‘You saying you’ve actually been harangued by anti-fur protestors?’
‘Alas, no. I’ve never been given the chance to do my bogey-man number. Scarf, please. It ought to be hanging on the same peg as the coat.’
‘Oh. Right. Here you are.’
‘Thank you.’
‘No stick?’
‘You’re my stick. Are we ready?’
‘I am.’
‘Open the door, will you?’
*
‘As I told you, John, there’s absolutely nothing to shepherding a blind man around, especially in a spot as lonely as this. Just slip your arm in mine – no, like this – good – and let me know either by telling me or exerting pressure on my arm – in fact, both to start with – let me know whenever there’s something ahead of me I ought to be aware of. When we step off the kerb, for example. Or on to it of course.’
‘Pressure? Like this, you mean?’
‘Yes, that’s good, only not so hard. Just as though you were gently reining in a horse. Do you ride?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Too bad. Well then, it’s like leading on the dance floor. You do dance?’
‘Sorry. No again.’
‘Oh well, use your imagination. Yes, but please don’t do it unless there really is something I’ve got to watch out for. It can be confusing.’
‘No, no, I did it that time because there are three steps coming up. I mean, going down.’
‘Yes, yes, those I am aware of. At this stage of the game I don’t have to be told about the steps at the end of my own garden path.’
‘Sorry. It’s not as easy as it looks.’
‘Yes, it is. And you’re doing very well. And, incidentally, John, you mustn’t be surprised to hear me use expressions like “seeing” and “watching out”. To you it may seem a curious choice of words, but it’s amazing how much of a blind man’s time is spent having to think about watching out for things or looking out for things.’
‘I understand. Only I didn’t say anything, you know.’
‘I heard you think it. Remember what I told you.’
‘I also remember Mrs Kilbride telling me not to let you bully me.’
‘You can look after yourself. Okay. Left or right? Right, I think. Down into the village itself.’
‘Towards the church?’
‘That’s right. What kind of evening is it? It feels fresh. Starlit.’
‘It is. It’s a beautiful night. Just beyond the common there are some fields –’
‘I know them.’
‘I was going to say, directly above those fields there’s a full moon encircled by a sort of misty yellow halo. Almost like a grubby yellow halo.’
‘“A full moon encircled by a misty yellow halo.” Why, John, you make it sound like the title of a Japanese film.’
‘A Japanese film? Sorry, I don’t get that. Not much of a film buff, I’m afraid.’
‘Not to worry. It was just a leetle bit precious. Preciosity, if truth be told, has always been my péché mignon. Except … Actually, when I think of it, it’s a description I might just be able to use. You never can tell. Next time we’re out walking, bring a notebook with you so you can jot down anything that might serve for the book. Understand, I certainly don’t regard every remark I make as a priceless gem to be held in trust for posterity. But, as I say, I never know where or when ideas are likely to come to me. And it would be foolish not to make sure they don’t evaporate before I’ve had time to decide whether they can be made to serve or not.’
‘So there is such a thing as inspiration? Careful. We’re stepping off the kerb to cross the road.’
‘Thanks. I tell you, John, inspiration has been discredited as a critical concept. Rightly so. Yet every artist knows it exists. There are moments when you just can’t put down what you write, and it’s usually those passages that the reader won’t be able to put down either. But, I repeat, my little conceit about the moon –’
‘Up on the kerb.’
‘It was nothing, nothing at all. Please don’t delude yourself I’m taking it more seriously than it deserves to be taken.’
‘I find it fascinating. Seeing how your ideas arrive.’
‘It’s not even a real idea. But, if you wouldn’t mind, try to remember it when we get back. I’ll give you a notebook to jot it down in. Now where are we? I haven’t been paying attention.’
‘We’re walking towards the churchyard. There’s a bowling green on our left with a big white clubhouse.’
‘Ah yes, the village bowling green. If ever you chance to be here on a Sunday afternoon, you really must wander down and watch the ladies of the local team in their thick woollen stockings and sensible white shoes. The sound of big black smooth bowling balls clicking together is a tonic for frazzled nerveends. You should try it.’
‘I might at that.’
‘So. The church is directly ahead of us?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Able to date it at all?’
‘Romanesque?’
‘Romanesque? I seriously doubt it. But I know nothing of architecture. The churchyard’s normally closed at this hour, so let’s take the main village road, shall we? And let’s also have a running commentary.’
‘Determined to keep me on my toes?’
‘For me, John, there’s more to it than simply putting you through your paces.’
‘Kerb.’
‘Thank you. In spite of everything, I want to live. Damn it, I still want to live! To live in the world, in the real world! And it’s no sinecure, I can tell you, whatever people may say about blindness and deafness.’
‘Blindness and deafness?’
‘I remember – I remember, before my accident – I’d like to see someone dare to make the same claim to my face now – but I remember dinner-party conversations about the advantages – the disadvantages as well – the respective advantages and disadvantages of blindness and deafness. And, you know, the consensus was always that the deaf were the worst off of the two. Worse off, I should say. The same whiskery old arguments would be trotted out. The deaf were cut off from the world – no conversation, no music, no Mozart – for some reason, the only composer ever cited was Mozart – they were cut off to a degree that simply wasn’t true of the blind. What rubbish! What fucking godawful tripe! The world, John, the world was meant, the world was designed, to be seen! To be seen! Everything else in it, everything, even Mozart, is secondary to what is there to be seen. I know that now.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’
‘Then you must understand how important it is that you describe that world to me and describe it accurately. There at least is one advantage we the blind have over the deaf. Just try describing a Mozart piano concerto to a deaf man.’
‘Well … given that he’d be as deaf to the description as to the piano concerto …’
‘You know what I mean.’
‘It’s just that you must be so familiar with this village I didn’t see much point in –’
‘No? Well, think of it. If I were out walking, and assuming I still had my eyes about me, I’d be looking around as I walked, now wouldn’t I? No matter how familiar I was with the village? I’m an observant man, John, I always was. And I haven’t become any less observant now that I can no longer see anything.’
‘You’re right. So. Okay. Well, we’ve passed the church and now we’re on a street that seems to be taking us out of the village altogether. I didn’t see any wall plaque, so I can’t tell you its name.’
‘Its name is Cumberland Row. But that doesn’t matter. Go on.’
‘At the moment we’re walking alongside the church graveyard. It looks rather spooky in the moonlight, rather surrealistic, and there’s a British Legion clubhouse and the only shop I’ve noticed so far. Seems to be a combined greengrocer’s, tobacconist’s and Post Office. There are lots of postcards pinned up in the window. Let me see. Newborn puppies for sale. Sealyham terriers, if you’re interes
ted. Second-hand Land Rover. Amateur dramatic society production of Witness for the Prosecution. Cleaning woman.’
‘That could be our Mrs Kilbride. She’s always on the lookout for new clients.’
‘There’s no name. Just a telephone number. I can’t read it without –’
‘Oh, never mind, never mind. If it’s hers, I have it at home. If it isn’t, who cares? Learn to be more selective, more lapidary. Try to give the material a proper shape and structure.’
‘Now we’re passing in front of a tearoom. Mrs Effingham’s Tea Shop. Correctly spelt, no “Oldes” or “Shoppes”. Next door to that is what looks like a shoe-repair store. There’s a cobbler’s last in the window and some pairs of women’s shoes. Very dusty-looking. Been there a long time, I should say. Mostly sort of broguey. And that would seem to be the last of the commercial premises. No, no, I’m wrong. There’s a lighted building ahead on this side of the street – kerb coming up – could be a pub or a hotel.’
‘It’s both. Any signs of life?’
‘Yes, there are. There’s a small group of people standing in front of it. They must just have had a drink there. Two couples – middle-aged – well, middle-aged going on elderly. Well-dressed. One of the women is drawing on a pair of gloves. They’re leaning against two cars parked next to each other. Half on the street, half on the pavement. A Volvo and, I should say, a Bentley.’
‘So we’re approaching them now, are we?’
‘Yeah.’
*
‘Look, Paul, if you’d prefer, there’s a pleasant little path – there’s a narrow little pathway just ahead of us to the left that we can still turn off into. I’m thinking about what you told me the other day? The worst moments in your life?’
‘Well. Well, no, what the hell. It’s going to happen to us, it’s going to happen to you, sooner or later, it might as well happen now, tonight. Besides, it might not happen at all. It doesn’t always. Let them see my face. At least I won’t have to look at their ugly mugs.’
‘Okay. If that’s the way you want it.’
*
‘Well?’
‘What?’
‘Was there any reaction?’
*
‘No punches pulled, please. I can take it.’
‘Yes, there was a reaction.’
‘Well?’
‘Nothing was said. They all went very, very quiet. But the two women certainly saw you. I could see the expressions on their faces. Then one of them nudged her husband.’
*
‘You know, Paul, I think they’re still watching us. I can feel four pairs of eyes boring into the back of my head. Can’t you?’
‘Silly cunts.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I suppose I should be used to it.’
*
‘Shall we continue, Paul? Or –?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Do you want to continue?’
‘Oh. Oh, yes. To the end of the road. Which also happens to be the end of the village. Then we’ll head back home. But, John, if you don’t mind, let’s drop the commentary for now. Let’s walk in silence for a bit.’
‘Righto.’
‘Sorry.’
‘What’s that? Who is that?’
‘Oh God, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t realize you were –’
‘For Christ’s sake, close the door!’
*
‘Have you closed the door?’
‘Yes, I have. Yes, it’s closed.’
‘Remember, not completely!’
‘No, no. I remembered. Don’t worry, I’ve left it slightly ajar. Look, Paul, I’m really, really sorry. I don’t know what to say. The door was open so I assumed –’
‘Well, I did tell you I always keep the bathroom door open. It was one of the first things I told you.’
‘Yes, I know, but –’
‘But nothing. I explained to you that it was a question of my claustrophobia. It makes no difference whether I’m taking a bath or a crap. It’s distasteful, I know, but I did explain.’
‘What I’m trying to say is that I assumed the bathroom was empty because the light was off.’
*
‘What did you say?’
‘I said the light was off.’
‘The light was off? But the light’s on. Of course it’s on.’
‘No, Paul, it’s off. Look. Now I’m not opening the door, so don’t get alarmed. But I’m reaching in and pulling the cord now. There. Now it’s on. On, off, on, off, on –’
‘Yes, yes, yes, all right.’
*
‘I don’t understand. It’s second nature to me. I always switch the light on when I enter the bathroom.’
‘Maybe this time you forgot.’
‘I never forget. But maybe, John, you forgot?’
‘Me?’
‘You went earlier, didn’t you? Just before supper?’
‘Uh, yes. Yes, I did.’
‘Maybe you forgot to switch the light off.’
‘Yes, it’s possible. Yeah, that must have been what happened. If so, I really apologize. I know how strongly you feel about it.’
‘I suppose it can’t be helped. Actually, given my – my dishevelled state, it’s maybe just as well the light was off.’
‘Even so, I –’
‘Yes, all right, you’ve already apologized. And this, you know, this is a quite outstandingly repellent conversation. You lurking behind the door, me plonked here with my trousers about my ankles. If you don’t mind, I suggest we wrap it up at once. Give me five minutes and the bathroom’s yours.’
‘Thanks. But please don’t rush on my account.’
‘I won’t. And we’ll see each other in the morning. Goodnight, John.’
‘Goodnight, Paul.’
On reflection, and on the whole, I’ve decided that I like him. He’s careless, even slapdash, he’s not exactly literary and he’s far from perfect – but then, one’s unlikely to obtain perfection by advertising for it in the personal columns of a newspaper. Yet I feel certain he’ll more than do. That mortifying business with me on thelav he handled well, all things considered. The omens are good.
‘Are you ready, John?’
‘Yes, everything’s ready. The Mac is humming away. I’ve created a new folder. I called it Truth.’
‘Truth?’
‘For Truth and Consequences? The full title would be too long.’
‘I see. Truth, eh? Rather a lot to live up to, isn’t it? But – well, it might be no bad thing at that. Truth it is.’
‘Shall I date it?’
‘Date it? Yes, why not? Write – let me see – write “Spring 1999”.’
‘“Spring 1999”. Done. So – exactly how do we go about this?’
‘Well, John, this is a book that’s going to be very much about blindness, both literal and figurative, and I mean to begin it with a series of fragmented reflections on the subject. A kind of prelude.’
‘Aha.’
‘It’s curious. Blindness was never one of my preoccupations, never one of my trademark themes. Ah well, that’s life for you, I suppose. It will suddenly spring on you a climax for which nothing that’s happened to you up to that point has prepared you.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Anyway, I intend the first of these reflections of mine to focus not only on blindness but on eyelessness. It strikes me that, with a book of this nature, in which narrative chronology is absolutely not at stake, there could be no stronger point of departure for the text. By the way, John?’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you make a note of that little felicity of mine, as I asked you?’
‘Little felicity?’
‘Comparing the moon to the title of a Japanese film?’
‘Oh, God, no. No, I obviously didn’t.’
‘No, you obviously didn’t. Here am I reminding you to remind me. Please note it now, will you, and don’t forget the notebook if we go out for a stroll this evening.’
‘Right. Though I’m not altogether out to lunch. This morning when I set up the Mac it occurred to me it might be useful to create a document called Notes. I’ll just stick your felicity in it now. It won’t take a sec.’
‘Good idea. Keep that document handy for anything that comes up en route, so to speak. Sometimes, John, a writer has what may be described as a word-flow problem. It’s exactly the same as a cash-flow problem, you know, only with words. It isn’t that he’s really short of words, I mean to say it isn’t that he’s broke, just that they aren’t coming as smoothly as they ought. And sometimes consulting notes, even notes jotted down a long, long time before, ideas one’s forgotten one ever had, will get the juices flowing again. I know what I’m talking about, I assure you. I speak from experience.’
‘There. It’s done.’
‘Good. Now listen very carefully, John. I’m not going to pretend that what we’re about to embark on, you and I, will be easy for either of us. It won’t. I’ve never dictated my work before. You might say I was the kind of writer who felt most comfortable composing at the piano.’
‘At the piano?’
‘Metaphorically, John, metaphorically.’
‘Ah.’
‘I mean that I always used to write at the typewriter. Just as there are certain composers who would always compose at the piano – Stravinsky, for one, I seem to recall – because they found that just letting their fingers run over the keyboard would actually generate ideas – not just ideas but fully formed sentences that subsequently required next to no revision. I mean – of course, I don’t mean that Stravinsky typed out sentences – I’m talking about writers, writers like Stravinsky, writers like me who were used to composing at a keyboard. Actually, when you think of it, there’s – I mean, what I’ve just been saying, what I’ve just been struggling to say – there’s a perfect example of what I’m talking about. If I’d seen that sentence coming, it wouldn’t have been as abominably confused and unstructured as it actually turned out to be. Which – which is why – oh, forget it. Where was I?’
A Closed Book Page 4
