England's Lane

by Joseph Connolly

  This time, however, the situation that confronts me could hardly be more different. For it is no less a personage than my old friend and subsequent foe whom, albeit involuntarily, I now find myself up against: John Somerset himself—the founder of both our feasts, long before all such gorging turned to sickness. And never must one forget that Somerset, he is not just utterly ruthless and extremely determined, but clever so very far beyond the regular intention and understanding of that word. My initial assault, therefore—for perfectly possibly, one more successive attempt might well be required—this must be mounted by a disposable and unthinking spearhead: the decoy, the bluff, the first and expendable wave—cut, if needs be, to bloody and shrieking tatters, solely in order for the generals to better assess both the extent and ferocity of the enemy’s firepower … so usual, in war. And this, in a word, is my man Obi. For I have decided, you see, to wait not a moment longer. The state of limbo, I have come uncomfortably to realize, is not one in which I any longer care to dwell. This impending threat of the glinting sword must dazzle and teasingly prick me no more. I shall now assume the great and gaudy mantle of the swaggering aggressor: I am firmly convinced that it is wholly essential to seek out now this one single person who already has come so very unsettlingly close to finding me, and must remain quite desperate to do so. The coming battle—and it will be, please make no mistake about this, very much one to the death—this looming attack, it must now be taken to the other side. Then, and at last, can there be elimination. This to put right the wrong of my unthinkable omission of all those years ago. Why did I not strike? At a time when I could have done so with such demonstrable ease, and decisive velocity. Was I merely distracted and hesitant? Was I fearful? Surely amid my inexcusable inaction there could not possibly have loitered even the merest suspicion of anything approaching mercy …? I cannot imagine so … but well, let us see. Let us look at it: investigate the circumstance.

  The time I am remembering—the pertinent moment—is so very far along and down the briskly straightforward route that initially John Somerset had charted for me. Over this, at first, I had no more than added merely a splatter of color—rendered the rolling road but a touch more scenic—before abandoning utterly so circuitous a course in favor of something new. My way now was direct, you see: it got you to the desired destination so very much more quickly. They were oddly reluctant, John and Adam, when first I had put it to them; the money, though, soon made them recognize the folly of their ways. As, so often, money will. At the beginning, though—before all of that—I was happy enough to be obedient: to accompany John’s boy Adam to each of our appointments, I there to engage the witless householder in always elegant and redly gushing banter (the thrown-up and roughcast walls of which, and purely for the purposes of my own quiet amusement, I would thickly plaster over, and ever more lavishly—though never, not on a single occasion, did even one member of this bland and self-satisfied battalion of proles, parvenus, withered aristocrats and money-grubbing derelicts appear to suspect that even so much as a smidgen of my so very orotund and full-barreled praise for their home—my lusty laudations over their exquisite taste, personal charm, physical beauty, the very vast and limitless depths of their soul … that none of this could be in any way inordinate).

  Adam’s eye did indeed prove to be fine—this much was immediately evident to me. If he did not possess a positive knowledge of any particular piece, then surely his instinct was always more than sound. And of course we very gaily and gallantly took away from all these cold and crumbling piles every manner of unspeakable bric-a-brac, and solely in order to conceal the one and true intent. I sometimes did wonder about the eventual destination of all those sulking collections of vilely glimmering lusterware vases, the Edwardian bachelor wardrobes with always a cubbyhole devoted to “sundries,” utilitarian vanity tables in the Japanese taste, more than detestable elaborately spindled mahogany whatnots, bisque and friable Parian busts of forgotten dilettantes—those insolent, glossy and muscular blackamoors brandishing eternally their lances and flambeaux, murky conversation pieces in chipped gilt plaster frames depicting some whiskery and melancholy old fool in gaiters and fingering a churchwarden, or else a surprised and rouge-cheeked young milkmaid secreting a letter into the pocket of her pinny—these in twine-tied bundles together with the limitless depression of all those endless oils of cows, ruminating in a brown and waterlogged field … the beastly little bits of Sèvres and Limoges, stuffed and mounted rodents, the consoles and commodes—not to say the perfectly extraordinary quantities of mutely offensive Staffordshire dogs. It transpired that Adam would weekly transport this whole very terrible caboodle to some sort of junk shop on the outskirts of Oxford—which, I thought highly comically, traded under the soubriquet “Oxonian Antiquities”—where in lieu of cash payment, he accepted first the hospitality of the proprietor’s wife—by all accounts a first-rate cook in possession of a starred Cordon Bleu qualification—and then, following a digestif, the rather more carnal delights of both the man’s twin daughters (though whether in turn or simultaneously, I have not an idea). How aware and willing a party was this trampled trader in pennies’ worth of debris to so broad and encompassing an arrangement, I did not discover. Rather because I had no interest whatever in so tawdry a matter. Though I cannot but think this entire household quite purposefully mercenary to the exclusion of any of the finer senses—because to have suffered any time whatever in the company of Adam when not most absolutely necessary was surely more than any right-thinking person of taste, refinement or even good humor could remotely have contemplated, let alone endured. For Anna, it almost immediately became clear to me, had been perfectly correct in her summation of his character: it would be difficult to imagine any other young man on earth who could be less engaging. Anna, yes … Adam’s mother, John’s wife. For of course it was she, by now, who consumed me wholly.

  I should like to coolly recall our genesis, that initial and inevitable fusion prior to so heavenly a collision—but all is too tumultuous. It comes at me in a rush, a desperate tumble of hot and haphazard memory that yet can provoke in me a gasp—the very same gasp that always was expelled from me when stirred from my wallowing in the loving bouillon of just knowing that I had her—yes, at the rippling thought of a coming union. As to her touch … her touch would send me wild. The skin, her skin—just downy—was like none I have ever encountered: so shocking in its feathered softness, and then engulfing warmth. Her eyes, in bliss—so inkily black with a slash of whiteness, and yet they were the color of fire. Her hair, those great and heavy shimmering handfuls, I would inhale until my chest came close to bursting. I wrote her poems, though none I could present to her. My poems, they could not reach, could not come close to approaching all inside of me and about her that was clamorous and pleading for expression. She was a greater woman than I an artist, that much was so very humblingly clear—but more than that … she was, in herself, the very highest art. For only a woman—the woman—can be the one true mark of the power of the work of God that screamingly surpasses, and with such unnerving and laughable ease, all and any merely earthly endeavor. A woman—the woman—abandons the insignificant artist to vaporous distance.

  Fiona … I had all but forgotten. She was, however, by no means neglected: at this time I was a reasonably wealthy man, and so naturally I provided her with everything. Everything, yes … bar myself, of course. Oh I was there, to be sure—sharing a luncheon, idly listening to the wireless, the two of us taking a spin in my new and still very much missed Bentley … but all that I carried within me alas was no longer for her. Here was the only period in my life when knowingly I was wounding her, and I so very deeply regretted it—yet it remained quite utterly beyond me even to for a moment contemplate smothering, annihilating, the source of her pain: this, I am afraid, was just wholly unimaginable. And so she remained in silence, for which I was grateful, while all I could do then in parallel muteness was to witness the commensurate suffering which always and famously must ac
company any such selfless restraint. In the past, Fiona had adored me unquestioningly, and always she chose to strike a forgiving and unusually modern and enlightened attitude toward my philandering—I sometimes even imagined, maybe somewhat fancifully, that rather to her own surprise, she might even quite approve of it … although here, she knew, was something other. The unspoken concern was whether Anna could ever have taken me from her. For the sake of Anna, would I have reneged upon my wedding vows—turned my back upon my beloved wife and little Amanda? Well … there now lies so very large and ponderous a question. A question, however, that never did come to any sort of resolution … no, in the end, that looming dilemma, it never did have to be faced … because then came the moment when each of the characters in this ultimately and I suppose quite predictably very woeful tale—at turns malevolent, grasping, cruel and salacious—each of us, yes, was immediately confronted by so very rapid and violent an implosion.

  For some long time past, John and Adam had accepted my modus operandi. For John, here was little more than a formality: a grunting nod of acquiescence. His interest lay solely in our constant acquisition of valuable objects, his task to place them for the optimum price: he had no role to play at the forefront of the theater. And should he one chill evening come to suffer from the sourness of guilt, fall under a gray and sweeping shadow of shame, or else experience no more than a bilious bout of queasiness as a result of the glancing and intrusive thought of all that now was occurring … well could he not simply elect to no longer dwell upon it? To place a long-playing record of some or other jolly waltz by Strauss on his mirror-polished gramophone, light up a Cuban cigar and pour a further cognac? Adam, however, was daily at my side. He had become, did he but know it, my right-hand man, though hardly so vital as that might suggest. Whereas before I had been content to be the simplest of foils, now I had become the sole and central figure—the pivot, as well as the aggressive lance—and he no more than an attentive acolyte. His artistic discernment, our need for obfuscation, these were so much less important than formerly, for now the tendency was simply to take whatever it was that we wanted. Quick, you see? Saves such a great deal of nonsense. Initially, the boy was stubborn. Here, though, was nothing to do with conscience: in Adam, demurral, open and ill-informed argument were simply built into his nature—he would have contended any given premise as a matter of utter principle: agreeability had no part to play in his really extremely moronic existence. He had no friends—well perfectly obviously he had no friends—and he was loved by his parents as only parents can: each of them scaldingly aware of his base and intrinsic loathsomeness, though tugged by the tie that binds. His indulgences seemed to be confined solely to the sexual and the gastronomic, these obtained weekly in a suburban junkyard, and quite handsomely paid for with a dismal succession of dusty trinkets pried from the blue and gnarled arthritic fingers of tremulous and uncomprehending widows—from very old and badly shaven men, jowls rendered angry from whisky, and whose eyes were made milky by inoperable cataracts.

  “Ah Adam, hello. Glad to have caught you. Won’t you come in and take a glass of wine with me? There’s something I’d quite like to discuss with you, if you’ve got a moment. I was having a word with John, with your father, earlier this morning—I don’t know whether he mentioned it to you at all …?”

  He scowled at me: here was his habitual manner. It was as if I had suggested that possibly he might care to lick clean the soles of my boots.

  “Haven’t spoken to him today. I’m busy.”

  “But maybe time for just a glass …? Few minutes …?”

  “Two. I’ll give you two minutes. No more. Right?”

  “Perfect—very gracious of you, Adam. Two minutes. Excellent. Do sit down, won’t you? A glass of Chablis …? It’s perfectly chilled.”

  “No.”

  “No? I see. Something else then, conceivably? I have a reasonably decent Beaujolais Villages? Glass of sherry, perhaps? There might be a bottle of beer in the refrigerator …”

  “No. Don’t drink. Well not all your rubbish, anyway. I’m quite particular what I drink. Who I drink with.”

  “Well I must say it is exceedingly good of you to indulge me, Adam. I shall be brief.”

  “Do. One minute up already …”

  “Quite … Well here are the bones of what I have been thinking. When we go to all of these houses, Adam—why do we actually bother any more with my doing all of this chitchat, when often these people can barely even hear me, let alone understand what it is I’m trying to say to them?”

  His two dull eyes were bulging, as might those of an infuriated bloater.

  “Why? Why? Well that’s pretty stupid, even for you! You know why. What’s wrong with you? So I can go upstairs and—”

  “Yes I do understand that, Adam. But wouldn’t it be more convenient, more—you know—easy for all concerned were we simply to march right into the house and tell them what it is we want, and then just take it …?”

  “God! You’re even dopier than you look, aren’t you? Wouldn’t have thought it possible. Haven’t you learned anything, all the time you’ve been with us? Because, dimwit—that’s telling them, isn’t it? What’s valuable and what’s not. That’s the whole point, stupid! And what do we do if they say no, I’m not selling? Messes up everything. God, I can’t believe how stupid you are …”

  “Well I rather fancy a good many of them may well say that. In which case, well—as I say: we just take what we want.”

  “What do you mean …? And you’ve had your two minutes, by the way.”

  “Please do indulge me just a moment longer. And I apologize if still I am behaving so perfectly stupidly. I shall endeavor to phrase this more comprehensibly for you. We. Just. Take. It. Yes …?”

  “What—steal it, do you mean …? Joking, aren’t you?”

  “We virtually steal it anyway. Don’t we? What about last week. The house in Goring. Yes? Gainsborough, wasn’t it?”

  “Reynolds. You know nothing …”

  “Reynolds—forgive my ignorance. And we gave for it …?”

  “Can’t remember. Couple of pounds …”

  “Precisely, couple of pounds—which you told the old dear was really for the frame. And John, your father, and do please correct me if again I err, is, I believe, hoping for something in the region of eighteen hundred …? Stealing, isn’t it?”

  “It’s business. She was happy. Stupid old woman. You saw her—she was happy with her two pounds, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes but look, Adam—it’s not really the two pounds I am talking about. Think about this—what if we had had the run of that house for the whole of the day? Uninterrupted. No longer the need to be fast and furtive?”

  “There was a lot of good stuff in that house, I think …”

  “Well exactly—my feeling too. You are beginning, I believe, to see what I am meaning. And another thing—why must we wait for them to respond to our advertisements? I mean to say—flyers … really rather primitive, no?”

  “You really are a stupid bastard—do you know that? I get them done at the best printer around. Quality work, that is. Not cheap. Not—primitive …!”

  “I do not refer to the artwork, Adam—but the technique. The approach. It’s rather old-fashioned, don’t you see? It’s … slow. Why don’t we simply select the most promising-looking houses and knock on the door? Are you really sure you won’t take a glass of Chablis …? It is rather fine …”

  “No. Horse piss. And what if they won’t let us in? Thought about that? What then? God, you really are just so thick I can’t believe it …”

  “Well in that case, Adam—we do what we’re best at. We persuade them, yes? We practice the art of persuasion. And if they remain reluctant … well then we find ourselves in a position where we are rather compelled to insist, I’m afraid. Well now look—I really do think we ought at least to give it a try. Don’t you? Nothing to lose, I should have said …”

  “What did my father have to say abou
t this? You talked to him, you said? Well what was his reaction, I’d very much like to know, to all of this dung that you’re giving me …!”

  “He was cautiously approving, is how I should interpret his words. Said I should speak to you, of course. Perfectly properly. Which, Adam, is currently my labored endeavor …”

  The very afternoon of this conversation, if so very stilted, onesided and barely to be borne exchange should warrant even remotely so fulsome a term, I asked Fiona—she had been at the time enjoying what she was pleased to call a “bubble bath”—whether she might and rather quickly care to knit for me a thick black balaclava. She expressed surprise, as well she might. Said, I remember, that it would crush the natural waves of my beautiful shiny hair, and that that would be a shame. Said too that she herself did not personally consider the climate to be sufficiently inclement to merit such a thing. But still she made no inquiry—she never ever did, she never does, concerning any of my whims and sudden enthusiasms, and in return for such rare and admirable continence on her part, she has always been the recipient of my sincere and undying appreciation.