‘You have no pursuits. You do nothing. You have come to a full stop.’
‘I help to keep the Association going. I organized collections for the new classroom block. I am in communication with thousands –’
‘I know, I know. But what is that? A clerk could do it. What you do, you do for your own ends. You do not care a fig for that school. You use it and its association of Old Boys as your audience, for your display of power. You are lost if you cannot persuade yourself that you still have power. You will become President because you have paved the way. You are interested only in yourself, Mr Jaraby. You are still proving yourself in your own eyes.’
‘You decrepit old fool,’ cried Mr Jaraby in great anger, ‘I have never heard such poppycock.’
Mrs Jaraby stood up. Her long angular figure towered over him and he felt for a moment a spark of fear, for her thin hands were like claws and her eyes, he thought, had the light of a vulture.
‘I am not a fool,’ Mrs Jaraby said. ‘I am a sad, pathetic woman whose life has dropped into shreds. Basil shall remain in this house. He shall cram it from top to bottom with budgerigars and parrots and owls and eagles. He shall turn your garden into a tank for fish and train lizards to sing before your eyes. If he wishes for penguins and hyenas they shall be welcome. And the swift gazelle and the ostrich and the kangaroo. No matter what we do or what we now consent to we shall owe him a debt as we die. His birth was a greater sin than ever he in his wretchedness committed. I take my share of it. You, even at this advanced time, have not the confidence to take yours.’
‘I will have you certified,’ cried Mr Jaraby. ‘As God is my Maker, I will have you certified.’
‘Check first that He was your Maker.’ Mrs Jaraby laughed shrilly and pulled a face at him, and watched him thinking that she was mad.
In his room Basil lay on his bed. He had pulled the curtains, for like Mr Swabey-Boyns he disliked the sun. In the gloom, cigarette ash spilled over his waistcoat and on to the sheets. He was thinking of Mr Turtle, that old man, now dead and awaiting burial. Mr Turtle had invited him to his house and given him money. Mr Turtle had listened while he talked to him about the birds, explaining their illnesses and their needs. He had said a bird would be a companion for him and had spoken then of the difficulties he faced in a domestic way. Once, as they sat together in the park, a young man in running attire had darted by, trailing a pungent exhaust of sweat, and Mr Turtle told him how once he had broken the high jump record. Basil did not as a rule wish to hear the School mentioned, but somehow he didn’t mind when Mr Turtle went on about the high jump. He remembered the old man’s hands and the stick with a silver knob and the story about Mr Turtle’s marriage. Mr Turtle had suggested that some day they should go to a matinée at the cinema together, and Basil had agreed, because he knew that Mr Turtle would be the one to pay, and afterwards he knew that they would have tea. It was odd how when first he had met him he thought of him purely as a possible source of money, and had only later seen that he might become a friend. Had the relationship been a little more advanced, and had Mr Turtle not died, he might even have gone to his house rather than his parents’. He had thought before of going to Mr Turtle’s house, of offering to take the place of the difficult woman, of living there and cleaning the place and cooking for both of them. He had thought he might suggest it, and that Mr Turtle would be pleased and enthusiastic and might leave him the house in his will. Basil closed his eyes, blinking away the tears. They rolled down his cheeks into the dark stubble of his one-day beard.
19
When Dr Mudie rang the bell of 10 Crimea Road, the door was eventually opened by a bespectacled middle-aged man with dyed blond hair and a short black beard.
‘I am looking for Mr Jaraby.’ As he spoke, it seemed to Dr Mudie that the man made a half-hearted attempt to close the door again.
‘Actually,’ Basil said, ‘I am Jaraby.’
‘Surely not.’ Dr Mudie looked closer. There was no doubt at all that the figure before him was featuring a crude disguise, but it was equally clear to Dr Mudie that this was not Jaraby. Could it be, he wondered, that Jaraby, far from exaggerating, had understated the case; that the wife in question was given to dressing up in male clothes, with wigs and beards?
Basil identified Dr Mudie as a person with sinister intent: a stranger at the door asking for Mr Jaraby meant a stranger with official purpose: guilt lay behind the assumption that he himself was the Jaraby required. ‘There is no Jaraby here’: that was what, with time to compose himself, he should have said at once; that was the reply that was more in line with his growth of beard and the colour of his hair. He saw the man penetrate his disguise and felt again the ticking of fear in his stomach.
‘We are at cross purposes,’ Dr Mudie went on. ‘I think it must be your father I have come to see.’
‘My father?’
‘The elder Mr Jaraby. He invited me to tea.’ Dr Mudie was a humane man; he saw this journey to the suburbs as a humane gesture. But he had also expected some kind of welcome. By the look of things, his host was not even present.
‘Is your father here? I think it is the right day, Saturday four o’clock?’
‘I can’t say whether he is here or not. I don’t know. The house seems quiet.’
‘Perhaps you could find that out? May I come in?’
Dr Mudie entered and observed a tall woman in black descending the stairs. ‘Is it a man about birds?’ she called to her son.
Basil did not seem to hear. He took a package of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one, standing in the hall with Dr Mudie.
‘May I introduce myself?’ Dr Mudie requested. ‘I am Dr Mudie. The elder Mr Jaraby invited me to tea. You must be Mrs Jaraby.’ He stretched out a hand and grasped one of Mrs Jaraby’s.
‘The elder Mr Jaraby? But he is not here. He has gone to the shops. He did not mention a teatime guest.’
‘In that case I must retrace my steps,’ said Dr Mudie, a trifle piqued.
‘Oh, never go,’ cried Mrs Jaraby. ‘What do you require?’
‘Well, tea, I suppose. But it is far better for me to go away. Mr Jaraby has clearly forgotten.’
‘No, no. Come in. Devoted couple that we are, a friend of my husband’s is a friend of mine. May I present my son Basil? Dr Mudie, your father’s chum.’
They were in the sitting-room, hovering about the seats by the open french windows. ‘Sit down, sit down. Entertain him, Basil, while I prepare a meal.’
‘I really do feel this is an imposition,’ Dr Mudie said. ‘Coming here like this.’
‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Mudie. A medical doctor.’
‘You came to see my father?’
‘Actually he did invite me.’
‘Is my father ill?’
‘It is not your father – I was merely asked to come to tea. I ran across him on Old Boys’ Day. I say, were you at the School? I have had this at the back of my mind since you opened the door to me. Weren’t we there together? Tell me I’m right. I never forget a face.’
‘I don’t remember you. I think you are mistaken. My face has altered.’
‘Jaraby, B. Wasn’t there some trouble over table manners?’
Basil did not reply. Driven to silence, Dr Mudie examined the ornaments.
‘The fare is meagre,’ Mrs Jaraby announced. ‘Blackberry jelly in sandwiches. I trust you did not come with more in mind?’
‘Delicious. Your son and I have established that we were fellows together at school, at least of the same generation.’
‘Are you an Old Boy, Dr Mudie? We get a lot of them here. What a shame my husband is absent.’
‘I recall your son defying the authorities. An heroic stand, it caused quite a stir.’
‘A stir was caused here as well.’
‘I was not of that calibre. I was meek and took what they handed out. Do you remember, Jaraby, a boy in our time who went on hunger strike?’
‘No.’
�
��You must do. He refused to eat for four days. As a result, his breath became rather nasty. I think he has since died.’
‘A boy? And Mr Turtle’s death in public. The place is a slaughterhouse.’
‘The boy died later, long after he had left the School. Perhaps in the war, I do not know. His name was curious: Bludgeon.’
‘We do not talk much about the School unless my husband is here. He returns to those days. They were his most successful.’
‘I go occasionally to an Old Boys’ Day: many Old Boys are my patients. And personal recommendation counts for a lot.’
‘Are you a Harley Street man, Dr Mudie?’
‘Well, yes, I am.’
‘I thought so. You have the air of the fashionable doctor. Basil had ideas of becoming a doctor once, but he is happier, I think, as he is.’
‘What does he – what do you do, Jaraby?’
‘I breed birds. Budgerigars.’
‘They are beautiful creatures,’ said Mrs Jaraby. ‘Tame and talkative. Basil teaches them cheerful things to say.’
‘They certainly are very popular at the moment. The sale of bird-seed has shot up since the war.’
‘Did you hear that, Basil? The sale of bird-seed … That is a good omen from the business point of view.’
‘As a child I had a parrot. We called it Jackie, I remember. It used to say “Abide with me, abide with me.” We found it dead one day, in one of my father’s fishing boots.’ Dr Mudie, though well versed in the craft of small talk, placed a certain value on his time. He might continue this light conversation all night, but he saw no point in it. There was no sign of a prospective patient, no sign even of the man who had brought him this great distance on his one free afternoon.
‘Would you care to see Basil’s birds? They are suffering from a parrot’s disease. You might well diagnose the trouble where veterinary experts have failed.’
‘That is very kind of you, Mrs Jaraby. I fear I have no knowledge of bird diseases, and have always in fact been allergic to budgerigars. There is something about blue feathers that makes me a little uneasy.’
‘How very odd. My husband kept a pet, an outsize cat, to which I was allergic.’
‘Ah yes, a cat.’
‘A cat is not a complete description. My husband purchased the animal from a man at the door many years ago, attracted I believe by the bargain price. The man passed on no pedigree, but the cat when it grew stood a couple of feet from the ground.’
‘How very extraordinary.’
‘What, what?’ said Mr Jaraby, coming into the room.
‘The Doctor is here and has been interesting us for an hour! You left him in the lurch, saying to come and then forgetting.’
‘I never forgot. Mudie, my good man. I slipped to the post office for a book of stamps and was delayed. I hope you have not been bored?’
‘Not at all. No, no, I have been handsomely entertained.’
‘Blackberry jelly sandwiches,’ cried Mrs Jaraby. ‘The larder could muster no more. Housekeeping on a shoestring, Dr Mudie.’
‘A cup of tea, a cup of tea is what I crave.’ Mr Jaraby sat down, annoyed.
‘Basil has been talking of his birds. The sale of bird-seed has increased in leaps and bounds since the war. Ask Dr Mudie. Isn’t that a good thing for us all, now that we have a business stake in the cultivation of feathered pets?’
‘I do apologize,’ said Mr Jaraby, ‘for not being at home when you arrived. I trust you will not take it amiss. The Association keeps me busy with a heavy mail to see to.’
‘The postmen complain,’ remarked Mrs Jaraby. ‘They come in vans with laden sacks. We think that soon they’ll be charging a fee.’
‘My wife cannot be serious. But you will understand how it is.’
‘Of course,’ said Dr Mudie, confused.
‘He has been telling us of his parrot who sang a hymn, and how he fears blue feathers.’
‘We have blue feathers here, Mudie. You would scarce believe the changes I came across on my return from Old Boys’ Day. My cat was dead, a host of birds swarmed in and out of the rooms.’
‘I am sorry about your cat, Mr Jaraby.’
‘Were the cat alive today,’ said Mrs Jaraby, ‘you would not still be here. People did not stay long when Monmouth was at large. He had a finger off a gardener once.’
‘The gardener struck or tantalized him.’ Mr Jaraby set the record straight. ‘He did not mind his finger gone. He told me so. He worked on afterwards, for several years.’
‘Until another finger went.’
‘That is not true. He lost one finger, that was all. You are trying to engage Dr Mudie’s sympathies.’
‘Dr Mudie, am I engaging your sympathies? Are you interested in the gardener or my husband’s cat? You must forgive this domestic passage: the cat stays on to haunt the house, close to my husband’s heart. Conversation is impossible without the cat.’
‘Monmouth died in suspicious circumstances, Mudie. He was consigned to a dustbin by my wife. Would facts like that not play on your mind?’
‘If little else is left to play,’ answered Mrs Jaraby. ‘Tell me, Dr Mudie, do you happen to know if the boys at that school are carrying on a chain letter that was started by a Major Dunkers of the Boer War?’
‘Take no notice, Mudie,’ Mr Jaraby said, chewing a sandwich.
‘I’m afraid I have no information on that, Mrs Jaraby.’
‘What a shame. I requested my husband to ascertain if it was so but, as he says, he took no notice.’
‘Do you have some interest in the matter, Mrs Jaraby?’
‘No, no,’ Mr Jaraby interposed.
‘In fact, yes, I have some interest. An old man who came here remembered the letter at that school sixty years ago. It thrived still when Basil was a boy. Perhaps you recall it yourself?’
‘No, I fear I don’t.’
‘The School was cleared of those letters in my time,’ said Mr Jaraby, ‘I myself was instrumental in putting paid to the practice.’
‘My husband’s Housemaster, a queer man called Dowse, bade him do so, insisting that the letters had to do with pawnbrokers. I am anxious to know if the Major still survives.’
‘Yes, it would be interesting. I imagine the point could be easily established. Did you ask amongst the boys, Mr Jaraby?’
‘Good God, no!’
When Dr Mudie left, Mr Jaraby walked with him from the house to the bus-stop, saying on the way: ‘Tell me what is in your mind. Tell me what you think, Mudie. Do not spare me, I can take the worst.’
‘What do you mean, Mr Jaraby?’
‘My wife. You heard her speak. How is the verdict? Do I not have your cooperation?’
‘I don’t quite follow.’
‘Why not?’
‘When last we met, Mr Jaraby, you talked about your wife. You feared for her, were nervous, felt for her condition. I confess I observed today no trace of the trouble you referred to.’
‘You are telling me my wife is as sane as you or I?’
‘One cannot speak of sanity or insanity so easily. From what I saw, Mrs Jaraby has all her wits about her. More wits than most at that age.’
‘Are you deaf, Doctor? Did you not hear the extraordinary way she spoke of my cat? And gave you those sodden sandwiches?’
‘But we must not –’
‘No “but” at all. Did you fail to observe my son, that hair, those boots? He has not shaved since he came to the house.’
‘But that is your son. We are speaking of your wife.’
‘Her doing. She thinks nothing of his unshaven jowl, she encourages him in his ways. He was dyeing a bird yellow and dyed his hair as well. She bought the stuff for him; he will not stir outside. I tell you, I came into the room one day and found this fair-haired party hunched on the couch. “Good afternoon, sir,” I said. “Are you a friend of Basil’s?” He looked at me as though I were the one to be certified. Now that was not a pleasant thing to happen: my own son, his hair coloured li
ke a woman’s, staring at me like that.’
‘I do not know what to say.’
‘I imagined you would come with a form ready to fill in, and that that would be that. We would get her a bed somewhere, with others of her kind. My son would be given his marching orders and the house would settle down again.’
Mr Jaraby’s father, an uncommunicative man, had had a way of examining his son rather closely and saying that he supposed blood was thicker than water. He had said little else to his son, but for all his life Mr Jaraby recalled the delivery of the words and the expression that accompanied them. That his father had disliked him was something he had come to accept as a child and for ever after; that in turn he disliked his own son was something he denied. ‘For the right reasons,’ Mr Jaraby held, ‘I am prepared to like anyone on earth.’ He added no proviso, for the proviso lay in the choice of words: I am prepared … He disapproved of his son, and when Basil put aside his habits and his ways he was prepared to begin the process of liking him. But when he considered him as he now was he could not even suppose, with his father, that blood was thicker than water. He saw no link with Basil, saw no repetition of himself; until there was an improvement in his son he would not see that even physically they had much in common.
Incorrectly, Dr Mudie thought that the return to the house had caused Basil to dye his hair: because his father was dark, because the two heads were similar in shape and the hair grew in a similar way, because Basil wished to differentiate himself as much as possible.
Dr Mudie said: ‘Your son is a fully grown man. We cannot assume that his mother is responsible for all he does.’
‘She says so, and asks me to take responsibility too.’
‘If you don’t mind my saying it, the situation is one you have to sort out yourself. Or between the three of you.’
‘What does that mean? She will not listen to reason. Under her influence, neither will the boy.’
‘He is no longer a boy.’
‘I know, I know. The word slipped out. You are picking me up.’
‘I’m sorry for that. I was trying to be a help.’
‘You are hardly being that. You do not do what is required of you. We know what must be done in that house. It is painful, but I am made to bear it. See reason, Mudie.’
The Old Boys Page 13
