by Nigel Dennis
For the next half-hour the battle proceeded with unimaginable fury. Violet and her men seized on everything the little garden could provide – bricks from the path, crazy-paving, sections of concrete, nude statues of Pan, and a bust of Lord Kitchener. The wrought-iron garden-bench was used as a battering-ram. The Master and his girls had no such weapons, and it was with the grim looks of those who destroy the beautiful in order to preserve the system which created it that they scoured the rooms for heavy works of art. The French Impressionists were the first to go, dropped from the upper windows with crushing effect; they were followed by whistling mobiles, immense abstractions and three valuable Picassos. The Master himself wielded a reclining Henry Moore: few men in London, I believe, could have so much as lifted it.
How far we have come, how very far, from the days when my simple parents walked the sitting-rooms of life in amiable nudity and expatiated on dogs’ ways! It was clear to me, as I shrank back upon the sofa, that this was no world for such as myself, who hope to be Independent Members in the Parliament of sex. Woe, I cried to myself, to the husband who has thrown aside the beard of his forefathers and built his sexual identity upon the sands of equality and shared authority! Woe to the wife who glories in the destruction of her husband’s power and exalts herself upon the pyre of self-immolating emancipation! They shall all, all be utterly consumed, and rise from the ashes true girl-men and men-girls, finding in Violet or the Master the authority and domination for which they crave! I – poor, indecisive me! – am nothing but a forerunner of that which is to come, when the vast, lethargic mass of ambiguous men and women is torn from its rootless desert and forcibly shared between the girls of Marathon and the men of Amazonia. And how close that moment seemed when I heard the Master cry, out of the kitchen: ‘Violet! I challenge you to single combat!’ and heard Violet roar back: ‘I accept your challenge. Expose the prize!’
Oh, the ruthlessness of them! Combatants of both camps seized my quivering, asexual limbs, dragged me into the garden, and stood me on the bird-bath. It was January, and the wind whistled through my blue-silk pyjamas – but the shame was more cruel than the wind: I thought it would kill me. At least, I hope I did. To tell the truth, I must confess that despite the wind and the shame I did feel a little proud of being so much in demand and a little relieved to think that once the battle was over the question of my sex would be decisively answered. Nor did I care particularly which of my two champions carried me off: there is little to choose between a brutal life and a malicious one. As the supporters of both sides began to cheer, I simply put my hands over my eyes and shivered….
There came a crash like two rhinoceroses meeting head-on….
A bomb had fallen on the house.
*
English obituary notices always make strange reading, if one has known the corpse at all well. Violet’s for example, was devoted almost entirely to a discussion of the best kind of boots to wear climbing Everest, as if the obituary-writer had decided that this was the only aspect of her life from which the general public could draw a useful moral. The Master’s, similarly, emphasized that though he had had many friends in both Houses of Parliament and was a born curator of museums, his spiritual home had been the Palm House at Kew Gardens. I quite understand why it should be thought necessary to write this sort of obituary; the only thing I have against it is that it causes people to try and read between the lines, with the result that they often suspect the deceased of crimes of which he or she was completely innocent. Thus, it was no surprise to me to hear someone say, some months later, that Violet had been secretly married to a sheik, whom she had poisoned because he had betrayed her with other women; and that the Master had spent a year in prison for importuning women in Shaftesbury Avenue. Such stories are harmful, because they arouse the passions of younger people, who unconsciously model themselves on the legendary identity and, later in life, are found performing acts of crime, such as poisoning and importuning, which they believe to be purely imitative, when in fact they are entirely original.
What (I often think) will the obituary writers have to say of me? The mystery of my true sex has never been cleared up and it will intrigue me to the end of my days. As I grow older, my sex, far from becoming more defined, only grows more diffuse: in certain moods I imagine myself a normal husband, crushed underfoot by a contemptuous wife but finding solace in drink and the malice of cocktail-parties; in others, I see myself as this same wife, suffering the horrible agonies of unalleviated power, dreaming nightly of abduction by a male gorilla but incapable, in her waking moments, of regarding the other sex with anything but hatred and resentment. Sometimes I soar above this humdrum and see myself as a rough prototype created hundreds of years too soon – product of some fantastic mating between an inverted man-girl and a perverted girl-man. Like everyone who is not at home in contemporary society, I spin out the most ingenious theories to prove either that everyone was once like me or that everyone will be, in years to come. Harold, who was one of the few survivors of that terrible night and to whom I am now, in a sense, married, simply sticks his pink fingers in his coral ears when I begin to air such views, but at heart I think he envies me the notoriety which my books have brought me and the large increase they have caused in the number of people of undetermined sex: this, thanks to my writings, has now been recognized by Parliament and is enjoying quite a vogue. A healthy vogue, too, even though it has attracted riff-raff like the one who, though sexually registered with the Food Office as ‘Undetermined’, claimed extra cheese as a nursing mother. Harold never misses a chance to poke fun at me and my sex, but it is my private opinion that he himself would like to climb on the bandwagon and become undetermined instead of inverted. But the years have rolled on; he is an old dog now, and too set in his ways.
*
‘Dogs, Mr Jellicoe! Surely not! Badgers yesterday, dogs today! What will tomorrow bring? Cats and canaries?’
‘Mrs Paradise, I am tired of explaining these things. I explained to you the badgers; it went in one ear and out the other. I shall say nothing of the dogs.’
‘But Mr Jellicoe, think of the expense! A huge house-party with full staff; days and days of consultation; sixteen turkeys eaten already: special clothes and printing machines and the best wines! Surely biscuits and love are all an animal requires?’
‘Would you like it better if they talked about human beings?’ asked Jellicoe sarcastically.
‘Well, why not, Mr Jellicoe? People matter too.’
‘What do you think they would have to say on that difficult subject, may I ask?’
‘Do you have to be so bitter and sarcastic? Why shouldn’t they have ideas about people too? They could discuss the importance of honesty and faith and love, couldn’t they? And beautiful memories and things of that kind.’
‘I expect that’s what they are doing, except that it is animals involved. Will you never understand that all our knowledge starts like that, Mrs Paradise? We make tests with beasts, and, if they live, we go on to people, knowing that what we are doing is correct. When they get back to London the gentlemen upstairs will do a pamphlet about dogs and badgers and then the people who read the pamphlet will do it to you and me. The trouble with you, Mrs Paradise, is that you are every inch a woman. Women are only interested in things which are about them, directly; a man’s mind is open to anything that is half-way promising.’
‘Just as long as all that money isn’t being wasted….’
‘No fear! If you want proof, just pause outside the door. The shouting! The anger! The indignation! You’d think it was the R.S.P.C.A.’
‘They don’t actually cut up the dogs and badgers, do they? To see what’s inside, and why?’
‘No, it’s all talk.’
‘I’m glad to hear that. Suffering and wasted money give me goose-flesh: I put myself in the animal’s place. My husband never went to bed without cleaning his horse.’
‘That was so as not to waste money, Mrs Paradise. The horse lasted much longe
r.’
‘You don’t think it was just out of love?’
‘Well, a sort of far-seeing love, perhaps. I’m sure he never groomed the cat.’
‘He always had a kind word for it.’
‘I’ll not press that point, Mrs Paradise. If my memories were as sacred as yours I would keep them safe from any argument.’
‘I don’t believe you were quite as wicked as you remember, Mr Jellicoe.’
‘I was, Mrs Paradise, exceedingly wicked, and nothing hurts me more than to have it questioned.’
‘All right, we won’t quarrel. Let’s rehearse each other our parts.’
‘That is what we were doing.’
‘Parts, Mr Jellicoe, not pasts!’
‘Oh, oh! Gladly! Where shall we start?’
‘Let’s with the Queen in bed.’
‘If you don’t mind, Mrs Paradise, I’d rather not. Although it’s yours, I know it by heart.’
‘Then let’s do Hermione in her boudoir.’
‘Again, it’s so familiar. Let’s do the King’s speech when he swoons at last.’
‘Am I in that?’
‘How can you be, Mrs Paradise? It wouldn’t be a speech if there were two in it.’
‘That’s what I mean, Mr Jellicoe. You have a whole page without interruption.’
‘That’s what I mean, Mrs Paradise. That’s why it’s so important.’
‘Well, I’ll hear you your swoon if you’ll promise to hear me my boudoir.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll start, while you work up your mood.’
When he had finished, she said: ‘You do do it wonderfully, Mr Jellicoe! For a man who thinks so much, you put in so much ginger. And all those movements with your arms! Why, even your ears tremble! Now, let me do Hermione….’
‘That’s much better, Mrs Paradise,’ he said, when she had done. ‘But there are stall certain places where you don’t seem to know what you are talking about. It’s clear that you are very moved, but the cause remains unknown. Listen, and I’ll read it myself.’
‘No, please don’t, Mr Jellicoe. It spoils all the pleasure if another voice chimes in. I’d rather not know than be corrected.’
Miss Tray entered, leading Towzer. ‘Good morning all,’ she said. ‘Well, how d’you think he looks? Hold up your head, Tow, for the lady.’
‘I must say he’s a transformation,’ said Mrs Paradise. ‘What’s that on his ear?’
‘Only egg.’
‘Won’t it come off?’
‘I don’t believe in doing things for him. The way to change him is to let him change himself. That’s what the doctor says, and I agree. How do you like his new clothes? I have to admit, I did choose them for him. But if I’d left the choice to him he’d be wearing nothing but a hank of bast.’
‘I think your choice has been on the feminine side,’ said Jellicoe, looking Towzer up and down. ‘I wouldn’t choose a mauve tie and a pale green shirt for myself, especially with a spade-beard and a nigger-brown suit. However, I know nothing about gardening.’
‘It looks very pretty, Miss Tray,’ said Mrs Paradise. ‘Don’t you listen to Mr Jellicoe. Men are always spoil-sports when it comes to clothes. I think you have sharpened him up wonderfully. I’d never know he was the same person.’
‘He only wears it for Shakespeare and best, of course. The doctor had it in the big chest.’
‘He is still receiving medical attention, is he?’ asked Jellicoe.
‘Of course. He wouldn’t be here otherwise, would he?’
‘I thought he was gardening for the Captain.’
‘That’s what he thinks too. We’re not even going to mention such things in his hearing or try and pin him down in the least. Promise me, will you, that if ever he mentions “the Captain”, or some such fantasy, you won’t correct him?’
‘Why, no,’ said Jellicoe, giving her a puzzled look.
‘We are simply going to nurse him forward and leave him absolutely free to decide for himself. At the moment, he’s still at the stage where he’s hoping to escape responsibility … Just look at him! He knows we are talking about him.’
‘Do you really think he does, Miss Tray?’ asked Jellicoe. ‘I know dogs do.’
‘I am certain of it.’
‘Then perhaps we shouldn’t do it,’ said Mrs Paradise kind-heartedly.
‘But we should,’ said Miss Tray. ‘That’s how ideas will filter into his head again. The doctor makes a suggestion to me; I make the suggestion in front of Tow, and Tow makes it to himself – we hope. By doing it this way, the doctor and I cannot be accused of having forced anything on him. All his changes will be entirely his own.’
‘I should like to meet this doctor someday,’ said Jellicoe. ‘He sounds like the sort of man I could learn something from.’
‘I did suggest that to him only yesterday,’ said Miss Tray, ‘but he suggested postponing it until you were not quite so busy.’
‘He is in the house, then?’ asked Jellicoe.
‘Why, yes, all the time,’ said Miss Tray, giving Jellicoe a puzzled look.
‘Mr Towzer may understand things,’ said Mrs Paradise, ‘but I must say he doesn’t speak very much.’
‘Not with strangers, Mrs Paradise. He is afraid they may try and persuade him to be different.’
‘Strangers, Miss Tray! But he’s been with us for years. He was here with my late husband.’
‘His breakdown has destroyed all that, Mrs Paradise. You and Mr Jellicoe live entirely in the past. But the past doesn’t exist for Tow. Only the present matters – and, fortunately, I am a large part of it.’
‘It seems very hard, Miss Tray, that me and Mr Jellicoe should have to renounce all claim to a very dear old acquaintance – that we should have to suffer because he’s forgotten the things we remember. It’s particularly hard on me, who treasures memories so much.’
‘Well, let’s just change the subject,’ said Miss Tray. ‘May I ask if you are settling into your parts?’
‘Very well. Mr Jellicoe is word perfect in all four of his. He even has a different voice for each.’
‘It’s sea-training does that,’ said Jellicoe. ‘But what of Mr Towzer? I can’t imagine how a man who is speechless in everyday life will enunciate Shakespeare.’
‘Well, he’s word-perfect too, Mr Jellicoe. Once he realized it was only poetry, he learnt it immediately.’
‘Then I’m afraid Mrs Chirk is going to be the weak link in our chain.’
‘She’s coming now,’ said Mrs Paradise, ‘so don’t be rude in front of her, poor thing. Remember, she’s quite uneducated.’
Mrs Chirk came in at breakneck speed, red and panting.
‘All done, Mrs Finch?’ asked Mrs Paradise chummily.
‘Half of them done, Mrs Paradise: I’ll get to the Execution wing after dinner. Oh, dear me! I am upside down! I don’t know my left from my right or my head from my heels! If I sat down even for a second I’d never be able to pick myself up again!’
‘I hope you know your parts, Mrs Chirk,’ said Miss Tray sternly. ‘We all know ours and it wouldn’t please us to think that you were going to let us down.’
‘I can’t fix my mind on them, Miss Tray. I tell myself who I’m supposed to be, but after a few minutes my mind’s a blank again. And having to be two women and speak the Prologue doesn’t make it any easier. And then there’s the washing-up.’
‘The washing-up has nothing to do with it, Mrs Chirk. It is entirely separate from acting. I think there must be something hostile to the stage in your character.’
‘There’s nothing hostile in me, Miss. I’m the humblest of creatures.’
‘That’s what we all think of ourselves, Mrs Finch.’
‘I’ll do better, Miss, when we have our costumes on. Then I’ll only have to glance down to know what I’m up to.’
‘Why don’t you write your name in big letters on a piece of paper and keep it in front of you?’
‘Which name would that be, Miss?’
&
nbsp; ‘Whichever one you’re doing, of course.’
‘I’ll try that, Miss. Just as long as I keep the different pieces separated. If I muddled them, it would be the death of me.’
‘Think of it as like your ration-book, Mrs Chirk. Your name, on the cover, represents the whole book, but the various pages represent the different things that go into you.’
‘Or think of it as like your work,’ suggested Jellicoe. ‘One minute you are dusting madly; the next, waxing feverishly; the next, scrubbing frantically. Sometimes you are on hands-and-knees like a dog, sometimes rubbaging like a badger. But always you, whatever your posture.’
‘It’s kindly meant, I’m sure, Mr Jellicoe, but if you don’t mind I’ll not confuse it worse by being different animals as well. I’m not one for bringing things into my life; my peace comes when I can throw them out.’
‘But all things in life are related to each other, Mrs Finch.’
‘They may be, Mr Jellicoe, but it’s not for me to play Happy Families.’
‘Well, since we’re all here,’ said Miss Tray, ‘how about a little rehearsal? Which act do you know best, Mrs Chirk?’
‘The first, Miss. I’m not one to forge ahead in search of trouble.’
*
‘Who’s looking for trouble?’ asked the President angrily. ‘All I said was that by the time Shubunkin had put sex through his upper and nether millstones, I cared little what sex anyone was. I also remarked on what seems to me a most interesting fact – that some functions, of which sex is one, are naturally so stimulating that they become dull when put on paper. I may have added something about its being time for lunch.’
‘It was a shocking way to receive a work that embodied months of toil and ingenuity,’ said Dr Shubunkin furiously.
‘That was my point. Naturally, the matter proceeds so rapidly.’
‘May I say, with all respect for his office,’ said Mr Jamesworth, ‘that the President is at the bottom of all this quarrelling?’
