Imago Bird

by Nicholas Mosley

  She said ‘Well why didn’t you say so.’

  I said ‘I did.’

  Then—‘It might not have been seemly.’

  I thought—What happened, Lilia, when that bird came down between pillars?

  I said ‘Well that’s good.’

  She said ‘Good!’

  I did not think she would worry too much about not being married. She was clever at things like being in a cottage with honeysuckle and roses.

  I said ‘You’re not getting married?’

  She said ‘No.’

  I thought I could say—Well, that’s all right then.

  She said ‘It’s not his baby.’

  I said ‘Oh I see.’

  I thought—What do I see?

  — A pond, with a duck on it —

  She said ‘At least, I think it isn’t.’

  I tried to work this out It was not the Professor’s baby, but it was him she was still staying with? So. We went on eating. I thought—Shovelling food into one’s open mouth like possibilities —

  I said ‘Whose is it then?’

  She said ‘I thought I might get rid of it.’

  I said ‘Why?’

  She said ‘Oh why, why!’

  I went on eating, I thought—You mean, you also thought you would not get rid of it?

  I said ‘What stopped you?’

  I thought—That Holy Ghost, on its shaft of sunlight?

  She got up and took some plates and bashed them about in the sink with her back to me.

  I said ‘Why shouldn’t it have two fathers? The Holy Ghost had two fathers. They fought a whole war about this in the fourth century or something. This has always seemed to me to be one of the few sensible things people have fought a war about, not whether the Holy Ghost had this father or that, but whether or not it had two.’

  She said ‘And who won?’

  I said ‘The people who said it had two, I imagine.’

  She said ‘Well they weren’t having the baby.’

  She came back to me with some treacle pudding.

  I tried to concentrate on this. I could say—But none of this matters: there’s that bird on a window-ledge: it is you, is it not, who will be having your baby?

  She said ‘As a matter of fact, it was you who stopped me.’

  I thought—I stopped you?

  Then—Getting rid of it?

  So—Is this when the bright light comes down; the drop onto some railings —

  She said ‘Do you want to hear?’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  I thought—Here, there are these coincidences?

  She lit a cigarette, which she did not usually do. She backed away as if the smoke were coming after her.

  She said ‘Well I had gone to one of those clinics, you know —’

  I thought—She should not smoke because of the baby?

  She said ‘—Oh God it was so awful!’

  She was sitting in profile to me across the table.

  She said ‘I wanted to find out. I was made to wait. This was just at the time when you might be going to Dr Anders. I remembered I’d promised to telephone Dr Anders—’

  I thought—You telephone Dr Anders?

  She said ‘—to talk about you.’

  I said ‘You know Dr Anders?’

  I could not understand this. I thought—You didn’t tell me?

  She pulled the smoke from her cigarette in, blew it out, tried to move her head away; as if a cloth were being held to her face by torturers.

  She said ‘And then, when I was talking to Dr Anders from this call-box in this awful place, you know, this clinic; and I was telling her about you—’

  I thought—But of course I might have known that you knew Dr Anders!

  ‘— She then said, on the telephone: You talk about him as if he were your child.’

  Lilia began to cry properly now; her whole face dissolving.

  I said ‘Your child.’

  She said ‘Yes.’

  I thought—And the baby is alive.

  Then she shouted, through her tears, ‘Oh of course I know Eleanor Anders! Who do you think it was who put you on to Eleanor Anders!’

  I said ‘I didn’t know.’

  I had always thought it must have been my parents, or Uncle Bill, or Aunt Mavis —

  I thought—So indeed, who are my parents?

  She said ‘And then when I was talking to Dr Anders on the telephone I remembered that time when you were by that drainpipe on that awful window-ledge and I had prayed so hard you wouldn’t die!’

  She was crying terribly now. I thought I would cry too.

  She said ‘It would have been so awful if you had died!’

  I thought—And somewhere, on some stage-set, singers in honour of us are doing something like La Traviata —

  — And on a stage-set no one dies?

  She was making so much noise crying that she was like an orchestra drowning the voices.

  I got up and came round the table and put an arm round her.

  I said ‘Hey, no one’s died!’

  Then I wondered—Will it be like me, that baby?

  I held out a handkerchief. It seemed to have a lot of ink on it.

  She blew her nose. Then she said ‘Doesn’t Sheila wash your handkerchiefs?’

  I thought I could save a joke till later—No, she’s only interested in brainwashing.

  Then my sister said ‘Anyway, I walked out of that awful place. And so now I’ve got this baby. And please can I wash this handkerchief.’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  We sat for a time in a sort of stupor. I thought—But still, things go on busily, underneath, like ants in trees —

  — But also what is it, in humans, that produces seeds; which are carried away in the wind?

  She said ‘When will you be going up to Cambridge?’

  I said ‘I’m not going to Cambridge.’

  She said ‘Oh no, you’re going to Dr Anders.’

  I thought—Her Professor is at Cambridge?

  Then—Might it have been he who put her on to Dr Anders?

  I said ‘Who’s the other father, the real one, or the one you think it might be, then?’

  She said ‘You don’t know him.’

  I thought—Would he look like a bird sitting in a tree?

  I said ‘Do you love him?’

  She said ‘Oh love, love, what did you say—isn’t it more important to be seemly?’

  I said ‘Isn’t he?’

  She said ‘Oh is he seemly!’

  She sometimes had a violence in her; like a tree struck by lightning.

  I said ‘Then what’s wrong?’

  She said ‘Oh you’d sort everyone out, wouldn’t you, oh I do love you!’

  She put her head again against mine.

  I said ‘He’s married —?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘What then?’

  ‘He’s with some third-rate film-star.’

  Some light in my mind came on for a moment: then went out.

  ‘But that’s not the point.’

  I said ‘What is the point?’

  She said ‘I’ve told him I don’t want him.’

  ‘Why?’

  She shouted again ‘Oh why!’

  I thought I could tell her—But if it is true that there are these coincidences in the outside world—my being on that drainpipe; your telephoning Dr Anders from the place where you went to get rid of your baby —

  She said ‘What’s the point of breaking up a life and the other one’s too?’

  I thought—The other one’s? Then—Yes, I see.

  I said ‘It would break up the Professor’s?’ Then—‘He thinks it’s his?’

  She said ‘I don’t know.’

  Then—‘We’re carrying on as if it is.’

  I said again ‘Why?’

  She made as if to shout: then she said quietly ‘Oh yes, why.’

  She stood up and stretched. She walked round the room. She seem
ed to be showing off her baby.

  I said ‘Isn’t the Prof seemly?’

  She said ‘Oh he’s seemly! God, we’re all so seemly!’

  I said ‘Then that’s all right.’

  I waited for a time. I wondered—What on earth was that image that came into my head a moment ago, and then fell out?

  I said ‘He’d mind if it wasn’t his? How do you know?’

  She put her head against the pane of a window, looking out.

  I said ‘Do you know, truly, who is the father?’

  She said ‘Maybe.’

  I said ‘It is the other one.’

  She said nothing.

  I thought—Of course, if she does or does not want change, there are still things that can’t be said.

  Then I said ‘But don’t you think he knows too?’

  She seemed to think about this. Then she said ‘The Prof?’

  I said ‘Well—’

  She said ‘But not the other —’

  I said ‘Well, could he?’

  I could explain—We know, or don’t know, what we want, or don’t want, to know, don’t we?

  Then—But sometimes we learn what it is we want to know?

  She said—‘You think I should tell him?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Both.’ Then—‘Or just the other.’

  I said ‘Well, sooner or later, you can’t do anything else, truly, can you.’

  She said ‘Which is what?’

  I said ‘There are all these angels flying about.’

  She said ‘You’ll be even more insufferable, won’t you.’

  XVI

  I said to Dr Anders —

  ‘There was a day, I was about ten or eleven I suppose, and we were in the country—there was this house my mother and father rented to make out we were country people I imagine—and my father used to go out shooting rabbits with a .22 rifle—oh all right, I’ll be stopping soon sniping at my father and my mother!—and of course I wanted to go out shooting too. So one afternoon when I thought they were all asleep—it was summer and they had had a big lunch and there were the sort of people staying you know who went to bed in the afternoons—I’m sorry!—I took the rifle from where my father had hidden it—it was a small rifle, you know, such as you shoot at targets with—and I thought I’d go to a pond at the bottom of the garden where ducks or moorhens sometimes came out and I’d wait there till an aeroplane flew over—the house was near some sort of training aerodrome and planes flew over quite often—and then I’d fire the rifle at a duck or moorhen or something and the noise would be drowned by the noise of the aeroplane overhead. And if I didn’t hit the duck, the bullet would go into the water; and so I wouldn’t do any harm. I knew how to work the rifle; one gets these things from television; also from my father. So I waited by the pond while moorhens came out; and then there was an aeroplane. I aimed at the water and fired and there was hardly any kick from the gun and I could see the rings on the water and one or two moorhens flying away. And I thought—Well, I’ve done it: now I can go back and hide the rifle. Then there was an exclamation or something from the far side of the pond; and my father sat up in some long grass. There was a sort of orchard at the far side of the pond: oh God, you don’t think this is all too symbolic do you? How can I get away from it? There are often orchards at the far side of ponds, aren’t there? Well anyway, my father sat up, and he had his shirt off; he seemed to have been sunbathing. I thought he was in the house. Then he said something like—“Keep your head down”; and I thought at first he was talking to me. But there was someone beside him in the long grass. And I was trying to get the rifle out of sight behind a willow. And my father was putting up a hand and touching the trunk of the apple tree just above his head; as if a bullet had gone in there. But this it couldn’t have done, I thought, because I’d fired at the water and seen the rings going out. But there did seem to be a newly made mark on the tree. Oh God, I suppose, or at some cross-roads! And then my mother was coming out of the house. And my father was putting his shirt on. And there was someone else sitting up in the long grass. It was a girl who had been staying the weekend; some actress, I suppose. And she was putting her shirt on. Anyway my mother was saying something like—“What on earth are you doing?” and it was as if she should be talking to me: but she was talking to my father. And my father was saying “Sunbathing.” And he was saying it in that funny voice, you know, by which he made everything seem witty. And my mother was saying “There was a shot.” And my father was saying “Almost bang on target.” And all the time there was this girl. But they were paying no attention to me; though they were suggesting, you see, I had almost shot my father. Which was not funny, especially after—what?—he had not been so bad to me? I wanted to explain—That mark on the apple tree couldn’t possibly have been me! I saw the rings go out on the water! But I had no chance; they were being witty. My mother said “What target?” My father said “The old cock robin.” Then he began laughing. I wanted to explain that if any bullet had gone into the tree, it must have been from the aeroplane that had flown over. But this was absurd. Then my mother said “Where did you get that gun?” She was at last talking to me. But I couldn’t think of anything witty. The girl in the long grass began crawling away. My father watched her. Then I did manage to say “My bullet went into the water.” My father said “Bullets bounce off water.” I said “Bullets don’t bounce off water, they’re heavier than water.” And I was so much hating this. But what better could my father and mother have done? did I want them to punish me so that then I could have said—It’s you who’ve been caught in the orchard! My father said “They can bounce off water if they’re fired at a certain angle.” My mother said “Need we go into this.” My father said “As Oedipus said on his way to get the carving knife.” I mean, I don’t know if he said exactly this; but something like it. Would it have been better if they had poured out their anxiety over me? Screamed and shouted? Which is what most parents would have done. And of course, bullets can bounce off water. Then my mother said “At least if it had been Oedipus he’d have been caught with me.” And my father had to lie down in the grass again because he was laughing so much. My mother was quite witty too, you see. And strong. I don’t think that particular girl came to our house again. But what was it I minded? That I wouldn’t be like them? Couldn’t? Did I tell you, my aunt told me, that she—I mean my mother—had had an affair with my uncle?’

  Dr Anders said nothing.

  That white light not quite there this time; over my heart, my mind.

  I thought—There are these feelings; did I think I had lost them?

  I said ‘But I don’t really think I care about all that.’

  I thought—I do know I am like my father and my mother?

  Also—They were, in fact, quite good to me.

  — All those people in the auditorium settling down in their seats again —

  I said ‘I’ve lost it.’

  Dr Anders said ‘Lost what.’

  I thought—Who needs a thread, when all the walls are tumbling down —

  Then—It would, of course, have been easier to have been punished.

  — So that now I would not have this freedom! This responsibility!

  — I would not stammer?

  That white light in the bathroom: my head down by the tiles.

  I thought—But if I am like them, can I not now move on from them?

  Then—Never again will I rather be a victim!

  I said ‘—That thread through the maze. The walls have fallen down.’

  I waited for a time.

  Then I said ‘How do you think I ought to go on? Should I say I’m sorry?’

  Dr Anders said ‘Good God what for!’

  I said ‘Jokes, perhaps, are a sort of responsibility?’

  Dr Anders pursed her lips. She looked out from the ledge of her mountain as if over an irrigated world.

  She said ‘Your mother did not ever really leave your father?’

&nb
sp; I said ‘Oh, there’s another joke I remember. As my father watched the girl crawling away in the long grass, he said—“Saved from a fate worse than having to do all this for the kiddies.”’

  I thought—Now what did that mean?

  Then—There’s still a maze with mirrors?

  Dr Anders said ‘Your parents let you become free of them. But I think a child still wants to be given something more.’

  I thought—More than jokes? More than social work in California?

  I said ‘What.’

  She said ‘Something a bit humdrum.’

  I thought—That they can feel superior to? Be at home in?

  Then—Humdrum: a humming-bird —

  I said ‘But they need freedom too.’

  She said ‘Of course.’

  I thought—Well, that’s that; as we come back to a beginning.

  Then—One day, we will pass on acquired learning?

  I said ‘My sister’s having a baby.’

  Dr Anders said nothing.

  I wondered—Why did I say that?

  I said ‘I didn’t know you knew my sister.’

  I wondered—Is it the sign of an analysis doing its job, when there seems to be nothing more for an analyst to say?

  I said ‘But I must get away.’

  Dr Anders said ‘Get away from what?’

  I thought—From minding that I am like my father and my mother; that they did not clamp their arms around me?

  Then—That child of my sister’s, will there be arms around it—

  — To let it, or let it not, breathe?

  I said ‘Perhaps I have got away.’

  Dr Anders said ‘All this happens very early.’

  I said ‘What.’

  She said ‘Before you can really remember.’

  Lying in Dr Anders’ room, I found myself suddenly trying to see what was written on some papers on her desk.

  I thought—I am learning, am I not, that there are things like networks that are better than arms to be put round people?

  Then I thought I should explain to Dr Anders—Oh but I don’t want to get away from you!

  I had been thinking, I suppose, about getting away from Aunt Mavis and Uncle Bill and Mrs Washbourne.

  I said ‘But these things that start early, stop following you?’

  Then there was this image of my sister having her baby.

  Dr Anders said ‘Where do you want to go?’