21

It was too warm to sleep. Far too warm, Mr Jaraby thought, moving his body about the bed. Absurd to be so warm in London in July: had he not in his time known real heat in Burma? Was he not by this time a judge of what was right for London in July? Did anyone think he did not know that it was not some ersatz commodity, arbitrarily or even deliberately created by the fumes of heavy traffic and the increasing ubiquity of those electric signs? He sneered at the city, seeing the huge flashing neons and the new buildings and grown men eating chocolate on the pavements. The sheet beneath him felt like a rope; his pyjamas were damp and uncomfortable. He rose, switched on the light and remade his bed.

He lay on his back. If he chanced to drop off to sleep in this position he would, he knew, have a nightmare. But it was easier to relax like this, and Mr Jaraby had a theory that just at the moment of sleep he could turn gently on his side without upsetting his carefully coaxed drowsiness. He had held that theory for many years without ever succeeding in executing it. He lay still; first with his eyes closed and then with them open. It wasn’t the heat at all, he thought: it was this damned business. God knows, it probably wasn’t any warmer than any other night. God knows, probably the sweat on his body was the sweat of worry. Once you started worrying you couldn’t stop. He accepted that he must put up with the condition of his wife; he was quite clear in his mind that she would continue to speak in her own particular way, and could no longer be relied upon to give him his due. At least the situation was as bad as it could become: nothing could be worse than Basil dropping cigarette ash all over the place and the chirruping of those birds. He would have a word or two with Basil and explain that it would be happier for all concerned if he thought about moving on; he would speak with subtlety and discretion. It was useless to consult doctors. The doctor of today couldn’t see what was under his nose. Anyway, Mr Jaraby had other things to think about. He resented having worried about his wife, because that worry had led directly to this one. You start with one worry, you settle it in your mind; and then there’s another. There was only a week to go before the committee meeting and he felt unprepared. He felt that he had not made sufficiently certain that nothing could go wrong. There was that extraordinary slander of Sanctuary’s on Old Boys’ Day. If Sanctuary was capable of such a ridiculous idea about Dowse, he was capable of anything: it didn’t exactly give you confidence in the man’s judgement. And Ponders was so weak, so likely to be swayed, and Nox was a trouble-maker. He went on thinking about them, seeing their faces, seeing their hands. Who would they have if they didn’t choose him? Who would they have if there was a single real objection to his election? Not Cridley, not Sole; both were beyond it. Nor Nox, who was unpopular. Sanctuary? Sanctuary wouldn’t be interested, though. Would they break the rule, which they were at liberty to break, and invite the new committee to choose its own President? Only once before had that been done, but it could be done and might be done. And if someone was fool enough to suggest Nox and Nox agreed, there was nothing he could do to prevent it; he could offer no real objection, no reason that was sound enough to be damaging.

An hour later a fresh thought struck Mr Jaraby and he rose again from his bed. His dressing-gown was twenty-three years old and had all the appearance of a well-worn garment. It served its purpose, though, and Mr Jaraby saw no sense in another purchase. That it was ragged and inadequate was a private affair, and inadequacy, he argued, was a question of degree. In the kitchen Mr Jaraby rooted in the waste-bin. There were potato peelings, a sodden paper-bag, tea-leaves, a soup tin and a tin that had contained peaches. It was this last that interested him. At supper he had noted the peaches, reminding himself that as soon as they were consumed he must question their origin with his wife. He had forgotten. Concerned with this other business, the thought had passed easily from his mind. He looked at the label and picked a tea-leaf from it. No need to question their origin now. Cling peaches in rich syrup. Fourteen ounces. Australian.

‘My God,’ said Mr Jaraby aloud.

The clock on the dresser ticked loudly. As he prepared to wake his wife he noticed with satisfaction that it registered twenty-five minutes past two.

‘Come on now,’ Mr Jaraby demanded in her bedroom. ‘Cast sleep aside, we have a matter to discuss.’

Mrs Jaraby lay curled on her side, a white hair-net covering her head. He twisted the bedside lamp so that its beam fell on her face, an aid to her waking. She opened both eyes at once, and, seeing him there, immediately sat up. She said, as people often do in the confusion of being snatched from deep sleep: ‘What is the time?’

‘The time is irrelevant. Do not side-track me. I have not risen from my bed to discuss the time.’

‘What then? Why do you wake me?’

‘What of those peaches? Whence came our suppertime peaches? Tell me the truth, do not prevaricate.’

‘Peaches?’

‘Was other fruit mentioned? Did we enjoy some medley of fruit at supper? Do I enquire of cherries and pears and pine-apple?’

‘Basil likes peaches. He has done so all his life.’

‘You are avoiding my question. Cannot you be honest with a straight reply?’

‘I do not understand you. I do not know why you are here, waking me and talking of peaches. Did the peaches injure you? Do you feel unwell?’

‘The peaches were Australian peaches. They are clearly marked as such on the tin. Did you ascertain as you bought them that that was not so? That the label lies? I hope you did. I hope you have an explanation. At this late hour, I await it.’

‘Good God above, are you mad? I bought the peaches in Lipton’s. I have no idea –’

‘You have no idea about anything. Tell me what you think you have no idea about, that I may set you straight.’

‘I was going to say: I know nothing more about the peaches except that I bought them cheaply at Lipton’s. The tin was damaged.’

‘They were Australian peaches. They came from the Antipodes.’

‘They could hardly be Australian and come from elsewhere.’

‘I will not have Australian produce in the house.’

‘So you say –’

‘Then why go against my wishes? Why since you know them do you continue in your ways?’

‘It is quite impossible to keep an eye on everything I buy. I have asked in the past about the butter and the bacon and the cheese. The people selling think me odd.’

‘They think you odd for other reasons.’

‘Maybe, maybe. I do not go into it with them. What is the time? I cannot help it if you dislike Australians and the place they come from. That is your own business, though what they have ever done to you I cannot imagine.’

‘I dislike the way they speak. I will not have the house filled with Australian stuff. Cheap and nasty, as the people are. God knows, the house is bad enough. Must you make it worse?’

‘It is your house, of your choice. You are making me answerable for everything.’

‘You are answerable for the depths to which we have sunk. Peaches in tins, birds and cigarette ash.’

‘I shall not sleep again, woken at this hour.’

‘I have not slept at all. My eyes haven’t closed.’

‘So you share your sleeplessness with me. Wake Basil too, and make all three of us a pot of coffee.’

‘There is no need to wake Basil. There is no need for coffee. I have spoken to you of the matter in hand, and I shall bid you goodnight.’

‘You seem to be out of your senses. You are in senility. Shall I tell Dr Wiley that you woke me at this hour and talked ravingly about peaches? What would his rejoinder be? That we must attend directly to having you certified and put out of harm’s way?’

‘It is you, not I, who need all that.’

‘No, no. I do not walk through the rooms at night chanting about a tin of peaches. Do you think the Australians are planning an invasion of this country and send us poisoned food? Is that what goes on in your tortured mind? Paranoia seems well to the fore.’

Mr Jaraby left the room.

At breakfast Mr Jaraby said: ‘What do you make of this business? I cannot recall your having offered an opinion.’

Mrs Jaraby, in a dressing-gown and still wearing her white hair-net, poured tea from a flowered pot. She preferred to dress at a later hour, since it was a rule of her husband’s that they sit down to breakfast at fifteen minutes past six. ‘What is it?’ she enquired vaguely. ‘What are you talking about?’

Mr Jaraby sighed. ‘I am talking about the worry that has kept me awake all night.’

‘The peaches?’

‘Why on earth should they keep a man awake at night? I assure you I have more to think about than some stupidity over tinned fruit.’

‘I am racking my brain to find a reason for your sleeplessness.’

‘Why should you do that? If you ask I will answer you.’

Mrs Jaraby smeared marmalade on toast. ‘Then I ask, I ask.’

‘Do you know that in the night I counted up the amount I have spent on business for the Association during the last two years? Twenty-six pounds. That is a rough approximation: it may be far more. Add the cost of writing-paper and envelopes, blotting paper, ink, time and energy that might have been turned to some financial endeavour. Shall I tell you what this amounts to? A lesson in ingratitude.’

‘What is a lesson in ingratitude? I don’t follow.’

‘One to another they say: Jaraby’s work is done, Jaraby has had his position on the committee, now he goes to grass. That’s what they say: Jaraby’s work is complete.’

‘And is it complete? If you have spent all that money on stamps, you must have achieved something.’

‘It is not complete. I have other plans. Changes, reorganization. As President I would have implemented all that was in my mind.’

‘Then what can the trouble be? Are you not to be President any day now? And will it mean that you will have to spend so much money?’

‘I am eaten by doubt. I tell you that man-to-man. I fear that my election will not be automatic. Sanctuary seems unbalanced; Nox is a black trouble-maker.’

‘Do you know, that has never been apparent from your conversation.’

‘What has not?’

‘What you say: that Mr Nox is an African.’

‘An African? He is not an African. I did not say so. Of course he isn’t. He’s just a damned busybody. Ponders, Sole, Sanctuary, Boyns, Cridley, Turtle – putty in his hands.’

‘Well, certainly you have said that the last named is dead. And buried with appropriate ceremony.’

‘You are thoughtlessly irritating with these remarks. Have I not enough to think about without your attempting to make it worse?’

‘This hour for breakfast is no longer a satisfactory arrangement. Our nerves are frayed, our tempers imposed upon. Now that Basil is back, shall we make it nine o’clock? He does not rise as early as this, and as it is I am obliged to prepare breakfast twice.’

‘He must fit in with us, not we with him. This has always been our hour.’

‘Not mine; it is an imposition for me to rise like this. You no longer leave the house in the mornings; this is a needless relic of earlier days. It is an arbitrary time in our present life.’

‘It suits me to keep the habit up. It is not a bad one. What have you against it?’

‘Nothing, so long as I do not feature in it myself. As I shall not from tomorrow on. Breakfast at nine for three.’

‘So you deny me breakfast! You cannot buy things properly, and now you deny me my simple needs.’

‘If the housekeeping displeases you make fresh arrangements; or see to what irks you yourself.’

‘I cannot go on with these petty things. I was talking about the committee. Why did you side-track me? A unanimous confirmation, a vote of confidence, is that too much to ask? After every effort on my part, sleepless nights, train fares, speech-making, organizing?’

‘And the money on stamps. You must ask for it back if they do not make you President.’

‘I remember Nox. I remember Nox, he used to be my fag. Mark it well, that man wiped my boots daily for two whole years. And bloody badly he did them. A hairy-faced boy. D’you know, he nearly died on the cricket field? Struck by a cricket ball on the forehead, down like a ninepin. Lump the size of a mango, and off came our caps. Thinking, you see, we were in the presence of death. And there he is now, terrible little man. Every time I see him I think: kick in the pants, bloody great kick in the pants.’

Mr Jaraby’s fingers drummed angrily on the table. He watched his wife dropping off to sleep. He ceased to play with his fingers, waiting for her head to droop; when it did, as her chin sank down on her chest, his voice began again:

‘I shall telephone Nox this morning. I shall speak to the man in an effort to clear the air and see what is in his mind. I cannot accept that, fool though he may be, he does not see that we of the same generation must stick together. You understand what I am talking about? You are not asleep, are you?’ He paused and continued: ‘The committee would be unanimous but for Nox. I’m sure of it. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, yes. Nox is the nigger in the woodpile.’ She had been dreaming when he woke her up in the night. She dreamed she was a child again and ran around in an Alice in Wonderland dress.

‘There was some trouble with Nox’s bladder,’ Mr Jaraby said, smiling a little. ‘I recall distinctly a red rubber mat on which he slept.’

‘I imagine all that is behind him now.’

‘Do you? And why should it be? The fellow is diseased, his difficulty may well be a symptom.’ He laughed, and was angered that she did not join in with him.

Mrs Jaraby rose and collected the breakfast things on a tray. Her practice was to carry crockery and cutlery to the kitchen, tidy up generally, and return to bed.

‘Yes, I shall ring Nox this morning. In fact, suit the deed to the hour, I shall do it now.’

‘It is twenty-five past six.’

‘It is. He will hardly have left the house on some errand, if that is what you are suggesting.’

‘No, no. Merely that he may not be up yet.’

‘Are you so well in tune with the good Nox’s habits then? Ha, ha, is there something between you and this elderly ragamuffin?’

‘Oh, really –’

‘Why do you wear that awful hair-net?’

But his wife had passed from the room, and, though hearing the question, saw no point in replying.

‘Look here, Nox, you can probably guess why I am telephoning.’

There was a silence. Then a voice said: ‘Who is that?’

‘Jaraby, Nox. Jaraby here.’

Again there was a moment of silence, before Nox said: ‘Is something wrong?’

‘My good Nox, you are the better judge of that.’

‘I’m sorry, Jaraby. I would rather you came to the point. Do you know what time it is?’

‘Certainly, my dear fellow: it is precisely six-thirty.’

‘You woke me up.’

‘Look here, Nox, we must settle this matter of next session’s President once and for all.’

‘At this time of the morning? I do not sleep easily, Jaraby. I do not take kindly to this.’

My God, Mr Jaraby thought, the swine has cut me off.

Slowly, as meticulously as if engaged upon a surgical incision, Mr Nox opened his mail. He read the letters with equal industry, thus avoiding a bothersome return to the detail of their contents. There was little to interest him. He poured himself a cup of coffee and devoted his mind to the telephone call he had earlier received. It had resulted in his being obliged to lie in bed reading instead of continuing his sleep. How like Jaraby, he reflected, to impose such a discomfort on him. If the argument was that people do not change, he supposed that Jaraby was a good example of it. Jaraby today was much as Jaraby had been sixty years ago: a thoughtless fellow, crude in his ways. Jaraby had flung a boot at him and caused a bruise to rise on his forehead. From Jaraby’s lips had issued all the conventional insults about his family and their possessions.

Mr Nox tried to put him from his mind. He prepared the room for the morning’s lesson. But as he sharpened the pencils and laid out paper he saw himself vividly in retrospect, standing perfectly still, obeying the instruction, while Jaraby sat and stared at him.

Later that morning, at eleven forty-two, Basil Jaraby was arrested. Swingler, talking to a man who had just delivered coal to number fourteen, saw the black car draw up at number ten and watched the men walk heavily towards the front door. He paused in mid-sentence and drew the coalman’s attention to the proceeding, saying that it looked like trouble.

On the Air Ministry roof it was eighty degrees Fahrenheit. In the London parks the attendants prepared for the lunchtime rush on deck-chairs. In offices in Mayfair and Holborn and the City men worked in shirt-sleeves, thinking of holidays and weekends. Mrs Strap, in her lilac underclothes and a pale dress, bought a sundae in the cafeteria at Bourne and Hollingsworth. At Lord’s England were eight for no wicket.

In Crimea Road it was a quiet morning. A woman wheeled a shopping-basket on a handle. Another shelled peas in her back garden, a radio shrilling popular music beside her. ‘Is it all right,’ asked Basil in the police car, ‘to light a cigarette?’

‘Ah, Mr Swingler,’ said the sergeant at the desk. ‘Long time no see.’

‘Long time velly busy,’ said Swingler amusingly. ‘How about this Jaraby fellow?’