Life in the West tsq-1

by Brian W Aldiss

  And when they had parted, nine months ago, she’d been damned good then. Nothing to complain about.

  Delays and hesitations inseparable from creativity occurred. Some incidents had to be re-shot. Some of the scenes involving the CSO process had not worked as well as expected. A model had to be re-made. ‘World Dream Design Centre’, the episode they filmed in Hollywood and Los Angeles, had its troubles. Ash fell ill. August turned into September. Definite boundaries became blurred. An electricians’ strike further delayed progress.

  But by the first week of October, all thirteen episodes of ‘Frankenstein Among the Arts’ were completed to the satisfaction not only of the British but of the German, American, and Australian interests involved in the production. Everywhere, quiet and sometimes noisy confidence grew that something special had been created.

  After a grand farewell party at Claridge’s, attended by all the crowned heads of television, and some from the arts world, Squire drove with Laura in her car, back to her flat.

  ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘I realize for the first time that we’re all a stunning success.’

  ‘Wait till you read the reviews…’

  The flat was tiny without being cosy. It occupied part of a house on the run-down fringes of Canonbury. Laura’s husband, Peter, was away on a photographic assignment, she knew not where. He had left a scrawled note without saying.

  They bought pitas on the way to the flat, stopping at a kebab house in Essex Road. They ate standing in her narrow kitchen as they said good-bye.

  Both of them trembled. Laura leaned against the breakfast bar, unable to touch him. Both of them dropped pieces of lettuce, tomato, and meat, in their anguish at facing this final moment.

  The mansion, once moderately grand, designed for a prosperous middle class with servants, had been divided into several flats. It was always full of mysterious young people, designated of course as ‘students’, whenever Squire was there. Bicycles blocked the hall passage. Laura’s flat was decorated with her husband’s photographs, framed in metal. Generally shots of streets, taken from ingenious angles no one else would have thought of. Never a shot of Laura in the nude, or even dressed. Silly bugger.

  The furniture looked cheap but was expensive, Laura said; it was too low to get out of easily. Laura and Peter quarrelled all the while, she said, excusing a general neglect.

  When he went to pee in the toilet, his eyes came level with a packet of sanitary towels lying on the window sill. The sight of them moved and obscurely hurt him: though on this evening of parting everything brought him close to tears. He thought of her vulnerability. Didn’t vulnerable and vulva derive from the same Latin root? She would have taken care to keep her Tampax out of sight a few months earlier. They were both of them going down the drain — like the Tampaxes, eventually — and he had to remember that she, at twenty-six, felt acutely that youth was passing.

  He returned to the kitchen and his half-eaten pita.

  ‘I’ve really fucked things up for you, my love. It’s as well I’m disappearing at last.’

  ‘You haven’t fucked anything up. I was just a mess till you came along. Your dear steadiness — you have been that way all your life, I can tell. I didn’t need an older man, I needed you.’

  ‘It goes too deep for me to say. I was muffled for so long. With you — no guard possible, no guard needed…’

  ‘We’ve had something so worthwhile together. In that sense, I don’t mind parting, though I’ll hate myself for saying it when you’ve gone…I’ll never forget you, Tom. You’ve changed me, given me so much, so many things…’

  ‘Nothing — nothing compared with what you’ve given me. With you I’ve been aware of the whole world again. You’ve made me whole again…’ A piece of mutton fell to the floor. He kicked it in the direction of the sink.

  ‘You’re such a dear, dear person.’ She reached out and touched his neck. He clutched her wrist, still brown from the summer they had had.

  ‘Don’t be hurt. Grow. Continue. My love and gratitude will always be with you, for whatever that’s worth. Laura, dear Laura…’ He spoke indistinctly, munching the bread.

  ‘We’ve had such travels together, gone so far.’

  ‘I’ll never forget what a weight you were when you fell asleep on me on the plane back from LA.’

  ‘And try not to forget how many miles it is to the River Bug.’ Her lip trembled as she said it.

  ‘Perhaps one day we’ll meet in that little romantic Polish village whose name we remember so well.’

  ‘You mean Molly Naggy?’

  ‘I think it was Lolowsky Molehold.’

  ‘Anyhow, we’ll recognize it by all the dead horses.’ She started to laugh and cry a little.

  He put an arm round her waist. ‘You’re rotten at geography, incredible at everything else.’

  ‘You’ll always be my lovely man.’ She rubbed her face against his jacket. ‘My standard. Let me give you a last cup of coffee. Instant. And there will always be “Frankenstein”… Something worthwhile we did together.’

  ‘And your lovely photograph in the book. I’ll send you a copy before it’s published. Lasciviously inscribed.’

  ‘To hell with Peter. Bring it round in person.

  ‘I’ll see about that. No, no coffee — I’d better go, my love.’

  ‘My love.’ Her beautiful gaze engaging his.

  ‘Oh, dearest Laura…’ They clung tightly to each other for the last time.

  It was autumn. He felt the chill as he blundered down the garden path, the chill a younger man would not have noticed. He thought, as he went blindly into the street, ‘From now on, there’s only autumn. Then winter. Fifty next birthday. Old age. I was lucky to have a Laura in my life, bloody lucky. Just that short while — not so short, either…

  ‘Well, somehow I’ve done what I said I would, at last. Now I must go back and make amends. The great renunciation…I hope it counts for something…

  ‘Oh, Laura…’

  He unlocked the secret compartment in the nursery cupboard. Only a few treasures there these days. A little framed pencil sketch his father had made of him when he was a child of four, just after Adrian was born. Not very good, when considered dispassionately. A school magazine dating from only a few years back, in which was his son John’s article, then considered both daring and amusing, on why the monarchy should be abolished. A couple of letters from Laura — notes, really. He smelt the envelopes, but enclosure in the cupboard had made them fusty. Two letters dating from last winter from Tess, and a rough copy of his response.

  Grantham

  6th Nov.

  Dear Tom,

  Thanks for your letter. There’s a reason why I have not returned to Pippet Hall as you request.

  I do not have to do as you say. Honestly, what you think or say is not so important to me as it was once. You know that even a worm will turn. You did not keep your promise about leaving that girl at the end of August, did you? Have you really left her as you say, or do you still pine for all the things she gave you…

  I am doing well here. I have my own flat and workplace and my company is now exporting to the USA. You don’t have to feel sorry for me, and the girls are fine. So is Nellie.

  They send love.

  Teresa

  Travellers’ Club

  Pall Mall

  15 November

  My dear Tess,

  Matilda forwarded your letter to me. I’m in London, being unable to tolerate the Hall on my own. I am not, as you may imagine, ‘having fun’ here, although there are one or two old male friends to support me, so I am not utterly desolate. I’ve also seen John on two occasions; he’s much as always.

  I am delighted to hear that your company is flourishing. I’ve encouraged the idea from the start, you may recall. When I asked you to return to Pippet Hall, it was not an order, but a simple hope that you would come back to me. I still have that hope. Do so, and we can convert the barn into a studio for you.

  As I tol
d you in my last letter, I have renounced Laura Nye. That I did as soon as ‘Frankenstein’ was completed, as promised. In fact, on the very day of the farewell party at Claridge’s. I admit to feeling lonely; I need your dear love and comfort. There are two schools of thought about how a wife behaves towards an erring husband, but you must let yourself be guided by your feelings, rather than fashion or friends. May I suggest you don’t treat me according to my deserts but according to your capacity for sweetness.

  Thanks largely to Grahame Ash, the series looks extremely handsome — I think you’ll approve, especially the design side. It is to be shown at 8.10, prime viewing time, every Friday evening, starting on February 23rd next. Ron Broadwell will publish the book as his great New Year title, and is planning a signing tour, round the country, on which I hope you’ll be able to accompany me; it should be fun and easy to do. VIP treatment guaranteed.

  Christmas is approaching, as the meretricious glitter of the shops in the West End painfully reminds me. I hope that this angst can be quelled soon, and that we can all spend Christmas happily together at the Hall as usual. It’s almost a year since mother died — how fast this hectic year has gone. I hope you and your mother have fully recovered from the shock of your father’s death.

  Your loving

  Tom

  Grantham

  2nd December

  Dear Tom,

  In your latest piece of optimism you outdo yourself. What makes you think I wish to tramp round England as part of your menagerie, promoting your book? What makes you think I want even to hear about it, or the series, knowing your fancy woman is in them both?

  Can’t you realize how you hurt me? I’ve got feelings too you know.

  As for Christmas, I’m sorry but I’m making my own arrangements. I’m going somewhere where I can find some sun and peace. Worry is making me ill. Once I thought I could trust you, but disillusion has crept in. Burst in.

  I’m writing this in bed. Unwell.

  Teresa

  Under the letters lay a little red book bearing the impressive word ‘Memoranda’. In it, in his eight-year-old hand, he had inscribed the bare fact of his father’s death. He did not open the book.

  There was also an official letter in an envelope with a Belgrade postmark, congratulating him on his services to Anglo-Yugoslav understanding. Enclosed with it was a message scrawled in pencil from a man called Slobodan. He did not open the envelope.

  Under the envelope and red book lay a little folder with covers made from wallpaper. Inside were three stories, each under a page long, written in a childish hand and illustrated with pictures done in crayon. They were by Rachel Normbaum, and had been presented to him almost forty years ago. He did not open the folder.

  He cleared the secret compartment of all but the pencil sketch, and stood with its contents in his hand. Time went by.

  Outside it was growing dull.

  He locked the cupboard and went downstairs to the kitchen.

  There, an unpleasant smell distracted him from his purpose. He set the documents of his past down on the table and went over to the tall windows, opening a shutter to let in a ray of evening light. For a while he stood peering out.

  The room appeared sombre and dead. It smelt as if it had been closed for a long while. The large red enamel Aga, which he had had installed in place of the old range when he and Teresa were married, was cold for the first time since its installation. He walked round the room, familiar since childhood, today chill, unfriendly. In one corner were mouse droppings, in another by the scullery door, a damp patch along the floor, where the wallpaper was peeling; the damp had always been there, and looked no worse than before. In the scullery, a tap dripped intermittently. Squire went through to turn it off.

  Back in the kitchen, he prepared a small fire in the Aga. He stuffed some old newspaper and cardboard into the grate and set light to them. He piled the letters and ‘Memoranda’ book on top of the flames. The past no longer meant anything. It had died. He was free, whether he desired to be or not. ‘I’ll be happier, once this is over,’ he promised himself.

  ‘All I really want is your silence now.’

  As he waited there dumbly, gazing at the blue flames, a key grated in the scullery door. He stood alert, with the door of the Aga open and smoke escaping into the room. Matilda Rowlinson entered the kitchen. She smiled, more composed than he. Squire felt guilty without knowing why.

  ‘Hello, Tom. Lovely to see you. I saw your car in the drive.’ She came and shook hands.

  ‘You’re keeping everything in good order. I’m burning some old stuff.’ He heard the guilt in his own voice. ‘Old papers, actually.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure. I love coming over to the Hall. I come every day without fail — generally about this time of day. I like it when evening’s setting in, not being the kind who’s afraid of ghosts.’

  ‘I’ve never seen a ghost.’

  As she went over and closed the door of the Aga, she said, ‘I’m only sorry that you and Teresa aren’t still here together.’

  She had turned from the cooker. They were close. Squire looked with pleasure at Matilda’s pale, honest face. It was slightly spotty about the mouth. Her hair was more attractive, richer, than he recalled. He sensed the warmth of her spirit as she regarded him with shining eyes. Something in her bodily gesture, an eagerness, appraised him of her mood; the knowledge must have shown in his eyes, for she suddenly became embarrassed and dropped her gaze, moving away defensively.

  ‘I thought perhaps you’d like a cup of tea. That was why I came over.’ She started to busy herself with preparations, filling the kettle, switching it on, getting out cups and saucers.

  ‘It’s been a gorgeous day…’

  ‘I remember you when you were a baby, Matilda.’

  She put the milk bottle down and regarded him seriously.

  ‘I’m a grown woman now, Tom, as you are probably aware.’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, I am aware.’

  ‘What are you burning?’

  ‘Just a few old documents. Records of my past. I suppose I have their contents by heart well enough.’ He stirred the pages with a poker. The school magazine was slow to burn. He watched it blacken.

  There was a long silence, in which she stared at the Aga with him.

  ‘Your heart can’t be very easy at present.’ Another silence. ‘I wish there was something I could do.’

  She took her coat off and laid it over the back of a chair. Her neat and modest figure was shown at its best by her green cotton dress.

  ‘I am very grateful for what you are doing.’

  ‘I suppose I meant more personally.’

  As the kettle boiled and switched itself off, he said, ‘You could pray for me.’

  Matilda frowned. ‘There’s no need for you to be ironical.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  Filling the teapot, she said with a sigh, ‘I suppose it’s my sheltered up-bringing, what else, but human relationships — I do find them difficult to handle.’

  He laughed dryly. ‘We all do. It’s believed that the human race was once endogamous. Ever since exogamy set in, everyone’s found relationships a bit sort of difficult. Fascinating, of course, but difficult to handle, as you say.’

  Accepting the cup she offered, he walked round the other side of the table and took a chair. They sat facing each other. As they sipped, the paper in the stove turned to ashes.

  ‘Would you care for a biscuit?’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  ‘You’re not — are you going to sleep here alone this weekend, Tom?’

  ‘I must get back to Blakeney before dark.’

  ‘There’s a whole hour and more of this lovely twilight before it’s dark. And it was Full Moon last night.’

  The kitchen was filling with dusk already, making of her face a pale blur. He felt her personality, tender and sensible, radiating across the scrubbed table towards him.

  ‘I’m glad of the tea,’ he said. ‘And I’m glad y
ou came. But I’ve got to be going.’

  ‘Let me know the next time you’re coming up. I’m always at home.’

  She drew the one open shutter into place, and the kitchen faded into darkness.

  12. Tribal Customs

  Ascot, Berks, New Year’s Eve 1977

  Near Ascot, and not far from the famous racecourse, lies the area of Hazeldene, a developer’s paradise of the thirties. It remains far enough from London by road and near enough to it by train to serve as a refuge for the semi-rich. Half-timbered leather-work shops abound and, on Saturday afternoon when the Jags are parked in front of their mansions, children and adults appear on well-groomed horses, to canter through stretches of bracken which have somehow survived among the desirable residences. Here Tom Squire’s old friend and publisher, Ron Broadwell, had his home.

  It was the last day of the year, cold and windy, and the weeping silver birches tossed behind neat beech hedges. At seven in the evening, it had already been dark for two hours.

  As Squire drove towards the Broadwell house, he recited a poem aloud:

  ’Tis the yeares midnight, and it is the days…

  The sun is spent…

  The world’s whole sap is sunke,

  The generall balme the hydroptique earth hath drunk.

  He had once been able to recite the whole poem; now parts were gone from memory. He had recited it long ago to a Serbian girl called Roša — who had laughed heartily — as they stood on the steps of the Avala memorial outside Belgrade, one midnight, drunk. He smiled at the recollection. When Squire was at Cambridge, Donne and Eliot had been the fashionable poets, and he had never lost his love of them. There were no poets like them.