‘Yes, as a sort of ambassador,’ said Stuart, ‘only no one knows I’ve come, no one asked me to come, I just thought — ’
‘You just thought you’d come,’ said Elspeth.
‘Yes. It’s about the letters.’
‘What letters?’ said Ursula.
‘Mrs Wilsden has been writing letters to Edward — ’
‘Could you address me?’ said Mrs Wilsden.
‘I’m sorry. I — naturally I’m worried about Edward.’
‘Poor Edward!’ said Elspeth.
‘I wanted to tell you — Mrs Wilsden — that my brother — ’
‘He isn’t your brother,’ said Elspeth Macran.
‘That my brother is suffering very much. He is really in awful and continuous pain, very unhappy, very guilty — ’
‘We’re delighted to hear it!’ said Elspeth.
‘Of course I’m not excusing what happened — ’
‘It didn’t happen, he did it,’ said Mrs Wilsden.
‘I just wanted to say two things to you,’ said Stuart.
‘Make it brief, Stuart,’ said Ursula, ‘use your head.’
‘One is that if you want to know that he is deeply sorry and suffering extremely, he is. The other thing is that — I wanted to ask you — please — not to write to him — those letters — ’
‘Did he show you the letters?’ said Mrs Wilsden.
‘Well, yes, he showed me some — ’
‘So he’s showing them about to make people
pity
him!’ said Elspeth.
‘What did you say in the letters, Jenny?’ said Ursula.
‘He only showed them to me,’ said Stuart, ‘and he didn’t want pity, he feels as wretched about it as you could wish. I only felt that-enough had been said-and I wondered if you could — if you write to him — say something milder — like that you knew how sorry he was. He’s very much at the edge.’
‘You mean he might kill himself?’ said Mrs Wilsden. ‘Let him do it then. Why should I stop him?’
‘He’s not likely to kill himself, but he’s almost mad with grief.’
‘Why should I care about his grief? I have my own — ’
‘He’s young — ’
‘So was my son.’
‘I know,’ said Stuart, ‘that it must be very hard for you to stop hating him, but I feel that you should try — perhaps — because — ’
‘Really, this is the end!’ said Elspeth. ‘Don’t you agree, Ursula? This puppy has come here to preach to Jennifer!’
‘Go on,’ said Mrs Wilsden.
‘It does you no good,’ said Stuart, ‘to write him those bitter accusing letters — I know you will never get over what happened — ’
‘Stuart — ’ said Ursula.
‘But if you could try to — to make some gesture to Edward — to show that you know he feels so guilty and ashamed — some sort of forgiving gesture — anything, a few lines, a little note to say — if you could do that — you would help him to make better sense of it all, to see it all properly — and perhaps you would help yourself to be less sort of extreme — you’d feel new things. Sorry, I’m not expressing this very well — ’
‘You want me to make him stop feeling guilty, to feel it doesn’t matter, that it was just an unimportant mistake?’
‘No, I don’t mean that, he couldn’t possibly feel that. It’s just that despairing self-destructive guilt or spiteful hatred are sort of — black useless bad conditions — which destroy the life which should — come back in a new better way — to people who have committed terrible crimes or been terribly injured.’
‘The blackness is his,’ said Mrs Wilsden. ‘Let him drown in it. How can you come here, here to
me,
and whine because your brother’s unhappy? Do you want me to help him to dream it didn’t happen?’
‘I don’t mind his being unhappy,’ said Stuart, ‘I mean I do, but that’s not the point. He’ll feel guilty all his life, anyway he’ll feel responsible, he’ll remember forever, every day. I don’t want him to dream anything, he’s in a dream now, a dream of guilt and fear and hate, which your letters help to keep going, I want him to wake up and look at it all in a real way, and if you were to be the tiniest bit kind to him it
would
wake him up, it would be like an electric shock, he’d see the world again, he’d be able to live it and remake himself. As it is he’s living in a fantasy.’
‘You detestable complacent prig,’ said Elspeth. ‘We’ve heard about you, pretending to give up sex and going round being holy. Don’t you realise what a charlatan you are? What you really enjoy is cruelty and power — cruelty like what you’re doing to our friend. Get out of here.’
Stuart did not move. He was concentrating on Mrs Wilsden. ‘Please forgive me for coming and talking like this — ’
‘You overestimate my power to give electric shocks to murderers,’ said Mrs Wilsden. ‘He sold drugs.’
‘He never sold drugs!’ said Stuart. But he was not sure.
‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ said Mrs Wilsden. ‘I find you a horrible and hateful person. You can only do hurt and harm and I am sorry for the people you will have power over in your life. You came here to bully a woman. Well, you have failed. You want me to “forgive” that boy, that man. I cannot will to forgive.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ said Stuart.
‘He has done me terrible damage, destroyed my life and my joy, and done so deliberately. I am surprised that you dare to come here and torture me by mentioning his name. You are more than impertinent, you are sadistic and cruel, as Elspeth said. Now please leave my house.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Stuart. ‘I meant well.’ He got up, blundering against the lamp.
Sarah leapt up and turned on the centre light in the room. It seemed now to be almost dark outside. Stuart saw the three women sitting in a row like magistrates, Elspeth Macran, thick glasses balanced on her long nose like a huge-eyed bird, Ursula neat, almost in uniform, with her bright inquisitive eyes, and Mrs Wilsden looking younger than the other two with a big large-browed haggard face and a lot of tangled fairish-brown hair.
Sarah opened the door and Stuart went out into the hall and stood confused. Sarah threw the front door wide open, revealing an unexpectedly bright evening outside. Stuart stumbled down three steps and set off along the pavement. After a few moments he was aware of a person, like a little ragged boy, running by his side. It was Sarah, in jeans and tee shirt, her hair clipped short, her small sallow gipsy face glaring up. She seized the sleeves of his jacket and held on. He stopped.
‘How
could
you come and torment that poor woman?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Stuart. ‘I wanted to stop her writing those letters. They don’t do her or Edward any good.’
‘God, you’re stupid. Look, tell Edward to stop messing about with Brownie Wilsden. He’s been seeing her. What the hell does he think he’s up to? I haven’t told Mrs Wilsden. If she knew
that
she’d
die
of rage. How can you be so insensitive, how can he be so bloody? He can only harm Brownie, she’s terribly unhappy, her mother’s turned against her, he’lljust mess her up still more, he’ll drive her out of her mind. And tell him from me — ’
‘Yes.’ Stuart looked earnestly down.
‘Oh never mind. I’m glad he’s feeling guilty about Mark. But what about me? Why doesn’t he feel guilty about me? I can think about that night too. He’s gone off, I wrote him and he didn’t answer. He’s a bloody criminal. Tell him I hate him forever. Tell him to take himself away and get himself seen to. No one has ever been really kind to me ever, my childhood was a desert and a desolation, I don’t fit in anywhere, I’ve fallen out of everything, I don’t really exist, no one cares. Everybody’s predatory, out for themselves. I used to want to meet you because you sounded different, you sounded special. I made up to Edward because of you. But you’re awful, you’re so crude and pleased with yourself, you’ll only do harm in the world, and I’ll tell you one thing, women will always detest you, they’ll smell you out and hate you. Tell Edward to stop meddling — oh I know you think I’m jealous — ’
‘I don’t — ’ said Stuart.
‘But it’ll kill Mrs Wilsden if she knows he’s even met Brownie. Can’t he do one decent thing? What’s your religion?’
‘I haven’t exactly got one,’ said Stuart.
‘Either you’re religious or you’re not. You believe in nothing. That means you believe in yourself. Have you got any scars on your body?’
‘No — ’
‘I had a dream about you. But that was before, when I thought you were a good man or something. What a con! Goodbye forever. Tell Edward — oh never mind — fuck it all.’
Sarah let go of his cuff, which she had been holding onto as if suspended from it, and scudded away. Her small feet, emerging from the tight jeans, were dusty and bare. She reached the house and vanished inside. Stuart heard the door bang. He walked on.
A few minutes later a car began to slow down beside him and stopped a little further on. Ursula leaned over and opened the passenger door.
He got in.
‘Shall I take you home to Harry’s?’
‘No, I’m not living there now.’
‘Where then?’
‘Look, there’s no need for you to drive me — ’
‘Where?’
He gave her the address and they drove on.
‘How’s Edward?’
‘In a poor way.’
‘I gather from Elspeth that he turned up at her cottage, he was staying at the Baltram residence. Thomas sent him of course. I can imagine how much good that did! They say the old man there is dying from lack of medical attention.’
Stuart said nothing. He did not want to have to tell Ursula about his own visit to Seegard about which he felt confused, even almost ashamed.
‘I’ll go and see Edward and get him back on pills. I bet he’s lost them or chucked them by now. I suppose
he
’s at Harry’s?’
‘No,’ said Stuart, ‘he’s living in his old digs, in his old room, where it all happened.’
‘That’
s Thomas’s idea too? It has his trade mark.’
‘I think so. Harry just told me when I called in.’
‘Have you quarrelled with Harry?’
‘No.’
‘Everyone’s behaving so oddly these days. I’m the only sane person around. I’ve been away at a conference in California. I thought they were all crazy
there.
But if I take my eye off you lot — How are you? Have you heard from Giles? Willy told him to write to you.’
‘Yes, he wrote me a marvellous letter.’
‘Which you paid no attention to. But how
are
you?’
‘All right — ’
‘Let me give you some advice, young Stuart. Don’t wait, don’t sit around thinking about doing good and wondering what’s the best way for you to do it, go and do some for a while. Do some voluntary work with miserable afflicted people. I could suggest some things. I haven’t a moment now, will you telephone me?’
‘Yes. Thanks Ursula. I’m afraid I messed things up today.’
‘You certainly believe in shock tactics.’
‘I’m sorry now — ’
‘Oh don’t be, it’s original, who knows, everyone has been pussyfooting around, the change might do her good. How can one know what to do with grief like that? The human mind is a bottomless mystery. Only people like Thomas imagine they understand it, and my God they’re a menace. It’s just luck that Thomas hasn’t killed anybody yet. He’s simply taken over Edward’s fantasy! That’s called therapy. It’s the same with that old crook Blinnet. Thomas is fascinated by other people’s dream life, he’s lost all sense of reality. All the same I can see he’s losing his grip, he’s losing his confidence, and that’s vital. They can only function if they’re supremely confident, like God. Could you give me Edward’s address?’
After Ursula dropped him at his lodging Stuart stood a while on the pavement wondering if he should walk to a café where he sometimes had supper. A walk might do him good. He felt upset and tired and hungry. He decided it would be better to stay in his own room and cook something on the gas ring. He could sit quiet there. He was glad to have seen Ursula, though he felt no impulse to ‘have a good talk’ with her, as she had hinted that he might. He began to mount the stairs, pleased with the prospect of being alone. However his troubles were not yet over for that day.
The door of his room was open. He went in, and in the subdued evening light saw someone there, standing in the middle of the room, a man, no, a boy. It was Meredith.
‘Look, I’ve waited
ages
for you.’
‘Sorry, I’ve been away — ’
‘Of course you have, I saw that! I went to your dad’s place. He wasn’t pleased to see me. He gave me your address and slammed the door.’
‘I’m glad you’ve come. I could give you some supper, but — What is it?’
‘What is what?’
‘Why have you come? Just to see me? There’s nothing wrong I hope.’
‘Of course I haven’t come just to see you. That’s not how we work things, you and me. We don’t just drop in, we make appointments. We don’t meet in each other’s houses, we meet in mysterious public places, improving places, like the British Museum or the National Gallery.’