‘When was that? Oh, at that mad party. Nothing much. At work, they’re going to promote me from the typing pool to a secretarial job.’
He thought: Some man will have her sitting beside his desk, taking down his words on her shorthand pad.
Ilsa flicked ash across the table. ‘It’ll be more money, which suits me.’
‘Yes.’
The food arrived, and they ate in silence. Ilsa, who was bored, demanded: ‘What are we going to do tonight?’
‘Do you feel like going to the cinema? There’s a Western on at my local Odeon.’
‘Sounds all right.’
Silent was struggling to his feet between a friend and his crutch. The friend returned Beckett’s chess before assisting Silent up the stairs.
Ilsa, watching, said: ‘Ugh, he isn’t a man, he’s only a ruined shell. I hope I commit suicide if ever I get into that state.’
‘He was a pilot and his plane crashed. A fate which is not likely to befall you.’
‘No, thanks.’
When they had eaten they climbed the stairs and emerged into the dusty heat of Charlotte Street. Ilsa stood on the pavement; a taut, nervous figure in her smart dress. She turned her head to ensure that her nylon seams were straight. ‘Well, what did you say we were going to do this evening?’
“The cinema. That’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, I’d forgotten. At least it might be cool there. This heat’s exhausting.’ In the open air she looked even more pale and drawn than she had done in the café. As they started to walk, she said: ‘It’s a pity you don’t know Bob and George. They’re terrific people. Absolutely terrific. They kept us all in fits.’
‘Don’t you get bored, always being with other people and never having any time by yourself?’
‘Heavens, no. I can’t stand being alone. It’s when I’m alone that I’m bored. I share a flat with Katey because I get the jitters if I’m on my own for more than five minutes.’ She took his hand, and demanded: ‘What washed Polar white?’
It was their ITV game. He said: ‘One of the detergents?
Bliz or Swiz or something.’
‘Snow.’
‘Oh yes, Snow.’
‘What makes you lyrical, lovable you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Sweet Song Shampoo. They have that ad about her being a social outcast; then she uses Sweet Song and a millionaire marries her because she is lyrical and lovable.’
Beckett thought, then asked: ‘What do the family jump for?’
‘Joy! The scrumpy, scrunchy, mm-m-mm breakfast food.’
‘Oh, you’re too clever for me. You know them all.’
‘Sure. Friends wouldn’t come to Mary’s house until she switched to...?’
‘No?’
‘Fairy Godmother fabrics for curtains and loose covers.’
Beckett said: ‘I thought it was going to be that one where visitors shun her house because the lavatory smells.’
‘No, no. You mean the one where the tin of Kleenlav appears to her in a dream.’
Later, he told her about his conversation with Gash.
She said: ‘He sounds insane to me.’
‘So everybody says. But insanity isn’t an absolute state. You are only insane in relation to the majority of people. For instance, we all hallucinate in our sleep; we call it dreaming. Everybody does it, it’s normal, so we can dream and still be considered sane. But if we hallucinate when we’re awake, we’re in a minority and considered mad.’
Bored, Ilsa said: ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
‘It infuriates me when a sane man is defined as one who is perfectly adjusted to society. Suppose the society stinks? Is he supposed to adjust to it then?’
She said smartly: ‘Better disinfect it with Kleenlav.’
Then she caught his arm. ‘A tobacconist! Wait for me, will you? I must get some cigarettes.’
Waiting for her, he continued to think of Gash. Living as a hermit must produce some extreme mental state, even if it’s only extreme boredom. Extremes. The human mind under stress, driven to its limits. Like testing an aeroplane under extreme climatic conditions. Normality is uninteresting. I am obsessed by the possibility of extremes.
He walked up and down past the shop window. I do nothing. I am not happy. I am not even particularly unhappy. I am empty. I do nothing. I merely kill time. Killing time is humanity’s greatest sin. Boredom means not being in a state of grace.
They took the Tube at Tottenham Court Road. On the next seat was a mother and small child. The child tottered down the gangway on fat, unsteady legs, clutching at his cotton trousers.
The mother said: ‘Barry... now don’t you be a nuisance.’
The child staggered towards them, his plump starfish hand outstretched.
Ilsa said without interest: ‘Cute kid.’
Beckett suddenly knew how she would be in ten years’ time. She would no longer be a flame burning itself out. The sharp bone structure of her face would be blurred by softening flesh, and her slim body would have thickened. This hard-drinking, hard-living, desperately young product of the modern age would become a middle-class housewife. She would distract herself with bridge evenings, television evenings, coffee and chat in the High Street Tea Shoppe with women friends, and dances held by her husband’s firm. She would cook Italian food because it was smart. From time to time, one of the neighbours would fall in love with her. She would use Family Planning because of buying a car and keeping her figure; but because of her female desire for maternity she would eventually have a child. The child would be as dull and ordinary as she was. This was the girl whom he loved.
When they left the cinema she said: ‘By the way, you couldn’t do me a great favour, could you?’
‘I expect so. What is it?’
She hesitated, then took the plunge. ‘I must have two pounds to pay the rent today, and I’m absolutely flat broke. I simply had to buy some new shoes, you see, because I’m going to a twenty-first birthday party tomorrow, and, well, I mean I couldn’t possibly go without new shoes. I mean, my other pairs are absolutely falling to pieces, they really are.’ Her eyes were anxious and evasive. She combed her fingers through her hair. ‘I don’t know how I can manage the rent otherwise. I spent the rent money on shoes. You know what I’m like about money.’
‘Yes, that’s all right. I think I can just about manage two pounds.’
She continued to stare at him. Her face was wan and half ashamed. ‘I know it’s awful of me, because I still owe you five pounds from way back last year. But I really will pay it all back some day.’
‘That’s all right.’
She took the money and stuffed it into her bag, quickly snapping the bag shut. ‘It’s terribly nice of you.’
Embarrassed, he said: ‘Well…’ They walked a few paces and then stopped again. He said: ‘How about coming back to my place for a coffee?’
Oh, she was terribly sorry, she really was. Her gestures were theatrical and her eyes honest-wide as she explained that she couldn’t possibly, not tonight, what a pity. She gabbled on, using too many excuses and too much vehemence, until he told her that it didn’t matter.
He walked her to the bus-stop. She was still extravagantly protesting her regret when the bus arrived.
Walking home alone, Beckett felt cheated and indignant. He had never considered women as existing in their own right, but only in relation to him. It infuriated him that Ilsa should claim a will of her own, that she should refuse to visit his room when he wanted her to. She should be grateful that he wanted her; she should replace her will with his.
He knew that he would pursue Ilsa determinedly; but that even as he redoubled his efforts to win her, there would be a cold mocking voice inside him telling him that he did not really want her.
He experienced, simultaneously, raging desire for her and the knowledge that he did not really care.
Chapter 5
St Elizabeth's Church was in a suburban-a
fternoon road of identical dolls’ houses.
A young married couple was out walking. The wife pushed the baby’s pram, the husband walked beside her, and an older child ran ahead, doing little skips. Farther up the road, Beckett heard a child screaming in one of the houses. Evidently the child, a girl, was being beaten. The hairs on his scalp prickled. He felt immediate sexual excitement, a sadistic pleasure. He wished he could see the child being beaten.
Then his excitement was replaced by the more creditable emotion of disgust. He felt irritated at being subjected to the screams. Mentally he composed a short essay against beating children. This activity lasted until he reached St Elizabeth’s.
The church was a new, yellow-brick building. Builders’ materials were in the yard, and there was a wheelbarrow in the porch. The presbytery was next door and was also new and sand-coloured. It was perfectly square, like a child’s drawing, with the door in the centre and symmetrical netted windows.
Beckett was about to ring the bell when he happened to glance through the crack in the curtains of the nearest window. Inside, a priest sat alone at a table, his pale, aquiline profile bent over a chess-board. He picked up the red knight. His hawk-like hand holding the piece was beautiful, with long fingers like a medieval carving.
Then two women emerged from the front door. One of them was saying: ‘... so I told Father Lestrade, the Children of Mary are being run in the hands of the few, with that Mrs Busybody Riordan and her little click, and all that trouble about the cakes at the social….’
Their feet stabbed righteously down the road; their triumphant voices gossiping into the distance.
He rang the bell, thinking, if things had been different I would have been dealing with complaining women like those. ‘Father Beckett, about the cakes for the Children of Mary...’ Could I have stood their stupidity and triviality? Yes, I suppose so, if I believed.
The neat housekeeper opened the door. ‘Good evening.’
‘Good evening. Is it possible to see Father Hogan?’
‘Is he expecting you?’
‘No, I’m afraid I just called on the off chance.’
She said: ‘He’s just getting the car out of the garage. He’s going out with Father Dominic.’
Beckett felt relieved. ‘Oh well, it doesn’t matter. I’ll come some other time.’
‘Why don’t you come in and wait? I don’t think they’ll be long.’
‘Thank you.’ He followed her into the house. In the passage he met the priest whom he had seen through the window. The priest made a slight bow to him, then asked the housekeeper if the car was ready.
‘I think so, Father Dominic.’ She showed Beckett into the small parlour. It was plainly furnished, with a table covered by a cloth of Irish linen with a lace border, four hard chairs, and a glass-doored cupboard with books on three shelves and wine glasses on the fourth. The chess-board had been removed.
‘Have you seen the new church?’ she asked. ‘Oh, but I expect you were at the consecration ceremony. We were all very worried in case the building wasn’t finished in time, but a number of parishioners lent a hand and between us we got it finished. We were very lucky, it was all completed in time except for the bike-shed, which the workmen are finishing now.’
He said politely: ‘Really?’
‘Yes. Well, I don’t expect Father Hogan will keep you waiting long. He likes to take the car out whenever possible because he’s practising for his driving test.’
‘Oh, is he?’
‘He’s taking it next week. I’ve been saying a decade of the rosary every night that he may pass.’
When she had gone Beckett sat down on one of the hard chairs. There was a vase of gladioli on the table. There were no fallen petals round the vase. The flowers were tidy and sterile, like flowers in an undertaker’s window.
He looked around. There was a crucifix on one wall, on another a picture of the Sacred Heart. The picture was a standard reproduction and he had seen it before; Christ parting his robe to display an embarrassing heart which bled crimson glycerine. Even as a child, Beckett had felt nauseated and insulted by that shameless heart, by the idea of drowning in a syrup of love and pity. His pride had revolted at the thought of Christ’s embarrassing love; and yet he had been terrified of committing a mortal sin which would cut him off from that love.
The airless parlour made his head ache. He got up and went over to the bookcase, scanning the titles. There was a contrast between insipid lives of saints and similar pious trash, and thick volumes on advanced theology and comparative religion. He wondered who was responsible for the choice. He selected one of the volumes, and sat down to read. The print was small, and the foxed pages had a camphor smell. From time to time he yawned and glanced at the clock. He had been waiting for three-quarters of an hour when he heard the car returning. He looked out of the window. The black Austin had L plates, and a St Christopher medallion on the windscreen. The violent braking at the kerb amused him. The atrocious driving was typical of Father Hogan.
He watched the two priests alight. Father Hogan had not changed in appearance. He looked as usual as if he had just scrubbed his florid face with a nailbrush and carbolic soap, and flattened the black-bull curls with cold water.
Father Dominic reached the gate first, but waited for Father Hogan to catch up and open the gate for him. He did not appear conceited; he expected others to open gates for him, not because of any personal merit but as part of the order of authority.
Beckett withdrew from the window and waited for the priests’ entry.
He could hear Father Hogan’s harsh Belfast voice from the hall. ‘Who? Who did you say it was?’ The housekeeper’s answer was indistinct.
Father Dominic entered first. His pale, chiselled features gave the impression that he raised austerity to the level of a passion. He seemed to be a man of great willpower, intellect, and passion, who bent these qualities to the service of the most rigorous discipline he could find: that of the Church. His eyes had the cold fire of a self-imposed ideal.
In comparison Father Hogan looked like a peasant oaf. He pumped Beckett’s hand and exclaimed heartily: ‘Well, Joe, this is a pleasant surprise. A pleasant surprise indeed. I’d given you up for lost! Your mother and I had a long talk recently. She’s a very good woman, Joe, a very pious woman. One of the backbones of the parish. I hope you appreciate her.’
‘Yes, Father, she said she’d seen you.’
‘Been home, then, have you?’
‘No, she wrote to me.’
‘Oh, she wrote to you.’ Father Hogan turned to the other priest. ‘Father Dominic, this is Joe Beckett. Joe’s family live in my previous parish; they’re old friends of mine.’
‘How do you do?’ Father Dominic shook hands. ‘We met briefly in the passage, earlier.’
‘I’m afraid I’ve called at an inconvenient time. I don’t want to interrupt you when you’re busy.’
‘Not at all. We welcome anyone who calls. Have you seen the new church?’
‘From the outside.’ Beckett anticipated, with boredom, another long account of the building, but to his relief Father Dominic did not pursue the subject.
‘Well, Joe,’ Father Hogan said, ‘we haven’t seen you at home for some years now. What is it? Three? Four?’
‘About four, Father.’
‘About four. And are you living here now?’
‘No, I live in Notting Hill.’
‘Ah, Notting Hill. So your church will be...?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t go to church any more.’ As he spoke, dizzy excitement spiralled through Beckett. It was caused by his anticipation of a battle of ideas. The excitement passed off as quickly as it had arisen, leaving his mind clear to deal with the forthcoming argument.
Father Hogan sat down heavily. ‘Now, Joe, Joe! What is this?’
‘I’m no longer a Catholic, Father.’
‘Ah. But! You may be a lapsed Catholic, or an unworthy one, but you are still a Catholic. You are in mortal s
in and you had better do something about it.’ Then Father Hogan, with crashing lack of tact, confided to the other priest: ‘This young renegade here once intended to become a priest, Father.’
‘I’m sure Mr Beckett had his reasons for changing his mind.’
Father Hogan agreed: ‘Ah, yes, of course, these things can’t be forced. Vocations come from God. And sometimes they come to the most unlikely persons. Why, I myself was a holy terror as a boy, and a vocation was farthest from my mind.’ He turned to Beckett again. ‘However, this business now of mortal sin...’
‘Sin is an offence against myself, and therefore I’m the only one to know whether I have sinned.’
‘Sin is an offence against God,’ Father Hogan contradicted. ‘You are disobeying His commandments.’
‘Surely it is generally agreed now that the commandments are merely sensible social precepts. If Moses claimed they were God-given, it’s probably because he thought that that would be the likeliest way of enforcing them. No laws are absolute; they vary according to the needs of the society they serve.’
‘Generally agreed? No it is not generally agreed. Heresies may come and go with the fashion, and the devil may whisper all manner of notions into our ears, but the word of God will always be the truth.’
Father Dominic was sitting like an angular composition in black. He remarked: ‘Perhaps we should find out what platform Mr Beckett is speaking from. Is it that of nineteenth-century rationalism?’
‘I dunno about platforms, Father.’
Then Beckett burst out: ‘But, anyway, enormous advances were made in the nineteenth century. It gave us our awareness of cause and its formative context.’
‘Quite so,’ Father Dominic said. ‘But even the strict determinist will feel, in his daily life, as if he is making choices. He may know theoretically that his actions are determined and that conscience is only a socially conditioned reflex, but nevertheless if he commits a mean action he will, in practice, feel guilty. He arrives, in fact, at a paradox, which could be expressed by saying that man has not got free will, but has the illusion of free will. Do you agree?’
The Furnished Room Page 6