‘I don’t want you here,’ Nadine repeated. ‘And don’t think you can please yourself. No woman can please herself indefinitely.’
‘Now I am shocked.’
‘Perhaps. I can’t help that. I too want a life of my own.’
‘At the expense of mine.’
‘He is pleasant. You said yourself how kind he is.’
‘Kinder than you, Mother.’
They stared at each other.
‘Then you had better marry him.’
‘Yes,’ she said, getting up to clear the table. ‘As you say, I had better marry him. Then you can be happy even if I can’t.’
‘Maud …’
‘Goodnight, Mother.’
She saw her mother’s head droop, saw her shade her eyes with her hand. She herself felt quite blank. But she had a sense of being no longer at home. She thought at last of Edward, who had gone to buy a flat, and she supposed she must live there, with him, and call it her home.
TEN
AS THE PLANE BEGAN ITS DESCENT HARRISON CELEBRATED his return to England with a series of jaw-cracking yawns, as if he had awoken after a particularly puzzling dream. He was too tired to make such sense of his situation, or rather he told himself that he was too tired: what he most actively experienced was an onslaught of restless boredom. He felt burdened, impatient, aware that he had wasted too much time, spent too much money, and made a disastrous decision about which he would rather not think. Somewhere, in some deep recess of consciousness, was a feeling of hurt, as if he were suddenly friendless, doomed to make his way in an adult world in which he had no place. The previous night, in that dark hotel in the Boulevard Raspail, he had dreamed of his sister again, and of that sunlit garden which contained all of his banal but to him enchanted childhood. He had woken with his usual sense of gladness, only to hear Maud’s breathing from the other bed. His one instinctive thought, as he registered her presence, was that somehow she must be inducted into this childhood pattern, must become a part of his reverie, must love his family, must love him; otherwise there was no hope for either of them. He knew that he could not join her in her sleeping fastness, that he would never become part of her own dreams, would always to a certain extent have to strive for her attention. For the present she was too distant for him to reach. Her abstraction, the deeply preoccupied expression which she banished when he took her hand, hurt him, though he accepted them as inevitable. What affected him more deeply was the contrast between the effortless universe of his dream and the painful dark of the room in which he and Maud lay separated. He wanted to wipe her mind clear of the memory of recent events, to restore her to innocence, transparency, sinlessness, to be able to take her hand without that tiny moment of withdrawal which told him that she too looked back, but looked back only as far as that very recent summer. It was as if she had no childhood with which to endow him, as he hoped to endow her. What she brought to him was a kind of widowhood, the immense blankness of shock.
At the airport, after he had left her, he watched his fellow travellers and remembered his earlier ambitions to see the world, to be that courteous sophisticated character whom others would report seeing in Java or Goa or Kabul, whose freedom they would recognise with envy as being none of their portion. This he now saw as an entirely childish fantasy which belonged to and reflected his own woeful immaturity. He would never see the world; more to the point, he would never be free of a certain wistful longing to be cared for. Those weeks in Paris, which he had hoped would be a period of self-discovery, had in fact left him lonely. Had he not been so lonely he would not have been so glad to see Tyler, would not have fallen in so eagerly with his plans, would certainly not have accompanied Tyler and Maud on those terrible excursions, at which he now looked back with horror, would have seen what part he was expected to play (‘the least you can do is be pleasant,’ as Tyler had said), and have removed himself. In that way he would have reached home intact, rather than with this burden of feeling, in which regret and resentment struggled for pre-eminence, and which on reflection he identified as a sense of sheer loss.
Where he saw loss, he knew, others might see gain. His mother’s delighted reception of his news seemed to betoken a trouble-free introduction to the adult world, as if it were no more than a step on a clearly indicated path. He knew that his family would welcome Maud, rather in the spirit in which they had welcomed the friends he had brought home from school and later university; no awkward or intrusive questions would be asked. His parents believed so entirely in his own innocence that it would be impossible ever to tell them of the ache he felt when he thought of Maud, the responsibility that was to be his for making her smile, the longing that she might love him, the dread that she might not. He could never tell them that his mind was still imprinted with the image of her naked body in the Vermeulens’ bed, and that his innocence had foundered on that occasion, not simply because he had made love to her with passion that was not in his nature, but because in so doing he had imagined her making love to Tyler. This truth must never be known. The unwelcome revelation of that afternoon, and of the night that so chastely followed, was that side by side with this very ambiguous longing for her went something altogether more naked, more dolorous: a simple fearful hope that she might, spontaneously, and without any prompting on his part, continue to reach out to him, and if possible to spare him some love of her own.
He took the airport bus to Victoria, and reckoned that since he was so near he might as well go to the shop and see if Cook had made any progress in tidying up the place. Tidying up was the only activity he had envisaged: how to engage in commerce was utterly beyond him. He walked dejectedly to Denbigh Street, aware that sooner or later he must go back to his rented flat, that he must deal with the dirty washing in his bag, that he must decide how to make some money, that he must go to the bank and see the solicitor to decide what to do with Mr Sheed’s investments, and that he must both go to Eastbourne and find a flat for himself and Maud to live in. This last seemed imperative in view of the fact that in the environs of Warwick Way Maud’s image seemed to disappear. He could only remember her face now, its closed expression and its cautious smile; the rest of her seemed to have been mislaid in Paris, as if it had stayed there all the time. At least he could not mistake the reality of the shop, whose dim green façade proclaimed ‘Sheed’ for all the indifferent world to see.
‘Cook?’ he queried, throwing his bag in a corner. Here at least nothing had changed.
A thunder of footsteps down the stairs from the flat brought Cook down into the office at the back of the shop. Harrison held out his hand in gratitude at this evidence of continuity.
‘Hello, Tom,’ he said. ‘It’s Tom and Edward, by the way. How are you getting on?’
He thought it proper to ask how Tom was getting on, since he had done so little in the way of getting on himself, and since Tom, whom he did not know at all, had performed what amounted to an act of chivalry in not deserting him. The only sign that Tom had been present for the six weeks of his absence and had not just strolled through the door, a complete stranger, was that his hair had grown. This, and his apparently genuine expression of welcome, revealed him in an altogether more advantageous light than Harrison’s impression, admittedly fleeting, had led him to expect. Cook he now saw as the sort of young man who would have been described as ‘fair’ in Elizabethan England, with a rosy anonymous face, a shy mouth, and steady eyes. He was cleanly dressed in a white T-shirt and black jeans, and there was about him an aura of soap. Harrison found his hand being warmly shaken. ‘You’ve grown your hair’ was all he could think of saying.
‘I’m going for a pony-tail,’ said Cook. ‘Coffee?’
As they stood drinking their coffee—stood, because books covered most of the available surfaces—Harrison felt a great need of renewal. The sight of the barred window at the back of the office re-awakened his sick feeling of imprisonment until he realised that in fact the shop was, or could be, a domain, a refuge. He had inherited the mantle of Mr She
ed, whose name he decided to retain on the façade, his own presence being as yet more insubstantial.
‘First of all,’ he said, helping himself to a biscuit, ‘we must get the place cleaned up. Let me know how much you’ve laid out so far. And you’ve found a kettle, I see. First the window cleaner—that should be easy enough. Then a paint job. You said navy, didn’t you? Why not? A navy blue façade and navy blue fittings in front.’
‘Won’t be too dark?’
‘Not when the windows are cleaned. This stuff had better go downstairs for the time being. Then of course we’ll have to decide what to do with it.’
‘You could put it back on the shelves for a start. Make it look as if we’re open for business.’
‘Nobody’s been in, I suppose?’
‘Well, I’ve been closed, haven’t I? Anyway I wouldn’t have known what to charge, although some of the prices are marked. Not all of them, though. It seems sort of hit and miss to me. I found these ledgers in the basement, by the way; they might give us a clue. Can I help you, Sir?’ he said in a glad voice, fairly springing into the shop in his alacrity to greet the stranger whom Harrison could only see as a solid black silhouette against the shop door.
‘Good morning,’ Edward said, with some apprehension. ‘How can I help you?’
The visitor removed his hat to reveal a head of wavy grey hair. Close to he was seen to be fairly old, with a vaguely medical appearance, like a disreputable gynaecologist. He was formally dressed in a grey suit and highly polished black shoes, yet the hat, the gold-rimmed glasses, and the pouting childish lips seemed to indicate that he belonged in a place where the manners and customs were subtly different. When he spoke his accent was curious, part sibilant, part cockney. He gave an impression of a man of substance, just beginning to go to seed.
‘Kroll,’ he said. ‘Max Kroll. I just wondered what had happened to old Ted’s place. Only just heard of his death. Very sorry to hear about it. I always thought of him as the last of the innocents.’
‘I’m beginning to think that’s me,’ said Harrison.
‘And you are?’
‘Edward Harrison. And this is Tom Cook. Mr Sheed left the shop to me.’
Max Kroll unfurled a fleshy white hand and presented it to Harrison and Cook in turn. ‘Know the book trade, do you?’ he enquired.
‘I know nothing,’ Edward said simply. ‘Would you like some coffee?’
At a sign Cook retired to his flat and reappeared with coffee in a flowered cup and saucer, in contrast to the mugs which they had used earlier. More biscuits were fastidiously arranged on a glass plate.
‘Do sit down,’ Edward went on. ‘I’m afraid there isn’t much room. I was trying to decide what to do with the stock. I can’t quite get the hang of it.’
‘You’ve got a gold mine here,’ said Kroll, helping himself to a couple of biscuits. ‘Look at this,’ he said, picking up a book and dusting it with a green silk handkerchief. ‘First edition. Half the stock is first editions. You don’t want to let this stuff walk out of the shop. This stuff goes to collectors.’
‘How do I find them? I don’t know any.’
‘Well, you could advertise for a start. Use the papers, the journals. “Books bought and sold. Enquiries welcome. Under new management.” That sort of thing. But if I know Ted Sheed he’s got a set of books somewhere.’
‘Tom found these account books in the basement.’
‘That’ll be it, then.’
‘But they’re only about money. Sums received.’
‘With names?’
‘Yes, with names. But I don’t know who the names belong to.’
‘I found this address book,’ said Tom. ‘Would this help?’
‘It would if you could match up the names with the sums received. This young man could do that.’
‘Could you do that, Tom?’
‘Then it’ll have to go on some kind of collator. Got one of those? Ted wouldn’t have one, I know.’
‘I know about such things,’ said Tom. ‘I’d be glad to advise.’
‘Advise! We haven’t even thought about it yet.’ He saw Tom’s face grow dusky with repressed longing. ‘Do you think you could buy one, then?’ he said weakly. ‘I suppose it’s really necessary?’
‘Essential,’ said Mr Kroll. ‘Any more of those biscuits? Or shall I take you both out to lunch? Yes, I think I’ll do that. Nelly, that’s my wife, says I eat too much. But you English don’t eat enough! We’ll go to Overton’s. You like fish?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ they chorused, relieved to be taken in hand.
‘It’s very kind of you,’ said Harrison. Kroll shrugged. ‘I was going there anyway. If you take my advice, both of you, you’ll have a good lunch. That way you’ll keep going till six. You’ll close at six, I suppose?’
‘I dare say,’ said Harrison, dodging in and out of the crowds, while keeping an eye on Kroll, who strode steadily ahead, his hands in his pockets.
‘Mark you, most of your business will be done by post,’ Kroll went on. ‘Once you get your catalogues out. That’s a job for you,’ he said, poking a finger in Harrison’s chest, oblivious to the traffic that was obliged to divide around them. ‘Oysters, I think. You like oysters?’
Both shook their heads, lips firmly compressed.
‘Then a nice sole. And over coffee I’ll tell you about the book trade.’
‘This is all very good of you,’ said Harrison.
‘Well, I’m retired, haven’t much of anything to do with myself’ was the rather disappointing reply. He seated himself in the restaurant, motioned the two of them to sit facing him, and fell into a silent perusal of the menu. Waiters seemed to know him. Little was said until the oysters were placed before him. They watched, appalled, as he applied himself, then looked politely away, as if the sight should not be witnessed.
‘Right,’ he said, as the table was cleared. ‘You want to know who I am and why I’m talking to you like this. It’s very simple. I’m a bookseller, or was; that’s how I knew Ted Sheed. I had a business in Long Acre. Sold it like a chump, because Nelly told me to. She worries about me, said I was doing too much. I always do what she wants, because I love her,’ he said, eyeing the huge plate being set down in front of him. ‘You got girlfriends?’
‘Yes,’ said Harrison, speaking, as he thought he should, for them both. Anything was simpler than an explanation.
‘But I may have been wrong there. Not that I don’t enjoy myself. I wander about, look in on friends. Not that there are many of them left. How old do you reckon I am?’
‘Sixty?’ queried Cook.
‘Nearer seventy. I’m pre-war. My father owned a bookshop in Vienna. Now there was a bookseller! But he saw the light in 1933 and brought us all to London, me and my mother and Nelly, my second cousin, whom they’d more or less adopted. We stuck together, and then we married. We always knew we should. And then it was more like home. Well, it is home now.’ He looked sad for a moment, older than seventy. ‘No children, unfortunately. When we go there’ll be nobody left. Eat up!’ he said, rallying. ‘Sometimes the time hangs a bit heavy,’ he confessed, sombre again.
Stuffed, they could think of nothing to say, until Harrison finally managed, ‘I don’t know what we’d have done if you hadn’t come in.’
‘I haven’t finished yet,’ said Kroll. ‘Just coffee, I think,’ he said regretfully. ‘You want to know about the book trade? I’ll tell you. It’s very simple. Identify your ideal readers and serve them faithfully. Give them what they want, or what you think they’ll want. That stock of Ted’s—that’s fairly specialist stuff, although it may not look it. My feeling is that he catered for people who love a good story, whether it’s old-fashioned or not. The English love a good story. What they don’t like is showing off. And they are very nostalgic. Shall I tell you about my ideal reader?’
He lit a cigar and drew on it steadily. They watched him, sluggish now, and half hypnotised by the glowing tip.
‘When I came t
o England I was heartbroken,’ said Kroll. ‘Safe, but heartbroken. London—we came to London—defeated me. Then gradually I got to know it, wandered around at weekends when it was quiet, got to appreciate little things, street corners, old girls out shopping, different-coloured front doors, flowers in the park. All the time I had this fantasy of England, of how we would live, Nelly and me. We’d be living in the country, or by the sea, and we’d be old, quite old. I’d be retired, and Nelly would be at home, in our house. I’d play a round of golf in the morning, and in the afternoon we’d take a walk or sit in the garden—because you must have a garden in England—and after tea we’d read. We’d read the classics, the English classics: the rest we’d read in Vienna. Only, if I were English, I’d also read J. B. Priestley, unpretentious honest stuff. Or Howard Spring. And Nelly’d be spoiled for choice with her Elizabeth Bowen and her Rosamond Lehmann and her Elizabeth Taylor. That’s how I saw your English reader: not a satirist, not subversive. Bit out of date now, I suppose, but I’m willing to bet you’ll find him in Ted Sheed’s files, once you’ve straightened them out.’
‘And did you really want to live like that?’ asked Harrison, attentive now. ‘Only I think my parents …’
Max Kroll had lost interest. Sighing, he pulled out his wallet, extracted a number of notes. ‘Live in the country, Nelly and me? Not a chance. We live in West End Lane, surrounded by Art Deco furniture. Nelly loves it. I leave it all to her. Nowadays I live in the past. I read what I read as a young man: Kafka, Colette, Thomas Mann. My day is done, I dare say. We’re happy enough, we’ve got a bit of money behind us. But I miss the business, and that’s the truth of the matter.’
‘You’re more than welcome to look in any time,’ said Harrison.
‘I’ll do that,’ said Kroll, extending his well-kept hand across the table to pick up the book-matches. Harrison noted his heavy ring, set with a dull red stone. A ring, he thought; I must buy Maud a ring.
‘Now is there anything else you want to know?’ enquired Kroll, as they emerged into the soft sunless afternoon. ‘Compile your lists, get your correspondents straight, and start sending out catalogues. Advertise. You’ll get some offers. I’ll be happy to advise. How much are you paying this young man?’
Incidents in the Rue Laugier Page 14
