A Word Child (22 page)

THURSDAY

‘H
ERE's to Tommy and Hilary!' ‘Tommy and Hilary, may they be blissfully happy!' ‘Hooray!'

It was Thursday evening and we were at dinner with the Impiatts. ‘We' were Tommy and me.

How the news had got out so quickly I was not sure and did not want to discover. Tommy was doubtless overjoyed to let our ‘engagement' be announced at once, though whether she had arranged this deliberately, was unclear. Somebody had telephoned somebody. Possibly Laura had telephoned Tommy. Possibly Tommy had telephoned Laura. Perhaps Laura had learnt something from Christopher. Christopher would hardly even have needed to listen at the door to get the general idea. Anyway, there we were, an officially engaged couple, sitting
à quatre
with the Impiatts, toasting our own success in champagne.

I did not let Tommy stay the night. I sent her away about twelve. On Thursday morning I felt physically restored, so presumably it was not the 'flu. I had a headache, but I attributed that to the whisky. Mentally I did not feel so good. I went to the office, I did my work. I kept up my reign of terror in the Room, and achieved quiet if not peace thereby. I heartily regretted what had occurred. It might not be too strong to say that I was appalled at myself. On the other hand, I did not regret it enough to have the will power immediately to reverse it. Not foreseeing instant exposure, I decided to let it drift. I did not really regard myself as committed. I was however impressed by the fact that I certainly
had
thought the marriage feasible, and had even, on some grounds or other which I could not now quite recall, welcomed the idea. I remembered having thought something about happiness. And although I could not now recapture my reasoning, I
had
reasoned and was by no means totally confident that today's argument was to be preferred to yesterday's. When I arrived at the Impiatts and found that the secret was out and that (surprise, surprise!) Laura had actually invited Tommy in her new role as my fiancée, I was completely stunned. I played along of course, I had no alternative, and I did not even glare at Tommy who was constantly throwing me delighted rueful humbly apologetic glances.

Joy had transformed Tommy as it had transformed Arthur. She looked almost beautiful. She was wearing an ankle-length woollen dress of blue and green check with a high neck and an imitation gold chain and locket. (The locket contained a snip of my chest hair which she had removed last night.) Her mousy ringlets had been persuaded to unravel themselves into a ripple of more orthodox curb. Her pockmarked face glowed with health and triumph. Her little lipsticked mouth and small nose thrust out at the new world, mobile and gay. The smoky-grey pure transparent eyes were huge and moist with deference and humility and bliss. Sitting next to me at table she gently put her foot up against mine. I kicked her smartly on the ankle. She began to giggle and tears of pure joy overflowed onto her cheeks.

Laura was saying, ‘Tommy and I must go Christmas shopping together. Let me see, how many shopping days now to Christmas? We must go
wedding
shopping together. Will you have a white wedding, Hilary dear?'

‘Don't be a dope, Laura.'

‘What would you like as a wedding present?'

‘A single ticket to Australia.'

‘Now then, Hilary, you're not going to be allowed to escape, is he, Tommy? Men are always terrified of it, aren't they. I remember how scared Freddie was. I practically had to keep him handcuffed.'

‘Nonsense, darling, it was you who were ready to bolt!'

‘Will you get married on the same day as Arthur and Crystal?' Laura's promise not to tell Freddie about Arthur and Crystal had evidently wilted, perhaps under the influence of the news about Tommy and me. ‘A double wedding is such fun. Will you let me arrange it all?'

‘Certainly not. We haven't even told Arthur and Crystal yet — besides they may not be — there's nothing definite at all — '

‘Oh come, come. I think a January wedding would be nice. There might be snow and the brides could wear fur hats.'

‘And we'll have a great office party!' said Freddie. ‘It isn't often that we have a double office wedding. We might even arrange it to coincide with the pantomime.'

‘We might have a song about it in the panto! I'll ask Christopher.'

‘What an absolutely marvellous idea!'

‘You'll do no such bloody thing. How is the pantomime getting on, by the way, Freddie?' I urgently wanted to change the subject. Tommy's little foot had come back to the attack.

‘Oh everything's fine except that we still haven't cast Peter. That pretty little Jenny Searle in Registry will make quite a good Wendy. But we're at our wits' end for a Peter.'

‘Why shouldn't Tommy play Peter?' said Laura.

This was discussed with great animation. There seemed to be nothing against it. Tommy was an actress, a dancer. She was slim and slight enough for the part and not too tall. She was of course an outsider, but there were, as Freddie explained, precedents for this. The year before last when they did
Aladdin
Mrs Frederickson's younger brother had played the Genie of the Lamp. Besides, if by then Tommy and I were one flesh, she would not really be an outsider. And so on and so on and so on. Tommy was so pleased and so happy and drank so much champagne she became almost speechless.

When I rose to go at my usual early hour (on Thursdays I normally went on to fetch Arthur from Crystal's) Tommy rose too of course. She went upstairs to get her coat and Freddie followed her up to give her a text of the pantomime to look at. I was left alone for a moment with Laura. We were by now in the drawing-room where we had been drinking coffee.

‘Laura, do ask Freddie not to tell the office yet — '

Laura was wearing another of her tents, a voluminous orange silk affair that made a formidable frou-frou. With her streaming grey hair and her saffron robe she looked like some sort of dotty Buddhist priestess. She had been exceptionally merry throughout the evening. Now suddenly her exalted face contracted, she bit her lip, and on the instant there were tears in her eyes. She was standing close to me. Without looking at me she clasped my hand and pressed it hard. She held it so for a moment, then drew it up against her thigh, and released it. I felt the slippery silk, the warm plump flesh.

‘Oh, Laura — '

She shook her head and dashed the tears away with her knuckles, turning to pour herself out some brandy. Freddie and Tommy were coming down the stairs laughing.

I was aghast. I did not know what to think. Laura could not possibly be in love with me. Perhaps she just suddenly felt envious of Tommy's youth. Tommy's slim charm, Tommy as fiancée, Tommy as Peter Pan. Yet Tommy was not all that much younger than Laura, and had not Laura herself suggested Tommy for Peter? Had that been generosity or was it the perverse act of a woman who wants suddenly to heap up her own chagrin? All this passed through my head in seconds.

Freddie came in. ‘I say, Freddie, don't tell the office yet, I shall be teased to pieces!'

A minute later Tommy and I were out in the street. It was raining very slightly, something more like a damp yellowish mist, the beginnings of a fog.

‘Darling, you aren't angry with me? I didn't do it on purpose, honest — you see Laura — '

‘OK. OK.'

‘Darling, we are still — engaged — aren't we?'

‘Oh leave me alone,' I said. ‘I can't tell you how much I disenjoyed this evening. I don't want to see the Impiatts ever again, I hate them.'

‘But darling, are we — ?'

‘I'm going to Crystal's, good night.'

‘Let me come with you. We could tell them.'

‘No.'

‘Will you tell them?'

‘I don't know. Just stop persecuting me, will you, Tommy? I've got a lot of troubles.'

‘But darling, we will be married, won't we, like you said yesterday, we will, won't we — ?'

‘I don't know. Maybe. How can I see the future?'

‘You'll come tomorrow, won't you, as usual?'

‘Yes, yes. Good night.'

I walked away briskly. When I got as far as Gloucester Road station I rang Crystal to say that I had 'flu and would not be coming.

FRIDAY

I
T WAS Friday afternoon, nearly time to leave the office. I had successfully kept up appearances during the day. I had managed to do some work. Arthur came in to inquire anxiously after my 'flu, and I told him I was better, to which he replied that he could see I was not and I must be feeling terrible. He advised me to go home to bed. I could see that Arthur wanted to go on talking to me, but I gave him no encouragement and he was well trained enough not to press the matter, and retired to his cupboard. As for Reggie and Mrs Witcher, I ignored all remarks they made to me or else replied with offensive abruptness. There was some giggling, but they soon got tired of it and left me alone.

After lunch Freddie Impiatt rang up, in the best of spirits, to say that he had consulted the pantomime committee and they were all in favour of Tommy playing Peter, and would I tell her this glad news. I said I would. In spite of the horrors of last night, I was still, where Tommy was concerned, attempting to trust an insight which I had had, but which I had no longer. Perhaps it would be a good idea to marry Tommy. Perhaps I would be ‘happy' whatever that was. The concept, conveyed to me briefly on Wednesday night, had gone again. Perhaps Wednesday had been simply sex and not any sort of revelation however tiny. I wondered whether seeing Tommy this evening would clarify my mind. If I just sat and stared at Tommy would I be able to read off the answer? I felt very dejected and very tired. The headache had come back. Was it the champagne or was I getting the flu after all?

When my watch said half past five I got up and cleared my desk. It was too foggy to see Big Ben. Edith and Reggie had already gone. They had said ‘good night' and I had said ‘good night'. There was no point in making quite unnecessary enemies, even if one was irritated with the whole universe to the point of screaming. I put on my overcoat and cap and decided I would go to the Sloane Square bar until it was time to go to Tommy's. I knew that Tommy would be certain to annoy me. It would be a rotten evening. I began to trudge down the stairs. When I got to the last flight I saw Gunnar in the hall talking to Clifford Larr. He had made a joke and was laughing in a characteristic way, jolting himself about and spluttering. He had his coat on and was either coming or going, presumably going. I froze. Clifford had seen me, and without seeming to observe me was making some affable reply. I began to recede backwards up the stairs. At that moment Gunnar turned. Escape was impossible. I came back down the stairs at a swift pace and crossed the hall making for the street door. Gunnar and Clifford watched me in silence. As I passed them, not looking at them, I inclined my head slightly in a sort of nod or bow. When I got to the door I was in such a hurry I slipped slightly and cannoned against the wall with my shoulder. I got myself out, stumbling down the steps.

Outside the fog possessed the air. The rush hour crowds, huddled up in their overcoats, heads down, hands in pockets, were jostling slowly along, humpy and indistinct. Their steps dulled, they seemed to walk on tiptoe. A damp vaporous haze, which left visibility at about ten yards, fuzzed yellowly about the lamp posts and thickened brownly between them. The cold sulphurous sooty gas entered the lungs with every breath, tormenting the throat and chilling the body. The great concourse of motor cars, their lights blazing ineffectually, illuminating nothing but fog, crawled one after the other in slow cautious procession. Up above a blanket of thick fuzzy darkness pressed down upon the scene.

I felt as if my chest would burst with frenzy and rage. I inhaled the fog in furious gasps and began to cough. I felt humiliated, defeated, crushed. I considered going back and confronting Gunnar and — what? I had run past him like a dog expecting to be kicked. I had fallen ignominiously out of the door. I had not dared to look him in the face. I had, however, in my first vision of him from the stairs, seen him very much more clearly than on the last occasion. He was of course stouter, but the impression of age which I had received now seemed mistaken. His fair hair, now greyish-fair, fuzzed round a bald patch. His face, which had been pink and smooth, was browner and rougher. But in spite of a slight stoop, the impression of energy, of burly vitality, even of physical strength was as great as ever.

I walked along in a turmoil of indecision and rage. I felt a kind of pure hatred of Gunnar, a desire to punch him hard in the face. At the same time I wanted to go back and — not punch him — speak to him — expunge the vile impression of myself as a frightened cur. I even stopped and stood there rigid in the midst of the slow hurrying homeward-bound crowd, wondering if I should go back. But suppose he were not in the hall. Suppose he had gone up to his office. Suppose I were to climb the stairs and knock on the door and go in and — I felt practically faint with emotion. I knew I could not do it. I began to walk slowly on, devouring my misery and shame.

I had reached the end of Whitehall and was waiting with a mass of other people for the traffic lights to stop the traffic so that we could cross the road to Westminster Station. A kind of reddish blur high above us was the illuminated face of Big Ben. I stood there, hands hanging, pressed upon by my fellow beings, a machine in torment. Then, just as the lights were about to change, a woman who had been standing a little behind me moved forward and was by my side. Our sleeves touched. It was Biscuit.

She was wearing her dark blue duffle coat with the hood pushed back. I caught the flash of her dark eye as she stood beside me. Neither of us looked at the other. The lights changed and we crossed the road side by side in the midst of the great trudging mass. When we reached the opposite pavement I slowed my pace and she continued to walk with me and still neither of us looked at the other. When we were quite close to the station entrance I said, ‘Could you give my compliments to Lady Kitty and tell her that I can do without the attentions of her spies.'

We reached the brightly lighted entrance and I began to turn, or rather to push my way, into it. Biscuit took hold of my sleeve. ‘Please. Come onto the bridge.'

I stepped back and we walked together, now a little out of the crowd, towards the embankment, then crossed the road to Westminster Bridge. We walked in silence to the middle of the bridge and then stopped. A few people were passing by, but there was a curious solitude on the bridge, we might have been in the middle of Hampstead Heath. The fog here formed a dark brown gauze cylinder, one side of it a little fuzzed by the light of a lamp. The line of brightness which was the terrace of the House of Commons made a very faint impression, a sort of almost imperceptible dint, upon the dark. So did the moon face of Big Ben far above. Wrapped up in dense air, the boom of fog horns could be heard from farther down the river, hollow and damp and sad. I turned to face Biscuit. She was looking up at me out of the dark ruff of her duffle hood, and her lean face looked eager and wet. Her hair was wet too with the attentions of the fog, its blackness misted over with little greyish drops. The thick plait disappeared down her neck, down inside the coat. She had her hands in her pockets, her head thrown back. I put my arms carefully round her damp shoulders and kissed her on her long shapely distinguished aristocratic Aryan mouth. She tasted of the fog, somehow of the sea, very cold.

‘Well, little princess — '

She continued to look up at me with eagerness, with a sort of bright curiosity. Then she took her hands out of her pockets and took hold of my overcoat, holding onto my pockets by the flaps. I kissed her again.

‘Well, Biscuit girl — let's go somewhere and make love. You've been chasing me around for quite a long time now. You deserve to have your reward.' It seemed to be my week for making love to girls. Most unusual.

‘How did you know?' she said.

‘What? Oh that you were Lady Kitty's maid.
Are
you Lady Kitty's maid?'

‘Yes.'

‘That was just a conjecture. Never mind. Don't let's talk about that. Let's go back to my flat and make love.'

She laughed. ‘You are funny!'

‘You're pretty funny, following me about everywhere, Miss Alexandra Bissett. What was your father's rank?'

‘Colonel.'

‘I don't believe you. Was he married to your mother?'

Biscuit's distinguished face contracted in a slight frown before she replied, ‘No.'

‘I'm sorry, it's no business of mine. My parents weren't married either. I hope you don't think I — Biscuit, say my name, will you?'

‘Your name? Hilary.'

‘That's right. It's just Hilary. Stupid old Hilary. Nobody minds him. You forgive him, don't you? Let's be friends, shall we?'

‘Yes, yes,' said Biscuit, with her strange eagerness, her strange enthusiasm, ‘do let's! Oh Hilary — I'm so sorry — '

‘What have you got to be sorry about, my Biscuitling?'

‘I'm sorry — I do wish — Look — I've got something for you — '

‘So you said the other day when you wanted to lure me to some wicked café. What is it?'

‘It's a letter.'

‘A
letter
?' I felt suddenly the touch of the cold fog, its bitterness, its darkness. ‘Who — from — ?'

‘From Lady Kitty.'

‘A letter — to me — from Lady Kitty — ?'

‘Yes. Here it is. Here. Don't lose it.' She was thrusting a white envelope into one of my hands. My wet fingers closed on it. I stepped a little back from Biscuit.

‘What about? Why on earth should Lady Kitty write to me? Do you know?'

‘No,' said Biscuit. She added, ‘Of course I don't know, I'm only the messenger.'

I stared down at Biscuit and her lovely eager thin face seemed to harden and recede and become the face of a stranger. Anger, fear, almost superstitious terror possessed me.

‘Well, messenger, you'd better go then. You've done your job. Now go.'

‘But I — '

‘Go.
Go.
'

Biscuit turned and disappeared into the fog. I stood there alone in the middle of the bridge holding Lady Kitty's letter in my hand. After a little while I put the envelope in my pocket and began to walk back towards Westminster Station. Ten minutes later I was in the bar on the westbound platform at Sloane Square.

I was drinking gin and reading Lady Kitty's letter. People came and went in the bar and there was a constant cackle of conversation and an intermittent rattle of trains. I read Lady Kitty's letter carefully several times over. It ran as follows:

Dear Mr Burde,

I hope you will forgive me for writing to you like this out of the blue. I would not do so without a very good reason. I should say at once that my husband has of course told me all about what happened at Oxford in relation to you and the first Mrs Jopling. It may seem strange to you that I should write and what I want is not easy to say. The past has remained something very awful for my husband and he has felt a bitterness which does not diminish. It seemed that there was nothing that could be done about this. (And we have
tried.)
Now it turns out so surprisingly that it seems the work of providance that you are in the same office. I think that he will not speak to you. The resentment and the pride are great, as you can imagine. But I want you to speak to him. I think that he would like to talk to you about the past, and I think if you could both just begin to talk quietly about it, it would help my husband very much indeed. I think if you only met once and talked like that it would help him. I wonder if you understand? A psychoanalist might not help him, but you might help him, and only you. I do not mean that he is unbalanced about it, not at all. He is a healthy successful man, bursting with energy and can enjoy his life. But there is all the time this shadow that will not go away. I do not mean either that it could ever go away, but a single talk with you could help to remove a sort of anger at the world, a desire for revenge even, which is with him like an endless toothache. If he could see you as a real person who has grown older and has suffered too perhaps. I know that I ask a lot of you as you may well prefer not to talk about those events or be made to think about them. But I ask this as something important which I think that you can do to help my husband. And I hope perhaps that you might like to help him. It is important that I have not told him that I am writing to you. This must remain a secret, he must not know that I asked you to approach him, as this would of course reduce the value of your coming, you see this. So please whatever happens keep this absolutely to yourself. Also, I write on my own writing paper, but please do not write to me or telephone me at Cheyne Walk. I send this letter to you by the hand of my maid. I wonder if you would be so good as to tell her whether or not you will do what I ask. You can easily go to him in the office and ask for a talk. Please excuse me for writing to you to ask this great favour.

Yours sincerely,

Katharine Jopling.

P.S. I have read this letter through and I feel there are more things, which it is not easy to say in a letter, which you should know before you see my husband. If you would be so good as to meet me once briefly I could explain them. I believe you like the park, and I suggest we might meet there next Monday morning about eight o'clock, by the Serpentine on your side of the bridge. Please tell my maid if you will come. I shall quite understand if you prefer not to. Please be sure to destroy this letter.

This communication put me into such a state of wild emotion that I could hardly breathe. The blood rushed to my face and my heart beat with such violence that I had to restrain it with my hand for fear it might do itself a mischief. The roar of the trains, the chatter of the people, made an undulating din in the midst of which my mind floated, dazed and separate. I sat blind with emotion, alone, rapt by pain and fear and by something else which made me want to cry, something which quite dreadfully touched the heart: and at the same time I was able to notice that Lady Kitty could not spell and to wonder if she realized that at this time of year it was still almost dark at eight o'clock in the morning.