A Summer in the Twenties

by Peter Dickinson

  She laughed her clear laugh and stood still.

  ‘Listen, they’ve started a waltz!’ she said. ‘Let’s go and sway!’

  Gripping his fingers between hers she dragged him towards the music.

  Under the lights in the marquee she glistened with youth and freshness. It was impossible to believe that she had danced till dawn at the House last night, and then slept less than three hours. They swung among the twirling couples. Her eyes shone with almost hysterical delight as she chanted to the swing of the band.

  ‘Da-doodle, da-doodle, da-doodle . . . am I swaying enough? . . . da-doodle . . .’

  A tall dark girl in a remarkably short apple-green dress called over her shoulder at them ‘Somebody’s been to Miss Owlish’s.’

  ‘Not me! Tom!’ shouted Judy, slipping from his hold, somehow detaching the tall girl’s partner (a puffy-faced, pink young man with black hair slicked hard down) and swirling away with him, crying ‘Don’t forget to sway!’

  Tom and the tall girl laughed. She shrugged, mock-rueful.

  ‘May I?’ he said.

  ‘Was that Judy Tarrant?’ she said as she took his hand.

  ‘Do you know her?’

  ‘Not to talk to, but she’s rather famous.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Oh . . . this sort of thing, I suppose.’

  There was no way of enquiring further. They danced the rest of the waltz together. The girl’s name was Janet Stott and she came from a village near Tadcaster, the other side of York from Sillerby. They had a few friends in common but did not seem to have overlapped at Miss Owlish’s. Conversation was jerky as half Miss Stott’s attention was concentrated on watching her real partner’s progress, as if to make sure Judy didn’t spirit him clear away. When the dance was over they both almost plunged through the chattering couples towards where the other two had last been seen. Judy came towards him looking a little nervous, or pretending to.

  ‘I say, Tom, I’ve done something . . . I hope you won’t think it’s a bit off. Was the girl all right?’

  ‘Perfectly pleasant, but not the same thing.’

  ‘I should think not! I’m afraid Guy—that’s his name—was a bit shirty at first. He’s terribly in love with her. He made me feel guilty at stealing her, even for only three minutes, so to make up, you see—I do hope you don’t mind—I said they could borrow your punt.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I’d much rather dance now. I’m in the mood. Perhaps we could have the punt back to look at the sunrise.’

  ‘Provided they’re not so much in love that . . . Come in, Number Eight—your time’s up. Hang on here a tick while I go and explain where it is. If you don’t hide ’em they get snaffled.’

  ‘Oh, Tom, you are an angel. You’re sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘No reason why a sunrise shouldn’t be as enjoyable as a sunset.’

  ‘No . . . I suppose not.’

  Sunrises, too, turned out to be different from the sunsets supplied at Hendaye. This one was beautiful in a still, chill English fashion, and their kisses had much in common with it. In fact her hand-clasp as he walked with her back to the Randolph had seemed more intimate than their modest embraces on the river. It was as if her fingers acknowledged the reality that lay beneath the rules, while her lips pretended not to.

  Even so, as Tom stood on the doorstep of Mrs. Godber’s and fished in his waistcoat pocket for his key, he felt an astonishing after-tow of exhilaration. For one thing, he knew he had moved the game on a stage—not a large one but more, he guessed, than Judy had intended. But there was more to it than that, He wondered whether she had somehow sensed his sudden uprush of anger and frustration in the President’s Garden and had deliberately set herself to be marvellous company, walking with heedless poise along the dangerous edge between laughter and hysteria. Janet Stott’s strange remark had nagged for a little, but then been absorbed into the mood of the long dawn.

  As he climbed the narrow familiar stair and smelt Mrs. Godber’s peculiarly pungent lino-polish, Tom realised that he did not even wish to fantasise that Judy had somehow flitted from her hotel room and found his window and was waiting for him here. That would be too drastic an alteration of rhythm. He would actually prefer to find his bed empty.

  It was not to be. A tousled head lay almost face down on his pillow. A bulk, too large for a woman, hummocked his blankets. Craning amazed over the sleeping form he saw that it was Gerald. By no means a welcome visitor, but not one either who could be tumbled out of bed and booted downstairs. Forbearance with Gerald, the family had proved in a series of unhappy experiments, caused less trouble in the end. With a sigh Tom straightened and went to the sideboard. The gin bottle was empty, but had been nearly so last night. The sherry seemed untouched. He took the decanter out into the corridor and tucked it behind the spare towels in Mrs. Godber’s linen-cupboard. It was bad luck the house was full; though some of Mrs. Godber’s lodgers had gone down, she had let their rooms for Commem. week. All Tom could do was take a couple of blankets back to his room, change into his pyjamas and curl himself up on the slithery leather of his sofa.

  ‘Sorry about taking your bed, old man.’

  ‘That’s all right, Ger. I wasn’t using it. How did you get past Mrs. Godber?’

  ‘Told her who I was and turned on the old charm. I can still do it if I have to, you know.’

  It was hard to believe. Gerald looked terrible. If you had seen him coming towards you as a stranger in the street you would have been certain that he was about to beg the price of a packet of fags off you and tell you a story about not having eaten for five days. His eyes were sunken, his face grey-yellow, his whole body constantly trembling. It was difficult to guess whether he hadn’t shaved for a week or had shaved incompetently three days ago. When he moved it was with a slouched, whipped-hound mien. He had woken Tom by clattering the doors of the sideboard, presumably looking for the sherry.

  ‘Let’s hope the charm hasn’t worn off,’ said Tom. ‘I’ll go and ask her for breakfast. Could you eat an egg?’

  ‘I’ll have a go. Where’s the rears, old man?’

  ‘Next landing up. I’ll show you.’

  This too was family habit. You could not start Gerald on however short a journey and trust him to reach his destination; you had to watch and see that he got there. The only thing about his presence in Oxford that Tom felt fairly sure of was that he was supposed to be somewhere else. On his way down from the lavatory Tom took the decanter from the linen-cupboard and carried it on to the kitchen.

  ‘Morning, Mrs. Godber.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr. Hankey,’ she answered, taking the decanter from him and putting it on a shelf of the dresser. ‘Was it all right letting the gentleman in?’

  ‘Yes, thank you very much. He’s my brother.’

  ‘Oh, I saw the likeness, so I believed him.’

  ‘Very good of you. I’m afraid he’s . . .’

  ‘You needn’t tell me, Mr. Hankey. It’s sad how many gentlemen I see like that. Ones who lodged with me, oh, thirty years back turning up on my doorstep looking like something the dog sicked up. In vacations only, that’s natural, isn’t it? They can’t face the colleges and besides they know all my rooms would be full.’

  ‘And you let them in?’

  ‘Depends how I feel. First time, usually, I let them have a bed and a meal—but I make sure they understand it’s no use coming back again. Now you’ll be wanting breakfast for two. You’ll see that the gentleman eats as much as he can, won’t you? And I expect you don’t feel that bright yourself. At least I hope the young lady was nice to you.’

  ‘Charming, thank you. I got in about six, but l’m not too bad. And I think you’re an absolute marvel, Mrs. Godber.’

  The wizened head nodded on the crooked neck. Tom had never seen Mrs. Godber smile but he had learnt to know when she was pleased.

  When he turned into the corridor towards his room he found Gerald rummaging in the back of the linen
-cupboard and felt ashamed for both of them.

  ‘I expect I could find you something if you want it,’ he said.

  ‘Eh? No, oh no. Glad, really . . . Do you know, old man, it’s not there at all?’

  ‘I took it down to the kitchen as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Not there either. Complete illusion. Only think it’s there because of the sin of Adam, that’s what they say, though I can’t quite swallow all that yet. Got a razor I can borrow?’

  ‘What were you saying about illusion?’ asked Tom.

  It seemed important to discover quite how far-gone Gerald had become. Previously, however drunk or hung-over he had been, his speech had retained an uncanny coherence, but the mumblings outside the linen-cupboard suggested that this was no longer the case. Shaved and washed he looked several degrees less appalling, but still not an acquaintance any fastidious person would be glad of. He had started to eat with a grimace that had made Tom think he was about to vomit, but quite soon he had evidently rediscovered the meaning of hunger.

  ‘Illusion, eh? Oh yes, it’s all illusion,’ he said, waving an egg-dripping spoon at Mrs. Godber’s orange wallpaper, but implying all Oxford in the gesture and the round world beyond it.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve become a Platonist, Ger.’

  ‘Eh? Oh, no, I don’t think so—though he was halfway there, of course—shadows in the cave, all that . . . I want your advice, Tom. That’s why I came to see you. Minnie got your address out of Nan.’

  He tore a piece of toast in half and buttered it in silence. Tom, perhaps light-headed with lack of sleep, experienced a sudden tremor of apprehension, something more than the mild shock at discovering that Gerald had arrived in Oxford, in however ramshackle a state, on purpose.

  ‘My advice?’

  ‘Not quite like that . . . your thoughts, more like . . . tell me, Tom—how would you feel if I pulled myself together?’

  ‘I would think it was the best thing that ever happened.’

  ‘You’re a good chap, Tom. What’s more, I believe you’d still have been a good chap if you’d been half blasted to bits in the trenches, like me . . . I knew you’d say that, but you haven’t really thought about it.’

  ‘I don’t need to think about it. It’s obvious.’

  Gerald began to speak very slowly, separating the words so that Tom could hear the blur round each of them, like the stain spreading round a drop of ink on blotting-paper.

  ‘When I say “Pull myself together” I mean come back to Sillerby, manage one of the farms, shoot a bit, fit into the county, give Father a hand—it won’t be long before he needs it—take over when he dies. All the things you were expecting to do, Tom.’

  ‘I still think it would be the best thing that ever happened.’

  If the sherry had been illusion, this was illusion of illusion, a typical sad, vague fantasy of reform. Tom was certain that his own voice rang with insincerity. Perhaps Gerald heard the note, for he actually laughed.

  ‘Had a bit of a lapse on my way through London,’ he said. ‘Forgot they’d turfed me out of the club after that business with the piano. If only there’d been a train straight from Paddington . . . but you see it was ninety minutes till the next one and there was the bar right there by the platform. That must have been yesterday. No, the day before, at least. I did get on a train somewhere. Wales, probably. I seem to remember the accent. They wouldn’t stop rolling milk-churns . . . Pulling yourself together isn’t all that easy, Tom. Fact, it’s a bit like when they stitched me together in the hospital. After a bit you think you can get out of bed and stand without help but as soon as you try it you keel straight over. But listen, Tom. Do you know what I’ve been doing these last six weeks? You’ll never guess. I’ve been staying in people’s houses, walking moors—I actually caught two sea-trout one morning—and in the evenings I’ve been sitting over the port and listening to the usual chat about ghillies and poachers and the way the crofters are all melting away to Glasgow, and I’ve been joining in, too. I didn’t even smash one chair. I only fell asleep once—and I wasn’t the only one because Potty Caithness wouldn’t stop talking about his scheme for importing reindeer. I don’t expect you’ve heard him, Tom. He’s better than any insomnia pills I’ve ever taken.’

  ‘You’ve been staying at Auchtermochty!’

  ‘I have. Five days.’

  ‘That’s marvellous, Ger!’

  Tom had never met Lord Caithness, but of course had heard of his notorious shortness of temper, especially where guests were concerned. It was still disputed how accidental had been the shooting of a car-load of London acquaintances whose self-invitation to Auchtermochty Lady Caithness had weakly accepted. If Gerald had lasted five days there . . .

  ‘I’ve had help, you see Tom. That’s why I’m here. Minnie thought the time had arrived when I’d better come and warn you things might change.’

  ‘You’ll have to explain about Minnie.’

  ‘Minnie Heusen. She’s a Scientist.’

  Tom felt that he was becoming more light-headed than ever. He had a dream-like vision of a severe woman in a white coat and steel-rimmed glasses standing by Gerald’s bedside manipulating retorts and glass tubing full of bubbling green liquids.

  ‘A Christian Scientist,’ said Gerald.

  ‘Good Lord! How did you get a hold of her on Malinsay?’

  ‘She just came to stay. One of Nan’s old school chums wrote to say she was doing the Western Isles with an American friend and would Nan put them up for a few days. I must say, Tom, Nan’s been pretty good to me but it’s been Ian whose been the real brick. It can’t be much fun having a wreck of a brother-in-law doddering round your castle for several years, and keeping all your whisky padlocked the whole time . . . Where was I? Yes, last August it was, these two females turned up. I don’t think I even knew they were there—I was having a bad patch—but apparently Nan and Minnie hit it off and Minnie persuaded Nan to try something out on me. First I knew of it, Nan came into my room one morning—September, I suppose—I was feeling ghastly—I get a sort of rheumatic fever which makes it agony even to turn over, so I hadn’t slept in spite of taking dozens of my pills—and when Nan announced she’d brought a visitor to see me I told her I was damned if I’d see anyone at all. She just smiled and slipped out, and I heard a whisper or two and then in came this fellow—I knew he was some kind of Holy Joe as soon as I clapped eyes on him—short grey hair, a long grey face like a horse, a bloody great bony nose and a collar three sizes too small for him. He pulled a chair up beside my bed and stared out over me like a dying duck in a thunderstorm, and said ‘All is Mind.’ He had an American accent like a circular saw. “By God,” I said to myself, “the bugger’s potty.” He didn’t say anything else for a couple of minutes and I was damned if I was going to help him, then it came again—“All. Is. Mind.” Like that. He said it half a dozen times. He wasn’t talking to me, or to himself—fact, I got the idea he was somehow talking to the universe. I was all set to have hysterics, only I didn’t dare because it would have hurt so much . . . and then, Tom, the most amazing thing, I realised could have hysterics if I wanted to. I mean, the pain would still have happened, only it wouldn’t have been part of me, anything to do with me myself, only something that was happening to a lot of shot-to-blazes meat lying on my bed . . .

  ‘The American—his name’s Scott Warren and he’s the most amazing man, been going round Scotland all last summer talking to fellows like me and literally jerking them out of their beds and putting them back on their feet—he knew I’d got past the first barrier and then he started to talk, a lot of guff about mind and matter, with bits out of the Bible. Honestly, I thought it was the most awful rubbish. But that’s only what I thought. It wasn’t what I felt. I simply wanted him to stay with me and go on talking, because suddenly I was beginning to feel like the real me. First time in years, except when I’ve been half cut. That’s why you drink, you know. There’s a sort of self which you know ought to be living inside y
our body but somehow it’s strayed away and got lost, and a couple of drinks give you the lillusion that it’s somewhere quite close, just out there in the darkness, longing to come home . . . so you have a couple more, and then of course . . .

  ‘I still can’t accept the logic of it, Tom. I’d like to, but I can’t. The meanings they read into the Bible, for instance. The fall of Adam consisted of the creation of the material universe, you know . . .’

  ‘William Blake said something like that, I think. And don’t the Swedenborgians . . . ?’

  ‘Oh, it goes right back to the Gnostics. But it doesn’t really matter, old man. All that matters is that they’ve got hold of something, and I’m here, on my feet, to prove it. The women seem to take all the Bible stuff in their stride. I’d better warn you Nan’s become a fervent Scientist, and it’s causing a bit of a rift between her and Ian. Old Scott only stayed a couple of nights till the next ferry, then he pushed off and Minnie Heusen came and took over. Took me over. She’s a wonder, too. I’m going to marry her.’

  ‘That’s marvellous, Ger! Congratulations!’

  Gerald mumbed his thanks without really noticing and went on with his story. His voice was still slurred but he had stopped shaking and looked either at the table-cloth or earnestly into Tom’s eyes. Very likely this was the first time he had had a chance to explain the events of the last six months to anyone outside them, and so, in a sense it was the first time he had explained them to himself.