Excuses flooded his mind. I’m sorry for you, and because I’m sorry for you you can’t expect so very much. You’re a second-class citizen in the world of love, but I’ll come down to you and help. He said, ‘Look, I ought to go, Miss Marrow.’
As he looked the tears brimmed in her eyes. ‘You can’t go and leave me like this,’ she said. ‘You came to cheer me up, and I’m more depressed than ever.’
‘I’m not very good at cheer,’ said Walker.
Miss Marrow replied, ‘Look, please stay. You’re right, I’m to blame, I’m asking too much. I’m just a frigid little Rickmansworth spinster who got scared when you started doing what I wanted and tried to throw all the weight of her problems on to you. I’ll do it. I’ll decide.’ Walker watched with growing uneasiness as she leaned forward and took out of a drawer an enormous white male linen handkerchief. She blew her nose on it; the linen buffeted. ‘You’ve been kind. And you were right. I’m a mess. I ought to feel free. I ought to be able to act on my own account. There’s nothing much to me and my life is going spare.’
‘I wasn’t telling you that,’ said Walker.
‘You were,’ said Miss Marrow, ‘but it’s all right. Please come back and kiss me.’ Walker wanted to run away. The heated machinery had stopped beating and all that remained was the pity and the guilt. He leaned on top of Miss Marrow. A storm at sea, a collision with an iceberg; such were the things that seemed to be called for. Miss Marrow squeezed his head to her: ‘He’s a nice boy,’ she said, brushing his hair forward with her hand. ‘Now he’s Marlon Brando.’
She seemed somehow to have grown enormously bigger. ‘Porker, tell me something,’ she said. ‘Have you had a lot of girls?’
‘Well,’ said Walker, ‘there’s had and had.’
‘I mean, you know, made love to,’ said Miss Marrow.
‘A tolerable number,’ said Walker embarrassedly.
‘More than five?’
‘I don’t remember exactly,’ said Walker.
‘And were they all nicer than me?’
‘Nicer?’
‘Better-looking. Not so awful to you.’
‘Not at all,’ said Walker.
‘I compare favourably?’
‘It’s an impossible comparison.’
‘And as afraid?’
‘Some.’
‘What did you do to make them brave?’
‘It’s not a question of bravery,’ said Walker.
Miss Marrow said, ‘I want you to kiss me but I suppose I’ve been too nasty to you.’
‘I failed the interview,’ said Walker, ‘you can’t give me the job.’
The tears came up again. ‘Oh, Porker, be kind, be kind.’
‘No, but I treated you badly,’ said Walker. ‘You convinced me of it. I feel ashamed of myself. You mustn’t change now.’
‘But women always change their minds,’ said Miss Marrow. ‘Didn’t you know? He’s so experienced but it doesn’t seem to have taught him very much.’
‘We seem to have convinced each other, then,’ said Walker.
‘Oh no,’ said Miss Marrow, turning her face and looking at the wooden wall. ‘You’re destroying me. You’re telling me every way there is I’m not attractive, I don’t rouse you . . .’
‘Oh, I’m roused all right,’ said Walker, and he leaned over and kissed Miss Marrow ponderously on the lips, to purge this incredible situation. Miss Marrow’s kiss pressed him hard, her tongue touched his lips. Her bosom bounced beneath his chest. Her breath was warm and whisky-flavoured.
‘Oh, Porker,’ she said, ‘you’re so kind. And so gentle.’ She bit his ear. His hand moved under her sweater, over the shiny nylon, an expedition moving toward Everest to climb it because it was there. Blackness swarmed in his head as he came to the soft ascent. A wish for succour made him fire mental flares high into the air. They exploded and were answered. The door, suddenly, was tried; a firm, familiar voice said, ‘No talking between meals.’
Beneath him Miss Marrow tensed. The old lady said, ‘Open the door, dear, I want you to help me pack.’
‘What can I do? What shall I do?’ cried Miss Marrow. Walker sat up and scrabbled her sweater back into place. ‘She keeps on at me all the time.’
‘Tell her to go away.’
‘She put masses of her things in my wardrobe. She has the cabin next door. If I told her to go she’d probably walk along the outside of the ship and come in through the porthole or something.’
‘Actually if you open the porthole you sink the ship,’ said Walker.
‘Don’t tempt me,’ said Miss Marrow, her tears rolling again. ‘I’m coming, Lady Hunt-Francis.’ She went toward the door.
‘Don’t let her in,’ said Walker. ‘There are certain special reasons.’
‘Ah, my dear,’ said Lady Hunt-Francis when Miss Marrow had opened the door a crack, ‘having a party?’
‘A little one,’ said Miss Marrow. ‘Do you want your things?’
‘Parties,’ said Lady Hunt-Francis, ‘fun and games. I always loved them.’ She apparently then peered through the crack in the door, for she said, ‘Is that Mr Bigears?’
‘Yes,’ said Miss Marrow.
‘No talking between meals, Mr Bigears.’
‘No,’ said Walker.
‘Is there anyone else here?’ asked Lady Hunt-Francis.
‘No,’ said Miss Marrow.
‘A private party,’ said the old lady.
‘Quite.’
‘Such fun,’ said the old lady. ‘Did you know we can see beastly America? We must say our farewells and fill up our forms. I’ve given mine to the purser. Such a nice man. I call him Christopher Columbus. Are you excited by America, Mr Bigears?’
‘Well, yes, I am,’ said Walker, now back to normal shape. He allowed himself to come into view.
‘They all smoke between courses,’ said Lady Hunt-Francis. ‘I shan’t have that. No smoking at table. And they have large families by artificial means. It’s the English spring I shall miss, though. May I come in and get my things?’
Miss Marrow stepped aside, pulling her bra into shape as she did so, and Lady Hunt-Francis came in, her raddled face inquisitive. ‘We must all do our good deeds,’ she said. ‘Fern does hers. You must be kind to Fern.’
‘Who’s Fern?’ said Walker.
‘Me,’ said Miss Marrow.
‘Oh, haven’t you been introduced?’ said Lady Hunt-Francis. ‘How remiss.’ She looked at Walker and said, interestedly, ‘I see Mr Bigears has whisky splashed all over his clothes. Are you a Christmas pudding, Mr Bigears? Shall we set fire to you?’
‘I don’t think we should,’ said Fern Marrow.
Lady Hunt-Francis took some dresses from the inside of the wardrobe and said, ‘Do fasten your skirt, dear. In my day we always used to retire to the conservatory. They are such hot places, they always brought the young men on dreadfully. And those very sexual flowers. I remember once getting a proposal from a young man who turned out to be a private detective guarding the jewels. Quite improper. I always blamed it on the heat in the conservatory. We had tropicals, you see.’
Walker said, ‘Actually I must go. Many thanks for the party.’
‘Don’t forget your glass,’ said Miss Marrow.
‘Don’t you go,’ said Lady Hunt-Francis, ‘I need you to do lots of packing. Has he gone? I hope we haven’t driven him away.’
Walker was breathing hard as he backed into the passageway, and his feelings were almost hysterical. The ghost of Miss Marrow, in a blue woollen dressing gown, seemed to hang screaming in the air above him. His shirt had come out; he tucked it in as he dashed at speed along the corridor and up the stairway. He went into the ship’s bar, a disorderly figure, clothes doused in whisky, hair bedraggled. Jack Wilks stood on the podium, looking like the Venerable Bede, and the dancers pounded on the floor in a fug of smoke and streamers. Julie was nowhere in sight. At one of the tables, alone, sat Dr Jochum, his bow-tie undone and his eyes moist. He looked up at Walker�
�s approach. ‘Such a sad evening,’ he said.
‘Have you seen Julie Snowflake?’ asked Walker.
‘Always when I meet you you seem to be rushing from one assignation to another! For a very lazy man you are incredibly energetic. Take care, you vill give yourself a heart attack. Ah, there is an important lesson I learned when I was about your age. You cannot actually manage to sleep with all the women in the world. Always there vill be one you have missed.’
‘You don’t know where Julie is?’
‘Ah!’ said Jochum sadly. ‘Leave me, go on with your quest. I am miserable.’
‘But where is she?’
‘I don’t know. I believe she went away with a young man earlier in the evening. I’m afraid this has been a night of many dislocations. Two of the bagpipers have become engaged. One has been engaged and broken it off again. Four are under sedation in their cabins. One has not been seen for three days. Another claims to be pregnant. Another, who is, argues she is not. Another has thrown overboard her bagpipes. As for me, I am sad, maudlin and very bad company.’
‘Come on deck,’ said Walker, ‘and get some fresh air. They say America is in sight!’ This news did nothing for Dr Jochum.
‘Oh, this pity of yours!’ he said. ‘It vill stop you getting anywhere. Go after your young lady – leave me to my fate.’
‘Come on, it will do you good,’ said Walker.
‘No,’ said Dr Jochum, ‘no do-gooding, please.’ Walker set off through the dancers and went upstairs.
The sports deck was only thinly lit. The night was cold, clear and dark, and Walker breathed in to clear his head. His breath smelled of Miss Marrow’s whisky, his lapels of her perfume, a sour, guilty aftertaste hung in his soul. The ship’s lights rose and fell on the troughs of the greeny-black waves. The wake flowed luminously outward. A line of people stood by the rail, looking out, and suddenly Walker saw what the fuss was about, for in the windy darkness, far off, a flashing light sparked and faded. ‘Nantucket light,’ said someone; a scholar disagreed; but the very word struck a note. He waited for celebration, excitement, to strike, leaning on the rail to watch the beacon spell its message. ‘Hi!’ said the person next to him, and he turned. It was Julie Snowflake. She was wearing a red quilted jacket with the hood up over her head, out of which her face, a cool blur, peered speculatively at him. His heart went into gear; affection swarmed in him like bees.
‘How’s the elevation?’ he said.
‘Fine,’ she answered.
They leaned together on the rail and looked down at the sea, swaying with its now familiar motion. Further off, in the dark land mass, the beacon of light flashed at them. Behind lay a country one of them knew and the other didn’t. Below them the sickly sound of the fiddles rang; the dance still went on. ‘Hey, just look at that!’ she said suddenly. There were more lights; coming towards them out of the darkness was another liner, a great candelabrum of light, every deck illuminated. They could see the figures on deck looking back at them. The ship hung above the sea and was reflected in it, a great confusion of shimmering light to compare with his own mind.
‘Oh, Jesus, you know,’ said Julie, ‘I wish I was on that ship. I wish I was going back to Yerp.’
‘I thought you believed in the cool, clear future,’ said Walker.
‘Well, I do, but maybe your America is my Europe. Those things can work two ways around. A lot of Americans have thought that. And I’ll tell you something, going home is hell. There’s nothing so terrible as going home. Once out stay out, that’s what I say. Of course, I don’t do it. I’m going right back there to spend the next two weeks before semester starts with my parents. I can describe the whole thing exactly now. I don’t even have to go in through the door. “Julie, you’ve grown away from us. Julie, you hate us now you’re grown up. Julie, we can’t get through to you any more. What’s become of you? Are you still a nice girl? Are you still a virgin?” Oh boy, am I looking forward to the next few days! Personally I think parents should be assassinated before their kids grow up. I know that’s an extreme view, but it’s the main plank in my platform.’
‘Where is your home?’ asked Walker.
‘Why, are you thinking of coming along too? No, I couldn’t do a thing like that to my term paper.’
‘Well, I wondered whether I was likely to see you again. I wondered whether they lived anywhere near Benedict Arnold.’
‘No, it’s a little way from there,’ said Julie, not looking at him. ‘Actually it’s about two thousand miles away. In fact, it’s right here.’
‘Here?’ asked Walker.
‘New York City, that place right there across the water.’
‘I see,’ said Walker, waiting for Julie to speak. Nothing seemed forthcoming, but finally she said, ‘Are you spending any time in New York?’
‘Well,’ said Walker, ‘I have about five days here before I have to go out to Benedict Arnold.’
‘You mean the next five days? The five days from tomorrow?’
‘Yes,’ said Walker.
‘No, you’re crazy.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, don’t you know what day it is?’
‘No,’ said Walker.
‘Well, this is Labor Day Weekend. Don’t you have that?’
‘No.’
‘Well, actually you’ve really goofed. Labor Day Weekend everybody goes out of town. Half of them go to Yerp. You’ll be the only man in New York.’
‘Will you still be there?’
‘I don’t actually know. We have a place on Fire Island we go out to. I mean, my parents will have fixed something but I don’t know what it is yet. Anyway, there’ll be lots of things to do in New York. I suppose you’ll be staying at the Biltmore or some place?’
‘No, my agent, he did the booking, got me in at a little place somewhere in Brooklyn Heights, somewhere cheap.’
‘Wow!’ said Julie. ‘Still, it could be better than it sounds. Anyway, you can go to some of the places in the Village where they play jazz nights. And hear the folk-singers and the poets. There’s a really literary atmosphere in the Village. You’ll feel right at home. I’ll bet they fête you.’
‘I look forward to it,’ said Walker.
‘Or maybe you won’t like it, I’m forgetting you’re so normal.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Walker. ‘I can see it’s been disappointing.’
‘Well, no, in a way it gives me a kind of hope,’ said Miss Snowflake. ‘I’d always rejected writing because I didn’t think you could be a writer and a fulfilled person. Now I see that it’s all much easier than I thought.’
‘I wouldn’t want to say easy,’ said Walker. ‘And I’m not sure I like being called normal.’
‘Well, who would? But you’re, well, I guess the most innocent writer I’ve ever met. I told you, did I, I won this Mademoiselle short-story contest and thought I’d write?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, well, I did. But then I looked around at the writers at Hillesley. It’s like a meeting of Neurotics Anonymous. You know – “I owe my clear vision to the fact that when I was five I used to watch travelling salesmen laying my mommy” and “I’m a poet because even when I was a kid I carved up cats to see what was inside them.” Sometimes they seem convincing and you feel that the only way to live halfway decently in the modern world is to become really corrupt. I know a lot of people think that way. But sometimes I think why don’t I just reject my talent and get married and join the PTA and forget about the confrontation with the absurd. So that’s why I find you sort of encouraging. You haven’t exhausted normality yet.’
‘I’m just an old provincial,’ said Walker.
‘But do you know how to suffer? Do you know how to live? That’s the thing, Mr Walker. You know, when I’m with you I feel I’m more experienced than you are.’
‘Well, so much for Henry James.’
‘Oh, him! But do you hear what I’m saying to you? Well, one day you’ll think of it. Then you could write me, send a m
essage.’
Someone appeared on the other side of her and took her by the arm. ‘Hello, ducky,’ said Dr Millingham. ‘Here I am, back. I’ve been spitting down the funnels of the tugs.’ Millingham, affable in a brown Italianate raincoat and a small floral paper hat, nodded genially at Walker. ‘You know, you did a nice thing, putting us on to these bagpipe lasses,’ he said, ‘they’re great girls. Richard wants to marry one of them.’
‘He’s crazy,’ said Julie.
‘Well, look, enjoy yourself in America, won’t you, Mr Walker. And I really was glad to meet you.’
‘And I was to meet you,’ said Walker.
‘And look,’ she added, shaking off Millingham’s hand on her arm, ‘why don’t you call me on the telephone, if you get some free time, just in case I’m around?’
‘I’d like to,’ said Walker.
‘Fine, write down my number.’
Walker took out his post-office book and biro and looked at Millingham, who said, ‘Or I could give it to you later.’
‘No, write it down,’ said Julie. Walker copied down the number, feeling disappointed and aggrieved and pleased and sad.
‘’Bye now,’ said Millingham.
So there was nothing for it but to go to bed; at least this would mean that he could get up early and stand on deck watching the ship come into New York Harbor in the morning. But, lying in his bunk, he slept scarcely at all. It reminded him that he was nearly there, and all night his head reeled with images and excitement. There were interludes of fear and interludes of pleasure; there were interludes when he lay awake, listening to the soughing of the sea, feeling the ship away, and wondering whether Dr Millingham was back in his bunk or whether he was still out on deck somewhere with Julie Snowflake. Then he slept fitfully, and saw images of a crazy city, all streets and traffic and high buildings, and this made him wake up and wonder about his competence there.
When his watch reached six o’clock, which might well be five or seven, he slid down from the bunk and dressed quietly. Not bothering to shave, he tiptoed from the cabin, its woodwork creaking, where Richard and Julian and, thank goodness, Dr Millingham snored dully into the air. On deck the day was golden, the sea soft and blue, and out of it, close ahead of the white bold bow, rose the high towers of Manhattan, light grey in the sunlight. It was many years since Walker had seen anything so close to the dawn, and he realized that he could have chosen no better occasion. It was distinguished, too complicated to allow a response. The air was fresh and vital. The ship eased in through the shoals and islands, looking much bigger now there was a world to compare it with. The harbour was crowded with sea traffic. The great bronze shape of the Statue of Liberty stood high on its island, little persons wandering about the crown on its head. Other small figures stood on the ferryboats scudding on the water, Americans who led American and mysterious lives. Planks and crates drifted in the dirty water. Red fireboats sailed, and great flat ferries laden with railway trucks, painted with Long Island Railroad and Chesapeake and Ohio and Tidewater Southern, drifted back and forth across the harbour waters. Beyond the Battery, the high wires of Brooklyn Bridge came into view and then, slowly, fell away behind the buildings. On the flat banks of the Hudson on the New Jersey side a vast advertisement for coffee appeared.
Stepping Westward Page 13
