“Hear, hear!” she said, yet seemed surprised at the pent-up rage with which I’d expressed what she agreed with. “But anyway, Sammy, you haven’t a single thing to reproach yourself for. Not the least thing in the world.”
“I read quite recently,” I said, “about two men who gouged out a pony’s eyes with an old nail.”
“Dear God!”
“I think they got three months.”
But happily we were interrupted. A football crossed our path and simultaneously we heard a cry: “Send it back, mister?” It broke our mood entirely. I thought, I’ll show those kids a thing or two! Naturally I’d have looked a complete charlie if my kick hadn’t connected but fortunately the ball went soaring in a hugely gratifying arc and covered the requisite thirty-yard distance as though it had a built-in homing device. The six or seven boys were patently impressed. “Here, mister! You want to come and join in?” I could have been strongly tempted. “Another time! But thanks, anyway!” They seemed like good kids. Totally unbidden, it crossed my mind: And I didn’t have to ask you to get in on that one, either. Did I?
“Superman!” said Moira.
“Ah… What price glory?” I laughed.
“I, too, was quite impressed.”
“And so you damn well should have been! Just call me Alan Shearer.”
“You ought to be a father.”
“Yes…well.”
“You’re as good with children as you are with dogs.”
“I hoped you were going to say with women.”
“Yes, even there you’re not so bad. Clearly an all-rounder. All things to all people. In short—insufferable.”
For a while we walked without talking. I turned my head a couple of times.
“Why don’t you go and join in?”
“It’s already after four.” Actually the reason I had just glanced at my watch was because I’d briefly wondered about running across. “You know you’re dying for a cup of tea. I am, too.”
Besides, supposing I hadn’t managed to live up to that initial impression? It was years since I’d played football.
I said: “It’s one of the most underrated secrets in life—knowing when to leave the party!”
But I wasn’t certain she was listening.
“Is it one of your ambitions,” she asked, “ever to become a father?”
It was an awkward question and one I hadn’t reckoned would come up, not carrying as it did, as I felt certain it did, the implication that Moira’s childbearing days were rapidly running out and perhaps…
Ten years ago I’d allowed Junie to talk me into having a vasectomy. Apart from the obvious loss-of-manhood thing I’d never had a single reason to regret it. Until now.
I gave a shrug.
And thought I detected a flicker of disappointment. I hated the notion of being responsible for anyone’s disappointment. Especially, of course, Moira’s. I put my arm about her waist. To my relief, she then put hers around mine. It was a long time since I’d walked that way with Junie. (Junie was actually too short.)
I myself had earlier felt a flicker of disappointment…or, at least, of something. On the landing stage. That father with his three young children; presumably they’d all been his? He had looked lusty and attractive. I knew I had experienced envy of some kind. Or wistfulness.
Though whatever it was—and however fleeting—it had surely been uncalled-for on an afternoon like this.
“Yet I didn’t finish telling you about Susie.” Did that sound a bit abrupt? “It’s only a week since it happened but you wouldn’t believe the progress she’s been making. Everyone calls it a miracle. Even the vet.”
“That’s wonderful.” My relief was increased by the lack of any flatness in her tone. “And for you that’s not just some worn-out old cliché, is it?”
I gave another shrug—as if the thrust of her remark was something anyone essentially humble ought to feel ashamed of.
“And you love that dog,” she added, “as though she were your own.”
19
I’d bought the goldfingering at a haberdasher’s in Abbey Road, on our way to Regent’s Park. I’d hardly known it could exist: a London shop that surely hadn’t changed in over fifty years. Possibly much more than that? Impulsively I’d stopped the car.
There was a parking space a few yards down the road. Maybe if there hadn’t been I’d simply have smiled and driven on and thought, “Oh, what the hell, some other day possibly,” but the parking space was there and the combination of that and the haberdashery had seemed a charming gift too timely to refuse. I’d asked Moira whether she’d mind waiting.
“Not in the least. But what are you after?”
“A lifeline.”
“Oh? Is that all?”
The shop had a polished mahogany counter and a wall fitted with small drawers that would have made young Arthur Kipps, or even H.G. himself, feel instantly at home. Not seeing any kind of railway overhead I still half-expected to discover, tucked away in some remote corner, a chute for change-bearing cylinders. Half-expected to be served by somebody sweet and venerable and wearing a choker.
But at least I wasn’t let down in the one respect that mattered. The young woman with the unremitting sniff knew immediately which drawer to go to.
In fact, I hadn’t imagined for one moment that she wouldn’t. I remembered Moira had only brought me this way because she’d wanted to show me the studios where the Beatles had recorded. But I also remembered—and for the second time in far less than twenty-four hours—that apparently some people claimed there was no such thing as coincidence. Or chance.
It made me think again about The X Files.
The truth is out there!
When I returned to the car Moira must have seen I’d been successful. I sat in the driving seat and handed her the paper bag. Inside…the ball of goldfingering.
“The last they had. I’d otherwise have bought a second but I think the one should be enough.”
“Oh, good, you honestly do believe so?”
“Yes. Though, by the way, I didn’t realize it was called that. Did you? They also showed me a hank of wool, gold Lurex, but I thought the thread was more appropriate.”
“I am likely to scream before long.”
“You do repeat yourself.”
“Maybe I’m driven to it. Maybe it’s the kind of men I sometimes meet in Kentish seaside towns.”
“I am sorry. I know you think I’m only playing games.”
She said nothing—her silence was sufficiently expressive.
“And on one level, I suppose…yes, that is what I’m doing.”
“What sort of games?”
“You remember the myth of Theseus and the Minotaur?”
“I know it’s something I must have read about; yet you’d better remind me.”
“Okay, then. But where to begin? The Minotaur had the body of a man but the head of a bull. He was a pitiful hybrid who’s always received an extremely poor press. Which is obviously unfair: he was merely the victim of his own natural dictates. No more inherently evil than a crocodile. But he caused a lot of suffering.”
“And so Theseus—Theseus, did you say?—set out to… To what? Kill him? Reform him? Show him the error of his ways?”
“No, that would have been sweet, wouldn’t it? Really sweet. Bible lessons; cautionary tales; Just-So Stories. Aesop. But, alas, I don’t think reformation was ever quite on his agenda. I’m afraid I have to tell you he was doomed from the beginning.”
“Theseus?”
“No! The Minotaur!”
“Sorry. Got muddled.”
“My fault. Didn’t mean to snap. Any mix-up and it’s me.”
“At all events. Our hero slays this sad, pathetic beast?”
“Assisted by a beautiful princess who remains at the entrance to the maze. I forgot to mention that the creature lives in this maze—a melancholy place, practically impossible to get out of.”
“But she couldn’t have been much hel
p if she merely remained there at the entrance. Or did you say she had long arms? Extendable? Twistable around corners?”
“No, stop it, this is serious!”
She looked contrite but I could sense she was trying to keep a straight face.
“Don’t you see? It’s my own slow progression I’m attempting to describe. The princess stands there clutching the thread which Theseus has attached to himself and without which he’d be lost. Utterly lost.”
In one way, however, I already was lost: Moira’s laughter couldn’t be contained. Neither, suddenly, could mine.
And our giggles in that parked car reminded me of when Junie and I, not quite a week ago, had had to roll about in bed, so helpless it had almost hurt.
Moira was the first to recover. There were passers-by and for once I think she was more aware of them than I was.
She waited until no one could have overheard. “The thread! I do believe I’m beginning to see daylight. Tell me: how—or where—has he attached this thread?”
“Ah, now. Perhaps we’ll have to puzzle that one out tonight?”
“Mmm. Well, I hope it’s good and strong.”
“Of course it is. It’s golden and enchanted.”
“I fear I may have got confused again. Are we talking of the thread or the thing it will be tied to? But before you answer that—you haven’t told me yet the name of the beautiful princess. Was she Titian-haired and quite amazingly captivating? And did she capture all men’s hearts?”
“She did! She did! Well, she certainly did mine.”
“And the name…?”
I had intended this to hit its mark; and hit its mark it clearly did.
“You do not mean,” she gasped, “of the royal house of Scrumpenhouser!”
“The very same. Is there any other?”
“It’s odd I should have known my own name.”
“Yes, odd you should have realized I’ve been waiting for you all my life. For you and the excitement and the spur to good. Odd you should have known that one day you would lead me from the maze.”
I put my hand on her thigh and pressed.
“That you would lead me to the light.”
20
After we’d made fairly rapid love and then showered, we put on our regalia. Moira wore something silky, lavender and long; with a sash in deep lilac. I whistled at her. “Cor!”
“Like it?”
“Now I can honestly understand why this morning you had to get up two hours earlier than me.” My hands were on her shoulders. “I want you to know, kid, I think you made good use of all that time.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But if only I’d realized what a picture you were going to make I think I would have taken longer.”
“Course you would have! Why do you feel the need to say it?”
We were in the kitchen.
“Now stop being such an ass. Sit down, do something useful. Like open the wine, maybe—then light the candles?”
I obeyed her to the letter.
“This is only going to be a snack,” she pointed out. “We’ll be having our main meal after the show. On me,” she added; “and no arguments—you understand? I want this to be my evening.”
I decided we should have to see about that.
We ate some of Junie’s soup and some of Junie’s meat pie and some of Junie’s fruit cake. Apart from the half-bottle of Bordeaux and the strong black coffee from Colombia, our light repast had a very homely feel to it; and I was hungrier than I’d realized, having had nothing since breakfast, save a cup of tea and a fruit scone. Now I ate a second piece of the cake—this time, though, scarcely more than a slither, and an exceedingly crumbly one at that. But as I picked the Smarties off the top—I particularly liked the coffee and the orange ones—it suddenly struck me that this was as close as I would ever get to stealing the food out of the mouths of children. At least, I hoped it was. (Whether there were three children or only one…? Irrelevantly, I wondered why I’d felt obliged to supply an exact figure; was it simply a case of my never liking to do anything by halves?)
That second thin slice of disintegrating cake could almost have given me indigestion.
Which would have been a rich and appropriate revenge. Like Junie I never suffered from indigestion. (Except following those rare bouts of compulsive eating. But if Junie was changing, was there some fear I might be changing too? We had always been extraordinarily sympathetic.)
Moira and I left the flat later than we had meant to: it was after half-past- six. Moira had wanted to be at the theatre some fifteen minutes early, because she said she always liked to watch the audience arrive; but I myself considered privately that it might do the audience more good to watch us arrive. The latest weather forecast had again been more or less all right—well, over the short term, anyway: mainly mild and dry in the south-east—and personally it didn’t worry me too much if there were going to be dramatic changes from around midnight; this evening was to be the high point.
“Not,” I’d said to Moira, “that I can understand you having so much trust in all those dinky little weather men. You’re a very gullible young woman.”
“They don’t usually let me down.”
“How could they—in that dress? I mean…you in that dress.”
“Thank you, darling. On the other hand I wish occasionally they would. I’d been thinking we might drive out into the country tomorrow—have lunch at an olde worlde pub I know, where there are tables on a lawn sloping down to the river.”
“Sounds idyllic. But never mind: if we can’t do that I’ll take you for a ride elsewhere. To Banbury Cross and Tilbury Docks and all points west.”
“East.”
“Who’s the pilot? Possibly I’ll fly you to the Never-Never- Land, as well, where there are mermaids and fairies and lagoons—and Red Indians and pirates”—my voice had grown slowly more menacing—“and a crocodile with a great sense of timing patiently awaiting his chance…to gobble you all up!”
I pounced; and she shivered, theatrically. “Isn’t that the place where all the Lost Boys go?” she inquired, innocently.
“Yes,” I answered; matching innocence with innocence. “There was Nibs and Tootles. And there was Slightly. And…ah, yes, that’s right…there was one called Curly, too.” I nodded, reminiscently.
She looked at me in deep suspicion.
“Is it at all possible that you could be having me on?”
“Now what purpose can you ever believe there’d be in that? Begorra.”
The uncertainty turned swiftly to respect. “But how on earth do you remember such very way-out things?”
“It’s the downside, I suppose, of being so intellectual. Are you impressed? And I promise you it’s not for nothing I have often been referred to as Old Memorybags!”
She shook her head in envious admiration.
“But anyhow,” she advised, “enough of all this nonsense. I don’t know why I’m laughing: I’m beginning to have some very serious doubts regarding what makes Sammy run!” She kissed my cheek. “Give me two minutes in the bathroom, then finally we’re off.”
I myself was fully ready—Moira had retied my tie before she’d sat down. “I’ll wait by the car,” I said.
Once outside, I glanced at my watch. It gave both time and date. Twenty-three minutes to seven on Saturday the third of May. It felt like a caption to write beneath a photograph.
And at twenty-three minutes to seven on Saturday the third of May there was an elderly woman standing at her front gate on the opposite side of the road talking to an elderly man on the pavement. There were two little Minnie Mouses walking gingerly towards me in white ankle socks and high-heeled shoes. There was a young man sitting on his parked motorbike while his girlfriend hurried down her path to join him. It was nice to know I would be noticed—yes, and for the first time ever in my dinner jacket in the street! An occasion. I sauntered unselfconsciously around the car, dealing casually with this and that: a scarcely visible smear on the bo
nnet, another on the windscreen. I propped myself against the nearside bodywork—ankles crossed—and studied my fingernails. I began to whistle. The hit tune from tonight’s show.
And I was noticed; no doubt about that. And when Moira came swishing out of the house and I was standing there suavely holding the car door, I was still noticed; but now we both were, which made it even better. My consort had arrived. The old people opposite and the two small girls were giving us frank stares. The motorbike pair proved a little more cagey. I felt it wasn’t too soon for the jungle drums to start beating out their message to alert the neighbourhood. Net curtains should be twitching; flatmates shrilly summoned to the window. By now the fashion photographers could well be on their way.
Yet, even if they weren’t, they’d easily be able to catch up. We blazed a golden trail; made a royal progress. Pedestrians weren’t actually lining the route but I saw many who literally came to a standstill to gaze after us. I saw the occupants of other cars, too, eyeing us with reverence. And at one set of traffic lights—again we seemed to catch so many that had just gone red—I’d swear that half the passengers on a double-decker must have rushed across to our side to obtain a better view.
Quite predictably, on reaching the West End, we had to proceed still more slowly and I began to be afraid we might miss the overture or even the rising of the curtain and need to find our seats in darkness. But our luck persisted, especially with regard to our parking (God, were we lucky, a turning just off Oxford Circus!), and by using the subway under Regent Street and cutting a dash into Argyll Street—apologetic, laughing, hand-in-hand—we made it to the theatre with almost as much as five minutes to spare. Perfect timing! Maybe the last lap of the journey had even added an extra lustre: the gaiety which sparkles in relief. And as we moved across the thick pile of the foyer, amid other late arrivals, then on into the auditorium, I knew that I walked with a back even straighter than usual and with a smile which in an understated way was encompassing the world. Yesterday, we had said we’d deck ourselves out resplendently. Today, we weren’t the only ones in evening dress (this, after all, was just the third night of the run) but I saw no other couple that came close—not even within spitting distance. No potential claim-jumpers.
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