The dream merchant observed the other occupants of the hotel, who spoke in many tongues. They were old and young and fat and thin. He watched them eat and drink and depart in buses for the never-never land beyond the mountains and return in the evening, looking much the same. He watched them swim in the hotel swimming-pool and their skins turn many colours as though they were chameleons. The dream merchant's wife put on a swimsuit for the first time in many years and became a delicate shrimp-pink, which the dream merchant found rather appealing. He made love to her before dinner, which startled her and indeed somewhat startled the dream merchant, for whom this was not customary. In fairness to the record, he made a note of this in the king-size notebook.
The dream merchant observed his surroundings – the glittering lake and the craggy mountain and the benevolent blue sky – and conceded that it was more agreeable than the stretch of South Harrow between the Amoco garage and the Co-op. He asked his wife if she would like to stay amid this scenery for ever and she said no, politely but firmly; very nice in its place, she said, but enough's enough. The dream merchant asked several people in the hotel the same question; they looked at him in embarrassment and talked of something else. But they were prepared to give their opinion of the dream; they were happy to compare it with other dreams, criticise it, praise it or discuss alternative dreams. Dreaming, he noted, is a matter of recollection and anticipation almost more than it is a matter of participation. Sometimes he almost wondered if the dream were actually taking place, if he were actually walking among these mountains, eating in these marble halls, sleeping every night in his bed that was not his bed, alongside his shrimp-pink wife who wore now a robe of many hues and of strange fabric, purchased locally. The dream merchant did not much care for the robe, but was too tactful to say so.
The dream merchant was diligent in his investigations. He went for excursions and exposed himself to the son et lumière and the display of national dances and he ate everything that was set before him. He had paid good money for his dream, after all, just like his customers (only rather less than they did on account of a special arrangement advantageous to dream merchants). He took careful note of his feelings, and found them to be identical to the feelings he had in South Harrow or in the dream shop itself; irritation, boredom, impatience and compunction, mixed with occasional bouts of guilt, contentment, exhilaration and gloom. He continued to observe his wife; aside from her skin colour and the robe of many hues (which she now considered unlikely to wash well) she was much as she had always been. She had not become younger or thinner or better-informed or wittier or more exuberant. The dream merchant felt disappointed in them both. Since he could not in fairness find fault with the dream, he found fault with himself (and his wife). They must, he decided, be bad dreamers – quite exceptionally bad dreamers. He asked his wife if she would like another dream next year and after careful reflection she replied that on the whole she would prefer a greenhouse, or possibly a new brand of cooker in which she had been interested for some time.
The dream merchant and his wife went home to South Harrow. The dream merchant's wife put her swimsuit away in the cupboard and reverted to her normal colour. The robe of many hues shrank definitively when it was washed and was given to a jumble sale. At night the dream merchant would lie in bed and force himself to think of the glittering lake and the craggy mountains, of the benevolent blue sky and the caressing touch of the sun. He could summon up neither nostalgia nor yearning; in fact he felt precisely nothing. When occasionally he read of that distant country in the newspapers he found himself doubting its existence. Perhaps such places were indeed a fabrication of newspaper reports and television cameramen. ‘That's where we went,’ his wife would say doubtfully. ‘Isn't it, dear?’ And the dream merchant would mutter that he believed it was.
The dream merchant continued to sell dreams, from nine to five-thirty every day except Sunday. He continued to advise his customers about the availability of houris in far Cathay and the mean temperature in the Garden of Eden during August. He knew now that his wares were even more miraculous than he had suspected, that they were quicksilver things that blended with the aspirations of their purchasers. He envied, indeed, his customers. He became more intolerant of those who came complaining of the dreams, suspecting them of being incompetent dreamers like himself. His business expanded and he moved to larger premises and increased his turnover by thirty per cent. The sumptuous promises of his window drew crowds; he was considered one of the best dream merchants in the city. He gave an address at the conference of the National Association of Dream Merchants; younger colleagues admired him for his competence and his experience. No one ever knew that the dream merchant himself had only ever dreamed once, and that he had found himself unable to believe in his dream. And perhaps, when you come to think about it, that was the secret of his success.
Pack of Cards
SHE CAUSED him sleepless nights. He lay awake lusting after her, aflame for her, the darkened room full of her voice and her face and her round full limbs. He would get up and open the window in the hope that cooling night air might do something for him; he would put on the light and reach for a book. Books were definitely therapeutic, certain books; it was a new insight into the function of literature. You needed something familiar, but with abiding power. The Russians were best. Turgenev. Chekhov. He stilled the flesh with Home of the Gentry and Spring Torrents. Which she of course would not have read; most certainly would not have read
She worked as receptionist at a firm of management consultants. She sat amid rubber plants and deep leather chairs answering the phone in her clear confident tone; she processed visitors from the leather chairs to the offices of the consultants, varnished young men with the same sort of voice. He knew those voices; he had heard them in his childhood, in the shops of Suffolk market towns, at point-to-points and later, of course, at Oxford. Five-pound note voices, his mother used to call them. Voices that survived wars and revolutions, ringing down the years; you could not but feel a certain admiration.
How he came to be in thrall to such a voice he could not think; considered dispassionately, it set his teeth on edge. If he closed his eyes sanity returned – almost. But then, opening them, he saw her round flawless face, her ashy silken hair, her flesh … ah, her flesh, into which he longed to sink his teeth as though into a peach – no, a nectarine, a golden pink-stained juice-rich nectarine … And to hell with the voice. And with what it said.
‘Honestly, I don't know what I see in you …’ Accompanied by a peck on the cheek, a pat, some propitiatory gesture. In bed, it told him he was dreadful, awful, really she must be mad, she couldn't think what she was doing. And when he informed her (she was twenty-five, after all, it was time she put a name to these things, called a spade a spade) she would put her hand over his mouth and bury her face in his neck, giggling. ‘Stop it!’ she would say. ‘Nick, I absolutely forbid … I'm not listening, right?’
She was always busy, about to dash off somewhere – for the weekend, or to meet this old old friend, or to get her hair seen to. And when she wasn't she was far too expensive for him: Ronnie Scott's, cocktail bars, theatres. She told him he absolutely must get a car, just something second-hand, a silly little Renault or something, and when he said he couldn't afford one she stared at him and laughed uncertainly. When, occasionally, she introduced him to her friends, she stressed his eccentricity. ‘Nick's so clever,’ she said. ‘He's got this extraordinary job on some magazine that sells about ten copies because it's too brilliant for anyone to understand.’ And the friends rolled their eyes and murmured. ‘He's your original intellectual, he simply does not care about things. He can live absolutely anyhow, isn't he marvellous!’; and the friends smiled indulgently, or not. He was a pet, he saw- an intriguing, amusing, faintly disturbing divertissement. Sometimes she hinted at inadequacies of dress or behaviour. She gave him an expensive sweater, which he lost. She wished he'd get out of that grotty bed-sitter and find a proper flat – it would be e
asy to fix up a mortgage, her godfather was head of a building society. When she met his friends she was bright and gracious and said afterwards that she couldn't think quite why he hung around with people like that, of course they were interesting in a way but.
He assumed, in calmer moments, that it would pass. In the meantime there was nothing for it but to burn.
She said, ‘You've got to meet Granny. You'll adore her. Now she really is absolutely your cup of tea. She's a real book lady. She's the literary person in our family. Her mother, you see, Great-Granny – not that I ever knew her she died before I was born – anyway she was part of a sort of set, famous writers and people, she knew absolutely everyone. She's got letters from Galsworthy and Tennyson and people. Granny has, I mean.’
Tennyson?’ he said.
‘I think so. Anyway, that sort of person. Granny's got an amazing library. You'll be frightfully impressed. She's a terrific character. Anyway, we're all going down there for lunch on Sunday – we go once a month, everyone – and it's O.K. for you to come.’
‘Where?’ he said.
‘Henley, of course. Daddy'll drive us.’
Her father was a director of one of those companies whose function is so abstruse that they appear to exist only in order to manage money, unassociated with anything so mundane as a specific product – oil or bricks or shoes or soapflakes. There would also be, she explained, her uncle Dickie who was in banking, and his wife, and Mummy of course, and another uncle who was with Cluttons, and his wife. And some cousins.
‘Cluttons? The estate agents?’
‘Well – property people, really. Anyway, you'll come with us and they'll all be going separately. Oh, and it's usually tidyish sort of clothes, for Granny. I don't mean a suit. Just sort of casual tidy, see?’
He saw, arriving at her house: her father in well-creased trousers and crisp open-neck shirt straight from the window of Simpsons. Mummy in something trim and silky. He had met them once before; they greeted him this time with just a shade too much fervour. Her father had the bonnet of the car open; ‘Sorry, Nick – can't shake you by the hand, oil everywhere. Good to see you. Excellent. Couple of minutes and we'll be off. Why don't you and Charlotte go in the back together?’ The car bonnet dropped with the clunk of expensive engineering. ‘Ever been in one of these?’
Nick said he hadn't.
‘Ah. Well, I think you'll find it rather fun. This is the new model, of course. Fuel injection, power-assisted steering, hydraulic engine mounting – the works. Great fun to drive. You keen on driving?’
Nick said he wasn't.
‘Ah. Well. When I was your age I had an old Lancia. Did about ten to the gallon – absurd motorcar for a penniless young man. Great fun, though. Right – all here, are we? Let's go, then – there'll be hell to pay if we keep mother waiting.’
In the car Charlotte patted the knee of his trousers with what he recognised as an admonitory gesture. The trousers were not clean. He had intended to wash them but had left it too late. His shirt was clean but unironed. He shifted his knee slightly and gazed at the back of Charlotte's mother's head, of which each hair appeared to have been separately arranged. Charlotte removed her hand from his knee, slid it into his and tickled his palm. London slid soundlessly past; white stucco, black railings and polished doorknockers gave way to hoardings advertising whisky and airlines. From time to time Charlotte's father pressed switches; windows moved up or down, water sprayed on to the windscreen, air discreetly blew.
‘Let's see now, Nick – what's your line? Can't quite remember. Journalism – that right?’
Nick explained.
‘Interesting, I should imagine,’ said Charlotte's father after a moment. And where d'you go from there, then?’
Nick said he hadn't thought much about that.
They reached the motorway. Charlotte leaned forward. ‘Do a hundred, Daddy, go on!’
‘Don't be silly, darling,’ said her mother.
‘Not with the sort of idiots there are around. Besides, too early won't do either. You know your grandmother.’ The father raised his voice slightly, for Nick's benefit, as though he might be slightly deaf. ‘My mother's something of a grand old lady – I daresay Charlotte's told you.
Remarkable woman. Keeps up her own mother's tradition. The literary connection.’
‘She knew all sorts of famous writers,’ said Charlotte's mother, ‘Galsworthy and um … Kipling, was it? And …’
‘Tennyson?’ said Nick.
‘Oh, I'm sure,’ said the mother.
‘Amazing library,’ said Charlotte's father. ‘I daresay you'll get a look round.’
‘Ah …’
‘You'll be interested. More up your street than some of Charlotte's friends.’
‘Oh, shut up, Daddy,’ said Charlotte.
‘Keep your hair on, sweetie. No one's criticising. Tell the truth, Nick, I'm not a great reader myself. The odd Len Deighton, that sort of thing. Mother's in a different league. Wonderful collection of books. Extremely valuable, of course.’
‘That house is just stuffed,’ said the mother. ‘What's to be done eventually one hates to think.’
‘I'm starving,’ cried Charlotte. ‘I hope it's not going to be sherry for hours before we eat.’ She rubbed the back of her hand against Nick's thigh. He wondered why he was not getting an erection; perhaps speed inhibited the libido in some curious way.
They arrived, turning sharply off the road into a concealed entrance, down a driveway and out on to a precise circle of creamy gravel bordered by a ring of mown grass and high, scrupulously clipped hedges. Tubs of geraniums stood around. A flight of steps led up to the front door. The house was large, architecturally undistinguished and of the inter-war years. Very clean cars in unusual colours were parked on the gravel, as though displayed for advertising purposes. Charlotte's mother, getting out, said, ‘Oh lor – we're the last.’
They went through to a large drawing-room overlooking the garden, in which a dozen or so people stood holding glasses. There were cries and embraces. Charlotte led him round: ‘This is Nick … Hello, Aunt Frances – oh, fantastic – Jamie's here!’ They were all sleek and glowing, like animals fed and groomed to show condition; the older men shook him by the hand, the women smiled, the young said, ‘Oh, hello …’
On a sofa sat the old woman – small, with a dowager's hump. Charlotte said, ‘Granny, here's Nick who we told you about.’ He held out his hand and she took it and then dropped it at once. She stared at him for a moment and turned to Charlotte's father: ‘You're late, Rupert.’
‘Ten minutes, mother. Traffic the London end. Sorry.’
‘Well, we'll go in and eat. Tell them in the kitchen.’ She began to heave herself up; sons sprang forward. ‘No, leave me alone, I can manage. Get the rest of them through to the dining-room. I want Dickie next to me, and
Clarissa. Put Charlotte's young man somewhere near- I'll talk to him. Is he the one who's something to do with some magazine?’
A huge oblong mahogany table, glinting with silver and cut glass; dark oil paintings on the walls (dead pheasants, bowls of sheeny fruit, Stubbs-looking animals); thick carpets and a smell of roast meat. They were disposed around the table by one of the women – ‘You there, Charlotte, and um, Nick beside you, and I'll go here and what about Jamie and Sue over the other side …’ Girls in aprons whisked in and out carrying dishes; Charlotte's father stood at a sideboard sharpening a carving-knife.
The old woman sat hunched at the head of the table, unfurling a white napkin, talking loudly to a daughter-in-law half-way down. Charlotte shouted to a cousin at the far end about a party she'd been to. An uncle – the estate agent or the banker? – was talking about something he'd bought (house? factory? set of golf clubs?). Caught in the crossfire of several conversations, Nick pondered the warring snatches; everything was referential, named names, specified: ‘Those last catering people were no good so I've sacked them. These girls are from Binneys in Maidenhead. What's that meat like, Rup
ert?’… ‘Lucy and Camilla were there, and both the Warrington boys, and the band was fantastic’ … ‘So I got them down from frankly a silly price to something worth talking about and if Handley okays it I think we may well be in business.’ One of the aunts, a clone it seemed to him of Charlotte's mother, leaned across the table and said, ‘Do you know this part of the world at all, Nick?’ Did she take him for a foreigner? But no, the reference was purely local, it seemed – she was talking about Henley; ‘Mother thinks it's quite ruined, of course, since her day, but actually it's really very civilised still.’
Each time the old woman made some remark at large they all quietened in deference, smiled indulgently at her pronouncements.
‘What's that peculiar outfit Charlotte's wearing? The colours swear appallingly.’
‘Granny! It cost the earth!’
‘I daresay. The latest thing, I suppose. I never went chasing after fashion when I was your age. I had good clothes and they lasted me for years. Of course mother had such marvellous taste.’
‘There's a portrait of Great-Granny in the library,’ murmured Charlotte. ‘I'll show you later. She was gorgeous when she was young.’
‘What are you talking about, Charlotte?’
‘I was telling Nick I'll show him Great-Granny's portrait after lunch.’
Mrs Lavington fixed him with her small, black, glittery eyes. ‘What is it you do?’
‘I work as editorial assistant on a journal.’
‘What sort of journal?’
‘An academic journal. It's called the English Language Critical Quarterly. The editor was my tutor at Oxford.’
The table had fallen silent.
‘What college?’ demanded Mrs Lavington.
‘St Edmund Hall.’
‘My husband was at Magdalen. Apparently Oxford isn't up to much nowadays.’
Pack of Cards Page 38