by Gardam, Jane
‘I haven’t actually read . . . ’
‘But you are not a nasty man. I knew your father. His name was Venitsky. Was it not?’
Silence.
‘Your father, whatever his name, was I think from Odessa? A blond Odessan—very unusual. He had been a hero. He was left totally alone for years, at great risk, abandoned, crippled, fearless to the end. They got him of course. Not that I am suggesting that the whole purpose of the German air-raids in the north-east was to eliminate one defunct—shall we say specialist er—thinker? Political activist? Your father was a great man.’
Veneering said, ‘Are you telling me my father was a spy?’
‘I’m telling you, my dear fellow, to work for me in . . . the Construction Industry.’
* * *
‘And have this.’ He handed the book that the god-daughter had brought across the desk. ‘I have any number of copies. Life’s Little Ironies. Thomas Hardy was a builder and architect by trade you know. In the construction industry.’
Out on the street—a very thin Brief in his jacket—Veneering flagged down a taxi and persuaded the driver to heave in the fireplace. Then he opened the book and read on the fly-leaf, ‘To my darling god-father Uncle Willy from Elizabeth Macintosh’.
CHAPTER 20
During that last year in The Donheads, Feathers and Veneering, as we have said, drew slowly together step by hesitant step as they had walked the lanes around their village. First they had pointedly ignored each other from a distance. Later they had nodded and looked away. Then came the famous Christmas meeting when Feathers had shut himself out of his house as, cut off from the rest of the world by a snowfall and the Dorset earth beneath his feet beginning to freeze, feeling death clutch at his wheezy throat, seep into his ancient bones, at last, hand over hand, up Veneering’s drive he went, from one branch of Veneering’s dreary over-hanging yew trees to the next, until he had dragged himself, ancient, decrepit orphan of many storms, to Veneering’s peeling front door.
Nobody locally—nor anywhere else—ever discovered what went on during the rest of that Christmas day, but afterwards the two old men met regularly in Feathers’ (much warmer) sitting room in his house down their joint driveway, for chess. Chess and a drink. Or two. But never more (though we don’t know what Veneering did back home up the slope, later in his lonely night).
Feathers never offered food. Nor did Terry Veneering ever suggest a return visit up the slope.
Their chess improved, their concentration deepened. The photograph of old Feathers’ dead wife Elizabeth (Betty), with whom Veneering had been in love since he first set eyes on her on a bike outside Pastry Willy’s office—and beyond her death, for he was still in love with her—surveyed the two old men from the mantel-piece.
It was a flattering photograph taken on a picnic on Malta where she and Feathers were completing their honeymoon half a century ago.
That day for the young couple (he had bought her a fat crimson and gold chair in a back street in Dacca during the honeymoon) had been a day of blue and gold on the cliff tips, the sea, far, far below—St. Paul’s Bay, where he slew the serpent—running bright green.
There has always been on Malta the belief that there is a crack in the cliff top where a fresh-water stream runs silver. It trickles down the slope, falls, sprays out into the dark below. Far, far below a spout of spittle shining like light above the ocean. Betty, the bride had said, ‘There! You see! There is a fresh-water spring dropping down to the shore.’
And the girl had stretched herself out and looked down through the crack, her legs out behind her. Her legs were not her best feature. They were Penelope’s legs, not Calypso’s—but they were brown and sleek and strong and her pretty Calypso feet kicked up and down and she lay, watching the clear water turn to mist. She shifted slightly and the water shifted slightly like a net. It revealed a very small glimpse of the creeping emerald tide below.
Sixty years on, comfortable in his winter sitting room, fire blazing, whisky coming along any minute and—(ha-ha!)—he’d taken Veneering’s queen—a sweet peace fell upon Edward Feathers and for the first time since he’d acknowledged his wife’s infidelity with this jumped-up good-looking cad he knew that his jealousy was over and that he could now look back over his life—and at his beloved wife with pleasure and pride.
Well, perhaps not. Perhaps love shall always be divorced from time.
What a delicious, young and merry face looked at him from the mantel-piece. The trophy of his successful life.
And only a photograph.
She was not necessary to him anymore.
She had never been a siren. There had been one or two of those, and he smiled kindly at his young self—oh almost possessed by that other one. Isobel. She must be gone by now. She never told her love. They say she only loved women. Rubbish. Did I re-write my will? I expect she’s gone by now. All shadows.
But potent shadows. We strengthened ourselves, Betty and I. Isobel weakened me.
Sometimes I mix them all up.
On the whole, he said, addressing an audience of some great court, I managed well. Better than Veneering and his idiot adolescent marriage. How lonely that shrill Elsie must have been. She left him of course and the boy didn’t love her. If we are honest, it was Madame Butterfly who left Pinkerton (I say, that’s rather an original thought) and Veneering knew his weakness. He knew from the beginning he was not the man he might have been.
‘Veneering,’ he said. ‘Check-mate, I think? Yes? Whisky now—you ready?’
Silence. Then Veneering saying, ‘Yes. Good idea’ and continuing to stare at the board.
‘Tell me,’ said Filth, ‘that’s to say if you have no objection—how did you get yourself entangled with Elsie?’
There was such a long silence that Filth looked down into his glass, then up at the ceiling, then winked at Betty’s photograph and wondered if he had gone too far.
Or maybe Veneering—God he was ugly now, too—was becoming deaf. He had rather wondered. Didn’t appear to be listening. He looked keenly now at Veneering’s ears to see if there were any of those disgusting pink lumps stuck in them like half-masticated chewing gum. Thank God no need of that himself.
No sign. What’s the matter with the man? Sulking? Thinks I’m prying. Not answering.
‘Sorry, Veneering. Shouldn’t have asked. Never even asked you about that ship-wreck incident you were in. City of Benares? They tell me you were in a life boat for twelve days and only a child. Amazingly brave.’
Still silence. A coal dropped in the grate. Then Veneering moved a pawn with a smart crack as he put it down. ‘Check-mate to me, I think?’ He picked up his glass and drained it at a gulp.
* * *
‘Elsie?’ he said. ‘Do you really want to know about Elsie, Filth? More dignified if you’d never asked. Rather surprised at you. And I wasn’t a hero of the Benares. I ran away before she sailed. Not brave at all.’
‘Good God, it’s not what we all believe.’
‘Ran off across Liverpool till I heard her hooter sounding off goodbye. Three days later she was torpedoed. Well, I probably wouldn’t have drowned. Some didn’t. Two in this village didn’t. Those fat twins. Never speak. I was sent away afterwards to a Catholic boarding school—I’m Catholic—because my family had copped it the same night in an air-raid. Then I started at Oxford and got called up for National Service post-war.
‘I missed that,’ said Filth. ‘Done the army. Older than you.’
‘Then off to the Med in the RNVR. Six months paradise. Every port. Showing the flag. God, the girls! Standing screaming for us on every quay. No reason not to spring into their arms. No Penelopes sitting sewing blankets back home and wishing we were there to take the dog out. Heaven. Then, just about to sail for Portsmouth—floods of tears and gifts and promises of eternal love—and they sent us on! On—out East to the Empire of the Su
n. Hong Kong. Singapore. Unbelievable pleasure. Sun. No chores. Splendid naval rations, enough money, Tiger beer and all of us like gods, bronzed and fit and victorious, dressed in white and gold. Parties at governors’ residences. Parties, parties. I never read a book. I never thought beyond the day. I had no home to hurry back to. I met Elsie.’
‘I remember her.’
‘Oh, yes. Singapore. She was—well, you saw her.’
‘Not until about ten years later. She was so beautiful. To me she was beyond desire,’ said Filth.
‘D’you remember,’ said Veneering, ‘how when anyone saw her for the first time, the room fell silent?’
‘Yes.’
‘Chinese. Ageless. Paris thrown in. Perfect French. Poise.’
‘We all wanted poise in women after the war. The women who’d been in the war were all so ugly and battered. The rest were schoolgirls and they slopped over us. We thought nothing of them. We were looking for our mothers I think, sometimes. Beautiful mothers.’
‘Elsie was like your mother?’
‘No. My mother was a figure from—beyond the Ural mountains.’
‘She gave you your blond hair?’
‘No. Not exactly. She could have organised the Ural mountains.’
‘Elsie—?’
‘Just stood there at some meaningless party. Tiny pea-green silk cheongsam. Made in Paris. They were rich. Her father hovered. Seldom spoke. Watched me. Had heard I had a future. Knew I had a bit of a past but could speak languages. Bit of a reputation at Oxford—. Knew I had no money. I needed, wanted money. Women—well, enthusiastic. He invited me with the family group—I didn’t know that—to a dinner to eat crabs in black sauce on the old North Road. This is Hong Kong now. I think. Everyone shouting and clacking Chinese. I was already good at it. Showed off. Unfortunately got drunk—but so did they. So did Elsie. She wore these little jade bracelets on her wrists, fastened onto rich girl-babies. Tight, sexy. Just sat there. You know what it’s like. Round table. Non-stop talk. Suddenly all over and everyone stands up. Shouting. Laughing. Family—well, you know, unbelievably rich and—well—cunning. I found myself taking her home. It was considered an honour.’
‘You needed a friend, Veneering, to get you out of that one.’
‘I know. D’you know, I remember thinking that it would be good if Fred—little Fiscal-Smith—had been there.’
‘Well, I had to go back and marry her.’
‘Couldn’t old Pastry Willy and his Dulcie have helped?’
‘Not then. Well, they might have done. I don’t think they wanted to know me. I had swum through life after the war as I’d never have done on board The City of Benares. (Yes, thanks. A small one.) We were pushed into it in those days by—well by the Church. There is a Catholic church in Singapore. It survived. It is thronged. It was home. Somehow you keep with it. And so amazing that Elsie was Catholic. Or so they said. And we had a son.’
‘I remember your son. Who didn’t? Harry.’
‘Yes. He was a wild one. He had my language thing. I sent him to the same English prep school as the Prince of Wales. Elsie’s family flew him back and forth. He was—. He was, such a confrère. Such a brilliant boy—.’
‘I remember.’
‘Then they thought he was dying. Cancer in the femur.’
‘I heard something—.’
‘Betty—your Elizabeth—well, you must know. Looked after him. It wasn’t cancer. Back in England. Tiny, wonderful little hospital in Putney. I couldn’t be there in time.’
‘And his mother—?’
‘Elsie was in Paris. A hair appointment.’
‘And after that, you still stayed with Elsie?’
‘Yes. Well. I stayed with my boy.’
* * *
‘I’ll walk you home,’ said Filth.
‘Elsie died,’ said Veneering. ‘An alcoholic.’
‘I am so sorry. We did hear—. But you had the boy.’
‘Oh, yes. I had the boy.’
‘I had no child,’ said Filth. ‘Come on. Bedtime.’
‘Your supper smells good,’ said Veneering. ‘My mother could cook.’
‘I never knew mine,’ said Filth. ‘Now are you all set for your visit to Malta? Strange place. I envy you,’ and he waited to see if Veneering would say, ‘You should come with me.’ But Veneering did not.
‘Actually,’ said Veneering, ‘Elsie got very fat.’
‘She needed your love,’ said Filth.
* * *
But late that night, after his orderly, reflective bath-time, the evening lullaby of the rooks harsh and uncaring, Filth thought, He needed more than Elsie could give. He needed Betty. And Betty was mine.
* * *
The next morning Veneering’s hired car for the airport swished along his drive at six o’clock and he didn’t even look down at Old Filth’s great chimney as they sped by. It was raining hard and still not really light.
Interesting evening, though. Never talked to the old fossil before. Maybe never known him. Or each other. Maybe once could have talked about women with him before the Betty-Elsie days. I might have helped him there. The ones who could never have talked to each other were Betty and Elsie. Perhaps the seeds of hatred had always been in them?
And this black and wintry morning in the cold rain Filth was realising that, at last, he was seeing Betty from a little distance. As a man, not even loving her particularly. Seeing her away from this eerie village, thick with history, hung with memories like those ghastly churches in Italy hung with rags. Rags and bandages and abandoned crutches, abandoned because prayer had been answered, wounds all healed, new life achieved. Betty Feathers lay dead in Donhead St. Ague church-yard. The monumental husband was, at what must be the end of his life, turning out to have a persona apart from his wife. Level-headed, a comrade, all passion spent. Urbane enough to play chess with his life-long sexual rival, and forget.
What idiot years they had passed in thrall—whatever thrall is—to this not exceptional woman. Not a beauty. Not brilliant. Stocky. What is ‘falling in love’ about? And her attitude to life—it was antique.
She could love of course, thought Veneering. My God I’ll never forget the night she was with me. And she said so little. When I think of Elsie! All we hear about the silent, inscrutable Chinese! Elsie screamed and screeched and spat. She flung herself up and down the stairs in front of the servants. Hecuba! All for Hecuba! Didn’t care who heard her. Put off little Fiscal-Smith for life. White, as he watched her. Bottles flying. Jewels flung out of windows. How flaccid she became. Rolls of fat. She had the bracelets cut away. Her wrists above began to bulge and crease. She couldn’t understand English—not the words. Her ‘English’ was faultless. But what it meant! In Chinese there is no innuendo, irony, sarcasm. Bitch-talk she could do. She asked Betty, who was in her twenties, if she was a grandmother and Betty said, ‘Oh, yes I have seventeen grandchildren and I’m only twenty-seven’ and Elsie had no idea what she was talking about. The most hateful thing about Elsie was her fragile hands. She would pose with them, cupping them round a flower, and sigh, ‘Ah! Beautiful’ and wait for a camera to click. Life was a performance. A slow pavane.
For Betty it was a tremendous march. A brave and glorious and well, comical sometimes, endurance. All governed by love. Passion—well she’d forgone passion when she married. Her own choice. She’d taken her ration with me. She wouldn’t forget that night. Hello—Heathrow? Still raining. Why the hell am I going to Malta for Christmas?
* * *
Veneering was staying in what had been the Governor’s residence, or rather in the hotel wing of his ancient palace. Throughout the network of the cobbled streets of Valetta the rain poured down, turning them to swirling rivers. There was thunder in the winter rain. No-one to be seen. Cold. Foreign. Post-Empire. Oh, Hong Kong!
The hotel, or palace, stood blackl
y in a court-yard that was being bombarded by the rain and the huge doors were shut. Veneering sat in the taxi and waited while the driver with a waterproof sheet on his head had pounded at them and then hung upon a bell-rope. At last, after the flurry of getting him in, tipping the genial driver well—but not receiving quite the same excessive gratitude as long ago—Veneering stood in a pool of rain on the stones of a reception hall that rose high above him and disappeared into galleries of stony darkness. He was then led for miles down icy corridors with here and there a vast stone coffin-like chest for furnishing, the odd, frail tapestry.
The dining room reminded him of the English House of Commons, and he was the only guest. The menu was not adventurous. There was a very thick soup, followed by Malta’s speciality, the pasta pie, the pie-crust substantial, and then a custard tart. A harsh draught of Maltese red wine. There was no lift to take him back to his room which was huge and high, the long windows shuttered, the bed a room in itself with high brocaded curtains that did not draw around it. In one of them a hole had been cut for the on-off switch of a reading-lamp that stood on a bedside table that was a bridge too far. The sheets were clean but very cold. Rain like artillery crashed about the island. There was thunder in it. He lay for a long time, thinking.
But in the morning someone was grinding open the shutters and the new day shone with glory. Palm trees brown and dry but beautiful rattled against a blue sky and racing clouds. At breakfast, with English marmalade and bacon—and bread of iron—there was a pot of decent tea strong enough for an old English builder. A man on the other side of the breakfast room with another pot of it lay spread out like a table cloth over a rambling, curly settee. His feet reached far into the room. He said, ‘Hullo, Veneering. It is Veneering isn’t it? I’m Bobbie Grampian.’
‘Good Lord! Yes, I am Veneering. I’m said to be unrecognisable.’
