As if by Magic

by Angus Wilson

  “That’s where you’re entirely wrong. A great number of people enjoy and respect my husband’s work. I really think you’d better go, both of you, before you say anything more that’s thoughtless and heartless.”

  “She’s right. We must go. And you are both. Oh not Ned perhaps. He’s self-centred. But you, Rodrigo, what you said to Him was awful. You don’t know anything about his books, but (a) you wanted to show you’re of a superior class, especially to Mama, because you think she’s the right class too. Oh yes, and because you can see she and he quarrel and so you thought it would please, as though she didn’t love him quite as much because of it. But how could you know about that sort of thing? And anyway (b) you spoke against the books because they aren’t in fashion. All you care about is being trendy and the right class, only even you can see that they don’t go together and that’s why your life’s so awful for you.”

  “Oh, my darling Alexandra, if this is how you talk to one another. Such hurtful things! No wonder you’re ill. Now both you men must go at once. I’m not blaming anybody. But we can’t have our daughter in this state. It’s all the fault of these finals. I remember myself at Girton. Exams! Why, they’re mediæval. They ought to have gone long ago. When they’re over, you can all meet again. And the whole of this will be forgotten.”

  “Forgotten?” said Ned. “If you’re dead, it’s forgotten.”

  “And you,” Alexandra cried, “you think that being sly is being strong. We’ll see who’s stronger . . .”

  “Hysteria isn’t strength.”

  “Who says? There was an hysteric woman once and she brought a paper-weight down on a man’s head, as you well know. Or nearly.”

  “Nearly.” Ned spoke sneeringly.

  “Anyway hysterics get what they want mostly. Oh, yes,” she told her parents, “didn’t you realize that’s what I am? That’s why I staged all that demonstration for love from you all. Only they were sneering. But now I’ve had the demonstration and we’re leaving. You see I live all the time with a little game inside myself. That’s how hysterics are. Didn’t you know?—You ought to, sitting on benches and writing novels. Well they are. You’ll find out if you look in real books, good ones.”

  “Too many books,” Zoe cried. But Alexandra had collapsed into sobbing. Suddenly Hamo got up from his chair and came over to her. He took her hand.

  “You mustn’t do it, if it seems frightening and secret,” he said. “Please believe me. I know too much of that and how it destroys one.”

  She stifled her crying and looked up at him in surprise, but with a tamed, gentle look. “I must,” she said, “it makes everything have some sense. I can’t bear things without it.”

  “I know. That’s why you mustn’t do it, whatever it is. Look,” and he fumbled in his pocket and produced an envelope, “I meant to give you this. Perhaps it may help. Open it later.”

  But she tore it open at once and took out ten ten-pound notes. She burst out laughing.

  “How disgusting,” she cried, “dirty filthy hamster-fodder. Oh yes, didn’t you know you were called the Hamster? It’s because they’re so stuck away and sexless and dirty and smelly in their cages like you.”

  Zoe cried, “Alexandra!” and Perry, coming up, took her by the shoulders and began to shake her; but still she continued to tear up the notes and scatter the pieces in the air.

  Hamo had, at first, retreated, his face scarlet with shame, but now, at Perry’s action, he felt his way forward again.

  “No, no, it’s my fault. I should have seen. The young don’t care about money.”

  “As long as they have it,” Perry added.

  But Hamo had caught his foot in the long folds of Alexandra’s coat that swept the ground, he tottered, fell full-length, and clutching at a small Louis Quinze table, brought it to the ground with him and, with it, Zoe’s Nymphenburg Harlequin. He lay sprawling on the floor, his forehead bleeding, while Zoe cried out, “Oh no! I loved that piece so much”; and then very bitterly, “Never mind. We destroyed the Zwinger in the name of freedom, I suppose the poor Harlequin can go in the name of science. Oh, I know, Hamo, it was just bad luck. But your instruments, my dear! How do you work?”

  The heavily-built young man with the knowing boxer’s face who came in at the door, took in a great deal at once. He went up to Alexandra who was screaming “Smelly dirty Hamster” at Hamo as he struggled to rise, smacked her face sharply, then kissed her. He helped Hamo to his feet.

  “Sorry, love, you’re wrong there. I’ve worked for Mr. Langmuir for ten years and there’s never been a gong out of him that wasn’t the finest Jermyn Street after-shave. Sorry to come in unannounced, but the door was ajar. And I’m sorry to be late,” he added politely to Zoe.

  “Surely you’re not. You rang.”

  “Yes, but I said two minutes late and I’m four past the time. It’s put the chief in one of his King Kong moods and I’m not surprised. China broken, eh? Well, I must tell you you’re lucky to have a stick left in this room. Now, when he’s really roused . . . Ah! That’s better. I’ve got you all laughing.”

  “Well, you haven’t really,” Zoe decided, “but somehow you’ve made us all feel we ought to be.”

  “Yes. And you’ll all be glad to know the fog’s clearing. Icy patches though. The Harrods’ driver out there is belly-aching about it. I think,” and he surveyed the room and its occupants as he spoke very deliberately to Hamo, “that we ought to be getting along, you know, Mr. Langmuir. I looked at that old bloke who’s driving us and made my will. If there’s one thing that’s certain murder on the roads, it’s careful driving. And that man out there’s got death from caution written all over his face.”

  Hamo, correct and on his toes, presented Erroll Watton, his assistant, to his host and hostess, and to “my god-daughter”. He left the introductions to Alexandra’s admirers to Zoe and when she didn’t make them, he said, “This lateness is most unforgivable, Watton.”

  “I know. I was afraid it might be worse than that.”

  “Well, what excuse have you got?”

  “None that you haven’t heard and rejected.”

  Hamo smiled. “I was afraid of that. Well, as you say, we must go.”

  “Not before you’ve had a farewell glass of champers,” Perry spoke with bonhomie, but he didn’t move to carry out his invitation.

  Alexandra took her father’s arm in her own. “I shan’t have any, Pa. In fact we must go. I don’t think drink’s my thing any more than pot. I promise I’ll rest, Mama, I promise—after this; only I can’t not go on now. And hysteria isn’t important. And as to the faces they’ll just have to look after themselves. And don’t give any drink to them, Pa. The chief point of my going is that you and Mama should be alone as soon as possible. I don’t believe you mean to open another bottle anyway.”

  Perry didn’t answer, but he put his tongue out at his daughter playfully, and, going up to his wife, encircled her waist and squeezed her.

  Zoe laughed. “She knows us too well. That means we haven’t altogether failed. But Ally, darling, I am worried about you.”

  “I don’t think that’s going to help her, Zoe. All the same, just because Zoe and I have got the lustful itch doesn’t mean that we mustn’t think about you. Are you sure you’re all right, Ally? For all your disgusting appearance, I trust you know what you are doing.”

  “Yes, I am, Pa. Besides, apart from you and Mama, you know how important these week-ends are to your writing.”

  “Well, they are rather, but . . .”

  “You’re frightened the week-end’s not going to work. That’s it, isn’t it? Well, you’re not going to make parenthood the excuse.”

  Zoe corrected her daughter, “I don’t think you really do know about Perry and me. We never have failures. And I insist on the right to a maternal conscience. For example, icy roads, darling. You will be careful whoever’s driving, won’t you? And sleeping in that van in this cold.”

  “Look, Mama, if the road seems too bad w
e’ll all three come back and sleep here. Will that satisfy you?”

  “Yes, that would be better. I’ll tell Concepcion.”

  “Yes, but we don’t want her fussing if we do come.”

  “No, no, just to make up the beds.”

  “I promise you I’ll see that we don’t take risks, Mrs. Grant,” Rodrigo said.

  And, then, lots of hand-shaking and kissing and they were gone; but in a moment Alexandra returned.

  “A very good journey, Hamo. I was awful just now. But that’s how I seem to be these days. Anyway, here’s a present for you. I bought them last week and then with all this I almost forgot.” She gave him a handsome pair of binoculars in a leather case with a shoulder strap. “Frodo had the ring on his journey, but Hamo’s eyes aren’t quite up to that. Magic glasses will have to do. So that you’ll be able to see things more clearly wherever you go. And I expect there’ll be lots to see.”

  Hamo looked very confused, but she kissed him so warmly that he straightened up with an unwonted look of content. “Bird-watching,” Erroll said.

  Alexandra put out her hand. “And you’ll be able to keep him amused, Mr. Watton.” He shook her hand, but he clearly did not know where to put her remark. She turned to Zoe, “Of course I wasn’t talking about you and Him when I said that about the week-end’s not working properly. I’m not disgusting. I was just trying to pretend to take some interest in the famous novel.”

  Then she was gone.

  Zoe sighed and asked, “And what will you be doing in those foreign parts, Mr. Watton?”

  “Oh, without him,” Hamo said, “I should be lost. Just now when I broke your beautiful figure, for which there’s no forgiveness, you asked why any of our lab instruments remain intact. This is the man who protects me from my clumsiness. I don’t trust other technicians, and then, if it were not for his evaluation of their application of techniques, I should be estimating from uncontrolled norms.”

  “Oh dear! Well that would never do, I can see. Take some of this pâté, Mr. Watton. American food’s so awful you must eat as much as you can now, you know.”

  “Like the camel,” he said. “Well, I won’t say no.”

  “I personally shan’t be sorry to have done with North of England hot-pot for a while,” announced Hamo.

  “Hot-pot! Wherever do you get that? I haven’t seen it since Bedales. No, I think, the nursery.”

  “He doesn’t get it in the canteen, that’s for sure. They do a very nice line in fish and chips there. And something they call risotto to raise the tone of the place.”

  “And, of course,” Hamo went back to the point, “Erroll is a very professional photographer. He has commissions for work on this voyage from the American Scientist and from some of those Sunday coloured things. That is so, isn’t it?”

  “Well. Bites from the Sunday Times, yes. Mind you, what I’d like is to be doing a bit of real movie work. You know, the Away with Whicker sort of thing.”

  “My dear, don’t we all say that,” Zoe put it.

  But Perry told him, “I’ve worked with Whicker.”

  “What! Are you camera then?”

  “No, I’m just a backroom boy. Arrange their luxurious quarters when they’re on location, see they take the right wage-packet home, iron out the inter-union squabbles.”

  Perhaps it was the joviality of Perry’s tone that made Zoe say, “My husband’s really a novelist.”

  “None of my books has been filmed though.”

  “No?” Erroll sounded surprised. “Not that I’d want to be a cameraman. A mug’s game. No. I want to produce. That’s my dreamo.”

  “Every man his own Walter Mitty,” said Perry generously.

  “I don’t know anything about that. No, in fact, of course, I want to stay with the Chief’s outfit. Are you really interested in the cinema?”

  “No, Erroll, we must go.”

  “The Chief can’t stand it.”

  “Well, I have to be really. Working with the B.B.C.”

  “I don’t see that, but still . . . I’ll tell you what I think. With the proper backing, and it means big money, you could break the movie world wide open today. And I’ll tell you what I mean. You know the Keystone Cops? Fresh today as they ever were. But they want an extra dimension for the modern audiences. I mean I’m only an ordinary bloke, but I’ve had that much education like all my generation and we want a bit of philosophy to our pratfalls. Theatre of Cruelty. Theatre of the Absurd. But all quick-moving, funny stuff.”

  “Crazy shows?” Zoe asked.

  “The Laugh-In?” Perry queried.

  “Nah! Rowan and Martin! That’s all cackle. Purely visual’s what’s needed. One minute up, next flat on his fancy lace. Like the Chief here when I came in. Charlie Chaplin—the typical, comical history of the ordinary bloke.”

  “I shouldn’t have thought Charlie Chaplin was very ordinary,” Zoe said, “and I’m sure darling Hamo isn’t.”

  “Well, that’s my opinion.”

  But now the door-bell rang and the Harrods’ man told them that they must leave.

  “Well, Erroll had the last word,” Hamo said. As he kissed Zoe good-bye, he seemed pleased about this.

  *

  They appeared to have been travelling for hours. The endless drinks and snacks which should have distracted Hamo’s mind from the time only distracted him from the Los Baños reports he sought to read. There was too little room for his long legs; how fortunate, he thought, that I took the aisle seat. He put out his right leg to stop what he believed was the beginning of cramp. Long though his leg was, the handsome Steward did not see it. He tripped, and the orange juice with ice that he was carrying, though not the glass, shot forward, struck the Stewardess who was coming the other way, and poured neatly down between her breasts; the Steward fell full-length. Hamo leapt up with profuse apologies to help the man to his feet. Sudden turbulence shook his balance and he fell full-length on top of the Steward. When the entanglement was sorted out and Hamo was back in his seat, the Stewardess gave him a very cold look and went off to retrieve the ice. The Steward, who was unhurt, said, with a wink to Hamo, before reprimanding him, “You’re not very good with the girls.”

  Later, Erroll said, “Well, you’re a fast worker—got them rolling in the aisles already. Wrong side up, but never mind, it’ll work out on land.” He went back to reading Sight and Sound.

  Through a thousand miles of darkness, to the sound of Erroll’s snoring, Hamo lay awake, dwelling on the enormity of these words, coming on top of the absurdity of all that falling-about. Never had Erroll Watton made such an overt allusion. But still, that was forgivable. They were about to be close companions for many months. Champagne, perhaps, had gone to his head. Yet the implications were revolting to Hamo. If people knew and said nothing, which was very proper, then one always assumed that they knew rightly. And now Erroll had supposed that this Steward, well over thirty, muscular and hairy, could have been some object of desire. And if his words were really precise, something far worse; that he, Hamo, was a pathic. Nothing appalled him more than elderly pathics. And if Erroll, who was under thirty, thought this, one could never know what expectations he had of misconduct. He fell asleep at last with sheer weariness at the ramifications of it all.

  But when, with dawn, he took his sponge bag to beat the other passengers to it, he found Erroll busy in laughing, intimate conversation with the Stewardness. Chatting her up, no doubt, was what it was.

  And so it was confirmed to be by Erroll himself, when they were both back in their seats.

  “She’s all right. Two-day stopover in New York. Maybe the New York chicks won’t fancy me. If so, I can always call her up.” He pulled out a card on which a telephone number had been scribbled, and read, “Miss May Latimer. In foreign parts where you don’t know the form, never let a chance go by.”

  So there it was, Leslie and Erroll, his twin mentors, both gave the same advice. All the same when Miss Latimer appeared with glasses of refreshing iced orange
juice, Hamo caught her embarrassed eye and had a sudden panic that the whole of this year abroad might prove to be an unending succession of humiliating farces.

  *

  Ned’s head had slipped from the pillow and lolled over the side of the bed. Against the mustard and white stripes of Zoe’s linen the mass of his ginger-flecked dark hair and his gingery bristles appeared like a pet animal asleep where it should not be. Only the round dark hole of his mouth, from which dog-like snorings filled the faintly scented air of Zoe’s bedroom, gave clear sign that here was a human face in sleep and not Rags curled up on his mistress’s pillow; the mouth and a slow trickle of saliva that ran from it down his beard on to the striped linen. Ned, for whose visual excitement so much of these triplings were devised, had, as so often, come too soon and slept. Yet Rodrigo’s excited shaking of the great parental bed as he drove into Alexandra brought a tremor even to Ned’s youthful deep slumber—he mumbled and threw out a freckled arm over the sheet top and for a moment his extraordinarily white, shapely, so-often washed hands smoothed in automatic delight Alexandra’s now satisfied body. His shoulders, white, thin-fleshed and bony, showed above the Spanish jet counterpane. Against those hands, so delicate, so fastidiously clean, the room’s baroquerie was as dusty, cobwebby, neglected as a drab’s dressing-room. Against them, too, the ivory Bernini entanglement of Rodrigo and Alexandra bore a suspiciously grubby patina. Ned, such fresh-cut marble, was indeed a Canova but incongruously bearded.

  For minutes Rodrigo and Alexandra lay in normal supine exhausted satisfaction, smiling and now gentle Rodrigo, appeased and smoothed Alexandra. But she, the first to return to life, slid across the bed, over Rodrigo’s firm buttocks, to paddle her feet into slippers, drape her black leather coat over her shoulders, and, fingers to her lips to say “let sleeping Neddies nod”, beckoned her partner out of the room.