Nothing But the Truth

by Sam Lock

  ‘Oh, it’s “perhaps” with you with every bloody thing right now, isn’t it, Jason? You ever been with a man, Jason? – sexually, I mean.’

  There was a pause before Jason answered this: then he said, looking his friend directly in the eye, ‘No. Not willingly. Not voluntarily.’

  ‘What do you bloody well mean, for Christ’s sake – not voluntarily? Do you mean you were raped or something?’

  ‘Something like that. More the other way round.’

  ‘You mean you raped someone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When you were young?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘At school, you mean.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Someone younger than yourself?’

  ‘No. The same age: the same class. I didn’t want to do it. I hadn’t thought of doing it: hadn’t planned to do it, or anything like that. It just happened – suddenly; after rugby; after a shower.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be damned. But you found out then that you weren’t that way inclined, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes – more or less.’

  ‘Well, thank God for that. I’m never comfortable with them, you know – with queers. They make me feel uneasy. I don’t know why.’

  ‘But you would be comfortable with these, Joe … I’m pretty sure you would. Anyway, we’re going to find out; if they continue coming here, that is.’

  No sooner had Joseph left, than Jason decided that he would record their conversation in his new notebook. Not all of it. Not Joseph’s comments regarding the theatre and Bertolt Brecht, but what he himself had said to Joseph about his personal life – meaning his sexual life – which was a secret he had shared before with no one. Not that he was particularly ashamed of it. To him, this was simply a buried experience of his childhood that he had chosen to keep hidden; something that anyone might have experienced when they were young, and that had simply been a part of his growing up and of the thrusts of his growing body. But precisely because of that – because it had to do with things of the body – Jason believed that it must be a part of his new story: the one that he needed to tell: a part of his other life, that is, that had been unrecognised, untold. To which he then chose to add, taking a sudden risk with himself (for he was aware of the danger of such namings) the recollection of other compulsive urges that were more sadistic in their character, and that were more difficult for him to write down; such as the compulsion he had had regarding animals, and the driving need he had felt at times to kill them: one such example being the delight he had taken (he felt there was no other word that he could use for this) in the sight of a fish he had caught, and that he had battered to death with a stone; and which had been a ritual he had indulged in quite frequently as a child. Also countless beetles and spiders that had been kept prisoner by him in matchboxes, and that had also remained as a secret of his, as he had watched them slowly starve to death. As well as the one occasion (this was something even more painful for him to set down) when, at the age of just nine or ten, he had cornered a dormouse in his parents’ house in Hampshire; that had looked up at him in an almost pleading fashion; but which, on the grounds that a mousetrap had been set for it in any case, and that it was therefore destined for an unexpected death, he had picked up by the tail and then half decapitated, before plunging it into water, to watch its final struggle until it had drowned.

  All this he wrote down; determined that the figure he had encountered in the mirror, and that had given him the new outer view he now had of himself, should be given an inner picture to match. How, he asked himself, could this new picture – this new view of himself, that he was now forming in his mind; this monstrous one, if you like – fit with the cool hardness of his novels, that were so controlled; so carefully wrought; so intellectual in their way? Not because of their ideas or their thought (for he never expressed any overt form of philosophy in his writings), but because of their general air of impersonality, which he knew had been a part of their success. Civilised, they were called. Fine, modern pieces of writing, they were said to be. ‘What lies my books have been,’ Jason wrote down. ‘And how in need of lies must they have been – the people who have bought them and have read them, and who have therefore subscribed to what I have done.’

  Lillian Callow believed that she had been right to feel concern for her favourite son. He had said nothing to her about his fall – or about his accident, rather; and on the grounds that she would have ‘fussed, fretted, come down here and bothered me’, he had convinced his brother to say nothing about it as well. But in spite of that, and in spite of the fact that they were now speaking to each other regularly on the telephone, instinct told her that something big was taking place in Jason’s life: that some great upheaval was going on that made her nervous, and that at times invaded her mind. When she might be working in the garden, for example, and the late August sun might be beating down upon her back, she would suddenly feel cold, as if some cloud or shadow had passed over her; and she would then feel a need to look around her in order to see if someone had been watching her; from a distance; and which there never had been, of course; the world about her being no different from how it had ever been, with the huge cedar tree, that stood at the centre of the lawn, still swooping towards the earth in the same series of large, generous gestures; and her friend the robin (which is how she always thought of it) still picking away at the crumbs and nuts that she had thrown out for it that morning; and with the windows of the drawing-room as wide open as ever, and as welcoming as they had ever been.

  ‘Have you heard from Jason?’ Betty asked one day, and at a moment when Lilian was least expecting the question.

  ‘No, Betty. Why? Not since Wednesday, if that is what you mean.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t exactly mean that, Mrs Callow. I wasn’t thinking about how long it might be since you last spoke to him. It’s just something I’m feeling inside me, I suppose. But I do get anxious at times when I think of him. For what reason, I do not know.’

  Lilian voiced her own anxiety, glad to be able to externalise what she was feeling, but neither she nor Betty seemed able to define what might be the cause of their concern.

  ‘It’s all nonsense, I expect,’ said Lilian.

  ‘Probably,’ said Betty.

  ‘Anyway, the children will be down from Cumbria soon,’ said Lilian.

  ‘Yes; and Jill will be with them for once – won’t she?’ said Betty. ‘It’s some time now since they were all here together.’

  ‘A long time,’ said Lilian.

  If Arnold’s little late-night gathering had been a flop – the one that had been held in Arnold’s apartment on the night of Jason’s accident – it hadn’t been entirely due to the high drama of the occasion; to the sight of Jason’s bleeding head, or to the urgent need there had been of calling for the doctor; it had also been due to the fact that John and Billy’s friend, Darren, had unfortunately failed to turn up.

  ‘And it’s very rude of him,’ said Arnold, who had been looking forward to meeting someone new. ‘Don’t you think so, Lottie? You don’t say you’ll come to something – do you? – and then simply not show up.’

  ‘He’s like that,’ said Billy sharply, speaking in Darren’s defence.

  ‘Then why do you want to be friendly with him, Billy, if this is typical of his behaviour? … Think of all the bother I’ve gone to,’ he went on, ‘getting all this prepared.’

  Billy felt like saying that the amount of food on the table that evening hardly warranted such a description; and thought of the quick fry-up he and John would be in need of when they got home.

  ‘He’s an actor,’ said Lottie, speaking of Darren; and as if that might end the conversation.

  ‘Yes – well – so is Billy,’ said Arnold, ‘or he’s trying to be one; aren’t you, Billy? But he doesn’t do that, Lottie. Doesn’t accept to come to a party; then simply not turn up for it.’

  Billy said nothing.

  ‘Well, does he, John?’ asked Arnold.
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br />   ‘Of course he doesn’t,’ said John, looking at Billy with loving eyes, and thinking to himself that he was beginning to wish that he was at home with him and in bed.

  ‘Perhaps it’s just as well,’ said Sophie – Miss Nondescript, as Arnold called her, the woman with the smudged face and the straggle of greying, yellowish hair – ‘what with all the upset there’s been, it’s just as well, probably, that he didn’t come: this Dorren, or whatever he’s called.’

  ‘Darren,’ said Billy.

  ‘Darren then,’ said Sophie.

  ‘Darren what?’ asked Lottie, not being really interested in the talk, but needing to have something to speak about as she was seeing to one of her nails.

  ‘Fawcett,’ said Billy.

  ‘Doesn’t that mean tap?’ asked Lottie, screwing up her nose.

  ‘With a “u” it does,’ said Billy. ‘Then it means tap. But this is with a “w”, and there are two “t”s at the end.’

  ‘Oh, it’s double “t”, is it?’ said Lottie.

  ‘Yes,’ said Billy.

  In those days just after the war, the streets of Chelsea were less well lit than they are today. There weren’t any of those soaring street-lamps that there are now, whose stooping heads cast such a blast of light upon the traffic. Then, all was softness and shadow, with only the somewhat brighter lights of the pedestrian crossings creating a focus here and there. And in the less important streets – in the ones that lead down to the river, for example, and therefore in the one in which Jason lived – there were still a few of those really old-fashioned, box-headed lamps, that were fuelled by gas, rather than electricity; some of which, as one recalls, still needed a lamplighter to ignite them. Nor were there any of the fashionable clothes-shops, that have become such a feature of the King’s Road. There was a Woolworths, of course, as there used to be then in almost every major High Street; and there was a greengrocer’s, whose wares spilled onto the pavement, sheltered by an enormous, sagging awning. There was also a bookshop, and a paint-shop that is still there; and that sells materials used by artists; as well as a small, very good bakery, and an equally excellent butcher’s. Which means that the area was much quieter than it is now, and more parochial. Not sleepy, exactly, for well-known artists (well-known painters) have always lived in that part of the city; as well as writers and theatricals, who have given the place much of its character and charm. But the days of the ‘boutique’ and of Mary Quant were yet to come. In fact, Jason’s habit of meeting his painter-friend, Joe, in the bar of a local pub and of then arguing with him vociferously about the latest trends in artistic fashion, was very typical of that time. For in one particular bar on the river, the painter, Francis Bacon, and other less famous painters, such as John Minton, were to be seen doing the same thing.

  Also, there was only a small number of restaurants in Chelsea in those days. There were no pizza-bars; no ‘trattorias’ and the like. There was one Chinese restaurant, that seemed to have been there since forever; and food was available, of course, in all the bars of the public houses (of which there were, and still are, quite a few), but usually only at lunchtimes. And there was also the new fashion then for coffee bars, as they were called, where people would often linger into the early hours; and most of which seemed to be lit dimly by lamps that were hung low over the tables, and whose shades were fashioned either from cane or from straw. And there was one such coffee bar that had been painted to look like what perhaps was the Bay of Naples, with views of the Italian coastline decorating its walls; and with white, mock-marble table tops and a chequered black and white floor.

  Then, towards the eastern end of the King’s Road – the end of it that is closest to Sloane Square – there was a shop that specialised in freshly-roasted coffee beans; and that had a smallish room at the back where delicious cups of coffee were served; together with a few sandwiches, and certainly with an assortment of cakes and Danish pastries, that were displayed on a chromium trolley.

  This coffee shop-cum-coffee bar was all in brown veneers and brass. Brown seats, brown table tops; and behind counters at the front of the shop, large, brass-banded canisters in which the coffee beans were stored. And it was here that quite a number of the local intelligentsia, as one might speak of them, would gather. Both in the evenings and throughout the day, there would be a continual flow of people, using it as a meeting-place for their friends; arguing, smoking, gossiping, drinking coffee. Not the sort of place that Joseph Mallory would ever use; beer, not coffee, being his idea of refreshment. Nor was it a place that Jason went to very often. But there were just the odd occasions when he did. Never with someone. Always on his own; and seldom speaking to anyone either. But it was there one day, and at about three-thirty in the afternoon, and not many days before his last birthday, and therefore prior to that last visit to his parents, that Jason met someone – or encountered someone, might be a better way of describing it – who, without his being conscious of it at all (in that there was nothing to suggest that it would happen), would play a part in his life later on.

  When Jason arrived, the little restaurant had been crowded, and there had been just one vacant table for two; at which Jason had sat. Then, within a few seconds of his having ordered himself a coffee, a young man sat down opposite him and dropped a shoulder-bag onto the floor.

  ‘You don’t mind,’ the young man said. Not asking: simply assuming that he had a right to be there; and to be sitting down; and to be joining Jason at his table.

  Jason felt annoyed by this. He disliked the young man’s assertiveness; and (although he was less conscious of this) he disliked the fact that, from the very moment he had arrived, and had decided that he would sit down at Jason’s table, he had taken no notice of him, of Jason, whatsoever. And, moreover, had immediately flicked his fingers at a waitress – who, to Jason’s astonishment, considering that the place was so very busy, had responded to him at once, and had come forward to take his order. Also, because no sooner had he done this, than the young man picked up his bag; opened it and peered into it; then quickly pulled out a noticeably large address-book, and began to finger through its pages. Not in a very purposeful manner, but more in a restless fashion, as if he was hoping that someone’s name and address might strike him as being particularly interesting or worthwhile; and as if he was looking for something by chance; something he felt a need of, but that he hadn’t yet discovered.

  And yet, if he felt irritated, Jason also felt drawn. Slyly, as the pages of the address-book were being turned, and as the two of them sat waiting for their coffee, Jason glanced across the table, wondering who this young man might be, and what he might do for a living; noticing that his dark, auburnish hair, that was not dissimilar in colour to his own, was cut quite short; and noting as well that his skin was sallow; and that he was thin, but not gaunt; and that he had eyes that were either very dark brown or black (they were moving too rapidly for Jason to be sure); and also long, fine fingers and clean, freshly trimmed nails.

  ‘Your coffee, sir,’ the waitress said to Jason, lowering a cup and saucer in front of him … ‘And yours, sir,’ she said to the young man, with a bright smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ the young man answered, looking up at her quickly and making some kind of instantaneous contact with her, but certainly not of a sexual kind.

  ‘Did you want something to eat, sir?’ she asked. ‘A pastry or something?’

  The young man’s eyes became still for a second, and Jason saw that there were bluish tinges in their highlights, that gave the pupils extra depth.

  ‘No, thank you,’ he answered graciously … ‘No thanks,’ he then repeated, as he turned back to the pages of his address-book.

  ‘And you, sir?’ the waitress then said to Jason.

  ‘Me, what?’ asked Jason grumpily – almost offensively.

  ‘Do you need anything else, sir?’ the waitress said to him coldly, ‘anything to eat, sir. A pastry or something?’

  ‘Oh – no … No, thank you,’ said Jason, re
alising that he had been impolite. ‘Just the coffee … Thank you.’

  Neither Jason nor the young man spoke to each other; and Jason felt sure that the young man hadn’t really looked at him – hadn’t really taken him in: that is, until the moment when he (meaning Jason) rose to leave, and when he asked the waitress for his bill. For then the young man suddenly said to him, ‘Is it always like this?’

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ answered Jason, caught out; and not quite knowing what the young man had meant.

  ‘This bar – this restaurant. Is it always as crowded? As this, I mean?’

  ‘Oh – yes … It is … Always,’ said Jason with a grunt, and as he turned on his heels and left.

  IX

  ‘Lilian, dear; are you fretting about something?’

  ‘Why do you ask, Edgar? Do I appear to be?’

  ‘Yes. You do. I have noticed it … It has nothing to do with Jason, I hope.’

  ‘Yes, Edgar. I’m afraid that it has.’

  ‘But I thought all was well again now; that he’d just been busy – writing or something; but is now speaking to us again regularly. Which he is – isn’t he? The same as he has always done?’

  ‘I know, Edgar, but –’

  ‘But what, Lilian?’

  ‘But I’m not happy. There is something wrong, Edgar – going on – that I don’t know about. Instinct tells me this.’

  ‘Instinct, oh, is that what it is? If I were you, Lilian, I’d be suspicious of that. You aren’t ill – are you? You aren’t projecting onto Jason troubles that are your own?’

  ‘No, Edgar, I am not. For my age, I count myself fit. And you shouldn’t sneer at instinct, you know. It sees things that are hidden.’

  ‘Oh, is that what it does? Well, it’s beyond me – that type of thing. I trust in thought, Lilian, and reason. I have relied on them all my life. It’s not Betty who has put these ideas into your head, I hope.’

  ‘No, Edgar. Betty and I just feel the same way. It is not ideas that we have put into each others’ head. She believes, as I do, that Jason is – well, we don’t know what; but we both feel that something is amiss.’