The Whites of Gold

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The Whites of Gold Page 13

by Sam Lock


  When I left the hall, I crossed the road to the Embankment, to where the moonlit waters of the Thames slipped gracefully beneath the Albert Bridge and towards other, more famous landmarks of the city – the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, St Paul’s – and eventually towards Greenwich. How extraordinary, I thought, as I leaned upon the Embankment’s parapet, watching the lazy flow of the river’s current encountering a small flotilla of barges that clung together in shadow and rocked gently to and fro, that the spirit should have such power: that it should be able to triumph, as it had been able to do that night, not just over the death of one particular person but over all things temporal and physical. For as I then turned and began to make my way home, and as I saw on the opposite side of the road many of the people who had attended the evening still standing about in groups – still chattering, still reminiscing, no doubt – I realised that there is nothing stronger in life than meaning, and that immortality, if there should be such a thing, is what we all aspire to achieve. Few of us will achieve it, alas – even in the smallest way. But I knew, as I looked up at the night sky and saw its sprinkling of silver stars, that this was true. Then I laughed out loud (which was a rather rare thing for me to have done) at the thought of Dame Ivy going to see a play by Samuel Beckett that was being performed at the Royal Court (the theatre in Sloane Square), and of how she had turned to say of its audience: ‘How wonderful to be so intellectual’!

  Thinking of it now, it seems to me that one of the saddest things about my childhood was that I never asked any of my schoolfriends home to have tea with me, which was something Amy was always encouraging me to do.

  ‘You go to their houses at times,’ I can hear her say, ‘so wouldn’t it be nice to have some of them here? … You know you can invite them, don’t you, Eddie? If you want to.’ Yet in spite of this I didn’t. Nor, for that matter, did I go to have tea with them very often; and when I did, it was usually close to Christmas when there would be other children present.

  ‘Come along, Edwin,’ I can hear their mothers say, in that slightly singsong way of speaking that mothers of small children often use, as they encouraged me to join in some party game such as ‘Pass the Thimble’, or ‘Comes a Daddy Workman Looking for a Job’ – a game that I detested, since it involved having to mime being the workman and whatever job he might be in search of.

  They were painful times for me. I never felt as if I belonged to that world of other children – and, as I have suggested before, my real life lay more in my imagination, and in my being alone; on my Saturday walks, for instance, to my aunt and uncle’s farm. That was the very centre of my life just then. Not at home: not in my parents’ house; but free in the countryside, relating to the animals and the fields.

  One very strange perspective was given to me when I went to my father’s funeral, and found myself such a stranger to most of those at the service – quite a few of them local people, farmers, etc. – who had known my parents in recent years, but didn’t know me – although they had heard of me, of course.

  For as the hymns were being sung and as the prayers were being said, and as the words ‘Man that is born of woman hath but a short time to live’ rang out with such sonority, reminding everyone there of their mortality, I saw them glance at me from time to time and it made me nervous. For, in a way, I did feel slightly ashamed of myself – ashamed to have been my parents’ only child, yet to be finding myself such a stranger there among them. However, there was nothing to be done, I remember telling myself as I felt my aunt, who was standing beside me, touch my elbow in sympathy. What had happened couldn’t be unpicked – couldn’t be undone.

  Fortunately, it was only my aunt and uncle and Amy who came back to the house after the funeral was over. We had tea, and that was difficult enough, although we did manage to recall certain things with affection – particularly my mother’s laugh. We even enjoyed a joke or two from Amy about my father’s gambling habits, and how she would often be called upon to place bets for him on the horses. But it didn’t go on for long, because I think that they were all aware of the confusion in me, and knew that there was no way of making things any different or any better.

  The surprise of that day, however, was when Amy, who had stayed on at the house to get supper, suddenly announced to me, after my aunt and uncle had left, that her son, Tom, and her husband, Bill, were going to call to collect her later, and that they wanted us all to go to the Castle Inn for a drink.

  That really startled me. For although I had had that intimate relationship with Tom when I was young (a relationship that had continued for quite a while, by the way – in fact, for almost a year) I don’t think that I had ever spent any time with Amy’s husband. I did know him – obviously – because he would sometimes call at the house to see Amy; and just once, I remember how I had gone to their house for some reason and he had been there. So to be suddenly going to have a drink with the three of them seemed strange; and I told Amy so.

  ‘Strange?’ she said. ‘What’s strange about it? We’re all fond of you. We always were. And besides, Eddie, you need cheering up, so a drink would do you no harm.’

  Which is how I found myself crossing the town’s square later that evening, in the company of Amy and her two ‘men’, as she spoke of them – and all four of us going into the Castle Inn’s ‘Snuggery’, as it was called, a small room beyond the main bar, in which a seat with a tall back – a wooden settle, that is – formed a half-circle facing the fire.

  Tom insisted on buying the drinks – or the first round, at least – and despite protests from me, went off to order them, as Amy and I and her husband made ourselves comfortable.

  Apart from us, there was only a young couple in the room, who sat watching the fire in silence, which we found a little inhibiting. But once Tom had returned, bearing the drinks upon a small tray with the word ‘Worthington’ painted upon it – the name of a brand of beer – we immediately began to relax.

  ‘Good to see you, Eddie,’ said Amy’s husband, lifting his glass to me. ‘Spitting image of his father, though,’ he said to his wife, which I knew to be true, but which no longer really bothered me.

  ‘In looks only, I hope,’ Amy added with a smile.

  And we sat there, the four of us, literally passing the time like that for almost two hours. I can’t for the life of me remember what we talked about. I just recall the feeling of relief it gave me to have Tom seated beside me, and to have him recreating through silence the brief bond that we had enjoyed when we were young. And to have Amy and her husband making me feel that I did really belong to them in some way: that I had grown up with them and that I was close to them as a result.

  At one moment Amy insisted that she be allowed to buy a round of drinks herself; and in order to avoid her husband preventing her from doing so, pressed a note into my hand and asked me to do it for her.

  ‘Go on, Eddie,’ she said. ‘Please. Take no notice of them; of those two. They don’t think women should be out drinking, let alone buying a round. But I love to go out, and to pay if I can. It does me good.’

  I so appreciated it all: the warmth of their company; the good humour of our exchange; the red, shiny faces, brought on by the heat of the fire, combined with the alcohol we had consumed; and I did feel genuinely happy for once as we re-crossed the square to Tom’s car before saying goodbye.

  ‘Come and see us soon,’ Amy half whispered to me as I kissed her; and Tom said something similar as he shook my hand.

  ‘Goodnight all,’ a man who had been crossing the square behind us called out; to which we all responded in chorus, bidding him goodnight in return – even though I quickly gathered from Amy that neither she nor Tom nor her husband had any idea who the well-wisher might have been.

  ‘Sleep well,’ were Amy’s last words to me, and I remember that I did: that as I let myself into the house, knowing that I was going to spend the night there alone, I felt that some important change had taken place; that some chapter of my life had closed and that
a new one was about to begin. And which is exactly what did happen, as this notebook of mine reveals.

  Do notebooks go on and on, though? I am beginning to wonder. I can imagine that a diary might, if it is of a daily or of a weekly kind, and that one could keep such a thing for ever, as a kind of companion to one’s life. But a notebook? Isn’t that just a short-lived thing? Something written out of a particular need – perhaps to clear something up; to create a sense of order? If it is, then the thing to do, I guess, is to go on writing it until there’s no need to do so any longer; or until it changes into something else – something different. What I do know is that these thoughts have been a great help to me; that although I don’t write them down regularly, or very often (there have been times when several weeks have gone by before I’ve felt the need to pick up my pen), I have got to know myself better, both through them and because of them: that they have enabled me to look into myself and to see myself more clearly. But what – or, rather, who – I don’t see clearly or very objectively is Mark, I am afraid. I’ve mentioned him a lot because he has come to play quite a big part in my life, but I don’t think that anyone reading these notes will have been given much of a picture of him.

  So perhaps I must attempt to put that right and to say something here about that person who is now so dear to me, and who (Mark and I have talked about this) could even become a kind of life-partner of mine – if I don’t muck it up, that is, which I still fear is what I am likely to do.

  So, this morning, when we were still in bed, I told Mark that I am going to attempt to paint his portrait. He thought I meant paint it in paint, not words; then said he didn’t know why I wanted to do such a thing, and was sure I wouldn’t be good at it, which annoyed me a little.

  ‘Why?’ I asked him.

  ‘Why what? Why wouldn’t you be good at it?’

  ‘Yes, why?’

  ‘Because you’re not observant, Eddie – that’s why. Or not enough.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I answered, surprised by this.

  ‘Well: take my eyes, for instance. Tell me what colour they are. Right now. Without looking at them, I mean … Go on – say. Tell me.’

  ‘Well – they’re a –’

  ‘There you are, you see,’ said Mark, cutting in. ‘You don’t know. As I said, you’re not very observant: not with regard to details, at least. How tall am I?’

  ‘Well – you’re over six feet.’

  ‘Yes, but how much over?’

  ‘Two inches,’ I guessed.

  ‘Three,’ he answered. ‘And weight?’ he asked. ‘How heavy am I?’

  ‘That I don’t know. You’ve never told me. You’re heavier than I am, though, so somewhere around twelve stone, I guess.’

  ‘And what else do you know?’

  ‘What else? Well, I know that you have a sister. You’ve spoken about her. Emily, she’s called – isn’t she? And one brother – or is it two? – and you are the eldest.’

  ‘Yes. And –?’

  ‘And – well, that I like you a lot: that you’re the first person I’ve grown to really like. The first friend, I mean. I like my aunt and uncle, of course – love them, in fact; and Amy too. You’ve heard me speak about Amy, haven’t you, Mark? She was my parents’ –’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Mark answered impatiently. ‘And Tom? What about him?’

  ‘Well, yes, I liked him – yes, I did. But it was just a childhood thing – or more a teenage one, really, since Tom was older.’

  ‘And what about my parents, Eddie? I know a lot about yours. What about mine?’

  ‘Well, I know they are both alive and are together – you’ve told me that – but not altogether happy. Is that right?’

  ‘Correct,’ said Mark, who by now seemed to be almost cross-examining me.

  ‘And marks?’ he asked.

  ‘Marks? How do you mean?’

  ‘On my body. Any marks? Anything unusual – noticeable?’

  ‘Oh – that!’ I said with a laugh, thinking of the large brown mole on one of his thighs.

  ‘Well – that’s a part of me, isn’t it?’ he said, suddenly sitting up and turning to face me. ‘If it’s to be a detailed portrait you’re going to paint …. And what about temperament, then? Am I difficult? Easy to get on with? Selfish? Or what?’

  I paused before replying to this because to do so wasn’t easy.

  ‘Quite selfish, at times,’ I then said carefully. ‘Yes. You are. Definitely. You certainly know your own mind, and you certainly like to have your own way; over lots of things.’

  ‘But not over everything.’

  ‘No – of course not. In any case, I’m such a ditherer that that side of your character tends to appeal to me. It’s something I enjoy.’

  ‘Am I a drinker, would you say? A boozer?’ was his next question.

  ‘You like a drink. Quite a few, in fact. But no, you’re not a real drinker – far from it; any more than I am one myself.’

  ‘And a smoker?’

  ‘No – though I have seen you smoke a cigar.’

  ‘But not a pipe.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Well. Never trust a man who smokes a pipe, Eddie, is my advice to you,’ he said with a smile. ‘So – can you trust me, do you think?’

  ‘Yes. I think so. In fact, I know so.’

  ‘And what about deeper things?’ he continued. ‘Is this chap Mark, who runs a wine-bar in Fulham, who is taller than you are – heavier than you are – has two brothers and a sister – a loving person, would you say? Or not?’

  ‘In my experience, yes,’ I answered. ‘Definitely. In fact, I think –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I think that I’m in love with him. That we love one another.’

  This was the first time that I had said this to Mark, although he had questioned me often enough about my feelings.

  ‘Well, that’s about it, then – isn’t it?’ Mark replied, pretending not to have heard what I had just said. ‘Enough for a portrait, I think – don’t you?’ he added – much as I could see that he was pleased.

  ‘Oh – and he paints, Eddie,’ Mark added as a tease. ‘Not writes, Eddie. Paints. Badly.’

  ‘Not that badly, Mark.’

  ‘Not as good as Piero, though,’ he added. At which we both laughed.

  ‘Nor Stubbs. Nor Titian,’ I said, as Mark got out of bed and slipped into his underpants and then went off into the bathroom, with the image fixing itself in my mind of his sturdy, well-built frame, his dark, slightly curly head of hair, and the small spray of finer hair that appeared as a smudge at the base of his spine.

  ‘Oh, and how about my shoe-size, Eddie?’ Mark asked jokingly as he returned.

  ‘Twelve,’ I said.

  ‘Spot on,’ he replied. ‘Big feet, big something else, is what they say, isn’t it?’

  ‘As if I should know,’ I answered, as I too slipped out of bed and began to dress. ‘You know, Mark,’ I said to him, ‘one day, I’m going to do this to you.’

  ‘Do what?’ Mark asked, miming surprise and fear.

  ‘Ask you a whole list of questions about me – that’s what.’

  ‘Oh, good … Well, there’ll be no end to that – will there, Eddie?’ he teased. ‘Far too complicated, you are. It’d take a whole book to paint a decent portrait of you … I’ll tell you what, though: you have very nice skin and very nice eyes.’

  ‘Do I?’ I answered.

  ‘Yes – you do,’ he said, showing me that he meant it.

  ‘And what colour are they?’ I asked.

  ‘Your eyes? Grey-green,’ he replied snappily; and that is what they are.

  A week ago there were no leaves on the trees as Mark and I were driving down to the West Country for our second visit together. The furrowed fields were dark – almost black: tidy, clean, ready for their winter pause – their time of fallowness.

  ‘Can I read you a poem?’ I said to Mark that evening, when
we were changing in our room, with a fire burning in the grate and the curtains partly drawn.

  ‘If you want to – yes,’ Mark answered, not showing much interest. ‘What poem is it?’

  ‘One I’ve written myself,’ I said. ‘It’s about winter.’

  ‘Oh, go on then,’ he said, combing his hair and looking at my reflection in the mirror.

  So I read him this poem, which I had written the previous week. It’s not a very good one, but since to have written it was such a rare thing for me to have done, I wanted to share it.

  Deep into the earth I go,

  Into the dark soil where the seedlings grow;

  Above there might be ice and snow –

  And death if they too quickly show their heads.

  But not for me. No death for me.

  No sun shall find me easily and draw me up before my time.

  ‘Hey, Eddie! That’s not bad,’ was Mark’s reaction. ‘Very you, as well. Always holding yourself back – aren’t you? – in the shade. Not wanting to be drawn out. Not wanting to have your secrets discovered.’

  ‘But I’m less like that now than I was, Mark,’ I replied. ‘A lot less secretive now. More ready to share than I was.’

  ‘Of course you are,’ Mark answered warmly, sensing quickly that he might have been hurtful. ‘Of course you are, Eddie. A lot. We’ve both changed, that’s the truth of the matter. That’s what we’re meant to do. Learn and grow – together.’

  ‘If we can,’ I said.

  ‘Yes – well, if we can,’ he added wisely.

  Later, as we were on our way to bed, Mark returned to the subject of my secrecy and introversion; and this provoked a slight quarrel between us, because I thought that what had at first seemed a light tease had become something more akin to a taunt.

  ‘But, Mark! We talked about that earlier,’ I protested. ‘I told you. I’m just made that way. I just am.’

  ‘Yes, but it would be better if you weren’t,’ he said. ‘Think what you’re missing.’

  ‘What I’m missing?’ I asked.

 

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