Imago Bird

by Nicholas Mosley

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘I’m sure you were, Bert.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘Anyone want some more?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Yes please.’

  Uncle Bill handed round the whisky.

  He said ‘The point is what do we do now.’

  After a time Brian Alick said ‘What I don’t understand is, if you thought he was in the house all the time, why you telephoned.’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘But the point is he wasn’t.’

  Sheila said ‘That’s the mystery!’

  Uncle Bill said ‘How did you put up with your ordeal, Bert, did these fellows give you the electrical treatment, what?’

  Brian Alick said ‘I don’t know what effect all this will have on you, but it will certainly embarrass us.’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘When did you last see him?’

  I said ‘Why do anything?’

  I thought—Is this like upsetting the chess-table? All the lights in the auditorium coming on?

  Uncle Bill said ‘Why do anything about what.’

  I said ‘The photograph. Of Aunt Mavis.’

  They all seemed to think.

  Then Brian Alick said ‘You mean, what can we do about such a photograph anyway—’

  I said ‘No, I mean no one will believe it anyway.’

  They all seemed to think.

  I wondered—Is this what my sister meant when she said I would become insufferable?

  Sheila said ‘Surely you can find out.’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘How?’

  I said ‘People only believe what they want to believe. Or what it’s in their interests to believe. Whose interests will it be in, for God’s sake, to believe a photograph like that?’

  I thought—Someone magical?

  Then—They will think about this for a time: then talk about something different.

  I said ‘The whole thing will seem to be a joke: and so in some quite different category.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘You mean do nothing?’

  Brian Alick said ‘And it’ll fly away?’

  I thought—Ah, you think you’re mocking me!

  I said ‘It’ll be like one of those photographs you stick your head through on a pier.’

  After a time Mrs Washbourne said ‘Bert!’

  Uncle Bill walked round the room with his head down, smiling.

  Brian Alick said ‘It’s true, of course, that one can fake a photograph.’

  Sheila said ‘Indeed.’

  Brian Alick said ‘Sheila!’

  I said “The point is that people aren’t interested in what’s true —’

  I thought—Oh keep quiet, this is not a moral, but a theological problem.

  Uncle Bill sat down beside Sheila and Brian Alick. He pulled out his pipe.

  I said ‘I mean people have known for years, haven’t they, about Aunt Mavis doing things like getting drunk and taking her clothes off? But who on earth has wanted to talk about it?’

  Uncle Bill said ‘Yes that’s true.’

  After a time Mrs Washbourne said ‘Bert, how did you get back into the house then?’

  I said ‘When I got out of the kitchen window there was a bit of glass that cracked, so I could put my hand back in through it and get at the latch.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘But why did you want to?’

  I said ‘Because at the door there was a policeman.’

  Uncle Bill seemed to think about this.

  Brian Alick said ‘There isn’t a policeman at the back?’

  Uncle Bill said ‘Well, it was extremely good of you two to come along!’

  Sheila said ‘Oh it’s been very nice to see the place really!’

  Mrs Washbourne said ‘How many other photographs has anyone got by the way?’ But no one seemed to want to pay attention to this.

  Brian Alick said ‘Well thanks for the whisky.’

  Uncle Bill did his trick of suddenly taking his pipe out of his mouth and looking as if he had broken a tooth and swallowed by mistake some poison hidden in it.

  I thought—What is magical is when what one is talking about at the same time seems to happen; and we are so unused to this, that it is like seeing ourselves looking down at ourselves in the maze—

  Then—But with all this magic, will Aunt Mavis now be able to change: or will Uncle Bill just be all right?

  XXV

  I thought—Now carry me, my dark horse, to my beloved!

  Dr Anders said—‘Were it not for your imagery about birds, I would say that you looked like the cat that has swallowed the canary.’

  I had walked all the way to Dr Anders’ house and it was as if I were slightly above myself like one of those bird-songs which lead heroes through forests.

  I had begun to tell Dr Anders something of what had happened; and then had stopped; as if the theatre had packed up and gone home through lack of interest.

  I said ‘But I must get out.’

  She said ‘Where do you want to get to?’

  I said ‘Some university. I don’t know.’

  She said ‘Which?’

  I said ‘Any.’

  I thought—And it is because of lack of interest that there are in my mind no more dull stories about pistols going off and papers being stolen and flashlight photographs being taken: or a son’s tearing his eyes out behind closed doors, o my mother.

  Dr Anders said ‘And what would you read there?’

  I said ‘I don’t know.’

  I thought—But now, don’t I?

  I said ‘I don’t think I want to do philosophy. I think reason is good at saying what things are not, but not good at saying what things are.’

  I thought—Do words have to wrap round each other like making love; like poetry?

  Then—But I can do this?

  Dr Anders said nothing.

  I said ‘I think I’d like to do biology or chemistry or physics.’

  I thought—Dr Anders’ silences are when she is pleased? She might have been listening to music?

  I said ‘There was this idea, you know, that I should wait a year before going to university so that I could come to you; to be straightened out; to be cured Well, of course, I’m not cured; but I don’t think my stammer will really worry me very much any more, do you?’

  I thought—It can accept, can’t it, poor thing, that words might press together like making love, like poetry?

  I said ‘The trouble is, if I went to university, I might not be able to go on coming to you.’

  I thought—Do I believe this?

  Also—I’m not doing this just to be nice to her, am I?

  I felt suddenly as if I might cry.

  She said ‘Have you heard the results of your exams yet?’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what are they?’

  ‘Good.’

  I thought—Once I could not have said just—Good!

  It was as if she were sitting on some egg waiting for it to be hatched.

  She said ‘So you could go to a university now?’

  ‘Presumably.’

  I thought—But she has understood this, hasn’t she, that if I go to a university now, it will be almost impossible for me to go on seeing her?

  — And that however helped I am, if one is taken apart and put together again it takes time, doesn’t it, to get used to this, o my father—

  I said ‘But I haven’t put in any of the applications yet and I suppose it’s too late now.’

  She said ‘Surely your uncle or Mrs Washbourne could pull strings for you?’

  I said ‘I don’t want them to pull strings.’

  She seemed, on top of her egg, to be unaccountably embarrassed.

  I thought—Not because I might cry?

  She said ‘You know this week I’ve been in Cambridge—’

  Then I thought—I’m not going to be able to bear this —

  I said ‘Yes.’

  She said ‘Well, I did have the opportunity as a matter of fact to mak
e one or two enquiries for you.’

  I thought—Did I know this all the time?

  Then—It is happiness that is not bearable?

  I said ‘Yes.’

  She said ‘And they seemed to think, the people whom I talked to, that there would not be much difficulty in your getting in to some university now; someone with your qualifications.’

  I thought—If it is happiness, I will bear it?

  But also—Will I go on seeing you?

  She said ‘You would have to go and convince them of course; show them your results. But I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to do this.’

  I thought suddenly—This person to whom you spoke: is it the person through whom my sister put me in touch with you; the Professor, her lover?

  I said ‘At Cambridge?’

  She said ‘Yes. Or anywhere.’

  I said ‘But doesn’t the term start in a week or so?’

  I thought—Ah well, wait: you still don’t know all the outside world can do for you —

  She said ‘It would be difficult for you, of course, to come up here each day.’

  I thought—But to hope was not unreasonable?

  She seemed to be doing the breathing exercises which I sometimes did for my stammer: in, one two: hold it, three four: out, five six seven eight —

  I said ‘I thought analysis was supposed to go on for about three years.’

  She said ‘Ah, this isn’t an old-fashioned analysis—’

  I wanted to ask—What is it then?

  She said ‘You want to go on seeing me?’

  I thought for a moment I would not answer this: can one say—I am lonely?

  I said ‘Yes.’

  Then I said ‘But I’ll survive.’

  Her eyes were closed. I thought—She is about to give birth: which is what happens to those figures on the banks of the Nile, when the waters break —

  She said ‘I expect you’ll go on stammering for a while. Perhaps, in a way, always. When it suits you. I mean, it’s one of your ways of dealing with the outside world; and not always a bad one. But I don’t think you’ll stammer much any more when it’s important for you not to; and I don’t think it’ll worry you very much even when you do. You’ll make the best of it.’

  I thought I might say—Granted.

  Then I thought—Is her egg, now, when it is about to hatch, going to be one of those things that one cannot say?

  She said ‘You know when you first came to me, and I said I’d given up private patients?’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  She said ‘Well I had.’

  I thought—Oh my bird, my dark horse, don’t lose me in this forest!

  We were silent for a time.

  I said ‘So why did you take me on?’

  Then—‘No: why were you giving up private patients?’

  She said ‘Because I’d been offered a job at a university.’

  I tried to say—I see.

  I thought—Animals! Dragons! Listen to my music!

  She said ‘A teaching job.’

  I said ‘I’m not going to be able to bear this.’

  She said ‘Oh yes you are.’

  I thought—All the lights have gone out in my theatre. We have already gone home.

  She said ‘It seemed reasonable for me to say that I would take you on for these few months, and then we would see.’

  I thought—And then we did.

  I wanted to ask again—What made you take me?

  I said ‘So you will be at this university if I go too. I can go on seeing you?’

  After a time she said ‘Yes.’

  I said ‘Is the person you spoke to in Cambridge the same as the friend of my sister?’

  She said ‘“The same” sounds magical.’

  I said ‘Well, is it?’

  Then I said ‘Why did you take me on?’

  She said ‘Trade secret.’

  We were quiet for a time. Everything seemed peaceful: in the world away from a theatre; in front of a fire; beyond the window.

  I thought—Life is held in a riddle: like a universe; like an atom

  Then I thought—But I must tell you about my film!

  She said ‘Magic however depends on some talent. A fitting in. Perhaps a skill.’

  I thought—As in my film?

  She said ‘You’ve had a pretty odd experience of life after all. Your father and mother are I suppose exceptional people. You’ve had to form yourself from them. Then you’ve been thrown into the world of your Uncle Bill and Mrs Washbourne. You’ve had a glimpse of this sort of power: some of it’s fantasy and some of it’s not I mean there are some areas power touches and some it just doesn’t. This has given you an exaggerated idea perhaps about the impossibility of organising things materially, except by some sort of casting of straws on the wind. But it’s not all like this. I know some of it is. And perhaps you’re right not to talk about this much. But I think you should realise that there are quite modest ways in which you can affect things for good or ill, quite practically; just by working at them; often, yes, in quite negative ways; that is, by correcting this or that abuse. Your Uncle Bill seems to have been quite good at this. You could learn from him in these ways probably. You may be right in your supposition that one cannot control the way things grow, but one can certainly deal with the needs that are preventing this.’

  I said ‘Yes.’

  She said ‘Now you’ve led me into one of your appalling horticultural metaphors.’

  I said ‘Like analysis.’

  She said ‘Like analysis.’

  I said ‘Dig away and—Abracadabra!’

  She stirred in her seat restlessly.

  I said ‘Oh, and I met that girl again the other day.’

  She said ‘What girl?’

  I said ‘Judith Ponsonby.’

  I thought—What has grown is not just that I have stopped feeling ashamed about not being interested in all those things I thought I should be interested in —

  She said ‘You still think the processes of analysis are mysterious?’

  I said ‘Aren’t they?’

  She said ‘You used to talk to me about yourself as if I were not there.’

  I thought—And now, it is unnerving, because I see you are?

  I said ‘If it’s more than the exorcising of giants and dragons—is it something to do with making connections between the two sides of the brain?’

  She said ‘I don’t know, is it?’

  I thought—Like making love?

  I said ‘What does this friend of yours do, who’s also the friend of my sister?’

  She said ‘He’s interested, yes, in biology and chemistry and physics; currently, in some study of the activity of the brain.’

  XXVI

  I thought—Now, my white bird, are we not pulling together well along this sea-shore?

  One evening shortly before I was due to go to the university Uncle Bill came up to see me. He said —

  ‘I’ve been in Manchester: Blackpool. What a life! It’s a great game while you’re at it. They want you for what they imagine; it doesn’t matter what you tell them. I sometimes wonder if you couldn’t get yourself stuffed and worked by one of those silicon chips, you know, they wouldn’t know the difference.

  ‘Three things I’ve wanted to do in politics, and I’ve done two of them. I’ve wanted to get on with this participation deal; and I’ve wanted to finish what we started with Perhaia. God knows there are going to be enough poor devils in Africa; not just ours; it was a tragedy about Perhaia. There’ll come a time, soon enough, God knows, when if you’ve got a good man, you’ll have to send out a dummy.

  ‘You and I have had some good talks; haven’t we; and I wouldn’t like you to leave here with too low a regard for politics. It seems all a bit of a scramble every now and then; a safety match, you once called it. But we haven’t really found a better way. If people don’t bang on a bit, they kill each other. You once said I remember—But aren’t things too dangerou
s now? But what would be more dangerous? You can’t change things too much when the aeroplane’s out of control. And you’re in the driving seat. You might say—Well, are you? Or—Isn’t that just the time when things change anyway? But things are more complicated now than when you just held—a joystick; a tiller.

  ‘Mavis tells me you were pretty good the other day. I’m grateful. I’ve always tried to keep family life separate from public life; and I’ve succeeded. But I’ve sometimes wondered if it’s been worth it. Connie was always more of the public figure, you know. Mavis wanted to be an actress. Unlike your mother. Not much time for the humdrum stuff. A great girl, your mother! But someone’s got to do it. I mean the humdrum stuff. Like politics. Mavis might have wanted to do a bit more of it later on; but by then it was difficult.

  ‘Someone was telling me the other day of the casualties suffered by politicians’ families: this is a fact, apparently. There are quite a number of breakdowns; suicides. It’s the feeling of being in the public eye I suppose: something gets frozen. But they tell me with this new treatment Mavis will soon be better. We never had children of our own of course. She said you were a great help to her the other day. I’ve told her you’ll see her.

  ‘Connie says you’ve managed to do quite a lot of work here; I’m glad. Of course, we’ll be sorry to lose you. But you’re right to go to a university. What are you reading?

  ‘I think you’ve heard I’m resigning. For personal reasons. Quite personal reasons. If you hear anything to the contrary, I’d be glad if you’d say so.

  ‘I don’t think it would be accurate to say that I’m going to devote the rest of my life to family matters, though it’s true I haven’t spent enough time with Mavis. Who’s Sextus Empiricus?’

  Uncle Bill had picked up a book from beside my bed and was leafing through it.

  I said ‘He’s a Sceptical philosopher of the third century AD.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  I said ‘He said that one could never be certain of anything, but that uncertainty was necessary for mental health. People who thought they knew things for certain were demented.’

  Uncle Bill said ‘Then Mavis isn’t demented.’

  I said ‘What is her treatment?’

  Uncle Bill put down the book and moved around the room.

  I thought—He is like one of the boys that used to hang around my bed at school?