Imaginative Experience

by Mary Wesley

  ‘Might ask you the same question.’ Rebecca did not stop dancing. ‘What’s up with your cleaning lady?’ For Julia had taken to her heels and was racing down the street. ‘Oh, he’ll catch her all right,’ she said to her partner, ‘he ran at university. Now come on, pay attention to the rhythm, they are playing a rumba.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  REBECCA HAD ENJOYED HER lunch, enjoyed the food, enjoyed the wine and, above all, she had enjoyed regaling her hosts with the description of how, from the kindness of her heart, she had brought a carton of milk to a former colleague in case he, arriving off a flight from the States on Bank Holiday morning with all the shops and supermarkets as closed as limpets—even Patel’s Corner Shop, a super shop she had recently discovered which never ever seemed to close (aren’t the Asians wonderful?)—was milkless, to find him milkless certainly, but with a dog in the house which was a surprise and, wait for it, and even greater surprise, ‘a strange woman’, and guess who the strange woman was? His cleaning lady!! Not the respectable Mrs Andrews with impeccable references she had taken the trouble to find for him when his wife left, but a gypsy girl with no references but apparently a dog!

  She had told the tale wittily, taken care to describe the girl as ‘interesting’ and the dog, the sort attached by a bit of string, no proper lead. A New Age Traveller’s dog? Everyone had laughed over the dog and had been particularly amused by the thought of a cleaning lady visible on a Bank Holiday. They had laughed, too, at her description of Sylvester in the office during the period she had worked for him; his entrapment and subsequent desertion by Celia. Several of them knew Celia or imagined they did, and nearly all of them knew of Andrew Battersby and Andrew Battersby’s wealth.

  ‘You should have put a stop to it, Rebecca,’ they said, ‘saved the poor bloke, he sounds desperately naïve.’ ‘Why didn’t you marry him yourself, Rebecca?’ ‘If you had married him you would have had a legal position, been able to protect him,’ they said affectionately, aware of their friend’s character. But, ‘Oh, my dears, he isn’t my type,’ she had cried, laughing, ‘he is tall and stringy, he doesn’t smoke, he is too good-mannered and polite. And anyway he’s far too young.’

  ‘No, no, he would not suit,’ her hostess told the table at large. ‘What Rebecca likes is a mature man, a bit of a brute who enjoys a strong woman, a tweedy sort of man. Am I not right, Rebecca? They were all such wimps in that office,’ she said. ‘Small wonder you left. There’s a limit to what we can do for the weaker sex,’ she joked. ‘Rebecca’s glass is empty,’ she said to her husband, who was the sort of man Rebecca would have liked if she had not nobbled him first. So her host refilled her glass, and Rebecca appreciated her hostess’s twinge of jealousy and later, when she was leaving and her host suggested driving her home, she declined the offer, saying she preferred to walk. This was absolutely true; the poor fellow had been too thoroughly tamed to be interesting. It was in this contented mood that, rounding a corner in the Chelsea streets, she came upon the Fellowes’ and Eddisons’ street party and got involved.

  Nobody later could remember who had set a calypso tape on the player, but two people present, who lived in Peckham and had spent holidays in the West Indies, finding it enjoyable, turned up the sound. This increase in volume coincided with Rebecca’s arrival and the passage through the street of a car whose passengers of Jamaican and African origin, seeing a party and hearing the music, not unnaturally stopped their, car, scrambled out and joined in the dancing.

  Rebecca, drawing close to watch and admire the grace, dexterity and sweet humour of the new arrivals, found herself clapping her hands and jigging; and before long, as people flowed out of the house infected by the catchy rhythm, discovered that she had acquired a partner. ‘You a friend of the Eddisons and Fellowes?’ he asked, dancing rather clumsily, a thick-set fellow in a Barbour.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘People giving the party.’

  ‘Never heard of them. I was just passing.’ Rebecca kept her eye on a particular Jamaican who with extraordinary grace was dancing near by. He was, she thought, with his long legs and arms, snapping fingers and flashing teeth, a creature of remarkable beauty. An Ace, she thought catching his eye, exchanging a smile, an absolute Ace.

  ‘Like a drink?’ suggested the man in the Barbour. ‘This is hard work.’

  ‘Not at the moment, I drank at lunch.’ (Rather a lot; this is just what I need.) ‘What did you say their names are? Will they mind me joining in?’

  ‘No, no, everyone does, hardly know them myself. It’s a sort of free-for-all, a Christmas and Bank Holiday sort of thing, a junket.’

  ‘What lovely hospitable people they must be.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ her new friend asked.

  ‘Rebecca.’

  ‘You have lovely eyes, Rebecca.’ He danced closer.

  Here we go, thought Rebecca. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Maurice, Maurice Benson. I am waiting to see a woman who lives in the top flat. She locked me out.’

  Rebecca said, ‘Really?’, unsurprised.

  ‘I like your legs,’ said Maurice Benson.

  ‘Aren’t you awfully hot dancing in that jacket?’

  Maurice said, ‘This is thirsty work, let’s get a drink, I am gasping,’ and, ‘Everyone goes inside when they’re thirsty,’ and, ‘Look, they are going in,’ nodding towards the Jamaicans.

  Rebecca said, ‘All right,’ and they followed the man she had been watching as he went into the house with his friends, turning into Tim Fellowes’ flat where there was the roaring noise of drinking people. ‘You look much too hot in that awful garment,’ Rebecca needled. ‘Why don’t you take it off? You will need it when you are cooling down. I make these interesting suggestions out of sheer habit,’ she said. ‘I am a bossy lady.’

  Maurice Benson’s reply was lost in a sudden uproar of confused shouts, scuffling, stamping of feet in the room ahead of them. The Ace Jamaican was shouting, ‘Cool it, man, cool it!’ He was laughing, but above his laughter Tim Fellowes screamed, ‘Who invited you? Who let you in? Get out of my house! Get out, get out! Get back to your trees in Bongo Bongo.’

  Rebecca, shocked and craning her neck, cried, ‘What on earth’s going on?’ as she watched the Ace dancer, pressured back by the small infuriated man, good-humouredly warding off his flailing fists, stepping back onto the toes of his friends who, not as good-humoured as he, urged him forward, not back, with a certain belligerence.

  ‘Stop him!’ Rebecca ordered Benson. ‘Stop that little squirt.’

  But Janet, Tim’s lover, appearing from nowhere, even smaller than Tim, struck him a crack from behind with a vase, felling him to his knees. As he clutched his head she kicked him in the back, shouting, ‘You racist! You disgusting racist! He is only like this when he’s drunk, come in, please come in, you are so so welcome.’ But the Ace dancer replied, polite though retreating, that he thought perhaps not and, accompanied by his friends, evaporated from the party.

  Rebecca said, ‘What a splendid girl,’ and to Benson, ‘Why didn’t you do something?’ He said, ‘It’s not my scene, lady. Oh thanks, cheers,’ as a girl pressed a glass into his hand, saying ‘All over, better now,’ as though it were he who had caused the fracas and received a blow on the head.

  But Rebecca said to the girl, ‘He doesn’t need that,’ and, taking the drink from Benson, set it aside. Catching him by the hand she drew him back into the street to resume their dance, and it was then as they danced that Sylvester coming out of the house with Julia recognized Rebecca and exclaimed in surprise.

  Watching Sylvester race after Julia, Benson exclaimed, ‘That’s the girl I want to see,’ and made as though he would follow, but Rebecca held him back, saying, ‘It can’t be, she’s a gypsy sort of person and that man is a friend of mine.’ To which Benson retorted, ‘She’s no gypsy, I know her mother. She is said to have murdered her husband.’

  Rebecca said, ‘It’s impossible, she’s his cleaning lady,’ which made Bens
on laugh. And then, because he was tired by the dancing and regretting the drink she had so arbitrarily snatched from him, yet liking Rebecca, he suggested they repair to the pub where in a more comfy atmosphere he would tell her all he knew.

  Very anxious to hear Benson’s story, but thinking it possible Sylvester might also be in the pub, Rebecca had a better idea. Why not move on to her flat, which was only two streets away? There it would be warmer, more comfortable, more private. Benson agreed. As they made their way through the darkening streets he decided to play down his interest in Julia, not tell his new friend about the phone calls, work the conversation round to his life as a twitcher. And Rebecca, walking beside him, planned to strip him of that awful Barbour jacket which smelled of stale tobacco and alcohol and give him instead a lovely herring-bone tweed which had been left behind by her last—quite a long time ago—lover. This man would look almost presentable in her former lover’s tweed, she decided, not nearly so seedy. And, conscious that she was already weasling into his life, she burst out laughing so that Benson eyed her with alarm.

  THIRTY

  SPRINTING HIS FASTEST, SYLVESTER managed to catch up with Julia. ‘I nearly lost you,’ he gasped. ‘You are going the wrong way, you should have turned left.’ He caught her by the arm, turning her about. ‘It’s only a minute from here if we go this way.’

  Julia said nothing.

  ‘What an extraordinary thing to see old Rebecca dancing in the street. What a spectacle! If I had not seen it, I would not have believed it.’ He guided Julia by the elbow. ‘I wonder who the bloke she was dancing with could be. He did not look her sort exactly.’

  Julia muttered, ‘How do you know what her sort is?’ And freed her elbow.

  Sylvester said, ‘What?’

  ‘That is the man who was trying to break into my flat.’ Julia’s voice rose in pain. ‘The man I deafened with Christy’s whistle. The man who calls me a murderer, and pretends to speak in a child’s voice.’

  ‘Hold on,’ Sylvester said, recapturing her elbow, ‘hold on. I recognize him now. He was in the train when you stopped it. I took agin him, didn’t like his attitude; it was sort of prurient. He wanted to meet you, to speak to you, ask questions. Then he tripped and fell over at Paddington, so I assumed he’d lost you. Here we are,’ he said, fumbling for his key, ‘and just in time, here comes the rain. That will put a stop to the dancing.’

  Julia said, ‘Then I can go back,’ but Sylvester shouted, ‘No,’ pushing her ahead of him into the hall. ‘Do quit being silly. The dancing may stop, but the binge inside won’t. What an amazing thing,’ he said, slamming the door shut and guiding her to the sofa. ‘If I put all these connections and meetings into my novel, nobody would believe it. Too contrived, they’d say. Things like that do not happen in real life. It’s a rotten, rotten book.’

  ‘But they do,’ Julia said wearily. She looked drained, worse than when he had first seen her in the morning. ‘You could fit it all into Wellington’s Valet, she said.

  ‘You remember the title!’ He was enchanted. ‘It doesn’t have to be called Wellington’s Valet, that’s a title I snatched from the air to annoy Rebecca, stop her prying. I have not even written the first paragraph,’ he confessed.

  Julia said, ‘But you will,’ letting her head fall back against the cushions.

  ‘Will you promise to stay where you are for a few minutes?’ He stood over her.

  She said, ‘All right.’ She was still muffled into her overcoat; the dog sat close to her feet. He switched on the fire and drew the curtains, shutting out the rain. The street lamps were on; it was growing dark. He felt a renewal of fatigue and very, very hungry as he went downstairs to his kitchen. Rebecca still exerted her governessy influence, he observed, searching through his cupboards: milk was not the only sustenance she provided; months ago, insinuating herself into the house, she had brought and cooked him a delicious pasta. ‘Aha! Here we are, half the packet of pasta, a jar of delicious sauce, parmesan cheese, olive oil, let’s see what I can do.’ Filling a saucepan with water and setting it to boil, he speculated as to what delicious dish Rebecca would cook to ensnare her latest trouvaille? ‘I bet she feeds him steak,’ he said out loud. Uncorking a bottle of wine, he wished her luck.

  Julia managed a little pasta but left her wine. She sat half listening as Sylvester told her of a strange adventure with the Ku Klux Klan, three dizzying blondes and a book which might or might not be published. Soon she must step out in the rain and battle back to her flat. She stifled a jaw-breaking yawn, overwhelmed by huge fatigue. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she interrupted him, ‘but I had better go now. I have to work tomorrow. The pasta was, er, is delicious. I can’t thank you enough but I really should get some sleep. You must be exhausted, too, after your long journey. I have imposed enough.’

  But having eaten his pasta and drunk more than his share of wine on top of various whiskies during the day, Sylvester was imbued with a fresh spurt of energy. He knew it would not last for he too was exhausted, but not too exhausted to conquer his natural hesitancy. If Julia was too tired to take in his polite prattle, he hoped and guessed that if he acted fast enough she would be too weary to put up much fight. So here goes, he adjured himself, and said, ‘There is no way you are going back to that orgy. You are going to sleep here.’

  Julia said, ‘What? I can’t.’

  But Sylvester said, ‘Don’t argue. Come along. When I say sleep, I mean sleep, “sleep perchance to dream”, nothing more. Here we go,’ he said, propelling her up the stairs, pushing and pulling. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said as they reached the bedroom. ‘I will just rearrange these,’ he said, dividing the pillows from the heap of four which made reading in bed such an indulgence into two lots of two. ‘You can sleep in this, it will come down to your knees, perfectly decent.’ He snatched a shirt from a drawer. ‘Get into that. While you undress I’ll let your dog out for a pee. Would you like a bath? You wouldn’t? Well, get cracking, come on, come on,’ he bullied, taking her sweater and pulling it over her head. ‘Get on with it,’ he said, drawing the curtains and shutting out the night. ‘When I bring your dog back, I want to find you in the bed, got it?’ And, accompanied by Joyful, he left the room.

  Five minutes later, for Joyful was not a dog to dally in torrential rain, he was back, locking the front door and taking the telephone off the hook while Joyful scampered back up the stairs.

  Seeing him pull off his sweater, kick off his shoes and unzip his fly, Julia in the bed mouthed, ‘Where?’, coiling her body to spring. ‘Whe—’

  Sylvester said, ‘Where do you expect me to sleep? I am too long for the sofa and the bath is purgatory. All right, all right, I am not going to touch you, wouldn’t dream of it. I am dead to the world, knackered. If you fear rape,’ he said, lifting the duvet and joining her in the bed, ‘Joyful can lie between us like a bolster.’ And, laying his head on the pillows, he rejoiced to feel the bed shake with her laughter.

  THIRTY-ONE

  SQUASHED AMONG COMMUTERS IN the tube Sylvester considered the last week, a week spent discussing Bratt’s manuscript. All in his office were agreed that the book was badly written and its content foul. Though one editor was doubtful, two were in favour of buying the manuscript and one, a senior member of the firm, was of the firm opinion that properly presented and cleverly marketed the book, for its content alone, was a potential bestseller. All agreed the book needed a preface and, though interest was expressed in his notes, these were soon forgotten as colleagues tossed ideas back and forth among themselves as to how to market, what jacket to choose, and how to manage the publicity. Haste, according to the senior editor, was of the essence. The book was topical, even more topical than most of its kind. It was essential, he suggested with apparent afterthought, that Narrowlane and Jinks should not get hold of it and someone had better travel to the States as soon as possible to sew up a contract. Pressed against alien backs in the tube Sylvester now remembered that Jinks, of Narrowlane and Jinks, had once had
an affair with the senior editor’s daughter and had not, it was said, behaved well.

  It had then been proposed that since he had been first to read the manuscript and had already met Bratt, he should visit again as soon as possible and, if all went well, have a part after all in the preface; and, if necessary, rewrite the whole book. Forgetting his original opinion of Bratt’s manuscript, Sylvester had cried off. He had only visited Bratt, he explained, because John could not, it being so near Christmas, a child having a birthday and so on. He too must refuse because he was biased; he disliked the book intensely and its author more. He would find himself incapable of being objective. Someone had said, ‘Fair enough, we will think again,’ but Sylvester had been unable to leave well alone, as he would tell Julia. He had gone on to say that there was too much ingrained racism in society and that this would be fostered by Bratt’s book, however cleverly presented.

  ‘There will always be readers who will rejoice in the book, agree with Bratt’s views. It might even start a new cult,’ he had said, ‘and in my opinion no respectable publishing house should touch it.’

  Nobody had laughed, he would tell Julia when he got home, one or two had pretended to agree; nobody had called him pompous to his face. The prime reason, he must tell her, for his refusal was his annoyance at finding his original impression of Bratt’s oeuvre so exactly coincided with that of the oldest editor, whom he had long considered past it and ripe for retirement. This, he hoped, would amuse Julia, she being a girl to whom he could tell everything; he knew, too, that she would instinctively feel about Bratt’s book as he did.

  But she would not be there to tell, he remembered with shock; the house when he got back would be empty, as it had been that morning ten days ago when he woke to find no trace other than a dent in the pillow.