“You will remember,” said Mr Porter, “that Jerome had told me their mother was ‘in love’ with Joshua, and that, after their father died, Joshua—only a lad of course—was expected to be a substitute for the father.”
“Yes,” said Dr Katzenheimer, “I remember. How did you advise him? What did you suggest he should do about the affair?”
“Ah!” said Mr Porter, “I kept my head. I diverted him. I asked him, “How did you come to marry Lilac?”
Mr Porter, leaning rather tenderly towards Joshua, asked in a gentle voice, “How did you meet her?”
“Lilac was working for an acquaintance of mine—a business acquaintance in the City—a man called Hubert Skinner. She was his personal assistant. I don’t know how she got the job, or whether there were … strings attached to it. I met her when I called on Skinner—which I had to do several times over a few weeks. She looked appealing—and, I thought, a little sad and lonely. I took her out, we became friendly—intimate—then I suppose I fell in love with her …”
There was a moment’s hesitation. Then, “Lilac’s mother,” continued Joshua awkwardly, “was a prostitute. Oh, not a woman who stood on the streets but someone who was kept by one man or another—or by a number of men—at any one time.”
Lilac hardly ever saw her. As a small child she lived now with her grandmother, now with an aunt, sometimes put ‘in care’ by the Welfare authorities. “My mother was a prostitute,” Lilac bravely told Joshua quite early in their relationship, one cold Sunday afternoon, when he came to visit her in North Kensington. “I was illegitimate,” said Lilac. “Did you know? My father could have been any one of three of my mother’s … friends. She didn’t tell any of them she was pregnant—she didn’t know who to blame. She said she was afraid they might insist on blood tests. So I was born without a father. I’ll never know who my father was and he’ll never know he had a child by my mother. I look at men in the street—on the Underground and in restaurants and cinemas—all over the place. I think, ‘You could be my father’—looking at one of them of the right age. ‘He could be my father,’ I say to myself, seeing a likely person in the distance. When I was little I used to go searching for my father. I’d think: ‘He’s bound to recognise me.’”
Tears ran down her face. Shocked and fascinated and shaken by her poignancy, Joshua rose and went to sit beside her. He gave her a kind little kiss and held her hand. She wept and swayed towards him. He held her gently.
“I hardly ever saw my mother,” sobbed Lilac. “She never really wanted me—she was always away, with some man—she was very pretty. There was always someone after her.”
When she was old enough, Lilac used to telephone her mother. “Can I come and see you?” Lilac’s mother, who often drank a great deal, stumblingly and stutteringly made excuses. “Not now, darling, soon …”
“When?”
“I’ll call you, darling.”
Promises, hopes, frustrations. “She didn’t want me,” wailed Lilac, clutching Joshua.
“I want you,” he said kindly but a little formally. He looked around the tiny sitting room. Lilac had made it pretty and comfortable with the little money she had—money she had earned, Joshua hoped, first as a secretary and now as personal assistant to Mr Skinner. She had done remarkably well with that background, he thought.
“What has happened to your mother?” he asked.
“She’s dead,” said Lilac. “She died in a fire, in a seedy hotel, with some seedy man of course. When I was twelve.”
She spoke bitterly. She looked wan and tired.
“After that, a social worker looked after me, Miss Simple she was called. She was nice. She looked after me well. I was sent to a boarding school in Sussex. During the holidays I stayed with a family. No one in my own family wanted me—the aunts, that is, my grandmother had died. Nobody really wanted me when I was a child.”
This last sentence was delivered quite lightly with a placating little smile, as Lilac looked timidly at Joshua. He gazed at her for a moment. He felt he needed time to digest what Lilac had told him. He said in a rather heavy, jolly way: “Another cup of tea perhaps?” and reassuringly, “Everything’s a lot better now.” He smiled a cool smile and patted her again.
Lilac felt a strong sense of unease at Joshua’s response to her story. A chill settled on her—an all-too-familiar sense of dismay. She knew, of course, that something was wrong, Mr Porter explained to Dr Katzenheimer, but she was helpless, trapped.
Lilac rose in her awkward way and filled the kettle again. Joshua watched her. Surprising that anyone with so neat a body was as clumsy as Lilac, he thought.
She regained her careless, provocative manner. He made a little joke and Lilac laughed—a flattering, mechanical tinkle—a pretty, but unconvincing sound. Even Joshua realised how lacking in laughter was Lilac’s laugh.
He suggested a walk in the Park. She wrapped herself carefully in a soft jacket, woolly scarf, and gloves to match. She used her clothes so caringly that he suspected she had few and that they were precious to her. He experienced an enormous sadness for her. This feeling made him clasp her hands for a moment before helping her chivalrously into his car. But in the car he drew away as she leaned towards him.
They walked in the Park like two strangers, making polite conversation. When he dropped her at her flat he refused to come up and made only vague murmurs about a future meeting. She went up the stairs holding herself tightly to stem feelings of panic and depression.
Joshua spent some days considering matters. Then he decided he would marry Lilac. He was sure she would agree, if he asked her—poor Lilac—so eager and so insecure, but before he clinched his decision he called a conference of his family.
Joshua had solemnly gathered together Jerome (already married to Beatrice), Beatrice, and an old aunt—his late father’s sister, whose opinion he respected. They sat together in Joshua’s tidy flat over cups of tea on a Sunday afternoon. It was winter and darkness fell early. The lamps were lighted and the central heating turned up. In this comforting atmosphere Joshua outlined his plans to marry Lilac if the committee thought it wise. He might marry her in any case, but he wanted to have their opinions first.
He described Lilac and sketched in her background. To her credit, he told them, she had extricated herself from her family and showed no signs of slipping back.
“I understand she’s very well thought of by Skinner, who makes heavy demands on his secretaries and is very persnickety. She’s done well, we have to admit; also getting a diploma and ‘A’ levels.”
“Have to admit she’s done well, Joshua? What’s that mean, you’d rather she hadn’t done well?” Beatrice’s harsh voice made Joshua wince. He laughed nervously.
“It’s a manner of speaking, Beatrice, but—in a way—if she hadn’t done well, there’d be no decision to make!”
The old aunt nodded slowly but said nothing. She held out her cup for more tea and Joshua rose to attend to her.
“Is she pretty?” Beatrice again.
“Yes … not startlingly—very fair, slim, medium height, pale skin, blue—or grey—eyes, not conventional, rather unusual I think …”
Beatrice rudely turned to Jerome with eyebrows conspicuously raised. He met her glance and turned quickly away with embarrassment.
“Do you love her, Joshua?” asked Beatrice, with a kind of contemptuous aggression. She distrusted Englishmen and had serious doubts about Joshua’s capacity for love.
Joshua looked at the floor. “I think that’s irrelevant. I have to make up my mind whether it’s sensible to marry her or not.”
Jerome watched his brother curiously. Why had he called this conference?
“Joshua,” as he later told Mr Porter, “would do precisely what he wanted to do—as always, in the past and forever in the future.”
He didn’t want their advice, that was just a pretext. He wanted to tell them something, warn them of the startling, disturbing fact that he was planning to marry the daughter
of a prostitute. But he didn’t want their approval either. He was proposing a course that he had already chosen and he was actually defying them to criticise or sneer at him.
“Aunt Sylvia and I didn’t dare say anything,” Jerome had told Mr Porter. “Beatrice was quiet until we were leaving—and then she said, rather loudly, that she felt sorry for the bride. Joshua pretended not to hear.”
When they actually met Lilac for the first time, it was spring, an April day. The sun shone and the young leaves bobbed on the breeze. Lilac was dressed in a pale coloured suit with a silky white blouse. She looked composed but they could all see she was very nervous. She wore quite a collection of discreet gold jewellery, bracelets, necklace, earings and pins. Had Joshua given her these?
She measured her audience with haunted grey eyes like an animal brought to bay. Her face was notable for its pallor and lack of make-up. Her expression was serious and polite. She didn’t smile as she was introduced to each of them in turn.
“She had the air and conviction of innocence,” Jerome told Mr Porter, “which, as far as I’m concerned, she’s retained all these years—until the present day, in fact, in spite of everything.”
“You are easily deceived,” was Mr Porter’s grim comment.
Joshua had gathered them all in the foyer of the Dorchester: Jerome, Beatrice and the elderly aunt. Lilac offered her cold hand to Aunt Sylvia, Beatrice, and lastly, Jerome. She smiled briefly at him alone. Silence followed the introductions. Then Beatrice launched briskly into conversation like a swimmer letting herself into cold, deep, waters, and striking out.
Jerome perceived a small muscle twitching delicately like a tiny pulse on the edge of Lilac’s left eye. The lid did not close, but the little muscle jumped with regular, unsolicited rhythm. Lilac met Jerome’s eyes. Her look was half-pleading, half-inviting, disturbingly erotic. Jerome was moved in spite of himself and glanced quickly away to Beatrice and Joshua. He formulated a silent, swift, resolution. Thereafter, for years, he made himself immune to Lilac’s helpless, trapped, “come and get me” look.
“I was aware,” said Joshua to Mr Porter, “that Lilac tried to be seductive—to everyone—including my brother. I thought that if I made her secure, made her feel secure, she would settle down. She did seem to settle for a while—until Emily was born. I noticed that after that she became restless. She would go out and stay out late. I never knew what she was doing.”
“Where have you been, Lilac?” Joshua’s perennial demand, indignant, impatient, angry.
“Joshua! Don’t you know yet I go out! I go to my sculpture class! I walk! I meet people for coffee or lunch! I have friends, which is more that we can say for you! Why do you have to keep asking me where I’ve been?”
“Because you’re always late, Lilac. You always come in long after you’re needed—expected—here!”
“That’s from your selfish point of view, Joshua. I’m allowed to come in any time I like! Why should you go out and about and come in whenever it suits you? You don’t ask me if I’m going to need you or even tell me when to expect you. I have to expect you when I see you. Please do the same for me!”
He groaned and turned away—then made one last try. “Lilac, have you no sense of responsibility at all?”
“Not if leaving you a chart of my movements every day is a sign of responsibility.”
The rows went on and on. “I suppose I am too critical,” conceded Joshua wearily.
“Are you tired of the responsibility of her? Have you ever thought of leaving Lilac?”
Joshua shook his elegant head. “I have thought of it. It’s not possible. Lilac gets depressed, as I’ve told you. She might do away with herself. I’d find that unbearable. Then there’s Emily … Besides, I do love Lilac.”
Mr Porter said, “I should do nothing at present. There’s no hard evidence that she and Jerome have had—or are having—this affair. It’s all supposition. Beatrice is a little paranoid, in my opinion. I advise you not even to try to find out if there’s something going on between your brother and Lilac. If you like I’ll keep an eye on Lilac—and I’ll talk to my psychiatrist about the matter. She often gives good advice.”
“You see a psychiatrist?” Joshua asked, as Jerome had done.
“I do.”
Mr Porter was now becoming impatient and tired. “Let me know where I can contact you,” he said to Joshua, “and let me know if anything alarming happens.”
They exchanged telephone numbers and Joshua went off into the night.
Eleven
Mr Porter, too, was aware of Lilac’s depression. A silence had fallen on her, a silence of feelings and voice. At their tea parties she seemed lacklustre and dejected.
He discussed the matter with Dr Katzenheimer.
“Someone with her childhood history is bound to get depressed at times,” she said firmly. “Some quite small thing could bring it on—some little setback—some trivial rejection—the loss of a valued object, her watch, her purse … She may be aware of Joshua’s suspicions …”
“Joshua is a bit like her mother in his introvertedness, don’t you think?” asked Mr Porter expertly.
“In some ways, yes. Basically, he may be hostile to her.”
Lilac, in a downcast mood, thought of her mother. “I’m just like her,” she decided with horror. “What am I doing to my child?” A profound restlessness overtook over.
“I must go away,” thought Lilac desperately, and to Mr Porter she said, “I’ll die if I don’t.”
He looked at her in alarm. “Die?”
“I must go!”
“Then you must. Why are you so frantic about it?”
She became calmer. “Joshua will not agree.”
“You must persuade him. Ask him.”
“I want to take Emily away for a bit,” Lilac announced bravely to Joshua.
He stared at her. “Whatever for?”
“I feel awful. If I can go away for a bit I’m sure I’ll get over it.”
“At last,” thought Joshua, “she’s admitted she’s depressed. I wonder if she’s well enough to look after Emily.” Aloud he said, quite kindly, “If you think it’d help you, Lilac, you must go.”
She was surprised at what she considered an easy victory. She hurried to placate him. “It won’t be for long. I’ll telephone every day. I think the mountains at this time of the year, don’t you? Otherwise it’s so far to go for the sun.”
Her words came out in a rush, as if they’d been long prepared.
Joshua said, “Hadn’t we better think it over carefully? Are you well enough, do you feel, to look after Emily? Strong enough, I mean, in yourself. You know what a handful she is. Otherwise, she could stay with me and you could go off somewhere.”
“Oh, no!” she cried. “I couldn’t go alone. I must have her.”
“Do you want to take Félice with you?”
“No! No! I couldn’t bear that. I’ll look after her.”
“Very well,” he said, after a moment’s pause and added more gloomily, “I suppose I could come and visit you at the weekend.”
“Yes, of course, why not?” twittered Lilac, while longing to, but unable to say ‘no,’ “that’s a good idea …”
“Where would you like to go?”
“Somewhere high at this time of the year. The snow will be melting by now, lower down. What about Zermatt?”
Joshua frowned. “Such a long journey for Emily!”
“She’ll love it!” cried Lilac a little hysterically. “She’ll sleep most of the way. Swiss trains are very smooth, as you know, and punctual and reliable.”
“You wouldn’t prefer to go to Italy? It’d be spring there—flowers and sunshine …”
Lilac shuddered. “No! It could be raining and freezing cold—and I don’t want to be in that house alone. A hotel in the mountains is a much better idea! We shall ski …”
“You mean you will ski.”
She flushed. “I’ll teach Emily to ski. She can go to the ski
school. She’ll pick it up in an hour.”
“Would you like me to come for the journey?”
Lilac laughed. “You don’t trust me with her. I promise I’ll look after her every minute of the way.”
She went to give him a little diffident kiss. “Thank you,” she said gratefully. “Thank you for suggesting you’d come for the journey. Thank you for letting us go. I’m so looking forward to it!”
Joshua was moved. Lilac didn’t often thank him. She was more likely to be defensive and resentful than appreciative.
Lilac went out to buy herself and Emily some elaborate ski clothes while Joshua arranged matters through his travel agent.
“Why is Lilac going off on her own?” Beatrice asked Jerome, sharp with suspicion. Jerome shrugged. “Who knows? Why d’you ask?”
“Lilac ought to work. She ought to have a regular, disciplined, nine-to-five job. That’d do her more good than anything else!” Beatrice spoke with such venom that Jerome was taken aback.
He mentioned this conversation to Mr Porter.
“What did you say?” asked Mr Porter.
“Nothing—I laughed, I think. Beatrice does work at a part-time job in a boutique in Sloane Street. Is Beatrice jealous of Lilac? Does she suspect us? That’s what worries me.”
What could Jerome do to atone? Mr Porter asked Dr Katzenheimer.
“Atone?”
“I believe he’s genuinely sorry for … what happened. He feels so guilty I’m afraid he’ll get into some sort of trouble—an accident or something.”
“Atone …” Dr Katzenheimer repeated the word again. “Do you think he wants to atone—or do you want it for him?”
Mr Porter hesitated. “I want it, certainly,” he said. “I want him absolved.”
“Purified, you mean,” said Dr Katzenheimer to herself. Aloud she said, “Well, I don’t have to tell you how hard it is to come to terms with some aggressive act which one has carried out—or wanted to carry out. It’s a matter of adjusting to one’s true nature, accepting oneself … I’m not sure Jerome is ready for this and, anyway, I believe that what happened with Lilac is all part of a broader picture …”
Mr. Porter and the Brothers Jones Page 12