by Jem Poster
‘I wasn’t expecting you. I could clear the whole lot in twenty minutes if you want. It’s such a small matter. Why are you so upset?’ He seemed genuinely perplexed, frowning at me like a troubled child.
‘Not upset, Aaron. Simply aware – as you yourself have never been – of the need for a degree of discipline in life. The world has a natural tendency to disorder; the mark of a man of character is his resistance to that tendency. Look at this’ – I picked a wad of unopened letters from the floor and flung it on to his desk – ‘and this. This is my chair, Aaron, my working space. Learning to respect the boundaries of other people’s territory might prove a useful starting-point when you eventually decide to impose order on your own.’
He reached out and gently patted my arm, a gesture more patronizing, I felt, than placatory.
‘Let’s not quarrel about this,’ he said. ‘Will you sit down for a moment?’
I glanced at my chair.
‘Please.’ He pulled his own chair forward and offered it to me. ‘There’s more to tell you. Look at this.’
He pulled another letter from the file on his desk and handed it to me. More of the same, I thought, suddenly afflicted by a wave of nausea and quite unable to concentrate either on the letter itself or on Aaron’s exposition of its details. He showed no sign of having noticed my indisposition. I sat back and let him jabber on for twenty minutes or so, excitable, self-engrossed, his eyes blazing in his flushed face as he talked; then, with a careful formality which I hoped might function in some subtle way as a warning, I took my leave of him and let myself out into the street.
The surgery was less than ten minutes’ brisk walk from the office, but I had made insufficient allowance for the debilitating effects of my illness and I arrived breathless and a little late, to find Dr Freeman waiting for me.
He helped me out of my coat and hung it on a stand behind the door.
‘Still the same problem with your shoulders, I see.’
‘Is it so obvious?’
‘To anyone used to observing the human body, yes.’ He motioned me to sit down. ‘A doctor – a good doctor, I mean – becomes acutely sensitive to nuances of posture and movement. I’ve only to see you easing your shoulders out of your coat to know that the stiffness is still there and, I should imagine, increasing.’
‘Yes, it’s been particularly bad recently. But that’s not what I came to see you about. I’ve been away for a while, working in conditions which – well, the reasons don’t matter, but a few weeks ago I contracted an illness. A high fever – sweats, delirium, my whole body invaded. I was lost for days.’
‘Lost?’ He took my wrist and placed a finger on my pulse.
‘I didn’t know where I was. On one occasion—’
‘You’re not feverish now.’
‘No, but my appetite’s poor, and the slightest exertion—’
‘The natural effects of a natural process. I could give you a full examination if you wish, but it’s apparent to me that the illness itself has passed. You’re in a weakened state, certainly, but I’ve no reason to doubt that your appetite and energies will be restored in time. You might take this tonic’ – he sat down and scribbled briefly on a small scrap of paper – ‘but don’t regard it as a substitute for the period of rest your body really needs. Will your work allow that?’
‘I’m staying with my father at present. I plan to spend a further week there.’
‘Ideally I’d recommend longer, but a week should set you on the right track.’
He reached across the desk and handed me the prescription. I folded it carefully and leaned back in my chair.
‘And what else would you like to discuss with me, Mr Stannard?’
‘Nothing else. Whatever makes you think—?’ I stopped, conscious of the rush of blood to my neck and cheeks. He narrowed his eyes and scanned my face thoughtfully before resuming.
‘You’re surprised; but think about it for a moment. Just as a certain physiological imbalance can be inferred from the set of your shoulders, so your behaviour provides clues to other forms of unease. You can have no idea how often a patient will come to what appears to be the end of a consultation yet remain seated, exactly as you are now, displaying the most remarkable reluctance to leave. It’s not difficult to deduce in such cases that something has been left unsaid, and I usually find that the unarticulated problem is – from the patient’s point of view at least – the truly significant one. So let me press you on the matter: what aspect of your health do you most – or least – wish to discuss with me?’
He placed the tips of his fingers together and smiled, his gaunt face softening, and it suddenly occurred to me that I might tell him everything. It was not simply a discussion of my symptoms that I envisaged at that moment – the vague discomfort on making water, the perpetual sense of heat and fullness in the affected area – but a laying bare of the whole shameful affair; and for a second or two I entertained the absurd notion that I might feel those long fingers laid on my forehead in a priestly gesture of healing and absolution.
‘There’s nothing,’ I said, rising abruptly from my chair. ‘Nothing at all.’
He removed his spectacles and placed them gently on the desk. I thought he might question me further, half hoped that he would; but he walked over to the stand and, without another word, reached down my coat.
The rain was falling heavily as I stepped into the street, great stinging drops driven by a vicious wind. I walked quickly, head down, making directly for the station, but as I turned the corner into Wheeler Street, I found my way blocked. I pushed forward impatiently, shouldering a passage through the crowd, and it was only when I reached the space at its centre that I realized what was going on.
The dray’s wheels still spinning; barrels scattered over the gleaming cobbles; the horse lying across the broken shaft, its neck and head in the running gutter. I remember the lips drawn back from the yellow teeth, the wild rolling of the eyes as it tried desperately to lift its head clear of the water. But it is, above all, the woman who stands out for me. I can see her now, squatting beside the creature, one hand on its straining neck as the drayman cuts away the harness, her skirts spread around her, soaking up the roadside filth. Her companion hovers over her, a well-dressed and distinguished figure, clearly embarrassed, urging her to leave. They will be late, he is saying, look at the state of her clothes, she can do nothing for the animal. But she stays put, her face shining with tears and rain; and only when the huge body is finally still does she allow herself to be led away.
What was it about that scene – about the woman – which held me there, which holds me now? She was not obviously beautiful: a woman of rather conventional appearance, perhaps in her mid-forties, inclining to plumpness; her features too round and soft to be considered striking. But there was something about her face and her attitude as she squatted there, not exactly oblivious to the agitation around her but untouched by it, a spot of clear, uncompromised intensity focused like light through a convex lens. The drayman grunts and curses, the knife-blade squeaks against the taut leather of the harness, men shout advice or press forward, gripping the spokes, the sides, the unbroken shaft; the dray rocks and crashes back on to its wheels. But all that stir and bustle is an irrelevance. What matters is the quiet face, bowed a little as though in prayer or meditation, the extended arm, the firm white hand – and I felt the pressure of the palm as though I myself were the recipient of that incomprehensible grace – laid on the beast’s shuddering neck. I remember starting towards her as she rose to leave, thinking I might – that I might speak with her perhaps – I don’t quite know what I had in mind. But even in my susceptible and no doubt slightly irrational state I was able to recognize the absurdity of the impulse, and I simply watched as she took her companion’s arm, stepped into the crowd and was lost to sight.
19
In the event, I stayed at my father’s house for almost a fortnight. Not that I was entirely comfortable there – far from it – but o
nce ensconced in my old room and caught up in the familiar domestic routines, I found it peculiarly difficult to contemplate leaving.
My physical condition continued to improve, but I was in a delicate state of mind, edgy, restless and easily roused to extremes of emotion by the most banal objects or events. I would stop repeatedly in my tracks as I walked around the garden or through the meadows behind the house, drawn to the shine on the wet box leaves perhaps, or the reflection of the sedges on the agitated surface of the dew pond. I was obsessed by the intricate detail of things: the whorls of a snail shell, the dark seeds in the split laburnum pods, the lichens crusting the garden wall. I remember standing beneath a tree contemplating a shrivelled apple as though it were a work of art, before peeling the bark from one of the twigs with my thumbnail and sniffing the moist white wood. It was a kind of hunger I experienced then, a profound longing which, however long I stared, however deeply I inhaled, I was unable to satisfy; and I would pass on at last with a faint sense of disappointment, a troubled awareness of something simultaneously intimated and withheld.
I might have stayed on even longer if my father had not taken a stand on the matter, confronting me one evening after dinner in a manner which made it clear I had outstayed such welcome as he had felt able to extend to me. Throughout the meal he had barely acknowledged my presence, but as Muriel withdrew with the dishes he leaned towards me, fixing me with the challenging stare I had associated in childhood with the gaze of God himself.
‘I take it you have plans to return to your work in the near future, John?’
‘As soon as I’m well, yes.’
‘You look well enough to me. Still a little peaky, perhaps, but I can’t imagine that it would do you any harm to set your shoulder to the wheel again. On the contrary, I suspect that nothing would do you more good at this stage.’
‘I’m strong enough, I suppose. But I can’t summon up any enthusiasm for the work.’
‘Can’t summon up enthusiasm? What kind of talk is that? Enthusiasm is for poets and schoolgirls, John, not for responsible members of a civilized society. We have our duties to attend to; we attend to them. That’s all there is to it.’
‘Possibly. But it seemed to me at one time that there was something more. I had a vision—’
‘That’s one of the prerogatives of youth; and it’s one of the marks of maturity to know when to relinquish our visions and get on with the business of living. You’ve indulged yourself for far too long, and I, to my shame, have been an accomplice in your folly. Without my money you’d never have got started as an architect.’
‘I’ve always been grateful for your support, Father.’
‘I don’t want your courtesies, John. You know very well what I’m driving at. My support enabled you to embark on a career for which you were patently unsuited. You’d have had reason for genuine gratitude if I’d insisted on your following the obvious path. We’d have made a perfectly competent solicitor of you.’
‘But I had no interest in the profession.’
He made an impatient gesture with his left hand, striking the sugar-shaker and sending it rolling across the table. I rose to retrieve it, glad of the diversion.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake. Leave it for Muriel to attend to. Listen: the Stannards have been comfortably bedded into the legal profession for five generations. And there’s a reason for that. As a family we’re thoroughly dependable – meticulous in our attention to detail, careful in our dealings with others, temperamentally resistant to unnecessary change. People trust us precisely because they know that we won’t sacrifice their interests to grandiose schemes or theories; in short, that we’ve no time for visions. I suspect that you’ve inherited something a little more wayward from your mother’s side, but you’re a Stannard at heart, John, make no mistake about it. And you’ve taken a wrong turn.’
I could feel the blood rising to my face; my hands had begun to shake.
‘That’s rather a sweeping dismissal of my achievements,’ I said, as coolly as I could. ‘I may not have accomplished much yet, but I can hardly be accounted a failure. What about my present commission?’
‘Small-scale renovations in an obscure parish church. The best I could do for you in the circumstances.’
‘The best you could do for me? What do you mean by that?’
‘Commissions don’t simply drop from the sky, John. You must have realized that Vernon’s initial approach to you wasn’t fortuitous.’
‘Well, I assumed that your long friendship—’
‘Friendship be damned. Vernon has never been particularly interested in me or my doings. Once your mother was gone, his visits simply stopped. No, I had nothing so substantial as friendship to build on.’
‘Then what was your part in the business?’
‘To put it bluntly, I made a nuisance of myself. On your behalf, of course. I reminded him that he had frequently commented on what he saw as evidence of early promise in you. I even hinted that you were on the brink of fulfilling that promise – a pardonable exaggeration I thought at the time, though on reflection I have come to feel that a more rigorously honest approach would have been preferable. In a nutshell, John, I suggested that he might find work for you.’
‘I didn’t ask for your help.’
‘Not exactly, no. But you need it. Somebody has to take action on your behalf. Somebody has to help you make the best of a fundamentally bad job.’
‘I don’t accept your assessment of the situation, Father.’
‘Really?’ His eyes glittered, with malice perhaps, or triumph. ‘You wander aimlessly around the place for days on end as though you had nothing better to do, and when I question you on the matter you admit that you lack the necessary motivation to return to work. What am I to make of that, John? More importantly, what do you make of it? No, don’t answer now – but I suggest you give the matter serious thought over the next day or two.’
He hauled himself out of his chair and stood over me for a moment, breathing heavily. And then, without another word, he turned and stalked out of the room.
My father’s logic is by no means impeccable, but his command of the high ground in such exchanges has always been absolute. Undressing for bed, I found myself, as so often in the past, pointlessly framing the defence I had been unable to offer in his presence. And later, huddled sleepless in the dark, I felt it all flooding back – all the hurt and humiliation of those unequal contests: the stinging words, the slaps and cuffs, the irrepressible tears of a helpless and bewildered child.
And something else. A memory of my mother, perhaps called up by my father’s words. She is sitting in one of the high-backed chairs in the living-room. The sunlight pours through the open window, heightening the lustre of her smooth skin, irradiating the mass of auburn hair about her face and neck. Someone – and it may indeed be Vernon – sits opposite her, and she leans towards him, animated, voluble, her hands uplifted as though they held some extraordinary gift, her garnet necklace flashing at her throat. I am perched on a low stool in the corner of the room, basking in the sunlight, in the glow of her unaccustomed vivacity, listening not to the words but to the lilt and ripple of her voice. And then the door opens, and my father enters.
He says nothing. Absolutely nothing. But my mother is silenced. She shrinks back into her chair, her hands dropping to her lap like a pair of wounded birds. And the clouds, if my memory is to be trusted, sweep in from nowhere and blot out the sun.
I lay in bed until I heard the clock in the hallway chime six. Then I packed my valise, scribbled a brief note to my father and left the house.
Banks must have been waiting for my return. I was barely reinstalled in my rooms when I heard his voice rising from the hallway, his light step on the stair. He knocked gently and pushed back the door.
‘May I come in?’
I was tired and irritable, my neck and shoulders still aching with the strain of my journey, and I had no wish for company. Given the opportunity, I might have said as mu
ch, but before I could speak he stepped briskly forward and grasped my hand.
‘It’s good to see you,’ he said. ‘And on the mend, by the look of you.’
‘Yes. It’s been a miserably slow process, but I’m more or less fit now. We’ll start work again tomorrow.’
‘Harris will be more than ready, but I’m afraid Jefford won’t be joining you.’
‘Still ailing?’
‘He’s very sick, Stannard. Sick and troubled. I wonder if you’d be willing to call on him tomorrow?’
‘I should have thought your company would be more of a comfort to him than mine.’
‘I visit regularly. But he has something on his mind – something he wants to discuss with you.’
‘I’m unlikely to have a great deal of time to spare tomorrow. Can he not wait a day or two?’
‘I think you should see him as soon as possible. May I tell him you’ll call round on Thursday morning?’
I hesitated, but I could see that nothing short of a firm commitment would satisfy him and I was unwilling to debate the issue.
‘As you wish,’ I said, ‘though you might want to warn him that I shall be unable to stay for more than a few minutes. Have there been any other developments in my absence?’
‘The new pews have arrived. The joiner says he’ll be back to assemble them when you give the word. And I’ve had a brief correspondence with the Dean.’
‘I’ve a few matters to discuss with him myself. Has he set a date for his next visit?’
‘He has no plans to return; not in the near future, at least. I understand that the destruction of the doom has caused him a certain amount of political embarrassment, but it has also freed him from what he clearly saw as an onerous duty. He asked me to convey his best wishes for a speedy recovery.’
‘Any other message?’
‘No. Were you expecting one?’
‘Not really.’ I leaned back in my chair, suddenly overcome with fatigue. ‘I’m sorry, Banks, but I need to rest now. I had an early start and a rather tiring journey.’