My wife took my hand. “I’m glad we are leaving,” she said. “Now things will begin.”
CLASS OF 1949
The end of January is quiet and empty in this seaside town. Martha is away at university in Manchester. A nine-hour train ride from here, on the fastest train. She has just phoned, as she always does on Friday evening. Ella has come back tired from school. She is doing A levels but buys magazines in order to read: “I was pregnant at 15” . . . “Are my kisses a match for his” . . . “My husband beats me.” She has gone up the stairs to her room and put on a Joni Mitchell record. For I can hear:
The wind is in from Africa
Last night I couldn’t sleep
Oh, you know it sure is hard to leave you, Carey
But it’s really not my home
I was sitting in a comfortable chair, by the side of the open fire, waiting for the news to come on the television. Emily was on the settee, in front of the fireplace, knitting a red sweater for Ella. The black kitten was chasing a shallot as if it was a ball, knocking it from one paw to another.
The phone rang. “I’ll go,” said Emily.
“Who was it?” I said as she came back into the room.
“Someone wanting the old people’s home. That’s the second time today. If it’s not someone wanting matron then it’s Linda’s, the hairdresser.” She took up her knitting. I listened to the clock on the mantel above the fireplace.
Maybe I’ll go to Amsterdam
Maybe I’ll go to Rome
The phone rang again. Emily went quickly out of the room. I could hear her voice becoming louder. She came back excited.
“It’s Victor,” she said.
“Victor. Here?”
“Yes. He’s at the Sheaf. I told him you’ll go down and bring him back.”
“I guess there is no way I can get out of this,” I said as I put on my coat. But as I walked down the slope in the light rain—past the terraced houses, a few had lights on in the front rooms; by the closed post office, the closed summer restaurants—I remembered it was Victor who was responsible for my coming here in the first place.
I met Victor in 1946 in Montreal while going to McGill. We were two from the thousands of returning servicemen and women who went to university just after the Second World War. I remember that winter looking out from the top window of an apartment opposite the campus. It was snowing. And bundled-up young men and women in blue and mustard and black overcoats were walking to and from a lecture. Furthest away, through the dark trees—the arts building, the engineering, the library—bits of light, bits of orange. There was no sound. Just the snow failing. And the moving greatcoats.
Victor would have got to McGill war or no war. But a lot of the others depended on the Veterans Act—fees paid by the government and sixty dollars a month to live on. When Victor came in his car to pick me up for dinner with his parents and saw the basement room I had by the boiler on Dorchester next to the railway tracks, he put it down to some eccentricity on my part. Then he drove through wide streets with trees and lawns and elegant houses, to the paintings on the wall of Emily Carr, the first editions in the bookcase, the butler bringing in the drinks. It was through Victor that I met the rich and powerful English families of Westmount and Outremont. In those days I was attracted by the rich—their houses, their possessions, the way they lived. Perhaps this is what I found interesting in Victor.
But there was something else. We both wanted to be writers. And we were convinced that the first step was to get out of Canada and go over to England. To get over I needed money. That meant putting in for a fellowship. I said I would do a thesis on “The Decay of Absolute Values in Modern Society.” And got five thousand dollars spread over two years. Victor got his father to give him a chunk of capital in the form of Bell Telephone shares, Canada Packers, Canadian Pacific, and Dominion Tar.
I am trying to be as brief and accurate as I can of those early postwar years. The girls wore their skirts and dresses long, and our jackets had padded shoulders. We had youth and high spirits—but they were held in check. When we graduated the principal made a speech saying what a fine generation we were, how we fought the enemy of civilization and made the world safe for democracy, and now we would take our place as useful citizens. The person they thought most suitable to give the convocation address was the chief of the Boy Scouts—I cannot remember a thing he said.
Next day, Victor flew to England. Two weeks later I took a freighter to Newcastle. We met up in London. Victor had rented a cottage in Cornwall for us both. London, he said, would be too hot in July and August. It was a marvellous summer. The wartime restraint suddenly went. And in its place I felt an exhilarating sense of personal freedom.
In September we went up to London. To a flat in Swiss Cottage. We were both writing first novels in different rooms on typewriters. The house was broken up into flats. In the others were middle-aged European refugees. And workmen were still repairing the bomb damage. We went to Soho, to the pubs, the drinking clubs, the small restaurants. We met painters, writers, editors. It was very pleasant.
Now and then Victor would say we were invited for the weekend to some large country house. (They were relations or acquaintances of his family.) And I would rent tails from Moss Bros., and we would go by train into the country, to the lengthy meals with many courses and wines and the mothers complaining that England was dull, that their daughters were not having the time they had. Then the Hunt Ball, champagne, dancing all night to the Harry Lime theme. And back to the seedy flat, to ration books and queues at Sainsbury’s for the small egg, the Irish sausage, the cube of butter, the bit of cheese and meat. While the pile of typewritten pages for our novels increased. We both knew we had two years to live like this and finish our books. Then get them published and go on as writers—or else return to Canada.
The Sheaf was ahead. There was one room with a light. From the window I could see an open coal-fire. Two people by a table. The rest of the room was empty.
As I walked in, Victor called my name, got up, and smiled. We shook hands. He continued smiling. I saw that his once white teeth were discoloured. That his blond hair was grey. And I wondered what changes he could see in my face.
“This is Abdullah,” Victor said, and introduced a small young Arab, very fine features with a dark moustache, neatly dressed in a brown suit.
“When did you get here?”
“Late this afternoon,” Victor said.
“Will you have the same? Is it draught?”
“Yes.”
I went to the bar and ordered three draught Guinness. Abdullah came up. “I’ll bring them back for you,” he said. I returned to the table and sat down opposite Victor.
“I didn’t think you would still be here,” he said. “I thought you would have gone back to Canada.”
“We’ve been waiting for the kids to finish school. Martha is at university in Manchester. Ella is in her last year here. So we’ll be able to move soon. What made you come down?”
“I thought Abdullah ought to see a bit of Europe. We’ve been in London the last two weeks. Going to art galleries, plays, movies, walking around—”
“It was very tiring, all that walking,” Abdullah said.
“I decided to take us away from London for the weekend. We took a train to Truro, hired a car, and drove here.”
“Where are you staying?”
“At the first hotel that had a car park opposite.”
“That would be the Porthminster,” I said. “Did you remember it?”
“No,” Victor said.
He took out a package of cigars and gave me one. Then brought out a gold lighter and we both lit up. He seemed reluctant to talk. So I said, “My hair is a bit longer than it was.”
“At least,” he said, “it’s the same colour.”
“Emily and the kids wanted me to have it like this. So
I let it grow. I didn’t like it at first. In summer some of the places here have signs in their windows, “no undesirables.” It means boys and girls with long hair who do not have much money to spend. I began to feel I might be undesirable. Abdullah, have you been to England before?”
“No. This is the first time for me out of Morocco.”
“How long will you stay here?”
“Just the weekend,” Victor said. “We leave Monday for London, then fly to Amsterdam for a few days. Then a couple of weeks in Paris. He learned English himself,” Victor said proudly. “In three months.”
“You speak very well,” I said. “What do you do in Morocco?”
“I register births and deaths,” Abdullah said. “I begin when I get back. It will be my first job. As assistant.”
We finished the draught Guinness.
“Let’s go back to the house,” I said. “Emily is waiting to see you.”
We went out of the pub. The tide was out. The widely separated lights along the front and the pier were reflected in the shallows. Up ahead, in the dark, were clusters of lights from the houses above the harbour. It felt damp and cold.
“I walked around with Abdullah earlier,” Victor said. “A shame the boats are gone.”
“It’s become a tourist town,” I said. “You’re seeing it at the best time of the year. In summer you can hardly walk.”
We went along a dark street. I stopped beside a cottage.
“Pop Short lived here,” I said. “Remember him?”
Victor was silent.
“He let you read a first edition of Lady Chatterley. He used to ask after you. He told me there was a White Russian colony here after the First World War. Like we were after the Second. And I guess there will be others like us later on. Pop showed me a Fabergé egg that he got from the White Russians. He died last year. He was ninety.”
We walked along a bit further on the wet cobblestones. I stopped beside a street light. There was an opening with stone steps going up.
“Do you remember this?”
“No,” Victor said.
“It’s where we had our first cottage, halfway up the steps. We were charged two pounds a week for it. At that time we didn’t know we were overcharged a pound because we were Canadians. The rooms were damp. The gaslight came from small wire baskets. The toilet was outside in the courtyard.”
“I remember that,” Victor said hesitantly.
We walked a little further along. “This used to be Maskell’s. He would put aside cigarettes for us. The cigarette paper had a thin pinstripe, like on a shirt. He died some years ago. And the Gay Viking? Here. We would go for coffee in the morning. Meet other people and have long talks. The Saint and Elsa ran it. They’re both dead.”
“I don’t remember,” Victor said.
”Victor’s here,” I shouted as soon as I got into the hall. Emily came out of the dining room, smiling. Victor was also smiling. He opened his arms.
“Emily.”
“Victor.”
They embraced and kissed.
“What a surprise,” Emily said. “Here we are thinking no one comes to see us. And here you are.”
“You haven’t changed,” Victor said.
“You’ve got taller,” she said.
“It’s these new shoes. They have thick heels. It’s the latest fashion. This is Abdullah.”
We introduced Ella.
“You remember Victor?”
She stood there smiling.
“How could she,” Emily said. “She wasn’t born.”
I took their winter coats and hung them up. And we went into the kitchen where Emily had laid out the table.
“Someone gave us this pâté for Christmas,” I said. “We were waiting for an occasion to open it. Do you know what it is?”
“It’s pork,” Abdullah said, chewing it slowly. “In my country I’m not supposed to eat it.”
“It’s very good,” Victor said.
I helped myself to a hard-boiled egg.
“Do you remember Tom Slater? We met him in one of the Soho pubs. He wrote short stories—”
“I don’t remember him,” Victor said.
“He died nine years ago. He was thirty-six. He used to come down with his wife to see us. He knew I liked sardines. So he would bring a different tin of sardines every time he came down. He said he told a friend of his about my liking sardines. “That used to be the way you could tell a gourmet,” the friend said. “Now, it’s hard-boiled eggs.”“
Abdullah laughed.
“Aren’t these plums good. Have some more,” I said to Abdullah.
“As you see, Victor, we are still here,” Emily said. “We seem to sit here waiting for something to happen.”
“We’ll get out soon,” I said quietly.
“I’ve heard that before,” Emily said.
“We have a chance. Now that the kids have grown up. Ella finishes school this year. Then we’ll be able to go.”
“But where will we go to—?” Emily asked.
“You two sound like characters in a Beckett play,” Victor said.
No one spoke. Then Emily said sharply, “How could you come back here, Victor?”
He didn’t answer. He went on eating, looking not at all at ease.
“Do you remember Keith Haydon,” I said. “He came over a few years after us and became an authority on nuclear strategy. He used to write articles, appear on television. He died last year in Venice.”
“That’s a shame,” Victor said.
“And remember Len Mason? One time the three of us were walking along Sherbrooke Street after a late lecture. It was winter. Lots of snow on the ground. We told him we were going to be writers. And he said he was going to be an actor. So we said we would write plays for him. Len did become an actor. He acted in Canada and over here and in the States. He was killed two years ago while driving a car on a highway.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Victor said.
“How do you live in Morocco?” Emily said changing the subject.
“I have a house in the Arab quarter. I designed the inside of the house. Also had my own furniture made up. It’s got lots of rooms. Now and then I have some European friends staying with me. But most of the time I only see Moroccans.”
“What do you do in the morning?” I said.
“I go shopping. Buy food.”
“Do you still cook?”
“Yes. But I have a cook and a houseboy.”
“Is it hot there?”
“It can be during the day,” Abdullah said. “But at night it freezes.”
“What do you wear?” Emily asked.
“He wears a silken—” Abdullah smiled mischievously at Victor.
“It’s something I got in Japan,” Victor said nervously. “A karate suit.”
“It’s like the old men wear,” Abdullah said, still smiling.
We went into the other room. I put more coal on the fire. Emily came in with the coffee. I brought in some whisky and brandy and began to pour the drinks. Victor took out the package of small cigars and offered me one. “I used to smoke one cigarette after another,” he said. “Now I smoke one cigar after another.”
“What do you work at, Victor?” I said.
“I’m a dilettante,” he said lightly. “I do several things. But as an amateur.”
“Then you’re a professional dilettante, Victor,” Emily said.
“No,” Victor said. “I’m not professional at anything.”
“But you could cook—very well,” I said.
“He is doing a cookbook,” Abdullah said proudly.
“I’m supposed to be doing one,” Victor said. “But I don’t think I will. Just putting down one recipe after another would be boring. I paint most of the time.”
“Wh
at kind of paintings do you do?” said Emily.
“Landscapes.”
“Like what painter that we would know?”
“Like Corot.”
“That’s a name to conjure with,” Emily said.
“I like being an amateur,” Victor said. “The good painters and writers I know—they lead such miserable lives. I was going through immigration at London Airport. And the official looked at my passport and asked me, What do you do? I said writer—I still say that sometimes. What have you written? he asked. Nothing, I said.”
We all laughed.
“He let me through.”
And for a moment he was like the Victor I knew. The one who used to make me laugh. But just as quickly he went back into his shell of not talking freely and looking uneasy. A few minutes later he stood up. “I think it’s time we went to the hotel.”
“I’ll walk you there,” I said.
Back with Emily in bed. She said, “I was looking out of the window. And I saw three people coming up. And I thought, supposing Victor’s married. And he’s bringing his wife . . . Do you think Abdullah is his boyfriend?”
“I didn’t ask. But I guess so.”
“I thought he liked girls?”
“He did,” I said. “I knew of three at McGill and one over here. Just before I met you he began to see a lot of this girl. I don’t remember her name. She was a Canadian in London from the same background as Victor. About your height, only very dark hair, high cheekbones, a nice smile. She looked a bit like Claudette Colbert. Very sympathetic. One night he came to the flat I had in Notting Hill Gate (Victor was then living in Chelsea) to tell me that he had just left this girl. And she told him she was pregnant. He didn’t know what to do. He said he would marry her. Victor has a great sense of doing the right thing. ‘“The trouble is,’“ he said, ‘“I have enough income from my capital for one person to live. But with two—I’ll have to get a job.”’“ So he went and signed up as a salesman to sell encyclopedias. He did that for a month. Didn’t like it. Then the girl told him it was a false alarm. And that was the end of that.”
I Don't Want to Know Anyone Too Well, and Other Stories Page 13