Nothing But the Truth
Page 10
‘Yes. Well. You do spoil them, I am afraid.’
‘Do I, Mother?’
‘Yes. You do. When we were small; when your father and I were small; we didn’t have half the things that children have today.’
‘But the world changes, Mother.’
‘Oh, it certainly does. And it is made obvious, Gillian, if I can say so, by your going through with this divorce … I know you don’t like me to speak about it, but you do realise that I dislike what you have done; or what you are about to do, rather … I mean, why did you leave your husband? You haven’t explained it. Not to me. Nor to anyone, it seems. It isn’t as if Jason was a drunk or something – was he? – As your father was. I mean to say, I would have had grounds for such an action. Not because your father was physically violent. He was never that. But he certainly was a drunk – or a drunk of sorts, at least; as a lot of men were in those days. And women too, for that matter; although their drinking was usually done in secret, of course.’
Gillian bit her lip, then suddenly blurted out, ‘I’m sorry, Mother. It isn’t that I don’t want to talk about it, it is simply that I can’t.’
‘But why ever not?’ her mother persisted, in spite of having brought tears to her daughter’s eyes. ‘Is it something so awful? So unspeakable? Did Jason hurt you physically – damage you? Or was it something to do with the children? … He didn’t harm them, I hope.’
‘No, Mother!’ protested Gillian. ‘There was nothing like that. It is just that – well, that Jason and I have differences.’
‘Differences? You mean of taste, Gillian? Of opinion? You mean, you left your husband, Gillian; you mean you walked out on him, and came up here with the children, on account of that – of differences? … Well … That hardly makes sense, does it? And on what grounds, I might ask, can you seek a divorce if that is the cause you have to give? Violence, yes – although not always, you know; since a wife’s assertions aren’t always believed. Or adultery. Yes that too. But certainly not because of differences … Are you simply saying that the two of you just bickered?’
Gillian rose from her chair and crossed to a window. ‘The room is cold,’ she said, as she stretched to pull the window shut; and then to secure it.
‘Yes. It is,’ said her mother with a shiver, drawing a light shawl around her shoulders: ‘and it can be here, you know, once September has set in. Hot during the day, but cold and misty at night.’
‘Well, there is no mist at least,’ said Gillian, glad to have diverted the conversation, and as she looked up at the dark night sky, and at the dense cluster of trees that had been planted far too close to the house; which gave its downstairs rooms an almost perpetual air of gloom; and masked any daytime view they would otherwise have of the lake.
‘But with all of us gone, you are going to have plenty of peace tomorrow,’ said Gillian, as she went back to her chair.
‘Yes – and that’s another thing: your going to the Callows. That seems strange as well. I can understand that the children should go. The Callows are their grandparents. But surely, there’s no need for you to go too. Isn’t it rather odd for you to be doing that?’
‘They are nice people, Mother. I am fond of them. I always have been. Mr Callow especially. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be friendly with them.’
‘Perhaps you should ask your husband that question, Gillian.’
‘Ask Jason? Oh, but he would approve. I know he would. I know he does, in fact. Jason doesn’t blame me, Mother, for what has happened; any more than I blame him. We are both confused, perhaps; but we both know that we weren’t meant to stay together: that we couldn’t; and – well – we are both trying to be civilised about it.’
‘Oh, civilised! That’s an expression everyone uses today. We saw in the war what being civilised means – didn’t we? Making a mess of things, it seems to me.’
Gillian heard the bitterness in her mother’s voice. It was a bitterness she had always known – had always recognised, even when a child; and she had always recoiled from it, believing it to be venomous in some way, and that it was something from which she should protect herself. So she collected her mother’s coffee cup and saucer and quickly left the room; calling out as she went, ‘I hope those two haven’t left some awful mess in the kitchen.’
‘Oh, they will have,’ her mother muttered to herself, her eyes searching restlessly for something upon which to settle: her birdlike head making quick, darting movements as she eagerly scanned the room.
‘Gillian!’ she then called out – loudly.
‘Yes, Mother?’ Gillian answered from the kitchen.
‘Those oat biscuits of mine … The ones I have for breakfast … You will make sure that there are some on my breakfast-tray – won’t you?’
‘I have already done that, Mother.’
‘Oh – have you?’
‘Yes, Mother: your pills as well.’
‘Oh, my pills. Yes,’ said her mother, as her eyes finally came to rest upon a framed photograph of herself on her wedding-day, in which she was dressed in a particularly well-cut moiré suit, the look of which still pleased her; reminding her, as it did, of the good taste that she had always had in clothes.
When he next paid Jason a visit, which was for the first time after the ‘accident’, as the two friends had come to name it, Joseph Mallory, Jason’s painter-friend, was still possessed by ideas concerning the theatre: which had now shifted away from Bertolt Brecht, and the announced arrival of his theatre company in London, and had directed themselves towards Shakespeare; and towards one play of his in particular. For he had been to see a production at The Old Vic of Shakespeare’s Coriolanus, in which Richard Burton had played the lead, and had given a performance that had impressed him.
‘Bloody good actor that,’ he had said to Jason, soon after he had arrived; ‘and a rattling good story too … Do you know it, Jason?’
‘I think I do,’ Jason answered. ‘Coriolanus is a soldier. A general.’
‘Yes; and a bloody good one. The Romans worshipped him: thought him a god; or something close to one.’
‘But he gets killed, does he? Murdered?’
‘At the end, yes. But, you know, I was thinking, Jason, what a mistake that is – on Shakespeare’s part … I mean, I think he got it wrong, you know. Bloody marvellous play until then, but –’
‘But what?’
‘But – well, he shouldn’t have had Coriolanus killed; murdered; by the Volscians.’
‘Who were what? Rome’s enemy?’
‘Yes … Coriolanus is a soldier, as you said; and a great one; but he’s got this bee in his fucking bonnet about wanting to become something more. He wants to become a consul – or his mother wants him to, at least: a member of the Senate; the equivalent of becoming a Member of Parliament, I suppose. But, to do that he’s got to humble himself – hasn’t he? In front of the Roman crowd; in public; because – well – because that was the Roman custom. And he can’t fucking well do it – can he? Because – well, because he’s too bloody proud to do it – that’s why.’
‘And so?’ asked Jason, only half recalling the story.
‘So he gets the crowd’s back up – doesn’t he? Makes them bloody furious.’
‘Yes – that’s right. I remember,’ said Jason, wondering exactly where Joseph’s thoughts might be leading him.
‘Well, then, you’ll remember too I expect that the people, the Roman workers, if you like, get so fucking annoyed with him; so incensed by him; they say they’re going to throw him off a bloody rock.’
‘But they don’t.’
‘That’s right. Coriolanus’s upper-class friends manage to rescue him: manage to get him away – out of Rome altogether; leaving his family behind him: his wife, his mother, and his little boy.’
‘And then what?’
‘Well – what does he bloody well go and do but make up to the Volscians! That’s what! Walks straight up to their leader – an old toughie, called Aufidius – and offers to join
him. Offers to join Rome’s enemy, that is! In order, I suppose, to get his revenge: upon Rome; for kicking him out.’
‘And then?’ asked Jason, still not sure where Joseph’s ideas were taking him.
‘Well, he does do it. He does join the Volscian army; and there’s this bloody great speech – homo-erotic, I suppose you could call it – in which Aufidius says something to Coriolanus about their having gone down together in their sleep, and words like that; expressing a form of bonding, I presume: the result being that the two of them – Coriolanus and Aufidius together – then march against Rome: both of them leading the Volscian army.’
‘And they conquer it? Is that what happens?’
‘Yes. But there’s no fight: no battle – that’s the bloody point. The Romans are so shit scared, so bloody frightened, they just give in, just fucking well surrender. And there’s this famous scene, you see, when they send Coriolanus’s mother out of the city to beg her son for mercy: on Rome’s behalf, as it were; so she’s obviously some kind of figurehead. And she brings with her his wife and his son – his little boy – as a form of emotional back-up, if you like: to make a big scene of it, you might say. So what you get is wife, mother and child begging the son, the father and the husband not to attack.’
‘And he does? Or he doesn’t?’
‘No, of course he fucking well doesn’t. He’s a soldier, Jason; and won’t fight when there’s no need to fight. No soldier’s going to do that … I mean, he’s got his revenge – hasn’t he – without a single sword being drawn? Got the Romans on their bloody knees, he has. Shit scared of him. And of Aufidius too; and of the Volscian army.’
‘And?’
‘Well. He could have had anything he bloody well wanted – couldn’t he? Could have gone back to Rome; could have become a consul even; a member of the Senate: could have had anything he fucking well wanted out of them.’
‘But what? He didn’t.’
‘No.’
‘And?’
‘Well, that’s the point I’m getting at, Jason,’ said Joseph, showing some irritation. ‘Why didn’t he? What made him not do that, is what I want to know. I mean, there was his mother: there was his wife, his child – right there in front of him – all crying their fucking eyes out; and what does he do? Nothing. Just agrees not to sack Rome – that’s all. Achieves a conquest, just like that; but takes no personal advantage of it whatsoever. Now, that’s bloody weird, it seems to me. Fucking spooky.’
‘And so?’ asked Jason, the story now finding strange echoes in his mind, and asking the question more of himself than of his friend.
‘So Shakespeare just has him killed – that’s what; by the Volscians; by Rome’s enemy: which is sheer bloody nonsense. I mean, why? Why kill someone who’s just led them to such a triumph: to such a victory. Of course, it makes for a bloody good scene. A vicious killing, with trumpets and drums after it, like at the end of Hamlet; to round the play off. But to my mind it just doesn’t make sense … And I’ll tell you something else, Jason.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like it looks as if old Shakespeare hadn’t done his bloody homework.’
‘Homework?’ said Jason, with a sudden laugh; enjoying Joseph’s twists and turns of thought.
‘Yes. He’d read Plutarch: obviously; because that’s how the story ends in Plutarch’s version of it. But what he hadn’t done was to read Livy; because do you know what? Livy says – he says – that according to the earliest Roman authority – Fabius, I think he’s called – Coriolanus didn’t die. He wasn’t murdered, he says; neither by the Volscian soldiers, nor by their leader, Aufidius. All that happened was that he simply didn’t go back to Rome. Didn’t go back to his wife, his mother or his son. Instead, he remained with the Volscians, in exile, as it were; and became I guess, a kind of recluse – or that’s what Livy seems to indicate. As if, once he’d got what he thought he wanted, which was revenge, he then realised that it wasn’t what he fucking well wanted at all! And that he’d been given a chance for once to find out who he really was; which was not to be a servant of the bloody State: not to be a soldier; not even a consul, nor even a husband or a father: but to be simply alone, facing himself … Now, that’s a really modern story, it seems to me, Jason. And I don’t think old Shakespeare was quite up to it, do you? Or at least, that’s how I’m seeing it at the moment, Jason. Those are my thoughts: my ideas.’
Jason didn’t know how he might answer that question. All he knew was that he had suddenly found something of himself in Joseph’s version of that story. That he too had turned his back upon the ‘done’ – the ‘accepted’ things. Why, he still didn’t know. What was driving him into his form of exile was still beyond him. But Joseph’s talk had helped to ease his mind. It had been a piece of cheek, he thought, for Joseph to have said what he had about Shakespeare; that he hadn’t been ‘quite up to it’; but as was so often the case with his friend, his soaring, free-wheeling thoughts had been a refreshment to his mind, and he felt sorry when Joseph left; which was in a somewhat abrupt manner; mostly because the two of them would always avoid any really personal exchange of emotion. Even their farewell handshake had been only a light one – no more than a tip of the cap; after which, Joseph had merely patted Jason lightly upon the shoulder, saying that it was time he was out and about; and protesting at his having to still visit him in his rooms, rather than meet him out in a local bar; which he would have enjoyed doing more, because they would then not be alone; and because – although he was far from being at all conscious of this – there would be plenty of other men around them.
For several days, Jason hadn’t left his rooms, and had been neglecting himself, as far as food was concerned; living mainly on cans of food and bread that he would buy from a small grocery shop nearby. And it was now some time since he had seen his new ‘friends’, as he had come to call them, John and Billy; mostly because he had come to think that he had been using them far too much, and which had made him feel guilty and self-conscious. He had thanked them profusely for their kindnesses, when he had told them that he could now manage on his own; and they had insisted in return that if he did happen to need them, then he must get in touch with them at once – which he hadn’t yet done, but which he had certainly thought of doing on several occasions; not because of any need he had, but because he so missed their cheer and their company.
That evening, after Joseph had left, and after he had written yet another entry in his new notebook, which he had placed under the heading, ‘Some thoughts about Coriolanus’, and in which he had made a kind of précis of Joseph’s ideas (and which he had felt a need to set down so that he could return to them from time to time), he decided that he would risk going out to a restaurant for a meal; quite a smallish one, and not too far from where he lived; and one in which he was always treated with respect, in the sense that the staff would only speak to him if he spoke to them; and would never ask questions of him of a prying kind.
Before changing, however, he found himself thinking of John and Billy; wondering how they were and what they might be doing; and he felt a really strong temptation to ring them up; not knowing that they, at the same time, were having the same thoughts about him.
‘John … I wonder how he is – how Mr Callow is?’ said Billy, as he stepped out of the shower, and as he began to rub himself vigorously with a towel; watched closely by his friend, who always found the sight of Billy’s naked body so alluring, and full of a bright, quick energy that he lacked.
‘Funny you should say that,’ answered John. ‘I was just thinking that myself.’
‘Were you really?’ said Billy.
‘Yes,’ said John. ‘I was wondering if we should give him a buzz, perhaps; just to see that he is all right.’
‘Do you think we could?’ asked Billy.
‘Well, I don’t see why not,’ answered John, as he watched Billy fuss over the drying of his groin. ‘I don’t know about me, but I’m sure he’d be pleased to hear from you.’
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‘Oh, rubbish,’ said Billy. ‘Don’t start that again – making out Mr Callow’s got a crush on me. Because he hasn’t.’
‘I don’t think he’s got a crush on anyone,’ said John, more seriously. ‘Do you?’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Billy. ‘I’ve never thought about it.’
‘Well, shall we, or shan’t we?’
‘What? Ring him?’
‘Yes,’ said John.
‘Oh – well – I don’t know. Later perhaps. What do you think?’
‘Well, later then; if we do. Yes.’
‘Yes,’ said Billy, knowing as he did so that they probably wouldn’t ring Jason at all; not because they weren’t fond of him, for they had both become that during the short time that they had looked after him; but because they had been so intimidated by the number of books he had in his rooms; and by the number of letters there were as well, that were stacked here and there; and a number of which seemed to be spilling from a large wooden bowl, that was kept on the sturdy, gatelegged table that Jason occasionally used as a desk; and by the knowledge too that Jason was an author, and quite a well-known author at that – which, combined with the considerable differences between them in age (they had calculated that there must be almost a quarter of a century between them), created a kind of barrier in their minds, that they felt too shy to overcome.
‘Or he’ll ring us, perhaps,’ Billy added, once he had finished drying himself, and had put on a clean pair of underpants, and was disporting himself before John; half curled up in a chair: and as if he might be some kind of angel – or some kind of cherub perhaps, would be better words for describing him.
XI
Jason came home late that night, feeling disturbed again and upset. He had eaten too much, drunk too much, and seemed to have returned to his old, bad habits. Moreover, he had experienced something on the way home that had affected him so very deeply that he believed it to be something he must face, and that he would need to write about in his notebook.