The Dream Lover: Short Stories

by William Boyd

  The low pre-fab shacks of the airport building heaved and pulsed with hot irate travellers like some immense festering yeast culture. Queues intertwined and doubled back on themselves before makeshift desks, where airline clerks mindlessly flipped through damp sheets of passenger manifests and ticket counterfoils in a futile attempt to match names to seats and parties to destinations. Beyond customs control gangs of green-suited porters hurled bags on to lorries and starched impassive military police forced everyone to hand over their local currency.

  After a two-hour struggle Morgan and Jayne arrived in the departure lounge, their clothes mussed and sticky with perspiration, clutching handfuls of official departure forms and exchange control declarations to be filled out in triplicate. Normally the blatant inefficiency and wanton lack of automation fixed Morgan in a towering rage but today he was merely sullen and leadenhearted. Jayne had clung to his arm throughout the obstacle course of the check-in and, dashing his last faint hope, had successfully arranged with her friend behind the desk for the two of them to have adjacent seats.

  As she went up to the bar Morgan gazed blindly at the ancient photographs of long-out-of-commission aircraft and thought of the appalling chain of events the coup had unwittingly set in motion. He mentally compared his parents’ semi-detached in Pinner, where he would be staying, with the Chelsea mews flat he had described to Jayne in such detail. He anguishedly contrasted his menial job off Whitehall in a grimy office block, with the post of Defence Attaché at the Paris embassy. He sighed in frustration as he considered how he had meekly accepted Jayne’s invitation to meet her Mum and Dad the following Sunday. It was pathetic. He felt like weeping.

  Jayne returned with two warm bottles of Fanta orange. ‘All they had,’ she explained. ‘Come on, dear, move up. Make room for little me.’

  Dear! Morgan’s spirit finally collapsed. He felt he couldn’t simply tell her to go away as he himself had so deliberately contrived to deceive her. Perhaps when she found out the truth she’d reject him. But he looked at the tight lips sucking on a straw, the shrewd eyes with their delta of discreet lines, the coruscating talons gripping the Fanta bottle and he thought no, Jayne was running out of time, and there wasn’t much hope of that.

  At eleven o’clock their plane was called and they assembled at the departure lounge door. None of the airport buses was functioning and they had to walk across the shimmering apron to the plane. Morgan plodded across the hot tarmac, his eyes on the heels of the couple in front of him. The sun beat down on his exposed head causing runnels of perspiration to drip from his brow. Jayne’s hand was latched firmly in the crook of his elbow.

  They paused at the foot of the steps. Morgan looked up. Stewardesses beamed at the entrance to the plane. He’d never trust those smiles again. He felt he was about to climb the gallows. He looked at Jayne. Her eyes were invisible behind the opaque lenses of her sunglasses. She squeezed his arm and smiled revealing patches of orange on her teeth that had smudged from her lips.

  ‘Oh look,’ she said, gesturing beyond Morgan’s shoulder. ‘Must be someone important. Bet he tries to barge the queue.’

  Morgan turned and saw an olive green Mercedes driving across the tarmac from the airport buildings at some speed. A pennant cracked above the radiator grille. The car stopped and a young man got out. He held a piece of paper in his hand. He was tall and sunburnt and wore a well-pressed white tropical suit similar to the one Morgan had on. He was like the Platonic incarnation of everything Morgan had tried to create in his conversations with Jayne. And for Jayne, he was the misty image, the vague ideal of the man she fancied she had met in the airport hotel. They both stared uncomfortably at him for a brief moment then simultaneously turned away, for his presence made reality a little hard to bear.

  The young man walked up the line of waiting passengers.

  ‘Mr Leafy?’ he called in a surprisingly high, piping voice. ‘Is there a Mr Morgan Leafy here?’

  At first, absurdly, Morgan didn’t react to the sound of his own name. What could this vision want with him? Then he put up his hand like a schoolkid who’s been asked to own up.

  ‘Telex,’ the young man said handing Morgan the piece of paper. ‘I’m from the embassy here,’ he added, ‘frightfully sorry we didn’t get to you before this. Hope it wasn’t too bad in the hotel . . .’ He went on, but Morgan was reading the telex.

  ‘LEAFY,’ he read, ‘RETURN SOONEST NKONGSAMBA. YOU ARE URGENTLY REQD. RE. LIAISING WITH NEW MILITARY GOVT. ALL CLEAR LONDON. CARTWRIGHT.’

  Cartwright was the High Commissioner at Nkongsamba. Morgan looked at the young man. He couldn’t speak, his throat was choked with emotion. He handed the telex to Jayne. She frowned with incomprehension.

  ‘What does this mean?’ she asked harshly, the poise cracking for an instant as Morgan stepped out of the queue.

  ‘Duty calls, darling.’ There seemed to be waves crashing and surging behind his ribcage. He felt dazed, abstracted from events. He waved his hands about meaninglessly, like a demented conductor. ‘Absolutely nothing I can do.’ He had reached the Mercedes, the young man held the back door open for him. The embarking passengers looked on curiously. He saw the Americans. ‘Hey!’ the woman shouted angrily, ‘You’re British!’ He suppressed a whoop of gleeful laughter. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he called again to Jayne, ‘I’ll write, soon. I’ll explain everything,’ trying desperately to keep the elation from his voice. A final shrug of his shoulders and he ducked into the car. It was deliciously cool, the air-conditioning whirred softly.

  ‘I’ll come as far as the airport buildings,’ the young man said deferentially. ‘Then this’ll take you straight back up the road to Nkongsamba if that’s okay with you.’

  ‘Oh that’s fine,’ said Morgan loosening his tie and waving to Jayne as the car moved off. ‘Oh yes. That’s absolutely fine.’

  Long Story Short

  Part One

  Louella and I stood alone in the darkening garden. There was the first hint of autumn frost in the evening. The soft light from the drawing-room windows set shimmers glowing in her thick auburn hair. Louella hugged herself, crushing her full breasts with her forearms. I felt an almost physical pain of love and desire in my gut.

  ‘I think they’re lovely,’ she said, turning to face the house.

  ‘So do I . . . oh, you mean Ma and Pa?’

  ‘Of course. I’m so glad I’ve met them.’

  ‘They like you too, you know, very much.’ I moved beside her and put my arms round her slim waist. I rested my forehead on hers. ‘I like you too,’ I said whimsically. She laughed, showing her pale throat, and we hugged each other. I stared past her at the trees and bushes slowly relinquishing their forms to the night. Then I felt her posture change slightly.

  ‘Well, hello little brother,’ came a deep, sardonic voice. ‘What have we got here?’

  It was Gareth. And somehow I knew everything would be spoilt.

  * * * *

  Actually it wasn’t Gareth at all. It was Frank. God I’m tired of this relentless artifice. Let’s start again, shall we?

  Part Two

  Louella and William stood alone in the darkening garden. There was the first hint of autumn frost in the evening . . . drawing-room windows, yes, . . . crushing her full breasts etc.,. . . almost physical pain and so on.

  ‘I don’t see why you’re so upset,’ Louella said. ‘I mean, he is your brother. If I’m going to be one of the family I might as well meet him.’

  ‘But he’s such a shit. A fat smarmy shit and a mean little sod to boot. I know you won’t like him. He’s just not our type,’ William said petulantly, conscious of the fact that he was only stimulating Louella’s interest.

  They heard the sound of a car in the drive. William felt his throat tighten. Louella tried to appear nonchalant – with only partial success.

  Frank opened the drawing-room windows and sauntered into the garden to join them. He was wearing a maroon cord suit with unfashionably flared trousers and a yellow ny
lon shirt. A heavy gold ingot swung at his throat. His once even features, William noticed, had become thickened and distorted with fat. He was almost completely bald now.

  No, it’s no good. It keeps getting in the way, this dreadful compulsion to tell lies (you write fiction and what are you doing? You’re telling lies, pal, that’s all). And besides, it’s very unfair to Frank, who was very good-looking, exceptionally well-dressed and had as thick and glossy a head of hair as Louella in part one. Louella – the real Louella – in fact had dyed blonde hair, but I’ve always had a hankering for auburn. (Come to that she doesn’t have full breasts either.)

  To get rid of the fiction element perhaps I should begin by distinguishing myself from the ‘I’ in part one. I – now – am the author (you know my name – check it out). The ‘I’ in part one is fictional, not me. Neither is the ‘William’ in part two. It’s just a device. No doubt, in any case, you thought to yourself ‘hold on a second’, as you read part two. ‘Little bit odd this,’ you probably thought, ‘character’s got the same name as the author. Something fishy here.’ But you must watch out for that sort of thing, it’s an error readers are prone to fall into. There are a lot of Williams about. Lots. It doesn’t need to be me.

  But now, having got rid of all this obfuscation, I am speaking to you directly. The author talking to the reader – whoever you are. Imagine me as a voice in your ear, unmediated by any notions or theories you may have heard about books and stories, textuality and reading, that sort of thing. I was, as it so happens, in actual fact, really engaged to a girl called Louella once, and I did have a brother called Frank. And certain factual events to do with the three of us inspired, were at the back of, the two beginnings I attempted. Louella was an American girl. I’d met her in New York, fallen in love, got engaged and had brought her back to England to meet my parents. She also met Frank.

  Frank. Frank was the sort of older brother nobody needs. Tall, socially at ease, rich, good job (journalist on an up-market Sunday). Very attractive too. He had a polished superficial charm which, to my surprise, managed to take in one hell of a lot of people. But he was a smug self-satisfied bastard and we never really liked each other. He always needed to feel superior to me.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ Frank said to Louella, holding on to her hand far longer than William thought necessary.

  ‘Hi,’ said Louella. ‘William’s told me so much about you.’

  Frank laughed. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘You don’t want to believe anything he says.’

  He didn’t say that, in fact. But it’s typical of the sort of thing I can imagine him saying. Anyway I only did that just to show you how easy it is – and how different. I can make Frank bald, add four inches to Louella’s bust, supply William with a flat in Belgravia. But it’s not going to solve anything. Because – to cut a long story short (quite a good title, yes?) – I really did love Louella (we’ll still call her that, if you don’t mind – saves possible embarrassment). I wanted to marry her. And that bastard Frank steadily and deliberately took her away from me.

  At the time we were staying with my parents. We hadn’t fixed a date for the wedding as we were waiting until we had a house first. However, plans were being made, Louella’s mother was going to fly over, a guest list was being drawn up. Frank was very subtle. He contented himself with being incredibly nice. He was around a lot and spent a great deal of time with Louella – just chatting. I was away in London (my parents live near Witney, Oxfordshire) trying to get a job. I can still remember – quite vividly – sitting on the London train, rigid with a kind of frustrated rage. I knew exactly what was happening. I could sense Louella’s increasing fascination with Frank, but there was nothing I could do about it, no accusation I could level, without being accused in turn of chronic paranoia. Nothing physical had happened between Louella and Frank, yet in a way she was more intimate with him than she’d ever been with me.

  I couldn’t stand it any longer. The house seemed to brim with their complicity. I felt pinioned by their innuendoes, webbed in by their covert glances. It was impossible. Yet the whole relationship was occurring at such a subliminal, cerebral level that any apportioning of blame on my part would look like an act of near insanity. So I went away. I said I had to be in London for an entire week job-hunting and having interviews. I entrusted Louella to my parents’ care, but I knew Frank wouldn’t be far away.

  I took up an uncomfortable post in the wood behind my parents’ house armed with a pair of powerful binoculars and watched the comings and goings. I saw Frank arrive the next day, homing in unerringly. Saw them walk in the garden, go out for drives. Saw Frank take my place at the family dinner table pouring wine, recounting anecdotes that I should have been telling.

  In fact William hated Frank with all the energy he could summon. Hated his lean, permanently tanned face, his fake selfdeprecating smile. Despised his short fingernails, his modishly scruffy clothes. Loathed his intimate knowledge of current affairs, his casual travelogues. And he ached when Louella touched his arm in admiring disbelief as Official Secrets were dropped, offthe-record confidences disclosed. Suffered when she showed her pale pulsing throat as she laughed at his smart in-jokes.

  Sorry. Sorry. It’s a lapse, I know. I promised. But fiction is so safe, so easy to hide behind. It won’t happen again.

  It was a Sunday afternoon when I became really alarmed. My vigil in the wood had lasted three days (sleeping in my car: extremely uncomfortable) and I was beginning to wonder if I’d overdramatized things rather. Mother and Father had gone out on some interminable Sunday ramble in the car (I sense that I haven’t really done my parents justice – not that they’re all that interesting really – but they play no significant part in the following events). Then Frank came round in his car – a Triumph Stag: pure Frank, that. There was some activity in the house. Frank appeared briefly in the sitting room with two suitcases. I scampered through the garden and peered around the corner of the house. Frank was rearranging luggage in the boot. I saw him take out a fishing rod and repack it. Then Louella appeared, she seemed quite calm. She said,

  ‘Have you left a note for them?’

  Frank: ‘Yes, on the hall table.’

  Louella: ‘What about William?’

  Frank: ‘Oh don’t worry about him. Ma and Pa will break the news.’

  Reader, imagine how I felt.

  They drove off. I knew where they were going. I went inside and read the note Frank had written to my parents. It went something like this.

  Louella and I have gone away for a few days. We have fallen very much in love and want to think things over. Please break this to William as gently as possible. Back sometime next week. Love Frank.

  The family have a small cottage on the west coast of Scotland. We have spent many summers there. I knew that was where Frank was heading. The fishing rod gave it away. Fly fishing is his great ‘passion’. He thinks it somehow both intellectual – respectable literature on the sport – and gentlemanly – Alec Douglas Home and the Queen Mother do it. I filled my car up with petrol and went to London. There I dropped in on a few friends and made some calls. Then, that night, I followed them north.

  The family cottage – more of a house to be honest – lies off the main road near the village of A –. (Funny how this is meant to make it more realistic. It seems so obvious. Why not give the name? It’s Achranich, not far from Oban. I’m not interested in misleading you.) Behind the house is one of those typical Scottish hills, khaki green, shaded with brown and purple, covered in a thick, moss-sprung grass. An energetic hike over this and you find one of the best stretches of Highland salmon-river in Scotland. That was why Frank brought his fishing rod. He can never resist it.

  Picture the scene. Me huddling chilled in a damp clump of bracken, exhausted after an overnight drive. Waiting for Frank to appear. And, sure enough, he does, after a late breakfast (porridge, kippers, toast and marmalade. That’s just a guess. How could I know what he’d had for breakfast?). He looks dis
gustingly pleased with himself as he strides up the hill with his rod and his bags and his tackle, passing – oh – within thirty yards of my hiding place. I keep still. After all, I know where he’s going.

  Thirty minutes later I catch up with him. He’s at the big pool. The river hurtles and elbows its way down the hillside. It’s the colour of unmilked tea and is shallow with a bed of rounded pebbles and stones. Except at one point. Here there is a cascade that froths into a large, deep, chill pool. A great angled slab of rock juts out into the pool setting up eddies and deflecting currents. Beneath this the fish lurk. Stand on the lip of the cascade (thigh waders obligatory) leaning back against the nudge and pressure of the water, cast down into the pool below the rock and you can’t go wrong. Frank was positioned exactly so. Two small creaming waves where his green rubber waders broke the solid parabola of the falling water.

  I enter the stream twenty yards above and slosh down. Frank can’t hear me because of the noise of the falling water. I stand behind him. I tap his shoulder. He looks round. His eyes widen in wordless surprise. He instinctively jerks back as though expecting a blow. It is enough. He loses his balance and with a despairing, grabbing whirl of arms is flipped over the edge into the pool. I don’t even wait to see what happens. Waders filled with water, heavy clothes sodden, freezing water. He’d go down like . . . like a stone.

  I was in London by late evening. I was summoned home by a phone call just before lunch the next day. Dreadful news. I have to take the twin blows of my fiancée’s infidelity and my brother’s accidental death. My parents are grim and unforgiving; they think Louella is in some way responsible. I am shocked and stunned. But poor Louella. She has to turn somewhere. I am deeply hurt, but relent under the shared burden of grief. We go for drives and talk and, to cut a long story short, we . . .