‘I wanted to be something secure and remunerative and my family had left everything in Poland.’
‘I think doctoring comes in genes, doctors marry doctors, have little doctors. Doctors are respected as priests almost.’
I felt hocus-pocus on the way. Did she want to know something about holism or some dreary witchcraft for the dilettante sick? I began to speak.
‘I like the mechanical nature of medicine. It is why I have chosen not the magical zones of lymph and gland, but the engine, the pump, the heart.’ I had started to speak to her as though she might begin to understand what I said.
‘I imagine,’ she said, ‘that a doctor is not troubled with the feeling he does not exist. Other people tell him all day that he does because they need him.’
The only son of people who might very well have stopped existing, not merely have considered themselves not to do so, I thought her remark intense and trivial and indicative of a sort of shaman-respect which has corrupted many decent doctors and made them ponder uselessly on their ‘personal role’ in the families they treat, and such rubbish. But increasingly Hal made me feel, though I would not admit it, as if I did not exist. He even debased the doctoring part of me; he had said one horrible night that it was an excuse to get inside the bodies of people less fortunate than myself. The next child I operated on died eventually, not of heart failure, but of an infection I had not the pathological facilities at that time to have identified. In the end, the tiny refrigerated cadaver was flown to America.
I remembered that this girl was not a baby, as her clothes suggested, nor a grown-up woman, as they revealed, but that elvish thing a girl, a sort of social axolotl, equipped only with rudimentary gills for breathing the fiery air of adult life. She was managing fairly well with me considering that the glimpses I had of her were not, as they would be to most men who chose to converse with her, a welcome substitute for conversation.
‘Let me ask you about yourself,’ I said to her, not expecting the reaction I received. Her skin was thin, pale. Her colour came to its surface. Again I thought of some pale gasping reptile, its organs visible.
She looked for a moment desperate, as though she could not find her breath, and then, gracious and unconvincing as a child acting, she said, ‘And whereabouts in London do you live?’
Why was I bothering with this gauche creature? Because of her gaucheness?
‘If you say that you will tell me a little about yourself, I shall show you “whereabouts in London I live’’. Are you hungry and have you a coat?’
It was eleven o’clock. A young woman who would do this, repair upon request to the house of a stranger, was surely a weakling at best, a tart at worst.
‘As long as you are not looking for someone to clean for your next-door neighbour,’ she said.
We left, observed, I think, by Anne, and, oddly enough, by the fish-man, who did not appear, after all, to have left. I had exerted no charm, no pressure. My one effort to bring the girl forward had been decisively rebuffed. Either she was perfect for my plan, egoless, pliant, or she was reckless to the point of stupidity. I could see no other reason for the docile way she allowed me to place her in my car and take her to my home. I could, after all, have been going to drink her blood.
She did have a coat. It, like the dress, was a piece of cloth without hook or eye, button or hole; it appeared to be a plaid, or simply a length of cloth before the tailor has begun to pin and chalk. It was, like its wearer, unbegun, but shot with a suggestive, shifting, metallic glimmer.
Chapter 4
When we arrived at my flat near the canal, I got out of the car first and opened the door for her. We had not spoken much on the journey, because she had opened the glove compartment and taken out the Bentley maintenance book. It is a hardback manual; mine is as old as my car, that is twenty-three years old, three years older than Cora Godfrey, I had ascertained. She did not read the illustrated parts of the manual, or the log, but what could most nearly be read as continuous narrative. It was as though her eyes needed to absorb some print. The open pages on her lap were sometimes obscure, sometimes mauve-white with sodium street light, once (at Hyde Park Corner) a tabernacular red as we were halted, and then, as we slowed down along the canal, the less chemical glowing yellow of a light more like that of gas.
I let her into my flat with none of the feelings which must have attended almost every other such broaching in her life. The kitchen, where only that morning I had first understood the imperative necessity of a Cora, was to the right, the drawing-room at the end of the hall on the left. My bedroom was first on the left, a spare bedroom between it and the drawing-room. A large bathroom and a dressing-room abutted my own bedroom, a smaller bathroom the guest bedroom. My flat is on the first floor, second floor and attic. The attic I use mainly for books. The second floor is one enormous room which is always approaching perfection. It is ballroom, study, cave or retreat, as I will. There remains no trace of where the dividing walls once were, unless you lie looking at the ceiling in a high evening light. Then you see them; it is like terrain under snow. The walls were painted for me by a swart little flat-painter from the Opera, with a sort of cod Vuillard, which I love. It has no theme but happiness. Sometimes he comes and puts more in; the picture’s promiscuous domesticity can take any abundance of detail, like a good bourgeois French table food. The colours are the blue-greens, fuming lavenders, orange-yellows, viola colours (not pansy at all) and delicious pink-browns which blush and blanch depending upon where you stand. Against one wall is a bath on lion’s feet. It is not large and I have not permitted the jeu d’esprit which you might anticipate. No warm-hipped girl is stepping out for ever on the wall behind. But visitors to my room say they see her. One or two tricks I’ve allowed. There is a screen in the Chinese style which ‘disappears’ into the wall, and I like, in season, to have bowls of quinces and jars of japonica about the room, such as are seen in the painting. The smell of quinces, and their grey fluff, going in to that tight flower-end, are pleasurable to me. The bath is plumbed in. I use it often.
I took Cora, of course, into my drawing-room. It is a fine dark-green room whose white curtains are lined with heavy crimson blanketing – a secret unless I choose to draw the curtains close before sundown and then the room takes on a meaty, private, autumnal brown, and I can take the covers off my watercolours. These appear at first glance to be architectural elevations of naves, of domes, of proscenia; they are early dissections of the heart, painted with marvellous observation from the life – should I say the death? – by an unknown painter who was surely risking his own life by doing so. They have a diagrammatic quality which is not at all repulsive, rather satisfying and abstract. There is nothing of butchery to them.
‘Can I get you anything?’ I asked my nearly naked guest.
‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d love something to put on, and a bite of something to eat.’
‘Most adults, when they go out in the evening, have provided themselves with those things, or have made arrangements to do so in the case of nourishment.’
‘Let me explain,’ she said, saucy hussy. ‘I dressed like this in order not to have to what you call make arrangements in the case of nourishment, and now I am here, it appears to be a house which must contain at least bread and cheese and I am certainly not properly dressed to eat à deux with a distinguished older man at home.’
‘But in a restaurant, or with a less distinguished man . . .?’
‘I could hardly have taken a change of clothes in a grip to the party.’
‘But why wear it at all?’
‘You mean, it’s as good as wearing nothing?’
‘I didn’t say that, no, but yes, I suppose that is what I could be said to mean.’
‘Money,’ she said. ‘I get bolts of cloth with flaws – seconds, you know – and tie them up in different ways. I daren’t cut them into shapes or make definite holes for my legs or head to go through because then I’m limiting my options. It’s very cheap.’
‘But, Cora, forgive me . . .’
‘You’re going to say it looks it, too. I am sorry. Now, have you some trousers and a jumper and some food?’
It was midnight and I had a – female – pirate aboard. I went into the shadowy grey of my room and through into my small dressing-room annexe. It is papered with faint and faintly lewd toile de Jouy of blue-grey; a girl plays the cello, a man the flute; a grinning dog in a ruffle watches this pastoral of onanisme à deux. It is pretty, womanish even. I found a grey jersey and some plus-fours and some long woollen stockings. On second thoughts, I took a pair of garters, too, the kind with wool flashes. Tertius had given them to me when he discovered I shot. He is a snob with the concomitant love of over-correct dressing.
‘Put these on, I’ll find a little supper and then you must please tell me all about yourself.’
I put her in the spare room to dress. It was where Hal slept. I longed for him to colonise it, but I was sure she would find no trace of my loved one. He could be tidy as a spy.
We re-met in the drawing-room. The big breasts were no less conspicuous for being wrapped in grey wool; my plus-fours were plus-sixes on her, in spite of her height; and the shooting stockings gave her the soft rusticity of a huntsman in the ballet. The garters the facetious child had used to hold up her hair which was abundant and of poor quality. She sat up straight, the book she had been reading snibbed between the cushion and the side of her striped chair. She had brought another chair and a walnut caddy-table into a mealtime group about her. On the table I placed my tray. It bore no traycloth, but a plate of charcoal biscuits, a pat of white butter, some salt, some radishes, a log of ashy cheese, a can of anchovies with their key and a head of celery in a vase which looked, plain clear glass in ornate golden stand, like a retort from a rococo laboratory. To drink, there was milk or water or pale tea. And she would have to ask for those – and then I caught myself. I was thinking churlishly of this girl I had invited to my home, who very possibly thought her frame would have to contain me later in the night, whom I in fact was contemplating kidnapping, and whom I was treating almost as offhandedly as I treat the passing boys. I offered her champagne, and of course she requested milk. I gave myself champagne. The bottles stood together on the tray as though for an art class to paint, thick white and thin green.
‘Do this, would you?’ I said, again as abrupt with her as with one of my sweet louts. I was behaving to her as men will to women, not as I do; I am courtly as a rule, what is called old-fashioned. I handed her the flat nugget of anchovy tin and the key for opening it. We ate them stuck into the runnels of the celery with unsalted butter and extra salt. I fetched two large cloth napkins and she tucked hers into my grey jersey.
But in order to hobble this kid for my panther, I must find out about her.
‘Are you English, Cora?’ I asked.
‘I am not from your social class,’ she said. ‘I’m a bit flashy to fit in, what with my size, and a proper tall girl from the shires wouldn’t do that. She’d wait around till someone came along who would give her a son so she could pass on her height like a parcel containing a bomb – don’t drop it, pass it on, only unwrap it if you’re a man. When I realised it was an asset I started learning how to use it, but I do get these lapses and that is when it is very nice to eat high food with a very tall man in his tall flat.’
I was delighted by her insecurity, so raw that she would be entirely tractable.
‘And your job, Cora, what do you do or do you only clean for Tertius?’
‘I do a number of small jobs, none of which is more important than any other. You could say I mark time but, lacking the cousin in Asprey’s or the father in the City, I’m an unsubsidised subsidiser of the subsiding upper crust.’ She was extremely nervous.
‘You talk a lot.’
‘I read a lot.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m gathering honey for the shining hours to come when I have earned my stripes.’
‘Stripes?’
‘Take it as you will. As a worker bee, or a beaten wife.’
‘Do you hear the terrible things you say? I could have gathered from your callow lineshooting this evening that you were a whore, a drudge or a masochist. I am sure you are none of these. I think you are just a young thing awaiting your vocation, and, just as your brothers have no war, you have no arranged marriage, no baby for your fifteenth birthday.’
‘There is something in that. No brothers, though. These radishes are good. The jobs I do are all part-time. It adds up to more than full-time. I came by them not through ambition but through a need for cash and an incapacity to say no. I work packing executive toys in a basement, I work laying out a magazine made of advertisements separated by prose which must not contain fewer than three references to teeth per article. I sew frogs filled with millet seed and pass them on for smaller frogs to be stitched into their arms and on Saturday mornings I serve at a restaurant where it is good to be seen. I also work in a charity shop. I like that, quite. I am of dependent means.’
‘I assume you are educated.’
‘I read a lot.’
‘What did you read?’ I asked this touchy girl.
Slick, out it came, before she thought, ‘Greats, but I fell out, fell not dropped. I just did not have the graft. But it’s given me all sorts of itches because I half understand such a lot. Medicine’s the worst in a way because you have a derivation pat like that and then it’s not the ligament which joins the foot and the ankle at all. So I’ve the illusion of comprehension and no understanding at all, like those awful clever children with swollen heads who understand fission energy and can’t get out of the burning snug when the telly explodes.’
‘What is your ambition?’
‘To be good. To be a good wife.’
I liked this, of course.
‘And what is goodness to you?’
‘My husband’s interpretation of goodness.’
However appallingly this equipped Cora Godfrey for life, it equipped her well to be Hal’s wife. Hal had a loose interpretation of goodness, if he thought about it at all.
‘Cora, have some champagne and then let me drive you home.’
She padded off to the kitchen – women always find the kitchen, it is like the rapacious hermit crab finding the soft flesh of the previous occupant of its new shell home – to get a clean glass. She required no exchange of confidences from me; now I had her in my house the quick-talking party girl with opinions was gone and I had a pliant geisha. She did not obviously react to what was a clear statement of intention not to ravish her that night.
She was evasive about her family. She was a town girl, a university town I guessed, or cathedral; I did not want to clutter myself with intimate knowledge of her provenance. I did not care to burden myself with what would be, in effect, should Hal have her, associations-in-law. She invariably neutralised too acidic a remark with an alkaline one. I wondered whether she had been brought up in some nonconformist creed, or one of those British sects. I hoped so. There would be more manipulable guilt and reflex torments with which to rein her in.
I drove her to the villa she shared in a far northern limb of the Crown Estates. It was one of those pretty houses where you may not hang out your clothes lest it distress the monarch. Indeed, these crescents have an unurban appearance, as though built as tiny farms. We agreed, Cora and I, that she should keep my clothes till we next met, which, I assured her, we would. I had put her two bolts of cloth and her stiff snake shoes in a bag, which I handed her.
I watched her watch me till I was out of sight. It was eighteen hours since Hal had told me he wished for a wife. Once home, I washed up, and finished the champagne. I toasted myself in the mirror of the drawing-room; in its golden pediment a tired but friendly enough lion pulled two boisterous naked golden men in their chariot across an Arcadian landscape. ‘Cora, our complaisant wife,’ I thought, and went satisfied to bed. I looked into Hal’s room and blessed his shade as I did always when
he was not there.
Chapter 5
It is time for me to try to describe the years between my first sight of Hal and the announcement at breakfast six years after that. So far, I am aware, I have not suggested that Hal is an agreeable person. Of course, it is not necessary to be agreeable to be beloved, but I must try to convey what power it is that he has over me.
When I seek my bad boys at night, or in zones where it might as well be night, I am hunting out not so much a particular way of looking, as a certain deportment. It is not what the unaroused analytical or aesthetic eye would find beautiful; it may well have an equivalent for what is called a ‘normal’ man in flossy hair, gross breasts and a trashy lasciviousness which he would deplore in his own house, and would prefer not to see after it had served its use. I am not ashamed about this, though it is trite. There is conformism in pornography; I can see this is so between bouncy-chested girls and their leather-limbed boys on bikes. But why should husky window cleaners and big scaffolding climbers strut and swell in a way as satisfactory to me and men like me, as, no doubt, it is to their wives? Are they conscious of the connoisseurship which goes into the contemplation of their singlets, their jeans, their donkey jackets, their laced yellow boots fudgy with cement? I am not speaking of the pretty boys with their aping of workmen’s clothes. I like boys and men who would think all the foregoing words sick; intermittently, this is bringing me to admit, I like the company of people who mistrust and dislike me. I must like the tarnished-metal smell of my own fear. In a straightforward way, I like the healthy appearance of men on building sites and other places of urban endeavour; there is something too much of Socialist Realist posters in country toilers. The country men do not seem to be so inviting of the subtitling my senses give the gritty teabreaking knots of navvies in the street or over my head, calling babel to girls on hot afternoons. I am not what Tertius calls a cruising queen, in a state of constant heat. I know that there are those who see in every demolition site a seraglio, for whom a visit from the heating engineer is full with erotic promise. I simply feel, about four times a year, drawn to something which is not of the life I inhabit, which is not controllable, ordered and poised.
A Case of Knives Page 3