The Whites of Gold

by Sam Lock

  ‘Well, yes – perhaps,’ I replied. ‘Thank you. That would be nice.’

  ‘They were born in it, you see,’ he said, ‘in water, and can’t be parted from it for long.’

  He rubbed his right hand against the rough tweed jacket he was wearing and held it out to me; but I, behaving stupidly, chose not to take hold of it, as if I had failed to understand the gesture he was making.

  ‘Shake hands – shall we?’ he asked. ‘Make everything better?’

  Writing about it now, I can hardly believe that this event took place. To me, it seems that it happened in some dream: that this golden, russet-faced man had stepped into my room from some unknown place in time, in order to exchange those few, brief words with me before slipping on his cap again and exiting through the door. Yet that night, when Amy came to my room to see how I was, I remember how she brought with her a plateful of delicious watercress sandwiches. And I am quite sure that they were real, and not of some other place and time, because I am able to recall with such precision their various tastes and textures: the soft, spongy white of the freshly baked bread; the creamy yellow of the lightly salted butter that had been spread upon it with such care; and then, pressed into the centre of the sandwiches, the sharp, bitter, peppery taste of the watercress itself.

  Oddly – just to show how the unconscious handles and works with experience – I didn’t mention this visit to either of my parents, and as nothing was ever said to me about it by them, I don’t think that Amy did, either.

  When I next saw my aunt, I did manage to thank her and to say to her what a kind thought the present of cress had been. But I said nothing about the bearer of the gift: about how surprised – indeed, how startled – I had been to have had him call at our house without warning. And all my aunt said to me in reply was, ‘Well, you’ve always been fond of watercress, haven’t you, Eddie? From when you were small. Always a little odd you were in that respect, because it’s not something children tend to like.’

  So the presence close to me of that dark yet gilded figure remains protected from exposure, trapped in some odd capsule of my mind; as if it belongs to my inner life more than to my outer one – as, indeed, do so many memories, it would seem: acting, perhaps, as fodder for the life we live underneath; for that vein of rich, unfolding narrative within us.

  Perhaps (I don’t know what makes me want to write this) the appearance of this figure in my room had been a sign, a pointer, of some change that was taking place. For looking back at it, it seems to me that, out of the shadow he had always stood for in my mind, something within the orbit of my psychic world had transformed itself into gold, and Rusty’s arrival, which had so startled me, was connected with some alchemy of the spirit. The ‘whites’ of that gold – its precipitate – being the sparkle of the dewdrops on the gift he had brought, set against the dark green of the wild watercress.

  Well – there they are: so many forgotten things that have been stored away. What a repository of them there seems to be in the mind. I can’t write of them all; for if I did, then I would never release myself from this journal of mine, which I have noticed of late is something that I am now beginning to want to do. After all, I am not a real writer – not a professional one. I just scrawl and scribble away and am far too slapdash to be that. And, as Mark said to me once, after he had glanced at a few pages I had set down (ones that said nothing about my secret ‘collection’, of course), it would be quite difficult to decipher much of what I have written. ‘Take a clever old stick to sort that lot out,’ he said.

  However, I have enjoyed it – that’s the important thing; and it has certainly helped me through a difficult time; through such a big turning-point in my life. The old and the new; the present and the past – all mixing; all blending; all making up the web of life; all weaving its new fabric. And yet, this journal’s still not done, I think. Whatever the purpose of it has been, it’s still not finished.

  Am I happy? Well, I tend to avoid that word, because experience has taught me that the shadows in me can return at any moment. But I know that I am certainly a great deal more pleased with myself than I was a year ago: am even in love, perhaps – something I never thought I could be; and I count that quite an achievement. Whether or not I shall be able to maintain my relationship with Mark, I have no idea; but I say to myself (always, I have to confess, with a slight feeling of pain) that it’s wisest not to think in that way. Just live for now, I say – for the present. Just be glad to be here – where I am, how I am; in this flat; in London; close to the river. For me, that is – that has to be – enough.

  Such a dream I had last night! I felt compelled to jot it down at once, before I got up, before it got swallowed up by time.

  I was alone – in a room. Naked, I think – for although I couldn’t see myself at all, I certainly felt as if I had no clothes on – and I was sitting facing a blue-grey wall that I thought was made of stone.

  For some reason, I appeared to be hypnotised by this wall and just sat there staring at it. Then, gradually, its blue-grey colours began to shift and change: small particles of brown and black beginning to appear among them, quickly followed by sudden streaks and flashes of white.

  I then realised that the wall wasn’t a solid wall at all, but was composed of these constantly moving fragments – and for a moment or two I felt strangely cold, and wanted to draw something around me. But I was unable to do so because, as I said, I was naked and had no clothing with me. So I just sat there shivering – all the while looking at (now more looking into) this wall.

  The atmosphere in the room became intense, and I somehow knew that if I kept on staring at the wall it would surrender something to me: that (as if emerging from a mist) something would appear through it, or out of it. What it would be, I couldn’t imagine, but I knew that the thought of it made me nervous.

  Then, as if from a long way off, I heard a voice calling my name. ‘Edwin,’ it called out – not ‘Eddie’; which it then repeated several times.

  I thought that the voice might be that of my father, and that this was why I felt so nervous. Then, very slowly, my father’s features began to appear in front of me, emerging from the ever-shifting fragments out of which the wall appeared to be composed.

  At first, I could tell only vaguely that it was him, but gradually the image began to strengthen; its shapes, forms, colours grew more definite – until it finally settled and became almost static. Not entirely so. I was aware that it too was composed of fragments, and that like the wall in which it had been contained, and out of which it had just emerged, there was continual movement within it.

  Nonetheless, there, immediately in front of me, was a pretty definite image of my father, who was looking directly at me. I could clearly make out the neat cut of his hair, with its streaks and patches of grey close to the temples; and the familiar cool, grey-green of his eyes, with their curious overlay of gold, that now, in the half-light (for it seemed that the room contained no windows of any kind, and by some means or another lit itself from within), gleamed and glinted as they looked across at me – seeming almost to study me.

  At first, I felt so overcome by this sight that I was tempted to look away; but I recall telling myself (all this was in the dream) that the moment was an important one; that I shouldn’t seek to escape from it or avoid it. So, nervous though I was – I stared back. And as I did, my father turned his head to one side, allowing me to study it in profile.

  And what so surprised me was the sudden sense of pride I felt: the sudden feeling of gladness that I was given, to know, as I did then, that this was my parent – the man who had fathered me, who begat me.

  He was wearing one of the white, neatly cut shirts that he put on each morning after breakfast: the collar crossed by the edging of the grey-green cardigan he was wearing; the hair, where it touched the collar, just turning over it in a neat and orderly fashion.

  Then I stood up, thinking that I would cross the room to get a closer view of my father’s image. I wa
s aware that it wasn’t tangible – wasn’t solid – and that it would be impossible for me to touch him, but I wanted to go nearer; to go closer to him; almost to join him in some way.

  No sooner did that thought come to me, however, than the image turned away and began to move off, to dissolve and become part of the composition of the wall again, which made me sad. So sad in fact that as I again sat down upon my stool – or was it a chair? (what I was seated upon wasn’t clear) – I saw a tear drop on to one of my hands, and felt its dampness upon my skin. And when I looked up, I found to my astonishment that my father’s image had returned – the head now closer than before and nodding slowly up and down.

  And then – oh, I hardly know how to write this! – my father smiled at me. It was a slow, very steady kind of smile; one that took a long time to form; but it was definitely that – definitely a smile, I mean.

  ‘Father?’ I called out. ‘Can you hear me?’ – to which he only nodded again in reply.

  ‘Can you hear me?’ I then repeated, hoping, I suppose, that he would speak to me. But he didn’t – couldn’t, perhaps; because, I thought to myself, we are existing in different times: ones that sounds are unable to bridge. But he went on nodding at me, as if to signify, I dared to think, that he was aware of what I was feeling.

  Had he seen my tear, I wondered – that was so quickly followed by others? And was he now, almost two years after his death, asking me to forgive him for all the smiles that he had denied me over the years?

  I would like to think that this was so. All I know is that, since waking this morning, I have experienced a sense of joy, of happiness, the like of which I have never known.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Mark asked, having been wakened by the rustlings of my paper and the scratchings of my pen.

  ‘I’m writing,’ I said. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘You and your bloody writing, Eddie,’ Mark muttered. ‘What the hell are you writing about now?’

  ‘Just my dream, Mark,’ I answered. ‘Go back to sleep.’

  ‘Your dream! What do you want to write about your bloody dream for?’

  ‘Because I do, Mark – that’s why. Go back to sleep now. It’s only half-past five.’

  ‘Half-past bloody five!’ Mark protested, turning on to his side and drawing the bedclothes over him. I then read through the notes I had scribbled down, just to make sure that I had captured some of what had been offered to me in my sleep, the memory of which had made me happy.

  XIII

  Today being a Sunday, I would normally be having lunch with Len and Thelma; sometimes with Mark if he’s not working; at others just the three of us – just Len, Thelma and myself. All that has changed, however, because Thelma’s ‘bistro’, as she insists upon calling it, is open – and she has to be there.

  Mark and I called to see her during the week to see how she was getting on, and she greeted us in such a professional way. Warmly, of course, but not in a particularly personal manner – showing us to a table and handing us a menu.

  ‘If you’re expecting special attention, you’re not getting it,’ she said with a quick laugh as she bounced away and sent a waiter to take our order.

  I was really impressed by her. Mark was, too. She seemed so at home, so good at what she was doing; it was as if she had been doing it all her life. And I really am so pleased for her. She seemed almost a different person; as if, in some way, she had suddenly come into focus: had become more defined.

  I’m not sure that Len is as pleased for her as I am; but perhaps that is because he enjoys routine; enjoys life’s regular patterns; and here he is, having to struggle with a new one.

  So, with Thelma at work, doing what she wanted to do; and with Mark and I still pleased with each other and with the daily deepening of our relationship, for once my life and the life around me seems orderly and full of promise. Having said that, however, there is one thing that bothers me – that goes on bothering me; appearing at times to be almost threatening me in some way – which has to do with the lumber room (as I call it) in my flat, which still remains a secret as far as its contents are concerned; in that no one – not even Mark – is aware of them.

  For I find that if I happen to think of that room it creates quite a tension in my mind, in that I then find myself wanting to do something about it – to take action: perhaps dispose of all my trophies, as I think of them – give them away to someone – anyone – clear the decks, so to speak, and put them into the past; into a life that I used to lead but that I am now leading no longer. The fact being that for quite some time now I’ve not stolen anything at all – not even a box of matches, which, in the past, used to be a convenient way of relieving myself when the compulsion from which I suffer began to take hold of me and possess me.

  I cannot say that I am cured. It would be rash of me to do that, because the mind is such a tricky thing and so easily creates illusions. But I do feel as if I am almost free of it. As if, at last, after so many years, I am well on the way to being cured.

  Could it be that the healing power of having Mark in my life has effected this? Or has it to do with my parents’ deaths, and the distance I have now gained from them both, which allows me to view them differently – particularly my father? Could it also be because I have gone back into the past, returning to what used to be my home: to the house in which I was born and to all that I ran away from?

  The answer is, I guess, that it is a mixture of all these things. Outwardly, alas, a reconciliation with my father proved impossible, much as I believe that I was ready for it – and, perhaps, wanted it. But inwardly, I feel that something of that kind has taken place. For if I think of my father now (as I happened to do this morning when I was shaving) I no longer feel angry with him, or afraid of him in the way that I used to do. On the contrary, I now feel for him an almost tender, muted affection: an affection that his spirit appeared to reciprocate when I saw his smiling image in my dream.

  But about my things – my ‘treasures’. About them – over them – hangs the question of whether I should expose them to someone or not. Say to Mark, perhaps, that they are there in that room – all stored away in their boxes. Tell him what they are, which is nothing less, of course, than a record of all my ‘crimes’.

  I do so wish that I was able to do that, and could get it over and done with. For if things between Mark and myself continue to develop positively, then he’s bound to become inquisitive about what is kept there in that lumber room of mine.

  ‘Why don’t you clear it out, for heaven’s sake,’ he’s going to say to me one day – and the idea of it upsets me; not a little, but a lot. Because I fear that this could become an issue between us. His wanting to have a good ‘clear-out’, as I can hear him calling it, and me not being able to give in; wanting to hold on to my secret for longer.

  So, as the year draws towards its close, this is where I now am. Like the snail carrying its house upon its back, so I, it seems, must carry my lumber room on mine. And something tells me that I shall never be able to give it up; that, whatever happens, I shall always keep it – always guard it. Quite why, I don’t know; but occasionally, if I am alone (or during the night, for instance, if I get out of bed to get a drink or to go to the lavatory), I sense that there might be something deep within me that is locked away in that room, and from which I gain, it would seem, some unusual form of security that I cannot gain elsewhere.

  Perhaps, if I were to be open and honest about it with Mark, he would respect this need I have to maintain such an area of shadow. I doubt that he would understand it exactly, and would probably label me as being ‘a bit bonkers’ – a term he has used quite often in the past when he has learned of my various weaknesses. But at least he might respect my wishes regarding this, and, just out of a sense of decency towards me, might allow us to weave it into our life.

  However, we’ve not come to that as yet. We don’t even share a flat; don’t even live together in that sense; and there is little danger of m
y having to expose this secret of mine unless he comes to settle here. So all that lies in the future – as do so many things. Right now, in the immediate future, is a trip to the National Gallery that I have planned for this afternoon. (Where better to go in London on a Sunday?) What shall I find there, I wonder? What shall I discover? The wondrous clarity of Gainsborough’s painting of his two daughters? The creamy pinks and greys of a Turner seascape? Or will it be the precise mechanics of a Piero della Francesca – the painter Thelma had never heard of? His Saint Michael, perhaps; in which, as though in some way to distance himself from what he has just done, the rather boyish, muscular saint treads nonchalantly upon a serpent he has just slaughtered – the blood of which has left a delicate crimson smudge upon the cool-grey blade of his sword. And in which too, setting off in such a truly magical fashion the pale, almost chalky, colours that are so typical of this artist, there is the sharp intrusion of what at first appears to be black, but is, in fact, more of a deep cherry-red: the narrow, curving shadow that lines the hem of the saint’s tunic.

  Whatever, it will be a great pleasure to be there – as it always is. Today, without Mark, unfortunately, because he has to be at work. However, I shall be able to speak to him about it on my return and I know he will enjoy that.

  ‘As long as it’s not bloody Rubens,’ he’ll say – because, hearty though Mark’s general character might be, the slight coarseness of Rubens’s work offends him. ‘All tits and bums,’ he says, ‘that need pinching’ – and at this I always laugh, because I find that expressive side of his character so endearing.

  And perhaps (I have only just thought of this) it could be on such a jocular note as that that this journal of mine could end: for it has surely served its purpose. What might Amy be doing right now, I wonder? Clearing away the Sunday lunch things, I expect. And my aunt and uncle? Having a snooze, I dare say – their regular afternoon nap. And Rufus and Charlie? What might they be doing? Out walking the dogs? Doing the tango together? Or just listening to the radio?