“That’s not fair,” said Matt, immediately.
“And his children.”
“Okay, it’s getting fairer.” Then he said: “So long as it can be relied on, absolutely.” His tone was now lugubrious again.
“Hey!” I said. “Matthias! What do you take me for? A welsher?”
“What’s that? No. An expiring actor.”
This showed signs of developing into a running gag between us. I laughed and hoped to foster it.
“Oh, but you’re being crazy,” protested Junie. “Presents! Expensive restaurants! You’ll have two homes to run. Meals. Train fares. It will be enough of a problem just breaking even.”
“What do you mean, two homes to run?”
“What do you think I mean, two homes to run?”
I recollected myself, spread my hands and gave a smile. “But, Junie, you don’t understand. My needs are simple. A cheap bedsitter with a gas ring. I don’t care about the area, I shall always have my home to come home to.” I laughed. “Darling, it almost sounds as though you doubt my potential earning capacity. As though you doubt my real worth.”
“The only thing I doubt,” she answered, “is the ability of others to recognize your real worth…though since when has a person’s earning capacity been the measure of a person’s worth?”
Then she added: “And you know I don’t mean to be brutal but what precisely would you say you’re qualified for?”
“Pop, only imagine what she could do if she did mean to be brutal!”
“Here, kids, I think you’ve got to help me out. What am I qualified for?”
“Oh, we’d like to help you out. But the trouble is—poor Cinders hasn’t any imagination and you told me not to lie.”
“No, no, it was your mother who told you that. You know my credo. Anything that I can hope to get away with!”
We had a jolly time. Between the four of us (though, to be honest, the women advanced far fewer suggestions than either Matt or me, whether sensible or silly—of the latter, “Join the army!” was a fairly typical example)…between the four of us we came up with at least a dozen serious possibilities. However, Junie laid down two conditions which she said were non-negotiable.
Firstly, she wouldn’t have me going into security work and, secondly, insisted I must hold onto my Saturdays. Beyond that, she didn’t think that most of the other jobs, even in London, would pay particularly good salaries; but on the other hand she didn’t really mind (she supposed) how much I might choose to demean myself—none of them did—provided it only happened at a reasonable distance from Deal.
“Yes, what do dustmen get?” asked Ella.
“And roadsweepers?” speculated Matt. “Or window cleaners? Lavatory attendants? Milkmen? Posties? Gravediggers—alas, poor Yorick!—with recitations on the side?”
“Oh, there must be literally hundreds of things that Daddy could do!”
I wasn’t too comfortable with the idea of perfectly honest livelihoods being thought of as demeaning, but at least there weren’t likely to be that many roadsweepers, gravediggers or dustmen passing through our hall right now and it didn’t seem the proper time to get pompous.
“Of course, you could always sell your body,” suggested Matt. “Though, I’m not sure, do you think you’d find any takers?”
So we drank our wine and altogether had considerably more fun than if nothing had changed and I had spent this evening as, until last Saturday, I had fully intended to. In stripping wallpaper and in sanding down paintwork.
And we talked about my project, off and on, for the next two hours or more—with the children, without the children—managing to find a few fresh arguments, yes, but in the main basically repeating ourselves.
“Well,” Junie said at last, “we might as well give it a try. If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work. And I suppose we really haven’t very much to lose.”
“No, not a thing,” I replied; my sombreness of tone hardly attesting to my gaiety of heart.
13
Wednesday and Thursday represented in one sense quite the longest two days I could remember, even though, simultaneously, there was a part of me that didn’t hope for them to hurry. Matt would have laughed at me and felt impatient but I kept saying to myself: this time is special—unrepeatable—don’t wish it over. So I passed the hours in a kind of sun-shot haze and imagined myself about to leave the quayside, the impatient traveller anxious to be properly under way but the home-loving man still appreciating his view from the ship’s rail. All the people waiting on the dock, waiting to see me off, appeared at their very nicest, whether they were relatives, acquaintances or total strangers, and I felt that every word I called back ought to be wise or humorous or in some way worth the uttering. Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary? Even when I spoke only to Susie, or to the rubber plant in the hall, or to the yucca at the bend of the stairs, I aimed to choose my sentences with care. With careful spontaneity. That seemed to be the order of the day.
And here’s a small example of how everything works out if you’re steering a true course and thinking principally of others: Junie’s period didn’t come—not on the Tuesday, nor the Wednesday, nor yet the Thursday. And even though I couldn’t help myself at odd moments thinking about Moira (calamitous, I’d discovered, on one occasion earlier in the week)—even though on the Thursday morning, running late, I scarcely tried to discipline myself at all—the count shot up amazingly: well over two thousand, which represented a solid thirty-five minutes, possibly more. No one could feel hard-done-by at thirty-five minutes, or not hard-done-by at thirty-five minutes, even if it might occasionally provoke a stifled yawn. (Yet poor Junie, you couldn’t blame her: a pair of demanding children in the house made up an enervating package.)
But then—would you believe?—on Friday, when I’d decided I wanted in any case to begin this tremendous day in a state of chastity, Junie informed me that her period had arrived during the night! It was practically sufficient to give you faith in the existence of a god—that is, if you were a little weaker and more malleable than you ought to have been.
Unfortunately, though, I didn’t sleep well on the Thursday night. As a precautionary measure I’d wondered whether to ask the doctor for some Nitrazepam; but although I’d lain awake for a long time during the small hours of Sunday morning (and been extremely happy to do so), since then, surely due to all that unaccustomed sexual activity, I’d had no trouble whatsoever over sleeping…no, not even following the heady excitement of that RADA episode. Indeed, in recent years there had been other, equally heady excitements—my playing of Lord Goring, for instance, and of Frank Hunter, and my annual participation in the local tennis tournament—but none of these had ever seriously affected my sleep.
But that Thursday night felt endless and instead of relaxing I worried about it: I wouldn’t look my best, my reactions would suffer—my conversation, my sexual performance, everything. I’d be unable to get through the next day with any degree of alertness, let alone of vibrancy. I’d be a tedious, lifeless, disappointing lump.
Maybe the only thing that prevented a full-scale panic—i.e., deciding to postpone the whole weekend on the grounds of someone’s illness (whose? not my grandmother’s, we’d then have Moira rushing down to help look after her)—was the thought that I might at least manage to doze on leaving Dover.
The reassurance in this idea…together with a mug of hot milk and several digestive biscuits which, clearly, I should have taken earlier…these finally did the trick; but by then it was half-past-five. And all part of the same irony: we had gone to bed—for once—a little before ten, had probably turned out our lights before Matt and Ella had. Fools that we were; or rather, of course—fool that I was!
Yet anyhow, although I overslept again (therefore we all did) and awoke still feeling tired, this was nonetheless an improvement on the way I had felt at half-past-five. I had to rush my bath and skimp my breakfast but I’d seen to the bulk of my packing the night before. I had also given my
shoes a shine and had even tried on my whites—this, naturally, at the behest of Junie, who was cross with herself for not having thought about it earlier.
Skimping breakfast, though—I imagine it was that—meant my bowels didn’t function properly for the first morning in I don’t know how many, including Sunday, when I had actually chosen to skimp. Had I been a little weaker and more malleable than I ought to have been, I might well have thrown my spurious faith right down the bowl and had at least something of note to flush away.
Because, you see, if I didn’t have a satisfactory movement after breakfast I seldom compensated for it later on and the whole day could be one of bloated, if largely psychological, discomfort. And merely the thought of railway lavatories, whether on the stations or the trains themselves, was almost enough to make me feel tarnished—unclean.
However, despite all the rushing and skimping, I did find time to say goodbye to Susie.
“I shan’t be seeing you, old thing, until Monday. Monday night! Four whole days…how shall we survive?”
Since for the moment she didn’t appear able to roll herself over or hadn’t got back to appreciating the whys and wherefores, I had to do it for her, in order to tickle her tummy. This wasn’t easy but what made me persevere was the impression of enjoyment that she still conveyed—although more from the way in which her legs stretched out than from any soppily abandoned grin. And the effort seemed worth it.
“But here’s your list of instructions, Suze. You must go outside a lot, because you need to get some roses in your cheeks. And you must take your medicine like a good girl. ‘I am really getting better!’ you will say. ‘I shall soon, once more, be barking my head off at every cat in the neighbourhood and soon, once more, be sticking my nose down every rabbit hole on the common! I am really getting better!’ All weekend, please, you will repeat those final words without letup. Understood?”
I rolled her back into her previous position and gave her a final pat. She struggled up to follow me, lumberingly, as far as the closed gate.
The leave-taking from my children hadn’t been half so affecting. While I was still upstairs Ella—probably reminded by her mother—had called from the front door, “Have a lovely time, Dad, see you Monday,” but I’d barely had an instant to call back before I’d heard her running down the path; while Matt, who had gone off a few minutes later with the classmate who invariably collected him, had forgotten to say goodbye at all. This was completely usual but today I’d hoped he might remember. I had shouted down at what I thought was the last possible moment—and had marginally misjudged it.
I didn’t say any proper goodbye to Junie because at some point she was going to come into Treasure Island. Having baked a fruit cake for the Caterhams, she had belatedly decided she ought to marzipan and ice it. It had struck her that with John’s wife away looking after a sick mother—an act of kindness which had probably left three young children badly in need of cheering up—the cake could do with all the decoration available.
I myself reached the shop fewer than ten minutes after my normal time…although it was only my ingrained sense of punctuality that had pushed me on; and when Mavis arrived I suddenly wondered why I hadn’t eaten my usual decent breakfast, driven over with the keys—then driven home again and bathed and dressed at leisure. That should have been the obvious solution.
Yet because I hadn’t thought of it, and now attributed such stupidity to the fact of my having felt so tired, I instantly felt more tired. And instead of this weekend shaping up as the most wonderful in my experience, I had premonitions it was going to rank among the most disastrous; possibly be the most disastrous.
Again I thought of telephoning Moira, this time to tell her I myself was ill: some sort of stomach bug, nothing too serious, merely incapacitating. And infectious—I ought to tell her that. Or was there some other minor ailment which might sound more romantic?
In any case I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t jeopardize this opportunity for happiness…no matter how doomed it might be coming to appear.
I had to go back to the outfitter’s after twelve. I’d resolved, halfheartedly, that if by any chance the evening suit wasn’t ready—or the alterations just weren’t right—then I would definitely ring Moira. But not only was everything in order: when I put on the suit it looked terrific; my lack of sleep hadn’t in any way damaged my appearance! From that moment the whole downward trend of the day—hitherto irreversible—splendidly reversed itself.
I collected my patent leather pumps. I’d bought them at a nearby shop on Wednesday but had decided not to pick them up until today. These completed my wardrobe. My new dress shirt and cufflinks and black tie were in the bag with the dinner jacket.
Yes, wardrobe completed…even down to the white walking stick I’d thought it might be fun to borrow; hadn’t I spoken to Moira of tapping my way along the platform, as helpless as blind Pew? (Not that, of course, up to the moment of his fall, he had been helpless, not remotely so—I hoped this made the simile a bit more apt. Disregard his villainy, think about his valour.) I wondered if my knowing we had a white stick amongst our other canes and umbrellas had precipitated that particular piece of foolishness.
When I returned to the shop I found that Junie had already been…with the cake for the Caterham family tied securely in a cardboard carton previously used by Tesco’s to transport jars of salad cream, but now thoughtfully provided with a good strong loop by my wife. “And also,” added Mavis, “she left a message—two messages! The first: you’ve got to score a century and not bother coming home unless you do. And the second: she’s decided to drive into Canterbury to try to find a suitable anniversary present for your sister-in-law. We spoke about how hard it is, wanting to buy something nice for the person who has everything.”
Junie and I had been speaking about that all week—though admittedly in between one or two other things.
“She said there didn’t seem much point in her waiting,” Mavis continued, “since I hadn’t any idea how long you’d be and she only wanted to wish you a safe journey and a wonderful weekend.”
In one respect, of course, it was as well she hadn’t waited: I had come strutting back into the shop with no attempt to hide my purchases; and the bags themselves looked glossily expensive, not the kind in which I normally collected jumble. (Plainly another instance of my not having been thinking too clearly but not one that saddened me again; I would simply have said I hadn’t mentioned the dance because of the worrying expense of hiring clothes for it.) Yet I was sorry to have missed her. It meant that we hadn’t said goodbye as we should have. And although I heard in this the murmurings of superstition I felt it was somehow wrong to be going off at such a time without both giving and receiving a hug—a kiss—a blessing: some brief restatement of our love. I tried to phone her; wondered if with any luck she might have gone home before carrying on to Canterbury. But the telephone just rang and rang, bleakly, in the empty hall.
With only Susie to know about it.
“No good?” asked Mavis. “I didn’t suppose it would be. But when I see her tomorrow I’ll mention how you tried.”
Even so, after an interval of several minutes, I gave it a further shot. She might have been in the garden or on the loo and the ring wasn’t a loud one.
“No,” I said. “Damn. Well, never mind.”
“You’re certainly a most devoted husband!”
“Thank you, Mavis. And since that’s entirely to Junie’s credit I shan’t refute it.”
“Well, it makes a nice change, Mr G, it really does. We should hang you up as an example.”
“Hold me up is what I hope you mean.”
She laughed, and for a moment sounded even more husky than usual. “Not that I imagine you’ll ever need much holding up!” she said. “You’re surely not the sort who’ll suddenly begin to sag!” I wasn’t sure whether or not that contained a double entendre. But—either way—the sentiment was pleasing.
At first, staring at that small yet solid ca
rton, I wondered if perhaps I couldn’t leave it. I already had my holdall, plus two carrier bags, plus a white walking stick. But hiding it would have been hazardous. Customers often asked for things which you felt you might have seen somewhere and supposing Mavis should good-naturedly set off on a wholesale rummage? Or what was equally unlikely—yet at the same time equally possible—supposing Junie herself, during the hour or so when she’d be filling in, should venture forth upon some voyage of discovery! I might be living dangerously but—oh, my God!—I liked to think I wasn’t actually going out of my way to plant clues.
Also, to leave Junie’s cake would have seemed both callous and disloyal; not the right way to be embarking on a big adventure—and especially not so, in conjunction with the fact that we hadn’t said goodbye as I’d have chosen. It would almost have seemed I was leaving behind a part of her.
I tried to phone again at three-fifteen but she had probably stopped in Canterbury for lunch.
I gave up after that. My train was at three-forty-five. And I wanted to take my time over walking to the station.
Indeed, I wanted to take my time over every aspect of these next three days. See and appreciate. See and appreciate. I should have had this inscribed (yes, seriously, I mean)—tattooed—across the underside of my left wrist.
“I really hope,” I said, “that you and…Wendy?…have a great time at…at Herne Bay, is it?” No. Mavis and her friend were spending the bank holiday at Broadstairs—or, at any rate, what would be left of the bank holiday. It hadn’t occurred to me: I should have suggested we shut the shop for three days, not just two. Oh, damn! How selfish could a person get? Yet maybe it wasn’t too late—“Why don’t we put a notice on the door?” But she swiftly salved my conscience.
“No, Mr G.” With a vehement shake of the head. “Wend couldn’t have got away until after lunch tomorrow. And Mum as well…I couldn’t have left Mum for three whole nights! She’s in enough of a hu-ha as it is. But she’s not an invalid—that’s what I say—and while I can, I’ve got myself to think of. Haven’t I? I tell her it will do her good.”
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