by Brian Aldiss
Better that than an inescapable ‘Way’ you might have been set to follow automatically.
Why better? Why are we planted on this mysterious kind of assault course of life? For whose benefit?
This is what you were given, what you call ‘life’. ‘Timelife’. It was what we were able to provide. You could perhaps have enjoyed it more.
Oh? How could I have ‘enjoyed it more’?
By not regarding yourself as a failure. By less melancholy. By less self-regard. Now you tell me!
You were made to feel even more provincial, more than ever ‘out of the swim’, by the release of director Brandy Bethlen’s movie, Jocasta, starring your sister. It was proving a great draw at the box office despite its highbrow aspirations. ‘The greatest, grandest recreation of Ancient Greece ever to hit the screen’ – Time and Tide. ‘Dig the Trojan position!’ – The Sun. ‘Deeply, darkly erotic in its stately way’ – The Independent. ‘Young Antigone is lip-lickingly attractive’ – Sight and Sound. ‘An Oscar, surely, for authentic seeming costumes, authentically worn!’ – Empire. ‘Sonia’s Jocasta’s wonderful portrayal of combined guilt and innocence makes her a woman for all time’ – Observer. ‘Like Oedipus, you can but love her’ – The Times.
You noticed among the rolling credits Adrian Hyasent: Costumes. The bastard!
Over the Easter break, you went with your parents to see Sonia’s movie at the Southampton Odeon. There was no doubt that the Hungarian director had been inspired. As Jocasta’s dilemma gradually became more serious, the Technicolor began slowly to fade, until the climax was played out in sepia. Your sister was first imperious, later overwhelmed, and in both phases unassailable.
‘Well, we must take some credit for her success,’ said your mother afterwards, moist of eye. ‘I need a gin after all that.’
‘That’s nonsense, Mary,’ said your father. He had suffered a stroke and was afflicted by a tic on the left side of his face. ‘Sonia has managed despite …’ He began to mumble.
A little later, while Mary was refreshing herself indoors, you walked out in the garden with Martin. He required a walking stick. There was something he wished to show you.
A little fire was burning on what had been his vegetable bed. A thin stream of smoke rose into the still air. You both stood contemplating it. He was breathing laboriously.
‘I’ve kept it burning continuously for fifteen days now,’ Martin said, with pride. ‘It’s never died out.’
‘How do you keep it going when it rains, Dad?’
‘I cover it with that old zinc washtub.’ Chuckling at his own ingenuity, he tapped the washtub with his stick.
‘I simply keep it going as long as I can. Rose clippings, mainly. As long as I can …’
You stood there in the gathering dusk, listening to the fire crackle, watching the smoke rise up. Your father stood beside you, linking his arm in yours for support, watching the smoke rise up.
7
Another Invitation
You caught an infrequent bus from Ashbury and went in to Oxford. You wanted to buy some books at Blackwell’s. In those days, there was an old-fashioned bookshop in the Broad called Thornton’s. Before visiting Blackwell’s, you went through Thornton’s hallowed doorway.
You climbed a rickety, uncarpeted stair. You were looking for a better copy of Lyell’s Principles of Geology. But a section to which was attached a yellowing label reading ‘Eng.Lit.’ caught your attention. On these shelves stood many old novels, now no longer read or, if read at all, read not for pleasure but because they were set texts. Richard Blackmore, Richard Cobbold, George Gissing and Charles Reade mouldered there, among others.
Among the illustrious dead, you saw a copy of Caleb Williams in the Rinehart Press edition of 1960. Your thoughts flew to Arturo Blake, alias Caleb, your friend of Blackall Square days. You pulled the book from its resting place.
As you did so, a voice, in tones of surprise, said, ‘Hello, Dr Fielding!’
You had been aware there was another customer in the pokey room, rendered almost in outline by light dimly entering through unwashed window panes, as if sketched by Daumier; a vague figure, probably female, hunched over a book, a beret on its head.
This figure, moving a step nearer, revealed itself as Mrs Verity Nash, wearing her heavy spectacles.
‘How charming to see you here, Dr Fielding.’
You returned the compliment and fell into conversation with her. She commented on Caleb Williams, which she characterized as crude and awful, but nevertheless still highly readable. You confessed you had never read it. You knew of it, of course.
‘Do buy it and tell me what you think. It’s so nice to have someone at Ashford who reads for pleasure.’ She said this as one attempting more brightness than she felt.
Thornton’s had no copy of Lyell. You paid for the Godwin and you and Verity left the shop together, the book under your arm – no bags for books in those days.
You found yourselves in a nearby coffee shop. You realized she was not so much unfriendly, as shy. She seemed greatly cheered by your company, and put away her spectacles.
‘Oh, this is a treat! It’s very kind of you, Dr Fielding.’
‘Steve, please.’
‘I’m afraid I suffer from low self-esteem.’ She gave you a brave smile. ‘It does tend to make me stand-offish. Perhaps I’m really stand-offish, and it’s stand-offishness which accounts for the low self-esteem, rather than vice versa.’
Your heart went out to her. You thought of Caleb again, complaining that the British always ran themselves down.
When you mentioned her husband Jeremy, the bursar, she was evasive, seemingly more interested in the starving horses in the field behind the university grounds.
‘Can’t something be done about them?’ you asked.
‘That’ll soon be settled,’ said Verity. ‘Abelhouse has to burn down all those lovely elms on his land – within a week, what’s more.’
You were surprised to hear it.
‘It’s Dutch elm disease, you know. All the elms in the country are going to have to be destroyed. It’s terrible, isn’t it? The face of the countryside will be absolutely changed.’
‘Bad luck on the birds too. Dutch elm disease? It’s a fungus, I imagine?’
‘I believe it is. Some say it comes from Holland, some say Canada.’ She had brightened considerably. When smiling and animated, as now, she looked attractive, with a round face and dimples in her cheeks which came and went when she talked, as counterpoint to the mole by her right eye.
‘Rather like syphilis; to us, the French disease, to the French, the Italian disease.’
Verity laughed and began polishing her spectacles vigorously. ‘Whereas we take French leave, the French “s’en filer a l’anglaise”.’
‘You speak French fluently? You teach it?’
She looked up with a moody expression. ‘My first husband was French. A bastard, what’s more.’
Later, you learned that her second husband, Jeremy Nash, was also a bastard. It seemed at that stage that she was a woman who collected unfortunate marriages.
‘And you have made a discovery in that dig of yours?’ she asked.
You told her guardedly that you had dug just a metre farther along to the right of the original hole and had come across something.
‘A skull, someone told me?’
‘Well, could be. It’s a bit early to tell. Probably not important.’ You could not say that you hoped it was important. You could not know that it was to be very important.
Sensing your reluctance to say more, Verity changed the subject. She asked you if you were comfortable with your present rooms in the university building. When you said you were, she said that perhaps you might be more comfortable if you took rooms in her and Jeremy’s house in Sandy Bassett, only three miles from the university. She said that her husband called it ‘Nash Villa’ – ‘You know, after Nashville, where Americans make a lot of music, I believe. You’d have a view of the do
wns?’
She saw you were doubtful. She said that she and her husband would not interfere. ‘You might like the village?’ She would not overcharge. You could have breakfast in your room if you liked? There was a bus? Her manner was distinctly questioning.
You did not want to move digs, at least for the moment (thinking of Heather Lambert).
What was more, she continued, it was quiet in Sandy Bassett. A pretty little stream. Oh, and a wood. And they had lots of books? English books as well as French? Though Jeremy did not read much; he preferred the pub.
You thanked her. You would certainly think it over.
And they had a nice little woodland garden? No gnomes. She tittered at the very thought. You were amiable as you left the table, picking up the bill and Caleb Wiliams.
You asked Ted Loftus about Verity. He shook his head. Lowering his voice, he said, ‘Look, this is not to be repeated, but rumour has it that Jeremy is a bit of a brute to her. I shouldn’t be telling tales, but … She is a touch irritating, but it seems he, Jeremy, knocks her about. Of course, that may not be the case, but she did come in once with rather a black eye. Oh, that was all of two years ago, three, possibly. No, two, more like. Could have been an accident …’
‘I found Verity was rather a nice woman. Not happy, possibly.’
‘Yes, she’s all right. I mean, I get along with her. Just a bit, well, withdrawn.’ Ted wobbled his head from side to side in order to indicate that something, to which he could not commit himself, was not as it should be.
There was a letter for you stuck on the staff noticeboard, from Colbert & Kolberg, the solicitors Geldstein had recommended. You took it to your room and opened it anxiously. Abby, as you knew, was now, at last, actively seeking a divorce; so far, the fact that she had deserted you had stood in her way. Denis Kolberg stated that she now demanded divorce on the grounds of your adultery with a woman named as Heather Lambert.
You were horrified. How had Abby’s lawyers acquired Heather’s name? And so promptly? An old-fashioned phone stood on a side table in the corner of your room. You phoned Denis Kolberg. He did not know who had acquired the name of Lambert, or how; he had received an anonymous note, posted in Oxford.
Your daughter, Geraldine, was well, he had learned. He asked you if you wished to fight the case, in which case he could recommend a good lawyer, not too expensive.
You rang the solicitors back half-an-hour later: Kolberg was out. You spoke to his secretary and said you would not fight the case, provided the name of Heather Lambert was left out of the charge.
Opening up your computer, you sent an email to Abby, saying that since she had deserted the marriage while you were in prison, honours were pretty even. A court case would be costly; only the lawyers would gain from it. Why could you not both simply agree on a divorce?
You then sent another email to Geraldine, telling her about the wild horses in the next field. You had taken to emailing her every other week; she responded when she felt like it. Why did you love this girl you had scarcely seen? True, you had fathered her with a woman you had loved; yet it was as if the sperm involved had carried a secret code, demanding response, within its DNA. DNA was thicker than water.
When you thought about it, you realized you no longer hated Abby as you had done. Something of your earlier love had surfaced again. It was a signal that your temperament had become more equable. The thought was reassuring.
An unusual noise impinged upon your consciousness. After a while, you rose and went to look out of your window. You were in time to see a tall elm crashing down in Abelhouse’s field. You had heard the spiteful snarl of chainsaws biting into living wood. Several men were in the field, some working with machines, dragging trees already felled into a great pile in the centre of the field. The starving horses had already been taken away.
The sight of this destruction was upsetting. You closed the computer and went downstairs to get a drink at the little bar in the tutors’ common room. It was a convivial hour. The bursar, Jeremy Nash, was there, having a pint with Dr Matthews. Verity, Jeremy’s wife, was sitting apart by the window, looking lost, a book open, unread, before her.
Jeremy was a hefty man, his cropped hair seeming to emphasize the squareness of his head. Despite the warmth of the day, he wore a polo neck sweater under his blazer.
‘How does it feel to have a famous film star for a sister?’ he called, in a hearty way that indicated he was not so much seeking an answer as airing his knowledge of the world of cinema.
Dr Matthews summoned you to sit with him and Jeremy. You took your whisky over and told the men about the destruction of Abelhouse’s copse.
‘Yeah, we heard,’ said Jeremy.
You remarked you were sorry to see the elms go down.
‘Well, it’s got rid of those poor confounded horses,’ said Matthews. ‘We hope the RSPCA are now tending them.’
‘What’s the betting they’ll be back, once the elms are burnt?’ said Jeremy.
‘I’ll see they don’t jolly well come back,’ said Matthews. He gripped the handle of his glass so tightly his knuckles showed white. ‘I got Madge to phone the RSPCA again this morning. They’ll have to act this time.’
‘Poor starving things,’ this from you. The old black dog got up from Dr Matthews’ side and scratched itself.
The Rector of Ashford gave you a look of contempt. ‘They’re in such a deplorable state. Diseased. Mercy demands they should be put down.’
You thought that perhaps the horses would see the matter differently, but said nothing.
Jeremy seemed rather more friendly. After a glance across at his wife, he invited you to supper with them on the evening of the next day. ‘You don’t have a car, do you, Fielding? I can give you a lift in the Jag to our little pad in Sandy, “Nash Villa”, as long as you don’t mind walking back. It’s a nice country walk – under three miles. You’ll like Sandy, I know. And Verity’s not a bad cook when she sets her mind to it.’
You thought it a good idea to accept, and summoned some enthusiasm to do so.
Before that event, Heather came to your room. She was familiar, as if you had known each other for months. It was a part of her charm. Going over to the bed, she snatched up the letter from Colbert & Kolberg. Dusk had gathered. You had had a second whisky with the men; you did not want to be bothered with the girl.
‘That’s bloody private,’ you said.
But Heather had seen her name in the body of the letter. She gave a shriek. ‘What’s this? You’re married? You’re dragging me into divorce proceedings?’
Attempting an explanation was useless; she would not listen to your explanations. ‘How did I know you were fucking married?’ she kept asking.
You did not switch on the light in your room. That might have encouraged her to stay longer. She was upset. You understood why she was upset, yet you were impatient. It was not your fault, yet it was your fault. And the bizarre yellowish flickering of sunset grew more intense.
She was standing by the window, still waving the offending letter. You rushed over and grabbed it.
‘I don’t want to know you any more, you arsehole!’ she cried. ‘You’ve been bloody using me!’
Outside was a great fire, flames waving tall into the sky, sparks flying still higher, whirling away to die in the blue. The elms were burning in Abelhouse’s field. At this time, finely balanced between day and evening, but ever inclining towards the blue of night, smoke was hardly visible, only flame, gigantic sheets of it, ever steady, ever wavering. And figures of human beings were black against it, dancing. Women and children and a man; those you could make out capering round about the blaze, as if at a witches’ Sabbath.
‘Look at it, Heather! The primitivism of it! Is there music? Do you need music?’
She wrenched open the window. A great roaring was to be heard, like an immense chimney fire. Some shouts, some shrieks. No music. The stream of golden sparks pouring into the sky seemed music enough for those who danced about the bla
ze.
Staring at the majesty of the conflagration, you and Heather forgot for a moment your own concerns. Then she said, in a subdued way, ‘You’re a real shit, Steve, sorry to say, and I don’t want nothing more to do with you.’ And she left, closing your door quietly behind her.
It was a week and a few days since you had uncovered the skull in the university dig.
8
Supper at Sandy Bassett
Jeremy Nash drove like a madman to Sandy Bassett. Sometimes he forced his black slug of a Jaguar to bump over the grass verge, sometimes he commanded the middle of the road. His wife rattled about on the back seat, despite her safety belt. Jeremy tooted fiercely on the rare occasions that another car approached. Little quiet country cars ran into ditches rather than face Jeremy head on.
You disliked the man even before the brakes squealed outside the front gate of the so-called ‘Nash Villa’. Verity climbed from the Jaguar, slamming the car door behind her, and went without comment into the house. She did not glance back.
Jeremy looked at his watch. ‘Record time!’ he said, with evident satisfaction. A gust of wind blew the gate shut behind him.
It was a pretty cottage, with a scarred wooden door, and windows placed symmetrically on either side of the porch. Window boxes stood on both windowsills, flaunting bright red geraniums. The walls were painted white and the roof was thatch, wired to keep out birds.
You followed Jeremy’s broad back into the house.
‘Welcome to our humble abode,’ he said, standing and almost filling the hallway. He grinned and rubbed his hands together. ‘Let’s get ourselves a drink and discuss what we imagine Thatcher and Reagan think they’re up to. Nuking Moscow, let’s hope!’
He called to Verity, who had disappeared into the back regions of the house. ‘Bring us a couple of glasses, dear.’
He led the way into their front room, the window of which looked to the quiet village road. ‘This used to be a worker’s cottage, but it suits us pretty well.’ He gave a hoot of mirth. ‘We’re humble folk, worse luck.’