—He’s an old man and dying and he can’t touch us even if he wanted to. Next week we shall be in France and then the world is before us. There’s nothing to fear.
She dropped her eyes again, murmuring:
—I know. I know. But Peter, I’m not logical like you and … and strong.
He laughed suddenly, and putting his arms around her he picked her up and whirled her in a circle. With her hands on his shoulders she looked down at him and giggled. He buried his face between her breasts and shouted:
—We’re getting out. Out. Away.
He set her down again and said into her face, his voice shaking with laughter:
—You hear me, you mad bitch? We’re getting out and we’re not coming back. Think of it.
With her mouth open she grinned, nodding her head, yes, yes.
—And we’ll be free, she said.
—We’ll be free. We’re young and the world is wide. We’ll be free.
He told her to wait then, and whistling gaily he left the flat. She listened to his steps fade down the stairs, and when the whistling too had faded she turned back to the window and put her face against the glass. The sun-drenched street was empty but for a lame dog that stood in the gutter, sniffing delicately at a soiled scrap of newspaper. From far off came the sound of faint music, beating softly through the air with slow, sad strokes. The dog lifted a leg and watered on the paper, shook himself, and trotted away. The music ceased, and there was silence. Muriel turned and stood with her arms stiff by her sides and looked at the disordered flat, the books, the dust, the blue threads of smoke he had left to hang so still on the air. Everything seemed strange, and somehow mournful, as though the things she knew were fading into the past even as she stood there. She began to weep.
When he came back she was standing before the mirror, painting her eyelids. He stopped whistling and looked closely at her reflection in the glass.
—You’ve been crying.
—I have not. Where were you?
—At the shop. Why were you crying?
—I wasn’t. I told you I wasn’t.
—All right. You wasn’t.
She twisted about and fell into his arms, pulling him close. She said:
—Everything will be all right, Peter, won’t it?
—Of course. Now let’s go see the man.
She went out of the flat, and on the stairs Peter kissed her again and told her that everything would be fine.
By the canal the green bus carried them, past the hideous new buildings of glass and steel, past bored swans, the dusty trees, past the old men who walked the tow paths to watch the water in its changes. Peter said:
—I wonder if we’ll miss all this.
She looked at the streets riding past.
—I will. I’ll miss it. Poor city.
The trees were in bloom in the grounds of the hospital, their faint wood perfumes mingled with the smell of cut grass. As they walked up the drive a pair of pigeons fled before them, their wings clattering in the silence. Cars were parked before the entrance, and a withered old lady was slowly picking her way across the lawn.
They went in through the high doors and stopped at the reception desk, where a nurse with a bored expression sat behind the glass. From the stairs above them came the sound of voices to disturb the hanging silence.
—Mr Williams, please, Peter said.
The nurse looked slowly from one of them to the other, then lowered her eyes and examined Muriel’s white linen dress. She ran her finger down a chart before her on the desk and said:
—Three-forty-two. The corridor to your right. Count the doors.
They walked down the white echoing corridor. Far off at the end there was a window of frosted glass where the sun came in and made a mist of light that glared on the polished floor. Muriel pulled down the corners of her mouth and said in a funereal voice:
—Count the doors, all ye who enter here.
Peter smiled vaguely at her and looked away. They came to the room and he knocked gently.
The walls were of the same sterile white as the corridor, and the floor had pale green tiles. There was a plywood wardrobe and a small locker. Opposite the door a square window looked out over the lawn to the trees along the drive. The bed was long and narrow, with white enamelled legs and a white spread. The old man lay there propped up against the pillows, his face turned to the window.
—Hello dad, Peter said.
Slowly the old man turned his head and looked at them blankly. Muriel took time to close the door, then stood awkwardly with her weight on one leg. The old man was tiny, his feet reached only half way down the bed. His thin hair was white as the walls, and his eyes were small and dim and seemed to look inward. His withered hands lay motionless on the covers like two white, plucked birds. He continued to gaze at them without sign of recognition. Peter rubbed his hands on his trousers, and laughed nervously and said:
—It’s me. Peter. How are you today, dad?
Without a word the old man turned back to the window. Peter signalled with his eyes to Muriel, and she sat down carefully on the end of the bed. She said brightly:
—Hello Mr. Williams. It’s Muriel. Don’t you remember me?
The old man looked at her and calmly said:
—I remember you.
His voice was surprising, strong and deep, a heavy man’s voice. It was all that remained of his youth.
—I’m glad, she muttered weakly, and looked down at her fingers worrying the clasp of her bag. Peter put his hand on her shoulder. He said:
—You look well, dad. How are they treating you here?
The old man smiled faintly and said:
—Their kindness is proportional to the size of one’s fee. They show me great kindness. I should have stayed at home.
Peter sat on the bed at the other side from Muriel and wound his long legs about each other. The old man looked at him without expression and asked:
—Where is your mother?
Peter opened his mouth helplessly and said nothing. The old man went on:
—She should come to see me. It’s not asking a great deal of her. Tell her she must come.
—Yes dad. I’ll tell her.
The old man leaned forward and peered closely at his son.
—You look unhappy, he barked. What is it?
—Nothing, dad. I’m happy.
—So you should be. You have a life.
There was silence. From outside came the snip-snip of shears. The old man sighed, and his hands fluttered restlessly. Peter said:
—We’re leaving on Monday.
The old man said nothing for a moment, and Peter glanced at Muriel. She was still looking at her hands, but she was faintly smiling now.
—This is the last time you will see me then, the old man said.
Peter laughed uneasily.
—Why do you say that?
—Because it’s true.
His dim eyes turned swiftly and settled on Muriel. Loudly he asked:
—Are you going with my son, young lady?
—What?
She looked up quickly and glanced at Peter, who said:
—Yes, dad, Muriel is coming with me.
The old man murmured sourly:
—Has she no voice?
Muriel lifted her head and shook a strand of hair away from her forehead. With her eyes narrowed she stared at the old man.
—Yes, I’m going away too. Peter and I are going away together.
The old man shrugged his shoulders, and the faint shadow of a smile came back to his face. He said:
—She has a voice.
Peter shifted on the bed, took out a cigarette and put it away again. He locked his fingers together and said:
—We’ll come back at the end of the year to see you, dad.
Muriel turned and stared at him, but he had turned with his back to her. She opened her mouth to speak but the old man was there before her.
—I shall be dead by then.
—Don’t talk like that, dad. Why, you’ll outlive us all.
The old man stared at him and said coldly:
—Since when do you think I need to hear that kind of nonsense? I shall be dead before the year is out. And glad of it. I’ve seen enough of this world. I want to …
He paused, and a shadow settled in his eyes. He blinked rapidly and went on:
—I want to go home.
Peter lifted his eyes to the window.
—Home? he murmured, puzzled.
The old man followed his son’s gaze to the window, to the trees and the soft sunlight. He said:
—I’ve lived too long. These last years have been useless. They have kept me going with needles and drugs and pills, and for what? To see everything slip away and die. Now you are going too and I have nothing. Even your mother won’t visit me.
Peter looked at him and said evenly:
—Dad, you know mother is dead.
—Do I need to be told that?
Again his eyes wandered to the window.
—When we were young we used to walk up here. Fields then. Nothing but fields. The city was smaller. It was easy to live and we thought we would live forever. But everything dies. I’ve lost two wives. I’ve seen too many deaths and now all I live for is to see my own.
Suddenly he turned to them, and his little eyes were bright. He clasped his hands together and said briskly:
—You’re going away.
—Yes.
—When?
—Monday we —
—Where?
—France first and then —
—How will you live?
—Well, we’ll … we’ll find things as we go along. Fruit picking or — anyway I have a little money.
The old man nodded once, and gave a long sigh. He leaned back against the pillows and after a moment he said quietly:
—You have my money.
Peter looked at him, and his forehead wrinkled.
—How do you mean, dad?
—I sent instructions yesterday that you were now solely in charge of my affairs.
—What does that mean?
Muriel leaned across the bed towards Peter. There was apprehension in her eyes. She clutched his hand, but he did not look at her. The old man glanced in her direction and said:
—Be quiet, girl. Now, my boy, I shall tell you what it means. You are from now head of the firm of Williams and Son.
Peter’s mouth was open as he stared at his father. There was a long silence. At last Peter said:
—But I am going away, dad.
The old man waved a hand.
—The business runs itself. You may take your holiday. It means merely that you will now be rich enough to enjoy it.
—But dad …
—Well?
—I don’t know. This is all very —
Muriel struck his wrist with her knuckles, and he turned to her in surprise. She said slowly:
—We’re going away, Peter.
He smiled, and as though explaining to a child he said:
—Yes, of course, Muriel. You heard dad saying we could go.
—That’s not what he said, and you know it.
They stared at each other, and the old man watched them, the thin smile on his lips. He said to her quietly:
—Everything dies, my dear. Everything.
Without looking at him she stood up and walked stiffly to the door.
—Where are you going? Peter called.
She paused with her hand on the door, but did not turn.
—I’m going, she said.
And was gone. Peter turned to his father, and the old man said innocently:
—The young lady seems upset. I wonder why.
—I don’t know.
The old man picked at the sheet, his lips pursed. After a moment he said:
—Peter, I think I may have exaggerated a little. Head of the firm — a figure of speech, you understand. But you have the money, which I suppose at this stage is what matters. Anyway, the business would bore a young man. Am I right?
—I suppose so, dad.
Peter uncoiled himself from the bed.
—I think I better follow her. You’ll take care of yourself until we get back.
—Of course.
He went to the door, and there the old man’s voice stopped him:
—But you won’t be going away now, will you?
—Why do you say that?
He pulled the sheets an inch nearer his chin and folded his hands again over his stomach. He said:
—I shall live a little longer, now.
Peter went out into the corridor. With the door almost closed he stopped and looked back at his father through the narrow opening. The old man was smiling to himself. When he turned to the door, Peter quickly closed it, but not before he heard:
—And bring your mother with you next time, boy.
Outside the hospital Muriel stood and watched the gardener cutting down the dead stalks of flowers. When Peter came up she did not move or speak. He said peevishly:
—Why did you run out like that? He is my father, after all.
—I’m sorry, she said in a flat voice.
They turned and started down the drive. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye and said:
—I think we’ll have to wait a week or two now before we go. This changes things.
—Yes.
They moved slowly between the smooth lawns. The afternoon was ending. In the trees the birds were going mad.
A Death
They lowered the coffin into the grave, and Stephen turned away his face. He watched idly a small, fat man who moved with curious stealth along the perimeter of the dark yew trees. Far in the distance the sea was swollen and rough, and dotted with flecks of white. A cold wind came from the north, carrying with it a few small drops of rain. The little man had halted, and now stood motionless against the restless trees, staring fixedly across the headstones at the bedraggled groups of mourners. Stephen looked back to the grave. They were watching him, he tried to weep, but he had no tears. Beside him Alice sobbed, and that seemed ironic. She had hated the old man. He frightened her, or so she said.
The ceremony ended and they moved away from the grave.
—How do you feel? Alice asked. Are you all right?
—Yes. Fine. I’m glad it’s over now.
He put his arm around her shoulders as she stumbled through the thick damp grass. She had not even yet become accustomed to her pregnancy. The wind blew in the trees and rattled the branches as if they were hung with bones. He shivered, and said:
—Let’s get out of this place.
They began to walk faster, but when they came to the main path Alice’s steps faltered, and she hung back, murmuring:
—O my God …
He looked where she was looking, and saw coming toward them the fat little man who had stood in the trees behind the grave. He wore a dusty black overcoat that reached well past his knees. His head was completely bald, and on the back of it a hat, too small for him, sat crookedly. As he hurried along on his little legs he cast frightened glances to right and left. He stopped before them and leaned close with an air of conspiracy. The rain was releasing from his coat a dull faint smell.
—Stephen, he breathed. My sympathy.
Stephen took the offered hand and glanced uneasily at his wife. She stood with downcast eyes, tightly clutching her gloves.
—Such a wonderful old person, Stephen, the little man said, gazing up at him with intense bright eyes. As you know, I knew him well and it was such a shock to see him go like that so suddenly. Dear me, such a shock. Indeed yes.
—I’m sorry, Stephen said. I don’t seem to remember —
—Come, the little man interrupted him. I’ll walk with you to your car.
He stepped between them with a neat little hop. With protection now on either side of him he lost his furtive air. Stephen looked
over the top of the bald pate between them at his wife, signalling frantically with his eyes, but she would not look at him. The little man said:
—You know, sometimes I feel that a whole race is passing. Certainly, Stephen, your father is an example. Not just a generation mind, but, yes, a whole race. Don’t you agree?
Stephen said nothing, and the little man turned to the wife.
—Don’t you agree with me, Alice?
She stared at him in fright and said:
—What? Yes. O yes.
Stephen glanced at her, but she had retreated again, her hand to her mouth.
—Ah yes, a whole race, the little man said with satisfaction. It will be a great loss when they are all gone. What has this new generation to offer the world? Only the fruits of their fear.
After a little silence Stephen said stiffly:
—I don’t see how the world can be made any worse.
The little man looked up at him from under his eyebrows, slyly smiling.
—But there are so many new evils, he said softly.
Stephen coughed.
—Surely there are no new ones.
But the little man was gazing away out at the ugly sea, lost in thought. Suddenly he started.
—What say? Pardon?
—I said—I said surely there are no new evils. You said—
—Ah yes yes yes. We’re told there can be nothing new, yes, but look at the things that have happened these last few years. Terrible. Terrible indeed. Sometimes I think that — that — what was I saying?
He was becoming agitated, and was looking about him again in fear. Stephen watched him with puzzled eyes. He went on:
—There is a new brand of despair in the world. The old ways are dying, and the old religion too. When people turn their backs on God what can they expect? What can they expect, I say?
He looked at them with his bright, troubled eyes.
—I know, he said. I turned my back on God. I wanted to serve him. The call was there, the call to serve, but I told myself it led to death. I was proud and now I have nothing.
They reached the car.
—I have nothing left.
Stephen opened the door for his wife and she got hurriedly inside.
—Without God nothing. Do you hear me?
Long Lankin: Stories (Vintage International Original) Page 2
