Tom’s boy was named Steve, and he was aged seventeen. I suggest that anyone who is in the act of picking up a stone to cast at Tom, should change his target and cast at Steve instead. Many a man, were the truth but known, would find himself in as weak a moral position as Tom: on the other hand any man whatsoever might count on being in a stronger moral position than Steve. Steve had practically no moral position at all.
Steve was tall and gauche and precocious. He was pleasant-looking, with a shock of soft dark hair that kept falling over his eyes, and a wide red-lipped mouth. There was nothing particularly effeminate about him. He hunched his shoulders shrinkingly and wore a faintly rueful smile, as indications of his delicate nature: there was not the slightest need for either, since physically he was well-formed and temperamentally as self-centred as anyone I have ever known.
As with Tom, it was Steve’s idea of himself that guided his actions. He saw himself as hyper-sensitive and artistic, in need of protection, help and support. Much happiness and satisfaction was created by Tom’s seeing him in the same way. It was Tom’s role to give Steve protection, help and support. Their relationship was that of patron and protégé.
I liked Steve. He wrote some poems that showed talent. As I felt that writing poems was a very proper occupation for the young I encouraged him. I subscribed to Somerset Maugham’s theory, that creating variegated minor works of art is part of juvenile play: it seemed to me that the young might play at much worse things, such as rugby football which left them tired out with nothing to show for their pains.
Most of all I enjoyed Steve’s company. Like most people of weak moral fibre he was thoroughly engaging. It is a sad reflection that everybody admires persons of strong moral fibre but nobody shows any inclination to stay with them for more than five minutes. We all agreed that it was fun to be with Steve for any length of time.
Though the relation between Tom and Steve was that of patron and protégé, I thought their behaviour was more like that of corporal and private. Tom was energetic and bustling: Steve was incorrigibly lazy. Much of their time together was spent in Tom’s giving loud commands: ‘Now Steve, do that!’ and Steve’s putting up, as befitted his station, a token show of obedience.
Steve appreciated readily the advisability of a protégé’s retaining his patron; but where his token show of obedience required physical action he was usually careless and inept to say the least of it. This promptly led Tom to give him suitable instruction, to which Steve submitted uncomplainingly – far too uncomplainingly, in my opinion, as much of the information Tom saw fit to impart was grossly inaccurate. Fortunately Tom was satisfied by the act of imparting, and Steve neither knew nor cared about inaccuracy.
Tom was very serious about his devotion to Steve. It was Myrtle and I who had conceived the idea of renting a country cottage, and Myrtle who had found it: it did not take Tom long to see that Steve’s devotion to him would be increased if he were able to entertain him over the weekends in the country.
Furthermore Steve sighed with relief when Tom bought a car. Steve did not own a bicycle, and when Tom offered to lend him one there was some doubt about whether Steve could ride it without falling off every few yards. In the end Steve got more than he bargained for, because Tom was a wild and impulsive driver – he had excellent eyesight but he did not appear to use it. Steve, like all the rest of us, was terrified. ‘It does him good to be thoroughly frightened now and then,’ Tom confided to me, with a meaningful smile. Tom’s devotion was very great, but it did not entirely eclipse his shrewdness.
When Tom was arranging to entertain Steve for a weekend at the cottage, it was his habit to indicate that he, like Myrtle and unlike me, went by atmosphere. There is a very simple difference between going by atmosphere and going by plan. If you go by atmosphere you spend week-ends at a cottage when you feel like it – which is every week-end. When I insisted on taking my turn Tom denounced me as cold, methodical and machine-like.
There were additional complications. Tom did not mind my being present when he was entertaining Steve; the last thing I wanted was his presence when I was entertaining Myrtle. And more troublesome still was the fact that I was supposed to conceal Steve’s visits from Myrtle – looking back on it, I cannot for the life of me see why. Myrtle would certainly not have been shocked or disapproving. Women take such matters much less seriously than men: they sometimes express passing displeasure at the thought of two men being out of commission as far as they are concerned, but that is all there is to it. I did not think: I acted with cold, methodical, machine-like loyalty to Tom. The result was farce.
The existences of Tom and Steve were enlivened by frequent scenes of passion and high emotion. Mostly it was beyond my powers to fathom what they were about. I really thought Tom invented them. He reproached me with not having scenes with Myrtle.
‘I must say I find it slightly …’ he paused, ‘surprising.’
‘Indeed,’ I said, crossly.
Tom gave a distant, knowing smile, as truths about passion crossed his mind that were beyond my comprehension. I could see that he thought scenes were absent from my life with Myrtle because of serious deficiencies in my temperament, if not actually in my powers as a lover.
Anyway, scenes were constantly present between Tom and Steve, and since Steve was too lazy and conceited to initiate anything they must have originated with Tom. There was one in progress, goodness knows why, over Steve’s career.
Steve had left school the previous summer and had been articled to Tom’s firm of accountants. It was in the office that they first met. By the spring Steve’s helpless and sensitive nature had found its fulfilment in Tom’s masterful capacity for support. Steve decided he was not cut out to be an accountant. Trouble promptly broke forth.
Steve’s parents had very modest resources, and had been forced to borrow money to pay his premium. Tom, partly because he wanted Steve to be kept in his office, and partly out of sheer common sense, told Steve he would have to stay where he was. Steve began to suffer.
‘Think of it, Joe,’ Steve said to me. ‘Five years as an articled clerk!’ His pleasant face contorted with an expression of agony. ‘It will be like prison.’ He paused, as a worse thought struck him. ‘Only duller.’
I could not help smiling.
Steve’s expression of agony deepened. ‘You don’t understand, Joe. I can’t do arithmetic.’
I shook my head.
‘I never could,’ he said. ‘Think of becoming an accountant if you can’t do arithmetic.’ He glanced at me sharply, to enjoy my amusement. Suddenly the agonized look disappeared, his narrow grey eyes sparkled with hard realism, and his tone altered completely. ‘I can tell you it’s terribly hard work, too.’
When Steve dropped his nonsense and came out with the truth he was at his most engaging.
I thought it was time to bait him a little. I said: ‘Tom will teach you arithmetic. He likes teaching.’
‘I don’t want to learn arithmetic.’
‘What do you want to learn, Steve?’
‘I want to learn about love, Joe. Everyone does.’
‘I should have thought you were doing quite nicely.’
‘I’m not, Joe,’ Steve said with force. ‘I’m not!’
I shrugged my shoulders. ‘You’ll be a poet some day.’
‘I’ll never be an accountant. I never wanted to be. It’s my parents’ fault.’ Steve looked at me. ‘They chose accountancy because it’s respectable.’
‘In that case they made a singular choice,’ I observed.
Steve grinned with satisfaction.
I surmised that Tom’s conversations with Steve on the same theme had a different tone and went on much longer. Tom took Steve seriously, for one thing, and was easily roused to rage, for another. They had passionate quarrels over whether Steve could do arithmetic.
The upsurge of a quarrel led to an atmosphere of emergency in which previous arrangements about who should go to the cottage were swept aside, that is, if it were my turn. Tom rang me up early on Saturday morning, just as I was about to leave my lodgings.
‘Are you having Myrtle out tomorrow?’
I said I was.
‘In that case I think we’ll come out today. Naturally we’ll leave before Myrtle arrives tomorrow.’ Tom paused diffidently. ‘Steve wants us to come.’
I was annoyed. The only thing Steve wanted was physical comfort and unlimited admiration. On the other hand Tom had special claims because it was only a matter of months before he went to America.
A few minutes later Myrtle rang up.
‘Darling, can I come out to see you this afternoon?’
Nothing would have pleased me more, but it was too late to stop Tom. I could not let Myrtle come, because I had told her I was going to be alone, writing.
‘I was going to come into town to see you, darling,’ I said, resourcefully. ‘I thought we might go to a cinema.’
‘But darling! …’ Myrtle’s voice broke off in surprise – as well it might, since the day was exquisitely sunny, I was in excellent health, and none of the cinemas sported a film that anybody in his right mind could want to see. I decided to banish Tom and Steve from the cottage immediately after lunch.
At lunch Tom displayed irritation that I had not put Myrtle off.
‘What time will she be leaving tonight?’
‘About ten o’clock.’
We ate our lunch in a state of tension, which increased on my part as Tom showed no signs of hurrying when the time approached for Myrtle to appear. Tom and Steve were quarrelling because Steve had surreptitiously eaten an apple before lunch and would not admit it.
‘There were eight in the bowl before lunch and now there are only seven!’ Tom was saying furiously. ‘Neither Joe nor I ate it.’
Steve looked sulky and tortured. He was still growing quite fast and he was always hungry. Nobody objected to his eating anything, but he did it secretly and denied it afterwards. Food was always disappearing mysteriously when Steve was about.
‘Myrtle will be here any moment,’ I said, on tenterhooks.
I should like to point out that I thought none of this scene was in the least funny.
Tom looked at me, disgusted with my incapacity for understanding the overwhelming importance of conflict.
A bicycle bell rang joyously in the lane, and in came Myrtle.
Tom swept forward and greeted her effusively. He presented Steve to her. And then he said:
‘How nice you’re looking, Myrtle.’
She did look nice. She gave Tom a bright-eyed, smirking look. The smell of her scent caught in my nostrils. I could readily have taken a carving-knife to both Tom and Steve.
‘Now what Myrtle would like,’ said Tom, ‘is a nice cup of tea.’
‘I’m dying for one,’ said Myrtle, in an expiring voice.
‘Of course you are, my dear.’ He paused. ‘I understand these things.’
Myrtle played up to him shamelessly. ‘I know, Tom.’
Tom’s face wreathed itself in a silky smile.
Tom’s stock method of making an impression on anyone was to indicate that he understood them perfectly. In this strain he was setting to work on Myrtle.
‘Now Steve,’ he said, ‘put the kettle on!’
Steve shambled into the scullery, and reappeared in a moment looking tragic.
‘The primus is broken.’
I pushed him out of the way. The primus was not broken: he had never tried. When I returned with the tea Tom and Myrtle were in full flood of the most inane conversation I could imagine.
‘I love dogs,’ Myrtle was saying, in a soulful tone.
‘So do I,’ said Tom, copying it ridiculously.
‘I wish I had three.’
‘One can’t have too many.’
‘Red setters,’ said Myrtle. ‘Don’t you love red setters?’
‘Wonderful,’ said Tom.
‘And their eyes!’ said Myrtle.
‘So sad!’ said Tom.
‘I know.’
‘Just like us, Myrtle.’ He gave her a long look.
Myrtle sighed.
Steve and I caught each other’s eye, and I signalled him to help me hand round the cups. There was no place for us in the conversation.
At last Tom decided to take himself off. He made signs at me behind Myrtle’s back. ‘Ten o’clock!’
Myrtle and I stood in the doorway and watched his car disappear round the bend in the road. Big white clouds went floating across the sun. The hedgerows were leafless and glistening – I watched a twittering troop of little birds which every so often took it into their heads to move on a few yards. I did not speak to Myrtle.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’ Myrtle said, innocently.
‘Nothing.’
‘Is anything wrong?’
‘Nothing at all.’
She put her arm round me, but I would not speak. Her body leaned softly against mine. She began to caress me: I decided to sulk a bit longer. I tried harder and harder to go on sulking. Suddenly I turned to her. She looked beautiful.
‘I love you,’ I whispered into her ear, and bit the lobe of it.
‘Darling!’ She struggled away from me.
We looked into each other’s eyes.
‘You didn’t mean this afternoon as well, did you, darling?’ she said, in a shocked reproachful tone.
‘You know perfectly well, I did,’ I said, and bit her again.
Instantly Myrtle looked away, and I knew that I had made a mistake. I was being found lacking in romance. I held her close to me. ‘Poor Myrtle,’ I thought; ‘and poor me as well’. I went on holding her close to me till I ceased to be found lacking in romance.
Saturday afternoon passed like a dream – in fact much more satisfactorily than any dream I have ever had. Men can say what they like about dreams. Better awake, is my motto.
We were happy, we were harmonious, we were ravenously hungry. The dusk fell and we cooked a meal. By daylight you could see that the cottage was filled with everybody’s cast-off pieces of furniture. At night, by the light of candles and the fire, it was transformed. We lingered over our eating: we lingered over each other. And the clock moved round to ten.
Myrtle showed no signs of going. I ceased to linger over her: she did not cease to linger over me. I had promised to get her away by ten, and it was useless to pretend I had not. Myrtle began to look at me reproachfully. I now suspected her of planning to stay the night; and realized that in a simple way she had broken me down to the idea. She put her arms round my neck. We were one: I would have given anything for her to stay the night with me, sleeping peacefully together. Like husband and wife.
Tom’s car drove up, and Tom came in. He saw Myrtle. His face was distorted with anger and passion.
‘What, Myrtle!’ he said. ‘Are you still here?’
Myrtle, not unnaturally, looked surprised and hurt. His tone was very different from that in which he had unctuously explored their identity of tastes earlier on.
‘We were just going,’ I said.
‘That’s right.’ Tom relaxed a little, and smiled at Myrtle. ‘And take Joe with you!’
I stood on my dignity. ‘I always take her as far as the main road.’
Myrtle and I stepped out into the night, and picked up our bicycles. There was no sign of Steve in the car. Tom must have left him under a hedge.
We cycled down the lane. It was calm and starless.
‘What was the matter with Tom?’ She sounded miserable.
‘I don’t know.’
‘He seemed strange.’
I did not speak. This was unfortunate as it enabled Myrtle to hear Tom start up his car and drive away in the opposite direction.
‘Where’s Tom gone?’ she asked.
‘Goodness knows,’ I said.
I felt furious. Suddenly I felt cold as well. I had forgotten to put on a top coat. There was nothing to do but go back for it. I told Myrtle to wait where she was and pedalled hastily away.
I returned to meet Myrtle wheeling her bicycle towards me, with no light showing.
‘The dynamo’s broken,’ she said, with deep pathos.
I think she thought she was going back for the night now that Tom had gone.
‘You must take my spare lamp,’ I said. ‘You must!’ We were nearly at the cottage again.
We heard Tom’s car coming back.
‘Tom’s car’s coming back,’ said Myrtle, in a voice that had reached its peak of astonishment and could go no further.
I waved my lamp wildly to warn Tom.
The car drew up. Only Tom got out. I presumed that Steve must now be under the seat.
Tom rudely persuaded Myrtle to take my lamp, and we set off again.
We did not speak very much until we came to the main road. There we paused and embraced. Myrtle leaned against me passively, and I tried to revive her.
‘Darling,’ I said.
There was a long silence.
‘You want to get rid of me.’
It was too much for me. I wished Tom were in America and I was not far from wishing he were removed from this world altogether. We stood in the middle of the road, our bicycles ledged in the small of our backs, weeping on each other’s cheeks.
‘Darling, I do love you,’ I said, wondering why on earth we were not married to each other.
I held her face between my hands: it was so dark that I could barely see it.
‘Please come to me tomorrow afternoon.’
Myrtle did not speak. A tear rolled on to my thumb.
‘Promise, promise!’
Myrtle nodded her head.
I resolved that Tom should be got rid of next morning, if it meant dissolving our friendship for ever. When she came in the afternoon everything should be as if this night had never happened.
I took out my handkerchief and dried her face. In a little while we parted. Then I rode slowly through the empty lanes.
You may wonder why I put up with all this nonsense, why I did not break my word to Tom and tell Myrtle what was going on. There were two reasons. The first I am so ashamed of that I can barely bring myself to write it, but I shall have to write it in order to explain some of the later events: it is this – realizing that I was not a good man, I was trying to behave like one; and to me that meant being patient, forbearing and trustworthy to the last degree.
The second reason is this – frankly, I had no sense.