He stood at the big wooden door and listened, and he could hear the whispering, the nervous mocking whispering. Who were they laughing at? At him or his father? Setting down their snares in the dark. As he stood at the door he could hear them whispering in what seemed to be a susurrant Latin, a deep dark language like black water in a river pool. What were they saying and whom were they speaking to in their black watery language? ‘ . . . the windy dark of the woods’ intricacies . . . ’ He listened. Was it Latin they were speaking? Surely not. And yet again they might be speaking Latin in order to mock him. Professor, they might be saying in Latin, how easily you were deceived, how easily you let us pull the wool over your eyes, bright though you thought you were. Of course they had done it for centuries and they would do it for centuries more. How did he think they had gathered their acres in? How did he think they defended themselves but by the deep cunning they had learned over the years, water spreading slowly, unnoticeably, leaving their pale salmon on the bank. Even his very Latin they would use against him, even the images of his mind. They sent their daughters out dressed in their classical white as if they were flowing down a vale where Pan played his seductive pipes among the leaves and the flowers and the carved fountains. They knew what they were doing all right. None could defeat them, they were water without shape, protean, adapting itself to the new ground. Didn’t he understand that? Would he ever understand it?
No, it is not Latin they are speaking, he told himself, it is German. Inside their houses these are the secret spies. They didn’t really want us to win, the stone-headed generals, they wanted the Germans to win, they wanted to echo their Prussian acres with their own. They have more in common with the Germans than they have with you, poor soldier. Both of them, the mirrored generals, belong to the deep Prussian darkness, with their thorny helmets, they are both aristocrats to the bone, on their large deep dark horses. And the whispers became louder and louder, more and more urgent. They were Germans whispering in a deep dark linguistic well, they were a writhing snake-pit of language. I can tell them by their square words, he thought, I can tell them by their secret mockery. And he was again the wraith from which the blood was steadily leaking.
He banged on the door angrily. ‘Tell them I came,’ he shouted. ‘Tell them I came to bear witness to the dead. Tell them, all those aristocrats of Hades, that I have come from a still lower place. Tell them that one day they will wake and their castles will be on fire, their minds will be burning. They will rush out into the rhododendrons burning. Tell them that.’
But there was no sound, and the whispering had ceased. The general and his daughters were sleeping upstairs in their stony bedrooms and they had heard nothing. ‘Tell them,’ he shouted again. And the whispers had ceased as if the beings who had made them were huddled together in the hallway in active secret venomous consultation. ‘Tell them that,’ he shouted and then he turned away from the locked door into the wood. No lights had come on in the house. He went back into the darkness, almost floating as if his body had been drained by the shouting and the banging. Into the darkness he went, his uniform pouring with blood, his father behind him. Ah, I found you, you were poaching, were you not? No no no I was only telling them. You were poaching, said his father in his double voice. And then his father too was gone and there was only himself and his uniform peeling away like the bark of the tree and the last shine receiving him, like the ghostly pallor of a dying salmon, and there was a voice speaking gently and faintly from a distance, from a lectern of green. ‘O Palinurus too easily trusting clear sky and calm sea you will lie on a foreign sand, mere jetsam, none to bury you . . . ’ Aie Aie shouted the red-faced men raising their glasses of wine the colour of blood.
‘You wait you wait,’ he shouted. ‘You wait.’ And his soul for the moment hovered like an eagle’s, its angry beak extended over the acres, dark and bloodstained, which might once have been his own but which now belonged to the secret-voiced Germans.
Mr Heine
It was ten o’clock at night and Mr Bingham was talking to the mirror. He said ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ and then stopped, clearing his throat, before beginning again, ‘Headmaster and colleagues, it is now forty years since I first entered the teaching profession. – Will that do as a start, dear?’
‘It will do well as a start, dear,’ said his wife Lorna.
‘Do you think I should perhaps put in a few jokes,’ said her husband anxiously. ‘When Mr Currie retired, his speech was well received because he had a number of jokes in it. My speech will be delivered in one of the rooms of the Domestic Science Department where they will have tea and scones prepared. It will be after class hours.’
‘A few jokes would be acceptable,’ said his wife, ‘but I think that the general tone should be serious.’
Mr Bingham squared his shoulders, preparing to address the mirror again, but at that moment the doorbell rang.
‘Who can that be at this time of night?’ he said irritably.
‘I don’t know, dear. Shall I answer it?’
‘If you would, dear.’
His wife carefully laid down her knitting and went to the door. Mr Bingham heard a murmur of voices and after a while his wife came back into the living-room with a man of perhaps forty-five or so who had a pale rather haunted face, but who seemed eager and enthusiastic and slightly jaunty.
‘You won’t know me,’ he said to Mr Bingham. ‘My name is Heine. I am in advertising. I compose little jingles such as the following:
When your dog is feeling depressed
Give him Dalton’s. It’s the best.
I used to be in your class in 1944–5. I heard you were retiring so I came along to offer you my felicitations.’
‘Oh?’ said Mr Bingham turning away from the mirror regretfully.
‘Isn’t that nice of Mr Heine?’ said his wife.
‘Won’t you sit down?’ she said and Mr Heine sat down, carefully pulling up his trouser legs so that he wouldn’t crease them.
‘My landlady of course has seen you about the town,’ he said to Mr Bingham. ‘For a long time she thought you were a farmer. It shows one how frail fame is. I think it is because of your red healthy face. I told her you had been my English teacher for a year. Now I am in advertising. One of my best rhymes is:
Dalton’s Dogfood makes your collie
Obedient and rather jolly.
You taught me Tennyson and Pope. I remember both rather well.’
‘The fact,’ said Mr Bingham, ‘that I don’t remember you says nothing against you personally. Thousands of pupils have passed through my hands. Some of them come to speak to me now and again. Isn’t that right, dear?’
‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bingham, ‘that happens quite regularly.’
‘Perhaps you could make a cup of coffee, dear,’ said Mr Bingham and when his wife rose and went into the kitchen, Mr Heine leaned forward eagerly.
‘I remember that you had a son,’ he said. ‘Where is he now?’
‘He is in educational administration,’ said Mr Bingham proudly. ‘He has done well.’
‘When I was in your class,’ said Mr Heine, ‘I was eleven or twelve years old. There was a group of boys who used to make fun of me. I don’t know whether I have told you but I am a Jew. One of the boys was called Colin. He was taller than me, and fair-haired.’
‘You are not trying to insinuate that it was my son,’ said Mr Bingham angrily. ‘His name was Colin but he would never do such a thing. He would never use physical violence against anyone.’
‘Well,’ said Mr Heine affably. ‘It was a long time ago, and in any case
The past is past and for the present
It may be equally unpleasant.
Colin was the ringleader, and he had blue eyes. In those days I had a lisp which sometimes returns in moments of nervousness. Ah, there is Mrs Bingham with the coffee. Thank you, madam.’
‘Mr Heine says that when he was in school he used to be terrorised by a boy called Colin who was fair-haired,’ said M
r Bingham to his wife.
‘It is true,’ said Mr Heine, ‘but as I have said it was a long time ago and best forgotten about. I was small and defenceless and I wore glasses. I think, Mrs Bingham, that you yourself taught in the school in those days.’
‘Sugar?’ said Mrs Bingham. ‘Yes. As it was during the war years and most of the men were away I taught Latin. My husband was deferred.’
‘Amo, amas, amat,’ said Mr Heine. ‘I remember I was in your class as well.
‘I was not a memorable child,’ he added, stirring his coffee reflectively, ‘so you probably won’t remember me either. But I do remember the strong rhymes of Pope which have greatly influenced me. And so, Mr Bingham, when I heard you were retiring I came along as quickly as my legs would carry me, without tarrying. I am sure that you chose the right profession. I myself have chosen the right profession. You, sir, though you did not know it at the time placed me in that profession.’
Mr Bingham glanced proudly at his wife.
‘I remember the particular incident very well,’ said Mr Heine. ‘You must remember that I was a lonely little boy and not good at games.
Keeping wicket was not cricket.
Bat and ball were not for me suitable at all.
And then again I was being set upon by older boys and given a drubbing every morning in the boiler room before classes commenced. The boiler room was very hot. I had a little talent in those days, not much certainly, but a small poetic talent. I wrote verses which in the general course of things I kept secret. Thus it happened one afternoon that I brought them along to show you, Mr Bingham. I don’t know whether you will remember the little incident, sir.’
‘No,’ said Mr Bingham, ‘I can’t say that I do.’
‘I admired you, sir, as a man who was very enthusiastic about poetry, especially Tennyson. That is why I showed you my poems. I remember that afternoon well. It was raining heavily and the room was indeed so gloomy that you asked one of the boys to switch on the lights. You said, “Let’s have some light on the subject, Hughes.” I can remember Hughes quite clearly, as indeed I can remember your quips and jokes. In any case Hughes switched on the lights and it was a grey day, not in May but in December, an ember of the done sun in the sky. You read one of my poems. As I say, I can’t remember it now but it was not in rhyme. “Now I will show you the difference between good poetry and bad poetry,” you said, comparing my little effort with Tennyson’s work, which was mostly in rhyme. When I left the room I was surrounded by a pack of boys led by blue-eyed fair-haired Colin. The moral of this story is that I went into advertising and therefore into rhyme. It was a revelation to me.
A revelation straight from God
That I should rhyme as I was taught.
So you can see, sir, that you are responsible for the career in which I have flourished.’
‘I don’t believe it, sir,’ said Mr Bingham furiously.
‘Don’t believe what, sir?’
‘That that ever happened. I can’t remember it.’
‘It was Mrs Gross my landlady who saw the relevant passage about you in the paper. I must go immediately, I told her. You thought he was a farmer but I knew differently. That man does not know the influence he has had on his scholars. That is why I came,’ he said simply.
‘Tell me, sir,’ he added, ‘is your son married now?’
‘Colin?’
‘The same, sir.’
‘Yes, he’s married. Why do you wish to know?’
‘For no reason, sir. Ah, I see a photograph on the mantelpiece. In colour. It is a photograph of the bridegroom and the bride.
How should we not hail the blooming bride
With her good husband at her side?
What is more calculated to stabilise a man than marriage? Alas I never married myself. I think I never had the confidence for such a beautiful institution. May I ask the name of the fortunate lady?’
‘Her name is Norah,’ said Mrs Bingham sharply. ‘Norah Mason.’
‘Well, well,’ said Mr Heine enthusiastically. ‘Norah, eh? We all remember Norah, don’t we? She was a lady of free charm and great beauty. But I must not go on. All those unseemly pranks of childhood which we should consign to the dustbins of the past. Norah Mason, eh?’ and he smiled brightly. ‘I am so happy that your son has married Norah.’
‘Look here,’ said Mr Bingham, raising his voice.
‘I hope that my felicitations, congratulations, will be in order for them too, I sincerely hope so, sir. Tell me, did your son Colin have a scar on his brow which he received as a result of having been hit on the head by a cricket ball.’
‘And what if he had?’ said Mr Bingham.
‘Merely the sign of recognition, sir, as in the Greek tragedies. My breath in these days came in short pants, sir, and I was nearsighted. I deserved all that I got. And now sir, forgetful of all that, let me say that my real purpose in coming here was to give you a small monetary gift which would come particularly from myself and not from the generality. My salary is a very comfortable one. I thought of something in the region of . . . Oh look at the time. It is nearly half-past eleven at night.
At eleven o’clock at night
The shades come out and then they fight.
I was, as I say, thinking of something in the order of . . . ’
‘Get out, sir,’ said Mr Bingham angrily. ‘Get out, sir, with your insinuations. I do not wish to hear any more.’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Heine in a wounded voice.
‘I said “Get out, sir.” It is nearly midnight. Get out.’
Mr Heine rose to his feet. ‘If that is the way you feel, sir. I only wished to bring my felicitations.’
‘We do not want your felicitations,’ said Mrs Bingham. ‘We have enough of them from others.’
‘Then I wish you both goodnight and you particularly, Mr Bingham as you leave the profession you have adorned for so long.’
‘GET OUT, sir,’ Mr Bingham shouted, the veins standing out on his forehead.
Mr Heine walked slowly to the door, seemed to wish to stop and say something else, but then changed his mind and the two left in the room heard the door being shut.
‘I think we should both go to bed, dear,’ said Mr Bingham, panting heavily.
‘Of course, dear,’ said his wife. She locked the door and said, ‘Will you put the lights out or shall I?’
‘You may put them out, dear,’ said Mr Bingham. When the lights had been switched off they stood for a while in the darkness, listening to the little noises of the night from which Mr Heine had so abruptly and outrageously come.
‘I can’t remember him. I don’t believe he was in the school at all,’ said Mrs Bingham decisively.
‘You are right, dear,’ said Mr Bingham who could make out the outline of his wife in the half-darkness. ‘You are quite right, dear.’
‘I have a good memory and I should know,’ said Mrs Bingham as they lay side by side in the bed. Mr Bingham heard the cry of the owl, throatily soft, and turned over and was soon fast asleep. His wife listened to his snoring, staring sightlessly at the objects and furniture of the bedroom which she had gathered with such persistence and passion over the years.
The Visit
When Helen and Tom had got into the car, Tom suddenly asked, ‘Did we bring a bottle for them?’
‘Yes,’ said Helen proudly. ‘I’ve got it in a bag on the back seat.’
‘That’s fine,’ said Tom clicking the safety belt around him.
Helen never wore a safety belt for it never occurred to her that anything would happen to her in a car. Tom on the other hand took the long-headed business view, for after all he was a businessman. His imagination however was less powerful than hers and confined itself to premonitions of the collapse of his business, the hotel and the chalets. For this reason he worked very hard, and insured himself against all eventualities. Helen would have preferred to spend their money immediately but Tom took out more and more insurances. What do we want with
money in our old age? Helen would ask him and he would answer, Well, we might fall ill and we would need the money. His bland face was adamant against her.
The Black Halo Page 26
