The Precipice
Page 19
I retrieved that page and reread it. It ended with the girl’s stark question: do you wish we weren’t here? Kim’s question, after I had discovered her trespassing in my landscape, reading in the cradle of the rock I have always thought of as my secret. Except that she was not trespassing, and it is not a secret, not really, and it is my property only in my imagination. Or, perhaps, in the stony landscape of my dreams.
After that initial awkward confrontation, Kim and I have not referred again to this painful incident. We have avoided, most scrupulously, making any mention of it. As an event it has become untouchable, and this is my doing. By avoiding it I have let the subject burgeon out of all proportion until it is a pariah topic between us.
The girl’s question was the single line of written dialogue in which I could find no discernable subtext. It was a seminal question left unanswered, which made for a dramatic finale, I had thought.
We are no longer limited to just one page. Oscar has relaxed his strictures on length, in keeping with our more upwardly mobile literary status, as he calls it. Run away and polish your audition pieces, he said. Pirouette to the music of time – but preferably confine the dance to one volume instead of twelve. He couldn’t promise to read everything.
Already I find myself speculating, thinking ahead. I envisage a set of linked pieces inspired by real-life experience. I do not intend to figure in them myself, not at this stage. Instead I will construct for myself a shadowy alter ego. I will make this character anonymous, a she who is never described. Rather like one of the amorphous figures in Oscar’s photo, as it happens.
I expected it to be more difficult to write about the building of my house than it turned out to be. It sounds grandiose but I recognised quite soon that there was a mythical dimension to the subject. The making of a dwelling place is a symbolic behaviour common to all cultures, I suppose, whether the dwelling happens to be a cardboard box or a palace. It can symbolise a range of things: respectability, a refuge, hope, among others. And worldly success. Not to mention delusions of grandeur and disappointment and making do.
And then there is the whole idea of home, with all the baggage that entails. Home, where the heart is. I skirted around this emotional minefield by avoiding the subject altogether. The construction of the house was enough. It was a bigger topic than I had anticipated and I didn’t get very far.
The project, I wrote, was unlike anything the woman had done before. Yet she was quite confident, rather abnormally so when I think about it now. She knew exactly what she wanted because the final conception was already there, fully realised in her mind.
In no other area of my life can I recall ever having had such a degree of certainty. The architectural draughtsman who drew up the plans said he’d never come across a client with such a tight, specific brief. Never thought he’d get to meet the one woman in the world who never changed her mind, he said to me once.
Well, there was good reason for my certainty. I’d worked out every detail over a period of years. Dreamt about it often, although the sequence of different houses that appeared in my dreams never once resembled the one that was coming into being. At the time I thought nothing of that. Now I find it thought-provoking, this perverse activity on the part of my subconscious mind. Insidiously subversive.
I can see that in a sense the project was a rebound activity, a break from the past, and I threw myself into it as if it were my new career. I was fully engaged, physically and mentally, as never before. Passionately engaged, I think. They have a useful word for this now. They call it flow, the experience of being so absorbed in your work that you are unaware of time passing. I looked it up in my Shorter Oxford but it was so old it only listed the traditional meanings.
I did not expect to experience flow again in my life. But lo! It has made a miraculous reappearance. It came back when I was writing my account of the precipice. It is a short distance from flow to fall, two innocent letters. I think my wily subconscious may have been setting me up for a fall in the only way it knew how, with those dreams of non-existent houses. Preparing me for one of life’s sobering truths.
‘Truths life has taught me.’ This was the title of a recent series in the paper, a Saturday column in which older people, some well known, some not, selected five aphorisms that meant something to them. They didn’t have to be original, they could be tried and truisms. I was sorry when it ended. Most of the choices tended to be on the rueful side, which was why I liked them.
Nothing in life turns out the way you wanted, I recall, was one of the selections in the very week I sold my house to the Campbell-Carringtons. Had my subconscious sought to give me advance warning of this? Had it tried to alert me to the fact that the outcome of human passions is almost always a can of worms?
If so, it didn’t work. I was too blinkered to decode the advance warnings. Still, something was gained. It has become a truth life has taught me, too. And what was the other one I recently came up with? Pride leads to paralysis. Maybe they could resurrect the series and I could be a contributor.
The multitude of other lives one might have led. Should I have become an architect? Could I have designed houses for other people? Ah, that I doubt. I may have lacked the essential willingness to adapt to their harebrained wishes.
I have a query. Do you choose your home? Can you impose yourself on it, or does it, when all is said and done, choose you?
Don’t have too much afternoon tea after school, I said to Kim, because we’re going out for dinner first, not after.
Really? To a restaurant?
I thought it might be fun, I said.
Fun? Oh yeah, it so would. She wouldn’t have any arvo tea then, not a skerrick. Just as well I’d warned her in advance. Awesome, because eating out was so cool. It was one of her favourite things, actually. Then came an abrupt change of expression. Her face clouded over and she chewed her lip.
‘Of course, it’s my treat,’ I said casually.
She shook her head. ‘But I’ve got a bit of – I’ve got pocket money. They give –’
‘We’re not using your pocket money, don’t even think of it.’
‘But Thea – you lost all your savings when –’
‘I have enough left over for a few treats,’ I said in a firm voice.
‘But –’
‘For quite a few treats, in fact. We’ll say no more about it. Now scarper, before you miss the bus.’ She gave Teddy a series of jubilant hugs and rode off.
He is in fine fettle at the moment. The new pills seem to be working – touch wood, do not tempt fate – better than I dared hope they might. He has come with me on the morning walk four days of the last five. And bounded at times, to my joy.
She hasn’t had the chance to eat out very much, I expect, so it will be a novelty for her. I haven’t either, I suppose. There are several places around here where I haven’t been. They are not overly expensive; I’ve read the menus outside.
In an idle moment I looked up the word custodian. A person who has responsibility for something, who looks after something. I am the custodian of the museum in miniature. Even if I can no longer see it, I am the one who knows it is there. I am the holder of the knowledge.
I may have sole possession of the secret, but it cannot be said that I own it. Furthermore, I have a responsibility to her, the unknown artist who, in bequeathing her images, left behind the proof of her existence.
A new conviction has come to me, it has descended like Oscar’s manna, and I find myself in the grip of it. It would be wrong to keep this legacy to myself, without handing it on. Nor, I find again, somewhat to my surprise, do I wish to. That would be like a betrayal of a sacred trust.
It would be sacrilegious. This seems to be the only appropriate word. Have I used it before, in my life? Never, I think, in the right context. Never in terms of its true meaning. What I am contemplating doing is rather like passing on the baton in a relay race. In the relay of life, the race towards death in which no one wants to be the winner.
Last week I was about to keel over from lack of sustenance. It must be the special concentration the writing class demands. You can get lazy, living with your compatible canine companion. It’s not that you don’t think. It’s more that your random thoughts end up in arid wastelands, or worse. The writing class requires a different order of application.
Oscar is a vigilant taskmaster. He notices if his troops of advancing age drift off in a daydream and snaps them smartly out of it.
After thinking it over I decided to take Kim to the Asian restaurant round the corner from the writers’ room. It’s surprisingly good, cheap and quick, and the owners know me. Atmospheric too, which you wouldn’t necessarily expect. Kim was charmed by the gold tablecloths, the red lanterns on the ceiling and the candlelight. I thought it would appeal to her.
For such a modest establishment it has an eclectic menu, including a number of Vietnamese specialities. She exclaimed when she saw them. I invited her to choose. She said she hadn’t spent much time with Vietnamese people, not for years. But when she pored over the list I saw a spark of recognition. She read out the names of the dishes fluently.
‘You haven’t forgotten,’ I said.
‘I can sort of pronounce the words, but I only really remember a few. Only a handful of words,’ she said pensively. I wondered if it might have been wiser to go to the Italian place nearby.
She said, ‘It’s so different-sounding, like it’s a language from another planet, but it’s kind of compelling. Don’t you think, Thea?’
I thought it was a very compelling language indeed. It was both guttural and melodious, with a harsh music all of its own.
She nodded. ‘A harsh music. That’s what I think too.’
After some discussion we ordered a feast of hot and sour seafood soup, minced (free-range) chicken and bean-sprout crepes wrapped in lettuce, and soft vermicelli summer rolls filled with prawns, cucumber and spring onion. And a glass of wine for me. Normally I’d have two, but I was mindful of the need to drive Kim home later.
Had I noticed anything? Kim asked. We had steered clear of any pork, beef or lamb.
‘I don’t eat them,’ I said.
Not since I was a kid?
‘Not since I found Teddy, for some reason. He does, though, I’m afraid.’
‘Bit late to change his habits now, I guess,’ Kim said. She didn’t eat them either. It was the whole business of raising the animals and then taking away their young and herding them into lorries, and killing them in horrible, scary abattoirs, wasn’t it? I agreed that it was. Somewhat inconsistent to make an exception for chickens and fish, but at least it was a start.
‘I can foresee going total eventually, like when I get to about twenty,’ Kim said. I thought at my age I’d have to make do with going halfway.
We were the only customers at that hour. She surveyed the room, propping her elbows on the table. I suppressed my reflex objection to this habit. For all I know, it has long since ceased to be considered bad manners anyway. She said, ‘This is so fun and I’m so starving. Even though it’s really, really early. Just as well I didn’t gobble all the usual stuff after school. Wouldn’t want to waste this experience.’
I was relieved. ‘This experience’ had an aura of enchantment around it I’d not associated with the restaurant before.
‘I’ve brought you something to read while we’re waiting.’ I pulled out my piece about Teddy disguised as Ted. We had to write about an important character in our life, I said. She caught on right away. She has an infectious giggle, like the ascending notes of a xylophone.
She laid the sheet of paper carefully on the table.
‘D’you want to hear my verdict, Thea?’ I gave the requisite nod.
‘I totally love it.’ She shook her head. ‘Absolutely.’
‘I had to leave a few things out, as you might imagine,’ I said.
‘Okay. Like for instance, how he’s always lying on his back with his legs in the air. I noticed that was left out.’
‘And his habit of burying bones in the garden.’
‘And of vacuuming up spilt stuff off the floor and then licking your face. It’s phenomenally amazing you found so much stuff to put in. Can I keep it so I can read it again?’
She folded the piece and put it in her bag. The others must’ve been jealous of my live-in man, she said. I didn’t tell her they were sceptical about Ted’s existence; I said under no circumstances to let on.
She asked about the rest of the class. ‘Don’t feel obliged to leave out any of their funny habits,’ she prompted.
I gave a brief run-down. It sounded uncharitable, even to my ears. She ticked them off on her fingers. Gilda-lily was predatory, Mary was frumpy and mad, Greg was rustic and hairy and the other two, Margaret and Joy, were nonentities about whom you could say nothing of any interest.
Humpf. And what about the teacher? Was he normal? Like, at all? Ah, Oscar is in a league of his own, I said. You can make up your own mind. I think you might like him.
She was impressed to hear he had written two satirical novels. They’d had small print runs; Oscar said himself that they were rather peculiar and hadn’t sold well. Unfortunately no one in the class has read either of them. I’ve had Sandy Fay keeping a look out for a stray copy for months, with no luck so far. They were very likely to be eccentric, I said, and esoteric. That is to say, they were probably a minority taste.
‘A minority taste? But that’s so in their flavour, isn’t it?’ said Kim. She enjoys puns. ‘You approve of Oscar, then. What about Frank? Do you like him?’
This put me in a quandary. Frank has some attractive qualities, but I have issues with him, as they say. I decided to leave out the big issue of his irresponsibility. ‘I find Frank likeable in many ways,’ I said. ‘And he is your uncle and very fond of you, which are two more things in his flavour.’
He is your only relative, I thought. Or the only one who cares enough to have any contact with you.
She beamed in an untrammelled way. ‘Yeah, I think he is. Fond of me. That’s a relief, you know. That you like him.’
When I didn’t respond, she said, ‘It’s bad enough to have people sort of invading your own house, but if you hated them as well it’d be, like, just total shit.’
She didn’t ask me what I thought of Ellice, I noticed. They still haven’t mentioned the pregnancy, that’s obvious. I had to suppress the urge to tell her about it. This is making me angry. It’s not up to me to do it, I know that, but I am strongly tempted all the same.
Before we left she asked, ‘Did you give the house a name?’
‘Only in theory,’ I said. ‘I was always going to call it Halcyon. It never had a christening.’
Halcyon. It sounded like a word from another life. I’d almost forgotten it. I explained that it meant a time that was idyllically happy, usually in the past. It was a beguiling word, to my mind, that suited the house. To forestall the inevitable question, I said I had intended to give the word an extended meaning, to include the present instead, and the future. Which was the melancholy truth.
I could see her mulling over this as she looked round the room. She said, ‘But you wouldn’t’ve had to change the meaning. As soon as you’d lived there for more than one day you would’ve had a halcyon past, right?’
It took a moment to get my mind around this idea. But I think it explains a thought process that had been unconscious. Halcyon was to be a break from the past and a new beginning.
We went into the small anteroom where they keep the coats. As we were shrugging our arms into our jackets she suddenly said, ‘Do you want to hear the words I remember?’
‘Very much,’ I said. I experienced a flicker of severe anxiety.
She recited several Vietnamese words in an inflected, up and down tone. ‘They mean “my love” and “daughter of mine”,’ she sa
id in a careful, unemotional voice. ‘And “I have to leave you” and “I am sorry.” That’s all I remember. It’s not very much, is it?’
She had her back to me so I couldn’t see her face, but I could hear both of us breathing fast in the cramped space. She seemed to be struggling with the jacket. I guided her hand into the sleeve.
‘It’s enough to tell a story,’ I said.
She stood motionless for a moment. Then she turned to me. ‘That’s true. Enough for that.’
We thanked the waiter as he held the door open for us. In the street she slowed down and then came to a halt. ‘Um. Thea.’
‘Yes?’ I saw she was looking rattled.
‘I’m allowed to be invisible, right? I won’t have to, you know, say anything?’
Nothing at all, I assured her. She could be the invisible woman. But if she had changed her mind, if she didn’t want to go, I didn’t mind in the least. We could go back, right now. She pondered, then shook her head, decisively.
‘Nuh, no way. I haven’t. Changed my mind.’
The others welcomed her arrival in a low-key kind of way. They were quite generous, I have to concede, and tactful, Oscar included. He merely said, ‘Tonight, Thea has brought along a young observer.’ We ran through everyone’s name, then it was business as usual.
I remember Frank saying Kim is more comfortable among adults. She has a tendency to slouch in the seat, but I was aware of that active brain ticking over, matching each name against my description. Her presence didn’t change the conduct of the class in any way. She sat quietly next to me, giving me the occasional sideways glance, making the occasional note, taking everything in.
While Oscar has tended to do most of the reading because he does it with such panache, today we were each asked to read an extract from our new work in progress. I trust this practice doesn’t become a fixture. Most of them are droning readers with a singsong delivery and no tonal variation, unlike a Vietnamese speaker. Gilda-lily is an exception. She enunciates as if she were gallivanting on stage in the West End, in what she fondly imagines is still the BBC accent.