The Centre of the Green

by John Bowen

  “That’s right.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  “Now off you go, darling. Leave the cups. Your father will do them in the morning.” “Good night, Mother.” Julian was in bed, washed and his teeth cleaned, within seven minutes, asleep within ten. But his mother took longer to get to sleep that night. She was not at all clear about her feelings.

  *

  Charles travelled down on the overnight train which leaves Paddington at five minutes to midnight. The blinds of the compartment were pulled down; the bulb was taken from the socket of the electric light, and laid in the luggage rack; Charles’ fellow passengers adjusted themselves for sleep. Just touching his flank were the feet of a drowsing marine, folded up like a foetus, who filled the rest of the seat. On the seat opposite, a country-woman in an old round brown felt hat smoothed down her skirt, and stretched out tranquilly. A faint light from the corridor shone round the edges of the blinds. The marine began to breathe heavily with a touch of catarrh. Charles leaned his head against the upholstery, and decided he would “come to grips” with his problem; he would “think it through”. But you cannot come to grips with thought. It eludes the grasp. You can turn thought into words—as a writer must do if he is to make sense of it—but what you end up with are only words; you are not really thinking any longer, but composing.

  Charles composed then. He created a sheet of paper in his mind, and wrote question and answer on it in brown ink with a thick-nibbed pen. Question: Why? (Why not? —but this was an interruption, and not written down.) Answer: No point. Lonely. Old people talking to themselves in subway stations. A man, about fifty-five years old, bald-headed, with brown mottled patches on the crown, the purple of burst capillaries in his cheeks and nose; steel-rimmed spectacles; an old stained overcoat— “Oh, I know you intellectuals and public school types,” he had said. “You’ve got some good qualities. You’ve had an education. You’ve found out a lot in your research. But have you found the Lord Jesus?” Nobody had answered him, and the people near him had moved away. Lonely. Charles remembered a drunk in Hyde Park. “They don’t talk to me where I live. You might think I don’t exist.” And the diary entry of the woman in the Social Service pamphlet—“Nobody called”, day after day.

  Question: Alternatives? Answer: Do something about it. Question: What? There was the advice in the magazine survey—Join a political party or a social club, take art classes, go to church—and the readers’ letters that followed it—Dear Sir, Lonely people have only themselves to blame. These people expect “Mr. Right” or “Miss Bosom Pal” to come leaping after them without making any effort themselves. Well, that was it, of course. Charles was lonely because Charles wanted to be lonely. Charles never did anything about it himself. He never went out looking for Miss Bosom Pal. Charles was to blame. Charles dropped a glass curtain between himself and his world; Charles on one side, Sybil and her lover, the editorial staff of The Potters’ Weekly, even the psychiatrist at the hospital, all of them on the other. Charles—here he made a discovery —just wasn’t interested. He wrote it down on the sheet of paper in his mind: “I am just not interested.”

  So there he was, insulated by his lack of interest, and the time passed slowly in the performance of simple and rather monotonous work, in day-dreaming, and sometimes even in long blank stretches during which his mind was empty, and he could not have told you what he had been thinking about, or if he had been thinking at all. He was not friendless. He sent Christmas cards, and received them. People he had known at Oxford had also come to London to work, and sometimes he would arrange to meet one for lunch, or there would be the occasional supper. But it was all so much effort. Just to keep the conversation going was an effort, and the silences would grow longer and longer, and really it was easier to eat lunch by oneself with a book.

  Charles wrote again on the page, “I am not involved”. So much of that was convention. People spent so much time behaving in the ways they thought they ought to behave, or else in ways they couldn’t help, like Peeping Toms or the drunk in the park. But you couldn’t feel all the things you said. It was civilized to say, “Did you have a good Christmas?” and, “I hope your cold’s better,” but you couldn’t really be interested in the answers. And it was the same with the rest of it. Love, friendship, responsibility—mostly acting, being polite, pretending to feel the right emotions. Since pretending was so much effort, it was better not to enter into the sort of relationship that demanded it.

  Too much effort. No point. No point in going on month after month, year after year. He had no mission, no message, would lead nobody into the promised land, make nothing beautiful with his hands—nothing like that. He would just go on passing the time and enduring various discomforts until the day he died; it didn’t seem worth doing. And yet if there were no point in living, what point was there in dying? I am in the way to study a long silence…. Oh, I am in a mist. Just a mist. He strained to remember something, anything at all from those hours while he had been unconscious, poisoned, half-way to death. Nothing. Not worth it for nothing. And yet not worth living either. No point.

  Decided: Nothing. All the questions and answers came to that. But, although it had nothing to do with the questions and answers, one thing had been decided. He would not tell his parents what had happened. Indeed, if the psychiatrist had not suggested it, he would not have considered doing so. The train drew in to Bristol (Temple Meads). There were twenty minutes to wait, and from every compartment grey-faced passengers appeared to queue for tea in cardboard cups. Charles ate an Individual Fruit Pie, and prepared for sleep. He would evade inquiries, and keep his secret.

  A few hours later he arrived by the early bus from Newton Abbot to find Julian asleep in his bed. At no time during the rest of the day were there any inquiries for him to evade.

  *

  “Charles?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “This business—what do you think, eh?”

  I am not involved, Charles thought. It’s nothing to do with me. He was still experiencing a sort of elation from his discovery, as if it were a weapon against despair. When the depressive fit began again, it would turn out, he knew, to be only a cardboard shield, but for the moment he felt free, unattached, not needing to pretend even to himself. “I don’t know what to think, Father,” he said. They were picking beans for supper, working down two sides of the same row. “Is this too small?”

  “No, no. Pick the lot. They grow again fast enough. I don’t know, Charles. Don’t know what I ought to do. I’m not used to dealing with you boys. I feel out of touch.”

  “I expect mother will think of something.”

  “Got the girl into trouble. Can’t just run out like that.”

  “Mother was talking to him this morning.”

  “Yes. Of course, your mother’s always … I’ve never interfered at all. It only upsets her.”

  “I shouldn’t think there’s anything we can do, Father. It’s up to Julian really.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is. Don’t like feeling useless though.”

  *

  “We don’t want to bother your father about this.”

  “But he is bothered, Mother.”

  “Well, he doesn’t need to be. It’s nothing to do with him, and there’s nothing he can do.”

  Charles made no comment. His mother put the basket of beans on the kitchen table near an empty colander, and began to slice them. Her knife was sharp, and took the seams off neatly. “We must all be sensible,” she said. “It’s not the first time this kind of thing has happened.”

  “To Julian?”

  “Don’t be stupid, Charles. Of course it’s the first time it’s happened to Julian. But plenty of other people have——”

  “Got girls into trouble. Yes, it’s always happening to regular soldiers. Father was telling me.”

  Mrs. Baker tightened her lips, and continued to slice the beans for supper.

  Charles said, “Mother, isn’t this girl under age? Julian co
uld go to prison.”

  “Age? What’s age got to do with it? A girl like that!”

  “I don’t care what sort of girl she is. It wouldn’t matter if she’d locked Julian in the pantry and pulled his clothes off with her own hands. As long as she’s under age, he’s still responsible. That’s the law.”

  “How old——?”

  “Eighteen, I think. Or is it sixteen? I suppose we’d better find out. It’s serious, Mother.”

  “What’s serious?” said Julian, bringing an empty teacup into the kitchen. “Am I too late for breakfast?”

  Charles looked at him without replying, and Julian said, “Oh!” Then he said, “Let me help you with those beans, Mother.” Mrs. Baker, her voice carefully under control, said, “Charles thinks you can go to prison”.

  “Why?”

  “Under age,” Charles said.

  “I never thought of that. She’s seventeen.”

  “Then you’re either all right by a year, or all wrong by a year. You might have taken the trouble to check up.”

  “Charles, how can you, when your brother——” Mrs. Baker put down her knife, and turned away from the table. “When he needs us so.”

  Charles, still seeing himself and all of them at one remove, examined Charles’ heart, and found nothing there but mischief. “Doesn’t he need Father too?” he said.

  “Christ!” Julian said. “Could they really send me to prison?” Even as he spoke the words, even as he began to feel the now familiar symptoms of fear and fog and nausea, another part of him was thinking that if only it weren’t for the publicity and embarrassment of the trial, prison wouldn’t be so bad. Who could get at him there? Who would know him there? It wasn’t prison itself that he dreaded, but the going in and eventually coming out again. “Could I really go to prison?” he said.

  “Unless you do something pretty quickly.”

  “What can I do? She’s already … I mean, you can’t undo—— An abortion, do you mean?”

  “Maybe. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Monney.”

  “No!”

  “It’s the only thing.”

  “I can’t.” Why did they think he had come home? It was up to them to do these things. Wasn’t it embarrassing enough for him, just talking about it? “I can’t go back to all that,” he said. “I’m not well. I only came home for help, and now you want to send me back. It isn’t fair.”

  “Julian, dear——”

  “I’m not well.”

  A voice at the door said, “Milkman!” and Mrs. Baker got her bag from the dresser, and went to pay him. “Two extra today, please,” she said, and the milkman said cheerfully, “Ah, got the family home for a bit, have you, me dear? It’s nice when they’re all down together.”

  Mrs. Baker said, “Yes, isn’t it?” and Charles said, “Hullo, Cyril. How are you keeping?” The milkman said, “Not so bad. How’s yourself?” and Julian said nothing.

  When the milkman had gone, Mrs. Baker said, “You can see he isn’t well, Charles.”

  The Colonel opened the back door, and stood in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or go away. “Hope I’m not barging in on anything,” he said.

  “We were discussing Julian’s trouble, Father.”

  “Oh…. Well, I’ll be buzzing off then.”

  “Come in, Justin, for goodness sake. After all, he’s your son, isn’t he?”

  “Thank you, my dear.” Balancing on one foot, the Colonel began to remove a gumboot. “Round-table conference, eh? Talk it all out. Much better.” He pulled off the second boot, and looked around for his slippers. Not finding them, he padded into the kitchen on stockinged feet, and sat down at the table, resting his elbows on it. Nobody spoke.

  The silence grew. The Colonel took his elbows off the table, and cleared his throat. Mrs. Baker grew red in the face. The Colonel cleared his throat again, “Hrrrm! Hrrrm!” a persistent irritating sound, which was so much a habit of his when nervous that neither he nor his wife any longer noticed it. Charles looked up and saw above him a triple rail on which odd bits of hand-washing were hanging; it could be lowered by a cord secured to a double hook on the wall. The bits of washing looked like fresh scenery, waiting in the flies above the stage of a theatre. Julian would be happy if the scenery were changed, and a new play were to begin. But one was never off-stage in life until one died. It should have been Julian in that hospital, if that was what he wanted; Julian should have taken the pills. But Julian had never even thought of that. He had come home instead. Was it, Charles wondered, the same thing?

  Julian’s feeling was simple resentment. If something had to be done, why expect him to do it? Let them arrange things as they wanted. It was easy enough for them; they weren’t concerned. Let them do whatever had to be done, but with him let them have the decency to pretend that nothing had happened, not be forever talking about it, not drag him into their discussions. He left his seat, and began to fiddle with the cord of the rail, jerking the washing a little up and down above their heads. Then he said, “I’m going down to the village. You’ll be better without me,” and went into the hall. They heard the front door slam behind him.

  Mrs. Baker said, “He needs a rest. He’s been thinking about it too much. No wonder he’s nervy.”

  “But, Teresa——”

  “He’s quite right. If we’re going to discuss his affairs, it would only embarrass him to be here. He’s already told me all about it when I took the tea in this morning.”

  Charles had a sudden vision of his mother sitting there on the bed, and Julian in pyjamas, fascinated and evasive; the gentle questions following one another, prodding and tasting as she experienced it all at second hand. But not all. Not from Julian, who never told all, and to whom truth and half-truth were the same, and who had been playing this game with Mrs. Baker for a long time. (“Oh, Ju,” Charles had once said, “why are you such a liar?” and Julian had answered, “But you can’t tell the truth to mother. She likes getting at things her own way.”)

  “It seems she’s quite a common girl,” Mrs. Baker said, “and one night Julian was a bit tight—it was when Penny had that trouble with her eyes, and naturally he was upset, and probably drank too much—you know how weak he is….” How weak we all are, Mother, Charles thought: you have always protected us: and suddenly, shatteringly, out of nowhere remembered a New Year’s Eve at the end of the war, and he, at fifteen, had been allowed to stay up for it. There had been a paratroop officer, red-faced and silly-serious with drinking. He had seized Charles by the shoulder, pointed across the room at Mrs. Baker, and said, “That woman—she’s an angel. Don’t you ever forget it. She’s an angel, your mother.” She loves us; she really does, Charles thought. How they took advantage of that, all three of them, using it quite unscrupulously to get away from her when the time came. “It was so easy with Penny in hospital,” Mrs. Baker said. “The girl even led Julian upstairs. He said himself that if he’d been sober he’d have been more careful. I don’t mean he wouldn’t have had anything to do with her then, of course, but at least he’d have been more careful.”

  “What a mess!” the Colonel said unhappily, “what a mess!”

  “Justin, is Charles right about the police? Will they follow him? Will they come here?”

  “I don’t know. They might. I mean, they could send a message.”

  “It would be all round the village.”

  Charles said, “At the moment I should think it depends on the girl’s father.”

  “Mr. Monney, or whatever his name is.”

  “Yes. You don’t think that might be the answer?”

  “Money, you mean?” the Colonel said. “Pay him?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t like doing that.”

  “Of course it’s the answer,” Mrs. Baker said. “That’s all these people want. What good would it do him to go to the police?”

  “He may have been already.”

  “Well, don’t just sit there when you could be doing something,” Mr
s. Baker said. “I’ve never asked you to do anything for the boys before. And now when there is something——”

  There was a sudden ring at the bell. All three of them jumped. Mrs. Baker said, “Don’t answer it”.

  “Don’t be silly, Mother. I’ll go.”

  “Don’t let them in. He’s not here, remember.”

  Colonel Baker said, “My dear, we can’t——”

  “He’s not here.”

  Charles said, “Really, Mother!” and went to answer the door. Colonel Baker tried to avoid looking at his wife. He said, “There’s no need to get alarmed, Teresa. I’m sure it isn’t anything important.” Mrs. Baker began to weep silently and helplessly, not attempting to wipe away the tears. “I should have known you wouldn’t be any use,” she said. “I should never have asked you. Now it’s too late.” The kitchen door reopened, and she got up to face it, but it was only Charles who entered. He said, “Father, it’s someone for you”.

  “Not——?”

  “It’s Mr. Albert Monney, Father. He says he’d like to have a word with Julian, if he can spare the time.”

  *

  Mr. Monney had determined to say nothing to Penny; it wouldn’t be fair, not without talking to Julian first, and in any case how could he talk to a woman about such a thing, particularly the wife? There were so many confusing things, and perhaps Julian, who was a better educated man, would be able to see them more clearly. There were medical things to be settled. Was Betty right in saying she was pregnant? Sometimes women were mistaken, and it turned out to be only mental. How, in any case, could Betty be sure at her age? (But she said she was sure.) Ought he to go with her to some clinic, or would that cause talk? What were her feelings towards Julian, and his to her? (She wouldn’t talk about that.) If they wished to marry, was she not too young, and wouldn’t it get into the papers? Wouldn’t it get in the papers anyway over the divorce which Mrs. Baker certainly had the right to demand? Would Betty have to go to court and give evidence in public, so that everyone would know, all the neighbours and the people at work, knowing all about it, and talking behind his back?