The Centre of the Green

by John Bowen

  Certainly in all his confusion Mr. Monney had not thought of compensation. He was not a vindictive man. It was a solution to his problems that he needed, not the consolations of punishment. All he knew was that Betty was in trouble and needed help, and that he himself needed help to help her. Julian was the other person chiefly concerned, and, if they were to get things straight, they could only do it together. He did not understand why Julian had gone away.

  “Well, of course I can give you the address,” Penny said. “It’s rather a long way to go. Hadn’t you better talk to me?”

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker. It’s personal really—nothing to do with the flat.”

  Stupid little man, Penny thought; you’ll find out soon enough. What good did he think he was doing? Was he “sparing her”? She felt like saying, “But my dear Mr. Monney, I know exactly what the matter is, and I’m completely on your side. I’ll be delighted to help you get as much out of my husband as you can,” but she decided to let him find out for himself. Anyway, the country air might do him good; he looked like death warmed up at the moment. When he came back would be soon enough, and meanwhile she would have more time to make her own decisions. So she only said, “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “Thank you.” And Mr. Monney tucked the address away in his wallet, and went downstairs to find out about trains.

  It was all problems for Mr. Monney. The journey was a problem. If he left by the early morning train, he could probably get there and back in one day. What explanation could he give at the post-office for his absence? He would have to say he had been ill; it would not be completely a lie, for already he could feel one of his headaches coming on. He hated to be absent, for he had always taken such a pride in punctuality and regular attendance, but he supposed it could not be helped: indeed, if that were all! Even fares were so expensive nowadays. They did not have day returns, he discovered, to Newton Abbot.

  Now here he was, waiting in the living-room of the Baker’s cottage, while from the mantel a gold clock in a glass case ticked out the time. He was tired and grubby. He wore a macintosh, and held his dark hat with both hands in front of his stomach. He was all grey, and furtive, and civilian—the very picture, Colonel Baker decided as he entered the room, the very picture of a blackmailer.

  Mr. Monney said, “It was Mr. Julian Baker I wanted to see.”

  “I’m his father. I think you’d better talk to me.”

  Mr. Monney had come all this way specially, and now they wouldn’t even let him see Julian. He felt faint with embarrassment, and with not having eaten. “It’s a private matter really,” he said.

  “I know all about it. My son has already told me everything.”

  “I don’t see——”

  “He hasn’t tried to hide anything from his family. I’m sorry if that’s rather spiked your guns.”

  “Guns?”

  “Everyone here already knows about the whole dirty business, and we quite understand. There’s no profit to be made out of threatening to tell us.”

  Mr. Monney was confused. “I don’t want to cause trouble,” he said. “I only wanted to see——” It was monstrous that they should keep him from talking to Julian. And the way this man was going on! “I don’t want to distress you or your good lady,” he said. “There’s no question of that, but I have come a long way.” They didn’t even ask him to sit down, or offer him a cup of tea. “I’m quite prepared to wait.”

  “That won’t be necessary. We can deal with the matter ourselves. It shouldn’t take long.” The Colonel remembered that in cases of this nature the first thing is to establish that the girl is of bad character. “I suppose you’re quite sure that my son is the father?” he said. “I gather that there’s room for doubt.”

  Mr. Monney stared at him, and dropped his hat. The Colonel let it lie, and continued, “Come now, you must know your own daughter. And you must know as well as I do that this thing wouldn’t stand up in court for a moment. The question is, What’s best to be done?”

  “That’s what I came … came to——”

  “Exactly. Well, you won’t find us ungenerous. There’s to be no question of blackmail. We won’t pay blackmail; that’s understood. But when it comes to help with the hospital bills and that sort of thing, that’s another matter, eh?”

  Mr. Monney remained where he was, staring at the Colonel, and for the first time the Colonel began to have doubts. He saw that Mr. Monney was tired, and sick with worry. During most of their conversation he had kept his glance turned a little away, because the idea of dealing with a blackmailer disgusted him so, but now he was held by Mr. Monney’s eyes, and their expression was not sly nor bold. On an impulse, he picked up Mr. Monney’s hat, and handed it back to him.

  Mr. Monney said, “What’s that you were saying about Betty?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Yes, it does. What was it?”

  “I said—well, I may have been wrong. A bit hasty, I suppose. I’ve no doubt there were faults on both sides. After all, Julian’s a grown man.” But this was weakness, and his wife trusted him to settle the fellow. “Just the same——”

  “I don’t know what this has got to do with you, I’m sure,” Mr. Monney said. “I came here … it wasn’t easy to get away. I wanted to sort things out. And I no sooner get into the house——”

  “Now, look here——”

  “Who told you that about my daughter? It wasn’t Mr. Baker; he knows better. There’s never been a word, never a hint of anything like that, and he knows it. I have to—to ask her to go out and enjoy herself; she won’t go else. I came down here because she’s sick and in trouble, and you——You people! You think the world belongs to you.”

  “My son said——”

  “Why did he run away and come here, leaving his wife like that, and making me follow him? Why did he send you to talk to me, using words like blackmail and that? Why didn’t he come himself? I didn’t ask for money. I wanted to talk it out straight. I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to do what was best. And you——The first thing you thought….” Mr. Monney’s hands were trembling, and he twisted his hat as if he would tear it apart. He felt his head go dizzy. Lord, if he didn’t go away quick, he might fall down. Anyway, it did no good talking. The words wouldn’t come out right. “I did wrong in coming here; I see that now,” he said. “I should have known better than to expect help from him. Educated people aren’t always the wisest; I’ve often read that, and I should have remembered it. I know better now.”

  The Colonel said, “Wait, Mr.—er——” but Mr. Monney brushed past him into the hall. “You’ll hear from me when I’ve decided,” he said, “you’d better tell him that,” and was gone.

  Colonel Baker returned to the kitchen. Charles said, “It’s all right, Father. It’s sixteen. I’ve remembered now,” but the Colonel did not hear him. “‘Fraid I’ve made rather a mess of things,” he said, and suddenly, ridiculously, his eyes filled with tears, and because he could not speak any more, he went on out into the garden, and left the two of them sitting there.

  *

  That night Mrs. Baker dreamed a dream.

  All she owned were three tall trees, and she had erected a fence around them to keep them safe. But when the fence was in position she could not survey the whole of it at once, and she was forced to keep running round and round it to make sure that nobody broke through and stole the trees or harmed them. She was kept so busy running around the fence that she could never give enough attention to the trees themselves, and she grew more and more anxious for their safety and more and more tired from the running. After a while one of the trees was stolen—or at any rate disappeared—so she began to run faster than ever, but when she stopped to look again, the second tree had gone also. Only one was left. So Mrs. Baker went to this tree, and around it she clasped her arms, hugging and gripping it ever more tightly so that the warm sap ran freely down her face and breast. With this happy sensation, she awoke.
>
  It seemed to her as she lay in bed and watched the moonlight through the open window that sleep had refreshed her, and allowed her to see things more clearly. If she had not had to defend him to the others, she would have realized sooner that most of what Julian had told her that morning was false, or if not false, at least the emphases were wrong. After all, she should have remembered that with Julian the truth came never at the first interrogation, but gradually and in sections, each section giving a different depth to what had gone before. She had no doubt at all now that Julian had behaved very badly, both to this unfortunate girl and to his own wife. That would all have to be arranged somehow, but Colonel Baker was not the man to arrange it. She did not feel angry with him for his mishandling of the situation so far; it was simply that he did not understand. He did not know Julian as she did. He did not know any of the boys. How could he, who had come back from the war a stranger to them, who was even now more uncle than father?

  No, she could not depend on others; she must take care of Julian herself. He was weak. He had always been weak, always run away when demands were made upon him. Very well, it was better not to make demands. Weak people must be protected; that is what the strong are for. Julian must be kept out of trouble. How? He could not be sent back to London, back to his office, back to his wife, back to all the racking worry and strain. He had run home for safety, and if he did not find it—I’ll kill myself, he had said once, I won’t go back to school. I’ll kill myself; of course he had not done it, but the thought had entered his mind. Nobody could protect Julian but she, who had always done so. He must stay with her, stay away from temptation. He must give up his job; it would be no hardship. He need not be idle. He could find something to do locally—teach or something; she would think of something. But for the time being at any rate he must stay at home where he would be safe.

  *

  On Tuesday two letters arrived. One was for Colonel Baker from Mr. Monney, the other for Julian from Penny.

  This was the Colonel’s letter:

  “Dear Sir,

  I am sending you this line as promised, not wishing to communicate further with your son.

  Being very upset on my return to London after our interview, I came to the decision to place matters before your son’s wife, and she has very kindly agreed to arrange matters. At her request and not wishing to cause talk, I have decided not to have recourse to the law.

  Yours truly,

  ALBERT MONNEY.”

  Penny’s letter to Julian was typed on her portable Olivetti, and read:

  “Dear Julian,

  This is to reassure you. I do not want you to come back to London. You can stay where you are and that’ll suit me very well. I’ll send your clothes on by train in the green trunk.

  Mr. Monney came to see me when he got back from you. You don’t seem to have handled things very well. He had a splitting head and he was very hurt and upset. He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he’d been thinking about a paternity suit. I didn’t think that would help much so I made some tea and managed to calm him down a bit. In the end we had quite a heart to heart and he took his hair down. I can’t say I’ve ever cared for him much before but he isn’t a bad little man when you get to know him and he’s certainly behaving very decently about this.

  You’ll be glad to know that I’ve promised to help with things. There’s a girl in the office who’s been through it all—it’s quite safe but expensive. She’ll take me to see the man and you’ll have to pay. I’ll tell you how much when I know. If it’s more than you’ve got you’ll have to borrow from your father.

  I’ve also seen the girl and had a chat with her—I don’t suppose we’ve ever had more than two words together before; that’s always been your department. She seems a nice kid and I’m sorry for her. If I felt any responsibility for you any longer I’d be ashamed.

  I haven’t decided yet about a divorce. That can wait —I’m not going to involve this girl—she’s having a bad enough time already. When I do, I’ll let you know.

  PENNY.”

  Julian read the letter while his mother watched him. He read it twice, and then put it back in the envelope. “He’s not going to sue me or anything,” he said.

  The Colonel said, “So he tells me.”

  “Penny wants me to stay down here for a bit.”

  “Let me see, dear,” Mrs. Baker read both letters, and then she said, “Yes, she’s quite right. There’s nothing; you can do. You’ll be better off at home.”

  “Suppose so.”

  The Colonel said, “But surely——” and was silent.

  “I think I’ll have to go back to work soon,” Charles said.

  “Will you, dear?” said Mrs. Baker. “I’m so sorry. It hasn’t been much of a holiday for you with all this worry. And I expect you needed the rest.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Town and Country

  “Charles, this is Curly. Curly, this is Charles.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “How do you do?”

  The doctor said, “Actually it’s a bit exhausting, all this cross-introduction business. Shall we introduce ourselves? My name’s Peter, as most of you know already.”

  “Charles.”

  “Curly.”

  “Ethel.”

  “Myra.”

  “David.”

  “Anne.”

  “Waters.”

  “Is that your first name or your second name?” Curly said.

  “It’s my name.”

  They had met in a room at the Institute. It was a comfortable room, but it lacked character, even the character of being institutional. Indeed, that seemed to be the point of it; the room would have no associations for them but what they themselves put into it. There was a grey Wilton carpet on the floor, comfortable armchairs arranged to face each other in a circle, metal ash-trays on the arms of the chairs, velvet curtains of dove grey to frame the dusk of the London evening, misty blue water-colours on walls distempered a light grey.

  They stood about, not yet at ease. Ethel said, “Where shall we sit?” She was a flat-faced, middle-aged, definite sort of woman, who wore a thin cashmere sweater, a string of cultured pearls, and alligator shoes. You felt that she had been taking charge of meetings for most of her life, and since Peter didn’t show much sign of being in charge of this one, leadership fell into her lap as if it belonged there.

  “Anywhere you like,” Peter said.

  Ethel plumped herself down in one of the chairs, and diffidently the others followed her example. The two seats on either side of Ethel were occupied last. Waters took one, and Peter himself the other.

  Next to Peter was Myra, a woman about six feet tall, who managed to make herself look even taller by wearing a hat with a long green feather sticking straight up at the back. Neither Ethel nor Anne were wearing hats, but Myra kept hers on. Next to Myra was Curly, and then Charles, who was already beginning to regard Curly as an ally. He was by far the youngest of the group—perhaps in his early twenties—and all that one could see of his skin was covered with freckles. It was as if somebody had stood him, stark naked, in the centre of a studio, and flicked gold paint at him with a stiff brush. Curly’s hair was red-gold and tightly curled, and a fine pelt of reddish hairs could be seen at his wrists. He looked scrubbed. Where the rest of the group were marked with little wrinkles, tics and tightnesses, with acidities and allergies and the various signs of stress, Curly’s face was smooth and candid, except for the puzzled lines on his brow with which, Charles felt, he must surely have been born. As he sat there, with his hands resting uncomfortably on his knees, Curly said to Charles, “I dare say it won’t be so bad really when we get down to it,” and Charles replied, “I’m sure it won’t”.

  Anne, on Charles’ other side, was as grey as the room. Sharp-nosed and anxious, she picked at the hem of her skirt with a long, tense, index finger. And beyond her David, with the face of a failed actor. Then Waters. Then Ethel. There they all were, sev
en of them and the doctor, sitting in a circle, defenceless, facing each other.

  Each of them, after a first swift glance at the others, looked down at the carpet, or at his own legs, or at the arms of the chair. There was a silence. They waited for Peter to give them a lead. Then Ethel said, “Well, what do we do now?”

  “I thought we might talk a bit. We’ve got about an hour. Or a bit longer, if you like.”

  “Talk? What about?”

  “I thought you’d probably decide that for yourselves.”

  “Well, really, how on earth are we supposed to know?” The rest of the group were silent, resenting Ethel’s leadership, and resenting Peter’s lack of it.

  Peter said mildly, “If you don’t already know what you want to talk about, why did you go to the trouble of coming here?”

  Anne said, “I live in Wimbledon. It took an hour. I had to change twice. Once at Earl’s Court and once at Charing Cross.” She had lifted her gaze from her lap, but she looked only at Peter.

  “Exactly.”

  Ethel said, “Oh Christ! Come off the pot. You know perfectly well why we came.”

  “Why?”

  Curly said, “You told me we could help each other like. Maybe. I mean, we could help each other put things right.”

  “What’s wrong with you then?” Ethel said.

  Charles said, “I don’t think you ought to ask him that.”

  “Why not?”

  “He’ll tell us if he wants to. You mustn’t ask him.”

  “Are you his keeper or something?” Ethel laughed. “Really!” she said, “I’m not psychic, you know. If he wants me to ‘help him’, he’d better say what’s wrong. I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me soon enough. I’m bloody neurotic. At least that’s what everybody says, so I suppose they must be right.”

  Curly began to blush, and his freckles became darker, almost like blotches. “Well, I do have this trouble,” he said. “I don’t like talking about it really.” He paused, took a deep breath, and went on. “I’m shy, see? I’ve always been shy, even when I was just a kid. I dare say there was a lot of reasons for it, like my dad being in prison, and them saying in school I was dirty, and the kids not wanting to sit next to me. So I’m really very shy.”