‘Actually, I do. I got one in the village this morning when I went to buy the milk.’
‘Which is it?’
‘The Guardian.’
‘The Guardian? Oh well, never mind. Read from it anyway, will you? Just skim the essential information off the top.’
‘Now?’
‘Why not?’
‘All right. Here’s your coffee.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Want anything to eat with that?’
‘No thank you. Just some headlines.’
‘Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here. The prime minister has just arrived in Havana. First time a British premier has visited Cuba since Castro assumed power. Questioned about the trip, Mr Cook sought to make it clear that –’
‘Mr who?’
‘Cook.’
*
‘Let me get this straight. What’s his name? His first name? Roger, isn’t it?’
‘Whose?’
‘Cook! Cook!’
‘Robin.’
‘Robin Cook! And Robin Cook is prime minister?’
‘Yes, of course he is.’
‘But – but what about Blair? Don’t tell me he’s dead too?’
‘Blair resigned.’
‘Resigned? You’re saying Blair resigned? Already? When? And why? What’s going on, John? What in heaven’s name is happening to the world?’
‘Things change, Paul. Things change.’
‘Never mind the philosophy. Just tell me why Blair resigned.’
‘Well, they tried to keep it a secret, but there are some secrets that simply can’t be kept. He has AIDS.’
‘AIDS? Tony Blair?’
‘Afraid so. It got into one of the tabloids. The Mirror, I think. Then, naturally, all the other newspapers were obliged to pick it up. Why, were you an admirer of his?’
‘Don’t be grotesque. It’s just that – good grief, man, don’t you see? I never knew! I never knew! And now that I do know, I don’t just feel blind, I feel so very stupid. And I refuse, I categorically refuse, to believe that a blind man has to be stupid.’
‘Well, I don’t –’
‘Oh, just go on, will you.’
‘There’s been a terrible massacre in Northern Ireland.’
‘Nothing new there. I’d have been surprised if you’d said there hadn’t been a terrible massacre in Northern Ireland.’
‘The Reverend Ian Paisley was one of the victims.’
‘And they say there’s no such thing as good news. Go on.’
‘Bill Gates has announced he’s a born-again Christian. He’s decided to bequeath his entire fortune to charity.’
‘Never heard of him. Go on.’
‘O. J. Simpson has committed suicide.’
‘Good riddance. Go on.’
‘Madonna is set to marry the actor Michelangelo DiCaprio.’
‘Heard of her, never heard of him. Go on.’
‘Princess Diana has been sighted in Bhutan.’
‘What?’
‘Princess Diana has been sighted in Bhutan.’
‘You’re pulling my leg.’
‘No, really. It says here that a group of American tourists claim to have seen Diana on a knoll.’
‘On a what?’
‘A knoll.’
‘What’s an oll?’
‘A knoll? A little grassy hill?’
‘Oh, a knoll! You must learn to pronounce it correctly. Knoll.’
‘Knoll.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, they claim they saw her standing on a – on a knoll in Bhutan holding her two arms out in front of her in a beseeching manner. Then she seemed to fade away. Anyway, that’s what it says.’
‘What tripe. What absolute fucking garbage. If that’s what the world has become – and I don’t mean Diana, I don’t only mean Diana, I mean what the Guardian deems fit to plaster over its front page – if that’s how things have changed, then I can only say I’m well out of it.’
*
‘You want me to continue?’
‘No thank you.’
*
‘Ah? Now I wonder who that can be?’
‘I’ll get it.’
‘Could you?’
*
‘Hello?’
*
‘Oh, hello. Long time no see. Paul, it’s Mrs Kilbride.’
*
‘Oh, not too badly, considering.’
*
‘Uh huh.’
*
‘As it happens, we have. If I say so myself.’
*
‘No, I’ve been doing all the cooking.’
‘John, tell her we’ve been eating extremely well. Tell her you’ve turned out to be quite the little chef.’
‘Sir Paul wants me to tell you we’ve been eating extremely well. That I’ve turned out –’
*
‘No, of course not. He was only teasing.’
*
‘Yes, he was!’
*
‘Come on, Mrs Kilbride. What’s happened to that famous Glaswegian humour of yours?’
*
‘Yes, I have.’
*
‘Yeah, that too. But what about you? When are we going to have you back here?’
*
‘Oh.’
*
‘Oh, I see. When did you –’
*
‘No, no, of course not. How is he?’
*
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Mrs Kilbride. No, you’ve got to be at Joe’s side. But I’m sure it’ll turn out to be a false alarm.’
*
‘True. As you say, even so.’
*
‘Absolutely. And –’
*
‘I realize that, Mrs Kilbride. And I’m not going to tell you not to worry, because I know you’re going to anyway. But until he’s had the tests the very worst thing you can do is start imagining things.’
*
‘Well, yes, but –’
*
‘Uh huh.’
*
‘Yeah.’
*
‘Look. No, just – no, no, listen to me.’
*
‘Listen to me. I’m sure Sir Paul agrees with me that you’ve got to stay with Joe as long as you have to. He’s actually nodding at me as I speak.’
‘Tell her that if there’s anything I can do for them, either of them, just to let me know. Anything at all they might need. Money, anything.’
‘You hear that, Mrs Kilbride?’
*
‘Of course, of course, he just meant that –’
*
‘Yeah. Whatever.’
*
‘Okay, yes. And –’
*
‘And give Joe my very best.’
‘From me, too, John.’
‘That was Sir Paul again. He wants you to give Joe his best too.’
*
‘All right.’
*
‘All right.’
*
‘Bye.’
*
‘Yeah, well, bye now. We’ll speak. Bye.’
*
‘Bye.’
*
‘Good grief, John, what a woman! Why is it impossible to get some people off the phone?’
‘She sounds terribly worried.’
‘Did I understand correctly? Joe is seriously ill?’
‘He seems to have some kind of pneumonia. He’s been told he has to have tests.’
‘Ouch. The dread word.’
‘She’s afraid it might be cancer. Lung cancer.’
‘Lung cancer. Oh God. Joe’s been a three-packet-a-day man for as long as I’ve known him.’
‘For the moment I suspect it’s all in her head. What it means, though, is that we’re going to be on our own a bit longer than expected.’
‘Hmm. Think you’ll be able to cope with the cooking? Or shall I try to arrange for someone else to come in? Though heaven knows who.’<
br />
‘Of course I’ll be able to cope. I really do enjoy cooking for two. And it hasn’t interfered with our work so far, has it?’
‘No, to be honest, it hasn’t at all. Pity, though. In a way, I’ll miss Mrs Kilbride. Most of the time she sets my teeth on edge. Yet I do rather enjoy having the old bag around the house. Heaven only knows what would become of me if you weren’t here.’
‘But I am here, Paul.’
‘That’s right. You are.’
‘And unless you’d like another cup of coffee –’
‘No thanks. No, it’s time for work. All going well, we ought to be able to finish what we’re doing by the morning’s end.’
‘So you said yesterday.’
‘Hmm, yes.’
*
‘A penny for your thoughts, Paul.’
‘What sort of day is it today?’
‘What sort of weather, you mean?’
‘Yes. It feels sunny.’
‘It is. It’s a beautiful day. There’s a real sense of spring in the air. When I went into the village this morning, I noticed little clumps of crocuses and daffodils on the common. You feel the new year is finally getting its act together. Why do you ask?’
‘Ask what?’
‘About the weather.’
‘Ah, well, you see, John, if we do manage to finish by midday, then rather than launch into a whole new section I might ask you to make one of your little excursions.’
‘To London?’
‘No, no. To Oxford.’
‘Oxford?’
‘Yes, I’d like you to drive over to Oxford and do another little recce for me. It’s less than an hour from here. Take your camera. And the notebook, of course.’
‘Any particular area of Oxford?’
‘Well, of course a particular area. I’m not writing a travel guide, you know. I want you to visit my old college. Hertford. I need a good, detailed description of the building and its grounds.’
‘So you’re finally going to deal with the past?’
‘Mmm.’
‘What about the period of your life before and after Oxford?’
‘What about it?’
‘Do you also plan to write about your childhood? Your adolescence? Oh, and weren’t you once briefly a schoolmaster?’
*
‘Who told you that?’
‘What?’
‘That I was a schoolmaster?’
‘Well. No one, really.’
‘No one told you? It’s just one of those facts of life you didn’t have to be told?’
‘Honestly, I can’t remember where –’
‘Can you see me as a schoolmaster?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I seem to remember having schoolmasters who weren’t unlike you.’
‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’
‘Frankly, Paul, I didn’t mean much of anything by it. Is something the matter?’
‘Let’s just drop the subject, shall we? As for my early life, I told you before that mine is not destined to be a conventional autobiography. On the rare occasions, on the very rare occasions, that I read autobiographies, I always skip the earliest years – the author’s childhood, his family tree. Who cares? Every childhood is more or less alike. If I’m reading the book at all, it’s because I’m interested in the subject when he ceases to be a child, when he’s already become the sort of person who deserves a biography in the first place. Anyway, that’s the way I feel. And since I do feel that way, I certainly have no intention of forcing my own childhood down the reader’s throat. All right?’
*
‘Yes, Paul, that’s clear enough. When do you want me to start?’
‘When we’ve finished what we still have to do. Or after lunch. Whichever comes first.’
‘Right.’
‘Oh, and John, see if you can put your hands on some little guide-book to Oxford’s gargoyles.’
‘Sorry?’
‘There are lots and lots of gargoyles in Oxford. On the college roofs, mostly. And since you obviously won’t be able to get a good look at them yourself, you’ll have to buy a guide-book. Every newsagent sells them.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘Do you mind?’
‘Not in the least. It’s what I’m here for. Besides, I haven’t been to Oxford for ages.’
‘Neither have I.’
He’s gone. This needs some serious thought. But what precisely am I to think? Have I gone blind not only literally but figuratively? Am I becoming, as I feared I was becoming, stupid? Or is it perhaps the case that what John suggested is true? Accustomed to solitude as I am, accustomed to living in my own imaginative world (like an artist, indeed!), is it that I’ve started to see – to hear, to sense, whatever the appropriate verb might be – the latently abnormal in every manifestation of the overtly normal? When one comes down to it, the latent is all I know. If I no longer possess the humdrum human capacity to combine, harmoniously combine, the latent with the overt, the unfamiliar with the taken-for-granted, it’s because, unlike those with eyes, there is absolutely nothing now that I can permit myself to take for granted. With John’s presence, though, the overt, the taken-for-granted, has once more entered my life, and the balance is as yet so unequal everything suddenly feels askew, awry. John sits there calmly at the breakfast table, my breakfast table, describing a world to me which bears as little resemblance to the world I know as – yes! – as Holbein’s ‘The Ambassadors’ does to a Rembrandt self-portrait. The world I know, I say. But, after four years of no contact whatever with that world, four years of no newspapers, no wireless, no television and, above all, no interest, who knows what has happened to it in the meantime? I can’t help thinking of that whiskery old music-hall joke about British xenophobia – ‘Fog inChannel. Continent isolated’. Fog in my vision – to put it mildly. World isolated. Except that it’s you yourself who’re isolated, arsehole! You! You! You! It’s you who’ve changed. The world described by John has changed less, far, far less, than you have. Oh, why did I allow myself to become such a recluse? Why didn’t I – ‘Now who on earth is that?’
*
‘Yes?’
‘Hello?’
*
‘I say, hello? Is someone there?’
‘Well, of course someone’s here. Who are you?’
‘I’m from –’
‘Hold on, hold, will you. I’ll get the door.’
*
‘Yes, yes? Who is it?’
*
‘Ah. I, uh … As I say, I’m from … uh …’
‘Speak up. Never seen a blind man before?’
‘Oh yes, I – that’s to say, I assure you, it was just –’
‘For goodness sake, what is it? What do you want of me?’
‘Oh, well, I’m from your local Conservative Party Association. As you know – uh, as you probably know – we have elections – the local elections? – coming up in a few days – and I was, I was, well, wondering, you know, I was wondering whether we could count on your support?’
‘You mean you got me up from –’
‘Yes, I’m – I’m tremendously sorry to have disturbed you. I – I didn’t realize – well, thank you so much for your time.’
‘Wait.’
‘What?’
‘Wait there. Yes. Why, yes, there is something you can do for me. Look, why don’t you come in?’
‘No, no, really, I can’t. Thank you for – but, you do appreciate, I have several other –’
‘I’m not an ogre, I’m not going to eat you. Come in. It’ll only take a minute.’
‘No, really no, I should be –’
‘What are you saying? You can’t spare five minutes to be of service to a blind man?’
‘Ah. Well, I –’
‘Has the Conservative Party become so smug, so ungracious, so bereft of compassion, it can’t even take the time to help out one of its less fortunate constituents?’
‘Well, uh, yes, when you put it like that. Yes,
of course I must –’
‘Good. Then come in. We shall both catch cold chattering on the doorstep.’
‘Thank you. But only for a few minutes, you understand.’
‘Yes, yes, I know. Close the door behind you, if you don’t mind.’
*
‘In here.’
*
‘Ah, yes. Yes, indeed. This is, uh …’
‘It’s where I work. It’s called a study.’
‘Aha. So this is where you work?’
‘With my amanuensis.’
‘With your …’
‘Now listen. At that Conservative Association of yours?’
‘Yes?’
‘There are computers, right?’
‘Uh, yes, of course. We’re completely –’
‘Good. Ah, but wait, are they Big Macs?’
‘Are they what?’
‘Big Macs. Is it Big Macs you use or – Oh, bloody hell, I don’t remember the name of the other sort.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean. Big Macs are –’
‘Look. Look at this computer here.’
‘I’m looking.’
‘Recognize it?’
‘Of course, it’s a – it’s a Mac.’
‘Well, for God’s sake, why have we been talking at cross purposes? So you do know it?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘Know how to use it?’
‘Yes. That’s to say, I think so. It isn’t quite the same model –’
‘But you can use it?’
‘Yes, yes, I can. What exactly is it you want of me?’
‘What I want of you – you know, you really ought to consult a doctor about that snorting of yours. It can’t be healthy to snort as much as you do.’
‘Well now, look here, I –’
‘Sorry, sorry. A blind man is all ears, you know, all ears. But to come back to the computer, what I want you to do is switch it on.’
‘Switch it on? Just switch it on?’
A Closed Book Page 11
