I stepped into a phone booth, searching through my pockets for Miss Stratmann’s card. After a moment I found it and dialled the number. The phone was answered immediately by Miss Stratmann herself.
‘Mr Ryder, how good of you to call. I’m so glad everything has been going so well.’
‘Ah. So you think everything is going well.’
‘Oh splendidly! You’ve been such a success everywhere. People have been so thrilled. And your after-dinner speech last night, oh, everyone’s talking about how witty and entertaining it was. It’s such a pleasure, if I may say so, having someone like you to work with.’
‘Well, thank you, Miss Stratmann. It’s kind of you to say so. It’s a pleasure to be so well looked after. I was ringing just now because, er, because I wanted to check certain things relating to my schedule. Of course, there have been some unavoidable delays today, leading to one or two unfortunate consequences.’
I paused, expecting Miss Stratmann to say something, but there was silence at the other end. I gave a small laugh and continued: ‘But of course, we’re on our way at this moment to the Karwinsky Gallery. I mean, we’re actually in the middle of our journey at this very moment. Naturally we wanted to get there in plenty of time, and I must say, we’re all greatly looking forward to it. The countryside around the Karwinsky Gallery, I understand, is quite splendid. Yes, we’re very happy to be on our way.’
‘I’m so pleased, Mr Ryder.’ Miss Stratmann sounded uncertain. ‘I do hope you’ll find the event enjoyable.’ Then she said suddenly: ‘Mr Ryder, I do hope we haven’t offended you.’
‘Offended me?’
‘We really didn’t mean to imply anything. I mean, by suggesting you go to the Countess’s house this morning. We all knew you’d be thoroughly familiar with Mr Brodsky’s work, no one ever dreamt otherwise. It’s just that some of those recordings were quite rare and the Countess and Mr von Winterstein both thought … Oh dear, I do hope you’re not offended, Mr Ryder! We really didn’t mean to imply anything.’
‘I’m not offended in the least, Miss Stratmann. On the contrary, I’ve been very concerned that the Countess and Mr von Winterstein aren’t offended I was unable to turn up …’
‘Oh, please don’t worry on that score, Mr Ryder.’
‘I was very keen to meet and talk with them, but when circumstances made it impossible for me to do everything we had originally hoped, I thought they would understand, particularly since, as you say, there was no actual necessity for me to listen to Mr Brodsky’s recordings …’
‘Mr Ryder, I’m sure the Countess and Mr von Winterstein both understand the situation perfectly. It was, in any case, I can see it now, a very presumptuous thing to have arranged, especially with your time so limited. I do hope you’re not offended.’
‘I assure you I’m not at all offended. But actually, Miss Stratmann, if I may. I was phoning you just now to discuss certain aspects, that is, certain other aspects of my schedule here.’
‘Yes, Mr Ryder?’
‘For instance, my visit to inspect the concert hall.’
‘Ah yes.’
I waited to see if she would say anything more, but when she said nothing, I went on: ‘Yes, I simply wanted to make sure everything was in order for my coming.’
Miss Stratmann at last responded to the troubled tone in my voice. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said. ‘I take your point. I haven’t scheduled very much time for you to carry out your inspection. But as you can see’ – she paused and I could hear the rustle of a sheet of paper – ‘as you can see, on either side of the concert hall visit, you have these two very important appointments. So I thought if you had to be a little squeezed for time anywhere, it should be at the concert hall. You could always return there at another point if you really needed to. Whereas, you see, we couldn’t really afford to give less time to either of the other appointments. For instance, the meeting with the Citizens’ Mutual Support Group, I know how much importance you place on meeting the ordinary people affected …’
‘Yes, of course, you’re quite right. I agree absolutely with what you say. As you point out, I can always squeeze in a second visit to the concert hall at some later point. Yes, yes. It’s just that I was slightly concerned about the, er, the arrangements. That’s to say, for my parents.’
There was again silence at the other end. I cleared my throat and continued:
‘That’s to say, as you know, my mother and father are both advanced in years. It will be necessary to have special facilities for them at the concert hall.’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Miss Stratmann sounded slightly puzzled. ‘And medical help nearby in the event of any unfortunate occurrences. Yes, it’s all well in hand, as you’ll see when you carry out your inspection.’
I thought about this for a moment. Then I said: ‘My parents. That’s who we’re talking about. There’s no confusion here, I trust.’
‘Not at all, Mr Ryder. Please don’t worry.’
I thanked her and came away from the telephone booths. As I stepped back into the café, I paused a moment inside the doorway. The sunset was causing long shadows to fall across the room. The two middle-aged women were still talking earnestly, though I could not guess if they were still discussing me. Over at the far end, I could see Boris explaining something to Sophie and the two of them laughing happily. I continued to stand there for a few moments, turning over in my mind the conversation I had just had with Miss Stratmann. Thinking further about it, I could see there was something presumptuous in the notion that I would benefit from having the Countess play me Brodsky’s old records. No doubt she and von Winterstein had been looking forward to guiding me step by step through the music. The thought irritated me and I felt thankful I had been obliged to miss the appointment.
Then I glanced at my watch and saw that, for all my words of reassurance to Miss Stratmann, we were in danger of arriving late at the Karwinsky Gallery. I made my way over to our table and, without sitting down, said:
‘We’ll have to be getting on now. We’ve been here quite some time.’
I had spoken with a certain urgency, but Sophie simply looked up and said:
‘Boris thinks these doughnuts are the best he’s ever tasted. That’s what you were saying, wasn’t it, Boris?’
I glanced at Boris and saw he was ignoring me. I then recalled our recent little altercation – I had for the moment forgotten all about it – and it struck me it would be best to say something conciliatory.
‘So the doughnuts are good, you say,’ I said to him. ‘Are you going to let me try a piece?’
Boris continued to look the other way. I waited for a few seconds, then gave a shrug.
‘All right,’ I said. ‘If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine.’
Sophie touched Boris on the shoulder and was about to appeal to him, but I turned away saying: ‘Come on, we have to be on our way.’
Sophie nudged Boris once more. Then she said to me, a touch of desperation in her voice: ‘Let’s stay just a little longer. You’ve hardly sat with us at all yet. And Boris is so enjoying it here. Aren’t you, Boris?’
Again Boris showed no sign of having heard.
‘Look, we’ve got to get a move on now,’ I said. ‘We’re going to be late.’
Sophie looked again at Boris, then at me, anger gathering in her expression. Then finally she began to get up. I turned and made my way out of the café without looking back at them.
18
By the time I brought the car down the steep winding road and back onto the highway, the sun was very low in the sky. The traffic was as sparse as ever and I drove for a while at a good speed, scanning the horizon for signs of the red car. After several minutes we had left the mountains and were crossing vast expanses of farmland. On both sides of the highway the fields stretched on into the distance. It was while the road was taking a long slow curve across a piece of flat land that I spotted the red car again. It was still some way ahead, but I could see the driver proceeding as
before at a leisurely speed. I reduced my own speed, and soon began to enjoy the scenery unfolding before me;
‘How many people do you think there’ll be?’
‘At this reception?’ I shrugged. ‘How should I know? I have to say, you seem to be getting yourself very worked up about this thing. It’s just another reception, that’s all.’
Sophie went on staring out at the view. Then she said: ‘A lot of the people tonight. They’ll be the same ones who were at the Rusconi banquet. That’s why I’m nervous. I thought you’d have realised that.’
I tried to recall the banquet she was referring to, but the name meant little to me.
‘I was getting so much better at these things until then,’ Sophie went on. ‘Those people were so horrible to me. I haven’t really recovered yet. There’s bound to be a lot of the same people tonight.’
I was still trying without success to recall this event. ‘You mean, people were actually rude to you?’ I asked.
‘Rude? Well, I suppose you could call it that. They certainly made me feel pretty small and pathetic. I do hope they’re not all there again tonight.’
‘If anyone’s rude to you tonight, you just come and tell me. And as far as I’m concerned, you can be as rude as you like back to them.’
Sophie turned and looked at Boris in the back seat. After a moment I realised the little boy had fallen asleep. Sophie went on watching him for a little longer, then turned back to me.
‘Why are you starting it again?’ she asked in a quite different voice. ‘You know how much it upsets him. You’re starting it all again. How long do you plan to keep it up this time?’
‘Keep what up?’ I asked tiredly. ‘What are you talking about now?’
Sophie stared at me for a moment, then turned away. ‘You don’t realise,’ she said almost to herself. ‘We’ve no time for things like this. You just don’t realise, do you?’
I felt my patience coming to an end. All the chaos I had been subjected to throughout the day came back to me and I found myself saying loudly:
‘Look, why do you think you’ve got the right to criticise me like this all the time? Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I happen to be under great pressure just now. But instead of supporting me, you decide to criticise, criticise, criticise. And now you seem to be getting all ready to let me down at this reception. At least, you appear to be preparing the ground well enough for doing just that …’
‘All right! We won’t come in then! Boris and I will wait in the car. You go to this thing by yourself!’
‘There’s no need for that. I was only saying …’
‘I mean it! You go by yourself. That way we won’t be able to let you down.’
After this we travelled on for several minutes without speaking. Eventually I said:
‘Look, I’m sorry. You’ll probably be fine at this reception. In fact, I’m sure you will be.’
She did not reply. We continued to travel in silence and each time I glanced at her, I found her staring blankly at the red car in the distance. An odd sense of panic began to grow within me until finally I said:
‘Look, even if things don’t go right this evening, well, it won’t matter. What I mean is, it won’t make any difference to anything important. There’s no need for us to be silly like this.’
Sophie continued to stare at the red car. Then she said: ‘Do I look like I’ve put on weight? Be honest.’
‘No, not at all. You look marvellous.’
‘But I have. I’ve put on a little.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Whatever happens tonight, it won’t make any difference. Look, there’s no need to worry. We’ll have everything ready soon. A home, everything. So there’s no need to worry.’
As I said this something began to come back to me of the banquet she had mentioned earlier. In particular, an image came into my mind of Sophie, in a dark crimson evening dress, standing awkwardly by herself in the centre of a crowded room, while all around her people stood laughing and talking in little groups. I found myself thinking about the humiliation she must have endured and eventually touched her gently on the arm. To my relief she responded by resting her head on my shoulder.
‘You’ll see,’ she said, almost under her breath. ‘I’ll show you. And so will Boris. Whoever’s there tonight, we’ll show you.’
‘Yes, yes. I’m sure you will. You’ll both be fine.’
It was several minutes later that I noticed the red car indicating to turn off the highway. I reduced the distance between us and soon we were following our guide up a quiet road rising between meadows. The noise of the highway receded as we continued to climb, and then we were travelling on dirt tracks hardly fit for modern transportation. At one point a thick hedge scraped all along one side of our car, and soon afterwards we were bumping across a muddy yard full of broken-down farm vehicles. Then we came out onto some good country roads weaving smoothly through the fields and picked up speed again. Eventually I heard Sophie shout: ‘Oh, there it is!’ and saw a wooden board on a tree announcing the Karwinsky Gallery.
I slowed right down as we approached the gateway. Two rusted gateposts were still standing, but the gate itself had gone. As the red car continued down the road, finally vanishing from our view, I steered between the posts into a large overgrown field.
There was a dirt path running up the middle of the field and for a little while we moved slowly uphill. As we reached the crest, a fine view opened before us. The field swept down into a shallow valley, in the pit of which sat an imposing house built in the manner of a French chateau. The sun was setting in the woods behind it, and even from this distance, I could see the building was full of faded charm, evoking the slow decline of some dreamy land-owning family.
I engaged a low gear and took the car carefully down the hill. I could see in my mirror Boris, now fully awake, looking left and right, but the grass was so high it obscured entirely any view from the side windows.
As we came closer, I saw that a large area of the field near the house had become taken over with parked cars. I steered towards these as we completed our descent and saw there were almost a hundred vehicles in all, many of them polished to a gleam for the occasion. I drove around a little, trying to find a suitable spot to park, and came to a halt not far from the crumbling courtyard wall.
I got out of the car and stretched my limbs about. When I glanced back I saw that Sophie and Boris had also got out and that Sophie was fussing over Boris’s appearance.
‘Just remember,’ I could hear her saying to him. ‘No one in the room’s more important than you. You just keep telling yourself that. Anyway, we won’t be staying long.’
I was about to set off for the house when I became distracted by something at the corner of my eye. Turning, I saw that an old ruined car had been left abandoned in the grass close to where I was standing. The other guests had all left a space around it, as though its rust and general dilapidation might spread to their own vehicles.
I took a few steps towards the wreck. It had sunk some way into the earth and the grass had grown all around it, so that I might not have noticed it at all had the sunset not been striking its bonnet. There were no wheels and the driver’s door had been torn off at the hinges. The paintwork had been gone over on numerous occasions, on the last of which the painter appeared to have used house paint before giving up mid-way. Both rear fenders had been replaced by mismatched substitutes from other vehicles. For all that, and even before I had examined it more closely, I knew I was looking at the remains of the old family car my father had driven for many years.
It was, of course, a long time since I had last laid eyes on it. Seeing it again in this sad state brought back to me its final days with us, when it had become so old I was acutely embarrassed my parents should continue to go about in it. Towards the end, I recalled, I had started to invent elaborate ploys to avoid taking journeys in it, so much did I dread being spotted by a schoolfriend or a teacher. But that had only been at the end. For many
years I had clung to the belief that our car – despite its being quite inexpensive – was somehow superior to almost any other on the road and that this was the reason my father chose not to replace it. I could remember it parked in the drive of our little cottage in Worcestershire, its paint and metalwork gleaming, and my gazing at it for minutes at a time, feeling immensely proud. And on many afternoons – particularly on Sundays – I had spent hours playing in and around it. Occasionally I had brought out toys – perhaps even my collection of plastic soldiers – to lay out in the back seat. But more often I had simply built endless imaginary scenarios around the car, firing pistols through its windows, or conducting high-speed chases behind the wheel. Every so often, my mother would emerge from the house to tell me to stop slamming the car doors, the noise was driving her mad, and that if I did it once more she would ‘skin me alive’. I could see her again quite vividly, standing at the back door of the cottage, shouting towards the car. The cottage had been a small one but, being deep in the countryside, had stood in a half-acre of grass. A lane went past our gate and on to the local farm, and twice a day a line of cows would go by, driven on by farmboys with muddy sticks. My father always left the car in the drive with its rear pointing to this lane, and I would often break off from what I was doing to watch the procession of cows through the back windscreen.
What we called our ‘drive’ was just an area of grass to the side of the house. It had never been concreted and in heavy rain the car would stand deep in water – a fact that could not have helped its rust problems and had possibly hastened it to its present condition. But as a child I had found wet days a particular treat. Not only did the rain create an especially cosy atmosphere inside the car, it provided me with the challenge of having to leap over canals of mud each time I got in or out. At first my parents had disapproved of this practice, claiming I was making marks all over the car’s upholstery, but once the vehicle was a few years old they had ceased to care about this point. The slamming doors, however, continued to annoy my mother throughout the time we owned the car. This was unfortunate since this slamming was central to the enacting of my scenarios, invariably punctuating key moments of dramatic tension. Matters were complicated by the fact that my mother sometimes went weeks, even months, without complaining about the doors, until I would have all but forgotten they could be a source of conflict. Then one day, when I was completely absorbed in some drama, she would suddenly appear, highly distressed, telling me just one more time and she would ‘skin me alive’. On a few occasions this threat had been issued at a point when a door was actually ajar, leaving me in a quandary as to whether I should leave it open once I had finished playing – even though it might then remain open all night – or whether I should risk shutting it as quietly as possible. This dilemma would torment me throughout the remainder of my time playing with the car, thoroughly poisoning my enjoyment.
The Unconsoled Page 30
