‘Our history!’ cried his friend defiantly, raising a clenched fist.
‘Oh it’s often a just complaint all right. And sometimes the shout sounds good. But there’s another side, and “girning” gives the sound of it.’
They marched on together, noticing a few more non-working machines, a few more persons, dejected but upright. Gradually they slowed down. ‘Where does it come from?’ demanded Collier, ‘—the idea of order – this unknown, perfect state of things that makes us feel askew. Can you get some sense of it? In the memory, is it – or where?’ They had taken a short cut through a secluded park and now they were walking silently on grass between glittering hedges of dark leaves and borders of sharp-scented herbs, still wet from a stormy night. They crossed the place without a word and, as they neared the gate, looked back. There was a certain completeness about the place. It was sunless, silent. There was no movement of tree or plant. Only the shadows of black storm-clouds moved slowly across the place casting a strange but brilliant darkness through which transparent cups of white and scarlet tulips floated – single, separate, on the air. The two men sat down on a bench, took out their papers and glanced at the headlines for a moment. Then they opened them out, folded them back along the centre line, read again, folded them horizontally and creased them down. All across the city people would be making much the same movements at this hour. ‘Well it’s an important part of the ritual,’ said Collier. ‘So here it is – this paper – first, the actual look of the thing – clean, pressed, cool and stylish, and then – the real meat inside.’ Today the meat was raw. There was the smell of blood inside. The eye skidded helplessly on and on from the pile-up of guns and bombs to party preparations and the pile-up of presents – from the poisonings and pollutions of sea and river to Babycare and bathtime. There were days when they were appalled by the weird, mesmeric nature of their reading – the veering, flickering movement of the eyes from catastrophe to catastrophe. When and how would they dig their heels in? But the wanton eyes went on their way, giving a never-ending illusion that, by this simple devouring of print, something was being done.
The men were now making for the different suburbs where they lived. They took a long way round to get out of the city, first skirting a housing-scheme and further on a deserted playground. Chaos had set its whirling vortex here. Upturned litterbins had flung their mouldy food and burst bags around the place. Tins and old vegetables had rolled in the wind as far as the swings. Fat, black sacks had been dragged here from nearby streets to have their throats slit. Dozens of bottles had been smashed against the lavatory wall and a row of others, propped along its base – jagged ends up – had been a target for the stones that littered the place. Friday night’s chip-wrappers had been wedged between the railings and paper bags stuck on the spikes. Newspaper had gone wild here in the night as though a page had been taken from every street basket, while long, coloured strips had been torn from the advertisements and theatre posters of the shopping quarter. For good measure the swing chains had been looped about with yards of pink and blue toilet paper. For a time these various decorations prevented the incomers from studying the ground more closely. Now they looked down. A cloud moved from the sun, and the asphalt glittered sharply. Thin spears, needles and pins of broken glass lay here. The larger wedges – thick triangles, oblongs and the circles from the base of bottles – lay like a lethal jigsaw under the slide. Near the edges of the playground, where the asphalt had been worn down, fragments of green and yellow lay embedded in grey gravel as though the better to show off a diamond brightness. The place crunched and cracked underfoot as they walked about. Birds sang, the swings creaked gently and a breeze rustled the paper loops. Collier bent suddenly to pick up a great green splinter, drew a sodden carrier bag from between the railings and dropped the piece of glass into it. Taylor – a conscientious and self-conscious man – crunched uneasily on towards the gates without looking back. It was this hopeless business of Doing Good – and worse – to be seen doing it by every passer-by on the road. Not great good, of course – no – trivial good, infinitesimal v almost meaningless in its smallness. He came from a long line of persons who had done a great deal of good in the community. But not by stealth. With lots of noise in fact. ‘Don’t start it!’ he called, glancing nervously round to where Collier was still quietly working on the glitter round the swings. ‘There’s no end to that! Leave it, leave it! You’ll need a sieve, a shovel and a pair of gloves to get through that lot. Leave it to the authorities!’ He watched in embarrassment as Collier continued to pick up splinters and drop them into his bag. Of course it was easier for him with his face, thought Taylor, than if he had himself attempted it. Collier had a face that looked at all times more interested than concerned, more curious than conscientious. He was picking up the stuff systematically – dealing first with large spears and chunks. Now and then he held up a big splinter to the sky and squinted at it intently as though through a prism. In this particular light he looked a cool character, even cold. Taylor wondered – not for the first time – if he was not rather unfeeling. Not ruthless. Certainly not. But did he, at the end of the day, have all that much concern for the bare feet of children? Moreover he gave the impression that he would go out of his way only if some job had a fascination for him. Still he had gone out of his way, his friend admitted it. Collier was now working down to the slightly smaller bits of glass. ‘And for heaven’s sake watch those splinters,’ said Taylor. ‘Your fingers will be in shreds before you’ve done the job.’ Collier held up a stiletto of emerald glass and studied it with the curiosity of a connoisseur of daggers. Taylor was silent, listening to the creak of swings, the crunch of stone and glass and the occasional ring of broken bottle against bottle. Already a couple of cyclists had dismounted and were leaning against the railings, hoping for a pantomime.
‘But of course I happen to believe that this is not the way to do it,’ said Taylor at last.
‘Not the way to pick up splinters? Well, I haven’t a pair of forceps with me, you see. No forceps, no tweezers, not even gloves.’
‘… To set the world in order,’ Taylor went on. ‘Not the way – not this chip by chip, splinter by splinter, pin by pin method. To my mind it’s self-indulgent, petty and inefficient, dangerous even.’
‘At the moment I don’t know any other way. Certainly I’m self-indulgent, inefficient, dangerously lazy as far as the world goes. All the same this does happen to be a playground, not the globe. Until the authorities, as you call them, take over, I can amuse myself as I like.’
‘I can’t stand around swings and slides all day.’
‘Then don’t wait for me. I’ll see you on Monday.’
Taylor walked on a dozen or so steps and found a large splinter under his foot. He picked it up gingerly between finger and thumb and walked back. Collier got up from his crouching position and held out his bag.
‘Oh stop jingling that thing in front of me like a church collection bag! And don’t imagine,’ said Taylor, about to drop the splinter in, ‘that this gives me any particular satisfaction.’
‘Of course not. Nevertheless, it’s rather an interesting specimen you’ve picked up. Look at the way it’s split along that line.’
‘I’m not interested in glass and its properties. And I’m not going to help you in your great task. I shall leave you in your playground.’
‘But of course. You’re a man of principle!’
‘I am simply making a small contribution …’
‘Not small at all. That’s a splendid great bit of glass you’ve got there …’
‘A small contribution,’ Taylor persisted in an exasperated voice, while with a covert and commending glance he took in the growing bulk of Collier’s splinter bag, ‘… a ludicrous, totally useless, pointless, infinitesimal contribution to world order.’
Bulbs
‘I THINK I ought to tell you – moving from place to place as I do in my work – I tend to have great difficulty in getting adequate bulbs,
’ said Mr Springer to the proprietress of the Brackenbank boarding house not long after he had arrived there – the small hotel having been full up. If she found this remark unexpected Mrs Palmer showed no surprise. Certainly it was unlike the usual things guests brought up in the first half-hour – pleasantries about district and weather, comments on the journey and even mention of the sort of supper they preferred. But she had long ago discovered the importance of taking no notice whatever of quirky remarks or prejudices. Instead she turned at once and opened the cupboard of the sitting-room where they were standing. It was an unusually large, deep cupboard. There was a whiff of old boots, old dogs, old gas and an earthy smell which was soon explained when she gestured to the row of shapes on a shelf above. She emerged with one in each hand – identical bowls filled to the brim with black fibre. ‘And not a single failure amongst the lot of them since I started years ago. Hyacinth, iris, narcissus – and if there’s any art in putting bulbs in bowls I’ve certainly got it. Well, I’m sorry you’ve no luck with your bulbs. I suggest you experiment with different kinds.’
‘No,’ said Springer. ‘It’s light-bulbs I’m talking about – and in particular, of course, bulbs by the bed.’
Mrs Palmer seemed not to hear the word ‘light’ and kept poking around the dark stuff murmuring, ‘Try different bulbs, buy different makes.’
Springer tried again. ‘Light-bulbs, Mrs Palmer. Experiment’s no good if you happen to be a reader and stuck with a 20 watt.’
‘If you’re a what?’
‘I read in bed. Of course when I was younger I could take the 20s and the 40s but not any longer. The print’s got poorer, I’ve noticed, and the eyes along with it.’
But light had reached Mrs Palmer. ‘So you read in bed?’ She gave him a look which suggested that beds down the ages had been designed for birth, for death, for marriage and even for single persons sleeping the sleep of the just. But reading was not in this category. Further, she managed to convey that reading in bed was an immoral relationship with a book and merited no light but the dimmest being shed upon it. Nevertheless her guest persisted.
‘I’ve tried removing the shade up there, as I’ve often had to do in other bedrooms, but without success, I’m afraid.’
‘I should hope not indeed! Do you know who made that lampshade and every other lampshade in the house? My husband made it and painted it, just as he made and painted the wastepaper baskets. He was artistic from the tips of his fingers to the very hairs of his head. I treasure every item he has ever made. He would have been heartbroken if he’d known that any visitor would think so little of these things that he might wish to remove or even destroy them.’
Mr Springer was silent. He did not wish to enter into the theology of the thing though he thought it unlikely that Mr Palmer, wherever he was, would have his eyes fixed forever upon the baskets and lampshades of 10, Lime Terrace. He said, ‘I suppose it’s just that I’ve got used to the brighter lights in certain hotels.’
‘Exactly!’ Mrs Palmer agreed triumphantly. ‘And this, you see, is not a hotel. It is a home!’ She seemed to remember she was still holding the bulb-bowls and she put them back amongst the others in the dark cupboard, saying as she came out, ‘These are not properly up yet and the light disturbs them. It hinders growth, you know.’ Mr Springer who was fully grown himself and even past the peak was again silent. His landlady waited as though for argument, but getting none took leave of him with the parting words: ‘That may be what is wrong with your bulbs, Mr Springer. Perhaps you’ve been giving them too much light too early.’
For a good many years Springer had travelled as an adviser on strong metal draught excluders for old houses. The house he was in at the moment was not old but it was very cold. Even apart from the light problem there was no possibility of sitting in the bedroom. He was forced, therefore, after an early supper, to sit with his book under the dim, red-shaded standard lamp in the sitting-room. This was no better than his bed light but at least he could get his head so close in under the shade that he appeared to be sporting a scarlet boater. Nevertheless his eyes began to feel the strain. To make things worse he was reading a History of Lighthouses. He read of glittering lenses, of blinding and revolving lights which sent the beam further and further out with each decade. Mr Springer, his eyes itching with imagined glare, at last laid down his book.
It was at this point in the evening that the only other guests in the house joined him – two elderly sisters who had come to the district for a few days to visit their widowed brother who had been ill. They had been out all day, they said, shopping for him, tidying his house, entertaining his visitors and cooking his meals. Now they were only too thankful to rest. But rest of course did not mean passivity. ‘I must have something in my hands, no matter what,’ said the elder of the two, drawing a hook and a rucked collar of white crochet from her bag and giving a frowning scrutiny to its loops and chains. Her sister silently reached for the newspaper on a side table and moved nearer the lamp. And now there was a belated show of gallantry on Mr Springer’s part – an offer of his lamp-lit seat, a useless offer to shift chairs and tilt shades. Very little could come from these moves and in each case they were politely refused. Since Mrs Palmer had retired to the back of the house Springer now went further. ‘How about my making a quick tour of the rest of the place to find brighter bulbs?’ At first the others maintained there was no need for it, but after a while, the one drew her hook from a line of ravelled loops and the other laid down the paper unread. They turned hopefully toward Mr Springer.
It turned out to be more of a lightning tour than he’d expected. Upstairs there were three empty bedrooms, a bathroom and a drying-cupboard. Downstairs, apart from their sitting-room, there was a bedroom and a dining-room. But from each room, as he switched on, came an ever dimmer circle of light. In the third and best bedroom upstairs Mr Palmer’s painted peacocks and fountains had obscured what little light had managed to seep through the shade. The towels and sheets of the drying-cupboard had been allowed the strongest bulb of all, but even so it could only be called the brightest of the dim. The bathroom’s unreachable grey light, boxed into an overhanging corner of the ceiling, had been designed only for those who detested their own bodies.
‘No good,’ he said as he came back quickly to the sitting-room.
‘All the upstairs rooms – the drying-cupboard too?’ asked the elder sister. Mr. Springer nodded.
‘Downstairs? The dining-room?’
‘Only that soft pink light above the table. Well, I suppose what more should one want for eating? It is the palate, after all, that differentiates spinach from cabbage – not the eyes.’
‘So that’s the end of it,’ she said. ‘We must sit here for the next two days, doing absolutely nothing, reading nothing.’
‘We could talk,’ said her sister tentatively.
‘With nothing in our hands?’
‘Well, tomorrow we can rake the streets for bulbs.’
‘Had you forgotten it’s Sunday? Unless you remove the electric candles from a church.’ There was a short silence. Then she turned her head. ‘And that cupboard over there?’
‘Bulbs,’ said Springer. ‘Bowls of them. Little chance you’ll find your light in there. No harm in making sure.’
They cried out as he touched the switch and a brilliant light struck the cupboard. ‘At least 100 watt!’ exclaimed Springer, ‘perhaps 200!’
The others fluttered towards it like grey moths to a searchlight beam.
‘And all wasted,’ said the elder sister staring enviously at the bowls under the naked glare. ‘But what can you do? Can you unscrew it? Can you reach it even?’
For there was nothing but a soft, low chair to stand on and two rickety stools. Springer tried for some time to reach the bulb by putting stool on chair and stool on stool. But it was no good. ‘No, you will have to leave it,’ said the sister at last. ‘We are wasting our time. Better come out and shut the door. We have seen the light. That has to be
enough.’
Though they went back to their seats they had been loath to switch off. A brilliance streamed through the cracks of the cupboard and round the edges of the closed door. Light stared at them through the keyhole.
‘But what nonsense this is!’ cried the crocheter, rising suddenly to her feet before ten minutes had gone by. ‘You do what you like. I, for one, am taking my chair and my work in there. I am not spoiling my eyes to please anyone!’ She gathered up her bag and balls of cotton. She refused help with her chair. Soon she was linking white holes under the light.
‘What does she mean, “to please anyone”?’ murmured her sister. ‘I am not pleased she should spoil her eyes any more than I want to ruin my own.’ There was a slight pause. ‘I will help you in with your chair,’ said Springer, rising from his corner. He carried it into the cupboard and she sat down silently beside her sister. Springer returned to his lamp and his lighthouses. It was very quiet in the house. Now and then from his dim, acolyte’s seat, he glanced at the cupboard and the two brilliant figures, now exalted like goddesses.
‘Mr Springer, please don’t hesitate if you wish to join us,’ said the kinder voice. ‘Either in front or behind – there is plenty of room in here. It would not hinder us in the least.’ Mr Springer carried his chair into the cupboard, disturbing the others only to take his place behind. In front he could even stretch his legs. Bowls surrounded them on either side. ‘… only for a short time,’ he murmured, though he was not in the habit of talking to plants.
‘What’s that?’ said the older sister sharply.
‘I was simply telling them they would not have to take the light for long. We’ll all be in bed before midnight.’
‘I daresay,’ she replied. ‘All the same, I think I’ve as much value as hyacinths or lilies.’ The others didn’t argue the matter, and the rest of the evening passed peacefully enough until it was time to go upstairs.
The Man Who Wanted to Smell Books Page 27