The Queen of the Tambourine

by Jane Gardam

  “As rain! As right as rain?”

  “Don’t worry so, dear Eliza,” they said together, like two nurses.

  “I think I’d like to walk to the station.”

  And saying goodbye to the delightful porter (had he seen? was he used to it, too?) I set off through Oxford with feverishly beating heart, coming at last to the gates of my old college.

  And there I quite forgot about the station but turned automatically in through the gates and enquired for my own old Tutor who I knew still occupies her old rooms. I knocked on the door and found her as always perched on the window-seat, pen in hand. Through the window, behind her, willows swung their ropes about, studded with buds. I could see young women walking in twos and threes, calling and laughing, their hair flipped by the wind. Alert, light on their feet, feeling the spring.

  “Eliza—but how nice. Do sit.”

  I sat with her and for a time did not speak.

  “You have caught me between tutorials. Dear Eliza—why didn’t you write? We might have arranged for a talk. It must be four years.”

  “I had to come up all of a sudden. To a sort of—godchild.”

  “Not your child, alas.”

  “No.”

  “Are you still sad about that?”

  “Not today. Not now. I know now that I couldn’t have coped.”

  “Your godchild is in trouble?”

  “She is in some—I think she is in the power of some evil energy. Some malign force. It attacked me, too. Something very queer. As if we were wearing other people’s glasses. Her lover . . .”

  But in the quiet room I knew so well, with the parchment- covered cocoa-tin of coloured spills in the grate, the nice noisy gas fire, the white bookcases all over the walls, the blue Pissarro oil-sketch between the windows and the silver cigarette-box on the table beside a pile of essays—the smell of books, ink, flowers, peace—I said no more. Let me give thanks for this unchanging place.

  “Cigarette, Eliza?”

  Whoever now offers cigarettes? But who knows, should I accept, that some long and scaly thing may begin to surge and swell and spill out of the box, flow over the table, down and across the old Persian rug at my feet, reaching me only to wind itself, wind itself.

  “Something is wrong, Eliza.”

  “No. Not at all. Just rather a strange afternoon. I don’t understand the young anymore.”

  “Has this girl a mother?”

  “Oh yes. She’s run off. To the East.”

  “How very antique. And she has left you in charge?”

  “Yes. No. Well, not in so many words.”

  “Has she a father?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then leave it to him. They have to make their own beds in college now, literally and figuratively. And lie on them. And suffer if they find that they are full of coals.”

  “Oh, she’s been lying in beds all right—but then so did we. She looks so lost. So unhappy. I must go now, Dr. Pye. Goodbye.”

  “Come back soon. Write to me.”

  “I never write letters.”

  I was gone, and in the windy street I looked for some cloak to put round myself, with which to wrap the same body and bones that had walked this road to the station thirty years ago—the same arrangement of chemicals, water and fat that had been in flaming love with Henry. A body that had given up Oxford for him, all its self for him, in a public renunciation ceremony in Merton Chapel.

  Oxford to Paddington. In the train I write you this letter in an exercise book bought on the station. Envelope too. I close my eyes. I try not to think. I write on.

  Fields and cows. Streets then hedges. In the hedges, new blood-red shoots and white worms, the straw-stalks of last year’s flowers. Here for a season, then goodnight. This the end of my day, Joan, is the beginning of a new age for you. Your first grandchild is coming. Someone is eyeing you out there in Bangladesh, an invisible eye nobody has seen and that up to now has only seen the dark. It will find you. When you are dead he will talk about you. “My grandmother went crazy and disappeared to Bangladesh and nobody ever saw her again.” You and Sarah will never be on your own again though. You will take equal shares in this new human being. There is no father, for Dr. Hookaneye is down the drain.

  He is washed up, and I shall post this at Paddington.

  Sincerely yours,

  Eliza

  Very dark the house is, very thick it smells (poor dogs). The phone is ringing.

  “Hullo?”

  “Oh, Eliza.”

  (La, it is the Queen!)

  “Eliza, I’m so terribly sorry.”

  “Don’t apologise, Sarah, you are right off-course apologising to me.”

  “We wondered—Mr. Hopkin and I—we wondered if . . . Are you all right? Eliza?”

  “Quite all right. Just a little puzzled. No—not all right.”

  “Eliza, I should have been clearer. I think you misheard. Professor Hookaneye is my godfather.”

  “But that is even more appalling.”

  “He has nothing to do with the baby. I said we were going to have tea with my godfather. Not the baby’s father. The father’s just a guy at Merton. I don’t like the father much. I wouldn’t dream of involving him. I thought you and Uncle Reg might just—you know—give advice. Are you there? The father’s a first-year too. But when I say father—Eliza?”

  “I’m sorry, Sarah I must ring off at once.”

  “Why?”

  “I wrote to your mother. On the train. I posted it at Paddington.”

  “Oh my glory,” cried neither the Queen nor the Brum-Bronx but Sarah’s heart’s blood, “Great heaven!”

  “I’ll send a telex. A fax. A ‘disregard’ message.”

  “But, listen, Eliza, don’t go yet . . .”

  But I did, which will soon, pray God, explain much to you, I flew to the post-office which was of course by now closed.

  Fax. How does one send a fax? You need an office. Henry’s office. I stepped into the phone-box on the High Street and realised it was eight o’clock in the evening. All would be shut. I’d have to ring Dolphin Square. What if I got Charles? A risk to be taken.

  “Hullo? Oh, hullo Henry, this is Eliza.”

  A sticky silence.

  “Henry. It’s not about us. Or the dogs. It’s urgent. I have to send a fax to Joan.”

  “Oh, Eliza, please.”

  “It’s very short. Will you get it done somehow? Get it to Bangladesh? Find the Embassy number—you must know how. Sarah’s in trouble. She’s not in quite such trouble as I thought she was, but she’s still in fearful trouble.”

  “Eliza,” little nervous cough, “Eliza dear, take hold for a moment.”

  “Let me just dictate—oh, Henry, please.”

  “Since we are at last speaking, Eliza, could we perhaps mention for a moment the current account?”

  “Oh yes. Have it back. I can manage. It was hysteria. But please could you send this fax?”

  “Yes. My dear. Hem, hem of course. Also, Eliza, why won’t you answer my letters? About the portrait? Somebody wrote from Epsom offering to buy it. I’m rather perturbed.”

  “Tell him it’s not for sale. Your wife is unauthorised to sell it. Anything, but just . . . To Joan: ‘Terrible mistake Hookaneye godfather not father disregard letter written in train Oxford to Paddington have made muddle. Writing again Eliza.’ All right?”

  “All right of course. Hold on. ‘Hookaneye godfather.’ Is it some code? I don’t understand . . .

  I rang off and reeled into the road and watched the cars roll by. Then I turned homeward, the long way round, through quiet side-streets, walking slowly, looking first over one garden hedge and then another. Hard polished knobs of spring bulbs were showing, one small lawn an embroidery of crocuses. Now and then there passed me by the home-coming men of the parish in their crumpled London suits. Their briefcases for the stint of the evening’s work looked heavy, their mouths taut, eyes in a glaze of desire for the double Gordon’s. Some said, �
��Oh, hullo, Eliza,” and made as if to stop (I’ve not been about much recently) but I smiled and drifted on until I came to the doors of St. Saviour’s.

  Our Church stays open quite late. We risk our treasures. Anyway, there’s always someone inside. Tonight the organ roared. Someone practising. A shadow or two lurked about the pews and a light clatter was coming from the vestry. I knelt in a pew and waited for God.

  He was not at home.

  When in doubt, pray. By rote, if nothing else is possible. Traditional instruction. Until you grow calm and the line clears.

  Our Father which art in Heaven whatever have I been doing in Oxford? Thy will be done in earth as it is in Heaven help Sarah what a terrible mess she’s in and I’m sure I don’t know what to do about it and forgive us our trespasses sounds very like youth and silliness but after all not that inexperienced think of all those boys at school, and Mozart at one A.M. She must know something of men by now Thy kingdom come Thy will be done and maybe it is as well we don’t know whose this child may be Shakespeare’s was a shot-gun wedding there is always some sort of pattern perhaps? In earth there are so many mysteries as is not in Heaven and when it comes down to it why should I not look after Sarah’s child? I might be allowed. I have nothing else in my life except The Hospice. I must fight for my sanity my kingdom, and Thy power and Thy glory for ever and ever, Amen.

  I looked up to see the Curate looking down on me. I made the sign of the Cross and got off my knees.

  “Sorry, Eliza. Thought you were free.”

  “Oh yes. I’m free. I’m perfectly free.” I waited for him to say, “How are you? I’ve often called but you’ve never been in. Can I help you in any way? I’ve heard about it all.” That’s what the Vicar would say, but we never see him—the parish is too big and he’s worn out. The Vicar and his wife are marvellous they tell me, but miles away across the Parish. The Curate said nothing.

  Looking at his sharp face I thought, I ought to try him. There must be something in his head except parish difficulties. After all it takes six years to become a priest—long as a vet. He must have learned something about sick souls since the first flush of his vocation. Even though his sermons are all about his summer holidays.

  “Could I talk to you, Nick?”

  “Of course. You could. You could.”

  The organist pulled down the front of the organ and clicked off the switches and clattered out of the south door, calling goodnight. The pew-dusters seemed to have departed. The Curate and I were alone in the last of the day, the single, clear-glass window near us still bluish, the big Cross on the altar shrouded in black gauze for Lent. “It’s getting dark in here,” he said. “Can’t see my watch. I’m off to a meeting. Late already, I expect. Oh dear. Get in touch.”

  I thought, Sit down here and now. Look at me. In this pew in front of me. Turn your head sideways and bow it a little. Kindly. Christ listened. He really thought about women. The woman taken in adultery. He doodled with His finger in the dust. (Wonder what he wrote? “Let her be.”) Christ listened quietly.

  I said, “I suppose I couldn’t talk to you now? You see I’m frightened. I saw someone disintegrate today.”

  “I’d forgotten you work at The Hospice. Yes, the first sight of death is a shock.”

  “It wasn’t a death, I don’t think. It was at Oxford.”

  “Oh, there’s a lot of disintegration there. Look, Eliza—I’m so sorry but I have to go. There’s a Finance Committee.”

  “Yes, all right.”

  And it happened again. I was looking at the pointed, worried little face, the busy black eyes flicking away through an invisible appointments-book and found that I was looking through skin into bone and beyond the bone into the squashy pillow of the brain. Through the contour map of the face and out again through the bristly back of the neck to the carving on the lectern behind him. “I’m seeing through you,” I thought, and even, I suppose, said, for he replied, peering down at his watch, “Seeing through me, are you Eliza? Oh dear—sorry about that.”

  Soon—I waited for it to happen again—he will liquify and flow away. He will become nothing beneath the cloth. He will become water. Water under the bridge. Water running away down through the iron mesh and the aisle’s heating pipes and his shabby cassock will be left lying, and his shoes, that I see are a pair of boy’s shabby trainers looking out from below the hem, will be lying alongside.

  As I looked, rather tenderly, at the trainers the Curate began to solidify again, to hold his shape. When I dared look again at the face, I saw its poor little mouth, sharp little teeth bared in a Pastoral smile. “I don’t want to take up your time selfishly,” said I, “but—I’m so sorry; I’ve not asked before—but I must talk now.”

  “The trouble is, Eliza, that it isn’t my time. My time is not my own, especially today. It’s been a frightful day. I’ve had three committees already. There are simply not enough of us.”

  “You should let us help you.”

  “Us?”

  “Women.”

  “Oh well—you all do marvellously, but come on, Eliza, full participation is something you and I really would have to talk about.”

  “Well, could we?”

  “I’m really frightfully sorry . . .” and he was gone with a flick and a flourish of skirts.

  When I reached the bottom of Rathbone Road two streets away I climbed the hill to our flat bit at the top—the top of the top, the peak of the peak—and my feet were dragging like weights. The Gargerys were in their front garden preparing for summer with paper sacks of fertiliser and shining garden implements. “Come and have a drink,” they called. “We never see you now.” She took off her gardening gloves and shook them, and he laid aside his half-moon edging-tool. They came quickly to the gate. They looked at me curiously. “Come and celebrate. Don’t go home alone. Sam has got into Mrs. Rigby’s.”

  “But he’s hardly five.”

  “Oh yes!” They laughed and he put his arm around her. “There’s an entrance exam and a year’s waiting list for Mrs. Rigby now.”

  She said, “She won’t take them unless they can read, you know.”

  He said, “And the Basics.”

  She said, “She likes them to be able to sing in tune.”

  He said, “Feet on the ladder. Do come in.”

  I said, “It’s been a long day. Give Sam a kiss from me,” and I felt their troubled eyes at my back. Good Gargerys. So perfect. It will take them half an hour to clean the forks and trowels. They will clean them, still in their gardening gloves, their hands and nails all pure within.

  “I’ve been ringing and ringing since last time,” cried The Queen as I stepped into the house and picked up a frantic telephone. “Where did you go to? Eliza? Are you there? I didn’t finish. You went tearing off before I finished. I wasn’t telling you only that Uncle Hookaneye was my godfather, I was telling you that it is all right.”

  “All right?”

  “Yes. Something has set me right. I must have relaxed or something after tea, when Uncle Hookaneye had to leave us. I think it was you, Eliza. You were so marvellous, coming all this way. And I did truly mean it—I would have trusted you to take my baby.”

  “You mean there’s been some development? With the father?”

  “No, Eliza. I mean it is all right. I wasn’t going to have a baby after all. It was a phantom pregnancy. Like a dog.”

  So that I can now sign myself your undeniable friend,

  E. P.

  March 10th

  Well—here I am again.

  I thought, Joan, the next morning that I might clean the house, beginning with the kitchen. You remember that I told you—that is, if it was a posted letter—that Angela long since left you, left number thirty-four? Well, she has now decided to leave me at number forty-three. After twenty years, Joan. She was with me long, long before you came upon the scene. We have been through great events together, Angela and I, and I have told myself for years how truly loyal she is. Never a word when Henry
began to live in the study. She never even commented when she had to clear up all the spilt soup and tins and bits of bacon round the Baby Belling. She didn’t object when we had to take in your dog. Very oddly, she used to say, “What dog? I don’t see another dog,” even though your dog hated her from the first and let her know it.

  Angela’s never been a talker, of course, and by no means is she cheery. Slap, bang, crash, and you know she has arrived. Sniff, slam, sigh, and the monologue about the rareness of buses from Fulham gathers momentum for the morning. We both, if you remember, were upset when she suddenly yelled at us that we were paying a bus-fare two years out of date (though she’s way over sixty and travels on them free) and there was always the business of the manner in which she received presents: the stiff and brief nod and then the stories of the good fortune of her friends who have employers so very grateful for almost no work at all.

  I can’t say I’ve ever really liked Angela. She is one of those who by her presence makes a claim for gratitude. “So good of you to come on such a wet day, Angela. Of course I’ll run you home.” Making conversation in the traffic-jam on Putney High Street while she sits with a safety-pin mouth.

  I suppose, Joan, Angela really couldn’t stand us, when you come to think about it. And from our point of view it is a great strain to have someone in the house three mornings a week whose pleasure is to register dislike, even though you call it her eccentricity. But I did love the once-beautiful bloom on the bath, the cleanliness of the kitchen floor and the dazzle of the doorknocker. One day I came home and she had shampooed the dog. She had hosed down his basket in the garden and laundered all his rugs. Toby lay under the table, quivering. I said, “How kind of you, Angela. What a washing-line of rugs! I’m surprised you didn’t hang the dog up too,” and she said, “Hang it I’d like.”

  Henry and I always thought her brusque but true. Underneath the venom, a gold heart that loved us.

  A month—oh maybe more, maybe several months ago—I came down one morning and she was clashing and bashing as usual at the sink and I was yawning. I said, “Ah, Angela, hullo, let’s have some coffee,” and she spun round with the mop in her hand and her eyes alight with hate. She screamed, “No. I’ve had enough. It’s the end of the line. It’s the end of my time.”