The Radiant Way

by Margaret Drabble

  With such speculations Alix Bowen attempted to cheer herself as the engine gamely laboured. She was near the end of the last stretch of motorway, nearly into the safer more brightly-lit purlieus of Greater London: ‘Come on, poor car,’ she said aloud, as strange memories of dating classes at Cambridge drifted back into her consciousness: she had loved those dating games, she had looked forward to them, the thrill of an unknown poem on a piece of paper, and one had to guess when written, suggest if possible by whom. Like a television quiz: what would Dr Leavis have made of the infiltration of television by his ex-students? Making games of that which is most serious. Some of her Garfield students (oddly, in Alix’s view) enjoyed playing punctuation games: inserting commas, inverted commas, semicolons, capital letters, into chunks of otherwise meaningless undifferentiated prose. ‘That which is most serious.’ A Shakespeare echo, but from which play? Alix hunted it through her mind, as the car climbed the last curve of the last flyover. And there, just before the summit, it pitifully choked and expired.

  Alix’s first emotion was pity. ‘Poor car, poor car,’ she said aloud. How not to identify it with poor Deborah Manning, gallant and wasted, propped up on her window-seat with many cushions, gazing across the dark, windswept, muddy tragic lawn at the moaning leafless trees: with poor Fred Bowen, on the fourteenth floor of the Royal Infirmary, his lungs full of water, struggling for breath, gazing across the steep hillsides of his expiring city? The pathetic fallacy. The quotation suddenly came to her: ‘Do not play in wench-like words with that which is most serious.’ Cymbeline, she suspected. Wench-like words. Did that dismiss all language, all poetry? Was Shakespeare, as she had always expected, in these late plays turning on his own art with a sardonic, elegiac, disenchanted wit?

  The rain fell in torrents, noisily, beating against the roof and the bonnet. Alix sat and listened. It drummed, it danced. Thank God, she thought, that Sam decided to spend the night with his friend Willy Beecher. He would have been worried.

  She supposed she would begin to worry herself, eventually. But not yet. She had better things to worry about than sitting near the brow of a motorway flyover in a clapped-out old Renault 4 in the pouring rain. She began with the most recent, the most obvious, with Deborah Manning, in her Sussex farmhouse, dying of cancer, attended by her grandson Nicholas, by her granddaughter-in-law Ilse Nemorova, by the tabby cat, daughter of Liz Headleand’s tabby cat. Nicholas and Ilse had moved in: their own home had been demolished. Its owner in Sarawak had been, at last, located, and the house, with all its flower-painted walls and floors, with all its bright little grates and beacon windows, had gone, had been flattened, had bowed and crumbled beneath the swinging soft heavy playful inexorable caress of a great metal ball swinging on the end of a crane. Gone were the painted gentians and poppies, gone was the dresser with its rows of plates, gone was the pumpkin lantern. Nicholas and Ilse had moved to Sussex, and now lived with Deborah. When Deborah died, they would inherit the house, the paintings, the estate. Alix had not expected this, had not known why she had not expected it. Deborah had confided the information herself, holding Alix’s hand tightly with her bony wasted yellow fingers: ‘There is no one else,’ she had murmured, almost apologetically, watching acutely as Alix attempted to respond to the information with appropriate emotion.

  And indeed, this was true. There was no one else. Deborah’s husband, Sebastian’s father, had died five years earlier: Sebastian had been the only child. ‘I left a few little legacies,’ Deborah whispered: ‘a painting or two, to my nieces and nephews. And something for Mrs Clayton. But the rest is for Nicholas and Ilse.’ At this, Alix had looked round at the paintings: those in that room alone were an inheritance. Even Alix, who knew nothing of such things, could recognize Ben Nicholson, Gwen John, Matthew Smith, Ivon Hitchens, David Jones, Rigby Saunders: and in the dining-room hung a couple of rather gloomy Modiglianis, given by the artist to Sebastian’s grandfather. They had not paid out big money, the Mannings: they had received gifts in kind, for small loans, or chickens. They had paid out little sums, to help friends. They had not invested: they had collaborated with their fellow-artists, in early poverty, in comfortable middle age. ‘There has been no harm in it,’ Deborah seemed to wish to indicate, as she clung to Alix’s hand. ‘I didn’t think, my dear,’ said Deborah, ‘that it would be right to leave you anything but a token. I knew you would not wish it, you have been so independent’ – and here the tears flowed down her thin cheeks, to be brushed impatiently away. ‘I cry so easily now,’ said Deborah, ‘so easily, it’s old age, it’s ridiculous. I open the paper and read a sad story about a road accident involving a total stranger, and I cry.’

  Alix too by this time was crying: for Sebastian, for herself, for Deborah, for what? ‘I never wished to interfere,’ pursued Deborah, ‘but I would like to thank you for not keeping Nicholas from me. He has been a great joy to me, has Nicholas.’

  ‘Don’t say that, don’t say that,’ said Alix, by now weeping copiously, embarrassed, appalled, relieved, prickling, unable to apologize now, at this late moment, for her attempts to keep Nicholas away, her failed, half-hearted attempts: ‘But I must say it,’ said Deborah, ‘for it is true, whatever you think to be true. It is true. And it has all worked out well, for Nicholas. He has a real talent. He will not waste his talent, you know. At one point I feared. . .’ and here she broke off, and gazed suddenly, abruptly, across the darkening lawn, at the cedar and the bare chestnut, at the end-of-year, end-of-her-life, sombre, damp, rain-gathering gloom. ‘Sebastian,’ she said: ‘Sebastian.’ She called to him across the garden. The wind moaned in the double glazing. On the walls, bare landscapes of eternal autumn glimmered, pale faces of pale girls stared sadly. Alix sobbed into her handkerchief. ‘It’s so dark,’ said Deborah Manning, crossly, irritably. ‘I’ve always hated this time of year. The dark ditch of the year. And now it’s going to be 1984. I suppose we’ll get used to its being 1984? It seems improbable. Put on the lights, Alix, would you? Let’s have a little indoor sunshine.’

  And Alix had switched on the lights, and the autumn landscapes and pale girls had faded, and the paintings of bright flowers and fruit had glowed, and Ilse came in with tea and cake on a tray and a clutch of late-delivered Christmas cards. Alix sat there, a guest, a visitor, sipping tea, as Nicholas lit the log fire, as Deborah opened the cards, exclaiming as she did so with pleasure, amusement, mock bewilderment: ‘Here is one from Horace Ewing Fast Plumbing Services,’ she announced proudly, displaying a fine stage-coach crossing a snowy mountain, ‘and this one, I do believe, is from that disgraceful young charmer Robert Oxenholme. Well, well, I wonder what he wants? Is that the family crest, do you think? Or is it some kind of charity logo? Do tell me, Nicholas, is it true that at art school now one can spend three whole years learning how to design logos and holograms for bank cards?’ She peered more closely at the card. ‘I think it’s the family crest. An S, an H and an O. With a sprig of holly. That young man ought to be ashamed of himself. I saw him on television the other night, talking about the so-called policy of the so-called Arts Council. Disgraceful.’ She nibbled a piece of cake. ‘His book on Signorelli was said to be quite good,’ she said, ‘but I never read it.’

  ‘I don’t know who he is,’ said Ilse, examining the crested card with mild curiosity.

  ‘He’s the son of that old monster Johnny Hestercombe. They came to lunch with us a few years ago at Saint-Ballerin. Weren’t you there, Alix? Do you remember them?’

  ‘No,’ said Alix, ‘I wasn’t there.’ How could she have been there, she reflected, as she picked up a crumb on the end of her finger: how could she have been there, when she had never been to Saint-Ballerin? And it occurred to her that Deborah did not remember that she had never been there, did not remember that she had been married to Sebastian for only a little over a year: that Deborah in her old age had jumbled time and memory, had extended that brief marriage over impossible meetings, had placed Alix herself in scenes, in landscapes, in houses she had nev
er visited, a fabric of imaginary marriage, an imaginary daughter-in-law, a son who lived on and merged with later years: and why not, why not? She looked at Nicholas, as he knelt by the fire, and prodded it with tongs. ‘Damn,’ said Nicholas, as a log dislodged itself and fell into the hearth, scattering sparks. So this was his house, his hearth, his home.

  The rain battered the windscreen. Alix was getting cold. Soon she would have to go for help: the rain showed no sign of stopping. Cars flowed past her, regardless.

  And who was she to resent Nicholas’s inheritance? She did not resent it, she told herself. Let him live comfortably, with his double glazing and his log fire and his Modiglianis and his Ilse and his tabby cat. He had done no wrong: he had loved his grandparents, that was all. They had proved themselves, Nicholas and Ilse, with their little house in Stockwell, with their exhibition at the Serpentine. They had passed the test. And now they looked after Deborah, affectionately, tenderly, gracefully: the angels in the house. What was wrong with that? They would ask her to stay, in the spring she would sit in the garden in a deckchair and gaze at the distant downs, as blackbirds sang. Tears rose again to her eyes. It had been a dreadful day, a day of terrible strain. ‘Shit,’ said Alix, growing angry, and switched on the engine, to see if it had recovered: nothing happened at all. Nothing. A dead, wet, depressing click. Then nothing.

  ‘Shit,’ repeated Alix aloud. ‘I can’t sit here all night.’ Whatever was she supposed to do? Flag down a passing motorist? Walk to a telephone? Nobody would come out to rescue her on a night like this. She groped in the glove compartment for the torch, and was rather surprised to find it there. She also discovered a bar of fruit and nut chocolate, Brian’s favourite. She started to eat it, although she had had a large dinner, at the long candlelit farmhouse table. Brian. His father was dying. His college was closing. He had an interview for a new job on 18 January, at Gloseley Polytechnic in Leicestershire. He had applied for several jobs: this was the first interview that had come up, though others were to follow. Gloseley did not much attract Alix, but she kept her mouth shut on her alarm at the thought of moving to this non-town in the middle of nowhere (27 per cent unemployment, two steelworks closed recently, the threats of a major coal strike making prospects even dimmer) and praised instead the adventurous educational policy of Leicestershire. Better that Brian should have a job anywhere than he should drift on to picket lines, aimlessly, with his new militant chums. Picket lines that had nothing to do with him, moreover. She could understand his rage at Dr Streeter’s shilly-shallying feebleness over the Adult Education Institute: he had a right to protest about threats to his own job and those of his colleagues, for he understood the issues, the problems, and she knew enough herself to agree with his condemnation of Streeter’s managerial talents. Streeter was a pompous ass, a self-important yet cowardly timeserver, who always bullied the weakest, and allowed himself to be bullied by the powers above. He had let the college’s resources run away into the sands: the best of his younger staff had left, and he had mishandled the loyal older members to the point of revolt. And they had revolted. It was all a dreadful mess. Brian was quite right, in principle: but what good would his principles do him, when it came, at his age, to looking for a new post? How would his reference from Streeter read, by now? Gloseley. Well, Alix supposed she could live in Gloseley. But would she herself ever find a job there?

  She still clung on to her one day a week at Garfield, to her three days a week with Polly Piper, in the building in Nightingale Terrace off Pall Mall. But the Glovers, her friends Eric and Hannah, had left Garfield, had resigned, had retired early, and there was a new warden, who viewed Alix and English Studies and indeed education altogether with suspicion. She seemed to favour a more punitive régime, which she claimed had been forced upon her by government austerity. Alix did not like Miss Higden. She was not as obviously useless as Streeter: one did not immediately ask oneself how she got the job. Indeed, she impressed one as a capable woman and her curriculum vitae was daunting. But she was quite fond of shutting people up in solitary bedrooms, of locking doors on the art room and pottery room between classes, on locking the little kitchen between acknowledged tea and coffee times. She was fond of keys in locks, on principle. She liked to know where everybody was, all the time. She quarrelled with the consultant psychiatrists about treatment, which was none of her business, and she cut Alix’s book allowance by two thirds: Alix was reduced to using the Home Office photocopier in Nightingale Terrace. The atmosphere was growing more and more sour, less and less therapeutic. If she were to move, with Brian, to Glosely, Alix would not now, she thought, miss it very much. But would feel a sense of failure. Of lingering failure.

  Jilly Fox had at last been released. She had tried to keep in touch with Alix, but Alix discouraged her, for it was considered unethical, unprofessional, for staff to maintain personal relationships with ex-inmates outside the institution. The Glovers had often spoken about this to Alix, had discussed the problems such relationships created, had warned her against Jilly Fox in particular: but while they had upheld the spirit of the law, they had occasionally, as good Christians, disobeyed its letter, and indeed numbered amongst their personal friends an elderly woman, a one-time lavatory attendant, who had murdered her eighty-year-old mother and handicapped son in a fit of despair. She came to tea with them, on Sundays, once a fortnight: there was no harm in that, no harm in her. But there was harm in Jilly Fox. Growing, surging, desperate harm. Alix knew it, could feel it, could breathe it in the air. Jilly’s last weeks at Garfield had been terrible. She had stalked the corridors, padding quietly in her flat sneakers, white of face and sharp of tongue, prophesying doom. Toni Hutchinson of the blonde braids had long been released: on the day of her departure, Jilly had attacked Marilyn, her replacement in Toni’s affections, attacked her with nothing more dangerous than a bowl of soup and a flood of abuse, but attacked her, nevertheless, thereby earning herself (intentionally? unintentionally?) another month inside. But out, eventually, she had had to go: Eric and Hannah did not want to release her, but could no longer find any more excuses for keeping her, at the state’s very considerable expense. She was not thought to be a danger to others: but a danger to herself she was, and would remain. Eric, Hannah and Alix spoke of this. Jilly refused to go home to her parents; understandably, as all three agreed. She had, after all, very nearly succeeded in murdering her father, whom she did not forgive, and who did not forgive her.

  ‘What she needs is some kind of half-way house,’ said Eric, chewing at his pipe. ‘But there is nowhere. Nowhere. And we can’t keep her here. And that’s that.’

  They knew there was nowhere. Nothing, for Jilly, between Garfield and the streets, which in 1983 were even more lurid with temptation than they had been when Jilly was convicted in 1979. Law and order had hardly prevailed, in these years: Jilly would wander out alone into Vanity Fair, into Sodom and Gomorrah, into Sin City, into the arms of pushers and parasites, pimps and pornographers. On paper, she would be cared for: social services would keep an eye on her, she would be helped to find accommodation, she would be encouraged to look for work. On paper. But in practice, there would be no work: in practice, she would within a week be thrown out by her landlady or throw herself out: in practice, she would give her social worker the slip and find other friends. Everybody knew this. Jilly knew it. She had said to Alix, at their last official meeting: ‘Alix, let me come and live with you, let me, I’ll do anything for you, let me.’ And Alix had turned cold, and shaken her head, and said No, Jilly, no, you know I can’t do that.

  I’ll come in the night said Jilly, I’ll come in the night and cut your head off with an electric carving knife, if you won’t have me.

  Oh Jilly, said Alix, don’t, don’t do such things to yourself, take care of yourself. I beg you, take care of yourself, for my sake.

  I haven’t the strength, said Jilly, I don’t care for myself. Why should I take care of myself?

  For no reason that I can give you, said Al
ix.

  Goodbye, said Jilly Fox.

  Goodbye, said Alix.

  And so they had parted. But within days of her release, Jilly was on the phone to Alix, pleading: she was standing in wait at the bus stop, pleading: she was sitting on Alix’s front steps in Wandsworth, alternately pleading and threatening. Alix, desperate, had consulted Eric and Hannah, had consulted Liz Headleand: they had all given calm, calculated, professional advice. Never, never let her over your threshold, they had all said, the professionals. Never speak to her for more than two minutes. Ring for the social worker. Change your telephone number. Get Brian on to her. Change your route to Whitehall. Contact the police.

  Irrelevant-seeming counsel, but Alix, dutifully, had tried to follow it. She had hardened her heart, had spoken no kind words, If you give in now, Liz said (and Alix knew this was true), she’ll burden you for ever, and there’s no curing her. You know there’s no curing her, she’ll only turn on you when she finds you can’t really help her. You will do no good to her, and a great deal of harm to yourself. You must save yourself.