Imago Bird

by Nicholas Mosley

  She said ‘You might be able to raise a loan on it.’

  I said ‘I will.’

  She said ‘You won’t forget to ring me?’

  I said ‘No.’

  The man with the wiry hair began pulling her.

  She said ‘What do you carry that rope for?’

  I said ‘To rescue people with.’

  She said ‘I’ll remember that.’

  XXIII

  When I got back to Cowley Street it was late in the evening. I had been walking through streets with kings and queens coming together in my head. I thought I could say to Dr Anders—It is this that is music: when you are dancing on notes as if they are footholds on a mountain.

  Judith Ponsonby had half held her hand out for my rope; with the man with the wiry hair tugging her.

  In one of the streets near Cowley Street there was a huge car parked. I imagined it was like Tammy Burns’; but I thought this was overdoing it.

  Outside Uncle Bill’s house was a small crowd as there sometimes was at times of crisis (I thought—There is a crisis I haven’t noticed?) so I decided to go round to the back and climb over the garden wall where I had got out that morning. Then I could put my hand through the cracked piece of glass in the kitchen and open the window from inside.

  I thought—Thus accidents work out to be useful: like the giraffes that have long necks when there are leaves only on the tops of trees —

  — But this too depends on security arrangements being inadequate?

  From the street the garden wall was seven or eight feet high. I still had my pyjamas with me. I could put these on the glass on the top of the wall again and take a running jump and be like a man flying off with a ball and chain through the universe.

  There was a light on in Aunt Mavis’ room. The rest of the house seemed to be in darkness.

  I thought I might stand in the garden beneath Aunt Mavis’ window and say—I am Romeo come from the dead —

  I was still in the garden when Aunt Mavis did in fact appear at the window. She pulled up the bottom sash and looked out. She appeared to have no clothes on.

  I thought—She is like some sign of the Zodiac?

  I wondered, if I stayed still, whether she might fade away like other impressions of magic.

  After a time Aunt Mavis moved back into her room and closed the window.

  I walked across the garden.

  I thought—There is some image in my mind about this: the back of a house where windows light up for a moment and things are seen as if in memory and then disappear —

  The light in Aunt Mavis’ room went out. A second or two later the light came on on the second-floor landing. Aunt Mavis was going down the stairs. She still had no clothes on. She had put on a large flowered hat.

  I thought—She will go out into the street, where there is that small crowd waiting.

  — And thus expose the pretences of this corrupt society —

  — But should I not get in through the kitchen window quickly?

  The light went off on the stairs: the light came on in the first-floor drawing-room.

  I thought—What is this image like death cut off at the waist and wearing a hat; rolling down a slope to some black hole at the bottom —

  I was trying to get the piece of glass out from the kitchen window. It was held, delicately, by dry putty.

  — There are burglar alarms that still do not go off?

  When I was in the house I went through into the hall. There were no lights anywhere.

  I thought—These were just images playing tricks in my unconscious?

  It was about ten-thirty at night. There might be some secretaries watching television in the basement.

  I thought I should whisper, as though I were anxious about a ghost—Aunt Mavis?

  In the hall there was a faint light from the street outside. The door was open into Uncle Bill’s study.

  I thought that if I turned the lights on, and Aunt Mavis was there, she might be seen from the street outside or make a dash for it.

  Also—If you wake sleepwalkers, do not their walls collapse like paper?

  I said ‘Aunt Mavis?’

  ‘Oh you did frighten me!’

  She said this quite calmly. She was behind the door into the study; where she seemed to have been waiting.

  She said ‘Were you all right, darling? Were you cold?’

  I did not understand this. I thought she must be projecting on to me the fact that she had no clothes on.

  She said ‘Did they treat you all right?’

  She came towards me in the hall. I thought I should stay between her and the front door.

  She said ‘Did they give you food or anything?’

  She seemed to be pulling gloves on. Her skin hung on her like furs. I wondered for a moment—She really does have no clothes on?

  I said ‘Don’t go out.’

  She said ‘I’ve got proof.’

  I said ‘Of what?’

  She said ‘Darling, you were only the first!’

  I found that I did not like the idea of touching her. I tried to rationalise this—She might scream?

  She had stopped in front of a mirror as if to arrange her hat.

  I said ‘The first what?’

  She said ‘She gives him money.’

  I said ‘Who gives him money?’

  She said ‘Her husband’s very rich.’

  When she moved towards the door I put out a hand and took hold of her.

  I thought—Not too bad: like oysters.

  I said ‘It’s cold outside.’

  She said ‘You won’t be able to stop me.’

  I said ‘Aunt Mavis, you’re drunk.’

  She said ‘What do you mean I’m drunk?’

  I said ‘Aunt Mavis, you haven’t got any clothes on.’

  She turned to one side and sat in a chair by the front door. I let go of her. She held her head in profile. There was a noise of what seemed to be laughter from beyond the front door.

  She said ‘No one’s ever said that to me.’

  I said ‘Why shouldn’t you be drunk? As a matter of fact, I don’t see why you shouldn’t have no clothes on.’

  She said ‘As a matter of fact I’m parched.’

  I said ‘Well why don’t you have another drink then?’

  When she turned her head towards me I had the impression (it was quite dark) that her eyes were bleeding.

  She said ‘I wanted to dance and sing.’

  I said ‘Well dance and sing then.’

  I felt suddenly as if what I was doing was putting my head down on her shoulder and laughing as the man had done to me at Mr Perhaia’s party.

  I said ‘What was it you wanted to dance and sing?’

  Then it seemed that there was something quite different going on: some excavation by men with pick-axes, clicking.

  I wondered—Is this what Dr Anders hears?

  She said ‘Oh God, you don’t want to see it, do you?’

  I said ‘Yes, what’s it like?’

  She said ‘It’s awful!’

  She stood up. She raised one arm above her head.

  Then she put her head on her chest and made a noise like someone retching.

  I said ‘That’s not right is it?’

  She straightened and raised her arm again. Then she lowered it.

  I thought—She is acting?

  Then—Get it out: Get it out —

  She said ‘They can do what they like to me!’

  I said ‘Is that the title of a song?’

  Then she seemed to topple, onto her hands and knees on the floor.

  In this position she was like a wooden horse with nails through its eyes.

  What I had been doing all this time with Aunt Mavis had been so much in the dark—the darkness of the hall, the darkness of my mind, the darkness of some way that I thought might be opened through which I could help her—that I had hardly noticed that there were now stronger noises from the street outside.

/>   I had gone to the bottom of the stairs and I held out a hand to Aunt Mavis.

  I said ‘Come on up to bed.’

  She arched her back and seemed to try to be sick.

  I thought—Or she is like a fish with a line down to her stomach —

  I said ‘You’ve got it out now.’

  She said ‘Why, what did they put in it?’

  I thought—A worm? An asp?

  I said ‘That sounds like another song.’

  I went to a hatstand where there were some coats and I took one down and held it out to her.

  She straightened, still on her knees. She said ‘You don’t mind?’

  A key was turning in the lock of the front door.

  I had been so intent on not breaking the fragile connection I had with Aunt Mavis that I did not care about anyone’s coming in, except that they should not hurt Aunt Mavis —

  I had thought—Pull at the line too violently and you’ll kill her—

  Then the front door opened and Brian Alick came in.

  At least it seemed to be Brian Alick. It also seemed I must be having an hallucination.

  A light was switched on. Aunt Mavis, wearing just her hat, was on her knees facing the front door.

  Some flashlights went off.

  Brian Alick, by Aunt Mavis, was staring at her. Then he looked at me.

  I thought—This is precisely what is happening?

  Then Sheila came in.

  I was sure it was Sheila. I could tell by the way she stood with her toes turned in.

  I thought—But where is this happening?

  More flashlights seemed to go off outside.

  Brian Alick turned to the front door.

  Sheila was looking at me as if she did not recognise me.

  Brian Alick tried to push the door closed. It seemed to bump up against someone else coming in.

  Uncle Bill came in. He was holding his nose.

  I thought—We are in someone else’s time-warp?

  More and more people seemed to be trying to push in.

  I thought—A film has broken down: there are too many people in my maze, or in a telephone box —

  Uncle Bill and Brian Alick and Sheila were in a group by the front door. They were looking at Aunt Mavis.

  Mrs Washbourne was calling ‘Let me in!’ She had got an arm through the door.

  I went and put the coat I was holding around Aunt Mavis.

  Mrs Washbourne appeared, struggling.

  Uncle Bill said ‘And keep that door shut!’

  Sheila said ‘There’s no need to push!’

  Mrs Washbourne was saying ‘What are you doing here?’

  I realised she was talking to me.

  Brian Alick said ‘Let’s get out.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘No.’

  I don’t know how long all this took. I suppose only a few seconds. Time stretches: then people are at home again in their environment.

  Uncle Bill said ‘Take her upstairs.’

  I said ‘I was going to.’

  I thought—Till you all came in with your pick-axes and gumboots.

  Brian Alick said ‘All right.’

  Sheila said ‘What are you doing here?’

  I realised, after a time, that she too was talking to me.

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘Bert, we thought you’d been kidnapped.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘We’d better have a post-mortem; though no one’s actually dead yet, are they?’

  XXIV

  Uncle Bill said ‘But did, or didn’t, anyone see if they got a photograph.’

  Brian Alick said ‘I didn’t’

  Sheila said ‘I saw a flash.’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘Flash is the word.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘Connie!’

  We were in the drawing-room on the first floor. Mrs Washbourne was standing by the window and was holding one side of the curtain back as if she were a secret-service agent in a film Sheila and Brian Alick were sitting straight-backed on the sofa.

  ‘There was definitely a photographer.’

  ‘Who was he, do you know?’

  ‘Not that unattractive photographer.’

  ‘Connie!’

  ‘Can you find out?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You’ve got contacts, haven’t you?’

  Uncle Bill was by the fireplace holding a glass of whisky. He had handed round whisky to the others. Every now and then he moved as if he had forgotten his whisky, and drops like a blessing flew out over the carpet.

  ‘Who was supposed to be with Mavis this evening?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why should they be?’

  ‘I must make it clear we have absolutely no interest in any of this.’

  ‘We came here to find out about Bert.’

  ‘What was it about Bert: Connie?’

  I was sitting in a straight-backed chair opposite the fire. I thought—I will be here like a secretary just to take things down: or like that figure on the banks of the Nile to tell the world what are true and what are untrue messages —

  ‘I asked our two friends here—’

  ‘Sheila—’

  ‘Brian Alick—’

  ‘To come round?’

  ‘Does this matter now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I don’t know if this aspect worries you—’

  ‘What about Mavis —’

  ‘We understood he hadn’t been seen—’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘—for two days. We came round here—’

  Aunt Mavis had been taken up to her room. A doctor had been sent for. One of the secretaries had stayed with her: then the rest of us had gathered in the drawing-room as if in the last act of a play about murderers and detectives.

  ‘What do you mean he hadn’t been seen for two days?’

  ‘He was here last night. He disappeared.’

  ‘People don’t just disappear.’

  ‘He was having dinner.’

  ‘He went out of the front door—’

  ‘I thought you said a window.’

  ‘I said he couldn’t have got out of the window.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask him then?’

  ‘Are we here to talk about Bert?’

  ‘That’s exactly what we were supposed to be here for.’

  ‘Did anyone, or not, see whether they got a photograph?’

  I thought—Are Cabinet meetings like this? People say what they want, and seem to listen; then gas or music comes in through little pipes in the ceiling —

  ‘What happened last night?’

  ‘I don’t know how much anyone could see through that door.’

  ‘He was in the kitchen.’

  ‘How far does a flash reach?’

  ‘I thought you said he was at dinner.’

  ‘Then when he went out of the front door—’

  ‘Not out of the window—’

  ‘You could certainly see in through that door.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What do you mean why?’

  ‘Look we’re not here to talk about Bert.’

  ‘But we are.’

  ‘But things have happened since then.’

  ‘I thought you said he was in the house all the time.’

  ‘I said it looked like it.’

  ‘There was this screech of tyres, and the noise of a car driving away.’

  ‘A screech and a car—’

  ‘If he hadn’t got out of the window, it looked as if he was in the house—’

  ‘But he wasn’t.’

  ‘There was a man at the door.’

  ‘I thought you said it was a car.’

  ‘I think we’re talking about different things.’

  ‘It wasn’t us who wanted to come here you know.’

  I thought—Is it the point of a committee that it should just go on? Is that why you don’t ask me?

  Sheila said ‘Can’t y
ou stop the printing of a photograph?’

  Brian Alick said ‘What, in this democratic society?’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘I’m glad you think so.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘How did you three know each other?’

  Mrs Washbourne left the window and came and sat down on the other side of the fire opposite Sheila and Brian Alick.

  I thought—It was she who got the information about my friendship with the Trotskyites?

  Then Uncle Bill said ‘Where were you, Bert?’

  I said ‘When?’

  He said ‘Today.’

  I said ‘I was at the Annual General Meeting of the Young Trotskyites.’

  Brian Alick said ‘He couldn’t have been.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘Why not?’

  Brian Alick said ‘Bert, what happened at the AGM?’

  Sheila said ‘We thought you’d been kidnapped.’

  Brian Alick said ‘We didn’t!’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘What did you think then?’

  Sheila said ‘We heard a shot: then a car drive away.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘At the AGM?’

  I said ‘There was a bomb scare: but nothing happened.’

  Brian Alick said ‘That’s right.’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘But that was when he was having dinner here.’

  I said ‘No, that was the evening before.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘A shot? A bomb scare?’

  Sheila said ‘He was definitely being followed.’

  Brian Alick said ‘Not by us. He was with us.’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘I was afraid he might do some injury to himself.’

  I opened my mouth to say—But I was not being followed! Then it seemed as if I would not stammer, and then that this was not worth saying.

  Uncle Bill went to the window and raised a corner of the curtain as if he were a secret-service man looking out.

  Brian Alick said ‘Do they know who we are?’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘I rang up Sally Rogers.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘Who?’

  Sheila said ‘You know Sally Rogers—’

  Uncle Bill said ‘Does she now!’

  I began laughing.

  I thought—We are tickled by glands? By tiny angels pushing pumps like men in pubs?

  Uncle Bill said ‘Now let’s get this straight. You made contact with our friends here because you thought you had reason to be anxious about Bert. He’d disappeared: out of a kitchen: out of a door: there was a car—So you two came round here—’

  I said ‘I was all right.’