Imago Bird

by Nicholas Mosley

  Brian Alick said ‘But you were saying?’

  — that my heart turned over.

  She had come in with two or three men who were older than she. They were shaggy men, like trappers, out all winter.

  They went over to a table and began to eat and drink as if they were starving.

  I said ‘Power is to do with armies and police. That is, once you’ve thrown over custom and tradition. All this stuff you talk of, workers’ committees and co-operation and so on, this is the talk of people with no real interest in power, who like to stay in opposition.’

  Brian Alick said ‘I can tell you we certainly don’t intend to stay in opposition!’

  I thought—Does she provide honey for those bears and bees?

  I said ‘Then you’ll have the problem of what to do with the people who don’t do what you tell them, won’t you.’

  I thought—Now, when I have someone to talk for —

  Someone said ‘But Bert, not everyone is like your uncle!’

  This was Sheila.

  I thought—Now, I do not stammer?

  Sheila was sitting beside, and slightly behind, Brian Alick, on a sofa. She had her hand on his shoulder.

  I thought—I believe that by talking like this I can attract the girl at the table?

  I said ‘What’s wrong with my uncle? He knows about power. He doesn’t shelter behind the fact that it’s easier for anyone to be a sort of martyr in opposition.’

  The girl at the table still had her back to me. She seemed to move slightly while remaining quite still; like a table-tennis ball on a jet of water.

  Sheila said ‘He shelters behind the army and the police!’

  I said ‘My Uncle Bill?’

  I remembered Dr Anders so often saying—If you do object to people, why don’t you get angry?

  People were now listening to me openly. There was what seemed to be some slight confrontation.

  Everyone was paying attention, that is, except the group by the table.

  Sheila said ‘Well take the Matanga tribe for instance—’

  I thought—I will not be taking this out on Sheila just because it is easy —

  I said ‘Oh I do think it’s pathetic, to say my uncle is responsible for the Matanga! What was he at the time, one man sitting in England with bits of paper, pushing bits of paper around, what do you think he had to do with all those deaths in Africa? Do you think people wouldn’t have died if there hadn’t been people like my uncle pushing bits of paper around? Oh I know it was to do with guns, but do you think people won’t kill each other if they want to, just if there aren’t people like my Uncle Bill trying to deal with things like guns? What do you think people like my Uncle Bill do? They’re helpless; they’re dummies; put up by two sides of a football crowd, you know, in those scarves and funny hats, with rattles. Do you think they can make, or stop, people being killed and killing? They’re not powerful. You’re the people who think people like Uncle Bill are powerful, because you think you’d like to have that sort of power yourselves; but you wouldn’t, you just like talk, you like people like my Uncle Bill being there for you to grumble at. What on earth would you do if you had power? If you couldn’t grumble? You think there’d be fewer deaths in Africa? You don’t want power; you want things neat and tidy. That only happens in talk. People like my Uncle Bill know their limitations: they say they’re public servants; but don’t be taken in; they really are. They watch the little bits of paper being pushed around: they chase after them. Someone has to do something with all those terrible bits of paper. But if you think people like Uncle Bill are in control, you’re crazy. You’re the ones who think people are in control. You don’t know your limitations. You’re élitist.’

  I thought—Dear God, I have spoken: who cares about whether or not I am in control?

  Then—Will she even now not turn to me?

  — Me on my fine chariot, with my plunging horses!

  After a time someone said ‘Your Uncle Bill is a servant?’

  I said ‘Trotsky said he himself was the servant of history.’

  I thought—Well he did, didn’t he?

  Sally Rogers had come over to me. She said in a husky voice ‘Can I fill you up?’

  I thought—Oh well, I will be better off with her than with Sheila, won’t I; her legs like an hour-glass with the sand running down —

  Brian Alick had turned away and was whispering to Sheila. Others were recomposing themselves as if after some slight accident.

  Sally Rogers said ‘I liked what you said.’

  I said ‘Did you?’

  I thought—One goes where the wind takes one.

  The girl by the table had still not turned to me.

  I thought—I must remember, what I may well forget, that that girl will always hurt me.

  Then—But what is not good, if it is where my dark horse takes me!

  Sally Rogers said ‘Especially the bit about servants. I mean, about people liking power in order not to be free.’

  I thought—Oh well, Sally Rogers will be my good white horse then.

  She said ‘Come and let me get you something to eat.’

  I followed her to the table. I thought—Now, if I really want to, is the time to talk to the girl with curly hair.

  I said to Sally Rogers ‘Ah, but without such martyrs, how would we live—’

  The girl and her entourage seemed to be already moving towards the door.

  I thought—Go and put your hand on her shoulder —

  I said to Sally Rogers ‘—who make the water hot; the trains run on time—’

  I thought—But is not the point of the experiment still to find out what is true?

  I said ‘What else would we talk about, in the long winter evenings?’

  Sally Rogers said ‘Shall I show you?’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  The girl had gone out of the door.

  IX

  When I got back to Cowley Street it was Sunday evening so I expected still to be on my own in the house, but Uncle Bill and Aunt Mavis and Mrs Washbourne seemed to have returned early and there were people moving in and out of the front door like undertakers. I thought—Would it not be better if Government officials wore caps and bells like clowns? Could they not then be taken more seriously?

  I thought I might go round to the back of the house and try to climb over the garden wall and in through the kitchen window: but it seemed better to save this up for when my situation might be more desperate.

  ‘Oh Bert—’

  ‘Yes.’

  Can your uncle have a word with you please?’

  This was Mrs Washbourne. I had got past the policeman at the door; had smiled at one or two servants or dignitaries in the hall; then Mrs Washbourne had been outside Uncle Bill’s study like a head prefect.

  I thought—Why is one always caught like this just when one has been trying to defend the headmaster?

  ‘Come along in. Sit down. Are you all right in your room?’

  This was still Mrs Washbourne. Uncle Bill was in a corner watching television. On the screen there was a commentator talking but the sound was switched off. The commentator’s lips were like mice on a treadmill.

  ‘Did you have a good weekend?’

  ‘Yes thanks.’

  ‘It must be pretty lonely.’

  ‘No I’m fine.’

  I wondered if they might have found my small store of pornography.

  — Or the man in the attic might have told them—but what?

  ‘What happened to that friend you had at school?’

  ‘Oh, he’s in Greece.’

  I thought—I understood whom she was talking about rather too quickly?

  Then—Perhaps it’s the man who tried to pick me up at Victoria Station?

  I could explain—But I was carrying out this experiment, you see, to test the theory that if homosexuals act truly they do not go to bed with each other —

  — But my friend and I at school had, hadn’t we?


  Mrs Washbourne said ‘Perhaps you could have some people round here to keep you company.’

  I said ‘That would be nice.’

  She said ‘Who would you like?’

  I thought—Sheila and Brian Alick?

  — Or, one day, the girl with curly hair.

  Mrs Washbourne was not really talking to me. She was filling in time for Uncle Bill who was watching television.

  I thought—He is waiting to see if he himself comes on.

  Mrs Washbourne said Tour uncle doesn’t get much time.’

  I said ‘Oh that’s all right.’

  I thought—What happens when you two go to bed?

  I do not know if I have made it clear that I liked Uncle Bill. Out of all the people I knew in the grown-up world he seemed to me to be one of the best; perhaps because he was so successful; which gave him a confidence perhaps to stand back and see himself; to see the world that he was involved in as a bit mad too; looking down on himself as if he were in the maze and there were something of that thread or the bird behind his eyes —

  When Uncle Bill did switch off the television and come over to me by the fire there were such bags of exhaustion under his eyes that it was as if he might have to pick them up and carry them like suitcases.

  Mrs Washbourne went to a table by the window and stood there by a machine which seemed to be a mixture between a large typewriter and the sort of computer which tells you whether or not you have a seat on an aeroplane.

  Uncle Bill and I sat each side of an unlit fire.

  He said ‘Bert, did you have a good weekend? I’m afraid it’s a bit lonely here. Are you comfortable in your room? What happened to that friend you had at school?’

  I said ‘He’s in Greece.’

  I thought—Well, it must be nice for them I suppose if they think they can show they are decent about homosexuals.

  Uncle Bill said ‘We must get some people round here some time. Make things more jolly for you.’

  He was loosening his clothes and pulling out a pipe like a woman getting a breast out to feed a baby.

  He said ‘You’ve got these friends. What are they? Trotskyites. Revolutionary Socialists. Or whatever. So they tell me.’

  I thought—Ah, so it’s not the man at Victoria Station.

  Uncle Bill stuffed his finger into his pipe. I wondered—What would Dr Anders think I am thinking—that Uncle Bill is playing with his pipe like a child?

  He said ‘You’re interested in their politics?’

  I said ‘Not really.’

  He said ‘No reason why you shouldn’t be. When I was your age I was quite a dab hand at Marx.’

  He turned and smiled at Mrs Washbourne who was in front of the machine on the table.

  He said ‘Have you got that thing turned off, Connie?’

  Mrs Washbourne smiled; as if, like the Mona Lisa, she had sat on a sharp rock.

  I thought—It’s true they might be bugging themselves?

  Also—That man in the attic did look like President Nixon?

  Uncle Bill said ‘I’ve never understood why, if the victory of the working class is so inevitable—’

  I said ‘Oh they say it isn’t—’

  ‘They do?’

  ‘Yes. Or rather, they say it isn’t when it suits them and they say it is when it suits them. They’re very sensible really. You can make out Marx to say almost anything, like the Bible.’

  Uncle Bill banged his pipe against the fender. I wondered—Is he impressed by this?

  From his huge hands, bits of ash fell out on to the world.

  I could not make out what Mrs Washbourne was doing. She was standing over her machine as if it were a pin-table and she was waiting to tilt it with her stomach.

  Uncle Bill said ‘You know your Marx?’

  I said ‘Not much.’

  He said ‘It’s the moral indignation I found valuable.’

  I could not quite make out what was behind Uncle Bill’s eyes. It was as if they were barricaded by milk bottles piling up outside a front door.

  He said ‘Do they ask you personal questions?’

  I said ‘Personal questions?’

  Mrs Washbourne had sat down by her machine. I thought—She is in fact taking this down? To be used as evidence?

  Then—I am mad?

  I said ‘I’ve got this girlfriend.’

  He said ‘Sheila.’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  He said ‘You see, we’re quite efficient.’

  I thought—I am not mad?

  Uncle Bill said ‘Always someone behind the curtain! Always someone behind the arras!’

  He smiled; and moved his pipe across his mouth as if from one breast to the other.

  I thought—The man in white overalls? The man in the attic?

  Mrs Washbourne was in front of her machine as if she might be waiting for some message from Andromeda.

  Uncle Bill said ‘As a matter of fact I get most of it from Mavis.’

  I tried to work this out. He was telling me I was being watched: otherwise how did he know of my relationship with Sheila and the Trotskyites? But he was also telling me he knew all this was a bit of a joke: since he got most of his information from Aunt Mavis.

  — But anyway, what was behind the arras?

  — Was Polonius a piece of electronic equipment then?

  He said ‘And she gets it from these gossip-column fellows.’

  I said ‘Oh.’ Then ‘Ah.’

  Then—‘Has there been anything in the papers?’

  He said ‘Not yet.’

  I thought—But he would not want me to know if I were being bugged? He would say—It’s those gossip-column fellows?

  — But he would say this if it was.

  Uncle Bill said ‘They ask you questions about what goes on in this house?’

  I thought—This is all too simple.

  I said ‘They spend most of the time talking about who killed Trotsky.’

  He said ‘Who killed Trotsky?’

  I said ‘It seems certain that it was someone in the Russian Secret Service. But the point is that Trotskyites like to think that either one set of people or another were traitors in his entourage. This obsesses them. Keeps them occupied Things like spies: secret-service men. You know.’

  I thought—I know I’m doing this to be difficult

  — But what has happened to that bird that was once behind Uncle Bill’s eyes; has it become trapped, and is dying there?

  He said again ‘They don’t ask personal questions?’

  I said ‘No.’

  He sucked at his pipe.

  After a time I said ‘I don’t think they’re much of a threat to you really. I mean they feel things very simply. They feel society’s rotten, which it is, but they haven’t any plans to make it better. They keep themselves ready for what will turn up, which is quite sensible really. That’s how revolutions do happen They do I suppose put people into trade unions and things; but these are the sort of people who would be in trade unions anyway. I mean, what’s the point of a trade union if there aren’t people in it who want to kick up all sorts of fuss—’

  Uncle Bill was looking at Mrs Washbourne. Mrs Washbourne seemed to be still poised over the keys of her machine; as if the announcement she was expecting was being shot down by angels.

  I thought—The message from Andromeda might be devilish then?

  Uncle Bill said ‘This Dr Anders, he doesn’t ask you questions?’

  I thought—Good heavens!

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘Dr Anders is a woman.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘Dr Anders is a woman?’

  I thought—They are mad then.

  But—How wonderful it will be to tell Dr Anders that Uncle Bill thought she was a Trotskyite, and a man!

  Uncle Bill was watching Mrs Washbourne. She was watching her machine. I thought—The bird that was trapped behind Uncle Bill’s eyes has been dead some time?

  Uncle Bill said ‘Let’s go back, shall we, to what
we were saying before we were interrupted.’

  I thought—Take that, Mrs Washbourne, behind the arras!

  He said ‘There are things, after all, they would dearly like to know about this house. Does he, or does she, or whoever this Dr Anders is, ask you personal questions?’

  I said ‘She’s an analyst. Of course she asks personal questions.’

  I thought—Don’t you even know that?

  Uncle Bill bared his teeth against his pipe as if he were trying to hurt someone.

  I said ‘But analysts don’t really ask questions about what goes on outside. They’re not really interested. They ask questions about what goes on in your mind. And then, perhaps, they try to make connections with what’s outside.’

  He said ‘Then she does ask questions about what goes on in the house.’

  I thought—What’s coming from Andromeda is the madness of simplicity.

  I said ‘Dr Anders isn’t a Trotskyite.’

  He said ‘Do you know that?’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  I thought—Well, do I?

  Then—Isn’t this just the sort of question that Dr Anders herself would have asked?

  I said again ‘Yes.’ Then —

  — But it was too difficult, after all, to try to explain to Uncle Bill why I knew Dr Anders wasn’t a Trotskyite.

  He said ‘It’s always been my conviction that things of a personal nature should be kept away from public life.’

  I thought I might say—But you see, Dr Anders would be interested in just this —

  — How can a person keep things of a personal nature away from public life?

  — By tearing himself in two?

  Uncle Bill said ‘They don’t ask you questions about what goes on in this house?’

  I thought—He is tired

  I said ‘There was a man doing some sort of job in the attic yesterday. Did you know?’

  Uncle Bill looked at Mrs Washbourne.

  Then he began banging his pipe against his knuckles so that burning ash fell over his clothes like meteorites.

  I thought—He wants to immolate himself?

  I said ‘He didn’t say what he was doing: he seemed to want not to be found out.’

  Mrs Washbourne called ‘Don’t do that!’ She left her machine and came over to Uncle Bill. She beat at his trousers as if he were on fire.