Walcot

by Brian Aldiss

  ‘They don’t sound very nice people to me,’ said Mary. She lowered her fork and stared at you. ‘I mean to say, they were outlaws in their own country, weren’t they?’

  ‘Their “own countries” had outlawed them, which is perhaps a different thing.’

  ‘I don’t see how that’s at all different from what I said.’

  ‘This Geldstein got you at gunpoint, didn’t he?’ said Martin. ‘I don’t understand how you became friends, as you claim.’

  ‘At the very least we were allies in a hostile occupied country. You can understand that, I’m sure.’

  ‘Really, I don’t like to think of a son of ours having to associate with such people,’ said Mary. ‘Of course, I know there’s a war on. I’m not criticizing – I don’t want you to think that. And we are so glad you are still alive. When do you have to go back to the army?’

  ‘Mother, the Geldsteins became my valued friends. We supported each other. He was an enlightened man. They taught me something about Aristotle, about happiness. My life had been so narrow –’

  ‘Aristotle?’ Martin chuckled. ‘That dirty old blighter! I wouldn’t think there was much you wanted to learn about him.’

  ‘We talked about his ethics. Stuck there in a French forest, we talked about Aristotle’s ideas, unlikely as it seems. It was intensely valuable. It opened my eyes to new aspects of life.’

  ‘What new aspects exactly?’

  You could not say. You could not explain to them.

  ‘Still,’ said Martin, ‘You did desert these new friends, as you call them, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. I still feel bad about that. But I was no deserter from the British Army. I had to get back to England.’

  Your parents made no further response beyond staring at you in perplexity.

  ‘I’ll make us a cup of tea,’ said Mary, as she rose after carefully folding her napkin.

  Gyp the Airedale had grown older and was less active. The house was smaller than you had remembered it. You saw evidences of poor finish everywhere, of wallpaper peeling, of damp in one corner of the sitting room. The photos of Sonia standing on the piano were fading within their silver frames.

  In your old room that night, you felt bitterly that misery which Valerie had brought on you in your boyhood. You had been haunted by Valerie. Now that you were back, memories of her baleful existence were also back.

  You considered that something vital had been missing, laying waste your childhood. A curtain of gloom descended upon you. You sat on the wicker-bottomed chair by the window and thought about your life. You could not define what it was that had been lost. Somehow, you were always perceived as having failed your parents. Now they appeared to you insensitive, stupid even. But it could be your arrogance.

  Yet after all, they could have – should have – inculcated in you an ability to tolerate them at the very least, and to empathize with their point of view. To love them. Why had you not really loved them, even in those years when you had never reflected on the possible reasons why you had been left alone on Walcot’s sands?

  This new information – the reason why you had been left alone there, conveyed by your aunt – held a certain destructive power. It sank back in time to poison what you had regarded as a period of happiness. It might be that there was something destructive in Auntie Violet’s nature; she could have kept her knowledge to herself. Certainly she had a dislike of your parents, and they of her; might she have a reason for wanting to turn you against them?

  In discomfort you considered the matter. You chewed it over and over until you reached the uncomfortable judgement that your dear aunt should have held her peace. Supposing – supposing that her story was true – the fact was that you had survived. The danger on the sands could not have been so great.

  Again your mind returned to those lovely expanses of beach: to the fresh, sweet smell of the sea; the murmur of the waves; the sun constant overhead; that joyous feeling of freedom.

  It came to you that you had flown a paper kite at one time – a square kite, red and green, with a long tail. The kite rattled in the breeze high above your head, riding the blue air like happiness itself. You loved the sound of the kite: brisk, businesslike. A rare gull strutted by the wavering margins of the sea, sleek and alert. You as a small boy again, lord of all you surveyed, sitting in a warm pool, watching the shrimps nibble at your toes …

  Never again would there be, could there be, a time like that. Realization of that finality came as a pervasive pain.

  And then the war, gobbling up your youth.

  If it was foolish of Violet to have spoken, perhaps it was also foolish of her to have climbed into bed with you; you conveniently forgot that you had invited her in. But at the thought of that conjunction, your senses caught fire, and you were, in a measure, comforted.

  ‘Oh, Violet, dearest!’ you whispered to the room.

  Yet the questions held you unhappily enslaved, when you had thought yourself a free man. But, free? Free, when you were still in the army, and the struggle had still to be fought?

  There was a passage in Aristotle’s Metaphysics which Gerard had read out to you. He had written it in his notebook. You had committed it to memory: ‘The arrangement of the universe is in fact like that of a household. In a household, it is the free members that have the least liberty to do whatever they please. Most, if not all, of their actions are prescribed.’

  You could see how that applied to your parents, prescribed within their limitations.

  ‘The slaves, on the other hand, and the livestock, have little to contribute and for the most part act as they please.’

  There, surely, Aristotle was mistaken. That pony, Beauty, had enjoyed no freedom. The delightful maid, Ann, the slave of your uncle Jeremy’s house, could never act as she pleased. Perhaps the war had freed Ann, as it had enslaved you.

  It occurred to you that Aristotle had no clearer idea of the workings of the universe than you did.

  Do you imply that you never acted as you pleased? Yet you enjoyed making love to Violet. It could he said that on the whole you enjoyed your exile in the Forêt de la Bouche. You seem a little confused.

  Ha! Of course I was confused! And pretty despondent, being back home in England.

  Your father made immediate overtures to you, and was thinking of your future.

  You rejected him. Why was that?

  How could I think of the future? I was only on leave – due to go back into the war in a few days time.

  Of course! That war … for many, suffering and death: for others, reprieves and excuses.

  You rose and began to sort through your old chest of drawers. Some mementoes of childhood lay there, together with love notes from Gale Roberts, your first girlfriend. There was a whistle from a pre-war cracker, a Dinky Toy oil tanker labelled ‘Redline Glico’, an old yo-yo, a postcard from Uncle Jack in Jerusalem, and a box which still contained two Price’s Night Lights.

  You took out one of the little wax tubs. The night light reminded you of your fear of darkness as a child. You had been more frightened then than in the Forêt de la Bouche. The steady little flame of the candle had been soothing. Pleased with the memory, you lit the wick from your cigarette lighter and switched off the overhead light.

  You stood in the dark, but the little light beamed steadily forth. As a small boy, standing in the same pose, you had come closer to Jesus, the light of the world. Now you put the thought away as too sentimental, reflecting instead on the darkness of the world, and how Britain saw itself as a solitary light against the night engulfing Europe.

  The light symbolized your consciousness, lonely and isolated. You needed someone to truly love, and to love yourself. Useless to pursue your aunt when Bertie answered the phone. Such thoughts fluttered about you. You wondered if life would make more sense if someone, some being, were watching your mental struggles.

  Now you know the answer to that.

  Why did you not speak at the time?

  Once the game
was in motion, we could never change the rules. Aristotle was evidently of no assistance at this juncture.

  You mock me.

  Nevertheless, the steady little tongue of flame from the nightlight was in itself cheering and beautiful. Such was your life.

  You held the tub in your hands, relishing its mild illumination.

  Your mood lifted. Stripping off your clothes, you ran a hot bath and sank into it. You regarded your hard, muscular body with satisfaction, thinking how only twenty-four hours earlier it had been blessed by the embraces of Violet’s body.

  Next morning you would go to seek out Gale. But in the morning you would find that the Robertses had moved. Nobody could tell you where they had gone, for wartime England, grey wartime England, was full of secrets. ‘There’s a war on,’ someone told you, as if you didn’t know.

  You slept this night on the floor, as you had done at your aunt’s. In the morning there was no charming visitor to bring you a cup of tea.

  3

  Christmas at Gracefield

  ‘For Christmas we’ll be going to stay with your father’s sister, Ada, and Claude, her husband, if you remember’, your mother announced, after breakfast. ‘You never sent them a card when you were in France, did you? Will you come with us? You don’t want to stay here alone, do you?’

  ‘And Sonia?’

  ‘She’s in Nottingham. I thought we told you. She has an acting career to pursue.’

  She was putting a record of Ernest Lush on the radiogram. Ernest Lush in his high, thin voice sang of white doves flying. Mary was fond of the record. She held her chin prayerfully in her hands to show how fond she was.

  Not for the first time, Mary was wrong. Even as Lush’s voice ascended to the ceiling, a taxi was coming up the drive. You saw it through the window and went to the front door to find out who it was. The rear door opened and Sonia climbed out.

  She waved on seeing you. ‘Steve, have you got any cash? Could you pay the cabbie, please?’

  The taxi-driver, to reinforce the request, stuck his hand out of the window. You put four pound notes into that hand. He gave you a wink and a nod. ‘She don’t feel too good. Look after her, Mr Soldier.’ And with that he was off.

  You carried Sonia’s case into the house. She clung to you as she walked; she looked extremely drained. ‘A kind man,’ she murmured.

  ‘He charged you just the same.’

  ‘Yeah, he charged me just the same. Four quid – just from the station.’

  Martin appeared in the doorway. ‘Darling! This is a nice surprise! Come on in.’

  From the background, competing with Ernest Lush, came Mary’s voice, asking who it was. Martin told her. She came running, screeching welcome, and seized Sonia in an embrace.

  ‘Go easy, Ma – I am a bit tender.’

  ‘Oh, you’re hurt? Poor little darling! What’s the matter?’

  ‘I fell off the stage.’

  We all went into the living room. Sonia sank into the leather sofa. ‘Shuggerybees,’ she gasped.

  ‘How thrilling to have you home for Christmas,’ said her mother, nevertheless with a slight question in her voice. Father said Sonia looked tired and offered a dry sherry. She asked for a cup of tea instead. Mary bustled off to get it.

  You sat down beside her and asked her what the matter was.

  ‘Just tired from the trip – had to change trains. All the fucking trains are crowded. I’ll be okay in a jiffy.’ She gave you an odd look.

  When she was drinking her tea, Mary sat beside her and busied herself smoothing her daughter’s hair. Sonia made no protest.

  ‘I’ll go up and rest,’ she said. ‘Steve, could you carry my things?’

  ‘Are you sure, dearest? Have you broken anything? You don’t look well.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mother. Please don’t be tiresome.’

  You went up to her room and dumped her luggage by the bed. Sonia shut the door and leaned against it.

  ‘Christ, how they fuss. Steve, glad to see you. I never believed the War Office with their sodding telegrams. Something told me you were alive.’

  You put your arms round her and you stood there, enjoying the embrace.

  ‘Oh Christ, got to lie down.’

  ‘You’re ill, love.’

  ‘I’m in fucking pain. I’ll be okay, I’ve got some aspirins. I’ll sleep.’

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she kicked off her shoes and lay down. You sat beside her and asked what the trouble was. She told you she had had an abortion, and the woman had hurt her. She emphasized the fact that it was a back-street abortion. ‘A Nottingham back-street abortion at that. Can you imagine it? I couldn’t believe I was pregnant. I’d made the guy wear a frenchie … How could I possibly have a baby? The mere thought! It would have ruined my career –’

  ‘Who was the bloke?’

  ‘What’s it matter who it was? I had to do it. There was no love involved. Just as well.’ After a pause, she went on. ‘I had to get away. The thought of home suddenly seemed good – anything to escape for a day or two.’

  You asked her when she had had the abortion. She said late on the night before last.

  ‘Thank God you’re here. I had to tell someone. But then … seeing them again … Mum would make such a bloody fuss. I can’t bear to tell them. You won’t tell them, will you? I’ll say I fell off the stage.’ She sighed. ‘They’ll believe anything. They’re such bloody fantasists.’

  She planned to deceive her parents as they had deceived her.

  She added, ‘Be like Dad – keep Mum’, quoting a well-known Fougasse poster encouraging the British to be secretive in wartime in case Hitler was listening.

  When your sister settled down to sleep, you spread the eiderdown over her body.

  ‘Where’ve you been all this while?’ she asked.

  ‘Stuck in France.’

  ‘I thought you might have been. I rang your regiment. Didn’t bring me back any perfume?’ Then she said, with a pale smile, ‘I know, don’t tell me, there’s a war on. I was only sodding-well joking.’

  The Fieldings stayed at home on Christmas Day, out of concern for Sonia. Sonia’s health improved, while she refused to accompany you all to the relations. She wished to remain on her own, quietly, since she had to return to Nottingham on the following day and was dreading the train journey.

  Small gifts were exchanged for Christmas. You got a book on British Wildlife from your parents. Sonia gave you a little china figure of a milkmaid. She was treading the boards in An Inspector Calls, and had to be back in time for the evening performance.

  You gave your parents a half-bottle of Johnny Walker and a bottle of Wincarnis. To Sonia you gave a torch with a battery. She told your parents she was having a wonderful time in Nottingham. In fact, she confided to you, she was having a wonderful love affair with the well-known stage set and costume designer, Adrian Hyasant. You noted his name.

  ‘How’s the hunchback?’ you asked her jokingly. ‘“A Hunchback Calls”.’

  ‘Sod off!’ she said, with a laugh.

  That afternoon, you were treated to the melancholy prospect of your father standing in the kitchen, ironing the festive paper in which the morning’s gifts had been wrapped.

  He gave you his version of a jovial smile, saying, ‘Better look after this paper, you know. And the string. There may not be any available next year. Paper is a weapon of war! Don’t waste it. We all have to make sacrifices.’

  It was easy, you thought, for parsimony to masquerade as patriotism.

  The Hillmans lived not far distant, in the village of Cadnam. Their house stood in the middle of the High Street, behind iron railings. Martin, being employed on war work in the aviation industry, had a small petrol allowance for his Rover.

  Ada and her husband Claude gave you a warm welcome, ushering you into the front room, where a roaring fire greeted you. The Hillman boys, Joey and Terry, were there, and were induced to come forward and shake hands. They had shot up since you last saw them, a
t grandfather Sidney’s funeral, and were now in the unwholesome grip of early adolescence.

  By the fire sat Sidney’s widow, Elizabeth, her face the colour of old ivory, but serene and upright. She clutched the hand you proffered, saying, ‘You’ve had some … some adventures, I hear. My plan is … as far as I have a plan … to sit … My plan is to sit the war … war out.’

  Your father’s sister, Belle, was also present. Her plan was apparently to sit out the war in silence. She smiled warmly at you but said nothing. You saw that she had become a good deal prettier than previously, and realized she could not be all that ancient – perhaps no more than thirty-one – though that was bad enough.

  Claude was in a roaring good humour, singing loudly, ‘Ding dong merrily on high, Let’s have a quick one on the sly …’

  He advised everybody to make themselves at home, and began pouring liberal drinks. Claude ran a printing press and was currently engaged in well-paid war work which, as everyone knew, involved printing top secret pamphlets to drop on Germany.

  Joey and Terry wanted to know how you had survived in the forest. You said, ‘You told me you had a system. What’s happened to it? Have you grown out of it?’

  ‘Grown out of it!’, echoed Joey incredulously. ‘No, no, we’ve developed it, haven’t we, Terry?’

  ‘Out of all recognition. Except at basis it is recognisable.’

  They sniggered together, changing the subject to enquire what it felt like to be a hero.

  ‘Sounds like mumbo-jumbo to me,’ you said.

  ‘Get your hearing checked,’ they said. ‘How about a game of Monopoly?’

  ‘We’re bound to win,’ said Joey.

  In fact, you won, whereupon your cousins became sulky.

  Ada had worked hard on Christmas dinner. ‘A festive board indeed!’ roared Claude, as the company entered the dining room, you supporting your grandmother with your arm. ‘Better than a festive bawd, some might say.’

  He began to recite, with a Yorkshire accent, ‘’Twas Christmas Day in the Workhouse, The paupers all sat there, Their faces full of goodness, Their bellies –’ when Ada hushed him.