The door was unlocked and Marius pushed it and went in. In the drawing-room Annabelle and a man with golden hair were sitting at the piano playing chopsticks. The man was humming and not getting the playing right. As we came in he stopped and said “Ha!” at Marius, and Annabelle went on playing the bass. Marius said, “That’s Peter.” He nodded to me.
“Can you play chopsticks?” Annabelle said. “No one else can.” I remembered how the corners of her eyes were wrinkled.
“Yes,” I said. I sat down on the stool with her, and we played. She played very quickly to try me out, and I kept up with her. I could see her laughing to herself as she went faster and faster, and she put out her tongue between her teeth. The golden-haired man watched us and tried to join in at the top of the piano, but he couldn’t get it right, so he thumped on the keys with his fists. It was a huge piano, and it made a lot of noise. Marius was standing by the window holding a corner of the curtain back and looking out like a detective. Then Annabelle stopped playing suddenly and sat back with her hands in the lap of her bright red dress. “You play very well,” she said.
“It’s not very difficult,” I said.
“No.” She lifted her hand and pushed a curl from her cheek behind her ear. We were close to each other on the stool, and I was leaning away from her rather twisted. “Can you play properly?” she said.
“No,” I said.
“Play something,” she said, still sitting, with her hands back in her lap.
I played an old waltz, which was the only thing I knew. I played it badly, thumping it. I had learned it at school. I got some of the notes wrong.
“How impressive,” she said. “Can you play anything else?”
“No,” I said. “Can you?”
She played the same thing as I had done, but beautifully, as it should be played.
“How rude,” said the golden-haired man. “Don’t you think my sister is rude?”
“Is she your sister?” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “My beautiful sister.”
“I hope you are pleased,” Annabelle said, finishing off with a flourish.
Peter turned away from us, and Annabelle sat sideways so that I could see her throat. “Marius,” Peter said, “come away from that window. There is nothing to see.”
Marius smiled and came into the middle of the room and watched us.
“The great thing about Marius,” Peter said, “is that he never speaks. That’s a great thing to learn. It’s always so inspiring. The only time that I have ever inspired anyone was when I had an infected larynx and couldn’t speak. It was at a dinner party and I never said a word. They all thought I was marvelous.”
“We haven’t seen you for a long time,” Annabelle said to me.
“I’ve been away,” I said.
“I’m sure Napoleon never spoke,” Peter said. “I’m sure he never said a word. Do you think he did, Marius?”
“I’m sure he did,” Marius said.
“I don’t think so. Of course it’s foolish to speak. You can never say anything so wise as what people think you might say if you don’t.”
“It depends what you look like,” Marius said.
“I look like a lobster,” Peter said, staring at a mirror.
Annabelle said to me “I am so glad you’ve found us. I was wondering if we would ever see you again.”
“I was wondering if you would remember me.”
“Oh yes,” she said.
Peter was walking round the room. He was saying “Of course it’s all right for you. You’ve got the face for it. People think you are like a God when you don’t say anything. And Gods have got to be silent, or else they would make fools of themselves. What on earth could a God say that would make any sense?”
“I don’t know,” Marius said.
“Nothing. They can’t make sense so they don’t say anything. Very sensible. How terrible it would be to be a God!”
“Why?” Annabelle said.
“Because of their conscience. Think of God’s conscience! Man’s is bad enough, but think of God’s!”
“You can’t,” Annabelle said.
“I can. And it makes me sick.”
“That’s silly,” Annabelle said, and again I saw something frightening in her alarming eyes.
Marius sat down. “I have seen Mr. Jackson,” he said.
“And finished it?”
“Yes. Mr. Jackson was a communist,” Marius said to me.
“Oh,” I said.
“I was rude to him and then we were rude to someone who perhaps is his opposite. Mr. Jackson is quite right, it is difficult to find any other alternative.”
“It is easy to look,” Peter said.
“One is, sooner or later, rude to everyone. One is rude until there is no one left to be rude to. Then one is rude to oneself.”
“Why don’t you stop?” Annabelle said.
“But we are only just starting!” Peter said. “It is impossible to start anything until one has been rude to everything. Now you have been rude to this communist you are rid of him. When we are rid of everyone we will begin!”
“Begin what?” Annabelle said.
“Whatever happens. We have to be rid of things first. We have to stop worrying about things that don’t matter.”
The telephone rang. Annabelle went to answer it. I watched her as she walked across the room. She stood holding the receiver loosely to her ear, with her thigh propped against a table. She was looking at Marius who was sitting in a chair with his overcoat on. She spoke vaguely into the receiver—“Oh hullo, yes no . . . no I can’t, not to-night . . . if you like, yes, do . . . oh just Peter and one or two other people. All right, we’ll expect you then.” The red of her dress was vivid against the paleness of the room, like a rose-leaf floating in a bowl of silver. She put down the receiver and unhitched herself from the table. “Freddie,” she said, “Freddie Naylor.” She walked over to Marius, pushing the curls to the back of her long white neck.
“Now,” Peter said, “we can be rude to him.”
“He’s all right,” Annabelle said, standing in front of Marius and trying to tell him something.
“He thinks he’s still at school,” Peter said. “He will still think he’s at school for the rest of his life.”
“I think I know him,” I said.
“He is like a dead bird.”
“Yes.”
“Not even stuffed.” Annabelle and Marius were looking at each other like conspirators.
“He might at least have the decency to get stuffed,” Peter said.
Annabelle went up to him. “Shall we have something to eat,” she said, “before they come?”
“We’ll get stuffed,” Peter said.
Annabelle went out of the room. Marius sat in his chair as if he were asleep. I think they had been trying to say something about Peter, but I could not be sure. Peter was walking up and down. He said, “People are either schoolboys or clowns. People are always unhappy. Do you know why clowns are unhappy? Because if you make a business of laughter your leisure can only deal with tears. That is all there is left to you. I think I must be a clown.”
“There is ham and lettuce,” Annabelle called from the kitchen, “and a few potatoes.”
“And the rest are schoolboys. A schoolboy is someone who doesn’t know the difference between business and leisure, who has never laughed and never cried. They function because the rules instruct them to function, and they are blessed with the inability to ever question why.”
“And lots of bread and butter,” Annabelle called.
“Supposing,” Peter said, “that one made a business of tears, would one then be able to laugh in one’s leisure? Would it be possible? Is that what you do, Marius?”
“Do what?” Marius said.
“That is what God does. I am sure that is what God does. That is why he deals in tears. Marius, when you are silent, when people think you are a God, do you want to laugh or cry?”
“You ta
lk too much,” Annabelle said, coming into the room with a tray.
“I know,” Peter said, “that is what I am talking about.”
“Well don’t,” Annabelle said, going out again.
“Have you ever been unhappy, Marius?” Peter said.
“Yes.” Marius said.
“When?”
“When I am hurt.”
“That isn’t an answer. Gods never answer. I don’t believe that Gods are ever unhappy. I’m sure that I couldn’t tell whether Marius was unhappy or not, could you?” he said to me.
“No,” I said.
“Gods can be hurt,” Annabelle said, coming in again with some sandwiches. She passed Peter without looking at him.
“Yes,” Peter said. He watched her. Then he went to the window. “I should think so,” he said. “I should think a God’s about the most hurt thing there is. He should be. He asks for it. Bloody fool.” He stood with his back to us. “How many people think you’re a God, Marius?”
“I don’t know,” Marius said.
“And how many people think you’re a bloody fool?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh.” Peter opened the window and leant out into the night. “God’s a bloody fool,” he shouted. Then he closed the window and drew the curtains and took some sandwiches from Annabelle’s tray.
The door-bell rang. No one went to answer it. “Now I have been rude to God,” Peter said. Annabelle stood sadly in front of her sandwiches as if she had suffered some momentary loss. Then Peter shouted, “Come in, come in, you unstuffed owl,” and he filled his mouth with a potato. There was no reply. Annabelle went to the door and I could hear her talking in the passage, and then she came in again followed by three people. One was Freddie Naylor. Behind him came a delicate prancing man wearing a bow tie, and with them a smart girl carrying a handbag like a drum.
“Hullo Peter,” Freddie said. “You know Nancy, don’t you. This is Hilton Weekes.”
“How do you do,” Peter said, munching his potato.
“We’ve all come along,” Freddie said. “I knew you wouldn’t mind. I heard your father and mother were away, so I knew you’d be well in. I see you are.” He opened his mouth and made a noise like someone blowing their nose.
“Have some lettuce,” Peter said.
“Well in the liquor,” laughed Freddie. He was looking round for drinks.
The smart girl was chattering to Annabelle and was writhing her mouth as if she were putting on lipstick. Her bag was suspended from straps around her neck, and every time she moved it bounced against her middle. Annabelle was watching her carefully. Hilton Weekes was flitting round the room looking at the pictures.
“I’m afraid I don’t know your name,” Peter said, introducing me. I told him.
“Oh yes,” Freddie said. “Weren’t you in the Regiment?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I thought I remembered you.”
“I’m afraid I left it,” I said.
“Oh yes,” he said. He looked away. Peter was introducing the others to Marius. Marius stood up and shook hands. The prancing man was poised beside him with his head on one side, and the girl was approaching like a one-man band. Peter was doing some joke about introducing Marius as a cardinal.
“You have been in England long?” the prancing man said. He spoke meticulously, as if to a foreigner.
“Yes,” Marius said.
“You have come over to . . . ?”
“To . . . ?”
“I thought . . . ”
“No,” Marius said.
“Oh.” The girl was staring at Marius open-mouthed. Above her head two feathers swayed like wireless-masts, and her earrings clashed faintly like cymbals. Peter began to sing, “Ta-ra-ra-boom-de-ay.”
Freddie advanced impatiently upon Annabelle. “Why don’t you come out with us?” he said. “We were going to have some dinner. Why don’t you?”
“I can’t.” Annabelle said.
He caught hold of her arm in an awkward, lurching way, and she stood turned away from him while he held her. “Why not?” he said. “Come along. Don’t let’s have any nonsense.” He pulled her arm and Annabelle swayed, letting her arm go, but her feet did not move. He looked stiff and ugly beside her.
“She doesn’t want to.” Peter called out. “She hates your guts, Freddie, she hates your guts.”
Freddie laughed. He gave another pull at Annabelle’s arm and she overbalanced, crossing her feet to steady herself. I could not see her face. The prancing man was standing in front of Marius and Marius was looking over his shiny oiled head towards Peter. “I don’t know about that,” Freddie said in his thick, throttled voice, “but she’s going to have dinner with us, aren’t you?” He squeezed her arm and I could see how he wanted to hurt her.
“You’re a sadist, Freddie,” Peter called. “Has anyone ever told you you’re a sadist?”
“Oh are you?” the prancing man said brightly.
The smart girl swung round and caught him on the hip with her drum. The she went writhing up to Freddie. “Why should she come?” she said. “Why should the poor thing come if she doesn’t want to?” She stood with her soft powdered face stretched loudly up towards Freddie’s. Freddie did not look at her. Annabelle swayed on one leg with her head down, and Freddie’s starched white cuff showed up against her skin like a bandage.
“Why don’t you go to a girl’s school?” Peter called. “Why don’t you pinch Nancy, she’s longing for it.” Nancy became convulsed with giggles, clutching her drum to her middle.
“Come along,” Freddie said, furiously.
“If you pinch Nancy,” Peter said, “she’ll make a noise like a hunting-horn.”
Freddie took a step towards Annabelle so that she straightened out on her feet. “Well what are you going to do to-night?” he said. “What else are you doing?”
“I’m having dinner,” Annabelle said. She stood miserably.
“Oh,” Freddie said. He let go of her. She stood where she was. Freddie walked over to Peter. “Let’s have your drinks then,” he said. “Where are they?”
“No drinks,” Peter said. “Only lettuces.”
“On the wagon?” Freddie sneered.
“No, they’ve arrived,” Peter said. He began to laugh uncontrollably.
Nancy was plucking at the prancing man’s sleeve. “We’d better go,” she said. “Don’t let’s stay if Annabelle doesn’t want to.”
“We’ll stay,” Freddie said. “We’ll have some lettuces.” He stood obstinately while Annabelle cut him some ham, and I felt rather sorry for him. Peter was still laughing, and Hilton Weekes was holding a book up, saying, “I say, has anybody read this?” and no one was taking any notice of him.
There was a silence. Freddie was chewing his ham. Then—“Annabelle has become very superior, hasn’t she?” he said speaking to no one in particular.
“Oh yes,” Peter said, “she’s become religious.”
“Oh religious,” Freddie said. He looked at Marius and then at me. I suddenly realized that I was copying Marius, although I could not do it as he did. He was leaning on the back of a chair and I was propped against the piano, but I felt a fool when Freddie looked at me. Marius was smiling faintly at the carpet, but he did not look a fool. “Do you mean to say she goes to church?” Freddie said, watching Marius.
“No,” Peter said: “the Church comes to her.” He began laughing again, and Annabelle put a hand in front of her eyes like someone very tired. Then Peter saw her, suddenly, and he stopped laughing, so that the noise between them died.
“Oh,” Freddie said. Hilton Weekes coughed nervously; he was looking for somewhere to deposit his book. The girl was by the door, a powder puff in her hand, holding it arrested in front of her nose like a handkerchief. She looked as if she were about to sneeze. Then she said “Oh do let’s go, please,” in a kind of despair.
“We certainly don’t seem to be very welcome here,” Freddie said.
Peter looked m
iserably at Annabelle, who still had her hand in front of her eyes. Then he went up to Freddie. “But you are welcome,” he said, “really; won’t you stay and have a drink?”
“We’ll go,” Freddie said.
“But I think you’re terribly nice,” Peter said. “Really Freddie, I am sure I can find you a drink. Do stay.”
“No,” Freddie said.
“I was joking,” Peter said. “I am always joking.” He looked very sad and quite sincere. “You should know that I am joking.” Then he turned to the girl. “I think you’re terribly nice too,” he said. “Can’t you show us what you’ve got in that lovely bag?”
“Oh just one or two things,” said the girl, happy now, starting to struggle with the clips.
“Do let’s see.”
“Come on,” Freddie said, swearing furiously from the passage.
“Just the few things that I always carry about with me . . . ” She was like a child showing off a new toy.
“How exciting!” Peter said.
Freddie seized the girl and dragged her into the passage. Now that Peter had become friendly he was determined to go. I supposed he thought it was a joke. I did not blame him. Hilton Weekes followed them quickly. On the landing the bag burst, scattering a few dainty objects on the floor. The girl and Hilton Weekes knelt to pick them up, and Peter was hovering round saying, “That’s a nice one, that really is: I’ve never seen one like that before;” and Freddie was looking as if he was going to burst too. At length they gathered themselves together and went. We could hear Peter’s voice following them pleasantly down the passage.
A Garden of Trees Page 5
