by Nina Bawden
Her conversation struck me as more inconsequential and irrelevant than usual.
I said, ‘Has Reggie really taken Veronica home?’
‘Yes.’ Her voice became extremely vivacious. ‘Again – though I’m very fond of my only granddaughter, I can’t say I was sorry. She’s a sweet child but not over-gifted with grey matter and to tell you the truth I found her the least bit tedious after a bit. I don’t think she was doing too well at her secretarial place either – it was a mad notion in the beginning. Too many smart, debby girls. I told Reggie he’d do better to get her into some good technical college in Nottingham where everyone’s liable to be a bit more down-to-earth and hard working.’
‘Did you know she was meeting Jay?’ I said. ‘Didn’t you even try to make Reggie understand how unimportant it was – in the sense he would mean, anyway?’
She widened her flirtatious, violet-coloured eyes at me.
‘My dear, Tom, I was quite in the dark.’ Her eyes flickered a little; she knew I knew she was lying. She said, on a little spurt of exaggerated laughter, ‘Veronica may not be very bright about some things but she’s certainly bright enough to pull the wool over her poor old Granny’s eyes.’ This Alice-Through-The-Looking-Glass image appealed to her, apparently, because she went on, ‘And no, Tom. I didn’t try to make Reggie understand. I’m too old for emotional scenes, I haven’t the stamina for them I used to have.’ She shook her head sadly, with a sigh. I looked at her wonderingly. She must be feeling miserably nervous and guilty if she was driven to pleading old age and infirmity. The pathos of the subterfuge made it impossible to expose her.
I said, ‘No, I suppose not,’ and grinned.
She smiled back uncertainly for a moment.
We said no more about it. While Louise made coffee and sandwiches, we talked about the weather and she asked me about my broadcast. But later, when she was getting ready to go – she always preceded her fussy preparations for departure with a little sigh, as if life were too much, and the words, ‘Well, I suppose I must be getting my hat, stick and gloves,’ – she suddenly said in a strained, unnatural voice, ‘You’ve got a nice husband, Lou.’
This unsolicited testimonial embarrassed us all extremely.
Louise said, ‘Oh, Mother.’
I kissed Julia good-bye at the door with geniune affection, embracing not just her but all inefficient, hopeless, well-intentioned people. Her cheek felt powdery and soft and old. As I watched her to the gate – she would never let me drive her home but always insisted on picking up a taxi from the rank at the end of the road – it struck me for the first time that she was walking like an old woman, with that careful, thin-legged, heron’s gait.
When I got back to the fire, Louise said, ‘What’s got into her?’ in a perfectly friendly, amused voice: for some reason, I resented it.
‘Ashamed, I daresay. Or feeling her age.’
‘Umm.’ She lifted her flushed face – she always sat too close to the fire. ‘You know, Tom, it’ll be nice, in a way, to be on our own again, won’t it?’
She looked at me pleadingly: I resented that too. She was asking me to let her off, as Julia had done – between them, they made me feel Like some remorseless taskmaster – so that everything could be nice and cosy and comfortable again. We were to sit by the fire and say it was all for the best, while Jay was out in the cold. I wondered where.
I said, ‘I thought you enjoyed having him here.’
‘Oh, I did,’ she said eagerly. ‘But it’s not the same, is it?’ She paused, watching me closely, a cozening expression on her face like a child asking for sweets. Then she said, ‘Will you miss him very much?’
‘I don’t know. I gather you won’t. I hadn’t realized you regarded him as an intruder.’
‘I didn’t.’ She sat back on her heels and looked at me with a queer intensity as if meditating some course of action. But all she did was too sigh, suddenly, and get to her feet. ‘I think I’ll go to bed,’ she said.
I sat on by the fire. Julia’s sweet, helpless silliness had lifted me momentarily out of depression. Now I was back in it again, in a grey desert of boredom, the cold fog of failure. Not that I had failed in anything very much because I hadn’t tried to do anything very much. I hadn’t tried to champion the cause of underprivileged people or bring about the brotherhood of man. (What brothers, anyway, Cain and Abel?) I had only tried to make a friend of a different sort of human being – whose difference was not in himself but in how other people saw him. But failure in a small thing can leave as sour a taste in the mouth as failure in a big one.
I felt miserably inadequate. A naïve nit.
Before I went to bed I wrote a letter to the London Passenger Transport Board.
It was a short letter. I might have made it longer, working off some of my frustration and bad temper with myself, if the fire had not died down and the room grown cold.
I wrote, ‘The conductor behaved with dignity and forebearance throughout, though he was extremely provoked.’
I signed it, put it into the envelope and then into my pocket.
Some weeks later, when she sent my suit to be cleaned, Louise found it there.
Chapter Ten
The letter came six days later. It contained three fat envelopes and a single sheet, from Jay. It was addressed from the London School of Economics. It read:
My very dear friend, You will have been out of your mind with worry as to my whereabouts. I write to bring you comfort. I should have written before but I have been overwhelmingly engaged in finding somewhere to lay my head. I resided temporarily with my friend Thomas Okapi whom you may remember from the airport, but I have now discovered quite good lodgings with an agreeable, though rather strange lady and gentleman. At first I was not allowed to cook in my room here but I have now gained my ‘uhuru’ and am allowed a gas ring. Later, when my financial affairs are in order, I shall hope to invite you for a ‘celebration’in my simple quarters. Until that happy day, I must bury myself in my too-neglected work. I enclose three letters of which I have only opened the first. They come from your young niece. In the circumstances, I feel I should not acknowledge them.
I must tell you I have not found any friends your equal in Britain. Your sincere friend in the Lord, as Mr Chirk would say, Jason Nbola.
‘It’s an odd letter,’ Louise said, frowning. ‘So stiff and funny, not like him.’
‘I daresay it was a difficult one to write.’ I almost snatched the letter back from her and stuffed it in my pocket. She looked faintly surprised. I said quickly, ‘What about these letters from Veronica?’ The envelopes were very fat and addressed in a large, green-inked scrawl. ‘I suppose the poor child sent them to L.S.E. to stop our getting hold of them.’
‘Poor child!’ Louise said with a snort. ‘Really, Tom – can’t you see she’s just embarrassing him? I think he’s very sensible to send them to us.’ Her eyes rested on the envelopes. ‘Oughtn’t we to see what she says?’.
I was shocked. ‘Certainly not.’
She said longingly, ‘I mean, if we did, we’d know what to do.’
‘The answer to that is, nothing. It’s the kindest thing.’
She sighed. ‘I suppose so.’ Unusually for her, so early in the morning – we were having breakfast – she lit a cigarette. Looking at me through wreaths of grey smoke, she said hesitantly, ‘Do you think he’s all right, Tom?’
She looked more animated, more interested and alive, than she had done since Jay had left. For most of the week she had been subdued and silent. If she was enjoying being ‘just the two of us’ it was in a very quiet, contemplative way. I assumed she was feeling – quite properly in my view – depressed about her behaviour to Jay and I had not felt inclined to cheer her up. I was depressed myself, resentful towards her, I suppose, and now, both hurt and angry. Jay’s letter was like a slap in the face. Why had he not put his address? Did he mean to cut himself off completely? Did our friendship mean so little to him?
‘I don’t
see why not,’ I said. ‘It’ll do him good to get out on his own. He ought to spend more time with other students. They’re less likely to think they’re so bloody grand and noble in being friends with him.’
She flushed and stubbed out her cigarette. Drawing patterns with a match in the ash-tray, she said slowly, ‘I hope his lodgings are all right.’
‘I don’t see why they shouldn’t be. I expect he’ll find a commercial arrangement is better than a friendly one. He won’t have to be grateful. He can live his own life, invite friends, give parties.’
‘He could have brought his friends here.’
‘He didn’t though, did he? And – let’s be honest – would we have wanted Mr Okapi? Except that it might have made us feel so comfortably nice and generous.’
‘Tom, don’t.’ Her eyes filled up slowly with tears. ‘Don’t hurt yourself.’
‘It’s just pride,’ I said. Suddenly, I didn’t feel resentful towards her any more; the gentleness of her tone had converted all my bitterness into a pleasurable sadness. I said, ‘I didn’t really think he’d try to cut us out just like this.’
‘It’s not just pride,’ she said stoutly. ‘It’s not just pride when someone you like and trust let’s you down.’
‘He hasn’t let us down,’ I objected. ‘You’re talking as if he’d walked off with the spoons, or something.’
She said obstinately, unsmiling, ‘He must know you’d be upset if he didn’t tell you where he was living.’
‘Not necessarily. He might think we’d prefer it that way. It’s a form of politeness, of not forcing himself on us. He thinks he’s caused trouble in our family and that’s important to him, he’s sure it must be important to us. As long as we don’t know his address we have an excuse if we want to avoid him.’
Though this seemed tortuous reasoning, it was quite probable he had thought like that. The only trouble was, I simply couldn’t believe it.
‘I suppose so.’ Louise looked at me sadly. ‘But we don’t know, do we? I mean – he’s sweet and nice, I’m fond of him too, remember, but we don’t really know how he thinks and feels, do we? It’s part of his attraction, of course. Getting to know him is rather like learning a new language. It’s exciting at first, just to be able to talk to people, but then you find you aren’t good enough to say anything important.’
She looked suddenly, with her fair skin shining and unpowdered, her shy, uncertain air, almost heartbreakingly young. I smiled at her and she got up and put her arms round me – a gesture with no sex behind it, only a rather strenuous desire to comfort.
‘Tom, I’m so sorry,’ she said in an urgent, breathless voice. ‘It matters to you, doesn’t it?’ She looked at me with frowning thoughtfulness. ‘It’s odd, you know. You’re so cautious and standoffish about people most of the time and yet – and yet, you suddenly go overboard for someone like Jay.’
‘I didn’t go overboard for him. I simply liked him.’
‘Because he’s African?’
‘It’s got something to do with it. But only because he seems a more straightforward person as a result – less muddled and confused and worked over than we are. But maybe you’re right. Maybe it is like learning a new language. You miss all the subtleties.’
I didn’t really believe this. At least, I believed it, but it was a glib simplification that left out everything important. Everyone is a new language. The fact that you may share certain common experiences with your own countrymen only obscures the gulf that separates you from them: people living in the same street inhabit different worlds. Was Jay any more difficult to know than the Misses Doone with their mad, merry religion? What would Reggie, for example, have thought of them?
Louise kissed my cheek. ‘Poor Tom,’ she said with a gusty sigh.
Her sympathy embarrassed me. My hurt was too trivial and childish – I was ashamed to admit to it. It was simply ridiculous to feel I had been made use of and tossed aside when no longer needed. All right – I had been a fool, elevating my friendship with Jay to an absurdly high-flown sentimental level, like a simple-hearted boy scout. But this was the kind of folly you prefer to keep hidden, like an undignified physical ailment. Louise’s sigh and her ‘poor Tom’, grated; rather as if I had a sore toe and she was insisting on treating it like some dangerous disease, tiptoeing round the sick-room with gentle, large-eyed concern.
‘Don’t be daft, woman,’ I said. ‘My heart’s not broken. It’s far too tough and stony an organ. Don’t worry about him, either. He’ll be back if he ever wants a free meal, I daresay.’
‘Don’t you mind?’ she said reproachfully.
I grinned at her woebegone face. ‘Up to a point, my duck. But I’ve got my living to earn.’
Hilton said, ‘I saw Jan Kunz, of the Fisheries Biology Division last night. He’s in London for a couple of weeks. You’ll be pleased to hear they were quite impressed with your report. Quite impressed.’
His eyes, those aimiable blobs of pale jelly, almost disappeared in the soft creases above his bunched-up cheeks, as he smiled. His plump face was like a rubbery doll’s; it contrasted oddly with his rangy body and stark white hair. ‘Though he thought maybe you shouldn’t have laid so much stress on the public health angle. Governments, for some reason, are less keen on reducing mortality than they are on feeding the people who survive.’
‘It seemed a point worth making, though. You’d be introducing two fish that grow quickly to a large size and reducing bilharzia and malaria along the way.’
‘It’s just a matter of presentation,’ he said apologetically. ‘I think you should talk to Kunz.’
‘I’d like to.’
‘It would be useful on all counts. He’s a chum of the U.N. Technical Assistance Board in Kenya. And incidentally’ – he fiddled with his pencil, flicking it across the table and rolling it back – ‘Kunz wondered, if the scheme was accepted, if you’d like to be taken on as project team leader for its implementation. He couldn’t promise anything definite, of course, but if you were interested, it might be a good idea to catch his eye at this juncture.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said slowly.
‘It might suit you.’ He smiled in a kindly way. ‘Field work has a kind of moral simplicity you don’t get in teaching.’
I laughed. ‘I’d like it for myself.’
‘Family?’ He asked with delicate caution. He never intruded on other people’s private lives. It struck me, that for all he knew, I might have ten children.
‘My mother’s the only problem,’ I said. ‘I’m an only child.’
He gave a little half-sigh; this was a tie he recognized.
‘Think about it.’ He paused. ‘By the way, didn’t you have a young Kenyan living with you?’
‘Yes. He’s left now.’
‘Ah.…’ He grinned. ‘That explains it. We’ve been receiving rather curious telephone calls from Africans who seem to think we have a room vacant. Presumably it is you they are after. The most persistent is a gentleman called Okapi who apparently telephoned here and asked for the Director. Our Miss Porter gave him my home number. He seems to have spread it around.’
‘I’m sorry. I’d no idea—’
‘That’s all right. Only if you see him, you might drop a word, would you? My mother’s quite nervous of going out, in case a black man rises up from the hedge.’
‘I’ll do my best.’
‘Thank you.’ He unwrapped a toffee and popped it into his mouth. He sucked thoughtfully for a moment. ‘I’ll get onto Kunz, then. Sort out your family obligations a bit before you meet him, if you can.’
‘I’ll do my best about that, too,’ I said.
I answered the telephone in the hall.
Veronica said, ‘Is that you, Uncle Tom?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you busy? I mean, can you talk? I’ve been wanting to get you for ages but this is the first time They’ve gone out.’ Her voice was strained and hoarse as if she were getting over a bad cold.
‘
Carry on,’ I said.
It was early evening. Louise was dishing up supper; a sour smell of cabbage filled the hall.
‘Have you heard from Jay?’ Veronica’s voice rose in a breathy wail. ‘I’ve written to him and he hasn’t answered. I can’t bear it, waiting and waiting.… I sent the letters to L.S.E. Do you think he hasn’t had them?’
I said cravenly. ‘It’s possible. But anyway, I expect he’s very busy. He works hard, you know, and he’s been looking for somewhere to live.’
‘I know. Daddy said – he said he’d got rid of him for you. Wasn’t that an absolutely foul, unspeakable thing to say? I hate Daddy. I wish he were dead.’
She burst into tears. Awful, heaving, gasping sobs emerged from the receiver. I gave the kitchen door a furtive shove with my foot and made ineffectual, soothing noises. After a moment, she appeared to be blowing her nose. She said gaspingly, ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make a fool of myself. It just comes over me all the time. I’ve been lying on my bed all afternoon and crying. Uncle Tom – do you think he’ll answer my letters?’
‘It wouldn’t be very sensible of him if he did.’
‘Why not?’ she said indignantly. ‘I put my friend’s address so he could write there. Her parents never look at her letters. So Daddy wouldn’t know.’
‘That’s not the point, love. I don’t think he’ll write. He’s a married man with children, remember?’
There was a silence, pregnant with misery. She said in a light, undimensional voice, ‘I wish I were dead.’
This seemed healthy and normal. She went on, wistfully, ‘Uncle Tom – have you got a photograph of him?’
‘No. And if I had, I wouldn’t send it to you. Look, love, be sensible—’
‘Be sensible, be sensible,’ she mocked bitterly. ‘That’s what they keep saying. I didn’t think you would, though. I thought you’d understand. I didn’t think you’d be on Daddy’s side.’
‘I’m not really. But I’m beginning to think he was right in taking you home.’