Dark Places (23 page)

Whereas—Lilian had planted those wide feet of hers apart on the rug as solidly as if she had taken root there. There was the chair she had overturned, there were the pieces of brain that she had brought down with her; and along the corridor in Norah's room, she was not watching her hand, wondering if it was part of her, she was not kicking her foot at a table-leg to check that she existed—no! My daughter could be struck hard enough to fall over, she could be shouted at loudly enough to burst her eardrums, she could be shaken until her teeth cracked in her head, but my daughter would never be hollow. Her fullness mocked me, her eyes full of herself mocked me, her echo.

Twenty-Two

I HAD NEVER been a gregarious man, and it was not often that I invited anyone, even Ogilvie, to visit me at home. But these days my house seemed full of beings foreign to me. Norah and her friends had always made distracting noises from downstairs when I was trying to concentrate, up in my study, on the mating habits of the Great Crested Grebe. And now there were other noises as well: Lilian thundered up and down the stairs, called out querulously to Norah, shouted at John; John squealed and wailed, and Norah had to raise her voice to make peace between them: generally a man's home was hardly his own any more. A visit from Ogilvie, then, seemed the right kind of antidote to all this, a reminder that the house was, after all, mine.

On the day of his visit I was full of anticipation like an itch. I found myself watching at the window listening for the front-door bell, wiping my damp palms down the side of my trousers. But by the time he had been in the house for ten minutes, he had made me laugh three times, told me five things I had not previously known, and listed twenty-three reasons for not believing in God: and I was relishing his company like a fresh breeze on a stagnant day.

Outside, down below on the lawn, I could hear Norah feebly piping, ‘Alma! Alma! Hot water, Alma, where is the hot water?' and how it filled me within my clothes to be up here discussing large ideas man-to-man with Ogilvie, while the pointless world of women unreeled its paltry thread below us!

Ogilvie peered and poked around my study, as he had on the other occasions he had been here—his frank curiosity about things was one of his continuing charms for me—ran his finger along the colour-coded files, listened with interest as I explained my system of classification, admired at some length my opening sentence, and agreed with me that a man had to have all his data in order before he started to write. In return, he advised me to get in on the ground floor with calculating-machines, and gave me a couple of tips on up-and-coming stocks; over the years, Ogilvie's tips had been a mixed bunch, but I wrote down the names and thanked him.

Down below, Norah's voice could be heard again, with a different refrain now, but probably just as ineffectual. She nagged on and on, ‘Lilian, come and change your frock for dinner! Lilian! Lilian!' and I was reminded that the day was waning. ‘Ogilvie, you will join us for dinner, of course,' I said, adding, ‘I will not take no for an answer, Ogilvie!' in what I intended as a copy of the bluff forthright manner I had heard friends use to each other, but Ogilvie glanced at me in some surprise, so I wondered if it had sounded simply peremptory. ‘I should be delighted,' he said, without further ado—and how I warmed to him all over again for not going into all the silly palaver about
imposing
and
intruding
that many another would have felt necessary!

It was Norah who mentioned Mrs Ogilvie, and suggested in her most tiresomely genteel voice that we should telephone to
enkwayer
whether Mrs Ogilvie might care to join us.

Frankly, I had forgotten Marjorie Ogilvie, but there was no need to worry. ‘Thank you, Mrs Singer, but no: Marjorie does not generally expect me for dinner on a Tuesday, and is often out of the house herself then.' I could see that Norah was curious at this arrangement, which sounded a little slapdash to her, and to forestall some endlessly tedious conversation about these domestic details, I quickly ushered Ogilvie into the dining-room.

As we sat down to dinner, I found myself proud of being the family man, surrounded by children, wife and servants producing a meal that was orderly in surroundings that were well-regulated, in perfect taste, and conducive to rational thought. John was tucked quietly away behind the napkin at his neck, Norah ladled soup deftly, and Lilian sat up straight, looking across brightly at Ogilvie.

‘Good evening, Lilian,' I exclaimed, and was pleased that she looked into my face and said, ‘Good evening, Father,' in such a frank and forthright way. Lilian was now suffering what Norah quaintly called
puppy fat
, her new teeth were still much too large for her face, and she was as awkward as a seal flapping on a rock; but she was undeniably bright, and had a vocabulary well beyond her years. I surprised myself by feeling a glow of pride when Ogilvie spoke to her: he was that kind of man, to take the trouble even with a lard-faced child—and she spoke up smartly in response.

‘And what projects are keeping you occupied at present, Lilian?' he asked, and Lilian faced him across the table, fixing his eyes with hers as she had been taught, and projecting her words across at him like tennis balls. ‘Oh, I am learning the Encyclopedia by heart, Mr Ogilvie,' she said. ‘Father gave me the whole set for my birthday.' Ogilvie did not smile patronisingly, as many another would have done. ‘You could not do better,' he said approvingly. ‘And what are you up to now?' Lilian put down her spoon, wiped her mouth on her napkin, and announced so the room rang: ‘Of living birds,' she began, ‘that producing the largest egg is the North African ostrich
(Struthio camelus camelus).
The average egg weighs just under four pounds, measures seven inches in length, and requires forty minutes for boiling. The shell is one-sixteenth of an inch thick and can support the weight of an eighteen-stone man.'

When she had finished, Ogilvie applauded, and glanced down the table at me with a warm smile. ‘A chip off the old block, Singer,' he said, and coming from him the words were a delight.

‘Do tell us, Mr Ogilvie, about your work,' said Norah. I had heard this formula from her so often I could not for the moment remember whether she had ever used it before on Ogilvie. I could only hope not, and he gave no sign of thinking anything strange in the question. He was a man who understood about singing for one's supper, and did not need further invitation to keep us entertained on the subject of the various pamphlets he was writing. ‘I must hire my pen to whomever can pay, Mrs Singer, and am concocting a very weird and wonderful little piece for the flat-earthers at the moment, and another for the nudists, who make up for having no clothes by having endless layers of solemn ideas.'

I could see Lilian was interested in this, and asked in her penetrating precocious voice, ‘And do they wear clothes when they come to see you, and do they make you take your clothes off, too, Mr Ogilvie?' From the end of the table, Norah was making hushing gestures at her, but I was not ashamed. I was a family man, but I was not some tame family man who swaddled his womenfolk around with pretty lies.

‘No,' Ogilvie said, taking her seriously, ‘we all retain our clothes. And Mrs Singer, I believe you are involved with charity work these days?' Ogilvie turned his full face and attention to Norah as he spoke, as if she was really worth listening to. What a man of tact he was! Norah shot me a glance, and said, ‘Oh yes, Mr Ogilvie, I think my husband does not altogether approve of charity, but I do what I can to help others.'

She smiled in that winsome way she had always known how to turn on, to take the sting or the stupidity out of what she was saying, and I saw Ogilvie give her in return his charming face-creasing smile. I could not let her get away with this, and said in a way that was intended to be humorous, ‘As you know, Norah, it is not that I disapprove of charity, but that I believe it is the lint that clogs the machine of progress.' I glanced at Ogilvie: yes, he appreciated this little
bon mot
, but Norah stared coldly, and came at me with her fuzzy-headed do-gooder's arguments. ‘But Albion, why should we not help those who are scraping dripping on a crust of bread, when we can afford our rack of lamb on Wedgwood?'

Oh, that wife of mine was becoming a thorn in my side! I was conscious of Ogilvie watching with some interest as this little marital difference unfolded itself before him, and savoured many replies to Norah's question. Of replies there was no shortage: I could, for example, have the cheap satisfaction of inviting my well-cushioned wife, already halfway through her second serving of rack of lamb on Wedgwood, to go down to the kitchen and find some fat to scrape on a crust, and take her plate of food to some indigent on the street.

But such a cheap triumph was not the kind of triumph I wished to have over my thorn of a wife in front of Ogilvie: the cleverer course was to pincer her in logic. ‘But Norah,' I said in my smoothest way, and laughed a little, the more to disarm her, ‘you must think the thing through, my dear. It is a matter of simple common sense. If there were no eaters of rack of lamb, then there would be no one to provide employment. And without work, Norah, you will admit, there is not even bread and dripping to be bought. No, a moment's thought will show you that the eaters of bread and dripping need the eaters of roast lamb to continue doing so.'

I was enjoying my voice, so fluidly wrapping itself around each word, given resonance by this echoing dining-room. I glanced at Ogilvie: he was nodding vigorously as he chewed, and watching Norah to see how she would return the ball.

But Norah, like all women, would not take a man on in a fair fight. She stared at her Wedgwood, empty now, and would not say a word, but the set of her mouth as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear said that although she knew better, she would not deign to reply.

I could not let her get away with that: there was Lilian, watching me with a smear of gravy beside her nose, and there was Ogilvie, who was a good fellow, but it was easy to imagine him telling the others at the Club about
poor old Singer
,
his wife wears the pants
,
you know.

Alma came in then, her feet and breathing loud in the silence, and I saw my chance. ‘Where does our dripping go, Alma?' I asked, and after wearisome repetition, and explanation, she finally replied, ‘Why, into the dripping-tin, Mr Singer.' I was determined that Norah should see that she did not have a monopoly on kindness towards inferiors, and displayed no impatience as I said, ‘Yes, Alma, very good, but where does it go after that?' There were laborious exchanges then, about dripping for the breakfast eggs, and dripping for the Sunday joint, and Alma had to agree that the Sunday joint itself created more dripping, so the net effect was a gain of dripping, not a loss. Finally Alma's mind took a visible leap, and she cried, ‘Oh well, Mr Singer, when the folk come to the kitchen door, you know, to do the kindling and that, and the other poor wretches on their beam ends, well, Cook will often give them a bit of bread with a scrape of dripping on it.'

She was not sure if her leap of imagination had led her into dangerous waters, and I made a mental note to have a short sharp word with Cook about charity at the back door, but for the moment her leap suited me nicely. ‘Norah!' I cried, and it was intended to be jovial, but I saw her jump in fright. ‘Norah, there you are, were it not for us eating our roast lamb, the poor wretches at the back door would leave empty-handed.'

I let a silence fall then for my statement to sink in, and watched the way Norah flushed in a mottled away around the jowls. She was too trained in social hypocrisy to go on arguing in front of a guest, but I could see that her breathing had become shallow, and she placed her knife and fork alongside each other with mathematical precision, staring at her hands as they did so as if she was afraid of what they might do. She was obstinacy itself, Norah, as hard as a lump of coal under all the soft soap.

I was full of good feeling now, warmed from within by the completeness with which my argument had filled every chink in Norah's case. I was pleased to be able to demonstrate to Ogilvie that, although I might appear to be ensconced in the most perfectly conventional suburban comfort, surrounded by all the gimcracks of bourgeois splendour—electro-plated silver cake-stands, mahogany chiffoniers, cutlets with paper frills—I was not afraid to take a firm hand. From the other end of the table, Ogilvie met my eye, and it seemed to me that his smile congratulated me in the warmest terms on my handling of this little family mutiny.

Twenty-Three

LIKE A BUSINESS, a household benefits from vigilance. Lilian's surprises had been kept to a minimum since the day of
Lo
,
the Dawn is Breaking
: while she was off at school there was plenty of time to check her room for rubbish. I was afraid that at school she might read on the sly the romances of her little friends, and had had several discussions with Miss Foote in which I made my views: perfectly clear.

John had never been capable of surprising. He was off at Miss Birtwhistle's now, and Miss Birtwhistle assured us that he was
a lovely dear boy, no trouble at all
,
never a peep out of the dear little fellow.
Reading between the lines it was obvious that John was as gormless at school as he was at home.

And Norah? Norah may conceivably have surprised me in the past: a man could never be one hundred percent sure, especially when one of his children seemed to be almost a different species from himself. A man had heard too many stories: that poor boob Sutherland at the Club, for one, had apparently arrived home a few minutes too early one day, and been most unpleasantly astonished. So vigilance, and the unexpected visit, remained a habit with me.

The afternoon still blazed as I made my way home. It had been a day to make a man feel truly a man; I strode up the slope from the ferry, at one with Albion Gidley Singer. His cane pirouetted before him vigorously and his boots planted themselves strongly on the earth; sunlight was something you could take a handful of, leaves applauded in the tops of trees, birds pealed and cried: it was an afternoon (after a morning on which the Rawlings contract had been sewn up, and young Philips put in his place) when a man felt that the world was eating out of his hand.