The Centre of the Green

by John Bowen

  Of course that was not why he had been summoned home. On the contrary, Mrs. Baker had sent for Charles so that he could act as head of the family, and by doing so exclude his father, not simply from the headship, but from the family itself. Did she know, Charles wondered. Did she know what she was doing, or was it all done instinctively? “Father, can I ask you something?” he said, and stopped, because of course he knew the answer to his own question. She knew and did not know. When the Colonel returned from his lonely, phoney war, Mrs. Baker was already losing to time and growth her struggle to keep possession of her sons, to know and own them, body and mind. She was losing, and knew that she was losing; from this knowledge, her jealousy took its strength. How could she share with the Colonel what now she only pretended to have? To her he was only another enemy.

  She might have made a swap, and cherished her husband instead of her sons, but perhaps both she and the Colonel were too old for that. Marriage is sharing; it is the growth of inter-responsibilities, fads, memories, jokes, a growing together, the habit of contiguity. All these had been broken by their long separation, and although they might have mended, could only do so by consent and patience. Mrs. Baker had not consented. Pity her then, since she must live with her enemy, playing out with him the conventions of marriage through the long days. Pity her since the swap had been made after all in despite of her, and she placed no value on what she had been given in her sons’ exchange.

  “Ask away,” the Colonel said.

  “It doesn’t matter.” There was pity for his mother, contempt for his brother, but help for his father. Charles would make something of his father, recondition him like an old gas cooker. He would give him back his usefulness. Whether the doctor was right or wrong, whether the Colonel would live one year more or twenty, he ought not to die a beaten man. A freethinker must die with his self-respect, since he is denied the consolation of immortality. “I think I’ve got an idea for helping Julian,” he said, “but I’ll have to work it out. It does mean rather a lot for you to do, I’m afraid, Father. Let’s all of us talk about it tomorrow when you’re up.”

  “Work for me?” the Colonel said.

  Charles smiled, and said, “I don’t see how we can help that. If you decide you can’t manage it, I’ll have to think of something else.”

  “Don’t mock me, Charles.”

  “I’m not really. Just making a joke; it’s the conventional thing to do in a sick-room. Anyway, chaps ought to rest for a bit now, don’t you think? I’ll talk to mother, and see whether we can’t have a sort of board meeting tomorrow.”

  “Responsibility suits you, Charles,” the Colonel said. “Makes you masterful. Still, if chaps ought to rest, chaps’ll see what they can do about it. There’s a library book somewhere underneath the bed, if you don’t mind fishing for it, and my glasses are in the pocket of my dressing-gown.”

  As Charles left the room, the Colonel settled back against the pillow, and opened his book with the air of one who is going to get through a couple of chapters before lunch. It seemed to Charles, the Creator, that the process of regeneration had already begun.

  *

  Charles went into the garden, sat in a chair on the lawn and set himself to think. Before talking to his mother, he needed to have both his aim and the way to achieve it clear in his mind.

  The aim was simple. Some way must be found by which his father could help Julian, and in doing so recover his own self-respect. It was a textbook answer to what is called The Problem of Old People. Charles might almost have been paraphrasing Nurse Ann Parker’s Answers to Correspondents in Woman’s Life: Try to find something for your father to do, dear. Old folk like to feel they are “paying their way”, and we ought to humour them if we can. Nothing strenuous. You mustn’t over tax his strength. Almost any little job will do if it makes father feel important—and wanted. And Nurse Ann Parker would be right, as far as her advice went, the patronizing old bitch.

  As far as it went. The aim was excellent, but it presupposed first that Julian was capable of being helped at all, second that, even if this were so, anything the Colonel could do would help him, and third that Mrs. Baker would allow her husband to try.

  Begin with the first. Gould Julian be helped at all? He was in two sorts of trouble, one psychological, the other circumstantial. Psychological? The idea of helping Julian in this way grew in Charles’ mind like the dénouement of one of those “adult” Hollywood films, in which the mixed-up kid who has rejected his father and the foolish father who has resented his son stand together at last, hands tightly clasped, tears in their eyes, buddies to the end of time. “Thanks … Dad.” “You’re welcome … Son” Reluctantly Charles put the idea from him. It would be better not to meddle with Julian’s psyche.

  Because after all—let him be clear about this—it was less important that Julian should be helped than that he should seem to be helped. Only a psychologist could help him psychologically, but the circumstantial problem had a far more conventional solution. A young man behaves badly to a number of young women, and brings disgrace upon himself and his family. Answer: get him out of the country. Since this would mean getting him away from his mother, it might even do him some good psychologically as well.

  Objection. Simply packing Julian abroad would not help the Colonel. It would seem too easy to him—just a tidying away, a sweeping of dust under the carpet; it would not be helping Julian at all. Therefore … therefore … of course (Charles jumped to his feet in excitement, and overturned the wicker chair in which he had been sitting) … the Colonel must go with him.

  That sounded too simple, too silly, but of course it was the answer. You could not ignore the psychological problem, because that was the problem to the Colonel. Helping Julian could only be done by getting to know Julian. Why shouldn’t the movies be right? After all, Charles thought, Julian and I—even Henry—we’re all three a bit odd in our different ways, and there’s not much doubt why. It couldn’t do any harm to try.

  But Mrs. Baker could not be convinced by this, and for her there were the circumstantial reasons. Scandal would die in Devonshire, the abortion be discreetly arranged in London, while Julian and his father were on holiday abroad. Could she refuse? She could, and she probably would, but her refusal would be difficult to justify. As long as the real reason for the holiday remained submerged, Mrs. Baker could only oppose on the surface where she was weakest. If Julian was prepared to go and the Colonel wanted to take him, she would not be able to prevent it.

  *

  On Sunday after lunch they held their conference. Julian refused to attend, and went out into the garden. Since the Colonel knew as little of the real reasons behind the plan as his wife did, Charles fought alone, and was utterly defeated. Mrs. Baker was not concerned with subtleties below the surface. Against the practical reasons for the holiday, she put up a strong practical reason of her own. They could not afford it. It was out of the question.

  Charles looked towards his father for help, but the Colonel sat there glumly, and said nothing.

  “Anyway, dear,” Mrs. Baker said. “We’re not living in the nineteenth century, you know. We can’t pack Julian off to the colonies or somewhere, just because he’s in trouble. It’s barbarous, making a—what do you call it?—remittance man out of him. If that’s all you have to suggest I’m surprised you insisted on dragging your father out of bed. You ought to have known perfectly well it wouldn’t do. First, as I say, because we can’t afford it, and secondly because it isn’t the answer. Julian’s sick, Charles, and he needs our help, not to be posted away like a parcel.”

  Oh, you smug triumphant lady. What have you got up your sleeve? he thought, but all he said was, “What do you mean—sick?”

  “Sick, dear. Ill. While you’ve been dreaming up these expensive schemes of yours, I’ve been having a chat with Dr. Wilson. It wasn’t pleasant, talking about it to someone outside the family, but it was the only thing to do. Julian’s sick, and he needs treatment before he breaks down alt
ogether.”

  “Treatment?”

  “There’s a very nice place run by an Austrian near Totnes where people go. Of course it isn’t really Dr. Wilson’s sort of thing, but he’s been very helpful. He says it might even be arranged on the National Health. I expect we’d have to pay something as well, but it wouldn’t be much.”

  “You want Julian to go to a Mental Home?”

  “Only for a bit until he’s better.”

  “Lock him up?”

  “I could visit him. Really, Charles, it isn’t an Institution or anything. They wouldn’t be putting him into a strait-jacket, or any of that snake-pit nonsense. It’s just a place where people go when they want to give up drinking and that sort of thing.”

  “What if he doesn’t want to?” But Julian, in his present passive state, would go wherever he was put, as long as he didn’t have to take any positive action himself.

  “It’s the best thing for him. Of course he’ll want to. You mustn’t sulk, dear, just because we’re not going to do what you suggest. It was very kind of you to go to all the trouble of working things out, and I do understand and appreciate it, but when somebody suggests something better you ought to be glad and helpful, and not just sit there making silly objections out of pique. It’s not very grown-up, dear, is it?”

  She had him. She had used his own strategy to defeat him. He had planned to confound her with practicalities, so that his real reasons need never be stated, and she had answered his practicalities with practicalities of her own. It was Charles after all who had fought on the surface, his opposition that seemed unreasonable. He could not possibly say that his concern was not for Julian at all, but for the Colonel. She had won, while all the time the Colonel sat by, an old man in an armchair, watching his son’s defeat without ever knowing what the battle was about.

  “What do you think, Father?” Charles said, but the Colonel only replied sadly, “I expect your mother’s right. If there’s nothing more to talk about, I’ll be getting along with my walk.”

  *

  “Father, it’s ridiculous.”

  “Your mother——”

  “It’s stupid. Julian isn’t potty. I’m not saying a psychologist couldn’t help him—I’m sure he could—but there’s a difference between that and a Mental Home.”

  “Charles, I can’t interfere.”

  “Look, Father, I have to tell you this. I wasn’t just trying to pack Julian out of the country; I wouldn’t have suggested your going with him if I had been. I wanted to get him away from mother. Don’t you realize that this smothering thing she does all the time is probably what’s wrong with him? When Julian ran away from the office, he was already in trouble; that’s true. But has being at home helped him? Has mother helped him? Look at him now. He’s like a vegetable. He won’t take responsibility for anything. He just eats and sleeps and sits around, refusing to talk about it.”

  They came to a gate in the hedge. The Colonel said, “I usually go through here, and up the hill.”

  Charles said, “I wanted you to get to know each other, away from all this mess; you couldn’t do it here. I thought it might do him good to realize that he had more than one parent, and one who wasn’t going to make any demands on him. Maybe it’s too late, but I thought you could help simply by giving him an alternative.”

  “You think I could do that, eh?”

  “I think you should try. If it doesn’t work, then maybe it’s time to try something like the Mental Home.”

  The Colonel said, “We could afford it, you know—this holiday thing of yours. It wouldn’t be easy. Don’t like touching capital. No more does your mother. Still, we can’t take it with us.”

  “It’s up to you then, Father.”

  “Talk to your mother again, eh?”

  “You’d better talk to Julian first. See how he reacts. If he wants to go with you, mother will have to give way.”

  “Yes,” the Colonel said. “Yes.”

  “Do it when you can. I don’t suppose there’s any great hurry.”

  “Don’t like putting things off. I’ll have to think about it a bit though, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  The Colonel said, “I wish you weren’t going back tonight, Charles. Wish you could stay on a bit.”

  “You don’t need me, Father. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “I’m on my own, eh? Up to me now?”

  “That’s right, Father. It’s all up to you.”

  *

  The Colonel did not speak to Julian that day, or the next, or the next after that. He did not speak until Wednesday. Instead, during his afternoon walks and the wakeful hours of the night, he turned things over in his mind like a careful gardener, sifting and breaking up the soil so that it might become fertile.

  Was this the way to help his son, and was he the man to do it? Was he sure of his own motives? Was he helping Julian only to help himself?—making a lifebelt of him? If this were so, it would be selfish and irresponsible to carry through Charles’ scheme; he had better not act at all than act selfishly. Yet might he not also be using this very scruple as an excuse for doing nothing, a cover for timidity? The Colonel examined his conscience, and found only uncertainty there.

  He thought of his wife’s plan of sending Julian to a Home. But Julian was not an alcoholic or a dope-addict. He could not be weaned from his vice simply by being denied the means to indulge it; his addiction was not of that sort. Anything else—all this couch business—took years, the Colonel had heard.

  A change of air—it was an old-fashioned remedy, the sort of glib, family-doctor’s phrase that nowadays you mocked. But certainly staying at home wasn’t doing Julian any good.

  Finally Colonel Baker told himself that Julian was not a child, to have his life arranged for him. That was what his mother wanted; probably it was what Charles wanted, but chaps were not pawns to be pushed about. Chaps had minds and wills of their own, and, if they were not used, chaps might as well be animals, not human beings at all. Julian must decide for himself what was to be done with him.

  So on Wednesday, the Colonel made his mind up to speak. Old unused machinery creaks. The Colonel, having found Julian in the living-room, sat clearing his throat, hrrmm! hrrmm! in his irritating habitual way, unable to start.

  “Looking for the paper, Father?”

  “No. Wanted to talk to you.”

  “Oh.” During the last four days, Julian’s complexion had turned to grey, so that now he looked as if he were made of left-over pastry dough which a child has kneaded with grubby hands. The Colonel did not know how to continue, and Julian was determined not to help him. They sat there in silence. After a while, Julian picked up the Radio Times, and began to flip over the pages.

  The Colonel said, “I’m not going to talk about your trouble. Don’t want to go on about it, or anything like that. What’s done is done.”

  No reply. Pouting, Julian continued to look at the Radio Times. The Colonel thought, If you can’t think of anything to say, then don’t say anything, eh? Got to break through that somehow. “Question is, what we’re going to do next,” he said.

  Julian felt like a man trapped inside a cave, who hears his rescuers battering at the rock to get him out. He longs to shout out to them, “Why don’t you leave me alone? I like it here. I didn’t ask you to free me,” but he knows that, hearing his voice and thus knowing him still to be alive, they would only try the harder to reach him. So he sits quietly in the darkness, holding his knees with clasped hands, and willing them to go away. Only leave me alone. When the doctors perform a Caesarian operation, they may ask permission of the father, the mother, or the mother’s kin, but they do not consider the wishes of the child, although he has at least shown himself unwilling to emerge. “Give me a guarantee against the world,” the child may cry. “Let me at least be sure that, if I don’t like it out there, I may return.” But the child’s cry is not understood, and he is rescued in spite of himself from the warm prison of his mother’s body.


  The Colonel said, “I want to help you, Julian,” and cleared his throat again. His hands, he noticed, were clenched, and his shoulders rigid with tension. He remembered what the doctor had told him: “When you feel yourself growing tense, remember that it’s bad for you. Relax. Take time. Breathe deeply for a bit.” He inhaled, and then slowly respired; his shoulders dropped two inches. Julian said nothing, and turned over a page. The Colonel decided to try shock tactics. He said, “Your mother wants to send you into a Home. Do you want to go?”

  A Home. The words travelled slowly along the line of communication to consciousness. Then they exploded into alarm, but almost at once the alarm was dissipated in apathy. Why not? What else was there to do? It would probably be better than sitting around the house. He would be safe there; nobody could get at him. Whatever was going to happen, let it happen, as long as he was not responsible.

  But the Colonel had noticed Julian’s first reaction of alarm, and now he said, “You needn’t go if you don’t want to. Nobody can make you.” A pause. “Charles had rather a good idea, as a matter of fact. He thought you wouldn’t want to be locked up.” A pause. “Thought you’d rather get away from things for a bit.”

  Corny, corny! Julian thought, wary as a fish at the bottom of a pond. Get away from it all! What kind of corny bait do you think you’re using? Nevertheless he began to swim upwards through the bland syrup of his apathy to examine the bait more closely. To get away! What else had he been trying to do, ever since the day of the Buttertoffs meeting? But he had thought there was nowhere left to run except inside himself, and now the Colonel was suggesting—what? “Away where?” he said.

  “Abroad for a bit. Matter of fact, I thought we might go together.”

  “Abroad?”

  “For a bit. Sort of holiday. Spain, or somewhere fairly cheap. They all speak English nowadays.”

  Julian mocked his father. “You want me to run away from my responsibilities then?”

  “No. Not if I thought you could do anything about them. Chaps have to do what they can do, I suppose. Silly to expect any more.”