by Sonia Taitz
Peter said something mollifying, but whatever it was, it escaped Timothy, who kept glaring at the girl. She thought she noticed a puckering in his chin, the beginnings of a wobble in his chubby lower lip. It amazed her that she could not read the child’s face well enough to say whether or not he would actually start to cry. Lily unfolded her body to the full, adult height, relinquished her claim on his animal, and gazed down at the top of Timothy’s soft yellow hair.
“My cat,” he repeated, down below.
Of course. Yours. Not mine, thought Lily. Your house, too. Your country. Your world. What native authority. She did not really like this creepy kid. How well he had adapted to the given. And so much had been given. An endless vocabulary of placement. Timothy was a piccolo, was he? One day a bassoon? A very orchestra to nestle into, conducted by a sceptered hand.
“Which Peter and the Wolf instrument am I, then?” she suddenly asked Peter. If you had to ask, you really didn’t play. But Peter had an answer on hand:
“A jew’s harp?” Eyes alive with presumption.
Being Peter, he meant no harm. Lily laughed cooperatively. Even Timothy caught the mood and shook from belly up like an old man, laughing, and Whisk rolled onto his back and stretched his legs majestically.
9
ARCHIBALD PLAYED THE PATERFAMILIAS with a pure concentration. It was easy to see that he’d come upon love in middle age; he expected perfect loyalty. This he received from Timothy, who was as reliable as any of his father’s idiosyncrasies demanded. From the day that ceremonial cigars had been handed out with a bountiful flourish, Timothy had inspired his father to elaborate his happiness in formal terms. It was for his sake that Archibald lectured by the fireside for hours, that he gave voice to all his private moral constructions.
“Timothy, sit here on my lap. There’s a good boy. I shall tell you about our Queen.”
Lily listened too. His tone was calming, conversational and earnest. God’s in his heaven. All’s right with the world.
“The Queen is beautiful and good. Don’t you think she looks beautiful in this picture, my boy? Her crown is gold, with many precious stones in it. That red one is a ruby.
“She is head of our Church, Timothy, the very top, just as the crown is at the very top of the Queen.”
Timothy laughed, even though Archibald had not intended to amuse him. He patted his boy’s head and went on. “It is called the Church of England, where we go to pray on Sunday. Good, Timothy! Yes, this is England, same as the Church. You are quite correct in noticing that. And we, Timothy, you and I, are Englishmen.
“Yes, my love, it is England everywhere we roam, in your room, in the fields, and yes,” he smiled at Timothy’s suggestion, “even on the treetop.
“What? Oh, yes, darling, you’re quite right, we have not only Queens but Kings. Some day, we shall have one again. No, darling,” said Archibald, laughing, “I am not going to be the King!” He drew his baby up into his arms and kissed his brow.
“Lily, would you like a sherry? Perhaps we’ll all have a wee dram.” Peter wandered in and out, ignoring his stepfather and giving Lily looks that said: what a royal arse.
“Well, now,” continued Archibald, “Timothy seems to want a taste of sherry as well. All right, darling, you may have a sip of mine, a small bitty one, but then we must say our prayers, mustn’t we, and go to bed.”
Usually, Timothy coyly resisted bedtime. His wriggling and whine were always followed by a luxurious limpness when his father folded him tenderly in his arms and plodded up the stairs. If Archibald had been a touch less exact, their love would have lacked its ritual completeness. It was flawless, within and without, constant and unblushing. As for the offers of sherry, these were but the meekest emblem of Archibald’s role. It was his way to unwrap towering canisters of Glenfiddich and be-ribboned boxes of Bombay Gin in the Christmas season, and make a nightly offering of either (just before Cook rang the bell for dinner). Lily learned that these treats, along with after-dinner mints, candied violets, and powdery Turkish Delight, were offered in the spirit of noblesse oblige. Being the head of a household had made Archibald noble. Holding out a tissued box of Belgian chocolates, the father’s pride was that of the hunter with his catch: he had brought down a Christmas that stuck to the ribs. Timothy would never forget a Christmas spent under his Daddy’s impenetrable roof.
And only a few years ago, this man was completely alone, thought Lily, discovering the wonderful liqueur secreted in her bon-bon.
10
THREE DAYS LATER, Julian arrived in Gloucestershire. He spotted Lily ambling alone in the countryside and watched her for a while. She seemed absorbed and happy. She was wonderful to look at.
He yelled out suddenly: “Startle easily?”
She jumped up in the air, and then she saw him.
He laughed aloud at the pretty confusion in her face.
She joined him, laughing.
“The famous Julian.”
He nodded. She extended her hand in mock formality, as though wanting a handshake. He gripped it in his, then snaked his fingers through hers. Looking at his face, she tightened her own grip.
The wild horse she’d seen before was running in the distance; she grew conscious of the faint thundering of its hooves. It was running toward them, she thought.
She turned her head and saw it galloping. It was looking at them. She looked at Julian. He seemed perfectly calm. She looked back at the horse. It was galloping closer and closer.
“Aren’t you scared?” she said. Julian felt her tense through the arm, and pulled her toward him, pressed her head down against his chest, and blinkered her eyes with his free hand.
“Mm hm,” he answered.
She felt his heart pounding through his coat. He smelled wonderful, of the frost and the smoke and the bracken. Opening her eyes, she could see only the weave of his tweed and one leather button. His hand against her face smelled like soap, and the parted fingers made the world seem rose-orange. She didn’t care what the horse did.
It had slowed to an amiable trot, and was circling around them. Innocently, as though to say: “Who, me? Scare you? Just playing!”
Julian stretched out a hand to the horse and patted its head. It wasn’t a wild horse at all. It was docile and plain. Its head was long and mute. Lily suddenly found the beast very touching.
“Poor little horsey,” said Julian, as he patiently stroked the enormous nose. “Lily was frightened of you. Can you imagine? She doesn’t know what a lonely life you lead. Well, we’re here now, Lily and I. Break open the bubbly!”
“And pass the sugar lumps,” she added. But she wasn’t really listening. Around them, she felt the countryside envelop her. She could feel the benign spreading forth of rolling meadows, of mist-heavy trees and puffy clouds. The vague lushness welcomed her. She looked at Julian. He was different than the last time.
He looked at her with the eyes of a forest creature, illumined by a shaft of light. Pupils dissolving into pinpoints as he turned and stared into her. Round black dots that fixed her neatly, and his hair around his face like an ink-cloud. He released the horse and it trotted away.
They sat down by a little stream.
“You look different,” she said.
“I do? I feel happy today. I knew I’d see you. Peter told me. I was really excited.”
“You were?”
“As soon as I got home, I looked for you. Peter told me you were out on a ramble. I flew out the door.”
“I wonder what ‘they’ thought of that.”
“’They’ weren’t the least bit surprised. But you can never tell, really.
“That’s because they’re spooky old turds,” he allowed.
“Well, Peter’s all right, don’t you think?”
“I love my brother.”
“But he is a jealous one,” Lily continued. “I think he’ll kill me over you assuming there is a you to get jealous about. He’s kind of possessive of me. Says I’m his domestic-but-not-tame ani
mal.”
“Too bad for Peter. He can go rot. And by the way,” said Julian, “I’ll tame you.”
“Oh, sure, go ahead and try.”
“I mean it,” said the Boy, deepening his timbre.
“O.K., I believe you,” she answered, her voice lowered to meet his serious tones.
“I want you to love me,” he insisted. “Only me and forever. No one ever has before. Do you know why?”
She shook her head.
“Because I wouldn’t let them in. I want you to love me, because you have a power over me. You’ve infiltrated, somehow. Did you realize that?”
“No, I didn’t,” she said, struggling not to burst with happiness. She loved his exposition; she wanted it to go on, slowly, deliciously, forever.
“I don’t believe you, Lily. I’ll bet you know every little thing. You’re doing it right now.”
“Doing what?” She was smiling.
“Making me feel . . . mad, sort of. I don’t know what I’ll do about you.”
“Oh, come on. Stop exaggerating.”
“I’m not. I’m not. I’m being more honest than I like to be. I’ve been thinking about you ever since I saw you in the pub. This has never actually happened before. It feels uncomfortable. I don’t know what it is. I can only describe how it feels: I feel a warm numbness, and a sense of infinity.
“Glib,” she whispered, listening for more.
His flattery made her pious, drunken. Love could be their private religion, their pure, untouchable credo. Her cheeks blazed as he touched them, and then she admitted, “You have that power, too. Over me. I feel greedy and anxious, like I won’t have my fill. I can’t get there fast enough. And there you are, looking at me. I’m crazy, too, Julian. Can you help me?” Her voice was naive and seductive.
“Honestly?”
“Very honestly. Put your arm around me the way you did when the horse came charging at us.”
“You look different, too, Lily,” he said, holding her in both his arms. “Not as tense. You look so . . . amazing.”
They ambled around and came to a large wood full of skeletal trees, both standing and fallen at their feet. They promptly lost their way amongst the cracked branches, wandering inward, deeper and deeper, circling toward the center of the wood.
They happened on an enormous stump. Lily stared at it for a minute, as though it were holy, a Stonehenge. Then she stretched herself out, bulky coat, boots and all. She raised her arms upward, as though inviting the embrace of some universal love. Julian entered this embrace, his weight, like a burden, releasing into hers, and into the stump.
His hair was cold and black, and it spilled downward. Her breath rose upwards, to the grey sky, soaring light and free. Floating. Bright, bright white wisps that met the flowing clouds above them. Julian pinned her down; the clouds drifted lazily by. It felt wonderful, the contrast. She wriggled under his weight, then lay still, letting it pour into her.
“Look at me,” he said, raising her face in his hands and focusing her eyes on his.
“What is your name?”
“Lily.”
“Are you sure?”
“No . . . .”
“Who am I?”
A moment passed before she answered, eyes wet,
“You’re mine.”
They began kissing blindly.
11
THERE WAS SOMETHING GOING ON between them, Mrs. Kendall was certain. Lately their low voices disturbed her sleep at night; they seemed to throb through the ceiling of the sitting room, invading her bedroom above.
It was so peculiar, their murmuring. Surreal, almost. One voice carried over the other, like a chant. Mrs. Kendall knew a great deal about plainsong from listening to Archibald’s explanation of it to Timothy. The sound was never abandoned to die. If a few monks should happen to grow short of breath (and with this she sympathized; Mrs. Kendall smoked cigarettes in endless chains), a few others lifted up their foundering note, and then they too were relieved, on and on, in alternation, forever. Endless. Endless!
Julian was developing large dark rings under his eyes. Did either of them ever sleep? Sometimes she peered, undetected, through the large glass sitting room doors. Her boy seemed so odd around Lily. He bit his nails to the quick; he flushed; he looked relieved and giggled; his eyes darted; he clasped his knees to his chin and wiggled an ankle. It was a wrenching sight for a mother to see. In the end, he was comfortless. The girl made him nervous. Once she saw him fall to his knees at Lily’s feet and offer his beautiful head to the mercy of her hands. And he had been crying. But Julian never cried! The girl had slowly circled each eye with one slender finger.
Mrs. Kendall went into the kitchen, lit a cigarette and stirred her tea. She suffered from this awful insomnia, but couldn’t the children get things done in daylight? It was as though the house had changed hands, with Lily its new mistress. I’d rather like to sit by the fire right now, she thought, staring at her dull grey tea under bulb light. Once she had come in to offer them some nice, dark fruitcake, but Lily had smilingly declined, and Julian had gazed at her like a mooncalf. Archibald could sleep through all of this, but she could not, she was afraid. His methodical snores nearly drowned out all that was happening below, but between the snores she could hear them so well that the fire nearly crackled in her hair.
Julian had always been the problem child. Peter was studious, even if he did need to get the better of everyone else and to have the last word. But Julian was the more sensitive. What didn’t he see from the very moment he breathed life? (He wasn’t a bit like Timothy, who took in just precisely what Archibald told him, and nothing more.) Julian had been a magical sort of child, like the creatures in fairy tales who sense the things that made you heart-weary. The magic horse with immortal head, and the magic Russian doll who spoke; oh, he and she had read them all together, hadn’t they? But he was indecisive too, and sometimes lazy, so lazy that he had fits of it, kicking at the rug for his own inertia. Of course Peter was going to finish his puzzles if Julian gave up in the middle. Why did he always lose heart so easily?
He was always being swept along. His passivity made people persistent; he made them ravenous . . . . Scarcely twenty, he looked years older, with his long strong legs and back, and his hard chin cleft like the devil’s foot. This had brought on the plague of girls and the flattery. He had broken some girl’s heart already; there was a photograph of a skinny girl laying her head tentatively on his shoulder. That was the girl who had sent all the notes, probably, a full shoebox that, when removed for closet cleaning, had exhaled the scent of old violets. Julian had not seemed much altered by this affair. He was very given, though, to vanity, rearranging his father’s old bow ties on his neck (these festoons filled a drawer), dangling a cigarette from his lips, fixing the mirror with that insolent grin.
And now Oxford had rejected him. It was hard, with one boy in, and the other left out in the cold. It was hard, hearing Julian’s sour comments, comments that Peter himself might have made. “City of dreaming poofters.” “Black gowns and underaged buggery.” He couldn’t stand not being wanted. How clever of this girl to want him utterly, to step in just now and exploit his torment.
Mrs. Kendall thought of Lily’s finger, tracing the lines of her son’s rending face. The girl was surely older than he. She’d studied. She’d traveled. Quite energetic, wasn’t she? He was quite taken by it, in any case. Or being taken. Roughly opened. Trampled so the juices flowed. She certainly wasn’t lazy. Said she had glandular fever, but it hadn’t felled her. She slouched a bit and was often sighing, but that was the extent of its toll. Besides, Jews always sighed. Caught up in their greedy yearnings. A portable people, the Jews. Always coming from heaven knows where. Fragile as dandelions, as impossible to get rid of. Tough, too. Planted in your sitting room. This siren plainsong could go on forever, with or without support.
Helena Kendall stood by her thick glass doors. The fire had gutted; only a few embers glowed. In the arms of Julian lay Lil
y, curled up very small. He was stroking her hair, looking down into her eyes, and mumbling quietly. Lily made a little sound, and reached to be closer, like a newborn at the teat. Julian bent his head downward toward an engulfing, dark silence and remained. His mother, after a long instant, turned herself toward the stairway.
12
IN TRUTH, it was not just the sitting room that Lily had usurped. Mrs. Kendall’s pantry teemed with the various jams she had captured in summer: gooseberry, strawberry, quince. These were perfect now, on hunks of her fresh-baked bread, at small hours, in the company of Julian. Lily had developed an enormous appetite in this house, and Julian’s grew sympathetically. He had never gorged, had never had so much the sensation that he was feasting.
They never ate in haste. They did not, with greedy fists, fling great gobs into their mouths. There was, instead, an air of earnest play about these secret meals, an elfin atmosphere in which work and play, fantasy and engineering, were deftly confused. They sawed on their crusts, groaning with a humorous heaviness, as soft powder dusted them white. Massy stickiness was mortared on layer after layer, slice after slice. Thus they built something, together, at the large wooden table of the Kendall home. It was their altar.
Their meals were always taken in the quick of night, in silence. Different words might have been exchanged at different times, their feelings might have grown deeper with every night’s passage, but the large wooden table was still and serene and constant. Winter was outside them, and a slumbering house around, but life was there, on the spot, with bread, and jam.
The table would be covered with a bright white glow, the moon peeping in through the darkness. Spot-lit hands fluttered toward mouths into darkness, then met, stroking slowly in the light. The world was safe, warm and glowing. Clocks could be heard ticking, a muffled, hibernatory sound. The house, in its dreaming, seemed close, a navy cape thrown over the two sleepwalkers it protected. Lily and Julian whispered when they spoke, but soon grasped that the night could insulate them completely. There was no need to modulate, no need to hide.
