The Itinerant Lodger

by David Nobbs

  Paying tribute to the dead man, the Rev. Greensward spoke of his great death, but said that it would be a pity if this was allowed to overshadow his life. As he had lived that others might die, so had he died that others might live. Sacrifice, declared the vicar, has been a popular feature of all religions. What had the congregation ever sacrificed?

  Veal had not permitted himself to die until he had lived. His sense of duty was too strong. The Rev. Greensward asked the congregation whether they had a sense of duty.

  ALSO NEEDED

  “There is still a great need for the right sort of men at the helm,” he added. “We cannot live well-directed lives unless we have a pilot.”

  But a pilot needed not only an aeroplane. He also needed a landing-ground. And a landing-ground was a complicated thing. No aerodrome would be complete without its runways, hangars, luggage racks and restaurant facilities.

  “In every gas heater there is a pilot light,” said the Rev. Greensward. He told the mourners that Veal had by his example shed just as sure and constant a light on the world as that which burnt in their own Ascot heaters at home.

  Ascot. The very word suggested gambling, snobbery, false pride. How far removed from such elevated and over-publicised gatherings were athletes like Veal, men who understood that life was a team game, that the spiritual must keep in training just as the athlete does, and that faith is the baton that we pass to our children in the relay race of life.

  TRADITIONAL GLASS

  The Rev. Greensward emphasised that Veal’s death would be an example to his fellow men. There was no reason why, as a dead man, he should not scale heights even greater than those he had achieved during his lifetime. Some men devote their lives to the service of their fellows. Others, said the vicar, who spoke for seventy minutes, refreshing himself only once from the traditional glass of milk and honey, devote their deaths. Veal had devoted both. That was a measure of the man.

  “Some people declare that the church as we know it today is antiquated and outmoded,” he concluded. “It is, but some antiques are extremely valuable. They also cost a great deal to keep up. Only with your generous contributions can we continue to combat the death watch beetle.”

  Chapter 22

  THE COFFIN SLID NOISELESSLY INTO THE EARTH. A cold wind was blowing out of a clear blue sky, and they wore the collars of their coats turned up. They stamped on the ground with their feet, to keep their circulation going, Veal having made them aware of how important that is to the living. Their breath drifted south-westwards on the wind. What could they be thinking of, as Veal slid noiselessly towards the centre of the earth.

  The Rev. E. A. Greensward was thinking about his funeral. It had been a very good funeral. They had been lucky with their weather. Soon, at the reception, they would feast, politely dissecting the corpse with knives and forks. Oh dear. But then that was life. None of your friends turn up when you’re born but they’re all there when you die.

  Mrs Pollard was thinking of Veal. Handsome he’d been, you couldn’t deny. But reserved. He’d never been very sociable, especially during his later years, but it was hard to think that he was gone. There was Baker, of course, but that didn’t matter to Veal. She shivered.

  R.A.F. Pangoose and R.A.F. Swabfleet were thinking of another sky that had been blue. A tiny speck had looped and rolled in that sky, had twisted and turned. When he had stepped out of the plane his skin had been rough and blue, but his eyes had sparkled. All evening he had sat there, not hearing what was said, and his eyes had sparkled. They were to see those eyes grow dull.

  Mr Tod “Biceps” Wallis was thinking of a young man in a track suit. He ran steadily, smoothly, like a well trained machine, in the vast emptiness of the stadium. He leapt over the hurdles as if he was weightless. It was as if his limbs moved steadily of their own accord, while his mind flew free and away, to loop and roll till the end of time itself. Nobody was watching, except Mr Tod “Biceps” Wallis, trainer and raconteur.

  Mrs Sally Turnover was thinking about the funeral. No-one had told her there was to be a funeral. Never mind, though. It had been well worth staying for. Down on her knees she had been, scrubbing the misericords, when it had started up. There had been no chance of escape. It had been awful the way she kept sneezing throughout the sermon. It was the detergent in the water. Turnover would be waiting for his dinner, but she’d stay till the end now. You owed it to the dead.

  Mr Eustace Begg was thinking of a young man at the side of a moorland stream. The dark, tufted moor, ruffled by the wind. An old stone bridge. A cottage. Ruined walls. A stunted tree. A blue sky. How often they had sat there together, not speaking much, content in each other’s company, and in their fishing. But had Veal been content? Had he just been staring, staring far beyond the stream, towards things that he would never see, beneath that blue sky? He was dead now.

  Mr Terence Veal was thinking of his ulcer. He couldn’t get to as many funerals as he used to in the old days.

  Air Vice Marshal Sir Godwin Colander was thinking of Mrs Air Vice Marshal Lady Dorothy Colander. She’d be missing their golf. That fellow Veal would have been handy with a niblick.

  Mr Alastair Bardwell, of the Amateur Athletic Association, was thinking of death. Was it just a disease, of which the chief symptoms were decomposition and total immobility? A fit of depression struck Mr Alastair Bardwell, of the Amateur Athletic Association.

  And Baker? He was thinking of Veal. Why had he died? Had he found what he was looking for? Had his last years been a burden to him? Why had his eyes grown dull? Had he been happy? These were the questions he wanted to put to that face he had almost bent down to kiss. He felt wretched and heavy, and sorry for Veal. And he felt sorry for himself as well. His burdens seemed very great in that cemetery and at the funeral meal that followed. Mrs Pollard was engaged in quiet conversation with Mr Begg, who spoke of the Veal he had known and invited her to visit him at his home in Woodland Close. Others were speaking of the Veals they had known and finding other topics of common interest. Baker found no such solace. He waited for the dark night to swallow him up.

  Chapter 23

  ALTHOUGH VEAL HAD BEEN BURIED THERE WERE still a great many people who had not, and two such were Baker and Mrs Pollard. They were too busy for such things. They were about to enter on a period of their lives which would make all that had gone before it seem like a living death. They were about to enter a state of existence that cannot even be imagined by those who have never given themselves physically, mentally and spiritually to another being.

  On their return from the funeral they banished their misery by keeping so busy that they forgot about Veal altogether. They threw themselves into their affair like divorcees grabbing for the bottle. In those first days there was an intensity of activity that would have amazed them both had there been any time left over for amazement. Each night they made true love, and then slept soundly, and each day they worked. They were happy to share those activities which had hitherto been the prerogative of one party—or of the other. They made their stews together. First Mrs Pollard would drop an ingredient of her choice—an onion, perhaps, or a turnip—into the casserole while Baker stood with his back to her. Then she would close her eyes while he chose his ingredient—a turnip, it could be, or an onion. And it was the same with their poems. First he would contribute a line—“where green the ivy spreads her throttling hands”, it could be—and then he would cover up his line with a book and she would add a line of her choice—“Beneath the bower I met my Robespierre”, perhaps. The stews were inedible and the poems unreadable gibberish, but they thoroughly enjoyed the stews and believed that the poems were masterpieces.

  It was a simple and quiet life that they settled down to as the days passed by. There was no need to work while they had Mrs Pollard’s “nest-egg” to live on, and Veal was quite forgotten. They did not pay a single visit to a night club, nor would they have done even if there had been one within fifty miles. They were happy together, happy in the knowledge t
hat as they adjusted themselves to each other they would grow happier still.

  Another occupation that helped to pass the days pleasantly during this exploratory period when they were getting to know each other better, was the writing of letters. They did not care about the outside world but this lack of concern did not have any meaning unless they recognised that the outside world was still there. Letters were the answer. Twice a week Baker wrote to Mrs Pollard, and twice a week she wrote to him. They would read the letters over breakfast, in silence first, and then aloud. “It’s from you, dear,” one of them would say. “You’re having a lovely time, and it’s doing you a world of good.” And then they would read the whole letter out loud. They filled the letters with jokes, for both of them liked a rattling good laugh over their porridge, bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, and tea.

  They also wrote letters to other married couples, chosen at random from the list provided by P.E.N. Friends Ltd. It was delightful to write to Mr and Mrs Elliot, and Mr and Mrs Lucas, and to receive letters back from them. They all filled their letters with jokes, because they all liked a rattling good laugh over their porridge, bacon and eggs, toast and marmalade, and tea. Mrs Lucas, perhaps, took the biscuit. Her letters were a perfect scream. But Mr Elliott’s were not far behind, and these two made up for the more ponderous efforts of Mr Lucas and Mrs Elliott.

  Much of the time, however, after the bustling activity of the first few days had died down, they just talked. It was nice to sit in front of the great kitchen range and tell each other of their troubles, their fears and inadequacies.

  One day Mrs Pollard told Baker of her diffidence about her ability to help him in his schemes. “It’s different for you,” she said.

  “What is? And what from?”

  “You were educated. How can I help you with your schemes?”

  “But you are helping. All this, this is part of it all.”

  “You need more. All this panacea or whatever it is, you need education. What chance have I? My father kept a bicycle shop in Hornchurch. What could I possibly learn about ethics?”

  “Ethics?”

  “It’s a closed book to me.”

  “I used to do quite a lot of bicycling, when I was at school.”

  “Don’t change the subject. You did philosophy and everything. The only thing I ever was was netball captain.”

  “You were captain of netball?”

  “What use is it now? I’ve forgotten it all.”

  “I was never captain of anything at school. I’m not the type. I haven’t the character.”

  Then he talked to her consolingly about her strength of character, her ability to lead and inspire. He grew depressed.

  “But you,” she said. “You’ve had achievements.”

  “What?”

  “Your poems. You’re creative.”

  “They’ve never got me very far.”

  “You’ve set your sights high.”

  “I’ve achieved nothing.”

  “What if they’re not published. They’re beautiful. I think so anyway, and I’m the one to judge. What have I ever created?”

  “What about your stews?”

  “Stews!”

  “All right. Sneer. But your stews have at least been eaten. My poems have never been read.”

  “I’ve read them.”

  Then he told her about the failure of his efforts in the gastronomy world, culminating in an action for damages after a safety pin had been found in a Welsh Rarebit at the New Vista Café, Ventnor. But he had other strings to his bow, she told him. He’d been a journalist. So he told her how this string had snapped, how during his brief spell in Droitwich he had involved the paper in libel actions—all of them lost—brought by the Anti-Massage League, the Friends of Fibrositis and the British Brine Baths Benevolent Association. By the time he had finished describing the havoc that he had caused up and down the country, he was thoroughly and utterly depressed, while Mrs Pollard was the soul of bonhomie, comforting him and dwelling on his virtues. She told him how exciting his life had been, how experienced he was, how much he had travelled, how brave he had been, while she had been stuck here in the protection of her own little house, never venturing further than the market, never attempting to better herself or others, until she was in the depths of despair, and he was brimming over with hope and determination for the future. Then he told her what a wondeful thing it was to have a home, and to be able to provide food and shelter and comfort for those who needed them.

  And so the days passed on a perpetual see-saw of emotion, as they experienced alternately the sensations of needing the other person and being needed in return. While it was a great relief to be able to know that one was about to comfort the other person by reminding them of one’s failures, inadequacies and worries, it was very distressing to know that one was about to be comforted in return by them for these same things. In their talking together, and being together, and sleeping together, they were still finding a kind of pleasure, in the sense that they would certainly not have wished to be without each other, but it was beginning to dawn on Baker that they were no happier than they had been before. There were times when he was happier, it was true, but at those moments Mrs Pollard was more miserable, and there were times when she was happier, but at those moments he was more miserable. They had got into a series of ruts and ridges and the only time when neither of them was miserable was when they met for a few brief moments, the one climbing, the other descending, and even at that time, although they were no less happy than they had been, they were no more so. If they had been able to remain in that position for the rest of their lives, their mean happiness would have been, if not particularly exciting, at least tolerable, but since their happiness was dependent on the fact that they were going to grow happier still, far happier than they had ever been before, it was impossible for them to remain in that position for the rest of their lives, or even for the rest of the afternoon, once they realised the situation. Baker became quietly miserable, and he could see that Mrs Pollard, who, if the laws of the see-saw had still been operating, would have been in a state of tranquil ecstacy was very nearly as miserable as he. The honeymoon was over.

  There were no recriminations. There was no expression, between them, of their knowledge that things had gone wrong. No voice was raised. Two adults had entered into a glass-house, smashed its panes with their clumsy elbows, and stepped out again. For a while life continued much as before, except that the joy had gone out of it. It was no longer pleasant to eat vile stews, so shortly Mrs Pollard resumed full responsibility for the cuisine, and it was no longer amusing to read bad poems, so Baker became sole executor of that side of the business. Even the letter writing came to an end after Mr Elliott, who liked his women to be a real scream, had run off with Mrs Lucas for a life of riotous wisecracks, leaving Mrs Elliott and Mr Lucas to cohabit in humourless gloom, without a pun to their names. Baker noted in his diary: “Constant Moping.”

  He made great efforts, during this time, to work out what had gone wrong and why the complete transformation that they had envisaged had not taken place. There were lots of possibilities—far too many for his peace of mind—and he had to deny himself even the satisfaction of knowing what his mistake had been, and promising himself not to make it again. He became convinced, in the course of his reflections, of one thing only—that it was all his fault. He was used to thinking this, and so it came easily to him.

  He even began to finger imaginary coils of rope, and imagine himself in gas-filled rooms. What point was there in remaining alive, when life had treated him so harshly? “What have I to lose?” he thought to himself. “I’ve no relatives, no commitments, no promises, no godparents, no dependants, no furniture, no prospects, no achievements, no qualifications, no chums, no secret trysts, no debts, no engagements, no obligation. I’m virtually a liquid already.” Why continue to live in a world which didn’t want this wonderful gift he had to offer? They’d be sorry when he was dead. They’d gather round th
e newly dug grave, shivering with guilt.

  But he did nothing, and intended nothing. He hung on, in an atmosphere of increasing claustrophobia, which would either throttle him or cause him to burst. He felt that he did not want to burst, for whatever it was that he shared with Mrs Pollard still remained, and he had no wish to lose her. It was a comfort to know that she was there, at the other side of the range, and that her thoughts were often turned to him, and that presently she would make bovril. But the walls closed in on him, the bronze pans leered disagreeably at him, and he felt that at any moment his nerves might snap and he might sink to the floor. Mrs Pollard kept looking through her photograph album, again and again and again, at faded grimaces on faded lawns.

  Then he began to feel the stirring of blood in his veins. Little trickles gurgled here and there through his body, and he remembered how much he still had to do, and realised that if he had lived forty years without Mrs Pollard once he could do it twice, old age permitting. Quite soon now he would lurch out from his cage into a teeming world, all the fresher for his absence from it. To turn his back upon the great mass of humanity, and to expect to find the purpose of existence—their existence, as well as his—in a private and personal relationship was ridiculous. Whether he liked it or not—and he had absolutely no idea whether he did—he was one member, and Mrs Pollard was another, of a complex and highly-developed society. It was out there, in the midst of that society, that he must go. He would be ridiculed, of course. He must put up with that. But there was no escaping it. It was out there that he must go.

  He had been there before, it was true. Many times. But then how many great works of art would ever have been created if artists had always been discouraged by their early failures? Twelve. How many scientific discoveries, too, would ever have been made, and, once made, would ever have been believed, but for the perseverance of brave and devoted men? Three. Perhaps he would die in the attempt. Perhaps his triumph would come too late to benefit him. What matter? What matter if he died in poverty and obscurity, provided his work lived on? Future generations would know of him, future historians would write of him, future waxworks would exhibit him, as the man who discovered the universal panacea for all mankind, and gave it to all mankind.