by Angus Wilson
“What! Rubbish! I shall say whatever I choose. It’s a public meeting.”
“Well, you won’t speak from the platform. And I shan’t call you from the floor. The Education Committee’s been on to me again. They’re worried stiff. And they’ve some reason. You’ve made a lot of enemies in the town over this. And that bitch Lorna Milton’s seen to it that tongues have wagged. The Committee say they’ve written to you again.”
“The Committee have behaved abominably. After all my years of service, they’ve even stooped to veiled threats.”
“Oh, Harold dear . . .”
“You stop out of this, Mother. If your precious friend Egan ...”
“Don’t bully your mother, Harold. She feels as I do that we can’t see a brilliant man muck up his career out of obstinacy.”
Arthur’s expression when he came in at that moment was appropriately depressed. But he was not with them. He ignored Muriel and walked up to the window. He looked out gloomily. “Well! If this something rain goes on there won’t be any play at Old Trafford. That I can tell you all. And I’ve got a bet on with a chap that the South Africans’ll be out first innings for less than a century. No play, no bet. Just my bloody luck.”
Harold wheeled round on his father. “I wonder if you’ve had any thought in your life that ever went further than your own little ego?”
“Don’t speak to me like that. I’ve been pushed around enough as it is. . . .”
“I’ll speak exactly as I choose. I provide you with a roof over your head and you come here and quarrel with all my friends and borrow money from me and God knows what! It doesn’t seem to occur to you that somebody else will have to pay for it all. My name is mud now in this town. I’m not even considered suitable to speak from a public platform.”
To Sylvia’s distress Arthur did nor shout back. He stood with his jaws working, but no sound came from him.
“You’ll be so ashamed later, Harold, to have spoken to your Dad. . . .”
“Well, really Harold, fancy talking to the poor old chap like that. As if he had anything to do with it. Don’t worry Captain, Harold doesn’t know what he’s saying.”
“Would you mind keeping out of my family business, Muriel?”
“Oh, don’t be such a pompous ass! You’ll be grateful to me one day for saving your job for you.”
Sylvia ran after Muriel down the front path.
“I just wanted to say thank you very much.”
“Oh, that’s nothing, Mrs. Calvert. A fat lot of use I’ve been. You ought to get him to see a doctor though.”
“I wish I could. But I can’t talk to him. I don’t think anybody can. This Goodchild’s Meadow business has made him impossible.”
“Oh, Harold! I didn’t mean him. Silly bugger! Pardon my language. No, I meant the old boy. He looks terrible.”
Sylvia couldn’t bring herself to talk to Harold, so she went straight up to her room. Arthur was sitting there, reading the evening paper. Muriel was quite right: he looked quite off colour, wrinkled and yellow, like an old tortoise.
She poured out two strong whiskies from the bottle she kept in the wardrobe.
“Cheer up, Arthur. Don’t worry about him. You ought to have given him more hidings as a boy. He’s been too well cushioned all his life.” She chuckled, but Arthur didn’t respond, although his head shook a little as he read.
She could find no way to hit back on Arthur’s behalf except to tell Harold that she would not be coming to the meeting. He looked at her so fiercely that she thought he was going to hit her, but he got up and walked out of the room in silence.
It was Arthur’s unexpected resignation that kept her anger with Harold alive. Yet she felt distressed to be cut off from either of them when each seemed so troubled. She took refuge in underlining Ray’s promise to be with his father.
“It’s just as well you’ll be with him, Ray. I’m not going to be there, not after the way he spoke to his Dad. I don’t care how he takes it.”
“Nice friendly lot, aren’t you, love? It’s like Mum used to say, ‘There’s no parents and children in this house, we’re all just friends.’ Clever old Mum as usual.”
Sylvia had never heard him speak in such a sarcastic tone, but she wasn’t going to give way.
Yet in the end she did. It was Shirley’s doing. She had telephoned to know where the meeting would be held and when she heard that Sylvia was not attending, her amazed disagreement nearly broke Sylvia’s ear-drum.
“Oh no! You’ve got to go! I don’t care what he’s said. He’s standing up for what he believes in and you ought to be there. Yes, I know what Timbo said. And he made a lot of sense. Timbo always makes sense. But Mr. Calvert isn’t looking for sense, he’s looking for supporters. Well, of course he’s been awful to all of you. He minds about this. Good God! There aren’t too many people over here who’ll make a noise about anything. So good for him. Look, you’ve got to be there. I guess I’ll come with you just to make sure you don’t run out on him.”
The hall was packed except for the front row, reserved no doubt for V.I.P.S. Sylvia, sitting in one of the outer seats with Shirley, thought she would never be able to spot Harold in this great array of backs that converged towards the platform.
“But, it’s beautiful!” Shirley said looking round.
“I believe it’s quite famous. People come from all over the world to see it—architects and that, you know. We call it The Oyster.”
“We?”
“People in the New Town, I mean. I don’t quite know why.”
“Because it’s shell-shaped, for Heaven’s sake. But it’s beautiful. I just love those smooth black panels and acres of glass. And the ceiling! Do you know what that is? Red Cedar. We’ve got whole forests of that in Oregon. My! You ought to be proud of this.”
“There are a lot of fine modern buildings in the New Town.”
“Well, I guess so. I can’t think why I go on marketing in that awful olde worlde Carshall. I guess because Timbo’s Aunt Lilian hated the New Town so much. But this is a lovely hall.”
Looking round it, Sylvia felt quite proud.
“Ah, here the speakers come,” she said, “That’s Muriel Bartley sitting in the middle.”
“She certainly intends to be seen, doesn’t she? Where in hell did she get that green and red material? And that neckline! It’s warm in here, but not that warm.”
But Muriel was speaking.
“All of you will have heard the sad news . . . don’t run away with the idea that your Committee’s efforts were wasted . . . our little job to keep alive the right to protest . . . make clear to the Ministry . . . state our case once again if only for the record . . . strength of local opinion must give the red tape Johnnies a warning . . . call on Herbert Raven.”
Sylvia only followed in part, for her eyes were seeking Harold. She might, it was true, miss the back of his head—there were so many dark heads with balding crowns; but Ray’s strong sunburned neck with his hair almost golden from his holiday, she was sure she couldn’t fail to see that.
Mr. Raven wasn’t a very impressive man—tall and thin with a mop of wiry hair standing on end and a big Adam’s apple jerking up and down above his open-necked shirt. His slow cockney voice was high in note and adenoidal in tone.
“Ladies and gentlemen. You may perhaps feel that this meeting is something of a post mortem. But your Committee felt that we owed it to all of you who contributed so generously to the campaign to give some account of how your money has been spent— what has in fact been achieved despite this very disappointing decision of the Minister. ...”
Suddenly, so that Sylvia’s heart missed a beat, there was Harold, standing in one of the gang-ways, shouting.
“Nothing’s been achieved! It’s all ahead of us.”
There were whispers in the audience, some titters and a few hand-claps.
“I’m very grateful to our friend Harold Calvert, who has done so much for us, for his very sound observation. It is all
ahead of us. We may have lost this time, but not again.”
“Shame! Shame!”
Even from her seat Sylvia could see that Harold was shaking as he shouted.
“I’m afraid my friend Harold Calvert didn’t altogether understand me. ...”
“I understood very well. You’ve ratted.”
But Muriel’s hand was shaking now as she rapped on the table.
“Order, please. Let Mr. Raven tell us . . .”
“We don’t want to hear a pack of lies. I demand the right to speak, Madam Chairman. The aims of this Committee are being totally misrepresented. ...”
“Now, my dear friend, that is just not true. But if I may continue with my speech, perhaps that will become clear. It is sometimes said that if the mountain will not come to Mahomet, then Mahomet must go to the mountain. But your Committee has brought Mahomet here to you. Yes, we’ve got our P.R.O. Jock Parsons here to explain to you why the Development Board has made its decision. Now I think that to have made the powers-that-be feel that they owe us an explanation is a great achievement in this bureaucratic age.”
“Then you’re a fool!”
“I’m not going to argue with you, my friend. I would point out though, that to prevent free speech hardly furthers the cause we both have at heart. Now Jock Parsons is not the sort of chap to listen to professional grousers or belly-achers, he’s a realist. He’s come here because he recognises that your Committee ...”
“He knows he can fool you any time he likes. That’s why he’s come here. ...”
There was some more clapping and some woman shouted, “Well said, Mr. Calvert.”
But there were more cries of, “Shut up!” and “Sit down!”
Muriel seemed heartened by this, for she smiled and almost winked at the audience. “Now you shut up, Harold, and let Herbert speak. You can have your say later. I’m sorry to talk in such an unconstitutional way, ladies and gentlemen, but it’s the only way to talk to our old friend Harold Calvert when he blows his top.”
Sylvia was trembling so that her knees knocked against Shirley’s: Shirley put an arm through hers, took her hand, and held it, pressed tight. Harold, muttering, sat down on the gang-way step. A young usher whispered to him, but Harold turned his back. The rest of Mr. Raven’s speech continued uninterrupted. Sylvia was too agitated to catch more than a little of what he said, but it appeared that he thought the Development Board would never again make any big changes in planning without consulting public opinion in the New Town. He sat down to a good deal of applause. Before Muriel could speak, Harold was on his feet.
“Madam Chairman, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to make it perfectly clear that so far from having achieved a victory, the Committee have sold out all along the line. . . .”
But Muriel banged so loudly with her gavel that Harold’s words were inaudible where Sylvia was sitting.
“Will you sit down, please,” Muriel had returned to her official voice. “I shall throw the meeting open later. Meanwhile I call upon Mr. Parsons.”
Jock Parsons rose in the front row—burly, bluff, farmer-like in broad tweeds.
“Madam Chairman, I am very glad to have this opportunity . . .”
But now Harold was shouting again something that Sylvia could not hear, for immediately there were calls of “Sit down!” and “You’ll have your chance later” from every corner of the hall. Muriel was banging; Mr. Raven protesting; Mr. Parsons smiling patronisingly at the uproar in the hall. Muriel signed to the young usher who took Harold’s arm. Harold shook him off angrily. For a moment Sylvia feared he was going to hit the man. She half rose, but Shirley restrained her.
She cried out “Ray! Ray!” and Shirley said, “Oh, Lord!”
As if in answer Mark appeared from the other side of the hall; scarlet in the face, he glared at everyone; he took his father’s arm and led him to a still empty seat at the end of the front row.
Jock Parsons began again. “As I was saying, I’m very glad to have this chance to put before you some of the reasons why the Development board . . .”
But Sylvia could not attend, for a young policeman was now on the platform whispering to Muriel. If the police interfered with Harold, she felt sure that she would lose control. Muriel appeared, however, to be pointing far over Harold’s head into the audience, up towards where she and Shirley were sitting. Then the policeman disappeared. She forced herself to listen to Jock Parsons.
“Now the Board have always felt very strongly that if the town must develop and change—for development means change—then the principles on which the pioneer architects and planners of Carshall worked should always be respected, but. . .”
Once again Harold was protesting. She could hear him call.
“That’s a lie!”
But she could not see him, for Mark seemed to be holding him in his seat. At that moment the young policeman loomed over her, his young boy’s face very solemn.
“Mrs. Calvert?”
When she nodded he handed her a piece of folded paper. As she opened it, she heard Jock Parsons saying with a chuckle, “We haven’t always believed that the best people to teach us our business were the servants of the County Council, but we’re always open . . .”
As she read the note, she could hear Harold shouting and protesting.
He had risen and Mark was with difficulty preventing him from throwing himself at Jock Parsons.
“I must go,” she showed the note to Shirley.
“Oh, my poor Mrs. C. Now come on. I’ll run you home.”
As Sylvia stumbled along the gangway past the two rows of seats behind her, a hand came out and caught her arm.
“For God’s sake, woman, you’re surely not running out on your son now!”
It was Shirley who explained to the indignant Sally Bulmer that, “Mrs. Calvert has to go right away. Her husband’s very sick.”
Back at “The Sycamores” a police constable was waiting in the hall.
“One of our men found the old gentleman wandering on the motorway. He seemed confused ...”
But Sylvia cut him short. “Where is he now?”
“We took him up to his bedroom. We went to the wrong room first, but we could soon tell by the agitation the gentleman showed. Dr. Piggott’s with him now. . . .”
Arthur lay in bed. His face, for long now so yellow and shrunken, was flushed. He was mumbling and picking with the fingers of one hand at a fold in the sheets. She went straight over and kissed him. His eyes moved slowly to focus on to her, but he didn’t seem to recognise her, although he mumbled more quickly and excitedly.
Dr. Piggott’s curly-haired boyish earnestness had left her unimpressed when she had consulted him on her own account a few weeks earlier, but her new will to live had made her more attentive to his warnings than she would have been ordinarily. Now, as soft-voiced he reassured her that Captain Calvert’s little stroke, little seizure really, if that wasn’t an old-fashioned term, should not cause her alarm, she saw him as one of these young doctors in tele-serials; and, seeing him so, dismissed at once him and the serials from her serious consideration.
“It was unfortunate, of course, that he should have been taken ill in the open street like that. His mind was inevitably confused and he wandered on to the highway; then the police came into it and the whole thing wears a more alarming aspect than is really necessary. A good rest in bed and a bit of attention will soon put him right again. For the time being at any rate.”
Sylvia didn’t believe a word of it. Of course, as a doctor he knew best, but then he didn’t know Arthur, hadn’t seen the course of his life in this last year. She did, and had, and she knew that it was all up with him, that he would die.
“Thank you, doctor. If you’ll wait while I get rid of the policeman, I’ll be back and then we won’t keep you.”
But, as she was speaking, the noise of people thumping about in the hall almost distracted her from what she was saying. And then the curious unexpected sound of sobbing. That shoul
d have been herself, not whoever it was, and who could it be? Surely not the policeman.
Her sudden sense that Arthur was dying released in her such a flood of conflicting thoughts and feelings and memories, that when she reached the hall she could not remember why she had come downstairs. To find the policeman, of course; but there was no policeman, only a woman who came towards her and embraced her.
“Oh, you poor, poor thing.”
It was Shirley Egan—she had quite forgotten her; she drew back from the embrace.
“How is he, Mrs. C.?”
“I’m to be with him. You’ll excuse me, I must go back to our room.”
She moved away.
“Mrs. C., there’s something else you’ll have to know. Mr. Calvert’s come back home. He’s pretty sick, I think. He broke down at the meeting. His son’s with him in there.” She pointed to the study.
“Thank you for telling me. I’ll ask the doctor to see him.”
Shirley seemed surprised, but she only asked, “What can I do to help?”
It was Sylvia’s turn to be surprised. “Oh, nothing, thank you. You’re very kind.”
“I’ll call you in the morning.”
“Thank you.”
“If you need anything at all, just call us, and Timbo or I will be right down.”
“Thank you.”
“And—and—Mrs. C., don’t hold it in. Let yourself go.” But Sylvia was already on her way upstairs.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Harvest
WHEN she told Dr. Piggott about Harold, he said, “Ah!” and then, “I’ve been expecting something of the sort ever since his wife died. He took it all much too well. Then he came to me because he hadn’t slept for months. But would he take a sleeping pill? Oh no, that would be a confession of weakness. You’re an obstinate family, aren’t you? Did he seem at all hysterical?”
“I didn’t go in, doctor. He’s got Mark with him and I was needed up here.”
The doctor’s surprised, open mouth reminded her of the goldfish at Renee Cranston’s. Everyone appeared to be surprised at what she did; herself she was surprised that at such a time she noticed their reactions—but then she seemed to notice everything nowadays. Luckily she need not take any account of the opinions of others, for her own feelings told her now so clearly what to do.