Nothing But the Truth

by Sam Lock

  ‘Thought?’ asked Jason, the word striking him.

  ‘Yes, thought. He was thinking – Cézanne was. Nonstop. Always at it; always applying his mind to problems that needed solving. Always stretching himself; always goading himself on to some new solution. I tell you, he’s the real giant. And thought’s gone by the board. That’s what’s wrong. People don’t bloody well want to think any longer, Jason. They want to “express” themselves; or play games with their fucking intellect. Bah! It’s all ego-stuff.’

  Jason chuckled a little, unaware that a moment of crescendo had just passed, and offered to buy another round of drinks; wanting to hear more of his friend’s chatter, and admiring the way in which he would persist with whatever theme he might be exploring: hanging on to it as a dog does to a bone; shaking it; tossing it about; letting go of it; and then quickly grabbing at it again.

  ‘So, then tell me,’ Jason asked as he returned, and as he placed their refilled glasses upon the table; and as he gave a quick, almost lordly wave of the hand, which appeared odd, in that its meaning was difficult to interpret, ‘how, Joe, are you going to do it?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Well, if, as you say – as people seem to think – the inner world is something that has to be honoured; that has to be looked at. How are you going to do that?’

  Joseph didn’t reply to this. Not just because it was a question he couldn’t yet answer, but also because he was disturbed somewhat by a curious look in Jason’s eyes. Sometimes, when they would discuss and argue, in the way they had just been doing that evening, he had already noticed that something in the rhythms of their talk (it seemed to be more that than the actual subject of their debate) would affect Jason in a particular way; one that made Jason want to withdraw; want to break off their conversation. He couldn’t say exactly why – what it was that he was experiencing; but it had already occurred on quite a few occasions, and he was now conscious of it disturbing him.

  ‘I want to go to the john,’ Joseph said – covering his emotion with a quick laugh, ‘have a leak … Be back,’ he added, patting Jason lightly upon the shoulder, as Jason looked up at him with little real expression upon his face; staring at him in the way that an animal does at times: vacantly, that is; as if something, or someone, had suddenly called him away, and had forced him to look inwards.

  Because the time between the two World Wars had been so short – a period of little more than twenty years – it is at times difficult to realise that a person of Jason’s age, who had lived through and experienced the blight and horror of the Second World War, would in fact have been born during the first one, or in the years that immediately preceded it: so that although one could say, perhaps (one is here speaking superficially, as it were) that Jason was a ‘modern’ person, in that he had grown up and into adulthood during the years of the nineteen-twenties and thirties, when, due to the advent of the aeroplane and the like, people had become so very animated, and so very forward-looking in spirit; and when people at the seaside, for example, had begun to undress in order to bathe, and to don streamlined bathing costumes, in order to display their ‘new age’ figures; and when (to say a little more about this) short, ‘bobbed’ haircuts had suddenly come into vogue, for both men and women alike; his birth – that is to say, Jason’s birth – had been at a time when women still wore ankle-length skirts and enormous, cumbersome hats; and when people’s houses were still lit by gas, rather than electricity; and were heated by open coal-grate fires; and when the majority of the public still travelled about in horse-drawn vehicles. Which means that, in a way, Jason’s arrival in this world, and the time of his childhood years that then followed, were linked to the romance and shadow of the Victorian age. For not even the extreme savagery of that first Great War had dispersed those qualities entirely. The shock of it; its horror; the vast roll-call of its dead; had inevitably smudged or shattered many of those nineteenth-century illusions that still lingered on in people’s minds, and had broken through the defensive mask of hypocrisy that had been used by the Victorians against what was really happening in their world, and that would lead, alas, to the disasters that then followed. But there still lingered on in life – as, indeed, it still lingers on in life today (although now, to a very much lesser extent, of course) – remnants of Victoriana, as it is called: that is to say, Victorian influences in general; expressed, perhaps, as it appeared to be in Jason’s case (although this is pure speculation, of course), through a certain broodiness of temperament: or through a reluctance to be open about personal matters; or through certain forms of odd, irrational projection, that might be used to disguise a person’s actions; or through bouts of drunkenness, or of excessive eating – or, for that matter, of drug-taking: all of which show that no age can ever be really ‘new’, because an old one must be part of it; must be bound up with it.

  It is therefore possible that it had been these deep links he had with the Victorian age that were affecting Jason’s behaviour, and that were causing his painter-friend, Joseph Mallory, to think that he was behaving not just oddly at times, but in a way that he could only call ‘peculiar’; as if, at moments, such as the one that had just occurred, during their discussion in the bar, Jason would seem to remove himself to some other point in time; one that would isolate him from the present and from the people and places around him.

  Had Jason been told that this was so – that this was the effect his behaviour was giving – he would have rejected the idea of it immediately. For the view he had of himself was that he was a totally rational creature and always capable of being objective about things. And he would have reminded one too, no doubt, that the world of reason and of the intellect was the world in which he felt himself to be most naturally at home; and that this was reflected in his writings – which was true.

  Gradually, however – meaning during the past few months – he had begun to grow conscious of the fact that this view of himself was not a truthful one: that something inside him was now becoming unruly, and was attempting to claim his attention.

  Now that is mostly supposition, of course; for one cannot know what goes on inside another person’s head. Only Jason could tell us that. One can observe, of course; one can note the behaviour of others – guess at the causes that lie behind it; compare it to that of one’s friends, one’s relatives – one’s children, even; and one can find parallels to it, perhaps, in certain books or in certain plays; so that one can say of a person that they are ‘Hamlet-like’, or ‘Lear-like’, if, in the first example, they are excessively introspective – possibly dangerously so – or if, in the second, they feel betrayed or broken or close to the brink of madness. But one cannot really know what is the deep inner truth about anyone; and the suppositions that one has been making, concerning the behaviour of Jason Callow, are all very general ones, and would most probably have been scoffed at by someone who is a professional in that area – by a psychoanalyst, for example. For they would probably have said that it must have been for some much more personal reason, some much more particular one, that Jason was troubled at that time; to do with his relationship with his mother, perhaps, or with his father; or to do with some very early sexual experience he had had – perhaps an incestuous one – the memory of which had been suppressed, and had been driven into the unconscious.

  Whether such a person would have declared Jason to be ill or not, is difficult to say. If one is no expert on such matters, it is difficult to judge when, or at what point, what are obviously unusual mental disturbances become a serious form of sickness; one that can be named. One can only relate the things that have been related here so far, and that have provided the subject-matter for the opening pages of this book; which is that this man – this author – who had had some success in life as a writer; who was now in his mid-forties, and whose wife had suddenly left him for no reason (or for none that he could admit to or acknowledge); who lived in London – in Chelsea – and in part of a large, rambling building, quite close to the river Tham
es; and who, since visiting them on his birthday, had not telephoned his ageing parents – only sent a ‘thank-you’ card through the post, had, during the past ten days, been answering neither his doorbell nor his telephone, and, on the few occasions when they met, had caused a friend of his who was a painter, and whose name was Joseph Mallory, to believe that Jason was ‘going real bonkers’, as he had put it to a friend – the woman-novelist, with whom Jason had once had an affair; who in turn, had spoken of it to other people they knew, two of whom were teachers. But none of these various friends had taken the matter seriously at all; mainly because their experience of Joseph was that his head was always full of such ‘scatterbrained’ ideas, and that this was probably just another in the lengthy list of his fanciful inventions.

  III

  ‘You know who I mean, don’t you, Lottie? You know who I am talking about?’

  ‘Of course I do. I’ve seen him several times. He’s your neighbour; who lives upstairs. He’s a writer.’

  ‘Yes, he is. And a very good one, I’m told; but too highbrow for me, I’m afraid, which is why I’ve never read him. But you know, darling, I don’t read very much these days, in any case.’

  Lottie, who was Arnold’s vampire-lady friend, and who on this weekday afternoon was alone with him for a change; and who, as she spoke, was touching up her lipstick; using a small mirror to do so that she had taken from her handbag – a voluminous one, that had been made from imitation leather – kept moving her head up and down and to and fro; in order to obtain a better view of herself.

  ‘Because of your eyes, you mean?’ Lottie asked, as she concentrated intently upon what she was doing.

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Arnold. ‘I’m not as young as I used to be, you know. And it’s not just my eyes that are bothering me, darling, it’s my legs as well – they’re in a shocking state. “Varsicose veins”, as my dear old mother used to say.’

  ‘You can have those out,’ stated Lottie without expression, and still concentrating upon the view of herself in the mirror.

  ‘Oh, I know that, dear. I’ve been into that. But who’d want to have half their leg cut away? Besides, I don’t like doctors. I don’t trust them.’

  ‘Anyway, what were you going to say about your neighbour, Arnold?’

  ‘About Jason, you mean? – that’s his Christian name, Lottie; his first one – well dear, I was going to say that I think he’s rather a dish.’

  Lottie paused to stare at Arnold for a few seconds, but didn’t respond at all to the wicked twinkle in his eyes.

  ‘Mind you, there’s something odd about him,’ Arnold went on, ‘but – well – I don’t think I’d object very much to a night or two with him.’

  ‘Not my type,’ said Lottie flatly, as she pursed and sucked her lips, to make sure of her lipstick being spread evenly. ‘Too hirsute,’ she added dryly.

  ‘Because of the beard, you mean?’

  ‘Yes. Not that I dislike all beards, Arnold. In fact, I once went out with a naval officer from Portsmouth, who looked like the sailor on the advertisement. For cigarettes, I mean. But for some reason it didn’t bother me … Perhaps,’ she added, lowering her husky voice to an even deeper register than usual, and affecting to speak in a seductive manner, ‘because he was “all that a woman could desire”.’

  ‘What you desire, Lottie, I never know. You pick ’em off like flies, it seems to me – your men. We’re opposites there: aren’t we, darling?’

  Lottie ignored this last remark and snapped her handbag shut; then looked down to see that the seams of her stockings were straight. ‘In what way is he odd?’ she then asked.

  ‘Jason?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, dear. He’s strange. Some days he just walks the streets – or so people tell me. Billy and John, for example; they saw him yesterday. He’s got friends – a few; but he doesn’t see them much; except for a scruffy painter he knows … I’ve got an idea that he’s a bit – well, I suppose he’s a bit mixed up about something. Mind you, a lot of people seem to be that, these days, what with the war and things. Perhaps I’ll have to sort him out. Perhaps I’ll have to take him under my wing.’

  ‘Is this on straight?’ Lottie then asked, catching hold of the brim of her velvet, pudding-shaped hat, and pulling it down at either side, so that it curved a little above the curls of her white-haired fringe. ‘Arnold! Is it straight? My hat?’

  ‘Yes, it is, dear. You look lovely. You always do. Why you don’t have a man, I have no idea.’

  ‘He drinks – doesn’t he?’ said Lottie, again ignoring Arnold’s comment, and returning to the subject of Jason.

  ‘Yes, he does. Quite a lot.’

  ‘You can see it. You always can. Violent, probably … I wouldn’t trust him with a bargepole … I mean, he was married, wasn’t he? Doesn’t he have children?’

  ‘Oh, yes – two: and very nice they are as well. He doesn’t see much of them though. But they have been here; once or twice. Teenagers, they are. A boy and a girl.’

  ‘Well,’ said Lottie, suddenly straightening herself, and drawing on a pair of long, black cotton gloves, which showed that she was preparing to depart, ‘I must be off … See you tomorrow, Arnold,’ she then added, as she crossed towards the door.

  ‘Tomorrow, yes,’ said Arnold, looking at her admiringly, and wishing that he could ape the strong confidence she displayed, ‘at ten. And not before, Lottie. John and Billy can’t be here until late. They’re going to the theatre; to a revue at the Royal Court. And Sophie’s going to be late as well.’

  ‘Bye, darling,’ said Lottie, giving Arnold a careful peck on the cheek, accompanied by a hard, lustrous smile; the violet pupils of her eyes suddenly flashing with silver light; and her eyelids suddenly softening with the moisture of a few tears.

  ‘Bye,’ said Arnold, who always welcomed signs of affection; and who, as he closed the door of his room, and as he reminded himself that he should be grateful to have such a friend, determined that the next time he saw Lottie – which, as we know, was to be as soon as the following night – he would give her one of his ‘pressies’. ‘Perhaps the one from Portsmouth,’ he thought to himself with a smile. ‘She’ll love it. It’s got a man on it; a sailor; and it’s a bearded one; and his head is outlined in gold.’

  ‘Finished? … Yes,’ said Betty with a grunt, and as she stooped to remove a coffee cup and saucer from a low, occasional table, close to where Edgar Callow was sitting.

  ‘There’ll be little response from that quarter tonight, Betty, I fear,’ said Lilian Callow, with a nod towards her husband, who, since finishing his after-dinner coffee had been engrossed in reading a book.

  ‘Oh, I can understand that, Mrs Callow,’ replied Betty. ‘Books can be another world, can’t they? And you can never tell how lost in them you might become; which is why I like them, I suppose.

  ‘Not all books have that power, Betty; that ability; to make one become lost in them.’

  ‘No, perhaps not. But the ones I enjoy seem to have it, Mrs Callow. Perhaps it’s because they are all classics. A book can’t be a classic, I expect, unless it takes you on some kind of adventure. One of the mind, I mean.’

  Lilian smiled, and watched Betty as she deftly stacked the tray she was carrying with the coffee-things; enjoying, as she always did so much, the physical weight of Betty’s presence; and of how she seemed never to lose her centre or to become ruffled; although she could become excited at times, when she would go into a ‘hot flush’, as she always spoke of it, and her cheeks and neck would redden; and when, in order to relieve herself of her embarrassment, she would let out a quick, hearty burst of laughter.

  ‘You certainly do like books,’ said Lilian, her eyes following Betty’s movements. ‘Which is your favourite author, I wonder?’

  ‘My favourite?’ replied Betty, pausing for a moment, and looking towards the tall, open French windows, that were allowing a pleasant flow of air to freshen the room. ‘Well, I used to like Charle
s Dickens, Mrs Callow. He used to be my favourite. I liked the funny bits, and the eccentricity of some of his characters. But now I seem to have been bitten by George Eliot. A wonderful woman she was, it seems to me. Very serious: isn’t she? The book I like best is about a young man who’s got no parents. Or at least he doesn’t seem to have any at the beginning of the book. Then he meets his mother, and discovers that he’s a Jew. It’s a wonderful story; but for some reason I can never remember the name of it. It’s Daniel something, I think.’

  ‘Deronda,’ said Lilian, who had never read the book, but who knew the title of it well.

  ‘Oh, yes. That’s right – “Daniel Deronda”. It’s the sort of story I enjoy. It’s all about love and religion, in a way; and some of the scenes have a kind of glow to them, if you know what I mean. They’re almost mystical.’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t read it, Betty,’ said Lilian, feeling a trifle ashamed of herself, and in view of Betty’s lack of education.

  ‘Well,’ said Betty, ignoring Lilian’s admission, ‘I’d better get these things down to the kitchen, I think. Then it’ll be an early bed for once … And with one of my favourite books, I expect,’ she added with a laugh. ‘Oh, words! What would I do without them?’

  Lilian wondered what the answer to that might be, as Betty gave her a smile and began to cross the room.

  ‘Oh. And what about Jason?’ Betty then asked. ‘What happened, Mrs Callow? Did Mr Jeremy manage to speak to him, or what? It’s funny your not having heard from him at all. Did you ring him up yourself this evening, as you said you were going to do?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ replied Lilian, who was always glad of Betty’s concern regarding such matters. ‘Jeremy said he’d ring back, if he got hold of Jason at all and – well – he hasn’t. I expect Jason’s busy. Writing; or out with some of his friends.’