Familiar Rooms in Darkness

by Caro Fraser

  ‘I think it took me a bit longer.’ She smiled, gazing into his eyes.

  She loved him. Every ambiguous moment, every uncertain instant, was made secure in those few words. He kissed her again.

  ‘Back then,’ said Adam, ‘I was worried that I might become just another one-night stand.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘You tell me.’ He unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and slid his hands against the delicious warmth of her breasts, making her shudder.

  ‘I promise,’ said Bella, as he began to undress her, ‘that I’ll still respect you in the morning.’

  Adam woke at six to the beeping of the alarm on his mobile. Bella lay in the crook of his arm. She opened her eyes drowsily as he stirred.

  ‘Oh, don’t go yet,’ she murmured.

  ‘I have to. Richard wants to make the journey in one day.’ He untangled himself gently from her warm embrace and sat up. He gave his head a shake. ‘God, I could have done with a bit more sleep.’

  She smiled. ‘Got to make the most of these one-night stands, you know.’

  ‘Don’t make me feel insecure.’ He leaned down and kissed her, then got out of bed.

  She lay watching as Adam dressed. ‘Do you remember what you said that night I came to your room at Gandercleugh?’

  ‘Not with any great clarity. I was a bit busy trying to get the better of my natural inclinations, as I recall.’

  ‘You said you had hoped to elevate me to pedestal status and leave me there.’

  ‘Did I say that?’

  ‘Mmm. Did you prefer me as some kind of fantasy?’

  ‘Hardly. It was fun while it lasted, but the real thing is much better.’ He smiled and bent to kiss her. ‘I’ll call you when I get back to London.’

  Compton-King wasn’t easy to rouse, but his bags had been packed the previous day, and he and Adam were in the car by six forty-five, and well on their way to Limoges by nine. Adam was happy to drive, entirely occupied by his own thoughts, while Compton-King lay reclined in the passenger seat, his Panama tipped over his eyes, sleeping off his hangover.

  They stopped briefly for lunch then headed off again, this time with Compton-King at the wheel.

  ‘Not a bad ten days. My batteries feel totally recharged. Must send the lovely Bella a thank-you present when we get back.’

  ‘I got more work done than I expected,’ said Adam. ‘Apart from the article, I got Charlie Day down on tape.’

  ‘Any startling revelations?’

  ‘Only inadvertently. Then again, it depends on one’s interpretation.’ And Adam told Compton-King what Charlie had said about his schoolfriend, using Charlie’s words as exactly as he could recall them, and then what Bella, independently, had said. ‘Possibly it was all perfectly harmless,’ concluded Adam. ‘That story of Frank’s was still relatively fresh in my mind, though, hence my train of thought. I wouldn’t have put Harry down as a molester of teenage boys.’

  ‘You never know. Honesty compels me to say that I wouldn’t put it past Harry. A great man, but not a nice one. Whatever Cecile may think, I don’t believe old Harry ever changed his ways. Just went well under cover.’ He gave Adam a glance. ‘Can you follow it up?’

  ‘Charlie’s schoolfriend? I doubt it. Even if I managed to track him down, I could hardly ask him if he’d been molested at the age of fifteen, or whatever.’

  ‘No, I can see that.’

  ‘And suppose I did find out that Harry had done something like that – where would it take me?’

  ‘That would depend.’

  There was a pause, then Adam said, ‘D’you know what I think?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I think Harry wanted to get the biography underway while he was still alive in the hope that I wouldn’t find out these things after his death. That I wouldn’t go to much trouble to carry on researching, because he’d given me so much material. For instance, of all the people he put me in touch with, he never mentioned you. I reckon he only gave me the names of people he regarded as safe. Not Cecile, one imagines, but he knew there was no way round that. He must simply have hoped she would want to protect herself as much as him.’ He sighed.

  There was silence for some moments. Then Compton-King said, ‘I realize now that I never knew the real Harry. He was an amusing friend, excellent company, but I think I always knew deep down that he simply wasn’t much of a human being.’ He sighed. ‘I don’t know how much you know about the circumstances surrounding Joe’s death, Halliwell topping himself, all that horror…’

  ‘Just what I’ve read.’

  Compton-King nodded. ‘No one knows the truth, of course. No one ever will. But Harry was instrumental. I know that now, looking back. I remember being there on a couple of occasions in the spring of that year, 1967, when Harry did a pretty good job of belittling Kenneth, reminding Joe that he was the real playwright, and Kenneth just a hanger-on. Harry knew how much Halliwell envied Joe’s success – even resented it, in a funny way – and worked that up. Mischief-making. Anyone could see Kenneth wasn’t well, that he was depressed, but Harry still goaded him. Whatever sense of worthlessness, or envy, desperation – call it what you like – drove Halliwell to do what he did, Harry was part of it.’ He turned and glanced at Adam. ‘We’re all bound up with other people, all part of their fate, but the fact remains that Harry deliberately damaged people.’

  Adam reflected on this for some moments. ‘The question that occurs is whether one’s perception of an artist as a moral being alters one’s view of their work. You know – Wagner’s music, that kind of thing. And the answer seems to be that it does. Whether or not you think it should is neither here nor there, it just does. It’s human nature. You can’t help it.’

  ‘And you’re worried that if you write the unvarnished truth about Harry Day, no one will ever regard his work in quite the same way?’

  ‘Something like that. I don’t think he was a monster, exactly. But if you believe that the man and the artist are an indissoluble whole, that the nature of the man permeates his work as an artist, then – well, knowing the truth about him must affect the way people come to regard Harry’s work. Which makes writing a truthful biography a big responsibility.’

  ‘You could stop, if you wanted. You don’t have to publish it.’

  ‘Leaving aside the small matter of repaying the advance, I now feel absolutely driven to publish this book. Nothing matters more to me at the present moment. Not one thing.’

  ‘Then you have to tell it like it is.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to explore the Orton– Halliwell thing with me? Go back over the conversations when Harry was there? Let me quote you?’

  Compton-King drove for some moments without saying anything. Then he gave Adam a glance. ‘Since you’re so determined to do a thorough job – yes. I can’t vouch for perfect recall, though.’

  Some hours later, the Bentley pulled up outside Adam’s flat in Baron’s Court.

  ‘Well driven,’ said Adam.

  ‘And you.’

  ‘Want to come in for a drink?’

  Richard shook his head. ‘I need some sleep. Back to the funky world of music-making tomorrow.’

  Adam surveyed the worn, preternaturally handsome features. ‘Don’t you ever feel like giving it up?’

  ‘No. I might start to grow old. Besides, bills to pay, parties to throw. You know.’

  Adam got out and fetched his bags from the boot. He leaned through the passenger window. ‘Thanks for the ride. And for listening to all my problems concerning the biography.’

  ‘Old Uncle Richard, ever ready with a sympathetic ear. We had a blast.’

  ‘I’ll call you soon.’

  Compton-King raised a hand in salute, then roared off down the road.

  Adam went upstairs to his flat. It was blissfully silent. The cupboards were empty of Megan’s clothes, except for one or two small items. How quickly a woman could disappear from one’s life. Not even a trace left in his heart. He went to
his bag and took out the piece of paper on which he’d written the number of Bella’s house in France, then picked up the phone.

  It was wonderful just to hear her voice again.

  ‘I’m missing you already,’ said Adam.

  ‘I wish you could have stayed longer. It’s strange without you. Charlie asked me what I was moping about this morning, so I told him.’

  ‘About us?’

  ‘Yes. I had to tell someone. You know that feeling.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So my brother seemed like the best person.’

  ‘Not your other brother?’

  ‘Derek’s different… It won’t always be like that, I hope, but no – for the moment I just told Charlie. He said that anyone whose absence made me this miserable must be good for me.’

  Adam smiled. ‘Ring me as soon as you get back to London.’

  15

  The next day Adam sat down with the sheaf of notes he’d compiled during his stay in France. He re-examined Frank’s India story, then rang Leila, one of the women who had formed part of Harry’s household in Simla many long years ago, in the days of flower power and swamis and the dream of universal love, and whom he’d managed to track down a couple of months previously. She was a housewife now, living in Croydon with three children and a husband who ran a chain of dry-cleaning shops. Though not much good on detail, in her initial interview with Adam she’d provided him with some good insights into Harry’s character. Adam knew it was probably against the odds that she would have any specific recollection of Frank McVeigh’s brother’s friend after all this time, but it was worth a try.

  ‘Leila, this is Adam Downing. We spoke a couple of months ago about Harry Day.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Look, I’ve been speaking to someone who mentioned a specific incident which occurred while Harry was living in India, and I wondered if you had any recollection of it.’ Adam sketched out the story which Frank had told him.

  ‘To be honest,’ said Leila, ‘it’s so long ago, and so many people came to visit… I can’t remember them all.’

  ‘Yes, of course. But this boy stayed for some months. It seems he may have become – well, sexually involved with Harry.’ He waited. Nothing of this kind had ever been mentioned in his previous conversation with Leila, no suggestion that Harry was anything more than a benign, paternal figure in the household in India. The silence stretched out. ‘Leila? Is that true?’

  ‘Yes,’ replied Leila slowly. ‘But I still can’t help you.’

  ‘Why not? If you know that, then you must remember the boy.’

  He waited several seconds for her answer.

  ‘There was more than one. It could have been any one of them. I don’t know what happened after Harry got tired of them, got rid of them.’

  Adam struggled to absorb this. ‘But – you didn’t mention any of this when we last spoke…’

  She sighed a deep, dispirited sigh. ‘I didn’t want anyone thinking badly of Harry. He was such a great man, you can’t understand… The things he taught me, all that wisdom.’ Her voice shook with all the earnest wistfulness of the gullible young woman she had once been. ‘It wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘So there were young men who came to visit, whom Harry seduced –’

  ‘They were stupid, they got into something they didn’t understand. Harry wasn’t like other people. He had his own rules, his own standards. People just couldn’t measure up to them… Look, I didn’t say anything about this before because I didn’t want you to write about it, or people to read about it. They’d just get the wrong idea about Harry. It’s impossible to explain how things were then. No one would understand. I don’t want you to quote anything I’ve said. I’ll just deny it.’

  ‘But–’

  ‘I really don’t want to talk to you any more. That time was very special to me. I don’t want to destroy the memory of it. Please don’t call me again.’

  And she hung up.

  Bella came back at the weekend, and Adam went round to see her as soon as she got back.

  ‘It seems like weeks since last Tuesday,’ she said, kissing him.

  He marvelled at how inadequate and imperfect his recollected thoughts of her had been. The reality of her was so fresh, so vivid and lovely. He kissed her. ‘So, how have the last few days been?’

  ‘Good. It’s been worthwhile. A crowded couple of weeks, but worthwhile.’ She smiled. ‘Derek and the girls enjoyed themselves. They may come out again next summer.’

  ‘I thought you and Charlie were selling the house?’

  ‘That was before Claire saw it. She’s rather fallen in love with the place, and is apparently not quite so keen on Charlie selling up his share just to fund a mansion in Surrey. No doubt she’s already combing Country Life for something more modest, but still sufficiently poncy.’

  ‘She’s not too bad.’

  ‘No, she’s all right, I suppose. A bit too aspirational and class-conscious. Charlie has the same tendencies.’

  ‘Maybe Derek will be a good influence.’

  ‘Mmm. Meeting Derek has had quite an effect on Charlie. I think, for the first time in his life, Charlie’s looked outside himself and seen how it could be, where he came from, and how lucky he is. He hasn’t said a great deal to me, but I get the feeling he rather looks up to Derek. He likes that, the big-brother thing.’

  ‘And what does Derek think about Charlie?’

  ‘That I don’t know. I’ll find out when I see him next week. After that, when we meet up, I hope it’ll always be the three of us.’ Bella glanced at Adam. ‘Don’t worry. I’m realistic. I don’t hope for great things. Just enough. Just enough not to lose the connection. So, how’s the biography going? Unearthed any more dark secrets?’

  ‘It’s progressing,’ said Adam. What else could he say? He gazed at her fixedly for a moment. He hadn’t really given any thought over the past few days to the possible effect of his work on their new relationship. But the way things were going… The outrage and wrath of Briony and Cecile – those were things he could distance himself from. But Bella’s reaction? She was the one person he should be able to sit down and discuss this with, but that seemed impossible. Not now, and not in the foreseeable future.

  Adam was sitting in his study the next day, wondering whether he could interest the Sunday Times in a feature on Aldous Huxley and drugs, when the phone rang. It was Charlie.

  ‘Adam? Hi, listen, I’m just on my way into court, so I’ll keep this short. Remember that schoolfriend of mine I told you about, James Gifford? Well, I’ve managed to track him down. He’s teaching at a boarding school near Slough, called – hold on, I’ve got it here… Ravensbourne College. I’ll give you the number.’ Adam reached for a pen and took down the number. ‘A friend gave me the information, so if you do get in touch, he won’t know who you are. I have to dash. Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’ Adam put the phone down and stared at the paper on which he’d written down the number. There was probably nothing in it, mere base speculation on his own part, and he would doubtless be wasting his time. None the less, fifteen minutes later, he picked up the telephone, rang the number, and was put through to the Masters’ Common Room.

  At Gifford’s invitation, Adam drove to Slough later that day, wondering what kind of questions he was going to ask. Tell me, were you ever sexually molested by the great Harry Day? My readers would like to know. The fact was, he thought, if the man had any dark secrets concerning Harry Day, he probably wouldn’t have agreed to see Adam in the first place.

  It was the end of August, and the school was still deserted. James Gifford greeted Adam and led him down echoing corridors to his study.

  ‘Somewhat spartan, I’m afraid. I think of it as my monastic cell.’ Gifford, tall, soft-faced and dark-eyed, looking not a great deal like George Michael, showed Adam in. The study was small and austere, the walls lined with books, with no more furniture than an old leather-topped desk and a swivel chair, and a low coffee table in fron
t of a squat sofa. None the less, the room possessed a certain charm, an old-fashioned and mournful quality. The open window looked out across playing fields and a line of summer trees.

  ‘School’s quiet, of course,’ said Gifford. ‘The boys don’t come back till Wednesday. Please–’ He gestured towards the sofa, and Adam sat down and drew his tape recorder from his pocket. James Gifford sat in the swivel chair and gazed at Adam with mild interest.

  ‘It’s good of you to see me,’ said Adam. ‘I’ve been working on this biography for a year now, but your name only came up the other day.’ Adam placed his tape recorder on the table in front of him. ‘Mind if I switch this on?’

  James Gifford glanced at it with what seemed like faint apprehension, then nodded. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘You were at school with Harry Day’s son, Charlie, I believe?’

  ‘That’s right. I was at Uppingham from ’83 to ’88. Charlie came around ’84, ’5, something like that.’

  ‘And you spent several half-term holidays at Gandercleugh?’

  ‘Yes. I think I must have been there six or seven times, in all.’

  ‘Tell me what you remember about those holidays, particularly about Harry. Charlie says you had quite a close relationship with his father?’

  Gifford glanced down at his fingers. They were long and white, the nails not quite clean. ‘Yes. He was a very charismatic man. I was rather star-struck, I think, when I first met him. I’d read all his books. He’d just been shortlisted for the Booker Prize. Adventures Of…’

  ‘How old were you then?’

  ‘Fourteen. I mean, looking back, I’m not sure I could really have understood the themes he was dealing with in that book – not properly, as an adult would.’ Gifford gave a little laugh. ‘But he was incredibly patient. I would sit expounding all my half-baked adolescent theories about literature and writing, and he never patronized me. We talked a lot about politics, I recall. He’d been a member of the Communist party, just like Amis, but he never quite lost the faith, as Amis did. My God, I blush to recall how I actually had the temerity to accuse him of political hypocrisy, enjoying fame and wealth and at the same time espousing the socialist cause, while I ate his food and played on his tennis court.’ Gifford shook his head. ‘That was later, though, when I knew him somewhat better. When I was sixteen or so…’