by Alan Judd
The discussion moved on to utilitarianism and became a brisk canter. Robert drifted back into his near-cataleptic state. The talk became background and he felt very drowsy. He was vividly and intermittently aware of detail. The rough texture of the armchair, the light catching someone’s pale sherry, a shout in the quad, a remark about rule utilitarianism, all struck with temporarily unbalancing force but were insufficient to recall him. There followed a kind of inner fall, a deep and piercing sadness. It was the realization that everything important had been got wrong, that it could all still be got right if only it could be seen differently, that none of it ever would be. If only the sadness, the sadness everyone carried around in him, were visible to all, all might yet be well. It was very close, just below the surface, but it would never happen. Buchner’s stars, he remembered, were God’s tears. God was weeping for us.
The discussion ended. Robert got unsteadily to his feet as if moving too soon after a deep sleep. The others were mutedly going through the formalities of leave-taking. Dr Barry remarked cheerfully that it was the last time he would see them before Schools and they left his room as if for the gallows.
He put his hand on Robert’s arm. ‘Hang on, I want a word.’
It was the last thing that Robert wanted and Dr Barry was the last person he wanted it with. He felt immediately guilty.
‘I’ve got to go, I’ve got something arranged – a rehearsal.’
‘What time?’
He hesitated too long under Dr Barry’s eager ferret-like gaze. ‘Well, I’ve – that’s what I’ve got to arrange.’
‘Come and have tea. At home, not here. Anne wanted me to ask you.’
‘I’m not sure—’
‘She’ll blame me if you don’t come. She was most insistent. I think as her time draws near’ – he smiled quickly – ‘she likes to have her old friends around her, as it were.’ He smiled again.
The walk up to Norham Gardens was a long way to fill with conversation. Robert prepared himself to gush about the play, to talk about his other papers in theology, even to discuss ethics. Nothing that Dr Barry usually said was directly threatening but Robert had the uneasy feeling that he himself was well understood. In the event there was hardly any need to say anything. Dr Barry talked about his first wife.
‘Barefoot and pregnant, that’s when she was happiest. They usually are. The pain, the discomfort, they put up with it all. Much more than we would, you know.’ He glanced at Robert. ‘It’s almost nothing to do with us, really. Of course, there’s emotional dependence but that varies. As for the rest – blood – blood means nothing. How can it? A man can’t tell his newborn baby from any other, provided they’re all the same colour.’
They were passing Keble, which had scaffolding outside festooned with Stop the War posters. Robert made use of it to avoid having to look at Dr Barry.
‘Do you still see your other children?’
‘See them, feed them, clothe them, house them. Some things never change.’ Dr Barry laughed sourly. ‘No, but for the woman it’s the first one that really makes the difference. It’s not the pregnancy or the birth, it’s having a completely dependent baby around for twenty-four hours a day. They don’t know what’s hit them. I keep trying to prepare Anne but you can’t, really. Whatever I say doesn’t mean anything yet. That’s why I hope you won’t stop coming to see her after the birth. They need to learn that the rest of the world goes on. Helps restore perspective.’
Robert nodded, keeping his gaze on the pavement.
Anne was again in the high-ceilinged kitchen, this time washing a great many cups and mugs and stacking them in the drying rack. She embraced Robert and kissed him on the lips without having glanced at Dr Barry, who went immediately to the bread bin. Robert was awkward in the embrace, trying not to press against her.
She smiled. ‘No need to be afraid, I won’t explode.’
They had toast and tea and what Robert supposed would be called a general discussion. This was the sort he always found most difficult. Dr Barry read the paper and seemed to pay little attention. Robert’s conversation with Anne felt like a very rapid game of table tennis.
She had been to the pre-natal clinic. ‘I’m really looking forward to it now. The birth, I mean. Before I just wanted to get it over with but now I actually want it to happen.’
She had said the same thing twice very recently and he just stopped himself from asking if the baby was still due when it was due. Instead, he asked what she was going to do after the baby was born. Asking questions was an easy way of seeming to talk.
‘It depends.’ She dipped a custard cream into her tea, waiting for the drips to fall before moving it to her lips. ‘Obviously, I’ll finish my doctorate but what then is the problem. Academic jobs aren’t exactly easy to come by, especially here. I’ve wondered about doing something quite different, like qualifying as a solicitor. I know it takes a long time but you can practise more or less anywhere and you can do it part-time.’
‘Make a lot of money, too,’ said Dr Barry, without looking up from his paper.
‘What about you?’ she asked Robert. ‘You used to say you were going into the Church. Are you still?’
Robert let his eyes wander the wide, tangled garden. The idea of himself taking holy orders had become unfamiliar, like stories told by his parents about incidents in his childhood which he could not remember. ‘Did I say that? Actually say it?’
She smiled. ‘If you didn’t you did a pretty good job of letting it be assumed.’
‘Well, I haven’t decided yet.’
‘Leaving it a bit late, aren’t you?’
He shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance. ‘There’ll be time.’ The truth was that he could not imagine any sort of future, could not conceive of it. His mind stopped at Schools and anything beyond was like speculating about someone else. He smiled at the thought that perhaps he suffered from the malaise which he attributed to Chetwynd: that nothing was real for him unless he had imagined it. It was the same with the baby; he had not imagined the possibility that it might be his and therefore had not yet absorbed it, had not made room for it. The idea was vivid but not credible. Even Anne’s swollen shape added nothing to its reality.
There was a discussion between Anne and Dr Barry about shopping which ended with Anne’s saying she wanted the walk and Dr Barry saying he wanted neither to come with her nor to leave her to carry the shopping home. He said he would go in the morning.
‘I told you, I want the walk,’ she said. ‘Robert can come, if he’s not in a hurry and doesn’t mind being used as a pack mule.’
‘Excellent idea,’ said Dr Barry, his eyes twinkling at Robert. ‘The rehearsal can wait, I’m sure.’
They walked to a small self-service shop newly opened in North Parade. She walked slowly and talked easily, asking him about the play, about Tim and Suzanne, Tim’s money, Tim’s BMW, what Tim intended to do. She heard his confession of the Jaguar with delighted incredulity and he received her admonitions with the pleasure he always took in being admonished by women.
While they talked he forgot for minutes at a time about the baby. Each time he made himself think of it he began to feel slightly sick but that did not last long. He would then feel that he had broken away into a floating inner region where nothing mattered. Things happened, that was all, first one thing, then another, until one day they would all stop and there would be nothing more to happen. What mattered now wouldn’t matter then, and would go on not mattering for ever. So why should it matter now? One moment he was resigned, the next he wanted nothing more than to talk.
‘Does David know?’ he asked as they were waiting to cross the Woodstock Road.
‘No.’
‘How sure are you that it’s—’
‘I’m not at all sure.’ She spoke sharply.
‘I suppose he’d mind a lot. Understandably.’ He had to repeat himself because a bus was passing.
She looked at him. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’
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br /> She continued looking. ‘Do you?’
‘Yes.’ The repetition sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. ‘We’d better cross at the zebra crossing.’
In the shop he followed behind her with the wire basket while she dithered over what to buy. Each contributed dutifully to a half-hearted conversation about Michael Mann.
Robert was aware of some disturbance at the checkout desk but was still paying attention only to Anne. When he looked towards the raised voices he saw the shop manager, two women assistants and Chetwynd. Chetwynd was remonstrating passionately, his thin face desperate. One of the women kept saying she would ring for the police. The manager, a plump worried man with glasses, repeated, ‘Now let’s get this straight,’ again and again. The other woman held a folded green plastic mackintosh with a packet of tea on top.
Chetwynd’s eyes were now on Robert, earnest and imploring. He looked older and smaller and his face more lined. Robert stared back, allowing himself to be implicated. For himself he did not care but he could sense Anne’s puzzlement as she looked from one to the other.
Chetwynd pointed at him. ‘If you really want to know, it’s his,’ he said. ‘They’re both his, the coat and the tea. We’re friends and he asked me to hold them for him while he helped his friend with her shopping. We were to meet here, by the checkout.’
They all looked at Robert. He paused before speaking slowly. ‘That’s right. I was just going to pick them up.’
The more vociferous of the women put her hand over the tea. ‘If it’s yours, tell us what it is.’
‘It’s tea, as he said.’
‘What sort?’
‘Twinings.’
‘What did you give it to him for?’
‘I was helping my friend with her shopping, as he told you. I didn’t want my things mixed up with hers.’
The woman stared in angry disbelief. Anne took the basket from him and went back among the shelves.
Chetwynd turned to the man with more of his usual confidence. ‘I tried to tell you, if only you’d listened. He has no more intention of not paying for the tea than I have of walking off with his coat.’
‘Why didn’t you say all this straight away?’ demanded the woman.
Chetwynd smiled. ‘I would have but you overwhelmed me.’
The manager looked relieved and shamefaced. ‘Better give them back to him.’
The woman snatched the coat from her companion and looked at Robert. ‘Not till he tells us what’s in the pockets.’
Robert shrugged. ‘I’ll show you if you like but at this moment I couldn’t tell you. So long since I wore it. No need with this weather.’
‘Why were you carrying it, then?’
‘I just picked it up from a friend.’
‘Anything from this shop in the pockets?’
He sighed, to gain time. Chetwynd moved his head very slightly.
‘No. Have a look if you don’t believe me.’
They returned the coat and tea. Anne took her basket to the girl at the till and it was checked out in silence. The manager went to the back of the shop, the quieter of the two women to the other till and the disbelieving one behind the meat counter. The other customers, who had been observing surreptitiously, carried on with their shopping.
By the time Robert had paid for the tea Anne was out of the shop. Chetwynd, carrying a plastic bag, held the door open for him.
‘Can’t thank you sufficiently so I won’t try. I’ll find a way.’
‘Quick thinking on your part.’
‘Yours, yours.’
Anne walked ahead but Chetwynd walked with exasperating slowness. ‘Stupidity, mere stupidity. Always the little things that get you, the unconsidered trifles. I wasn’t even after anything. Already had a packet of the stuff in my bag which I’d paid for. Went back and slipped the second under my coat more or less without thinking. Habit, you see. I love the feeling of getting something for nothing. They pounced too early, of course. Should have waited till I was out of the shop.’
Anne was drawing farther ahead. Robert handed him the mackintosh and the tea. Chetwynd insisted he kept the latter. ‘I’ll bring thanks when I see you next. Tell me about your woman then. She looks unhappy. You’ll be blamed. It’s always like that. Base your defence on compassion for me – hopeless case, string of juvenile convictions, nervous breakdown, widowed, two small children and so on. The child bit usually works.’ He held out his hand. His eyes were moist. ‘Look, I’m starting to shake now. Getting old for this. We shall meet soon.’
Chetwynd’s hand was limp. Robert shook it lightly and then ran to catch Anne. He reached for the bag. ‘I’ll take that.’
‘It’s all right, it’s not heavy.’
‘Come on.’ She let go easily, without looking at him. ‘Sorry about all that.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘I felt bad about it, you being there.’
‘Why?’
‘Dragging you into it like that.’
‘Who was he?’
‘Chetwynd. He’s in college. I must have mentioned him. Reads Anglo-Saxon, mainly.’
‘Is he a friend of yours?’
‘Sort of. Mine as much as anyone’s.’
She looked at him. ‘Are you always as good as that to your friends?’
‘Not much else I could do.’
‘A lot of people wouldn’t have.’
‘Do you think I shouldn’t have?’
She looked away. ‘It’s up to you what you do with your friends.’
Robert continued quickly. ‘He often steals. He gets a kick out of it. But never anything serious, as far as I know.’
She gently touched his arm. ‘Do you mind if we slow down a little? We’re not running away now.’
He walked her to her front door and then, to avoid embarrassment, quickly said he had to be on his way. She asked where and he had to confess it was only back to college, adding, pointlessly, that he might decide to go out later. He was considering kissing her goodbye when she stepped inside.
‘I’ll call round again,’ he said hastily.
She looked distracted. ‘Yes, do, it would be nice. ’Bye.’
Chapter 6
The next rehearsal of The Changeling was in the loft of a building off Walton Street. It was ill-lit and dusty, with bare boards, no chairs and rough brickwork.
Everyone was present because it was to be a full run-through, though the building was too small. It would distort blocking and pace and make it difficult for the actors to project as if in a large auditorium, but Robert had insisted. He had no feel for the play as a whole, no idea of its shape, no idea how long it would take. When the cast gathered more or less punctually for once there was an air of excitement.
Even Gina was only a few minutes late. It was the first time he had seen her since asking her to undress. When he spoke to her about the blocking they were both quick and businesslike.
There was some nervous and unnecessary reading of scripts. As a concession to Malcolm, Robert organized exercises culminating in a wheelbarrow race which left everyone hot and ready. Only Gina did not join in.
They began early and finished late. It was patchy and untidy, too long by twenty minutes and very slow in the second act. The madhouse scenes were embarrassing. He had paid little attention to the sub-plot despite its theatrical possibilities and Michael Mann’s warning. The neglect showed. Malcolm was better than before but still lacked conviction and intensity. The scene where De Flores presents Beatrice with the finger of Alonzo, whom he has murdered on her behalf, was not only unconvincing but funny. Yet it was probably the crucial scene of the play, the moral and spiritual centre. Beatrice, forced to recognize in herself the evil she shares with De Flores, yields to his blackmail and his truth. If this was wrong everything was wrong. Robert watched it with an inward freezing despair.
Afterwards he went to Malcolm. He did not want to upset him but could not say nothing. ‘We’re going to have to do a lot more on the finge
r scene.’
‘Really? I thought it went pretty well.’
‘Lines like, “a woman dipped in blood, and talk of modesty?” have got to be right, otherwise they’re just funny.’
‘How should it be, then?’
‘Less energetic. It should be slower.’ He was going to say less hysterical but sensed Malcolm was too near that already.
‘Really? How? Can you show me?’
Malcolm’s tone was flip and jaunty, as unconvincing as his acting. ‘Show me,’ he said again. ‘If you’re so sure about it, do it.’
Robert did not want to demonstrate. He doubted that he could do it very well. Neither did he want a confrontation, though at the same time he was reluctant to back down. The others were looking on. He smiled. ‘If I knew how to take the hero’s part, I would.’
‘I’m surprised that stops you.’
It was a public challenge. It was absurd to have got into this position so easily. He was as angry with himself as with Malcolm.
‘He’d run a mile if he had to play the hero,’ said Gina, good-naturedly. ‘Even without an audience.’
Some of the others smiled. She asked Malcolm something about the blocking and he started to explain to her. The danger passed.
The publicity man appeared with the next round of posters which were due to go up the following day. Designed by someone from Ruskin, they showed a man’s and a woman’s face side by side and merging into each other, each in white and peopled by miniature black madmen and courtiers. Everyone liked them and there was a scramble for copies to keep.
Gina had a canvas bag for her books. Robert went to her while she was making room in it for the folded poster. Malcolm and most of the others had gone.
‘Thank you. That was getting awkward.’
‘It’ll be more awkward if you don’t do something about it.’
‘Perhaps I should speak to him alone. He’s less likely to bridle then.’ She picked up her bag. ‘With him like that there’s no sense of deadly kinship between the two of you.’
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Deadly kinship?’
He again felt that she was laughing at him and so smiled as if he had meant to be funny. ‘You were very good.’