‘You know where you are, cocker,’ he informed me last night, ‘when you plant a seed.’
Now there, he and Edward should have room for discussion.
Julia, every morning, draped in a dressing-gown of grenadine silk, waters each pot with deliberate care. Had I so far forgotten myself this weekend as to return the compliment and urinate into one of the stone urns bedecked with blossom, Claude would doubtless have shot me along with Shebah. His eyes continually widen in their search for decay that may suddenly appear upon his precious leaves. The plants themselves give off a purely chemical aroma, besprayed as they are from dawn till dusk with insecticide.
Last night the head gardener in his bathrobe of many colours spent some time with his spray, having made sure beforehand that in his absence I would not employ my time pursuing Julia. It meant that I spent a restless night on the couch with the dog for company, while Claude refreshed by his night-air administrations, noisily attended to his other flower, his gentle budlet released from her glass spectacles, her buttoned blouse, lying amid the lavender sheets of the ornate bed. It is only of small comfort to imagine that perhaps she thought of me while undergoing her Claudian atrocities. Twice Julia came to Morpeth Street. Once in spring and again in winter. In the spring Claude had cut her hair and she wore a cream-coloured skirt that she washed without fail every one of the three nights of their stay. In winter she had a cold that tinged her nostrils pink and she wore her hair in a bun at the nape of her neck. The sight of her white neck caused Lily to scrub her own neck for several nights afterwards with a toothbrush, in an attempt to remove some of the ingrained dirt.
‘Did you see it?’ she asked me unnecessarily. ‘Like milk, Norman. Honest to God, like a glass of milk.’
When this weekend I saw the dapper tiles and shining taps in Claude’s bathroom it became abundantly clear why Julia has such a neck. The bathroom in Morpeth Street held no usable bath. A copper geyser sagged outwards like a disused tea-urn, and a faint smell of gas hung forever in the air. Less privileged guests slept on a divan beside the bath and emerged the next morning partially poisoned by fumes. I myself went home on a Tuesday, and still do, to bathe. Lily had to make do at the sink.
Looking at Lily now she does not appear to be unhappy, but then it is not at all apparent that she has any capacity for happiness. When she falls into my arms my laugh becomes a spasm. She frequently tells me that my sound for laughing is absurd. My laugh is, in its way, like the length of my hair, a deliberate eccentricity. It is not so much a sign of comical relaxation as a method of releasing excitement. Thus, when the shop bell rang yesterday morning, and Claude with weary eyes held out his arms to enfold Lily, I laughed with elation, sensing the coming confusion. Only the voice of Shebah, raised in extreme complaint as her foot was crushed, invaded their intimacy. The temperature of the shop rose slightly with our entrance. A flush suffused Julia’s rounded cheeks.
Lily has told me often about the house, about the pictures, the harp, and the beds of French design. But I had not comprehended what it would be like visually until I saw it for myself. Shebah, her face struggling to preserve its tragic mask, let fall her bags upon the sofa. That Edward failed to share our excitement was to be expected. For him, the upstairs room, packed like a bazaar, was only another room and not a plateau of historical importance. Here, Claude had unfurled his flags of domestic war, begat his numerous children – there on the rug before the open hearth, in winter and in summer. Here, the immortal Billie had spoken to Lily for the last time. Claude, hitherto the chief clown in his frock coat of Indian origin, worn on his circus visits to Morpeth Street, now came into his element, out of the sawdust ring and into the glittering arena of antiquity, the dealer in furniture, the man of property. He wagged his bearded head with pleasure at our appreciation. He informed us that the kettle was on to make tea and that we really must see his roses.
‘Well, Shebah,’ he said. It was not a question, only a greeting. All the time Claude did not really take his attention away from Edward, standing placidly beside the piano. He watched Edward’s hand search for his cigarettes and only when he had lit one and begun to inhale did he move forward to offer one of his own.
‘No, no, thank you,’ said Edward. He fumbled in his pocket. ‘Have one of mine.’
‘No, old boy, I prefer these,’ Claude said. Through an open door in another room I heard Julia tell Lily how well she was looking. Julia was mistaken, though not insincere. When I saw Lily at the station I too thought she looked well. Only on the bus journey did I begin to observe, like a picture coming into focus, the signs of exhaustion on her face. It is possible that she has never looked healthy, that her febrile features are a matter of inheritance.
It is hard to tell how Edward sees Lily. Being a geologist it may be that he will not commit himself until he has dug a little deeper. Last night he became assertive. Boyishly he laid a nicotine-stained hand across Lily’s grateful shoulders. Shebah, clutching her spotted handkerchief, the receptacle for her frequent and ecstatic tears, played to the full her role of purity, the spiritual being among the crowd of debauchees.
‘I think you’re all terrible, darlings,’ she cried, rolling her eyes like a stag at bay.
‘I reckon,’ said Claude, ‘that we’re more to be pitied than envied.’
‘Pitied?’ Shebah almost choked with indignation. ‘Pitied, with you all getting what you bloody well want?’
‘I reckon we never get what we want,’ said Claude. ‘None of us ever has.’
Edward looked quickly at Lily and away again.
‘Oh, I don’t know, darling,’ said Lily. ‘Life’s not so bad.’ With a belly-ful of trouble she tried to minimise the implication in Claude’s remark. ‘We do have a lot of fun.’ She laughed and leaned her head against Edward’s shoulder. ‘I should have worn my hat,’ she murmured, ‘the one I wore at my father’s funeral. You remember the night Liz got attacked in the street and there was a fog and no one could go home …’ She lapsed into silence. Either she felt genuine sorrow at the thought of her dead daddy or she didn’t want Edward to know about the bedding arrangements that particular night.
‘Oh darling,’ said Shebah, ‘I remember so well. Your poor dead father.’ Unable to resist the opportunity afforded for criticism she said: ‘Miss Evans stayed downstairs. She slept in the brass bed, didn’t she? I seemed to be required to rest on the couch. Not that I got any sleep with you singing away in the kitchen, as if you’d come from a wedding. Such an odd way of expressing respect for the departed.’ She smiled wildly, as if to take the sting out of her words. Strangely, of us all, her face alone bears the stamp of depravity. The exodus of Edward and his birthday mate caused her to grimace as if in pain. Claude, knowing full well the havoc it would wreak upon her temperamental nervous system, quietly refilled her glass. His eyes were beamy with mischief. Despite this he managed to be aware that, under the table, my hand caressed the linen-covered thigh of his Julia. His professional eye lit up at contact with a situation not entirely distasteful to him. Secure in his knowledge of me, he raised the gloomy Shebah to her sandalled feet and led her away. Julia made a great show of washing the dishes. Shebah asked to be allowed to assist with the washing up. She had no intention of doing so, she merely wished to let me know once and for all that I was a libertine. As she climbed the stairs her voice was heavy with annoyance, her vowels laden with feeling. A showy sigh preceded each step of the way.
Hot steam had misted Julia’s glasses. Under my arm her narrow shoulders were stooped. I removed her spectacles and, like a bird with its beak open for food, almost blind, she protested … ‘Don’t, Norman’ … and in the middle of her protest I kissed her mouth. When I had wiped her glasses clean I replaced them on the bridge of her polished nose. Her hand came up to settle them more firmly, leaving a smear of soap across her cheek. It is in little things that I find extremes of excitement: the erotica of the wholly ordinary explored to their furthest limits. I found a ravishment of sensation in t
he nearsighted blinking of her eyes. When I had taken off her apron, I put my pinnyless little Julia on my lap and we talked. The conversation was, as usual, about Lily, safely tucked away in the guest-room, making a father out of the unsuspecting Edward. During these last three years I have been endlessly involved in discussions about Lily – her past, her present, her unpredictable future.
‘What if Edward thinks it’s a bit strange – her being pregnant so quickly? What if he doesn’t want to marry her?’ Julia was genuinely concerned. Her mouth quivered with compassion. ‘What if the baby looks like Billie?’
Claude has taught her nothing, it seems, which is in part her charm. Lily and I have already talked about the possibility of a Billie baby, and found it amusing. To console Julia I drew her closer to me. I was happy enough to be content with stroking her hand. With Julia I find my delights belong to the primary school – my first Best Friend, ‘Please sit by me, you can drink my milk if you like’ – a moist flash of emotion, a lisping turn of phrase, an adorable secret to be whispered into an adorable ear. The realisation that to Claude she is a big grown-up girl only accentuates my pleasure.
Safe in my arms she snuggled against me, able to be confiding. ‘I envy Lily, you know,’ she told me. ‘I do really, Norman. Yes, honestly I do.’ Her breath smelled warm and smoky. Upstairs Shebah’s laugh stuttered out, like a stick dragged at speed across railings, and terminated abruptly.
‘You are so understanding, Norman,’ Julia told me. ‘You are so nice.’
Nicely I squeezed her waist in appreciation. After a while because the unseen Claude in the room above was not conducive to relaxation, I suggested we go into the garden. Never wasteful of time, Julia took a bucket from under the sink and filled it at the tap, in preparation for watering Claude’s roses. In mild jealousy I sat at the garden table and watched her attend to his plants. Shebah’s shadow, in time to music, crossed the yard. The gramophone was probably driving her to a pitch of distraction. Her face this morning, when she was shot, drooped in an hilarious parody of pain. I do not doubt that she was shocked, but I could not help laughing. When I used to take her home at night from Morpeth Street, she would often fling her arm across her eyes and lean against the pillars of some house. Her catatonic pose would be held until, sensing that I was becoming impatient, she would let loose a funereal groan. Having heard her cry wolf so often and so loudly, I am no longer able to make the appropriate sounds of sympathy. I do understand her predicament – to be always missing the crucifixion she craves, to be allied but isolated from a race that has suffered, to wait for ever for a Messiah who will never come! That is why Claude’s action this morning could be interpreted as an act of charity. Shebah herself might have preferred a near death attack with attendant blood transfusions and bunches of grapes, but then beggars cannot choose. Hearing her voice from where I sat in the shadowy garden last night, raised high in complaint and demented laughter, one would have thought she was intent on butchering Claude. Julia, watering the roses, glanced at the open window. ‘She sounds so cross,’ she said.
In mock protection I rose and put my arm about her waist. She was too kind to draw away from me abruptly – and besides, the wine, drunk in large quantities throughout the evening, was having a liberating effect upon her.
There were two things jostling in my mind. Whether it were nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of an outraged Claude or to be content with a gentle embracing beyond the yard and in the long grass of the little perfumed garden. I have found with women that nothing is predictable. The most natural-seeming conquest can turn a woman into a virago of puritanism, and the shyest woman can suddenly become a changeling of delicious eagerness. The worry was where to conduct my exploratory advances with some semblance of dignity. Claude’s particular form of humour would delight in catching me beneath some tree in a crucial state of undress. Had I known last night about his predilection for firing guns into the undergrowth, I should never have debated. In the end it was Julia who solved the problem by suggesting innocently that she show me the barn, which lay at right angles to the house, and contained Claude’s larger treasures. To the accompaniment of shouts and groans from Shebah on her couch in the room above the shop, Julia unlocked the wooden door and switched on the light. The place was filled with tables, chairs, sofas and cabinets, clear to the end of the barn. It is a pity I have not been able to tell Lily about last night, the situation being so dramatic: a film set, a dream fantasy concocted by Claude, ever the ideal host, with sofas and divans on every side of me and my little Julia stepping ahead of me.
At the far end of the barn I made the beautiful discovery that the building was L-shaped, that there was a little avenue of sofas on our left, almost in darkness. In particular there was one sofa upholstered in green velvet with a gilt curved back and a seat as wide as a small divan. I sat down on it hardly able to breathe. Julia was busily examining a small table, presumably for signs of woodworm, peering at its surface with disproportionate interest. ‘Oh look, Norman,’ she said with gentle dismay, ‘a little mark – just here – and look, another one.’ Eyebrows raised in alarm she stroked the damaged wood. Afraid that her concern would make her fetch Claude, I left my sofa and inspected the table, though I couldn’t see anything, but at least I had my arm round her waist. I kept remembering what Lily has told me on various occasions – that a woman will always know when she is about to be molested, and even if she doesn’t like you she will have difficulty in breathing, though the cause must not be confused with passion. I could not really tell whether Julia was breathing normally or not, because I could hear nothing above the thudding of my own heart, so Lily’s advice was in itself of little use. I did know Julia liked me, and remembering how little time there was then as now, or ever, I pulled her round to face me and kissed her. I don’t think she was very responsive, but a middle-class upbringing is a great help. If you have been taught that a refusal will cause offence and that politeness is next to godliness, then you don’t push a house guest away in a hurry. At least Julia didn’t and somehow, with a great deal of loud exhalation on my part and a variety of kittenish mewings from her, I contrived to reach my goal, my green savannah, my velvet sofa in the gloom, and place her upon it. I had to keep her on it by sheer force, not by my arms exactly but rather by a strong pressure of my mouth against hers, which was more painful than exciting, but at least it was something. The wind had made me lightheaded and we both seemed to be trapped under glass and I couldn’t hear a thing save for the muffled drum beat in my ears. Suddenly she stopped resisting and lay more or less inert beneath me. I cannot say she was willing. More likely, as Lily would no doubt tell me, it was only that she had decided to get it over with as quickly as possible. She lay with her eyes closed tight, spectacles awry on the bridge of her sharp little nose. I kept my eyes on her face all the time I removed my clothes. I can undress more rapidly than most. I don’t even leave my socks on. I didn’t care about Julia being fully clothed if she preferred it, but I wanted nothing between me and the cool surfaces of her little protesting hands except my skin, goose-pimpling in the chill air. As I straightened up, bare to the elements, ready to spring upon my hostess, pausing only a moment to stretch the toe of my right foot, numb from the constriction of a Chelsea boot, I saw a little window half-obscured by creeper that I had not seen before. Outside the glass, blurred only fractionally, I glimpsed the sardonic face of Claude. Shock momentarily paralysed me. Only my big toe, crushed yellow like a flower left between the pages of a book, jiggled in an attempt to restore circulation. Then my reflexes saved me and jerkily, like an old film running backwards, I dressed again. I could not really see the smile on Claude’s features, but knowing him I could imagine it. When Julia opened her eyes I was fixing my tie. Puzzled but infinitely relieved, she raised herself from the sofa and resumed her inspection of the worm-afflicted table. If she felt any confusion she showed no sign of it and one hand domestically secured the few remaining clips of her hair.
A Weekend with Claude Page 6
