She disappears from view along the drive. A minute or two later, however, I see her entering the clearing where the gardener is working. He grounds his scythe, straightens up and turns towards the right. She approaches him, bearing the tray. She appears to hesitate for a moment, then lays it down carefully on the ground between them. It is too far for me to hear what is said. They stand together there, she with hands clasped before her and head up high, he, too, unusually braced-looking, almost soldierly with his hands down at his sides.
Then she turns away, disappears again, apparently making her way back to the house. Quickly I crawl over to slightly better cover. I hear her steps passing along the drive but I do not look up. When I look towards the hedge again the gardener is not visible. Presumably he is sitting down somewhere having his tea. I extricate myself with care from the bushes, going on hands and knees until I feel quite safe from detection, then quickly make my way to the far corner of the grounds where I left my binoculars. I do not, however, return to my former position but very cautiously advance to the border of the drive, cross it on tip-toe and, kneeling behind one of the rhododendrons, I look through the leaves to get my bearings. I can see nothing of the gardener from here. I edge along towards the hedge, keeping well within the cover of the bushes bordering the drive. Heat and exertion combine to affect my breathing. I glance continually through the rhododendron leaves. A certain hysterical anxiety is beginning to possess me when at last I see him, at a distance of about seventy yards, sitting with his back against the first of the birches. His head is lowered in what I at first take to be sleep, but then I see that there is something in his hands. I experience as always, some difficulty in focusing, but at last he is clear in every detail, the shiny curls low on his forehead, the long lashes, the full mouth hanging very slightly open, thin brown cherishing fingers. But I cannot make out what thing he is holding. It lies in the palm of his left hand, a curved piece of it projecting beyond the fingers rather like a single claw. His right hand holds a small knife with which he is regularly scraping the object as though scraping a carrot. My own hands begin to tremble with the weight of the binoculars. It is something he is cutting.
Flies have discovered my person and found it beguiling. Just when I think I can bear it no longer, the caressing motion of the right hand, the hand with the knife, stops, and the hand falls away. The left hand is moved forward and upward, the object between thumb and middle finger held up before the gardener’s face, turned now this way, now that. It is a little wooden horse.
Fosh . . .
THIS TIME I will give it to him. When it is finished a course, it is not finished yet. Won’t be long, mind. I got the head right, no need to touch that again. Horses’ heads isn’t easy, all bone, can’t mess about with bone, you got to get it right. I ought to know what horses look like, with my dad in the carting business. When it is finished I will give it to him. I think I will. I said the same about other things I done but in the end I never did it. I never gave them to nobody. I think I will give him the horse though. I never gave him nothing before. Trouble is, I dunno how he would take it. That is what is holding me back. He might laugh and what would I do then? Giving people things might not be what he is used to. You never know with Mortimer. He is different to other people. You never know what he’ll do. The other thing is that I don’t know how to do it, I mean actually hand it over. I would have to say something. Please accept this small gift which I done myself. I can’t see myself saying that, not with him looking at me all the time. He don’t even know I can carve things, I never told him. Anyway it is not finished yet, wait till it is finished.
Maybe if it come as a surprise like, it would be easier. Say me and Mortimer have left this place, say we are on the road. He’s packed up the job on the stall and I have packed up here and we are on the road. Travelling light, plenty lolly for fags, mugs a tea. One of them dual carriageways, bright green grass down the middle, blue asphalt with fresh white lines and sloping, a long slope up behind us. You can look back at the lines of traffic. The cars come along fast, pass us with just a hiss like, but if you look behind up the slope you can see the lines of them in the sunshine, in the distance they seem to be moving very slow. And they are not separate but the sunshine joins them all together, like melting, the light on the windows and chassis. Right at the top of the slope they are not moving at all, just all melted together and shining. Funny how clear I can see them cars. Mortimer is dressed in navy-blue slacks and a camel-hair jacket, double-breasted, and I am in my orange shirt and my safari slacks, pale-blue linen. We have just got down from the cab of a lorry at a big green roundabout where the roads all go different ways. We can go down any of them, any one we like. Across the road there is this little café and there is music coming from inside, a man’s voice singing. Mortimer and me smile at each other like, standing there all by ourselves at the roundabout and I put my hand in my pocket and take out the horse and give it to him, this is for you Mortimer, no wait a minute I don’t say nothing and Mortimer don’t say nothing for a bit, just goes on smiling, no that’s not right, he stops smiling because he is so impressed. Did you really carve this yourself, Josiah? I had no idea. . . .
Must be about eleven, better get back to work. Any rate I can cut now with this scythe. When I started off it would not of gone through butter. I couldn’t get on at all, I had to go and ask for something to sharpen it with. I went through the trees and I come out at the lawn facing the terrace. Mrs Wilcox was sitting up on the terrace in a deck chair. She was wearing dark glasses and looking at a magazine. She didn’t see me, well I don’t think she did, till I was at the top of the steps and starting to walk towards her. Then she looked up. Her skirt was up over her knees and her legs was parted a bit but she didn’t make no move to cover them up. She just watched me coming, with the sun shining on her dark glasses. It didn’t matter about me, a course. Well, she said, what is it? She hasn’t got bad legs for a woman her age. I need a whetstone or something, I said. Something to sharpen the scythe with. A whetstone? she said. I know nothing about whetstones. Can’t you manage without one? She said this as if she thought I was making a fuss about nothing. And she moved her knees together. Well, you see, I said, the scythe is blunt. It is not cutting. She had on this sort of sun dress, square cut and low at the neck with these very narrow straps over the shoulders. Her arms and shoulders was not fat exactly—she is not a fat woman Mrs Wilcox—but sort of puffy, not firm, and they was a bit raw-looking with the sun. There will probably be something of the sort in the shed behind, she said. You can go and look there if you like. Oh, no, wait a minute, she said. It is kept locked. The keys are hanging up in the kitchen. Go and ask Marion. Well, that would of suited me down to the ground but before I could move she said, Oh dear I forgot, Marion is out shopping, I suppose I shall have to go myself.
She started trying to get up but the funny thing was that she couldn’t. Well, she could of got up easy enough if there hadn’t of been anyone watching. The deck chair was let down low so her bottom was only an inch or two from the ground and her legs was much higher. She tried for a bit but there was nothing to push herself against like so she had to turn sideways, get her legs over the wooden frame of the chair and that nearly brought the chair over, she had to spread her legs like, for balance, and that gave me a view of her red knickers. Red knickers, I would not of associated Mrs Wilcox with red knickers. She went on working at it, it was like watching a beetle that can’t get turned right side up. I come a bit closer and got hold of her arm. I closed my hand round her arm high up. I felt my fingers sink in like, she was spongy up there near the armpit. Her skin was hot from the sun. I kept on pulling till she was on her feet. It’s quite all right, she said, very snappish like, and she pulled her arm away almost before she was standing. She did not like being hauled up like a sack, a course. All the same, it was the day after that she started coming with tea in the morning. I mean, she could always make Marion do that, if she didn’t want to herself. I got the scythe sh
arpened anyway.
Wonder what they are doing now on the stall. Albert will be going on about that girl he got in the family way. With his cross-eyes. Every night for a bloody month I shagged her, wouldn’t you of done? Good job for Albert it was dark, she probably never did get a good look at him. And old Mrs Morris, counting the shots. Look at him working the rock, that’s what I call grafting. Her dozy old head wobbling all the time. Can’t say I am sorry to be off that stall. Except for Mortimer, a course. I must say I miss working alongside Mortimer and getting the benefit of his conversation. Now it’s the height of the season like, he’s working there till nine or ten every night, I don’t get so much chance to see him. Wonder who they got on the stall instead of me. Mortimer never said. They are certain to have somebody by now. I don’t suppose him and Mortimer will have much in common. He told me himself that he don’t have time for nobody on the stall but me. You are not a typical stall attendant, Josiah, he said to me. His own words. This new chap will be just a typical stall attendant.
He must of seen something in me that first time. One month and three days ago. Else why should he of bothered to save me from getting bashed up? He might easy of been bashed up himself. It was a Tuesday night, the night after I got here. (I was in Harrogate all winter, working in the Grand, in the kitchens.) I didn’t know nobody. I went into this pub for a shandy. I don’t know the name of it, not even yet. I never went back there. Shandy, I said to the girl behind the bar. Give me a pint of shandy please. I always drink a shandy when I am thirsty. Soon as I said it I felt this bloke staring at me, this bloke standing at the bar, he started staring soon as I said shandy. But I didn’t look. I mean, there are blokes who will stare at you in pubs. I don’t remember anyone else at the bar but this one bloke, it being a weeknight, and still early, there might of been a few people sitting down, but I didn’t have no time to notice, because this bloke got hold of my arm, tight hold and hurting. When I looked round, there’s this big red face with little pig eyes, getting up close to me. What’s wrong wid you, he says, an Irish bastard, drunk he was, and I knew he was going to hit me any minute. That’s not a Christian drink, he says. What kind of a drink is that? It is a Jew drink, he says. You must be a Jew, he says. I couldn’t feel my arm at all, it was numb. He was squeezing, then letting go a bit, then squeezing again and his bloodshot eyes and all, I just lost my presence of mind like, if he hadn’t of been holding me I think I would of fallen, my legs was like jelly. I could feel that big fist of his crunching on my nose. It was not just that he was Irish, and everyone knows it’s a word and a blow with them, but this bloke was off his head. He wasn’t even looking at me. Now then, the girl behind the bar said, Give over, she said. He is a bleeding Jew, the bloke said. You watch your language, she said. I couldn’t think of nothing to say, just looked into his little blue eyes and they wasn’t seeing me, they was looking far away, and his hand kept on squeezing and loosening as if he was milking a cow. Please, I said. Please, mister. My voice sounded like somebody else’s.
Then Mortimer was there, right beside me, I didn’t know then who it was, a course, just this tall pale fellow, very well dressed, navy-blue suit, maroon tie. What are you doing with this boy? he says. Don’t you know this is an Irish boy? He is a bleeding Jew, the Mick says, but he started sort of looking at me and after a bit he took his hand off my arm. He come in here, he said, he come in here, bold as brass, asking for a shandy, what kind of drink is that? I spoke to him civil and he told me to get stuffed. (That was a lie, a course, I never said nothing to him from start to finish.) He may be dark-complexioned, Mortimer said, but his name is Murphy. Mine is Milligan. Will you have a pint on me? He jerked his head at me and I got out, round the bar and out to the Gents at the back. I stayed there a bit, I still couldn’t feel my arm and I thought I was going to be sick. I went into the W.C. and sat for a bit on the seat, till I felt better. I nearly didn’t go back, though. I nearly didn’t go back there at all. I could of gone through the yard and out to the street without going back in there. I dunno to this day why I went back but it turned out to be the best thing I ever done because that is how Mortimer and me become friends.
The Irish bloke was still there but he didn’t take no notice of me. He had his nose in another pint. Mortimer and me sat at one of the tables and we got talking. He wouldn’t let me thank him. I could tell from the start he was educated like. He had this flow of words and he could talk on any subject. He had been in Penzance up to a fortnight before, working in the dry dock, painting hulls. He had got fed up with that and moved on here and he had got a job on a rifle range in the Pleasure Park down on the front. He told me they still needed someone and that was how I got on to the job. I wish we could of had the same digs but there was no room in his. I had a job to find a place and then I have to share a bed with this bloke who does the Fairy Lights, well it isn’t good enough, not for three pound ten a week. (He is a professional man, mind you, he is a qualified engineer.)
I will never forget how Mortimer saved me from getting bashed up. That bloke wasn’t right in the head, apart from being Irish—and that is another lot that ought to be in the compounds. He could of disfigured me for life or any rate till I could save up for the Plastic Surgery.
This time I am going to give him it. I will watch his face and if he is going to start laughing, I will turn round and walk away. Why is giving him it so difficult? He is the one that I want to have it.
Simon . . .
SHE IS WEARING a red dress this morning, a sleeveless red dress. She picks off the blown roses from the bush beside the bungalow. When she extends her plump arms, arching them delicately over the bush to avoid the thorns, I see her dark armpits, I see a silky edge through the sleeve hole of her undergarment, I see the tremor of muscle in her upper arm when she tightens her fingers to squeeze off the roses. I experience a faint nausea, willing her with all the force at my command to continue this series of movements, to submit herself rather to this pattern which has been imposed on her, part of the divine plan, because whatever meaning she is inventing in her finite mind for her present actions and whatever agitation is set up in my finite loins, our wills have nothing to do with it, we are all grounded in being and the roses are simply a pretext whatever she may suppose; what is she supposing now as she bends farther and farther forward reaching with delicately angled arm, her fleshy white legs pressed close together, not bending at the knee, whatever it is she cannot wriggle off the impalement of my regard, don’t move, please don’t move, just for a minute. . . . Damn! She has seen something farther down the field, something invisible to me. She straightens herself, looks for some moments across the field, then, apparently deciding the roses need no more attention, she steps back, turns and walks rather slowly back into the house. I am left with feelings of nausea, desolation, and testicular malaise.
What can she have seen? Something of distinctly limited interest obviously, since it did not occupy her for long. Crane as I may I cannot see from here, but a few yards down towards the house the hedge is lower. I am surprised to see Marion at the far end of the field, walking very slowly through the deep grass about twenty yards from the hedge, coming in this direction. But why is she in the field at all, why on that side of the hedge? She is walking very slowly, looking at the ground before her, has she perhaps lost something? For these few moments, as she continues to walk very slowly towards me, because of the slope of the field behind her and because of the particular angle of my vision, Marion is set against a background of horizontal zones as exactly demarcated as those of a tricolour flag, first the yellow and green dazzle of the sunlit meadow on which she is walking, then from waist to neck the vivid uniform green of the young wheat, and her head finally against the milky blue morning sky. Her isolation makes her seem for the moment archetypal.
At this point for some reason she goes nearer to the hedge and so my sight of her is shut off by the line of the hedge itself. I remain in the same posture for several minutes longer, but Marion does not re-app
ear. If she had continued walking she must surely have come up to me before this. Therefore she must have either stopped at some point along the hedge or gone back the way she came, keeping on the return journey much closer to the hedge and thus remaining invisible to me. Certainly she could not have struck out across the field without being seen. Nor was it likely that she had entered the grounds at any point along the way, since the hedge is five feet high at least and quite thick. It was of course conceivable that she was simply out for a walk, taking a bit of exercise, a thing that people do all the time as I am fully aware. But this explanation did not satisfy me because I had never known Marion to go in for such constitutionals before and because of the somewhat skulking way she had kept to the hedge: people set on walking strike out boldly, in my experience.
Leaving my post in the corner I began to walk as circumspectly as possible along the inside of the hedge towards the point where, as far as I could judge, Marion had disappeared from view. It did not occur to me at the time to wonder at my actions, indeed it seemed quite natural to spy on Marion in this way; not until considerably later did I realise that this morning had marked a turning point.
I had no desire to become involved in these people’s lives, any more than I wanted to involve my teeth in their mousse, that whole summer of spying on people and conjecturing was a nightmare from beginning to end, keeping me from my tunnelling, keeping me from possibly quintessential aspects of the bungalow woman. Audrey forced it on me. It was she who engaged a gardener to poke about in the grounds, distressing me so that I behaved foolishly in the matter of the teeth; she who then proceeded to give me a month’s notice to leave. That threat produced the nightmarish talent for detection I now began to show, on the same principle, I suppose, that some creatures, in the proximity of their enemies, emit an offensive odour. . . .
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