-flat posthumous sonata – one of his favourite works of Schubert and absolutely his favourite piano sonata. Then he had looked at a book on Greek islands that was overdue back at the library because he’d never got down to it. For some reason that he wasn’t at all clear about, he couldn’t summon the enthusiasm for his holiday that he usually had. Did he really want to go to Greece entirely by himself? And how did one – come to that – go on a holiday partly with someone? Even if he found somebody who said that that was what they wanted, how could he know whether their partly was the same as his? He shut up the book. His holiday wasn’t until September, so he had plenty of time to think about it. That first evening, he had decided that he wouldn’t wash up his supper; he’d leave the tray and do it when he had more to wash up. He’d watered his plants and cleaned his shoes and listened to more music. Minnie, and what was becoming of her, had crossed his mind: surprisingly, she hadn’t bombarded him with telephone calls. The family situation in Swansea had recurred, several times, but his mother hadn’t rung him. Somehow it all seemed rather distant. He had ended by going to bed earlier than usual with a novel by Paul Scott that had won some literary prize and also seemed to him to be a very good read.
The next day it had suddenly struck him at work that he didn’t particularly want to go home, get out another pie and do generally what he had done the previous evening. He rang Harry, but Harry was going to a party with Noel and Winthrop. He was invited, but declined . . . It was a bad day at work: everything seemed to go – not wrong, exactly – but not quite right. Jenny seemed uncharacteristically absent-minded, and apathetic when he reminded her. In the end – when she had let him run completely out of papers during a tricky perm – he snapped at her. She looked at him for a moment with her eyes filling with tears and then she simply ran out of the salon – to the back . . . She returned in time to wash the client – very pale and refusing to meet his eye. He managed to catch her during the lunch hour – outside on the stairs.
‘Hey – what’s the matter, Jenny?’
‘Nothing.’ She continued walking down the stairs below him.
‘Look. Something is. I’ve never known you wash hair leaving conditioner in, or forget things all the time. Something must be wrong. Is it Andrew?’
‘He’s all right.’
This only made it clear that something else wasn’t. He suddenly wondered whether she was sulking about the list that he still hadn’t made for her.
‘I’ve started the list for you.’
She said nothing for a bit, and then – and he could hardly hear her – thanked him. ‘But it doesn’t matter, really,’ she said.
‘Like a sandwich?’
She shook her head.
They had reached the passage on the ground floor. She said: ‘I’m going for a walk, and I’ll pull myself together.’ She said it as though he had told her she must. She walked quickly away from him out into the street.
In the sandwich bar he met Iris drinking espresso. He had a coffee with her and told her that he was worried about Jenny.
‘I expect she’s just a bit out of sorts today,’ Iris said with a delicate emphasis.
‘It’s not like her.’
She looked at him kindly: ‘We can’t always be like ourselves all the time. She’s nearing the end of her apprenticeship, isn’t she? I expect she went for a job and didn’t get it . . .’
It seemed a reasonable and likely answer . . .
In the afternoon he was caught by Mr Adrian who gave him a long and reasoned discourse on the results of everybody getting to work later and later which culminated in he, Mr Adrian, being clean out of business. Just as he reached this interesting – and to Gavin quite delightful – conclusion, Daphne phoned through from reception to ask Gavin to come and look at the book with a view to fitting someone in. When he got there, Daphne looked at him with a wealth of no expression and said: ‘I’m afraid they’ve rung off now.’ The most uniting thing about the salon, he thought, was the way in which everybody hated Mr Adrian.
His afternoon consisted of a succession of routine washes and sets; Jenny had returned punctually and he felt her making an effort to do what was required of her. They both behaved as if nothing had happened until, about half an hour before they closed, she said: ‘I’m sorry I was so scatty this morning.’ He realized that she found saying that an effort, since she started to blush, and with no thought at all he heard himself suggesting that she should come over to his place to hear some records, and even while he was wondering why the hell he’d said that, he heard her saying that she would like to . . .
‘Do you mean this evening?’
‘No – no, I don’t. I didn’t mention any particular evening, actually.’
‘Well, that’s good, because I couldn’t have come tonight; my mother’s going out.’ There was a pause, and then she said: ‘But I could tomorrow.’
Then she said: ‘And if you could find me a book – a good one, I mean, but one I could get into, I’d be able to read it on the train, you see.’
‘Yes. Okay, I’ll find you one.’ He turned to go, but she said:
‘Look. I don’t know where you live. Your address.’
‘I live in Barnet, New Barnet, to be exact.’
‘Oh. How do I get there?’
He thought rapidly. If she came back with him, he’d have no time to get anything ready. On the other hand, it was a hell of a journey from Kilburn. ‘I’ll fetch you on the bike,’ he said.
‘Right. Thanks.’
So here he was, on evening number two, having eaten pie number two (fish this time) in the kitchen, because he’d done some shopping on his way home and had to arrange the food in the fridge and see that he hadn’t forgotten anything. He was no cook. After much thought, and resisting asking Harry’s expert advice, he had gone to the best grocer in Barnet and bought a tin of expensive lobster soup, a small carton of single cream, and half a pound of ham cut from the bone. Then he’d had to go to another shop to buy a lettuce and tomatoes and a pineapple. He’d have to buy the bread tomorrow. He washed up yesterday’s and that evening’s pie suppers and laid a tray for himself and Jenny. Then he went up to tackle his room. During these activities he was conscious of feeling excited at the prospect of entertaining someone, and apprehensive about entertaining Jenny (though there were, of course, a good many girls or women about whom he’d have felt a good deal worse). After all, he’d known her – in a way – for a long time. He was – in a way – doing her a favour. The prospect of actually imparting knowledge to someone else made him feel responsible but it was also rather exciting. He looked carefully round his room trying to imagine how it would seem to someone coming into it for the first time. The first thing that he supposed they would notice was that it was indubitably a bedroom. There was his rather large bed. Supposing she thought he’d asked her – especially when his parents were away – to come over and spend the evening in his bedroom and merely pretended about the records? After all, there was the whole house they could be in. But the gramophone was in his room; parts of it were delicate and some parts were rather on their last legs – it was out of the question to move it. Could he move the bed? Of course he couldn’t. It had had to be dismantled to get it up the narrow stairs – a task that would be quite beyond him. Perhaps he could make it look less like a bed? Make it seem it was a sort of sitting room he sometimes slept in? He tried putting the cushions from his red velvet chaise-longue on to the bed, but this made it look wantonly voluptuous as though it was asking for people to sprawl on it. He tried surrounding the open side of it with his larger potted plants: but this made it look like a secret den in a jungle, him Gavin her Jenny stuff, and drew attention to it more than ever. In the end, he settled for laying out an unnecessarily large quantity of records all over it in neat rows as though for inspection. That certainly made the room look as though it was one in which one played records rather than . . . anything else. At this point the telephone rang, and he went down to the hall to answer it.
‘Gavin?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Is that you?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘She’s come round, but she’s still very weak. She’s going to pull through, they say; but they don’t want her told about Timmie till she’s recovered more from the shock. I’ll be staying a while longer, because Phil needs help with the girls. Are you all right, Gavin?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Is the house all right?’
‘Yes. How’s Dad?’
‘Nothing’s the matter with him. He’s in the garden all day: just comes in for his meals.’ She said this in the tone of voice that made him sound like a cat. ‘Gavin!’ she added.
‘Yes, Mum?’
‘When you’ve got through the pies you’d better go to Sainsbury’s and buy yourself a nice pork pie. That should last you a day or two. But whatever you do, don’t you go eating food out of tins. Mind you don’t do that.’
‘No, Mum.’
‘I can’t be in two places at once. All right, Gavin. I’d better be ringing off, we’re not millionaires.’
‘No. I see that. Good-bye then, Mum.’
‘Good-bye, Gavin. I’ll let you know if there’s any change – either way.’ She rang off.
The telephone reminded him of Minnie. It was strange that she hadn’t rung at all. No, it wasn’t really. Any ordinary person who’d been ditched as he’d ditched her on Saturday would feel that that was that. They might be angry about it, but pride would prevent most people from any further efforts to get in touch. But Minnie was not an ordinary person – in that sense: she was a bit mad or something. Well, Harry had said that if he really felt bad about her, he ought to go and see her and tell her she needed help. That’s what he’d better do. Upstairs again, he realized that all the records would have to come off the bed so that he could sleep in it, and be put back tomorrow, preferably before he went to work. In his bath he thought that Chopin and Degas might be a good double to start Jenny with, but he lay until the water was cold, unable to think which book would catch her.
‘I didn’t know you had a car.’
‘It’s my father’s. He doesn’t mind me using it now and then. I thought it would be warmer than my bike.’
‘It’s quieter too. For talking, I mean.’
A moment later, she said: ‘If I had known, I wouldn’t have worn my track suit.’
He didn’t know what to say to that. Why wouldn’t she, he wondered. It was a beautiful evening; a bright, light blue sky and a tranquil golden light on the fields and trees; chestnuts were flowering, their candles tipped with light; the young leaves on the oaks were livid and molten from the sun. They passed two donkeys in a field who stood motionless with their heads lowered.
‘They look as though they’re waiting for something awful to happen,’ Jenny said.
‘They always look like that.’
‘It’s like the country!’ she exclaimed a few moments later.
‘Well, we are in Hertfordshire.’
‘It must be very nice to come back to in the evenings.’
‘I usually come by train, and that isn’t as nice as this, but it’s still good when the train comes above ground.’
She didn’t say anything, and he glanced at her to see if she was all right. Her small useful-looking hands rested on what would have been her lap if she had not been wearing trousers, and she was gazing contentedly out of the window.
‘It’s nice in a car, isn’t it?’ she said a while later. ‘You see more than in a bus somehow.’
‘More than on a bike, anyway.’
‘If I had a little car,’ she said, ‘I’d take Andrew for picnics in the country. I didn’t realize it was so near.’
‘I missed Andrew tonight.’
‘I’d settled him down. My mum wanted a quiet evening: she’s got a friend coming to see her . . . Oh yes, you saw him, didn’t you; coming up the street just as we left. The bloke I said, “Hullo” to.’
‘The army bloke?’
‘He’s a sergeant major or something.’
‘You sound as though you don’t like him.’
‘I don’t have any feelings about him at all!’ she retorted, so Gavin knew that she didn’t like him, but was certainly not going to ask why she didn’t.
They drove in silence until he had crossed the main road into Barnet and he turned left into Potters Lane.
‘This looks as though it is going to be country, but it isn’t,’ he warned her. ‘It suddenly breaks out into suburbia.’
‘Gavin! You don’t mind me calling you Gavin?’
‘No, I don’t at all.’
‘Do you mind me asking you something?’
‘No,’ he said, but more warily.
‘Do your parents know about Andrew?’
‘No. No. I haven’t told anyone. I thought you didn’t want me to.’
‘I didn’t really. I just wanted to know.’
‘Anyway, my parents are away.’
‘Are they?’
‘My aunt was in a road accident. My mother’s gone to see her and look after her children. My father’s gone with her.’
‘Oh. I’m sorry about your aunt,’ she added. After that she was silent.
She remained silent, after they had arrived, and he had unlocked the front door and gone ahead to the kitchen to open windows. She was still standing in the hall, when he came back to find her.
‘Just got to heat up some soup,’ he said. ‘Come in here, I’ve got some wine.’
She followed him into the kitchen. He’d mixed the cream with the soup and had got it in a saucepan. He felt exhilarated to be organizing everything.
‘I’m not much of a cook,’ he said. ‘It’s just soup and ham and salad.’
He saw her looking at the empty table through the alcove to the living room. ‘We’re eating upstairs in my room. I’ve taken the main tray up. There’s just the soup.’ He poured two glasses of wine and handed her one. She looked frightened, and did not take it. ‘You can have a soft drink if you like,’ he said. ‘Hey. What’s the matter?’
‘I just have to tell you something.’
He waited – he was beginning to feel nervous.
‘I hope you don’t think . . . I’m not the sort of girl that – I mean just because I’ve had Andrew doesn’t mean that – ’ She’d gone her usual, but unusual shade of pale scarlet. ‘I mean – I may have got it all wrong. I didn’t think you were that kind of person. If you are I mean.’
He looked at her in amazement. She was not only scarlet, she was trembling. She was afraid of him! She was probably the first person in his life who’d been afraid of him. He felt confounded; then touched; poor little thing, to be afraid of him! She must have had some pretty terrifying experiences to make her feel that. He knew what it felt like to be afraid of people. It must be much worse for a girl.
‘Listen,’ he said, talking very quietly in case noise made things worse, ‘I just thought you’d like to come and have a meal and we could talk about the list, and perhaps I’d play you a record, or read you something; to show you how marvellous some things can be. I asked you when my parents were away because it isn’t their sort of thing, you see. They’d think it funny. That’s why we’re going to my room – because everything like that’s up there. I certainly wouldn’t dream of’ – he was blushing now – ‘well – taking advantage of you or anything like that.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Well – that’s all right then. Fine. I’m sorry I brought it up.’ Then, looking down at herself rather disparagingly, he felt, she added: ‘I hope you don’t think that I think that everybody – ’ but she didn’t finish because, just then, the soup boiled over. It made a bit of a mess. ‘Oh, sorry! It’s my fault,’ she said; ‘let me help.’ So they cleaned it up together, and there seemed to be quite a lot of soup left in the pan. It was a relief to have something to do for both of them.
‘Would you like wine? Or, if not, there’s some Express Dairy orange juice?’
‘Oh, I’d like wine, please. Nicer than those funny drinks they gave us the other night,’ she said after tasting it. He’d chosen a white wine – he didn’t know that much about wine, but he thought that girls preferred white. He liked red, himself. It was rather sweet.
‘It’s lovely,’ she said.
‘If I take the soup and the glasses, could you bring the bottle?’
She nodded.
He’d arranged the records on the bed as previously planned, and he’d turned his chest of drawers into a sort of side-table with the ham and salad on it. He’d bought a bunch of wallflowers and the room smelled sweetly of them. He’d put his low table, and two chairs that were too high for it but it couldn’t be helped, a nice long way from the bed.
‘Here we are,’ he said – just like his father, he immediately thought.
She stood in the doorway. For a moment he thought she was scared again, but she was just looking all round at the room – taking it in.
‘It’s lovely up here,’ she said. ‘I like your mirror with the birds and roses and things. It’s beautiful. And your lovely sofa thing. Is that what it’s called?’
‘It’s a chaise-longue,’ he said, and nearly told her about Mrs Patrick Campbell and the deep, deep peace of the double bed after the hurly burly of the chaise-longue, but double beds seemed quite the wrong subject just then.
‘A chaise – longue,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got a terrific vocabulary, haven’t you? I mean you say more words than most people do.’
‘I read quite a bit.’ He was secretly flattered that she’d noticed.
He poured the soup into Mrs Lamb’s soup plates with ferns round them.
‘Come and have the soup before it gets cold.’ (A bit like Mum, he thought.)
They both sat down and started to have it.
‘It’s very nice,’ she said, ‘what is it?’
‘Lobster. I’m afraid it’s only out of a tin . . . I put cream in it.’
‘You can taste the cream.’ She licked her spoon and said: ‘But if, when you’re reading, you come across a word that you don’t know what it means, what do you do?’
‘Look it up. In a dictionary.’
‘So you need one of those, then.’
‘It’s fun having one.’
‘Are they expensive?’
‘They come in different sizes and prices. I can lend you a little one if you like.’
‘Thanks. Do you have a lot of them, then?’
‘I happen to have two. A pocket dictionary I’ve had since I was at school, and then I bought the Shorter Oxford a couple of years ago.’ He took the soup plates away and put the dish of ham on the table. He had made a French dressing for his salad which he now poured on to it, and mixed it thoroughly. ‘Help yourself,’ he said.
‘Why do you want the shorter one? ‘Cos you know the longer one?’
‘No, the shorter one’s longer than the one I had to begin with. It has more words in it. There’s the complete one, but that’s too expensive for me. Have to save up for it.’
‘I see. It’s a lovely meal, Gavin.’ She smiled at him. ‘Nicer than the meal we had the other night.’ Her smile was quite new to him; he could not remember her smiling at work.
They had some more wine, and he started telling her about Chopin. He explained that he was going to play her the music as orchestrated for the ballet Les Sylphides.
‘I’ve seen some ballet dancing,’ she said. ‘It’s when people go on their toes, isn’t it? Very pretty. I wouldn’t have seen that one, would I? It was in a Variety Performance, on television.’
‘You might have seen a bit of it.’
‘It was about swans,’ she said. ‘But they didn’t have a swan. It was just two people.’
‘That’s another one. This is a ballet that Fokine did for Diaghilev. I’ll tell you about them later.’
‘Gavin! Could I just go to the toilet first?’
‘Of course. It’s down the stairs and the first on the right.’
He had the record ready on his machine, and waited in a fever of impatience. He desperately wanted her to fall in love with Chopin, and Chopin was only the first step: they wouldn’t have time for much more in one evening. If she didn’t like Chopin, she mightn’t be prepared to have a second go. When she returned, he said:
‘You could lie on the chaise-longue, if you like. It’s very comfortable for listening to music; I often do.’
She sat rather primly at one end of it, bolt upright, hands clasped together. ‘It’s just as you like, of course, but I should lie on it. Far more comfortable.’
‘I’d have to take my shoes off. Don’t want to dirty it.’
‘Do.’
He waited while she did this, and lay cautiously back with one of his orange cushions behind her head.
‘Right. Chopin.’
She was very quiet all through the record, quiet and quite still. He tried not to watch her too obviously – sat well away from her, but her feathery head with its upright, honey-coloured hair was in view and sometimes, when she moved her head, an ear with a gold ring glinting in it. When it was over, he took the record off and put it carefully back into its sleeve, before he came over to her end of the room.
‘Did you like it?’
‘It was pretty,’ she said, ‘really nice! I could imagine them dancing. You know, wide dresses with sequins on them – really romantic.’
For a moment, he was outfaced; the words seemed faint and cosy for someone he revered; then he thought, ‘What the hell; she enjoyed it, that’s the point,’ because, looking at her, it was clear that she had. She had that small glow about her that he recognized came from and followed enjoyment. ‘Stage Two,’ he said to himself.
‘I’ve got some pictures to show you. They show you what that sort of dancer looked like. I think I’ll put the book on the table as it’s quite large, and then we can both look at it.’
He put the Degas book on the table and they sat on the floor and he showed her some of it. She didn’t take much notice of the drawings, but the paintings enthralled her. ‘Look at her! She’s just whizzing across the floor – you feel you’ll have to catch her! Oh – aren’t they pretty! I wish I could dance like that with a little black ribbon round my throat!’
When he closed the book, she said: ‘And did you find me a book?’
He hadn’t, but he didn’t want to tell her that. ‘Tell me what kind of book you think you’d like.’
She sat back on her heels, considering. ‘Well – I like things to happen, and I don’t like the people just to talk all the time, but the books I read at school used to have very long descriptions in them. And I don’t want to read about people falling in love and all that. I don’t know, really.’ She looked hopefully at him.
‘Well – ’ he was thinking hard, and quite suddenly, from nowhere, he had an idea. He remembered that, last Christmas, he’d bought a copy of The Secret Garden for Judy, and then Marge said she’d read it. So he’d read it himself, and simply kept it.
‘Don’t mind the inscription,’ he said when he’d found it. ‘I bought it for my niece, but she’d read it.’
She took it. ‘How old is your niece?’ she asked.
‘She’s nine.’ Then he saw her face and said: ‘Okay, it’s a children’s book, but I enjoyed it. When books are really good, it doesn’t matter – anybody can enjoy them.’
‘I see. What’s it about?’
‘What it says. A secret garden. Some children discover it, and bring it to life.’
‘I’ll try it then,’ she said, but a trifle sulkily.
‘I think I’d better take you home, now. We’ve both got to work in the morning.’
‘Shall I help you with the supper things?’
‘Don’t bother.’
She was very quiet in the car, and he began to wonder whether the whole thing had been a failure, but it hadn’t seemed to be that at the time. Perhaps she was still sulking over being given a children’s book? Well, the only way to find out was to ask her.
‘Jenny! About that book – ’
‘Actually, I like children’s books. I get them from the library for Andrew, but . . . but sometimes I get one that’s too grown up for him and just read it. I felt funny when you said it was a book you’d got for your niece; as though you’d found me out. Felt on my dignity a bit.’ She gave a husky little chuckle. ‘Not that I’ve got much of that. Andrew’s the one with dignity in our family.’ Then she fell silent again for such a long time that, while still thinking about whether to do it, he heard himself asking: ‘Jenny! Is something worrying you?’
After a bit, she said: ‘Something’s worrying me all right.’
A minute later, she said: ‘I suppose that’s another thing about Art. It takes your mind off your troubles. I didn’t think about . . . anything this evening till now.’
‘Is it something you want to talk about?’
‘I don’t know. Yes, of course I do want to – but it seems . . . kind of disloyal.’
‘Well – I’ll have to leave that to you. But if it’s about a new job I might be able to help a bit.’
‘It isn’t about a new job in the way you might think it would be. It’s more about everything. I think something awful is happening, and if it is, everything would be different.’
He waited, realizing she was going to tell him.
‘I think my mum is falling in love.’
‘With that soldier?’
‘How did you know?’
‘I just guessed. Why is that awful?’
‘He doesn’t live in London. He doesn’t live anywhere; he’s in the Army. She’d – well, she might go off with him!’
‘And you’d miss her,’ he said. He still didn’t see why the idea upset her so much.
‘I’d miss her all right! My whole life would change! There wouldn’t be anyone to mind Andrew while I was at work. I’d have to stop – stay home, at least until he starts going to school and even then I’d never get a part-time job in hairdressing. I’d just have to do anything I could. I’d probably have to live on Assistance,’ she finished miserably. ‘One thing I said I’d never do.
‘And don’t think I don’t mind about my mum because I do. I love her. She’s been wonderful to me all through everything. I don’t suppose it’s been much of a life for her this last four years – my dad dying so suddenly, and having to look after me. And then Andrew. Of course she loves him. He’ll miss her something awful.’
She was crying now – discreetly, snuffling, wiping her face with her hand. He slowed down. He was appalled for her.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘you might be wrong. Perhaps she’s just having a bit of a walk-out, and his leave will be up and he’ll be off. You don’t know!’
‘I’ve got a good idea, though.’
‘Couldn’t you talk to her about it? Ask her?’
‘He’s there all the time! He’s living with us. Got the rooms the lodger had. What with Andrew and work and him being there, I never see her alone.’
He did not know what to say. It was a problem of a kind and size that had never come his way.
‘Does the house belong to your mother?’
‘Yes. She sold the one we had when Dad was alive and bought this one. She wouldn’t turn me out, or anything. Would she?’
‘Of course she wouldn’t. Look, Jenny, you don’t even know for certain that she’s going. I still think you should talk to her and find out.’
‘I think she should be the one to do the talking.’
‘Well, maybe she should, but if she isn’t, then you’ll have to do it.’
‘You’re probably right,’ she said, in the tone of voice that showed she clearly didn’t want him to be.
‘It’s not that I don’t sympathize with you; I just don’t know what else to say.’
‘There’s nothing to say, really. I didn’t mean to spoil the evening, Gavin. I truly enjoyed it, Chopin and Dig – what was his name?’
‘Degas.’
‘Him. Did Chopin do a lot more music?’
‘Oh, yes. A lot more. What you heard tonight was music he wrote for the piano. It was orchestrated for the ballet . . . I’ll play you the piano music next time, if you like. And, when the ballet is on, I’ll take you to it.’
‘Will you really?’
‘Yes. It might not be on for some time, though,’ he added truthfully. He was also faintly worried by the glib way he was making these promises.
‘Oh. Oh well.’
‘But we might go to another ballet.’ (There he went again.)
When they arrived at her home, the hall light was on, but the rest of the windows were dark.
‘It must be late!’ she said; ‘I’ll just go in quietly. Thanks again for the evening. It was great.’ She put out her hand, so he shook it. He watched her into the house, she turned and waved at the open doorway. Then he drove home.
By the time he got back to his room and started to clear it up, he’d given up trying to solve her problem. Some problems – even other people’s – were quite simply insoluble, in the sense that whatever was done about them, or happened if nothing was done, the status quo dissolved into something else. In fact, perhaps a great many problems consisted of people trying to hang on to the status quo, whatever it was like, and in spite of it having had its natural life.
He took all the supper things down to the kitchen, put the food away and decided to do the washing-up tomorrow evening. He had a lot on his mind. His mother would have a fit if she knew, but she couldn’t know, so that was all right. None the less, some household habits prevailed, and he laid his breakfast.
Clearing up the records from his bed, he reflected that perhaps next time Jenny came, he needn’t bother to lay them all out. After all, they had sort of cleared up Jenny’s anxiety about his being the sort of person who asked girls into his bedroom in order to take advantage of them. ‘Take advantage’! What an awful phrase! It was the kind of thing his mother would say: it implied that there was not the slightest chance of Jenny enjoying his making love to her. Which was a bit unfair, because if he did make love to her – or anyone, of course, it didn’t have to be Jenny – obviously he wouldn’t do it, if they didn’t want to. It probably wouldn’t even be possible, if you come to think of it. He thought about it for a bit – drawing heavily upon his recent experience with Joan – and decided that whereas with Joan it wouldn’t be, or have been, possible, with Jenny, who was physically completely the opposite – a tiny little creature in comparison – things might be different. She might start by resisting him, but probably, if he went the right way about it, she could be got to change her mind. The moment when she might stop wanting him not to and start wanting him to would actually be rather wonderful. In a way, it would be more wonderful than if she started by feeling exactly the same as he did. It would be amazing in a quite different way to the way that Joan had been amazing. It was fairly exciting even thinking about it. It would, of course, be exciting with any girl; he was only using Jenny as an example because she happened to have been here – but any girl, provided she moved him in the first place, would do. But when he said ‘any girl’ he was back to the now oddly anonymous girls of his dreams: who never seemed to materialize in real life and who also maintained a kind of passive serenity that no longer seemed to him to be ideal. And, as he had always made them perfect to start with, there was no way of affecting them deeply – or even at all. Anyway, he’d never actually fucked any of them – never even got their Rossetti-like garments off – never even kissed them. There was the girl on the beach, of course; the one with streaming red hair and only half her bikini, but he’d never actually reached her; by the time he took the plunge over the cliff the sun had set and it was dark, or else she had gone back into the sea – out of his depth. The only reason that Jenny came into this picture was because he had been so struck by her being afraid of him.
Perhaps that was the reason why she didn’t go out with people; she was too scared of them. After all, when he came to think of it, it must be pretty staggering if you went together one time, as Jenny had said, and got Andrew out of it. However much she loved Andrew – and there was no doubt about that, her voice changed whenever she even mentioned him – it would be likely that she would feel pretty wary of men. It was up to him to show her she needn’t be afraid of that sort of thing – as well as showing her about Art.
By this time he was ready for bed and very tired. Just before he fell heavily to sleep, the thought drifted into his mind that he hadn’t made it very clear to himself whether it was up to him to show her that she needn’t be afraid of that sort of thing by that sort of thing not happening – or not . . .
He felt faintly embarrassed meeting Jenny at work the next morning in case she thought that something was going on between them and would behave differently towards him because of getting such an idea into her head. But she stomped about on her cork wedge sandals, doing what she was told, occasionally rolling her eyes whenever there were awkward moments – her customary way of saying that things were awful, but there you were . . . They were bad that morning. Daphne had double-booked him, and Mr Adrian emerged from his racing paper to tell all of them just what a mistake this was and how easy it was not to make such a mistake if one took any trouble at all. Gavin could not stay for the whole homily – he had two clients waiting for him, but Daphne was nearly in tears. Mrs Wagstaffe’s dog managed to nip him: ‘It’s amazing, Gavin, how he always remembers you!’ And Miss Wilming told him, at painful stuttering length, so much about the Raj Quartet that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to face reading it. Mrs Silkin ran out of nearly everything for the clients’ sandwiches, and Sharon had to be dispatched to go and buy salami and cheese from the nearest sandwich bar, and this, as it was Mandy’s day at college, meant that they were short of juniors for shampooing. The day, which had started bright, darkened, and by mid-morning it had begun to rain quite heavily and they had to put all the lights on in the salon. That would put paid to a peaceful sandwich in St James’s Park. The only piece of luck he had was that Harry rang him five minutes after Mr Adrian had gone to his lunch.
‘Have you settled your little problem?’
‘What?’
‘That girl you were so worried about.’
‘Oh, her. No, I haven’t.’ Something craven in him made him add: ‘I’m going to see her this evening, as a matter of fact.’
‘Ah. I was going to ask you if you felt like a movie. Winthrop’s going out.’
‘I could manage the second show. Well, it depends where it is, but if it’s not too far from Chalk Farm, I could.’
‘I haven’t decided on a movie, I just thought I’d like to go to one.’
He then agreed, most obligingly, to meet Gavin at Marine Ices.
After he had rung off, Gavin thought what a shallow and heartless person he must be. He hadn’t even thought of Minnie since Saturday with Harry. He’d given Harry the impression that he was really anxious about her; indeed, he had felt anxiety for her on Saturday. Where had it all gone to? Or hadn’t he really been feeling it at the time?
At least he’d do what he had said he would do. Tell her she needed help and encourage her to get it. The thought of going to see her and saying that sort of thing to her was depressing. And she might not even be in her sister’s basement. She might still be in Weybridge with her awful parents. Somehow this didn’t seem very likely; he was pretty sure that, because he was dreading the visit, she would be there to receive it.
She was. The shutters were shielding the ground floor windows, but he could see a light on in the basement. There was only one bell at the front door and after he had rung it twice – with a longish wait in between – it occurred to him that the basement might have a separate entrance. So he went down the steps: it was still raining and the area had an enormous puddle as though a drain was blocked and the water had nowhere to run to. Facing him was a dingy black door. There were bars on the basement window, and a pair of thin red curtains were drawn across it but there was certainly a light on inside. He pressed a rusty bell that looked as though it was never used, and heard it ringing shrilly. After a moment or two, the light went out. That was somehow just like her; to try and pretend that she wasn’t there when it was much too late. He rang again, tapped on the window and said: ‘It’s me – Gavin. You might as well let me in; I know you’re there.’
There was another pause, and then he heard some shuffling sounds; by now, he was listening intently; had a faint prickling at the back of his neck, warning him – of something. He knocked again on the window and called to her. ‘What’s the matter? Are you ill? Let me in, Minnie, it’s raining and I’ve come a long way to see you.’
With startling suddenness and without a sound, the door swung open: she must have been the other side of it, listening to him, but he could not see her. He stepped inside, took a couple of uncertain steps in the gloom – aware of a sour and very unpleasant smell. Before he could say or do anything, the lights came on, and he swung round, aware that she was standing at the door behind him. Seeing her, he got his first shock. She was wearing the red cheesecloth dress in which he had first seen her, now filthy with what looked like food stains, but, what was somehow more frightening, her belly was strained against the dirty thin cotton like a football. Her legs were bare except for a pair of thick, dirty woollen socks; her hair was matted, her face puffy and like pale, sweating cheese. She was holding a half-empty packet of Jaffa Cakes which she was eating continuously, without a single pause, her fingers pulling the next one out while she was swallowing the one before – as though it was a mechanical process. For a second he stared at her, then she moved past him into the room, still eating, but moving this time to a carton in which he saw there were dozens of packets like the one she had in her hand. She reeked of the sour smell – vomit, he recognized, as he retched himself.
She dropped the empty packet on the floor and picked up another one – tearing it open with practised speed, and cramming the first cake into her mouth almost whole as though to catch up on the split second pause that the change from one packet to the next involved.
Eventually he managed to say something. ‘Minnie, what’s the matter? Why are you doing this?’
With her mouth full she answered: ‘Having a binge.’ She sniggered, retched, put her hand over her mouth and swallowed several times; she was swaying slightly. Then she dropped the new packet of cakes and reeled over to where there was a tin of Coke with a straw standing in it. She drank until the tin was empty, whereupon she chucked it on the floor, and then kicked the tin with her foot. The room was littered with cartons and packets of food; with waste paper and empty Coke tins. By the unmade bed was a bucket and a filthy towel. She saw him looking round, and said: ‘Too far to the lavatory when I throw up.’
A part of him wanted to turn round, and rush for the door to flee the scene for ever. But he couldn’t do that. He’d come to help her; he’d got to try and help her.
‘Listen; stop that for a minute.’ She had resumed eating. ‘Stop that and talk to me.’
‘Oh no!’ she said. She shook her head slowly several times. ‘No – I won’t do that because I don’t want to. That’s why not.’
‘All right, go on eating and talk to me.’
There was no response to this; she simply went on eating.
‘Where’s your sister?’ he asked as conversationally as he was able.
‘She’s away. For a week . . . That’s how I got the Coke. And some other things. On her account. Much less to carry . . . I said – a children’s party.’ She sniggered again and bit into another cake.
‘Minnie, I came to say that I’m sorry I ran out on you on Saturday.’
She looked confused, and then said: ‘Why are you here? I don’t want anyone here. I don’t like you.’ She tore at the cake packet and a cake rolled out of it on to the floor. She tried to bend down to pick it up, but lost her balance and ended up on her knees. She whimpered, grabbed the cake and pushed it against her mouth with the palms of her hands: the whimpering was suddenly cut off. She stayed for a minute with her hands against her mouth, rocking slightly. Then in a quite different voice she said: ‘I’ve got such a pain.’ Before, she had been watching him; now, she looked straight ahead – at nothing.
Compassion seared him. ‘Have you?’
‘Mm.’ It was scarcely audible. Then she gave an odd little laugh, not at all like her previous noises. ‘It never – goes. It doesn’t matter what I do.’
He knelt in front of her.
‘Minnie, it could matter, honestly. You need some help.’
She looked at him with such pure hatred that again he felt scorched. ‘Oh no, I don’t. You mean pass the buck and have someone paid to treat me like a looney. Don’t think I haven’t been through all that. People trying to get me to be like them.’
‘They wouldn’t do that. They’d want to help you.’
‘You know what people are like? They’re like you. You just want someone else to help me. To get me off your back. Like she wanted to get me out of her stomach. I thought you were different.’ She groped about on the floor and found the half-eaten packet of Jaffa Cakes, and bit into one. ‘I’ve given up all that. Now I just put things on top of it. Have a binge.’ She filled her mouth and then mumbled: ‘You just piss off.’ She started retching – tried to get up, failed, and began crawling towards the bucket. Struggling with his revulsion, he fetched the bucket over to her – the stench was dreadful and his stomach heaved. He left her hardly knowing what he was doing – just had to get out; shut the basement door, ran up the steps, held on to the area railings and was reluctantly, agonizingly sick.
It was raining, but not so hard. He lifted his face up to the sky to get some of the cool, fine rain on his skin: then he realized that his teeth were chattering and that his body was beset by a spasmodic shuddering. He knew he’d got to do something about her, but his mind seemed to have seized up; if he tried to think at all about it, he started feeling that he might vomit again.
After a bit he walked slowly away from the house – aimlessly: he didn’t know the district, but somewhere in the back of his mind he knew that he’d better find a telephone box. Who should he ring up? A doctor – but how did one find a doctor to ring? Nine nine nine; then he’d have to ask for an ambulance, and they’d ask him what was wrong; how did one explain what was wrong?
‘This girl’s on an eating jag; I can’t stop her – I think she’s been doing it for at least two days – possibly more.’ Did people die of what Minnie was doing? He didn’t know. He hadn’t the slightest idea. And how was anyone who did go to rescue her to get in? He very much doubted that she’d open the door to anyone a second time, and there were bars on the windows. Then he thought of her parents. He didn’t know their number, but he ought to be able to get it.
He found a telephone box, got through to Directory Enquiries, explained that he only knew the name and not the address in Weybridge, and managed to get the girl batting enough for him to look for it. But she came back with the news that the number was ex-directory. Oh Christ! ‘Well, could you get through to them and ask them if they would be prepared to speak to me? It’s about their daughter: she’s very ill. Please do – I don’t know what else to do.’
‘Have you rung for an ambulance?’
‘It’s not quite like that, but it really is serious – I’m not making it up. Would you just ask them?’
There was a pause, and then the operator in a resigned voice said: ‘Hold on.’
Eventually, he got through to what he recognized at once to be Sir Gordon, and explained as quickly and simply as he could what was happening to his daughter. Sir Gordon listened, interposing a few grunts that gave no indication of his feelings. ‘Have you rung her doctor?’ was all he said.
‘No – I don’t know her doctor.’
‘Suppose I’d better ring him. Can’t come up myself, I’m expecting a call from Chicago. Can’t you stop her?’
‘No – no, I can’t. I can’t do anything with her.’
‘You could take the drink away, couldn’t you?’
‘It isn’t drink – it’s food. I think she’s been eating nonstop for days.’
‘Only left here on Sunday evening.’
‘For God’s sake, it’s Wednesday now!’
‘Don’t you take that tone with me, young man!’
‘I’m not taking any tone with you. I’m just warning you that your daughter’s in a seriously bad way, so that you can do something about it. And you’d better do something about it.’ He had a brainwave. ‘She might do anything. Set fire to Sheila’s house – or anything.’ That was a stroke of genius. The idea of family property being at risk clearly shook the old monster.
‘I’ll get on to her doctor right away,’ he said at once, and in a far more anxious tone of voice.
‘Right. Well, I’m also telling you that I can’t do any more about her: I’m handing her back over to you. Good-bye.’ And he rang off.
That was that. His knees were shaking and his head throbbed. He also felt near to tears – a concomitant for him with being sick – something that hardly ever happened to him and filled him with retrospective revulsion. He looked at his watch. It was time to walk over the railway bridge and meet Harry in Marine Ices. But he didn’t want coffee – however good – he wanted a brandy and ginger ale – the drink he kept for dire emergencies . . . And he wanted a Wilhelm II like he had hardly ever wanted one in his life before.
The telephone box was immediately outside a pub. He hesitated – then decided that he’d better fetch Harry first.
Harry was waiting for him.
‘We’re going to a pub.’
Harry looked up from his coffee and at once got to his feet. He paid for his coffee as they walked out. He didn’t say anything until Gavin had ordered his drink – and Harry’s, a small sherry – and they had carried them to a quiet corner. Gavin got out his cigars and began lighting one. His hands were shaking.
When he had lit it, he looked at his friend and tried to speak, but felt his eyes simply filling with tears. Harry said:
‘You knock that back and I’ll get you another one. Plenty of time.’
He finished his drink, and by the time Harry returned with a refill he felt steadier, and told him.
‘And of course I don’t know that her father will actually do anything. When I was talking to him on the phone, I sort of assumed he would, but once I’d rung off I began to feel bad about him not.’
‘I don’t see how you could have done more.’
‘Well, I could go and stand outside the house now, couldn’t I, and see if somebody does come to look after her.’
‘You could, I suppose, but what are you going to do if they don’t?’
‘I – don’t know. I thought of ringing nine nine nine, but then I didn’t know whether to ask for the police or an ambulance. I don’t see how the ambulance people could get in if she didn’t want them to. And the police don’t go breaking into people’s houses because they’re eating – I mean they can’t be expected to assume she’s eating herself to death, can they? Or can they?’
‘I don’t suppose she’ll do that. It all sounds a bit to me as though she’s done this kind of thing before. She sounds as though she’s anorexic.’
‘She may be – whatever that is. But I feel responsible, Harry – that’s what I mean.’
‘You may feel responsible, but you aren’t. And as you aren’t you’ve got to recognize that she’s a neurotic and get on with your own life. Neurotics are always trying to make other people feel responsible for them. They’re often very good at that. It’s often their only idea of a relationship.
Don’t you start letting it be your only idea of one.’
He sounded so steady and certain that Gavin felt a mixture of relief and irritation.
‘Don’t you ever feel responsible for Winthrop?’
‘Of course I do, sometimes. I feel everything about him. Sometimes one of the hardest things is standing back and letting them get on with whatever it is they want to get on with – even if you think you can see it’s going to spell disaster.’
‘I mean,’ Gavin persisted, ‘you have terrible rows, don’t you?’
‘We have shattering rows. I used to think I wouldn’t be able to stand them.’
‘Well, I couldn’t. I mean, I couldn’t live with somebody if that was always liable to happen.’
‘If you counted up all the things you don’t think you could stand before you started living with anybody, there wouldn’t be anyone for you to live with. You can’t take out a kind of emotional insurance policy with people. You can’t love somebody by a process of elimination.’
‘But on your basis – any of us could live with anybody.’
‘You get little internal messages about which people that are quite sound if you listen to them. But not if you smother them with judgements and things like social approval and them not being a whole lot of things that you’re afraid of. The trouble with you, dear child, is that you’re a judger. You judge everyone from morning till night, starting with Gavin Lamb . . . I have the impression that you’re always lying in wait for yourself – waiting to pounce. And, if you’re so hard on yourself, you’re bound to be a bit hard on other people.’ He looked into the bottom of his very small sherry glass and said: ‘I think a certain party has had enough of my moralizing. Shall we go and find some food?’
Which they did, and Gavin was grateful to Harry both for what he had said and for his not going on saying it – as many people might have done. They ate a large curry, and it was not until they were almost finished and had ordered lychees that Harry said:
‘By the way, what with all the drama of this evening, I nearly forgot to tell you: Dmitri’s left Joan.’
‘Oh!’ Gavin stared at him in dismay. ‘Really left?’ He could imagine someone like Dmitri doing a good deal of blackmailing about going or staying.
‘Yes. He’s gone off with some Greek millionaire he’s been seeing in France. Doing up their yacht or something. No – he’s gone, all right.’
‘Where’s Joan?’
‘She’s back. I gather she’s pretty shattered. She’s always been afraid it would happen, but she’s always thought it wouldn’t actually happen.’
‘Have you got her telephone number? She’s not in the book.’
‘I haven’t. Winthrop may have. I’ll ask him, if you like.’
‘Yes,’ Gavin said. ‘I would.’