by Sam Lock
All of which is to show that Lady Cynthia was much more conscious of her neighbour than she gave the impression of being on the surface; and although when encountering each other in the street, they would eye each other guardedly, as if they might be passing ships in the night, watching the distance between them with caution, she would often look down from her bedroom window, to see who might be arriving at his door, and who might be departing from it as well; which meant that she was also aware of Jason – who in recent months had been disturbing her, on account of his appearance: due to the two topcoats he’d taken to wearing, one worn over the other; and to the frayed, striped scarf that he kept wrapped around his neck; and (this had become the latest addition), the pair of thick, woollen mittens that he had taken to wearing as well, in what was still quite mild, autumnal weather.
On account of the keen ear that she had for local gossip, Lady Cynthia had learned that Jason was a writer, and this fascinated her, much as she was no real lover of books and words. ‘Mind you,’ she had remarked to someone one day, ‘what sort of thing he writes I have no idea; but he’s become quite a figure here of late. Something of a sight, if you like. He’s glowered at me at times, when he’s seen me in the street. Why, I can’t think … Captain Smythe believes that something is wrong with him – mentally; and told me that when he had once asked him to give his car a push, he just hadn’t answered. Just stared at him, he said – and had then walked on … Ah, well,’ she had added, ‘it takes a lot to make a world – all sorts; and I don’t believe that he really means to be rude, because there is kindness in his eyes, and that is how I always judge people – by their looks … Mind you,’ she said again, ‘I have heard that he has been separated from his wife for quite a while; and that there is to be a divorce; so my suspicion is that he is unsettled, and that he is probably distressed by that.’
Thus the talk and chatter of the neighbourhood wove and rewove its web, constructing in the minds of those who lived there a picture of its rich and varied character. And who knows how many such images were formed and re-formed each day, passing from one small group to another. Images that had been based upon mere surface impressions, of course, and that therefore lacked the depth and fullness of any more perceptive kind of knowledge. And certainly no one who lived in the area at that time had any real sense of Jason’s troubles. Not even Joseph, who saw his friend quite frequently, was fully conscious of the fact that Jason was in the grips of mental disturbances that were of an unusually troublesome kind; and that even if the symptoms of that illness were now temporarily in abeyance, the illness itself still threatened; making him think that life for him was too unstable, and that he would find no real peace for himself until some further crisis had passed; and then perhaps another; knowing as he did that the self-consciousness he had been nurturing (and that was partly due, he had come to believe, to his having purchased those new notebooks) was not yet strong; and that it was as yet incapable of providing him with the defences he was seeking, against those disturbing impersonal actions that from time to time took hold of him and would threaten to possess him.
In view of the fact that she knew quite a considerable amount about what went on in the streets and houses around her, it was odd that Lady Cynthia hadn’t been told of Arnold’s death. She had sensed a change, however, because she had seen such a lot less of Lottie of late; and had noticed that the times of her visits were different. For she now spent a few hours at the house each morning, rather than in the later part of the day, which was when she had usually called to see Arnold (ignoring her night-time visits, that is). And there was another change of which Lady Cynthia had now become aware, that had nothing to do with Arnold’s death (other than the coincidence of its timing); which was that, from a distance, at least (for of late she had only observed him from her window, not passed him in the street), it seemed that Jason was looking less ragged and unkempt. He was wearing no scarf, she had noticed, and no mittens; and it looked as if his hair and beard had been trimmed.
Whether or not she had found some means of protecting herself from hearing the news that Arnold had died, is a question one might well ask; for the subject of death and dying was one she seldom gave time to, and that she usually kept banished from her mind. And if she found herself alone of an evening, and without company, then she would suppress any reflective thoughts that might come to her regarding the impermanence of life, by busying herself with her letters, or by tidying a drawer, perhaps; or by just telephoning her friends. Which meant that when she did eventually hear of Arnold’s death, she showed no reaction to it whatsoever. ‘Poor man,’ was all she had muttered, and had then diverted the conversation.
For to Lady Cynthia, the most important thing in life was to be sure she kept abreast of things, and to be ever pressing on. She didn’t exactly sing each morning in her bath, but she certainly expected to step from it in a mood of optimism and hope; and if the weather happened to be fine, then there was nothing that provided her with more pleasure than to have slipped on one of the long flowing housegowns she wore; and to be at one of her bedroom’s sunlit windows, seeing to her nails or to her hair; and to be catching a glimpse beyond the rooftops of the morning’s clear, blue sky; and to be thinking to herself that, in certain ways, she was but a reflection of all this; of the bright, cheerful sky, and of the first hopeful hours of the day; and to be seeing herself as a portrait that had been painted in nothing but pinks and blues and gold; and as being of someone who is full of love and benevolence, and of the proverbial milk of human kindness.
XV
When Joseph Mallory returned to London from the country, he immediately rang Jason, in order to arrange for them to meet. But it was not with his customary intention – the one of wanting to use his friend as a kind of testing-ground for his ideas – it was because his father had just died, and he needed to speak to someone about it.
‘Yes,’ he said, when he came to see Jason that same day, and at about five in the afternoon, ‘it happened just a few hours after I arrived. I knew he was seriously ill, of course – we all did; my sisters; my mother – but none of us expected him to be gone that bloody quickly.’
‘What do you make of it – eh – Jason?’ he had continued. ‘This business of dying, and of our not being able to see what’s beyond it – what’s on the other side of it … It’s a bit of a “con”, I think – don’t you? – to be pushed into this life, all fitted out with the full works of the body, and all that goes with it – and then, before you can say Jack fucking Robinson, you’re being whisked away. Off. To where? No one bloody well knows … Watching my father die like that – watching him laughing and chatting, as if nothing was wrong; and then, the next moment, collapsing exhausted upon his pillow, gasping for breath; and then, that was it, he had gone – made me angry … I mean, he hadn’t had much of a life, poor sod. Worked hard, just to keep on top of things; and then – bang! – he’s knocked for a six: gone for a bloody Burton.’
‘You were fond of him, Joe,’ Jason stated, noticing how emotional his friend had become; and in such a different way from when he would be voicing his ideas.
‘Yes. I suppose I was,’ Joseph replied, clenching his jaw, and causing his neck muscles to tighten, ‘though we never showed much affection towards each other; except, perhaps, through the arguments we had, which might have been our way of expressing it I suppose … ‘He was very “left”, Jason – you know. A real socialist. Not sceptical about politics, as I am. He still believed – in spite of the war, I mean – that some kind of fairness was possible: that decent people living decently, working hard – would get their rewards. And he’d clung on to that … We’d almost scrap at times about things like that. And my being a painter didn’t make things easier for him, I’m afraid. My not having a “proper job”, as he called it – that was a real bother to him. My mother – she was the supportive one; who thought that what I was doing was worthwhile – was honourable, if you like. But there, when it comes to spiritual matters, women
can be like that – can’t they? They say it’s the women who’re the real visionaries; who see the new things first. But few of them will voice it publicly. They’ll see it, but then they’ll want to smother it; with their conservatism; to do with their motherhood, I suppose – their need for stability and so on; and to cling to the status quo … I don’t know if there’s any truth in that idea, but there could be, I guess … Was your mother supportive, Jason?’
‘Oh yes, she was,’ Jason answered with a quick laugh, ‘and she still is. She still believes in my work. Still believes in me, for that matter; even if I no longer do myself.’
‘Jason! What the fuck are you saying?’ exclaimed Joseph, never having heard his friend express himself in this way before, and showing real attention and concern.
‘I’m saying what I’ve just said to you, Joe; that I’ve told a lie, and that I’ve been telling it all my life. Not just through my work, Joe. Through my marriage, my children, my –’
‘Oh, bollocks, Jason! How can you say that? How can you speak like that? You’re a bloody good writer, Jason, and you damn well know that you are; and people think you are too. The people who read you and so on: the people who buy your books; the people who publish them.’
Jason didn’t answer this. Instead, he went to refill their glasses.
‘Look, Jason,’ said Joseph, ‘we’d better go out, I think. Go to a pub or something. Get ourselves a bite to eat … You’ve been too shut up with yourself, it seems to me. You’ve lost weight, Jason, you know. Quite a lot. Have you been eating properly?’
‘Yes, you’re right, Joe – we’ll go out,’ Jason replied, not answering Joseph’s question. ‘And I’ll invite you,’ he added, lifting up the two glasses he was carrying, as if he was making a public toast. ‘Yes,’ he repeated, his eyes suddenly turning inward, and half nodding to the air.
‘There’s no need,’ Joseph replied, noticing the change in Jason’s appearance, as if some cloud had just passed over him. ‘I’ve got money on me for once. Cash. Given to me by my mother … There was a lot in the house, she said, and my father wanted me to have it. But nothing about it to my sisters, she said.’
Jason smiled. ‘I wish I had had a sister, Joe. It’s something I’ve wished for all my life.’
‘And my wish has been the opposite,’ said Joe, ‘to have had a brother.’
‘Well then, we’ve both wished for something we couldn’t have,’ said Jason, ‘that was denied to us.’
For a while, the two men sipped their drinks in silence, in what, with the daylight now having failed, had become a darkened room; beyond the windows of which the deep night sky stretched clear towards the river, from where a brisk wind had struck up, that was driving towards the streets and houses with force; whipping dead leaves from the trees that line the embankment, and causing them to flutter aimlessly against window panes, or to scutter hurriedly towards the shelter of garden walls; or to fall flat and lifeless, spreadeagled upon the pavements.
‘It’s from the south-west,’ said Jason, hearing the sudden whine of the wind, and so breaking the spell of silence.
‘Yes,’ said Joseph, ‘but at least there’ll be no frost.’
Again the two friends fell silent. Which was quite an event for them, since Joseph was so inclined to fill whatever time they shared with talk. Then Jason rose from his chair to switch on a table lamp, placed close to where they were sitting.
‘Joe, it’s good to see you,’ Jason said, looking down at his friend.
‘And to see you, Jason,’ said Joseph, a little embarrassed.
‘Shall we go then?’ asked Jason, now feeling embarrassed himself. ‘I don’t know about you, Joe, but I’m famished.’
Without giving a thought to what he was doing, Jason moved towards a chair at the back of the room, and went to collect from it the old, striped scarf that he had worn until a few weeks ago: but as he stooped to pick it up, he was reminded of the attempts that he had been making to achieve a platform for himself, that he hoped would be firm and steady; and upon which, as he had begun to imagine it, he might at last be able to rest.
‘Jason! It’s not cold,’ Joseph almost shouted at him, ‘You won’t need a scarf.’
‘No?’ said Jason, turning to look at his friend with a distant expression on his face; and as if the attraction of the scarf had suddenly removed him from the world, and from all that was around him.
‘No,’ replied Joseph, firmly, noticing Jason’s glassy stare. ‘You hardly need a coat, Jason, let alone a scarf.’
‘Oh,’ said Jason, sounding confused. ‘Well, I’ll just take a coat then … Better do that, I think. It’s November. It’s going to be Guy Fawkes night next week.’
‘Christ! So it is!’ said Joseph, as he quickly emptied his glass, and as he rose to join Jason at the door. ‘There’ll be bonfires in all the bloody gardens again. Smoke too; fog, probably – if the weather turns. Or even smog, perhaps.’
‘Joe? Can I say something?’ Jason then asked, once Joseph had crossed the room to join him and they were both ready to leave. ‘Can I tell you something?’
Joseph looked nervously at his friend, sensing that he was about to hear something for which he was unprepared.
‘Yes, Jason – what is it?’ he answered a little sharply, showing that he didn’t much care to hear whatever Jason might have to say.
‘Joe,’ Jason repeated, ‘if – if anything were to happen to me; like what has just happened to your father, I mean; I want you to know that I’ve mentioned you in my will. You’re aware, I think, that my grandfather left me money, and I want you to have some of it … Not a really large amount, because of Jill and the children, of course – but something. And I’ve done that because – well, because I’ve valued you; valued knowing you, and that you’ve been a real friend.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake,’ said Joseph, his face reddening, and unable to cope with the flush of emotion that Jason’s words had released. ‘Stop bloody well talking like that – will you, Jason? You’re not going to kick the bucket yet, you know. Now – come on: let’s go out and eat. We’ve been bloody well drinking too much – that’s what it is; and on empty stomachs as well. Now, that’s enough of it, Jason – do you hear? All this talk about bloody wills and stuff – and dying.’
Jason smiled and patted his friend lightly upon the shoulder, then gave a quick, boyish laugh.
‘You’re right, Joe,’ he said, ‘as usual’; and with that, flicked on a switch at the head of the staircase and flooded the stairwell with light. Then, with a sudden rise in their spirits and a gradual quickening of their steps, the two friends made their way down.
As the days passed and as November drew to a close, Jason’s stability strengthened, and he began to feel a little pleased with himself. Not hopeful (he knew he must not be that), but as Joseph had said to him, he had lost some weight, so he felt more in control of himself than he had done for more than a year. He had been away – to Hampshire – to see his parents; and the visit had pleased him: his mother commenting upon how well he looked – ‘You’re more your old self, Jason,’ she had said – and Betty amusing him with the remarks she had made about the book she was currently reading – and which, of all books, happened to be Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights.
‘Fancy a young woman writing a book like that,’ had been her comment. ‘Where on earth did such a thing come from, I wonder? … I mean, that Heathcliff man, I can’t make him out. Such a figure, he is. He’s more the devil than anything else, it seems to me. And poor Cathy, ending up in the grave like that, and with him pouncing down on top of her … Well, it’s a work of the imagination, I suppose; and who can tell what goes on inside another person’s head. Have you read it, Jason?’ she asked.
‘Yes, of course I have,’ answered Jason with a smile. ‘It’s a classic, Betty.’
‘Well, it must be,’ Betty replied, ‘because it’s such a story, and I could hardly put it down. Do you think you could write something like that, Jason?’
Jason laughed and said that he hardly thought that possible.
‘Well, it would be a good thing if you could,’ was Betty’s harsh reply. ‘All that passion. That’s what makes a book tick.’
Jason had said nothing to this, since what his mind was so taken up with just then was the composing of a poem. He had been reflecting upon his ‘story’, as he thought of it – the one that he had avoided all his life and that he was now doing his best to face and to make real – and his thoughts had finally crystallised in a few lines about Coriolanus, which was the subject Joseph had spoken about a while ago, and in the story of which he had seen a reflection of himself. And soon after returning to London from the country, he had decided to write this poem in his notebook; and then to add beneath it a few reflections upon why he had written it, and about what the poem meant to him.
Here is a copy of the poem; and following it, the relevant extract from Jason’s notebook.
A great deal has been written on
the life of Coriolanus
But the manner of his death remains
mysterious and unknown
Plutarch, for instance, says that he
was killed by Volscian soldiers;
Others, that he was murdered by
the Volscian leader’s sword:
But Livy, who quotes Fabius as the
earliest authority,
Makes claims for his continuing to
live on in lonely exile;
A sad, perhaps embittered, somewhat
cautionary old man.
‘I have written this poem over the past few weeks, allowing it to form gradually in my mind, and needing to have something upon which to focus. For I am still feeling nervous about myself; wondering who I am exactly, and where I might be going. Like Coriolanus, I have turned my back upon my former life – upon my public life, as one might speak of it; and which includes the one I led with my family – meaning, with my wife and my two children. And I have also had strong feelings of disgust concerning my work – my writing – knowing how shallow it is and intellectual in the wrong way. For never in my work have I touched any fire – any real passion, as Betty speaks of it. My books have been admired by many for their style, their skill; but they have been cold pieces of writing, it seems to me, and I have gradually become aware of it. Some writers – some critics – have described my books as being “cool”, and have used that word as a form of compliment; as though to have kept one’s distance from whatever lies beneath the surface of life should be counted a virtue; but I have not been able to accept that idea.