by Julian Gloag
“Hello, June. I’m afraid I got you out of bed.”
“Oh no, that’s quite alright.” She stood holding the front door ajar, as if uncertain what to do next.
“I’d better come in, hadn’t I?”
“Oh yes. I am sorry. I hope you don’t mind.” She looked down at her flowered dressing gown.
He smiled. “As long as the neighbours don’t see.”
She tilted her head to one side, which was her way, rather than any blush or fussing, of showing embarrassment.
“It’s only one flight up,” she said. He followed her up the stairs. She wore slippered boots, blue suede outside, fur bulging over the edge. Somehow they did not seem very like June.
“Watch out for the stair carpet here,” she said. “The runner’s loose and always slipping out. You could have ever such a nasty fall, if you weren’t careful.”
She let him into the flat. Just a large room with a couple of gas burners. Yet it was not in the least austere.
“You really shouldn’t have bothered,” she said. “I could just as easy have come up this morning.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it. On your holidays. Bad enough me routing you out like this. When are you off?”
June shut the door behind him. “I’m lucky I get the morning sun,” she said.
“It’s a nice room.”
“I’m glad you like it. Oh, the bed.” She quickly pulled a velveteen coverlet over the unmade bed. Jordan caught the smell of warm sheets.
“When are you off?” he asked.
“Well, I’m not going abroad like I planned. I’m going to the country instead. It looks as though I’ve got the good weather, doesn’t it?”
“It’ll be summer before we know it.”
“Well, you brought it with you. Wouldn’t you like to take off your coat?”
He looked at his watch.
“I finished the typing up,” she said, “but there are one or two things I want to show you. They don’t seem to make much sense.”
“That’s par for the course.”
“I could make you a cup of coffee. If you don’t mind Nescafé. It’ll only take a second.”
“Well, alright,” he said. Then, “I’d love it. Much better than tea.”
“Don’t you like tea?” She was astonished.
“Well …”
“An’ I brought you tea all these mornings and you never said anything.”
“Thank you. I did say thank you.” He smiled. He put the tulips on the table. “These are for you, if you’d like them.”
She touched the closed yellow buds with the tip of her finger. “They’re lovely. They even feel fresh. But I oughtn’t to, really. I’ll be leaving tomorrow. It would be a waste.”
“Well, you can give them to your Mrs. Ardley. That should send up your stock.”
June made a face and Jordan laughed. She reminded him for an instant of Georgia.
June went to the washbasin in the corner of the room and filled a small enamel saucepan with water.
He took off his coat and scarf and gloves and sat down. There were three neat piles of manuscript on the table. But he didn’t look at the manuscript. The room was almost familiar, so much did it remind him of Cambridge, the early days of Cambridge. The two Van Gogh prints framed in plain wood, the sideboard filled with crockery and with books on top—an even bet they’d include A History of Western Philosophy, a Pelican edition of Outline of History, and perhaps even The Bible Designed to Be Read as Literature—the gas fire, the ashtray that looked as though it had been taken from some foreign hotel. But no, June had not been abroad.
“You changed your mind about going to Switzerland?”
“Well yes. I didn’t fancy somehow being in a strange place. I am a bit silly, I suppose, after making all those plans.” She lit the burner and put the saucepan over the flame.
“Oh, I don’t know.” She had been eager to have her holidays early this year. Her mother had left her a few hundred pounds apparently, and she had wanted, he thought, to blow it—or some of it. “It’s more fun in a way not making up your mind in advance where you want to go.” It was a point he had never been able to get across to Willy.
“Yes, isn’t it? You never really see the spring in England, not in an office, not in London.”
He wondered what she did with her weekends. A drab London Sunday with nowhere to go but this little room.
“I’m glad I didn’t go to New York,” she said.
“Are you?”
“I couldn’t bear to leave England. Although it was very nice of Mr. Timberley to offer me the job. New York would be a very lonely place, I think.”
“It can be a very exciting place, too, I’m told.”
“I don’t care for excitement much. I’d rather be stodgy and English.”
“And type manuscripts for dull old Sutlif and Maddox.”
“But it’s not dull! I love working for Sutlif and Maddox.”
And he believed she did. He didn’t pretend to know why. There were no people her own age. And there was no position to which she could be promoted.
June put two cups of coffee on the table. “Would you like a piece of Swiss roll?” she said.
He grimaced.
“You don’t mind if I do then, do you?” she asked apologetically. “I’ve got ever such a sweet tooth.”
He shook his head and watched her. She placed the knife consideringly on the chocolate roll, then moved it an inch to give herself a larger piece. As she pressed the blade down, white cream oozed fatly and a few dark-brown crumbs fell to the plate.
“There,” she said, withdrawing the knife.
He said, “You do that as if—”
“As if what?”
With a kind of slow, contemplative greed that disturbed him. He said, “As if you thought it was pretty important.”
She said seriously, “Mum would never let me have cake for breakfast. When I was a little girl, I thought it would be the most wonderful thing in the world.” She smiled. “I still do.”
“I couldn’t imagine anything more horrible,” he said.
“Most people seem to feel like that.” She looked at him mischievously. “It makes me quite guilty.” She picked up the cake and took a bite. For a moment there was cream on her lips, and then her tongue shot out and gathered it up.
Jordan could not prevent himself from watching her. “Well,” he said, “I think we’d better get down to it.”
She nodded. “I’ve put paper clips on the problem pages. Now this paragraph here, I’m sure that’s supposed to go at the bottom of the page. It doesn’t make sense otherwise…”
They weren’t difficult problems. And her solutions were sensible. They always were. Jordan only had to give the appearance of attention. For he had realised some time ago that she was actually a rather better editor than he was.
While she explained, he watched her rather than the manuscript. There was still an aura of sleepiness about her. Perhaps it was the lack of lipstick, but she seemed smoother than the office June, whom sometimes, when he was feeling businesslike, he called “Miss Singer.” She was certainly not Miss Singer now. She was a girl in a dressing gown with sunlight on her face—a distant relation of the precise secretary at the office. When she smiled at him, he could see brown stains on her teeth from the chocolate Swiss roll. It fascinated him.
“Well, that’s everything, I think, Mr. Maddox.”
“Good,” he said. Mr. Maddox! How ridiculous. There ought to be something in between Mr. Maddox and Jordan. Initials? J. J. M. No, the anonymity of initials was even worse than the surname.
“Would you like some more coffee?”
“Yes, I think I would.” He got up and went to the window. He looked down on what must have been a bomb site, but the rubble of bricks had been crushed and smoothed pancake flat.
“They’re going to build a block of flats there soon,” she said from beside him. “Next year I won’t have any more sunlight.”
; He turned to her. It was a pity she didn’t get married and settle down and have children. Of course he’d never get such a good secretary again, but it would be worth the sacrifice. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her.…
“I like it here,” she said, and smiled. Again the trace of chocolate roll on her teeth.
He said quickly, “It’s very comfortable. But there’s such a thing as too much comfort.” Why on earth had he said that?
“Oh I know, Mr. Maddox.” She frowned.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve no right to make that sort of remark.”
“No, you are right. It’s just that, just that …” She looked, almost sadly, he thought, out of the window.
“I’m afraid I’ve depressed you, just with your holidays starting too.” He touched her arm with his hand but withdrew it quickly. He felt an odd sense of strain.
“Oh no. You’ve cheered me up. I’m much happier about going away now we’ve cleared up all this.” She indicated the manuscript on the table.
“You’ll have a wonderful time,” he said.
“Yes I shall.” But she didn’t sound completely confident.
Jordan wondered why not, as he sat talking to her and drinking his second cup of coffee. They talked mostly about the office, and he had the impression that she would have liked not to be going away, not just then. He glanced at the old-fashioned alarm clock by her bed.
“I think I’d better be off.” He stood up and she helped him on with his coat. “Have a good time,” he said, “and don’t think about the office. I’ll manage without you, I expect.”
She opened the door for him.
“I can manage,” he said.
“I’ll see you to the stairs.”
He turned clumsily at the top of the stairs and stepped down. The carpet came away and he knew he was going to fall backwards. Hand outstretched to shake his, June grabbed quickly. He hardly felt the sharpness of her nails on his wrist as he crashed heavily backwards against the banister, slid down, and ended up kneeling, but still clutching manuscript and typewriter.
“Oh, dear. Are you alright, Jordan? That carpet. Are you hurt? Oh, I’m ever so sorry.” She was kneeling beside him.
He was dazed, trembling a little at the shock. “That was a narrow escape.” He laughed.
She took his hand and held it palm up. “Oh, look what I done to your wrist. My wretched nails.”
He looked down. The fat globules of blood from the torn skin were already beginning to join up in a scarlet streak. “Just a graze.”
“Oh I’m ever so sorry.”
Her mouth open, her eyes—oh lord, surely she wasn’t going to cry.
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“We must put iodine on it. I got some in my room.”
He tried to move his hand, but for a moment she held it fast, and suddenly he was abnormally aware of the contact. He pulled away. “It’s nothing. I think it’s upset you more than me.”
“I am so sorry. I wouldn’t hurt—”
“Come come. It’s not as bad as all that.” He stood up. For a moment she remained crouched, then slowly she raised herself.
“I really ought to put some iodine on it.”
“No no,” he said cheerfully. “I’m going to be late as it is. You go on back to your room. Have another piece of Swiss roll—that’ll cheer you up.”
He wished she wouldn’t look so forlorn. “Come on.” He held out his hand, and she shook it. “Forget about it,” he said. “Have a good time.”
“Thank you, Mr. Maddox.”
“Goodbye.” He was eager to get away.
“Goodbye.”
He went down the stairs and opened the front door. He glanced back. She was standing in the same position on the stairs. “Goodbye,” he called. He didn’t hear what she murmured in reply.
He shut the door behind him and stood for a moment on the front step. He blew a frosty breath into the air. The sun shone. The day was a perfect one—and he’d missed the rush hour by now.
He ran down the steps and into the street. Despite the heavy package of manuscript and the typewriter, he decided to walk a little way before taking the bus. June was quite right, one never did really see the spring in London, cooped up in an office.
He put his head back and straightened his shoulders. As he walked briskly along the pavement, he began to hum a military march.
The Tender Dead
21
“Put up the prisoner!”
The cell door was pulled open.
“Right. Come on.” Denver, amiability gone, stern, suit pressed, squared-off cap. Jordan went first, then Denver was beside him; they wheeled; an unfamiliar warder fell in on Jordan’s left.
“Get a move on,” said a voice behind them. Jordan had to half run to keep up.
Halt, one-two. The strange warder stamped his boot.
“Five seconds.”
“Right.”
“Snap to it.”
Denver ran quickly up the stairs ahead of him.
“Up you go then!” The warder gripped Jordan’s elbow and pushed him up the stone steps.
He stumbled, grazing the toe of his shoe, and then he was in the dock, a warder on each side of him.
He faced the judge. There seemed to be no one else in the court. Jordan risked a glance to his left. Yes, that would be the jury—nine men and three women. Below him, to his right, like strange insects with their brains exposed, were the moving, wigged heads of counsel.
Jordan stood at attention. Eyes front. The judge—a face straight out of the National Portrait Gallery. A face carved and detached by time. The judge opened his mouth and shut it. He did this every few seconds. False teeth? Jordan started to smile but managed to stop himself. It wouldn’t do to smile. They’d think—if they saw—they’d think his nonchalance monstrous. A nonchalant monster.
He looked down at his shoes. The left toecap had a deep scratch. Otherwise he was well-dressed—blue-striped shirt, stiff collar, his best grey suit—as though he were going to a party later on. Willy had brought the suit up the day before, specially pressed. The accused was modishly attired in a charcoal-grey worsted suit by Ticklers of Bond Street.
He stiffened as he heard his name: “Jordan John Maddox.” The voice was far away, as though it came from a faulty wireless. The unknown warder nudged him.
“What?”
The volume was turned up sharply.
“Do you plead guilty or not guilty?”
They were waiting for him. He trembled. He had not used his voice for years. He didn’t know if he could. He tried to think. Why hadn’t someone told him the answer? How could he be expected to think with the clerk of the court bobbing up and down like that, dancing, weaving? It was ridiculous—an absurd programme. Turn it off—turn it off!
The judge was saying something now, champing. It must be false teeth. And then the voice boomed again with the rundown hollow sound of a tired gramophone.
Jordan put his hands on the bar before him. There were two judges, two clerks—dancing Siamese twins. He had to try. If his voice didn’t work, he must mouth the words. Guilty—not guilty. Not guilty—guilty. Guilty not—guilty. His mind caught the rhythm and timed it to the frivolous, shimmering image of the wigged clown in front of him. Click, click-click—alternate flashes of a lighthouse whose warning he did not understand. And then the courtroom tipped, slowly to the left. Ponderously it steadied, stopped, and began a slow arc to the right. At the centre of the seesaw, Jordan clutched at the rail, bracing his arms, his legs till the knee joint trembled. A thousand tiny points of blackness enveloped his brain, cleared, then came again, tempting his carcass to slack oblivion. He fought it off and held to the rising nausea which promised the bitter, clean relief of vomit. Like salvation, he tasted it upon his tongue. All their courts and counsel and briefs meant nothing now. He shut his eyes and bowed his head to summon strength. Then, eyes open, head suddenly back, limbs rigid, he opened his mouth and spoke.
; What words they were, where they went, he did not know. It did not matter. He was free, a patient purged. Yet not quite—there was something missing, something undone. Some word unspoken. Trivial, vital. Good night? Farewell? Sweet dreams? No—no. It was …
“My Lord.”
The images shivered and became one. The motion ceased. He could see and hear, but remotely—with the detachment of a convalescent.
The clerk was now asking him if he wanted to object to any member of the jury. Jordan turned and stared at the twelve bodies. He observed their faces, the women’s hats. They were dressed in their unobjectionable best, except for one man who was wearing a light-green shirt. Was that grounds? A green shirt might be a good sign—a man of outward and visible, and thus mild, nonconformity. Or was it an ostentation denoting deep disturbance? But then one would have to know if Green Shirt wore it especially for the occasion, or as a regular thing, or because his wife liked it—if he had a wife.… But the others—what sickness might be skulking beneath the pinstripe and the check? How could he tell if one of them was a drunk or psychotic? It took years to discover that sort of thing, and already he was tired, ready for a cup of beef broth and a water biscuit.
The moment passed, and the jurors were being sworn.
He was allowed to sit down.
A goose walked over his grave. He felt the quiver of goose flesh at the back of his neck. A silly goose. Who used to say that? He looked at his hands. The palms were wet. He wiped them carefully on his trousers. His forehead was damp too. His throat painful. He was a weak vessel.
He must listen, though. Yesterday, the day before—a procession of shaky days—he had done a lot of talking, with Bartlett. Now it was his turn to listen. He must ready himself for appreciation.
“May it please your Lordship …”
That, he knew, was Mr. Pollen. The case for the Crown had begun. He heard the voice clearly—a thin thread of ancient music—but the sense of it was hard to follow.
It was his trial. His very own trial. Yet it was meaningless—fortuitous as an attack of chicken pox. There was no reason, no point, no purpose in it. The hand of God perhaps? But who would look for the hand of God in an attack of chicken pox or whooping cough or German measles? It was merely something else to be endured—no benefit, no harm, nothing accrued. Unless he were a woman pregnant—damage to the child within, some weird distortion.
