Walcot

by Brian Aldiss

  When the war broke out, Joe’s unit was posted to Prague. Once the war started to go badly for the Third Reich, life became much harder. He was moved to the West. ‘My good fortune was not to be despatched to the East,’ he said.

  In a pitched battle near Cologne he was captured by the British. Because he was slightly wounded he was taken to a British field hospital. After some days he was sent to England, to a prison camp near Liverpool.

  Many of his fellow soldiers, also captured, dreaded bad treatment in British hands, as most had been indoctrinated to believe that this was the fate that awaited them. Joe, he now declared, had no such fears. His grandfather had served in the Great War, and had been one of those German soldiers who had played football with the British troops in No Man’s Land at Christmas, 1914; this event had persuaded the family, despite all Nazi propaganda, that the British were decent people. So it had proved for Joe. In the Liverpool prison camp, they had been reasonably well treated. British women had come into the camp to teach the prisoners English.

  Joe said, ‘I was Josef Richter then. Later I became the Joe Rich I am now, sir, and one reason was because I liked the beauty of the English tongue as taught by those women, with the soft sounds and the hard sounds, different from the harsher German tongue. And I liked the many reasonable utterances I heard in that English tongue. And the uncertainties.’

  Rhona said, ‘He says the English language is like a good box of chocolates, with hard and soft centres. You can never ken the which you will taste next, but so much flavour is conveyed.’

  Sipping your bitter coffee while Joe neatly patched your trousers, you felt submerged in their friendship. You forgot any embarrassment occasioned by sitting there in your underpants with Rhona present.

  ‘But it is your national poetry that won me,’ said Joe. ‘Nothing to do with military superiority,’ said Rhona teasingly.

  ‘I fell in love with Rhona when she recited one particular poem.’

  You sat there by the log fire, attending relaxedly while Joe recited.

  ‘Listen! You hear the grating roar

  Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,

  At their return, up the high strand,

  Begin, and cease, and then again begin,

  With tremulous cadence slow, and bring

  The eternal note of sadness in.’

  After the poem they sat in silence. Joe murmured to himself, ‘With tremulous cadence slow …’ until Rhona said, addressing you, ‘So do you have great expectations, sir?’

  ‘I suppose I do.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a better idea to have low expectations,’ she said, smiling sadly into the fire. ‘That’s the style me and Joe keep. We’re content the noo, you might say, looking after this load of junk.’

  ‘There’s your trousers, sir,’ said Joe, handing the garment over, neatly mended. ‘Sorry for your accident, sir.’

  You were driving away through that uninsistent English landscape, thinking about Joe and Rhona, thinking perhaps that they were all right as they were – surviving, as everyone had to survive somehow. You reflected on their meek submission to adversity, whereas you – A terrible choking sensation rose up in you and you had to pull in by the side of the road.

  A welter of tears burst from what seemed like your whole body. There was no way you could stop it. A great misery tore you apart. The Second World War had ended fourteen years previously. You had never really spoken to anyone about what you and your friends had endured; no one who had been actively through the war could explain it to those who had not.

  ‘Oh God, how can you live?’ you said aloud. ‘I live on sodding autopilot – How can you possibly, possibly – There’s no meaning –’

  How many had died worldwide in that ghastly upheaval of hatred and struggle? What was the estimate? Fifty-five million was it? Not just in Europe – everywhere: China, Japan … Fifty-five million – the population of the whole British Isles. Probably twice that. How could you know?

  Fifty-five million. Falling into mud and shit and darkness … And those who survived; how could life ever be the same?

  You sat there exhausted, almost without thought. The torrent had petered out, the storm died within you. You wiped the tears and snot from your face. It was useless to despair. Of course those of the new generation who had not gone through it would never know. Just as well.

  ‘What a fuss you make,’ you said in a whisper. ‘For Christ’s sake, it’s a different world.’

  You started up the car and headed back towards the A5 and London.

  10

  A Man About Town

  The meeting with Joe Rich took place in the year of 1959, the year that Khrushchev visited the USA. Joseph Stalin had died in the spring of 1953, whereupon primroses had burst into flower all over Siberia. Khrushchev had denounced the terrible leader a few years later, but the confrontation between the West and the Communist world continued.

  There was little you could do about the political situation, apart from worrying sporadically. Violet worried for her children; but Joyce was a child no more, and celebrated her twenty-first birthday. The grey and wearisome decade was all but at its end when the M1, Britain’s first motorway, was opened between London and Birmingham. ‘Good –’ said Joey Hillman to Terry Hillman in your presence – you were taking riding lessons, the winter came and went–‘Then we can open a branch in Birmingham. Plenty of money to be made in the Midlands.’

  ‘It will be easier to get to Grimscote now, as if anyone would wish to,’ you told them. ‘But there was an interesting caretaker in the War Department store I visited. A German prisoner-of-war who took British citizenship, name of Joe Rich …’

  The twins were not interested. Directed by Lord Lyndhurst, your company was rechristened. You were now CEO of the Britannia Furniture Co. Your friends in the company congratulated you. Slowly people had become more prosperous; many households now boasted a refrigerator and television set, while sales of furniture still held up.

  One day in a news report on the TV, you thought you saw the Geldsteins, looking frightened, in a report on unrest in the East End. It was only a momentary glimpse, then they were gone. You wanted to get in touch with them, but were too busy.

  You had a pleasant, if cramped, office with two secretaries in Hammersmith, whereas your cousins had larger premises in nearby Kensington, over a furniture showroom. You still found something sly about them, but both acted deferentially, and were punctilious about having your signature on all contracts and cheques.

  You now lived the life of a man about town, and saw Abby whenever possible. You believed you were in love with her and that she was in love with you. When your mother became ill with pneumonia, Abby accompanied you to see her and to pay her respects. You were anxious to know what her response was to this different order of being, but Abby suppressed her sarcasm and was sweet and pleasant. However, two hours after arriving at your father’s house, a phone call came which summoned her back to London.

  ‘Crisis at the shop,’ she said. ‘Terrible nuisance. Many apologies, Mrs Fielding, but I must flee.’ A kiss on your lips and off she drove in her little MG sports car.

  You felt obliged to stay overnight to compensate for Abby’s rapid disappearance. You slept badly. When the night paled, you threw on a dressing gown and went to walk in the garden. A light burned behind the curtains in your mother’s bedroom window; the sight brought a twitch of guilt and compassion.

  But the airs of an early autumn dawn were refreshing. You walked among the conventional arrangement of square flower beds which Mary had created, paying them no attention. In the windows of the distant line of modern houses, lights were beginning to show. A window on the outermost house still had a light burning. It had burned all night, as it had done previously; you remembered it. Presumably it indicated the room of an invalid, constantly in suffering.

  As you began to mount a series of shallow steps to the lawn, you saw an animal ahead. The animal was in the act of crunching
up the body of what had possibly been a rabbit, its sharp teeth snapping small bones. That was seen in an instant: in the next instant, the animal – a fox – was crouched and looking at you, brush low to the grass, sprung limbs ready to move.

  You stood immobile, staring at the fox.

  You looked into each other’s eyes; the animal’s blazed with life. There was no doubt that here was another conscious being, weighing you up. You opened your mouth to reassure it that you intended it no harm. Then, in a single moment, a single movement, it was gone, like a ghost into the bushes.

  You walked up and stood where it had been, among the bloody remains in the spot where the kill had taken place. Now the day was lighter; lines of scarlet appeared among clouds on the eastern horizon. ‘From a view to a death in the morning.’ And you thought of Abby.

  Yes, you ‘loved’ Abby. But there was little that was spiritual in that love, it was mainly lust, compounded by your wish to rise in the world. Like the fox, you had lived a wild life – a life in the wilds. Now you were captive to the capricious young woman. Should you not disappear like the fox, preserving your freedom, since with your admiration of her went a degree of disgust for yourself? It might be because there was no real deep affection between you that the affair – if that was what it was – had tailed on for so long.

  The insight was only momentary, then it was gone, hidden in mortal bushes. Of course you loved Abby. Of course lust was involved, and the search for status and stability; it was but a human cocktail. If that was a captivity then so be it.

  And you turned your back on the brightening sky, to re-enter the house, where Martin was laying the kitchen table for breakfast.

  Certainly Abby Cholmondeley pursued other affairs. She ran a costumier’s in Mayfair and often proved vexingly unavailable. You took up with other women, although your interest in Abby and all she stood for did not appreciably diminish. The weeks went by, winter came and eventually faded in a trail of snowdrops, and slowly England became less impoverished, while political uncertainties persisted.

  Europe was slowly reforming itself as its nation states sought greater unity. Although the Treaty of Rome had been signed two years previously, Britain had not agreed to it. Under Prime Minister Harold Macmillan, EFTA was formed. Such groupings of initials continued. Although EFTA was no match for EEC, the population was more concerned with weightier concatenations of initials – the USSR and ICBMs.

  Even Abby worried about the CND. ‘I suppose your strange father is one of the marchers?’ she said.

  ‘No, he opposes it. CND has split the Labour Party in two.’

  ‘Oh, good.’

  ‘Of course you are bound to support Macmillan – he’s so Edwardian.’

  ‘Yes, Edwardian and civilized. One of the old kind, like Uncle Ben.’

  You were always irritated by her political views.

  ‘Where do you get to on your weekends?’ you asked her. The two of you were drinking coffee from minute, white bone china cups, in the cluttered room behind her boutique, trapped between a rack of mini-skirts and a spider plant on a tall stand.

  ‘Don’t be so nosy, Steve. It’s so fatiguing. If you must know I was down in the New Forest, riding. Everyone I know rides.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  She stared at you, half-smiling, fluttering her eyelids. ‘And you don’t jitterbug. But you are quite nice in bed … on occasions.’

  You almost proposed there and then, but two young women came in and demanded Abby’s attention. She became enmeshed in new fabrics from abroad.

  Later, you were in your Hammersmith office when a phone call summoned you to the Kensington office. When you arrived, you were surprised to find Lord Lyndhurst there, accompanied by Lady Augusta and a uniformed assistant. Lyndhurst walked with a stick and appeared more bent than he had when you had last seen him. The assistant helped him out of his coat. Augusta wore her usual air of having recently attended a justifiable execution, both grimness and self-satisfaction struggling for tenure on her arid countenance. Her husband was wearing a black velvet jacket with a sprig of rosemary in his lapel. His expression, as he looked about the office, was far less contented than his wife’s. Joey hurried up with a chair upon which the lord seated himself, lowered down by his assistant. Joey hovered until Lyndhurst waved him away.

  A great fuss was made while a clerk brewed coffee and brought a cafetière to the visitors on a tray. Lyndhurst ignored his cup.

  ‘I am pleased to see you again, Fielding,’ he said, without relaxing a vexed expression. He fixed you with his cloudy eye. ‘I hear you are doing well. You evidently don’t believe in the God of Failure.’

  ‘I know no one of that name, Sir.’

  ‘Bishop Clement’s sermon on Sunday – Christian God of Failure. Made us what we are as Christians.’ He gave a dry chuckle of compassion for the bishop. ‘Lost his Son and all that, don’t y’know. Unfortunately ended up on the Cross.’

  ‘Mm, I see.’

  ‘A rather forceful, should I say allegory, for a percentage of our population.’ His face retained its contemptuous expression. ‘The Bishop’s a friend of Augusta’s and mine. It’s a matter of punctilio, actually, as much as anything, listening to his sermons.’

  Augusta said, with some animation, ‘Clement probably derives his lectures from eighteenth century books of sermons – of which there are many. The ideas may be stale, but at least it ensures the prose is sound.’ It was difficult to determine whether or not she was being sarcastic.

  ‘You probably don’t attend Church, Fielding.’ His Lordship spoke kindly enough. ‘Godlessness having set in. I attribute godlessness to the boredom of Church sermons rather than television, a target for most commentators. The mob can surely be godless without the aid of television.’

  ‘But “the mob” doesn’t attend Church any more,’ you ventured to point out.

  His Lordship ignored the remark, instead raising his stick to indicate Terry on the opposite side of the room.

  ‘I have come here regarding an important, shall I say, deal. Fortunately, Lady Augusta and I chanced to be staying at Claridge’s. Less fortunately, your cousin Terry is overcome. Signs indicate that the God of Failure has got to him.’

  He glanced up at you with a sort of evil merriment on his face, the milky eye adding to its mischief. You had already observed Terry, who sat at a desk with his head buried in his folded arms, his shoulders heaving as if he were weeping.

  ‘Unmanly display of grief … Well, we’d better get this over with all speed,’ said Lyndhurst. ‘Joey, bring me the documents and Fielding here will sign them.’

  ‘What’s Terry’s problem?’ you asked.

  Lady Augusta looked very severe, as if the question offended her. ‘Their poor old dog, Vega, has just died. Faithful hound – sweet creature, friend to man and beast. And Terry is extraordinarily soft-hearted – absolutely adored Vega.’

  ‘What was the trouble?’

  ‘The trouble was that Terry was witness to its death throes’ – spoken in a sepulchral voice.

  You thought to yourself that you were seeing a new aspect of your cousin. Joey appeared unaffected by the death of their faithful hound, as he now briskly brought forward documents for your inspection.

  ‘He’s laying it on a bit thick,’ Joey whispered. ‘You know Terry likes to act. The sooner we get this over with, the better. You’ve only got to sign, then we’ll take him to Claridge’s for a drink.’

  The documents showed that a company called Mayfair Holdings Ltd was prepared to buy Britannia Furniture from its shareholders for what you considered an amazingly generous sum. You remarked on this to His Lordship.

  ‘EFTA rules, dear boy. Don’t worry.’

  According to the document, hastily scanned, the constitution of Britannia would not be altered. The money was to be paid directly into Parson’s Banking Corporation, Isle of Man.

  As you attempted to read the small print, Augusta went over to Terry, to comfort him. Terry began roari
ng with grief as soon as her hand was laid on his cashmere-clad shoulder.

  ‘Dead! Friend of my childhood, dead! Who could replace my beloved Vega?’

  ‘Hush, dear, hush. It’s in the nature of all dogs frequently to die.’

  Lyndhurst was tugging at your jacket. ‘We must get the poor confounded fellow out of here. Can’t have this noise going on. The balance of his mind is disturbed. Hurry up and sign and my man here will witness your signature. And by the way, Fielding, I understand you are romantically attached to my niece – well, niece-once-removed, Abigail Cholmondeley. Your engagement, if I may employ that term, has continued for sufficiently long. You have my assurance I approve of the match, dear boy.’

  ‘Very kind of you to say so, Sir. I have indeed been romantically attached for many –’

  ‘No need to go into details, thanks all the same.’

  A good deal flummoxed by all this, you signed the papers, and His Lordship’s man witnessed your signature. Only later did you start to wonder why Lyndhurst had not been the witness himself. Was it because he was the major shareholder of Britannia Furniture? Arthritis in his hand? You continued to feel uneasy, but there were other distractions.

  Such distractions included the taking of riding lessons at a nearby stable, and enquiries regarding the whereabouts of the Geldsteins through Jewish refugee organisations and the Salvation Army. You also phoned your Aunt Violet, who sounded low in spirits – her children had left home and her family were all broke. There was your new apartment in Hammersmith to be attended to and redecorated, and a new kitchen to be installed. These and other occupations kept you busy, so that, together with a reluctance to think the sale of Britannia through, you set your anxieties aside.

  Isn’t that where all your species go wrong? You chase inessentials. Is there no meaning, no deeper meaning, to your life, which, if fully engaged with, would negate entirely all of these lesser worries?