‘Has she gone? I’ve been lurking.’
‘She’s gone,’ said Pat. ‘All the same I’d like to have her figure.’
‘Gideon, I wish you’d leave the rockery alone!’ said Gerard.
‘My dear Gerard, the thing about a rockery is that it cannot be left alone, left alone it becomes all messy and earthy and Victorian and eventually vanishes, it’s a perpetual challenge. I only weeded it and removed some stones and put in some plants, it’ll be a picture next year.’
‘Gideon is an artist,’ said Pat.
‘And I see you destroyed all those ash saplings.’
‘My dear, they get everywhere.’
‘I like them everywhere.’
Gideon was of course not an artist, not even an art historian, he was simply someone who could not help making money. His tastes did not always coincide with Gerard’s, but Gerard had to admit that Gideon, beside understanding the market, did really like pictures.
‘How’s Leonard getting on at Cornell?’ Leonard Fairfax was studying art history in America. Patricia and Gideon had long been worried in case Leonard were to fall in love with Tamar. There had been no sign of this however.
‘I saw him in New York. He’s started to play baseball!’
‘Good God!’
‘A pity that Lomas boy fell through for Tamar,’ said Patricia. ‘She doesn’t seem to be interested in sex at all. Or she could be homosexual. I didn’t at all like her passion for Jean Cambus. Thank heaven she won’t be seeing
her
again!’
‘Did you get the Klimt?’ Gerard asked Gideon.
‘Alas, no!’
‘Did Gerard send you?’ said Jean.
Tamar hesitated.
‘Come, deal justly with me!’
Tamar smiled. She said, ‘Well, he encouraged me. I wanted to come anyway – only I was afraid to.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought you mightn’t want to see me.’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’
‘Because you might want to cut off all contact with us.’
‘I like your “us” – so you count as one of the gang!’
‘No, not really – but I thought it might upset you –’
‘Embarrass me, accuse me?’
‘No, no –’ Tamar blushed because something like that had
been in her mind. ‘Jean, don’t be so strict! You’re not cross with me for coming, are you?’
‘No, my dear child, of course not, I’m just curious. So you’re not the bearer of a message from anybody?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘Why did Gerard want you to come?’
‘Nothing special, just to keep contact.’
‘So you’re to report back to Gerard?’
‘He never said that!’ It was true that he had never said it, but of course he would want a report. Tamar realised she should have expected just these questions – and now she was close to telling lies.
Their meeting had been awkward. Tamar, after reflecting carefully about how to proceed, had rung up from a telephone box in Camberwell about four o’clock on a Saturday, saying she was near and could she come. Jean said yes. When Tamar came through the front door there had not been the usual kiss, just a quick handshake. Jean had led the way to the back room which was full of bookshelves with a divan up against the books and a door to the garden. Jean was wearing a dressing gown. The divan was covered with an old faded cotton counterpane on top of which were two handsome dresses. Tamar took off her coat, keeping Gerard’s scarf about her neck. The sky had become darker since her arrival and now it was raining. Outside the little lawn was strewn with leaves, the yellow chrysanthemums, fading to brown, drooping against their windblown sticks. The room was cold and felt derelict and unlived in, the floor echoed, the house felt dusty and damp. Tamar thought, it’s a
senseless
house, and her heart sank.
‘Well, I’ll let you off,’ said Jean. ‘I know you’re a good girl. I’m glad to see you.’ She added, ‘In case you’re wondering, he’s not here.’
There was a slight pause. There were so many things which could not be uttered, it was necessary to reflect. Jean said, ‘God, how dark it’s got, I’ll put the light on.’ She switched on a dim centre light which seemed to make the room darker. They were sitting opposite to each other on upright chairs, as in an
interview between a social worker and a client. Tamar looked down at the nails in the unpainted wooden boards.
‘How’s Oxford?’
Tamar startled, said, ‘I’m not at Oxford, I’m working for a publisher.’ It seemed amazing that Jean was so out of touch, so far away.
‘But why –?’
‘My mother was in debt.’
‘Why didn’t you ask me?’
‘My mother wouldn’t accept money.’
‘I’m not offering it to her, I’m offering it to you! Are you stupid, can’t you
grow up?
She wants to isolate you, she wants to ruin you.’
‘Not really – she loves me.’ Tamar could see what it was like for her mother in whose wounded heart there was indeed hatred, hatred for Tamar, but somehow love too.
‘I’ll go and see her.’
‘No, no, she’s against you anyway, she’s jealous because I’m fond of you.’
‘God, how wicked human beings can be. I’ll think of something.’
Tamar could not help wishing that some quick magic could mend it all. Why couldn’t money solve everything? Money here seemed to glow with rationality, sense, justice, almost virtue. But it was impossible. Tamar could not either leave her mother or save her. It was like something awful in a fairy tale. The money to pay the debts could only come from Tamar’s work. No other money would do. There was no place here for common sense or reasonable compromise. Tamar’s ordeal would not make Violet happy or grateful. Yet anything else was unthinkable.
‘My father will think of something,’ said Jean. ‘You’ll just have to tell a few lies. Tamar, don’t look like that, I’ll smack you!’
‘What pretty dresses,’ said Tamar, pointing to the bed.
‘All right, change the subject, but I won’t tolerate this repulsive sacrifice. I’ve just bought these, I was just going to try them on.’ Jean jumped up, threw off her dressing gown,
revealing herself in a short white petticoat and black suspenders and black stockings. In this attire she might conventionally have resembled an adornment of an old-fashioned nightclub, but to Tamar’s eyes she looked more like a pirate, a soldier, like a Greek soldier, someone striding forth, her stockings become boots, the lace of her petticoat the permitted embellishment of a crack regiment. Her face too, so pale, almost white, with its thin sharply contoured aquiline nose, looked like that of a young commander, perhaps a sultan, portrayed in profile by an Indian miniaturist. Her bare shoulders, her arms, her glimpsed thigh, were white too, delicate transparent skin faintly marbled here and there with little blue veins. Her dark hair, curving with her head, glowed bluish. Tamar had never seen her look so splendid, so young and strong, so, in spite of her pallor, glittering with health. Tamar sighed.
Hands rising into sleeves, Jean swiftly slid into one of the dresses, then adjusted it for display. It was a straight grey feathery-light silk dress with a high oriental collar and a design of gentian-blue leaves. The exquisite dress, caressing Jean’s slimness, also looked to Tamar like some sort of angelic uniform. She exclaimed.
‘Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it. But Tamar, you must learn to dress! I should have taken you in hand long ago. It’s time you gave up those insipid girlie blouses and skirts and those little low-heeled shoes that look like slippers. Get a decent
dress
that says something, with a
shape
and a definite
colour
, not those muddy browns and pale greens. You’re pretty, and if you dress smartly you’ll
look
pretty. Do try this one on and see how nice it looks on you, please do, you can just slip off your jacket.’
Jean had pulled off her silk dress and Tamar was taking off her jacket when Crimond came in. The first thing Jean said to him was, ‘You’re back early.’
Crimond looked startled, even dismayed, at seeing Tamar. Tamar, blushing, resumed her jacket and made a dive for her coat and her bag. Jean put on her dressing gown.
Tamar said, ‘I must go.’
Jean said, ‘Don’t go, stay and have some tea.’
‘No, no, I must be off, I hadn’t realised how late it was.’ She made for the door which Crimond, with a slight inclination of his head, held open for her.
Jean went with her to the front door. ‘Thank you for coming, child, come again. We’ll fix that other matter up somehow.’ Tamar was still putting on her coat. The door closed promptly behind her.
Jean went back to the room where Crimond was sitting on the divan. He said, ‘That girl was wearing the scarf of my college.’
‘I suppose it’s Gerard’s,’ said Jean, looking warily at Crimond. Sometimes she was afraid of him.
‘Or your husband’s. Did
he
send her?’
‘No, of course not! It was her own idea.’
‘I don’t believe that. Or did you arrange it? You didn’t say she was coming.’
‘I didn’t know! She rang up after you’d gone, she said she was nearby and could she call.’
‘You were upset that I’d come back early.’
‘No –’
‘If I hadn’t seen her would you have told me she’d been with you?’
‘Well –’
‘Tell me the truth, Jean.’
‘Yes, I’d have told you. But I knew you’d hate it and imagine it was a plot! It wasn’t a plot! She’s a poor harmless little girl, she’s not part of
their
thing. Why are you so suspicious, why are you so insecure?’
‘Insecure! You ask a dangerous question. You told her to come again, and there was something you’d fix up. What was it?’
‘I want to give her money so that she can stay on at Oxford.’
‘You can send her a cheque. I don’t want you to see her. Your husband sent her as a little ambassador of bourgeois morality. She came as a spy. Did you take her downstairs?’
‘No.’
‘Did you kiss her?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you usually?’
‘Just in a social way –’
‘Why not today?’
‘Because we both felt awkward –’
‘You were embarrassed, you blushed in front of that inquisitive little person, you felt yourself in the wrong before her, that’s why they sent her. She’s in love with you, isn’t she?’
‘She had a sort ot crush on me when she was seventeen –’
‘I come in and find you undressed and her undressing.’
‘Don’t be crazy! I wanted her to try on one of my dresses!’
‘You would let her contaminate your dress with her baby milky body! Can’t you understand that I find all this disgusting, repulsive?’
‘Oh stop it,
stop
it!’
‘I won’t have spectators. You sent Lily Boyne here to tell me about the dance. You talked to her about me. You invited that girl, you probably talked to her too.’
‘I
told you
I didn’t send Lily! And
of course
I didn’t talk about you to Tamar! Crimond, we must believe each other. Come back to reality! I believe every word you say. I don’t start imagining things! If I couldn’t believe you I’d go mad – if we can’t believe each other we’ll both go mad.’
‘If you lie to me I’ll kill you.’
‘I won’t see Tamar again. I’ll tell my father to send her a cheque. Just calm down! I can’t
bear
it when we lose contact with each other like this, it’s like dying if I lose that contact for a second. I live you, I breathe you –’
Crimond looked down at the floor, then looked up. His cold angry face that gleamed like metal, his deadly pain-giving face, was gone. His thin lips were parted, his mouth drooped a little, he had a tired almost wistful air. He looked at her, then looked away and breathed deeply. Jean knew it was over. She had been standing before him. Now she came and sat beside him on the divan and he put an arm round her shoulder, a quiet tired comforting arm.
‘I live and breathe you,’ he said. ‘I believe what you say. It was unpleasant seeing that girl here. I don’t like little girls.’
‘I’m glad you’ve come back for supper. You decided to skip the meeting?’
‘It was cancelled. I bought some necessary books. I didn’t waste time.’
‘Will you marry me?’ Jean sometimes asked this question. She wanted the marriage bond, Crimond did not.
‘Why are
you
so insecure? You don’t need a guarantee.’
‘I know. But I’d
like
us to be married.’
‘I can’t see why. If you want a divorce go ahead.’
‘You said you didn’t want me to divorce.’
‘I don’t want you to see that man.’
‘I needn’t. My father’s lawyer in London would do it all.’
‘Do what you like.’
‘
Then
would you marry me?’
‘Jeanie, don’t
bother
me about this!’
‘I want us to live in France.’
‘My work is here.’
‘You have all those people you go to see in Paris. Couldn’t we have a flat in Paris?’
‘No. We couldn’t afford it.’
‘Perhaps when your book’s finished we could travel together, all round Europe, you could give lectures, you’ll be famous then – Oh I do want us to go away together, to be away together.’
‘One day we’ll go away together – perhaps into death.’
‘And I wish you’d spend my money. I wish you’d let me spend our money.’
‘Don’t let’s have that argument again. You’ve bought two pretty dresses. Falcon, falcon, don’t fret, little falcon. You must work, you must study, you are wasting your mind. You must find something to do.’
‘I want to help you.’
‘You must find something of your own to do, sokolnitza. Come now, let’s go downstairs.’
When Jean had come to Crimond on the morning after the dance she had come without any clear idea except that she
must be in his presence, and if possible stay there forever. A little later she proposed that she should help him in his work, co-operate with him as she had done before. Crimond replied that he needed no help, she would not understand, he would simply waste time trying to explain to her what he wanted her to do. Crimond did not type and wrote his thoughts down in longhand with a fountain pen. (He could not conceive of any other method of serious thinking.) Jean suggested that she might helpfully learn to type, or even to use a word processor. Crimond said that he used an impersonal efficient typing agency, could not have stood the sound of a typewriter in the house, and found the idea of a word processor revolting. He lectured her on how she must find some employment, chided her for not using her talents. The idea was mooted, by Jean who thought it would please Crimond, that she might do some social work; she made a few investigations and decided she would not be suited to social work, and Crimond agreed it would be a waste of her time. He was more anxious that she should use her academic skills, do a degree, take a course, study a language. Crimond himself was a good linguist and could read (though he could not speak) French, German, Italian, Spanish and Russian. He also retained his Latin and Greek and often opened books of classical poetry. Jean, wishing to be useful to him, wondered if she should learn Chinese, but it was agreed that this would be unlikely to yield dividends in the near future. It was debated whether she should learn Greek, but Crimond turned out to be hostile to this idea. Jean’s only effective foreign language was French. She bought a German grammar but could not interest Crimond in her progress. Her Oxford degree in history was now remote and she felt no inclination to try to make herself into a historian or a school teacher. She would have liked to do a degree in English, but did not like to suggest this as it might seem frivolous. She suggested a short course in computer science, but Crimond did not like computers. He was also very firmly against her trying to learn any philosophy. Another difficulty was that he did not really want her to be away from the house.