*
Suddenly, in his despair, Edmund thought of Queenie. Queenie was a girl of whom he had seen much when, twenty years before, he had first lived in London. Even at that period, though fortified with a private income which sufficed, he had been commonly unsuccessful in reaching the hearts of the girls who really appealed to him; and in retrospect he perceived that Queenie had much in common with Teddie. He had been fond of her, and she had been more than fond of him. In those days Edmund’s remarkable linguistic aptitude had served to make smooth the highways of the continent, instead of as now merely bringing him an undependable stipend as a translator; and Queenie had travelled many of the highways with him. She was well formed, and had been carefully nurtured (her baptismal name was Estelle; Queenie had attached itself to her at Newnham, reflection, perhaps, of something within her); and Edmund might well in the end have married her, had not ruin supervened. In fact she had married a man much older than herself, who had almost immediately afterwards fallen into invalidism. During the previous summer, in Victoria Street, Edmund had walked into an old friend of Queenie’s named Sefton, a civil servant. They had not met for many years, and their only common subject of conversation was Queenie. Sefton told Edmund that Queenie’s husband was now dead, and Edmund wrote down her new address and telephone number.
That number he now dialled for the first time.
‘Who is it?’ There had been no sound of ringing. The enquiry seemed to come immediately Edmund had dialled the last figure. The voice sounded warm and eager. It surpassed Edmund’s recollection.
‘You’ll be surprised. It’s Edmund. How are you, Queenie?’
‘Edmund! Edmund St. Jude?’ It was delightful. There was real joy in her voice.
‘I am glad you sound pleased. I wasn’t sure …’
‘You don’t know how lonely I’ve been. No one knows.’ Her voice had a slight throb in it which was charming, and also new.
Edmund’s own recent experience made it impossible for him to offer easy commiseration. Instead he offered specific aid. ‘I want you to dine with me on Christmas Day.’
‘Are you giving a party?’
‘I meant to originally. But I’ve thought better of it. Just the two of us, Queenie. If you will.’
She said nothing. Edmund could hear a light intermittent humming on the wire, like the sound of a very distant multitude. He spoke again. ‘Please come, Queenie. I’m living in a friend’s studio, and –’
She had apparently been gathering resolution, because now she burst out, ‘I’m not Queenie.’
Edmund’s heart would have fallen further than it did, had it not already premonished him.
‘Then I should certainly apologise.’
‘For asking me to Christmas Dinner?’
‘Yes.’
‘To dinner, perhaps. Surely Christmas Dinner’s entirely different?’
The implication was perhaps too blatant, but Edmund was desperate, and, blatant or not, she sounded pleasant.
‘In that case, will you come? Perhaps you would accompany Queenie, if she’s not otherwise engaged?’
‘Queenie is otherwise engaged.’
‘Oh.’ Edmund was not sure whether to feel disappointed. ‘In that case –’
‘I’d love to. But I can’t.’
‘Are you engaged too?’
‘Not engaged. I just can’t.’ There was something a little hysterical about the way she made this plain statement. The humming sound had stopped. No less hysterically she added, ‘I’m very sorry … Please don’t ring off.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ said Edmund.
‘Don’t ring off,’ she said again. ‘I really am sorry.’
‘Prove it by coming some other time,’ suggested Edmund. ‘What about tomorrow night?’
‘You’ve never seen me. You don’t know what I look like.’
‘I can hear you,’ replied Edmund, smiling into the telephone. ‘Your voice speaks for you.’ He hoped it did.
She made no reply, but suddenly began to sob. There was no doubt about it. Edmund could hear each separate gulping intake of breath. It seemed an unusually good line.
‘Well, come some time,’ said Edmund, embarrassed and slightly raising his voice.
‘I may never be able to.’
It seemed unwise to probe. But Edmund thought that she would continue and explain.
‘You’ve been so kind to me. May I ring you up again?’
‘Of course.’ Edmund gave her his number, but she seemed too overwrought particularly to take note of it.
‘You’ll really let me?’ Her gratitude was embarrassing, but somehow not ridiculous.
‘I might even ring you,’ Edmund said gallantly.
‘No. Just let me.’
‘What about Christmas Day?’
‘Oh yes.’ She sounded like a schoolgirl.
The humming had resumed.
‘And what about Queenie?’
She said something which he could not distinguish.
‘Sorry. This humming noise.’
It was now quite loud. He realised that she was gone.
*
The afternoon post brought a still further rejection of Edmund’s hospitality. Face to face with the unpleasing prospect of spending Christmas Day entirely alone, he again dialled the number which Sefton had given him. He reflected that Queenie might have returned by now, or that he might at least find out where she was from her curious friend. This time the bell began to ring at once. It continued to ring. Edmund let it ring for an interminable time before he capitulated. Then he rang up Sefton at his Ministry.
‘I haven’t actually seen her myself since her husband became so bad. In fact I can’t have seen her for more than three years. To tell you the truth, I only got her address off another mutual friend. I meant to look her up, but you know what happens.’
‘She doesn’t answer the telephone.’
‘Christmas, I expect. You know what it is. Sorry I can’t help, but if you’ll excuse me, I must go to a meeting.’
Civil servants at least have ‘meetings’, thought Edmund. The pink and blue children on the walls smiled at his plight, winsomely, cheekily, plethorically, according to character. Edmund settled to translating the first chapter of a Dutch work on the technological revolution of our time.
*
Christmas Day was the first of the many days which Edmund spent waiting for the telephone to ring. The morning post had brought a woolly scarf from his aunt (she had gone to the trouble of procuring one in his college colours), two Christmas cards, and a cablegram from Teddie: LOVELY XMAS HERE ALL LAID ON STOP HAPPIEST GREETINGS DARLING STOP CAN’T WAIT FOR CHRISTMAS NEXT YEAR. After that there was nothing except to attend upon the horrid little bell.
The fact that Edmund was far from sure that it would ring at all made the waiting much worse. He had several times attempted to telephone Queenie’s number, but there was never a reply. The worst thing of all was the dreary knowledge that he who had dined tête-à-tête with Fritzi Massary, and been accounted a man of insight and judgement in certain high affairs, was now wholly preoccupied with and dependent upon the favours of an unknown with whom he had upon one single occasion exchanged some unintended remarks upon the telephone. He was fond of Teddie, but no more; and the thousands of miles which separated her from him tended also, to his real regret, to obliterate her as a living image in his thoughts. The unrest which the voice on the telephone had certainly created within him seemed to prove both the tenuousness of poor Teddie’s hold on him and the general aridity of his days. It was absurd and out of proportion, but certainly true that the unknown, and the doubt whether he would hear from her again, had affected his nerves and further diminished his already sketchy appetite. On Christmas Day systematic translation seemed impossible. Edmund found it difficult to settle to occupation of any kind, and constantly caught his attention wandering into the evolution of persuasive verbal gambits. Before it was time for lunch, he was wondering whether his Christmas mal
aise would have been any worse if he had never heard from her at all.
She telephoned just when the fleeting and dreamlike December day had finally subsided into darkness. Although their conversation was disturbed by various cracklings and rumblings on the line, Edmund was astonished to notice, when it was over, that it had continued for at least half an hour. During this period, Edmund and she seemed to discover several points of sympathy. For example, when she said that her name was Nera Condamine, Edmund became certain that she belonged to the ancient and distinguished family of that name, and that she had descended in the world as he had. She took a critical and informed but appreciative interest in his remarks upon the eighteenth-century English poets, about whom he was an authority, and who entered the conversation when he quoted topically from Thomson’s ‘The Seasons’. Above all, Edmund felt, they had loneliness in common: each of them (he deprecatingly, she eagerly) seemed to throw out feelers of interrogation at which the other clutched. Only questions which were direct and personal she refused to answer: where she lived or why she must remain inaccessible. At the first sign of persistence on Edmund’s part, she became hysterical.
‘Please don’t ask me, Please. Please.’
‘Naturally I understand if you’d rather not tell me. I only thought –’
‘I’ll have to ring off if you ask me.’
‘Then I’ll certainly not ask you.’
In the end, however, she did let fall one minor fact.
‘Of course I understand that very well,’ she said. ‘Because I’m a painter.’
‘Do I know your work?’ asked Edmund. All the children on the walls looked interrogative.
‘I only paint for myself. There used to be others, but now there’s only me.’ The telephone croaked in mournful confirmation. Edmund dared not ask what had happened to the others.
By the end of their talk, in fact, a curious change had taken place. Originally it had been Nera, as Edmund at her request had begun to call her, who had repeatedly besought him not to ring off; now the fear lest they stop talking seemed to be primarily his. He perceived the change before he could think about it and account for it. On the whole, by the end of their talk, he was delighted with her.
‘I’m glad we have made one another’s acquaintance.’ (He had almost said ‘found one another’.) ‘You have transformed Christmas Day for me.’
‘We have a lot to say yet,’ she replied lightly. ‘But we’ve both time to burn.’
There was a click; without a farewell she was gone; and the Exchange was speaking: ‘What number do you want?’
‘That same number again,’ replied Edmund with unusual resourcefulness.
‘What number was it?’ asked the Exchange, not without petulance.
‘I’m afraid I don’t know. Can’t you please trace it? I’d be most obliged if you could.’
‘Sorry you’ve been troubled,’ replied the Exchange.
Edmund looked at the electric clock, then sat for a long time staring at the small square electric heater. Thinking it over, he was unable to determine very clearly what indeed they had said to each other which had consumed so much time. There had been the eighteenth-century English poets (it was remarkable indeed to make a casual acquaintance who knew Addison’s Cato); but otherwise there seemed to have been little but an interchange of remarks which barely amounted to conversation, because his preoccupation had been curiosity, hers a seemingly almost desperate reaching out for a response, for friendship. Edmund was not one of the many men whose response to an emotional need is inversely proportionate to the degree of that need. On the contrary, he tended by temperament to fall in with any demand made upon him. For this among other reasons, he now felt that, despite the queer circumstances, a new and important factor had entered his life. He had certainly been swept and ready …
At this time the oddness of the circumstances seemed to Edmund to come within the probable boundaries of such familiar concepts as ‘discretion’, ‘gaining time’, or even ‘coquetry’. It was not until a later call that Nera’s mysterious elusiveness began significantly to perturb him. Because during this particular conversation, in the course of which she took a clearer initiative than before, she stated, most unmistakably, that she loved him; and he, instead of proceeding as if he thought her remark was meant partly or mainly in jest, replied almost seriously, ‘I think I love you too.’ And when after that, and after sundry strange endearments between these lovers who had never set eyes upon one another and who often found themselves at cross purposes on the telephone, she still refused to say where she lived, Edmund was naturally aghast. He was able to notice, however, that whereas previously his more direct approaches had made her hysterical, she now refused him quite tranquilly.
‘Am I, then, never to see you?’ he cried.
‘I haven’t said that.’
‘But when?’
‘Wait until you can’t live without me.’
Edmund checked himself from replying to that.
‘Can I ring you?’
‘No. No. No. But I’ll ring you.’
‘When?’
‘Whenever I can, darling. Trust me.’
After that there was nothing for Edmund to do but translate from the Dutch, buy his food, and wait for the telephone. The call which had brought about such a striking alteration in the terms of his association with Nera had taken place on the Sunday after Christmas, but on Christmas Day she had not forewarned him, and now she had virtually stated her inability in future ever to do so. None the less, Edmund had something of emotional content to think about and to fill his life: for despairing inertia he had substituted dreams of desire; and for listlessness, eager and unresting expectancy. But there was something else. Edmund could never forget that he had not looked upon the being who so agitated his mind and heart; and never was able altogether to disregard the peril possibly implicit in her reluctance to let him look upon her. Simple sameness of days, therefore, had now for him been replaced by a difficult and intense inner combat.
When next he heard from Nera, however, she so enchanted him with tender words and a previously undisclosed richness of expression that the conflict within him began thereafter to abate, and the telephone more and more to become a simple instrument of bliss, like the soup kitchen to the outcast, or the syringe to the drug-addict. When the first defences of convention and restraint had been penetrated, it was surprisingly easy to be intimate into the telephone, very intimate indeed …
Inevitably Edmund’s various employers began to complain of late deliveries. In one case a decline in standard was also alleged – which was ominous because Edmund knew that few publishers and editors can afford to care much about the quality of a translation. The complaint probably implied some different, unnamed complaint in the background. On the other hand, Edmund now spent less time and money shopping; although previously he had contrived to continue gratifying some few of his more refined and expensive tastes, he now fed more and more on bread, potatoes, and the wholly flavourless ‘luncheon meat’ which a shop in the next street seemed always to conjure up in Ali Baba-like quantities.
Always it was impossible to tell when Nera would ring next. She might ring at any hour of the twenty-four, although in the main she seemed to favour the early evening or the early hours of the morning. Edmund would sit all day waiting for her, unable to work or eat; then, after she had telephoned at six or seven o’clock, find himself so nervously exhausted by the wasted hours that still he was unable to settle himself and concentrate. And things were, of course, made worse at such times by the complete uncertainty as to when he would hear from her again. For a long time a bad sleeper, he now hardly slept at all; so that when the bell rang at three or four in the morning, he was already taut and wakeful, and rose to answer like an opium-eater going to his brew and knowing as he goes that he is making worse tension for himself in the future.
A minor nuisance was the shortness of the flex. Unlike most women, Teddie had not provided for the telephone to stand
by her bed. It stood at the other end of the studio, under the big window, and therefore nearly on the floor. The most inconvenient place possible, Edmund had thought soon after he took possession; especially in that the hanging of Teddie’s pictures made it difficult to reposition the bed.
On one occasion Nera suggested an application for a longer flex.
‘Don’t suppose they’d give me one.’
‘I got a longer flex years ago. Do try, darling.’ But Edmund did nothing. One reason was that he feared lest Nera ring up while the flex purveyor was in the studio, so that his end of one of their strange indispensible conversations would be overheard and questioned. A worse possibility was that the fitting of the flex might involve the temporary disconnection of the telephone, so that he might miss a call altogether. He was at all times haunted by the possibility that if he were to miss one of Nera’s calls, there might never be another one.
He found it impossible to communicate to her such fears as these. He had tried never to let her know even that he waited for hours, in fact all day and all night, for her calls, but sought to leave with her the presumption that it was by happy accident alone that so far she had always found him in. For whereas his attendance was incessant, her calls were remarkably undependable, and, all things considered, not particularly frequent. It was, in fact, this irregularity and infrequency which especially made Edmund shrink from disclosing his servitude to the little black instrument. Against Nera’s refusal of information surely essential, he maintained this fiction of freedom.
Somewhere about the end of February began the intrusion of the Chromium Supergloss Corporation. For some reason the telephone began to ring several times a day (on some days as much as twelve or fifteen times), and when Edmund lifted the receiver it was almost always to discover the caller was dialling for the Corporation. Often when he ventured out in quest of his unappetising food, he would hear his telephone ringing from the bottom of the staircase to the studios. The studios were on the fourth floor of the block, with flats below; and had it been a still higher block, Edmund would not have been there, for he much feared heights. He would race up the eight flights of stone steps, his heart beating even more from warring emotions than from the ill-alimented exertion, collapse on the floor under the big window, and find only a customer for the Corporation, peevish at having reached the wrong number. These numerous strangers, Edmund noticed, regularly, when they got that far in their demands, asked for Extension 281. Edmund felt that this extension must be a busy one, but he knew that the Corporation was a large and multifunctional organisation, as was confirmed by the fact that calls for it (commonly still for Extension 281) not infrequently reached him after office hours, and indeed throughout the night.
The Wine-Dark Sea Page 11
