Mr. Porter and the Brothers Jones

by Reinhold, Margaret;

  Jerome was silent. Then he said, “I love her, you know. I love Lilac too. I can’t help it. Nothing will come of it. We’ll never make love again. But I would like to talk to her.”

  Mr Porter’s anger ebbed. A deep sadness took its place. “Nothing but trouble will come of it,” he told Jerome. “Lilac is utterly unreliable. She’s a destroyer. She will destroy you and your marriage and Beatrice and your family.”

  Jerome sighed. “I’ll think about that,” he said. “I’ll think about the whole thing.”

  But when Lilac visited Mr Porter again, he knew intuitively that she had seen Jerome.

  Sixteen

  “The more violence we sense in ourselves, the more we fear violence in the outside world,” intoned Dr Katzenheimer for the umpteenth time. “That also means, of course, that the more powerful we feel ourselves to be, the more damage we are afraid we might do. A steamroller needs only make a very small movement to crush an ant—but an ant can go crazy without doing a lot of harm to a steamroller. Therefore, steamrollers have to be more worried about control—self-control—than ants. Take the atom bomb …”

  “No,” snapped Mr Porter under his breath, “I refuse to take the atom bomb.”

  “The atom bomb—the possession of the ultimate steamroller of destruction—has made everybody excessively anxious about murders and muggings and violent crime—nobody cares about the million-and-one frauds, robberies, financial swindles …”

  “The snowdrops will be out. I must go down to Stonycroft this weekend,” thought Mr Porter absentmindedly as he pictured the white delicate drifts in the grass under the apple trees. “I must take Lilac there.”

  “Yes,” he said to Dr Katzenheimer, “Yes, I know all that. Do you think it is never appropriate to be afraid of muggers and murderers—and atom bombs?”

  “Of course it is,” she agreed briskly, “but only when the circumstances are entirely appropriate, which is seldom in this country—in the Underground, perhaps, late at night or in certain darker areas of Soho—and in Belfast if you happen to be on the wrong side at the time.”

  Mr Porter sighed. By now he had become completely obsessed with the idea of a visit with Lilac to see the snowdrops.

  He cleared his throat. “At this time of the year,” he said, “one can see the first glimmerings of spring from the train windows between Waterloo and Petersfield—just a hint of new green in the grass, the odd crocus flowering in the gardens—and snowdrops, of course. I am hoping to take Lilac to the country for the day—always supposing she’d want to go. I think it would do her good.”

  On the last occasion he had seen her, it had seemed to Mr Porter that Lilac was feverish—not physically, but emotionally. She had been nervous, trembling almost, the pupils of her eyes dilated, so that her eyes looked quite black in her white face. But she was not depressed. On the contrary, she was recklessly excited. Was she ill, he wondered, or—if not ill—driven by some inner turmoil? Or had she taken a drug?

  Today, although she stretched, as usual, quite peacefully on the sofa, her laugh was more mechanical than ever and he was aware of her great restlessness.

  “Are you all right, Lilac?” he asked her.

  “Yes,—don’t I seem to be?”

  She smiled, showing her even teeth and added, “Today’s the anniversary of my mother’s death.”

  “Oh! I’m sorry. Does she still trouble you?”

  “No—yes—I don’t know. Sometimes I think it served her right to die as she did. And then again I feel sorry. I think, what a pity—what a waste. If she’d lived we might have been friends one day.”

  “Ah!” said Mr Porter. “That’s an illusion, I believe. One of those treacherous trains of thought leading to false hope. She might never have had time for you, even if she had lived.”

  “No—perhaps not. You don’t think she’d have been pleased to see Emily?”

  Mr Porter shrugged. Lilac looked downcast, stilled for a moment, before revving up again, as Mr Porter put it to himself, into an almost shrill gear.

  And in this heightened state of being, she left.

  Dr Katzenheimer had said, in answer to his question one day, “Yes, I agree, Lilac has tended to identify with her mother—or at least with her idea of what her mother was. That is, unconsciously, of course.”

  “Does that mean she’s bound to do what her mother did?”

  “Not necessarily. There’ll be a strong pull to do the same, but Lilac’s circumstances are so different. She could resist the pull if she wanted to …”

  Mr Porter studied the rug. He realised that he had never noticed that there was a narrow bar of deepest green—so dark it was almost black—alternating with the rose and russet and cream in the fourth border from the edge. Did Lilac want to resist the pull? He thought not.

  Beatrice was in her kitchen, preparing tea for the twins before driving off to fetch them from school. She moved mechanically, hands quick and skillful, footsteps nimble. As she worked, her mind went on and on, in repeated review of the evidence, incident by incident, which suggested a liaison between Jerome and Lilac.

  Having assembled salads and sausages, fish fingers and scones, a sudden impulse drove her to Jerome’s study, a small room off the hall lined with filing cabinets. At the window stood Jerome’s desk, where he sometimes sat in the evening or during a weekend, to consider and elaborate designs brought home from the office which needed urgent attention.

  Beatrice stood by the desk, uncertain what to do, uncertain also, what she was looking for.

  She opened one drawer and rifled through a sheaf of papers, then another, finding a batch of notes; and then, with a sudden icy shiver of her flesh, she came across one of Jerome’s doodles—an intricate intertwining of lines, patterns, curves and emblems, where—quite clearly—the letter ‘L’ recurred in every size and shape, as if Jerome, half-listening to some meeting, had intimated his obsession with Lilac by dreamily engraving, embroidering, framing her initial over and over again.

  Was she imagining this? As Beatrice studied the page, a peculiar and awful distress took hold of her. There flooded into her mind the memory of a night in her childhood when her mother had left home. Struggling with a large suitcase, still shouting abuse at her husband, Beatrice’s mother, observed by Beatrice from the shadows at the top of the stairs, had banged and stumbled her way to the front door and disappeared—the door slamming behind her—into stormy darkness.

  With the slamming of the door, Beatrice had flown down the stairs to find her drunken father slumped on a chair in his study, a half-emptied bottle of whisky beside him.

  “Where’s Mom going?” Beatrice had asked fearfully.

  “She’s gone. Your mother’s gone. She’s not coming back, she said.”

  Beatrice opened her mouth to cry but at that moment her father leaned his face in his hands and began to sob. Unrestrained tears poured down his sodden cheeks as if he were a child. Beatrice, in a state of the same acute distress which she now again experienced, had watched him helplessly. She knew why her mother had gone. Her childhood had been punctuated by the frequent rows caused by her father’s sexual infidelities. Beatrice went to the front door and opened it.

  It was a hot night and the leaves of the eucalyptus trees hung limply, waiting for a thunderstorm. Lightning cut vividly across the dark horizon. There was no sign of her mother. She had gone.

  She came back, however, forty-eight hours later—for the sake of her children, she said. But while she was away Beatrice had lived through an eternity of anxiety. She could only feel loathing and disgust, at times mixed with savage pity, for her father.

  That peculiar combination of anger, hate, and compassion surged through her now as she stood staring at Jerome’s intricate celebration of the letter ‘L’.

  Could she be wrong? She was uncertain still. Suddenly, before setting off to fetch the boys from school, she dug her address book from the depths of her handbag, searched for and found a telephone number.

  On his
return from the office, Mr Porter heard, through his closed front door, his phone ringing and ringing. Since the buzzing would not stop even after five minutes, he answered wearily. “Yes, Beatrice, I remember, of course.” He was tired and hungry. “Yes, I will see you. No, I don’t go out to dinner. No, nor tea, nor coffee either—and certainly not drinks. You will have to come here … What is it about?”

  With difficulty, Beatrice made herself say, “It’s for you to do something for me. I want to send a message. I want to warn Jerome … I intend to find out …”

  Mr Porter pretended stupidity. “Find out what?”

  He heard Beatrice weep. “About him and Lilac.”

  Mr Porter was silent. The phone went suddenly dead.

  Seventeen

  Not long afterwards, Beatrice gave a dinner party. It was a large party and the guests included Lilac and Joshua and a childhood friend of Beatrice’s, an Australian girl called Anthea, and her husband, The Honourable Stephen John. Lilac had been placed next to Stephen and Joshua had Anthea on his right.

  The party sparkled. The room was full of flowers. Champagne had been served as the guests arrived and everyone had had a great deal to drink. Bubbles of cheerful and trivial conversation floated noisily into the air. Lilac, who had arrived feeling apprehensive and gloomy, soon took on the false and charming radiance which the group emanated. Beatrice had made a tremendous effort and the food was delicious. Stephen John attracted Lilac. He was short, thickset, and dark with a ruddy passionate face and stubby hands. Many women loved him and he could manipulate them as he pleased.

  At once he began to flirt and flatter. He had the knack of creating a feeling of compelling intimacy, isolating Lilac from the party and drawing her to him with an intense concentration of will.

  “You are beautiful, Lilac!”

  His eyes scanned her face, passing slowly from forehead to chin. Lilac shivered a little, excited and apprehensive.

  “What do you do with your life, Lilac? How do you pass the time? Do you work?”

  A sense of her hopeless inadequacy swept Lilac off balance.

  She shook her head.

  “No … I wish I did. I’m not really qualified for anything nowadays. I used to be a secretary … I … I go to sculpture classes …” she stammered a little “and exercise …”

  He studied her pityingly.

  “Would you like to work?”

  “Oh, very much!”

  “I think I may be able to help you, because I can see that you’re not only beautiful, Lilac, you’re caring and compassionate. I have a friend who’s looking for people like you to work in S.W.O.”

  Lilac looked blank. Should she know, should she have heard of S.W.O.?

  “Save the War Orphans. Don’t you know about it? My friend Giuseppi is the chairman of the committee. They do marvellous work … Rwanda, Yugoslavia, Somalia, Yemen … Would you like to join them? You’d probably have to travel—and it might be quite hard—sometimes painful …”

  Lilac’s spirits suddenly soared. Weeks and months of lassitude, of aimless and undefined misery, seemed to slip away, leaving her free and strong.

  Yet she hesitated.

  “Do you really mean it?”

  Stephen leaned nearer to her and said earnestly, “Lilac, if you’re serious about taking the job, I’m serious about arranging things. Of course I can’t promise. Giuseppi might not think you’re suitable. But at least I can put you two together.”

  “Oh Stephen! Thank you! How very kind!”

  Lilac glowed and trembled. Stephen stared closely into her fair face.

  “I’ll telephone you soon. Giuseppi will be coming to London shortly. I’ll arrange a meeting.” He added, “You should keep this to yourself for the moment, Lilac. We don’t want anyone to put a wrench in the works.”

  He smiled, a small conspiratorial smile that told the world they shared a secret, clasped her hand lightly, quickly released it.

  Lilac, too, smiled and looked into his eyes before he turned away to talk to the woman on his left.

  Joshua watched with disquiet. Beatrice had placed them so far apart that he couldn’t communicate with Lilac without shouting across the table. He cursed Beatrice silently, aware that she was playing a game of sorts, whose purpose he couldn’t understand. His neighbour addressed him and he had to turn his attention away from Lilac.

  Meanwhile, from amid the buzz and excitement at her end of the table, Beatrice loudly called, “Stephen! You’re neglecting your duty. Lilac’s glass is empty!”

  Jerome, another observer of the scene, rose hurriedly and circled the table to fill the glasses of his guests. As he leaned across Lilac, pouring the wine, he murmured, “Be careful! I think Beatrice is trying to make us all drunk.”

  Beatrice, watching, saw his anxious, protective gesture, saw Lilac glance upwards to meet his eyes. Lilac, laughing, glowing with Stephen’s flatteries and promises, looked straight into Jerome’s eyes with an unmasked expression, so intimate, familiar, and sharing that Beatrice felt her heart lurch. Well, she would be revenged, she thought.

  Joshua was also watching. Turning from his neighbour, sipping his wine, he glanced across the table, nodded in answer to his neighbour’s question, sipped again, made a measured remark and threw another glance in the direction of Beatrice. She was thoroughly over-excited, he thought. Flushed, with brilliant eyes, she was talking too loudly—shouting almost, in a very unattractive way.

  Slow anger burned in Joshua—anger with Beatrice who had set the whole thing up, anger with Lilac and the attentive young man, and anger with his brother Jerome.

  “You certainly made an exhibition of yourself,” said Joshua, driving Lilac home later that night.

  Lilac flinched. “What do you mean?”

  “Everybody knows that Stephen John is the greatest womaniser this side of the equator. There you were, lapping him up, making a fool of yourself and me …”

  “Oh! Joshua!” Lilac’s perpetual cry of protest. “Do you have to spoil everything?”

  “Lilac, will you never learn to behave like an adult?”

  “What I will learn is to keep myself to myself,” she said, drawing away from him.

  Not many days later, Stephen telephoned Lilac early one morning just after Joshua had left for his office.

  “Have you thought about it, Lilac—the job I mean?”

  Lilac hesitated.

  “Dear Lilac,” Stephen purred, “let me make up your mind for you. At least talk to Giuseppi. He’s very keen. Look, why don’t you come around to us—although Anthea will be away—next Thursday at 6. He’s going to be in London then. Wear something really pretty and be prepared to stay for dinner. Don’t tell Joshua—make some excuse, you’ll know what to say better than I do.” His little laugh implied she was practised at this deception. Then, as she still hesitated, “Darling Lilac, this is your great chance …”

  Thursday was the day Lilac was to meet Jerome. “I’ll come at 7.”

  “All right, splendid girl. Come in a cab, leave your car at home …”

  “What do you think?” It was Wednesday and Lilac was having tea with Mr Porter. He shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of it,” he said. And yet—perhaps that is the way these things are done, he thought, personal contacts, introductions … What price would Lilac have to pay?

  “What’s Stephen getting out of it?” he asked.

  “How d’you mean?”

  “Well, is he doing this out of love—are you supposed to go to bed with him, or with this Giovanni—this Italian—or with both of them?”

  “Giuseppi—I don’t know. I hadn’t thought of that. I wouldn’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  Discussing the matter with Dr Katzenheimer in the morning, Mr Porter was acutely aware again of his recurrent apprehension about Lilac’s fate. “It makes me nervous. What are they planning for her?” he said.

  “Are you angry, do you think? Jealous perhaps?”

  He pondered. “No
. I’m nervous. Afraid for her. They’re a pack of wolves. She doesn’t know how to cope with them.”

  “She’s coped so far,” suggested Dr Katzenheimer, “but I should tell her to take her own car.”

  To his intense annoyance, Mr Porter could not reach Lilac on the telephone after his session with Dr Katzenheimer. He supposed she had gone out to lunch. During the afternoon, he was so taken up by a frustrating argument with Cyril that he forgot to call Lilac until it was too late, because at four o’clock he had agreed to see Beatrice at his flat.

  She arrived punctually. Mr Porter, who had been a little late getting home himself, was flustered and therefore inclined to be hostile when he opened the door to her.

  “Well, Beatrice?”

  They faced one another in the sitting room, two frayed creatures against the background of Chinese porcelain, Florentine tapestries, silver candlesticks, glass, paintings, Victorian bric-à-brac …

  “Well?”

  She was silent, trying to get a hold on herself, to prevent the flow of tears. “Please, Mr Porter, I want you to answer a question. I ask you, please, to answer honestly. Please! Whatever the answer is, it means a great deal to me to be told the truth.”

  “What is the question, Beatrice?”

  “Did Jerome, my husband, and Lilac ever meet one another here—in this flat?” and she glanced around the room.

  He looked into her eyes. She was clearly so distressed that pity overcame his distaste for this strident woman. “No, Beatrice. Truthfully, they never met here.”

  “Never? Ever?”

  “Never.”

  “You swear that?”

  He smiled a little. “For what it’s worth. I swear.”

  She said, “I believe you. Thank you.” Then, after a moment, she cried, “I’m so unhappy,” and she began to weep.

  “I think you are angry, Beatrice,” he said.

  She dried her eyes and blew her nose loudly. “Yes,” she agreed. “I’m very angry indeed!” And shortly afterwards she went away.