Far Cry from Kensington (22 page)

‘Do you have any religion, William?’

‘No, I don’t believe a damn thing.’

‘I can’t disbelieve,’ I said.

‘Well, you can go on believing for two, as the pregnant women eat.’

I was in no doubt that William was the love of my life. For his part he behaved as if
our future together wasn’t even in question. Looking back, it was good even
then to have this area of certainty which in fact has never been shaken.

Our love affair in the basement at Highgate was strangely enhanced by the sterile
affair going on upstairs between the kindly, well-informed and urbane Boys. Sometimes
they came down and had a drink or supper with us, always anxious to consult William
on medical matters. ‘Of course I’m not qualified,’ William said,
‘I’ve never practised fully.’

William had been a poor boy. His origins were not merely of the working class with
their pride and clean-scrubbed habits, their church-going. William came from the
sub-poor. He was now the product of scholarships and bursaries, with a brain so
exceptional that he had emerged from an infancy of dire want and wretched slum
poverty without effort or much explanation. It was natural that good grammar schools
and colleges of those days should take him up and want him as a pupil, that he should
later travel to foreign universities on grants and scholarships, and enter the
profession of his choice. He was now twenty-eight, already a cultivated man of easy
humour. What moved and astonished me most was that he knew no nursery rhymes and
fairy stories. He had read Dostoevsky, Proust, he read Aristotle and Sophocles in
Greek. He had read Chaucer and Spenser. He was musical. He could analyse Shostakovich
and Bartok. He quoted Schopenhauer. But he didn’t know Humpty Dumpty, Little
Miss Muffet, the Three Bears, Red Riding-Hood. He knew the story of Cinderella only
through Rossini’s opera. And all that sweet lyricism of our Anglo-Saxon
childhood, a whole culture with rings on its fingers and bells on its toes, had been
lost to him in that infancy of slums and smelly drains, rats and pawnshops, street
prostitutes, curses, rags and hacking coughs, freezing bare feet and no Prince
Charmings, which had still been the lot of the really poor in the years between the
first and second world wars. I had never before realized how the very poor people of
the cities had inevitably been deprived of their own simple folklore of childhood. At
night, I used to sing nursery rhymes to William. I told him fairy stories.
Occasionally one of them would vaguely recall to his mind something he had heard
before, somewhere along the line. But most of them were quite new to him. They were
part of our love affair.

I felt that any day Hector Bartlett would show up at the office in
Highgate, if you could call such a cloudy décor of shell-pink and floral
arrangements an office. Out of the way though we were, the magazine was now of
sufficient importance and the personality of its editors magnetic enough to attract
visitors who came without appointment, usually with manuscripts of essays or poems to
offer. If neither Howard nor Fred was available, Abigail and I would give these
visitors a cup of coffee and listen to them for half-an-hour. Sometimes people I had
met in my previous jobs would turn up, which forced me to put aside the work mounting
on my desk while we chatted about the same things as before. I would promise to bring
their work to the attention of the editors while Abigail rattled busily at her mound
of correspondence. Sometimes we were positively entertained. An interesting girl used
to put in an appearance almost every week, dressed in different costumes; one week
she was a milkmaid, another week a sort of cavalry officer. But she talked the same
sense, evenly, all the time. Although she didn’t manage to get her poems into
the
Highgate Review,
I wasn’t surprised when, many years later, she
wrote a successful play.

Others came to discuss religion and to talk of their Anglo-Catholic retreats, and
discuss the Thirty-nine Articles. The Anglo-Catholic movement at that time was in
ferment over one particular subject: should they or shouldn’t they ‘go
over to Rome’. Myself, I frequented both churches according as it suited me.
When I revealed this fact to the religious intellectuals of the Highgate set, it
never failed to lead to lengthy and fascinating discussions with no bearing
whatsoever on the Christian faith.

So the spring passed. The manuscripts piled up on my desk and the letters on
Abigail’s, far more than she could manage. I helped her to open the mail in the
mornings. Those letters which didn’t appear to be urgent or personal for Howard
Send or Fred Tucher bothered Abigail, not because she couldn’t find anything to
say to the writers but because there were so many. Fred had told her it would be
‘nice’ to reply to everyone, however hopeless or silly. So I told Abigail
to work through them in such a way that they would be answered within quarterly
intervals. And it is my advice to everyone with too much casual correspondence, to
treat it in the same way that some companies pay their dividends. The mail that comes
in before Christmas should be answered by Lady Day, the next pile by Midsummer Day,
that accumulation by the Michaelmas term, and the last quarter by Christmas. It is
the only proper system.

One morning the post held a manuscript with a covering letter from Hector Bartlett,
enclosing a letter of recommendation from Emma Loy. ‘It’s from the pisser
of prose,’ said Abigail.

‘I’ll look at it later,’ I said. Abigail went to put the large opened
envelope containing the typescript and Emma Loy’s letter on the pile of
manuscripts on my desk. But, as if it were contagious, I took it out of
Abigail’s hand and put it down on the desk in a place by itself. I detested
Hector Bartlett beyond all reasoning, but reasoning alone now began to justify my
feelings.

Emma Loy’s covering letter came from New York, thanking Fred Tucher for a copy
of the
Highgate Review
which he had evidently sent her in the hope of
persuading her to write something for it. ‘I find it extremely interesting,
especially as it is not available in this country,’ wrote Emma. ‘Be
assured that if I have anything suitable to offer for publication I will send it to
you.’

Now, I cannot remember word for word the text of this letter, written so long ago. But
Emma went on something like this:

I take this opportunity of recommending to you
an article by the essayist Hector Bartlett which will accompany this letter. It
describes an authentic experiment in the field of ESP and esoteric practises of that
nature, under the specific heading of radionics. While I am not myself an adherent of
the cult of radionics, Mr Bartlett, a convinced follower and student of radionic
activities, describes an authentic experiment, the results of which cannot be
ignored.

In many ways Hector Bartlett may be described as ‘the
poor man’s Kierkegaard’.

The essay itself might need some editorial attention but the
substance is, I think, worthy of your interest.

Yours sincerely,
Emma Loy.

My feelings about Emma Loy at that moment, so far away in 1955, have
been overlaid by later considerations, and my knowledge of how throughout her years
of fame she was to be harassed and bothered continually by Hector Bartlett’s
writings about her, by his accounts of Emma Loy when he knew her, the falsities and
the vaunted sensational revelations and the pathetic inventions. For when she finally
cut him clean out of her life he was furious. As it happened nobody took much notice
of what Hector Bartlett said. Emma was right not to sue and suppress, and waste her
time with lawyers. ‘I believe that’s what he would like,’ said
Emma. ‘It would draw attention to him.’ But it annoyed her to see Hector
Bartlett quoted by innocent students as one of the authorities on Emma Loy. And I
think she knew she had only herself to blame through her persistence in those earlier
years of trying to promote and appease him. Already, she was doing this with the idea
of getting rid of him easier by making him out to be some sort of equal. It was
perverse. More plainly than ever, she knew very well he was nothing more than the
pisseur de copie
that I called him.

So, at the time, I was enraged against Emma for her letter of recommendation. But the
frightful essay of ten pages, unprintable though it was on literary grounds, and of
insignificant interest from the general point of a good magazine, fascinated and
chilled me so much that I wasn’t able to think of anything else all day.
Abigail, too, was astonished.

It was entitled
Radionics A Power Against Evil.
It gave a short explanation
and history of the workings of the Box and its curative effects. Then came the case
history which was the purpose of the essay. Hector Bartlett’s claim was that
the effectiveness of the Box depended on the sensitivity and psychic skill of the
operator. These operators were at their best when directed by Organisers (his
spelling). He went on to describe how an Organiser, knowing of an evil woman, had
induced a naturally skilled operator to curse the evil one through the means of
radionics. Since the victim of the curse was evil it was a benevolent accomplishment
for the Organiser to induce the operator, a devout Catholic ‘with all the
psychic energy of her faith’ to effect this curse. Within a few months of
treatment, the evil victim, an extraordinarily obese woman, began to waste away and
was unable to hold down a job.

Throughout the experiment, the essay explained, the Organiser had to work in very
close and intimate cooperation with the operator which involved ‘what might be
termed a sexual-psychic relationship’. But the experiment was a success. In
this case, the operator, apparently weakened in her powers by terror of the
priesthood and her reputation amongst Catholics, had to be dropped from the programme
and, incidentally, eventually went mad and committed suicide. But that in no way
detracted from the obvious success of the experiment during the months that the
operator came gradually under the full control of the Organiser. For future
experiments it would probably be advisable to choose operators free from the
oppressive influence of the mass-religions.

‘He must mean Wanda Podolak,’ said Abigail. ‘Who is the poor fat
woman?’

‘Me,’ I said.

‘I don’t remember you were so very fat.’

‘I was when I first went to Mackintosh & Tooley. I started losing weight some
time afterwards.’

‘Yes, now I remember,’ Abigail said. ‘I didn’t know you so
well, then.’

She knew I always ate small portions but hadn’t connected this with my now
normal shape.

‘If it’s you, why does he think you’re evil?’

‘Because I met him in the park one morning last year when he was bothering me to
do something about his career, and I called him to his face
pisseur de
copie.
’

‘He’s bonkers,’ said Abigail.

‘I know, but Wanda’s dead,’ I said.

That night I took the letter of Emma Loy’s and the article down to our basement
flat to show William.

William had always been reserved about my hatred of Hector Bartlett. He felt, I think,
that it was too personal. It is possible that William wanted all my strong feelings,
of whatever sort, for himself. Not long before, I had told him patiently about the
connection I felt sure existed between Hector and Wanda’s death, the logical
sequence. ‘He came to the house always when I was at work. I suppose he slept
with her. He taught her to work the Box under his influence, and induced her to work
it against me,’ I said.

‘Oh, God,’ said William. ‘Even if it’s all true you still
can’t say the man drove her to suicide. It takes two to make that sort of
relationship. It’s a pact between the oppressor and the oppressed. Whatever she
did she must have wanted to.’

But I had pressed on. Wanda was under his influence and when she wanted to stop he
showed her the fake press-cuttings and some no doubt obscene faked-up photographs.
And it was just too much. She gave her long desperate scream and jumped into the
canal.

‘Wouldn’t stand up in a court of law,’ said William. He was tough;
but he was also tough on himself.

Now I took Hector’s essay to show him. ‘It’s all there,’ I
said.

First he read Emma’s letter. ‘… poor man’s Kierkegaard
…’ was his comment. ‘The poor man doesn’t need a
Kierkegaard, he needs a job.’

‘Read that essay,’ I ordered. — ‘Essay so-called.’

He put it aside. ‘Later on,’ he said. ‘Come on, Mrs Hawkins,
I’ll take you out to supper.’ (William still gives me the ‘Mrs
Hawkins’ from time to time, as when he says, ‘I’ll have a bit less
of your advice, Mrs Hawkins.’)

There was a great row going on upstairs when we got back. It wasn’t the first
time since we had come to live in the basement that our nights had been disturbed by
the raised voices of Howard and Fred, in the daytime so mild and sweet to each other
and everybody. Mrs Thomas, the cleaning lady, came out of her room. ‘The Boys
are at it again,’ she said. ‘This time it sounds bad. Should we go
up?’

‘No, don’t interfere,’ said William.

‘Doesn’t it disturb your studies?’ said Mrs Thomas, who was really
looking for company in the crisis, much as people had gathered together during the
war, under the bombs.

‘I’ve studied through worse rackets,’ said William, firmly shutting
our door behind us.

Perhaps it was the fact that homosexual practices were still against the law that made
homosexuals in those days much more hysterical than they are now. The screaming
emotions from upstairs were far worse than usual tonight, and it was clear that
objects were being thrown about both in the sitting-room and in the office above our
heads. They were now having a real fight, with thuds and shouts and the crash of
glass.

‘Shouldn’t we try to stop them?’ I said.