The Manner of the Mourning

by Robert Ward

  She nodded and then tilted her head back and drew in a breath through her beautifully narrow nostrils. He waited for her to exhale, knowing that she was going to speak.

  “But we are more civilised now, surely? I mean, we don’t hang children for stealing bread, or chain-up lunatics in bedlam, or send unmarried mothers to reformatories, and people do protest about cruelty to animals like fox hunting and battery chickens, don’t they?”

  “Yes, but it’s a veneer,” he said. “Human nature hasn’t changed, we just understand it more and try to control it through conscience. If a public hanging were held on any town green there would be crowds of people there to watch it, if only some of them were there to say how terrible it was. Think of what’s in yourself, all of what’s in yourself honestly and you’ll know what we’re capable of.”

  “What a thing to say,” she said. “If I did that I’d know there was no hope for any of us.”

  Elizabeth was wearing a light blue heavy cotton dress with a subtle dark yellow pattern which was cut low and attractively revealed her cleavage. He watched as she breathed and admired her seemingly flawless milky white skin. After several double scotches he had drunk far more than he had intended but was in a mood not to care. Elizabeth, it seemed to him was unaffected. The bar was full now and the rumble of talking acted as a concentrating background. He literally could only see and hear her.

  “History involves a lot, doesn’t it,” she said. “Politics and philosophy and economics and geography, and… well, everything. Is that what it means? His story? I’ve always wondered. Apart from the exclusive gender I mean?”

  “Yes, it does, really. Are you interested in history?” he asked, feeling that his voice sounded flat and uninteresting, like a boring lecturer.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “Who couldn’t be? The human condition and all that.”

  “That’s philosophy isn’t it?”

  “I thought we’d agreed that history includes philosophy?”

  “Yes, of course we had.”

  A middle-aged man wearing a blazer with a military badge on it asked Charles if anyone was sitting in the chairs next to theirs and then sat down with his companion who was wearing a silver dress and smelled of too much sweet perfume. With the break in their conversation, Elizabeth chose then to visit the ladies room. Charles bought more drinks while she was away.

  “Tell me more, Charles Turner, history,” she said when she returned.

  “More of what?” he asked.

  “More of you. I don’t know anything about you. Tell me your deepest secret fear.”

  He looked at her with a deep concentration, right into her eyes, and smiled. She was leaning forward with her hands clasped together under her chin.

  “Are you serious?” he asked.

  “You’d better believe it,” she said.

  “I can’t,” he said. “I don’t know what it is myself.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Really, I don’t. I’m not lying to you,” he said.

  He took a drink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand feeling the hot whisky hit his empty stomach. He wasn’t used to drinking so much and wasn’t sure how he seemed. That was the most important thing to him. How she saw him.

  “Let me tell you something,” she said. “You’re happy doing what you do and you’ll probably do it until you’re too old to do it any more. I’d guess you’re about thirty and that you’ve been what most people call in love two or three times in your life. You’re on your own now though, I think. You’re clever, obviously, and you’re a nice, civilised person. You probably even care about people. You also feel, quite rightly probably, that you’ve got a lot to offer anyone you might like to take up with because you’re not bad looking and you’ve got an intellect and a good job. You’re comfortable with yourself in many ways, but not all. You fancy me, again of course, and that’s why you stopped in your car when you saw me walking and asked me out. You’re wondering many things about me and yet you haven’t asked me anything apart from about something I’d already said. You’re still pleased with yourself for having had the courage to stop instead of driving past me, aren’t you?”

  Charles continued to look into her eyes without speaking, as though she’d held him in some kind of spell. He raised his glass to his lips and didn’t feel himself drinking. Elizabeth drew back and sat up straight, placing the palms of her hands flat on the table.

  “You think that I might be right for you because you like the way I look and talk. You think I’m probably quite bright but would even so be grateful to be with someone like you. In matters such as these you are timeless human nature in the raw. You want to love and possess and give of yourself and to take. And quite frankly, I don’t know what the hell I’m talking about and I’ve been waiting for you to stop me. Why don’t you stop me?”

  He sat back in his chair, feeling for the first time the slick material of the chair under his clammy thighs. He didn’t know what to say to her and so he didn’t say anything and went to the bar again and ordered more whiskies. When he returned she was seemingly lost in thought with a smile of inner amusement on her face.

  “You know a lot,” he said as he sat down again across the table from her. “But as you said, very few questions have been asked about you.”

  “You haven’t asked them,” she said.

  “You must know that being the person I am, as you have described, that I couldn’t ask.”

  “Yes,” she said, thoughtfully. “I haven’t been fair with you. You were at a disadvantage from the start. But it was also your choice from the beginning. You shouldn’t have stopped. You shouldn’t have expected what you did. I might like you. I might care for you. But if you want to be my friend or lover or whatever, you have to understand what you’re letting yourself in for. Do you understand me? Nod your head if you understand me.”

  He nodded and moved his chair a few inches as the couple next to them made movements indicating that they wanted to leave. The gentleman in the blazer smiled and also nodded to Elizabeth as he manoeuvred past them, though for quite a different reason.

  By this time it was clear to Charles that Elizabeth was in charge. Things were not going as he had expected. In fact he was rather taken aback by her. This was not the usual introductory small talk. He realised he had seriously underestimated her. This was not simply a beautiful girl who worked in the library. He wasn’t sure he should get involved, but he couldn’t help himself. She fascinated him.

  “It’s your turn,” she said.

  “My turn for what?”

  “To make a speech.”

  “I haven’t got one prepared.”

  “You’re not dull, are you? I can stand anything but dullness. I don’t think you are. You haven’t appeared to be so far. You seem quite interesting really. Don’t disillusion me.”

  “I really don’t know what to say. I’m frightened of saying the wrong thing, and appearing dull.”

  “Don’t be frightened,” she said.

  “You are frightening.”

  She laughed, throwing her head back. Her mouth was small and her lips were quite thin but beautifully shaped he noticed. She was wearing almond coloured lipstick. Her laugh was mocking.

  “I think you might be cruel, as well,” he said.

  “I have an evil laugh, I know. Like a witch’s cackle. But you mustn’t judge me yet. Let’s give each other a chance, shall we?”

  She smiled warmly at him, and asked him the same question again but this time with her eyes. He nodded and they clinked their glasses together and drank.

  “I’ve been in a funny mood tonight,” she said. “You said I seemed nervous earlier, and then I became aggressive, didn’t I? I’m sorry. I’m really not such an awful person. Honestly.”

  She had rested her chin on her upturned palms, again leaning with her elbows on the table and she fluttered her eyelashes. He smiled at her, again d
rawn deep into her eyes.

  “Are you hungry yet?” he asked.

  “Yes, I could eat something now. Scotch makes me ravenous, sometimes. I could eat a nice thick bloody steak.”

  The dining room was more crowded than it had been earlier but they were able to sit at the same table by the window. They were drawn to it by a notion of the flimsiest familiarity.

  Charles asked for a steak also, but well-done. Elizabeth said she wanted hers barely dead. They ate, enjoying it, relieved perhaps to do something so natural, without having to think, or think of something to say. They devoured the meat and the french fries and the salad and even the bread rolls. They then came up for air, contented.

  “Hmn, that was lovely,” she said. “Nothing like a slab of dead cow to satisfy the appetite. We are naturally carnivores, aren’t we?”

  “Oh yes,” he said. “That’s why we’re vicious killers. The killer instinct in us has made us invincible. Killing and cunning and reason. A terrifying combination.”

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin and asked a passing waitress to bring them some scotches. He was already drunk, he knew, but the meal had given him the illusion of sobriety, and he didn’t care whether he was drunk or not anyway. The prospect of having to drive again hadn’t occurred to him. He couldn’t keep his eyes off Elizabeth. He had watched her as she ate and loved every movement of her mouth. He could feel himself becoming ridiculously besotted with her and he liked it.

  “You know the way sometimes they show a twenty-four-hour clock to describe the history of the Earth and point out that Man arrived about two seconds before midnight?” she said. “Well doesn’t that sort of put things in perspective? History means our history, doesn’t it? What happened before doesn’t count, does it? You know, dinosaurs and amoebas and things?”

  “No, it doesn’t count.”

  “What was the point of it then?”

  He smiled at her.

  “You don’t believe in asking easy questions do you?”

  “There’s not much point in that either, is there?”

  He shook his head.

  “But some things are unanswerable.”

  “Nonsense. All things must be known or knowable. There must be a reason for everything.”

  “I stopped trying to find out what, some time ago,” he said.

  “You gave up you mean.”

  “Yes. I retired defeated.”

  “I shall never admit defeat,” she said with mock arrogance. “And if there is a God, he’ll answer to me. I’m telling you. He’ll wish he never had no beginning.”

  Charles laughed and focused on his glass.

  “I Wouldn’t like to be in his shoes,” he said.

  “I wonder what size he takes?”

  “English or continental?”

  “Good answer. That’s better. Now you’re getting the hang of it.”

  “I’m glad you approve,” he said.

  “I’m sorry. But you must learn to play properly. It’ll save so much time once you know the rules. I’ll teach you, don’t worry.”

  He thought that she must mean they would see each other again, socially that is, and the prospect gladdened him. He didn’t say anything, but thought for a moment, afraid to press her.

  “Yes, you are interesting enough for me to spend some of my time with you,” she said, reading his thoughts. “But I warn you. You might not get what you expect.”

  “I don’t expect anything,” he said. “I’m just glad I’m going to see more of you.”

  “I might possibly remind you of that,” she said. “But you’re lying when you say you don’t expect anything. We always expect things from other people. You expect some kind of happiness, otherwise what would be the point?”

  “I can’t… can’t answer you,” he said.

  “You don’t know me well enough yet. You’re still too polite to put me down. Or at least try to. You’ll learn.”

  Elizabeth smiled at him and took another drink. She didn’t like herself much tonight. She knew she hadn’t been kind to him and sometimes it seemed that someone else was using her mouth to speak with. It was her mood, she knew. Even the drink hadn’t mellowed her much. It didn’t seem to matter though. He was still looking at her like one smitten.

  She liked how he looked more, now that she was used to looking at him, and though he certainly wasn’t handsome and didn’t have real presence, he was engaging in a certain way. Nice, was the word, she thought. Her first impression had been right.

  “Why do you think people always seem to pair off?” she said. “Life seems to consist of a series of pairings. Like it’s a story of interactions, involving lots of people in peripheral ways but usually, intensely, one other person at a time. Is it because we don’t feel we’re enough, as individuals I mean? Is it really the mirror syndrome? That we need someone more intimate than others to show us our reflection? Or maybe each person we meet reflects us back in some way, in varying degrees depending on how close we are to them? What do you think?”

  Her white face framed by her dark hair, and her deep blue eyes had drawn him in again and he just sat there looking at her.

  “Hello, Charles. Is there anybody in there?”

  “Sorry,” he said quickly. “It makes sense. What you said about it depending on how well you knew someone. Every meeting gives you a reflection of some kind. Even a glance in the street.”

  She pondered for a moment, and nodded to herself more than to him. She then drained her glass.

  “More whisky?” she asked.

  “Are you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Yes, then,” he said.

  “Don’t feel you have to. I’m a well known dipso in these parts. There’s nothing I hate more than an unwilling drunk. Well, actually, there are several things I hate more but I wanted to make a point.”

  “I’m not unwilling,” he said. “I like drinking, but I’m not used to quite so much this early in the evening. I wasn’t prepared to match your amazing capacity but I’m going to give it a damn good try. I’ve got a lecture to give tomorrow morning and I know I’m going to feel awful, but what the hell?”

  “That’s the spirit. I’ll ruin your life yet,” she said. “The fucking students won’t notice anyway. They’ll all be hung over themselves.”

  “What about you?” he asked. “Are you in work tomorrow?”

  “Me? Oh, yes. Obscene isn’t it? But it doesn’t matter. I mean, a trained monkey could do what I do. What I do isn’t exactly of earth shattering importance, is it. I’ll just snarl at the students more than usual, that’s all. And if someone phones asking how many copies of Religion and the Rise of Capitalism we’ve got I’ll just tell them to fuck off. Does that sound reasonable?”

  “Very reasonable,” he said, watching her closely. “I’ll get us a taxi later. I don’t want to kill anyone tonight. I’ll pick up the car tomorrow.”

  She almost asked him why they weren’t going to stay at the hotel but decided not to. She did, after all, want to keep every option with him open. Maybe she could use his shyness to her advantage. She hadn’t decided what she was going to do with him yet.

  “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “About two miles from where I picked you up. Along the same road. It’s a small farm cottage. It’s not quite on the main road, but near to it. You live in one of those big houses on the edge of town, don’t you? From what you said?”

  “Yes. It’s my parent’s house really, well, my mother’s, but I live there mostly on my own. God, that sounds awful doesn’t it? Still living in my parents’ house and I’m twenty six. It just seemed to work out that way. Still, I don’t suppose I’d live there if I had to share it with them. But that’s really shattered my image of mystique, hasn’t it. I should have lied to you.”

  “Images seem to matter to you,” he said.

  “Now you’re getting bolder. Though I wouldn’t probe too deeply if I were you. You might not like what you discover.”

 
He drank a glass of whisky in one swallow, used to it by now, and found himself feeling emboldened, as she had said.

  “But I want to discover whatever there is to discover about you. That’s surely the point, whether I like it or not. All things must be known or knowable, remember?”

  Elizabeth smiled at him with heavy eyelids and swung her glass to her lips. She had the most beautiful hands he noticed.

  “You’re doing okay, Charles Turner,” she said. “Maybe I’ll let you in a little way. Who knows? We’ll have to see.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your surname? You know mine.”

  “Oh, Howard,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Elizabeth Howard. That name might be important to me.”

  “It might. Again, we’ll have to see.”

  “You’re very… very sure of yourself,” he said. “I mean, you don’t give much, do you? You make me feel like you’re throwing scraps to a dog.”

  “Good,” she said. “That was the idea. I have to be sure of myself because nobody else is. I know I might seem arrogant, but that’s because I am. I know you expected to impress me, and that’s a pretty natural thing to want to do, but I can’t allow it you see? I have to be in control. Maybe because I am trying to hide something. Maybe because I’m frightened too? And there, now you’ve made me admit another weakness.”

  “I don’t believe it,” he said. “I can’t imagine you being frightened of anything. I’ve known you for what? A few hours? And I’ve never known anyone remotely like you. You seem… invincible.”

  “I seem like a hard bitch, you mean. But thank you for saying that, about being unique. To an ego such as mine that is meat and drink and nectar and manna, and oxygen to a diseased lung. If you’re going to continue in this vein I’ll like you even more than I do now.”

  “You mean you like me already in some way then?” he asked.

  “You already know that I do. I’ve already told you that. Don’t fish for further compliments.”