Roger would explain. Not until this evening, of course; but a period of uncertainty might be no bad thing for her, Ephraim considered—although on second thoughts what difference would it make? To her? To anything? Probably, she wouldn’t even notice all that much, not on the day that Oscar was returning from his travels. The prodigal son.
He had disappeared before. (Only her husband; not her son.) Once, for a period of about eight hours. He doubted she would worry. More likely, she would simply shrug, resentfully reproach him for the chores he might have done.
The open road. Not so much a question of pootering about along the byways and between the banks and hedgerows as of making your way into the middle of town and down the pedestrian precinct and through the Broadmarsh Centre. The joy of adventure. That for the moment was the business of writing out another cheque; this time, for British Rail. He had seven more cheques left in the book. He thought he could safely go on using them until midway through the following week. What did they do—the banks—in this sort of case, he wondered. How streamlined and how foolproof would be their blacklist of defaulters? Of cheats and swindlers? (He found he didn’t quite like those words: cheats, swindlers, defaulters. They didn’t fit in with either Dick Whittington or Mr Toad…despite the latter’s short spell of incarceration. Neither did they fit in with St George; nor even with Paul Gaugin and his notorious escape from domesticity; out of the straitjacket of being the breadwinner, into the paradise of the South Pacific and the freedom to pursue his art and discover love and be bathed in Technicolor…albeit only one brief sequence of Technicolor, in a picture called The Moon and Sixpence.) Anyway, Ephraim wrote out his cheque. British Rail weren’t always all that lovable, or altruistic. Robin Hood, who was Nottingham’s most famous son, would undoubtedly have had something to say about British Rail. And about Barclay’s Bank. He remembered The Bandit of Sherwood Forest, starring Cornel Wilde. In 1946 Ephraim had been impressed by a large poster for this film beside a bus stop in the Abbey Road; while it was there, had seen it almost daily on his way to and from West Hampstead. As a boy he had worshipped Cornel Wilde, former Olympic fencing champion, along with Gregory Peck and Laurence Olivier; had wanted him for a brother as much as for a father. And indeed—more than the other two—Cornel Wilde was still one of his romantic heroes.
18
It was half-past-eight on the Saturday morning. Roger was dressed, except for his jacket and tie. He’d had his breakfast: a croissant and brioche, separately wrapped in clingfilm, cold and somewhat solid; a miniature pot of lemon marmalade, a misshapen pat of butter; one sachet of instant coffee, another of white sugar; and two containers of long-life milk, each of which he’d partly spilt in pulling off the foil lids. The plate was cardboard, the knife and teaspoon plastic; incredibly, the cup and saucer were of bone china, rose-patterned. He had an electric kettle in his room, which he’d filled at the washbasin.
The room itself was small—self-coloured maroon carpet, skimpy mauve curtains. It was also gloomy, being situated in the basement, and noisy, because it was next door to some showers and a lavatory and till nearly three o’clock there’d been a party of Australians horsing about in the corridor.
All the same, as a room it had been adequate, and Roger even felt a certain fondness for it. It seemed clean enough and the bed—although too narrow and inevitably too short—was definitely well-sprung, with a couple of firm pillows and a sturdy headboard against which he had sat up very comfortably to watch I Confess and to drink the beer and eat the crisps which he’d brought in with him…he had felt thoroughly decadent, and sleazy, and liberated.
After the movie he had watched The Twilight Zone and then, switching channels, Crazy Like A Fox, which wasn’t very good, but just because it provided a first-time experience—of viewing television until three in the morning—had given him the simple-minded illusion of living dangerously. He knew it was simple-minded, and probably no more than the predictable consequence of his four cans of bitter, but now, almost six hours later, the mild euphoria persisted. Far from being tired, or from having even the least touch of hangover, he felt refreshed—and capable of bold feats. (Watch out, all you pompous bureaucrats! You don’t know who you’re tangling with. Superman in a blue suit!) It was as though the short sleep he’d finally managed to get had been shot through with only the happiest of dreams. Today is the start of the rest of your life. Carpe diem. Gather ye rosebuds…
The Jolly Roger.
Yesterday evening, when he’d first arrived, he’d been pleased that the young Pakistani sitting behind the reception desk—if you could actually call it a reception desk—in the predominantly gold and claret and orange lobby, enlivened by the picture of a naked green woman astride a rearing green horse at sunset, had instantly flashed him a smile of recognition. “Good evening, sir. You were here many times during the days of the rail strike. It is very nice to see you.”
“Thank you! And it’s very nice to see you, too.”
“Maybe this time you are enjoying a holiday?” The young man adjusted—infinitesimally—the volume of Neighbours; and assured Roger that, no, it wasn’t being spoilt for him in the slightest.
“Wish it was a holiday. But it’s just that I have to be sure of getting to the shop on time tomorrow morning. You see, there’s only a skeleton staff on Saturdays and sometimes…” He hesitated, wondering how to explain himself. For instance, what made tomorrow different to any other Saturday?
“Ah, yes, I understand. Even without strikes, sometimes the British Rail can cause delays.”
“That’s it, exactly. You’ve put your finger right on it.”
But it was after Roger had printed out his name upon a card that the young man had grinned and pointed to the comic strip in front of him. “Very strange thing,” he said. “Look.” None too inventively, the pirate ship was called The Jolly Roger.
Yet despite his having arrived, as it were, with such impeccable credentials, they hadn’t been able to give him the room he had occupied before—a double on the second floor—which had been not only larger but far quieter, although for some reason not having a TV. This one in the basement, however, had proved cheaper; which suited Roger admirably, since now of course it was he who’d be paying and not Mr Cavendish. (Earlier in the year, anyhow, Mr Cavendish had been sufficiently perturbed by the relative cheapness of the terms—“Just because you work in a pigsty, that’s no reason why you to have to sleep in one!”—but Roger had assured him, with truth, that the place was fine and the fact it was in a rather dingy side street near St Pancras hadn’t worried him at all; had meant, indeed, there was probably much less noise of traffic than in the main thoroughfares. “Well, what about the screams of patrons having their throats slit in the early morning?” “I think they act as an alarm clock.” “Oh, yes, I should have thought of that. Of course! Then that all sounds highly satisfactory.”)
Now Roger stood before the narrow, gimcrack wardrobe and put on his tie. It was navy blue—pretty sombre—and didn’t match his mood at all. But he reflected he hadn’t any ties which would really have matched his mood; the half-dozen he had on the rail at home could all be described as tasteful and discreet; or, if you preferred it, he suddenly thought, tasteful and dull. Naturally, Alan Cavendish would never approve of anything gaudy…but was there nothing that came between the gaudy and the dull? This tie was the same colour as his braces and virtually the same colour as his suit.
He stared into the mirror thoughtfully. His belt wasn’t navy; it wasn’t even black, it was dark brown. Slowly he began to unbutton his braces. He held them dangling for a moment over the wastepaper bin. They fell on top of the beer cans and the crisp bags and the wrappers and containers from his breakfast and made a satisfying clunk as they dropped.
He slipped on his jacket; put into his briefcase the toothbrush, tube of paste and deodorant which he had bought last night; took down his raincoat from the hook on the door. (His father had been known to refer to this, approvingly, as his Humphrey Bo
gart coat and as Roger now tightly belted it and raised the collar—thinking, with a distinct feeling of parody, that he ought to get himself a hat—he could fully appreciate why.) He picked up his neatly rolled umbrella. Just before leaving the room he gave a last look round, but this was purely habit: he knew that his handkerchief and keys and small change were all in his trouser pockets and that there was nothing else he could have left. He hadn’t bothered to get himself any shaving tackle, because he had felt it an unnecessary extravagance to buy a spare set—and although, being pretty dark, he now had a very noticeable stubble which rasped as he ran his fingers over it…well, Mr Cavendish wasn’t going to be in the shop to comment, and even if Rose, like the little tattletale she could undoubtedly be, were to relay the information to him on Monday…oh, what the hell, it was, after all, the weekend. He smiled. He might not even wear a tie.
There was no one in the lobby as he took his leave. Which didn’t greatly matter: he had paid—as usual—in advance. But he wrote a short note of thanks to the young man who had welcomed him and brought his breakfast; there was a memo pad and biro amidst all the comics and the magazines and clutter. He weighted it down with a pound coin; hesitated—then went back and added a second.
Instead of the rain which Mr Cavendish had said was prophesied, it was at present fairly bright. He stepped out smartly towards the main road, swinging his black umbrella, enjoying the sharp authoritative sound of its metal tip hitting the pavement. Normally he didn’t use it as a cane. Nor, for that matter, as a rifle: impulsively, now, he laid it against his shoulder—like a guardsman—but merely for a few self-conscious paces. That too, though, made him feel rakish. He only wished it wasn’t black. He would have liked something more like the golden paisley which Mr Cavendish had given Oscar. Not the paisley, of course. But a pattern at least equally colourful. (Perhaps he should employ the proprietors of the B and B he’d just left as his technical advisers.) He was sure that Mr Cavendish would let him have it at cost price…whatever it was he came to choose.
He crossed Euston Road; turned into Upper Woburn Place, which led into Southampton Row. One of the shops on his route was a men’s outfitters and surprisingly it was already open. He glanced at his watch; then walked in and looked at the racks of ties. There was a silk one which he liked, with thin white stripes crossing the scarlet. It was still a long way from being ostentatious but it wasn’t dull; and it would go well with both his blue suit and his grey. He bought it and put it on right then. He slipped his navy into the briefcase. He left his umbrella hanging from the counter. Someone would be glad of it.
As he strode away he wondered if Jenny would approve; felt confident she would.
And then unexpectedly he realized something: that in fact it didn’t matter whether Jenny approved or not. Jenny was spoken for. He wasn’t going to dance attendance on women who were spoken for. There’d always be plenty more fruit on the tree—unattached, attractive.
Indeed, as if to emphasize this, a pretty girl in T-shirt and jeans just then glanced appraisingly in his direction. Briefly their eyes met and Roger smiled. She smiled back in passing.
Not generally a vain man he stopped before another shop window and surreptitiously surveyed himself; tried to see, as dispassionately as he could, what this young woman would have seen. He straightened his shoulders again, as he had done the other morning at St Pancras. It made a difference. He must try to bear it in mind, this question of his posture, until it became completely a matter of habit for him to stand well. Walk tall—walk tall and look the world right in the eye…He remembered that he had made a resolution to take some exercise; to get into shape; develop himself—develop himself, that was, within reasonable limits. He wouldn’t go mad.
He decided he would look through the Yellow Pages that very morning, find a health club that might suit him, make some inquiries. No time like the present. Again, he could hear his grandmother saying this to him, and it had taken him perhaps fifteen years fully to appreciate it, but now, today, he suddenly saw how right she was. “Okay, Nan. No time like the present!” He turned and looked upwards as he said it—said it out loud—although this was purely force of habit, his looking skyward while he was talking to the dead. “And I bet you thought that I’d forgotten!”
The window in which he’d been looking happened to be an estate agent’s. He had hardly been aware of this but the second before he’d moved his eyes away he’d noticed a sign which caused him now to return them. It said simply:
‘Flats and bedsitters to let.’
The shop wasn’t open yet but no doubt it did open on Saturdays. He resolved to come back to it during his lunch hour.
“‘And I’ll be up like a rosebud
High on the vine;
Don’t thumb your nose, bud,
Take a tip from mine…’”
He didn’t even realize he was whistling; let alone what he was whistling; let alone that it was another of his father’s very favourite songs.
“‘I’m a little bit short of the elbow room
And got to get me some;
So look out, world—
Here I come…!’”
It was sad that his grandmother never seemed to have benefitted very much from her own dictums.
He must pass his driving test, it occurred to him, irrelevantly.
Would pass it.
He would like to write a novel, too. The thought was not in fact so new as it sounded.
He had even dreamt something along those lines this morning, shortly before waking. He couldn’t remember much of his dream but he knew the book had been called The Voyage and had been set aboard His Majesty’s Ship, The Pheasant, whilst it was under sail to Sierra Leone in 1821.
He smiled—and shrugged. Well, at least it would do him no harm to pop into the library as soon as he could and see what he might turn up in the way of background material.
Life suddenly appeared so full of possibilities he was frightened that even with, say, another half-century ahead of him he wasn’t going to have time to realize merely a small part of them. That was terrifying…but it was also exciting. Like mother, like son, he wondered.
The Voyage…His own from now on was going to be a pretty damn satisfying one. For instance, just wait until he saw again that little runt who had half-dragged him off Nottingham Station on Thursday morning; because he suddenly hoped—fiercely, longingly—that he would see him again. Whether in court or out of it. Roger had his words down practically verbatim (he now had everybody’s words down practically verbatim) and he would take great pleasure in showing that pug-nosed fascist prick that you couldn’t get away with being nothing but a thug dressed up in uniform. Right now Roger knew with complete conviction that he was going to be the victor in this petty little squabble with British Rail…this fight against the bullies. Whether in court or out of it. City Hall was going to learn conclusively that it had picked upon the wrong fellow.
Outstandingly. Against all the odds. City Hall had picked upon the wrong fellow.
Zip a Dee Do Dah!
He felt he needed a bottle of champagne to break against such gleamingly new-painted bows. In lieu of that, he took out of his briefcase the dark, staid, stuffy tie—and left it decorating one of the potted conifers on the steps of a hotel. It was only a pity he hadn’t thought to save his braces, for then he could have ornamented its twin. Christmas streamers in October.
“‘So look out, world—here I come!’”
This time he realized what it was he was whistling. Then humming. This time he even put the words to it.
19
On the train he thought about Jean. He tried not to but he couldn’t help it. Therefore he did his best to concentrate on the things about her which had tended to alienate him; and he remembered a fairly recent outburst.
“I sometimes feel I’m like a mirror,” she had cried, “and everybody sees in me only what they want to see. But all the time I’m standing back on the other side of the mirror and wanting to be
me, not the chameleon I’ve been cast as!” She had added: “And Lord help me, I collaborate in the casting…to the extent that when I’m on the phone my accent even alters depending on who it is I’m talking to. Oscar is forever teasing me about that; so is Abby.”
Ephraim had forgotten what had inspired this little cri de coeur. Once, he would have felt sympathetic towards it; but now he had seen it only as one of her increasingly frequent and melodramatic bouts of self-pity and had turned away from her impatiently.
It was like when she had cried at him, “I want a mother! I want a hero out of Georgette Heyer! I want to be nurtured!” Yes: I—I—I! Why should she think this made her so exceptional? For heaven’s sake! He wanted all these things as well.
But on the train he also remembered her saying in Bordeaux—it was on the day she’d had her money stolen from her shoulder bag—“I can’t believe you realize just how good you are for me!”
This led on to him recollecting other things which at the moment he would have preferred not to.
He dwelt on the way that she’d behaved towards him last night…and indeed all week. The way she never said any longer that she loved him; hardly ever these days gave him a spontaneous hug; on the whole, spoke with far less liveliness to him than to the children; seemed to feel for them a much deeper quality of concern. He dwelt on the way she so often put him down. The swingeing irony. The tart response.
Then he thought about the kind of woman he hoped that he was going to meet. (Hoped? Prayed. Truly, if she wasn’t waiting for him somewhere…then what on earth was to become of him?) Almost certainly a lot younger than he was. But not a modern sort of girl. Not someone who cared too assertively about Women’s Lib, always enumerating her rights. Someone who would both look up to him and look after him. (Jean had certainly looked after him.) And love him. Love him. That was the key. You could, if you wanted, regard the concept of true love as being merely sentimental and idealized, but true love, basically, was what everybody hungered for. You had to feel that when you died you would be missed—grievously missed—by someone. He thought of an old lady he had once known; and remembered how she had said that still, after fifteen years of widowhood, there wasn’t a single day that went by without her feeling an ache in her heart for her husband; almost, not a single hour.
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