by Angus Wilson
Gerald sought desperately for something to say to stop this outflow, which embarrassed him so deeply. He tried to tell himself that the embarrassment was not for what he was hearing, but simply because of his new knowledge of his son's life. He saw clearly, however, that John was equally unhappy; his usual cocky manner was replaced by a look of peculiar sadness. He seemed like a small, bedraggled bird.
Larrie's quick eye caught the situation, his expression changed to one of timid thoughtfulness. 'You know, Johnnie, there's a strange thing,' he said, 'I hardly like to say it. Your father doesn't know I'm just ignorant and uneducated. But Johnnie'll tell you, I have strange ideas. I don't know how they come to me and they're daft enough all right, but Johnnie doesn't always think so. Shall I tell you what it seems to me? And there's no disrespect to your father. Yet it seems to me there's a strange power in words. When I saw your father, Johnnie, I won't say I was disappointed, but there was something broke in me. I'd thought of that word "Professor" often and often; it had a kind of magic power for me, and now it has gone. The word and the reality, the dreams we have as children and what comes after - it's a mighty gulf all right. But now Johnnie's ashamed of me - aren't you, Johnnie? - for talking so "daft".'
To Gerald's amazement, John's depressed expression gave way to a look of pride. 'No, I'm not, Larrie,' he said; 'there's a lot in what you say.'
So this, thought Gerald, is the effect of the love that dares not speak its name. He would have expected Inge to respond to such sentimental, insincere nonsense, but John ... He looked at Larrie's immature features, his calculating, boyish smile, with real distaste.
Luckily the tension was relieved by Inge's return. 'Larwood is so happy. He is sharing the maid's meal,' she cried. 'I think he has quite fallen for Trudel.' She gave a 'spooney' look at Larrie and he replied with a wink. 'But what are we to give this big man?' she continued, looking at Gerald with mock sternness. Her good mood was almost restored. 'I'm not going to disturb the maids at their meal,' she said firmly to Gerald, as though he had requested this piece of tyranny.
Larrie came over and put an arm round her large waist. 'Let me go into the larder, Mrs Middleton. I'm an old hand at scrounging. I'll find something, never you fear. There's sure to be some delicious tongue in your well-stocked pantry.'
'A tongue!' Inge cried, 'but this boy has such good ideas. I will tell Trudel to boil a tongue in some red wine with some onions. No! I must do it myself; she will always put too much onion.'
'A sandwich will do me perfectly,' Gerald intervened. 'There's no need for you to do a lot of cooking.'
'A sandwich,' Inge cried. 'Now isn't that like a man? To cut sandwiches, my dear Gerald, is far more troublesome than to cook tongue.'
'She's right, you know,' Larrie said. 'There's a great deal of trouble in sandwiches,' and he winked at Gerald, who looked the other way in annoyance. 'But don't you worry yourself with it, Mrs Middleton,' Larrie went on. 'Aren't the maids fighting to do things for you, with all your kindness to them? And if it's a bit of charm they're after, I'll go and talk to them.'
When he returned with a plate of cold tongue and salad, Inge was still lecturing Gerald on his selfishness in arriving so late, and announced, 'You're very lucky to get anything at all, Gerald. We have a very sick little invalid in the house who needs a great deal more care than you deserve.'
'And how is the darling little bird?' Larrie cried.
'Thingy found a little owl in the snow,' John explained. 'She and Larrie have been fussing about it trying to force brandy down its beak all the morning.' His voice showed a certain impatience. 'You know really, darling, you'd much better put it out of its misery. Its wing's injured, and even if you get it to take some food, it can't fly again.'
'Oh no!' Inge cried. 'What a terrible thing to say, Johnnie! It's such a wise little bird.' She rounded her eyes, and called loudly across the room, 'Ee-wik, ee-wik, ee-wik. It goes so, Gerald.' She looked more like a great Scandinavian eagle owl than the little owl. She may have sensed this, for she said very patiently to Gerald, 'Not the big kind that goes Woo-Woo-Woo. The little owl.'
'Yes, I had understood, Inge,' he replied. He disliked Inge's sudden animal imitations; before Larrie they seemed intolerable.
'Very well,' John got up from his chair and looked out of the window, 'I wash my hands of it. If you and Larrie want to fuss over the wretched bird, do.' He turned quite savagely upon Larrie, 'Only I hope to God the damned thing isn't still here when I get back tomorrow. I shall have to start soon, by the way, if I'm to get to town in time with these slippery roads.'
Gerald said, 'I can give you a lift back, if you like. Larwood's very reliable, even on roads like glass.'
John was still very short-tempered. 'No, thank you. I shall need the car to come back tomorrow. You rich people always have very inflated ideas of chauffeurs' driving.'
Larrie had been watching John's mood and he seemed to make a sudden decision. He crossed the room and put his hand on Inge's arm. 'Johnnie's right, you know. The poor little thing would be better out of the way.'
Inge turned great frightened doll's eyes upon him. 'Oh! no, you mustn't say so. I couldn't kill anything.'
'Why, Mrs Middleton, who'd wish you to do such a thing? No, it's I'm the one for that.'
John looked round from the window and said abruptly, 'Do it quickly, mind, Larrie.'
'Oh no! no!' Inge was still saying, but Larrie had gone from the room.
Gerald walked over to John. 'Do you think I could have a few words with you, John?' he asked quietly.
John looked up at him. 'It'll have to be very few words, because I must go,' he said.
'Is there a fire in the morning-room, Inge?' Gerald asked. 'I wanted to have a short business talk with John on his own.'
'Business that I mustn't hear? What can it be, Gerald? That is not very polite.'
'I'm sorry, my dear, I have no other chance of seeing John. By the way,' he added, 'I've written to Thurstan about that little business of yours. I should have done it before, but I've added a little yearly present which I hope you'll like.'
'Now you are trying to bribe me,' Inge cried, but she was smiling. 'All right. Go along with you. If the central heating is not enough, you can put on the electric heater.'
Before they had left the room, however, Larrie returned. Gerald felt that he could almost hear him purring. All the wistful, orphan lines of his face seemed to have filled out in a fat-cat contentment. 'The poor little thing's out of the way,' he said.
Inge sighed. 'Oh dear! I never have anything killed in this house. I do hope you're not going to bring me bad luck, Larrie.'
The boy went up and kissed her. 'How can you say that?' he asked.
'No, I don't mean it,' Inge smiled. But Gerald, who could see that she was genuinely distressed, said, 'I'm sure the little bird died very quickly, dear.'
'Well now, it did and it didn't' Larrie began, but John broke in abruptly. 'You can spare us the details, Larrie,' he said. He turned to Gerald with a mock schoolboy expression. 'Let's get the pi-jaw over, Father,' he said, 'or is it to be six of the best?' As they went out of the room, Larrie shouted after them, 'Make it a dozen, Professor.'
As they entered the long morning-room, so grey and empty in the dying February light, Gerald felt desperately that he had bungled the whole thing. He should have contrived the interview by chance; as it was, it reflected exactly the pattern of those few, clumsy, ill-managed 'talks' he had suffered with John in his early boyhood, any effect of which had immediately been undone by Inge's blandishments.
John sat on the arm of a large chair, swinging his legs, boyish once more in the absence of Larrie. 'What on earth is all this, Father?' he asked; but his careless smile did not entirely hide his annoyance.
Gerald, desperate to avoid the central topic, said, 'I'm worried about your mother, John.'
'Thingy, but why on earth? She seems in cracking form.'
Gerald forced himself to sit down and face John. 'Do you find it
cold in here? Shall I turn on one of those heaters?' and, when John replied with an impatient gesture, he continued, 'Oh yes, she's very well, I think. I'm just worried about her making a fool of herself over your friend, Larrie. You know how fond she gets of people.'
John raised his eyebrows. 'But good heavens!' he cried, 'it's the best thing in the world for her to have someone to be interested in. For one thing, it stops her fussing over her children so much. Surely you know that.' He took out his pipe and began filling it. For the rest of their interview he was busy fighting it, sucking at it and throwing away matches in a manner that doubled Gerald's nervous annoyance.
'We know nothing, at least I know nothing of your friend,' Gerald said.
John roared with laughter. 'I'd like to know when you've ever known anything, about any of our friends,' he said.
Gerald flushed, but he added determinedly, 'They didn't come to live with your mother.'
John stared at Gerald with an ironical smile. 'I could say a lot about your sudden solicitude for Thingy. However, I prefer to behave as though you had the ordinary husband's right to ask questions. Very well. Larrie's an orphan, an institution boy who's been in a lot of trouble; he's had three convictions for petty thieving and he's been to an Approved School. Thingy knows all that and she has welcomed him here as my friend. Do you want to know any more?'
Gerald's growing resentment made him bolder. 'I don't think that's the answer,' he said. 'You know as well as I do how vaguely warmhearted Inge is and the difficulties it gets her into. You have a perfect right to befriend anyone you choose. ...'
John's dark eyes narrowed in anger. 'Thank you, I have,' he cried. 'I know,' he went on, 'somebody's been getting at you. You came down here expressly to spy out the land. I think I know who it was too. Robin! Blast his eyes. He's got a bloody nerve to interfere, with his own little dreary double life.'
'I haven't seen Robin ...' Gerald began, but John was carried away. 'I don't believe you!' he cried. 'Well, you can tell Master Robin from me there's one little thing he's not getting away with, writing letters to The Times about "radio demagogues". His beloved protégé Mr Pelican is on the out...'
'This has nothing to do with it,' Gerald interrupted. 'I haven't seen Robin.'
John looked sulky. 'All right,' he said. 'It was someone else, then. His chère amie, perhaps, anxious to save me from myself. Hell hath no fury, you know. I suppose she "told" you about Larrie and me, and you're "deeply shocked".'
Gerald tried to curb the anger generated in him by the growing atmosphere of a 'scene', he set his features in a look of friendliness. 'I know about it, yes,' he said. 'I'm not saying how. I don't know what I feel about it really. In any case my feeling aren't relevant. If there's any blame going I must receive a large part of it as an inefficient father.' He smiled across at John. 'I should be very upset, you know, if you got into any trouble, but you must manage your own life. And I'm sure you do.' So much, he thought bitterly, for the part I've played in warning him that he's taking risks and he spurred himself to say more. 'You're a very well-known man now, John,' once again he smiled, 'and well-known people can't always afford the same life as others. However,' he hurried on, 'I'm purely concerned to protect Inge.'
John rose to his feet. All the bitterness generated in childhood, all Inge's teaching coalesced in him for a moment. 'Your past success in that respect gives you every reason to be confident this time, I'm sure,' he said with heavy sarcasm. He jumped up from his chair. 'I'm afraid I must go,' he said, 'or should I ask your permission to get down?' - Gerald looked away - 'I've no objection to your talking to Thingy if the curious workings of your conscience demand it,' John added patronizingly as he left the room. Gerald, trembling with anger, shouted after him, 'Thank you, I have every intention of doing so.'
Tea - one of Inge's most lavish teas to make up for Gerald's small lunch - was a gloomy meal for him. He sat silent while Inge and Larrie cooed away at one another. At about five, Larrie became restless. He walked up and down, opened newspapers at random, whistled, gazed at the clock, then suddenly he went up to Inge and putting his hand on her arm, he said wistfully, 'I know I promised you and Johnnie to stay home this evening, but let me take the car and go into Reading. It's only to go to the pictures. I won't be late. But it's Marilyn Monroe, the girl of my heart.'
Inge sighed, 'Oh Larrie! What will Johnnie say? You know what has happened all this week. Nobody wants you to stay at home, but you have done such naughty things.'
'I had a few too many beers in me,' Larrie said. 'Now that's being honest with you, isn't it?'
'They must have been very strong beers,' said Inge in coy reproof. 'Look what has been broken - all the furniture in the bedroom I furnished in the garage, one mudguard smashed, the maids frightened in their bedrooms. Bad boy!' She wagged her finger.
Larrie looked dramatic. 'Oh, when will I ever be rid of this beast in me? You'll help me, won't you? But it's not by staying in and getting restless that I can do it. That's no victory. It's by going out and coming back the same as I went that I'll win, isn't it?'
Inge smiled. 'You are determined to go, I can see. But you will not be too late, will you, Larrie?'
'Cross my heart,' Larrie said. His look was playfully shy. 'I'll just be going to the pictures and back again. With Marilyn Monroe in my mind, I won't be thinking of much else.'
'All right, I give way,' said Mrs Middleton. 'Have a lovely time.'
'Thank you,' said Larrie, and he gave her a big hug. 'It's been wonderful to meet you, Professor Middleton,' he said. 'I've heard talk of you so much from Johnnie. He's so proud of his father.' Gerald looked away.
Inge got up. 'I'll arrange for some sandwiches to be put in the flat,' she said, and went out of the room. To Gerald's surprise, Larrie came and stood by his side. His eyes blazed with hysterical rage. 'You'll not get me out of this house,' he said softly. 'You just try.' The next moment he was gone.
Inge was quite gay as they drank their sherry. 'You must stay and have dinner, Gerald,' she said. 'I have told them to make one of your English steak-and-kidney pies and I have a bottle of Châteauneuf du Pape - that you will like.' She moved round the room, banging cushions and rearranging chairs as she loved to do. 'Soon the snow will go away and there will be my snowdrops and then my little irises. You remember the Iris reticulata that I brought you last year to Montpelier Square. Does Mrs Larwood cook all right?' In such a mood, she did not wait for answers. 'Isn't he a charming boy, that haughty wicked Larrie?' she cried. 'Already he is responding to kindness.'
'I didn't find him very charming,' Gerald said, seizing the opening.
'No?' Inge cried, wide-eyed. 'Oh, Gerald! you don't know him. He is so full of jokes and fun. He keeps me young. But also he can be very serious. He has Irish blood, you know; they are dreamers. I think perhaps he will die young, poor thing. All the more reason to make him happy now.'
'I wish,' said Gerald, 'that the mission hadn't fallen to you. I don't like his being here at all.'
'Oh! Gerald, how can you talk like that? I am glad of his company. I am very much alone, you know.'
'That's just it. You're isolated down here with only the maids. A long way from the nearest house. It's not the place to have an ex- Borstal boy as a companion.'
Inge stopped and stared at him. 'Johnnie told you that. It is very naughty of him. How can the boy change his life if everybody talks about this? Besides, he is not a Borstal boy, he was at an Approved School. It is quite different.'
Gerald picked up the decanter and poured out two more sherries. 'I only had to hear what was said to know that he's drunken and violent,' he said. 'And I watched him too. He's probably got good somewhere, but it's terribly laid over, my dear. He's dishonest and deceitful, and I'm inclined to think that he's a malicious hysteric.' He reflected that this was also Inge's character in her bad moods. All the more reason that they should be kept apart, he thought.
Inge stood over him and shook her head. 'That is very uncharitable, Gerald. It c
omes with living too much with old books and not enough with people.' She dismissed his views. Then, 'And what would Johnnie say if I would not let his friend live here?' she asked.
'He's got on all right up to now without it,' Gerald said. He was determined not to use his knowledge of John's life to assist his arguments.
'He has got farther and farther away from me; that is why I like Larrie so. He is the first friend of Johnnie's who has brought us together.'
Gerald looked at her with a new interest. 'Have you met many of Johnnie's friends?' he asked.
'Oh, many, many, Gerald. But they are always trying to take him from me. They tell him I want to possess him and other cruel things. That man Derek Kershaw said dreadful things about me.'
Gerald smiled at her. 'And weren't they right?'
His disarming smile robbed the words of all seriousness for Inge. 'No, Gerald,' she said in mock anger, 'of course they weren't. You are a pig.'
He gave it up as hopeless. 'Will you promise,' he asked, 'that if I'm right about Larrie, you will get rid of him? And if I'm wrong, I'll give you ten pairs of nylon stockings.'
Inge laughed with pleasure. 'I promise,' she said.
They ate an enormous meal together with more real friendliness than they had felt for years. There was only one moment of annoyance, when Gerald asked if Inge had heard from Kay. 'Yes, Gerald,' she cried, 'and I am very angry with little Kay. I have written to tell her so. All that trouble to make that good arrangement for Donald to lecture in the firm and she now writes that he finds Robin rather superior. I don't know what he expects. Robin is the boss. Besides, I do not like to make arrangements for people and then they are not quite pleased.' It was so simple a statement of her attitude to life that Gerald could not dispute it.
Despite the unusual ease of the occasion, Gerald went away feeling that he had entirely failed in his purpose; it vexed him, too, that he had no idea of what Inge knew or guessed about John's life.
