The Picturegoers

by David Lodge

‘Would you believe it, she’s gone and got religious.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yerse. I never thought it would ’appen to one of me own children, the youngest too, what I was always most fond of.’

  ‘Well I never. It just goes to show, don’t it?’

  ‘You’re right there, Dolly. I was never so upset in me life as when me own daughter called me a sinner.’

  ‘Well!’

  ‘If she was younger I’d ’ave smacked ’er arse. But you can’t if she’s twenty-five and a married woman, can you?’

  ‘’Ow did it ’appen then?’

  ‘Well, she went up with ’er friend from work, Mabel, to this Billy Graham at ’Arringay—you know, where they ’ave the circus.’

  ‘Yerse.’

  ‘Well, she went just for a lark, y’know, but this Mabel, she’s very serious, never got married, y’know—not surprisin’ either when you see ’er in a strong light. If you ask me she ’as a kind of influence over Else.’

  ‘I know the type. In the old days she would ’ave joined the Salvation Army.’

  ‘That’s right-the ’ole thing sounds just like the Salvation Army, only posher. Y’know, at ’Arringay they ’ave choirs and a blooming great organ and flowers—masses of white lillies, Else said.’ A note of involuntary admiration crept into Gertrude’s voice for a moment. ‘Well, as I said, Else went along more for a night out than anything. So she sat there for about ’arf an ’our, listenin’ to the singin’ and so forth, and then, just as she was beginnin’ to get a bit bored, this Billy Graham comes on to the platform. ’E just looked at all the people for a minute without saying anythink. Else says a shiver went up ’er spine, and she knew she ’ad been called.’

  ‘Called?’

  ‘Called to testify ’er faith in Jesus Christ or somethink. Anyway, ’e spoke for about an ’our and at the end of it ’e asked for people to come forward and testify that they were saved. Well, for a little while there wasn’t a movement, until a man in the third row from the front stepped forward. Alf says ’e was planted, but Else says it was genuine, because she went up and she wasn’t planted.’

  ‘Else went up?’

  ‘Yerse, would you believe it? In front of all them people. Makes me go ’ot and cold just to think of it. Says she couldn’t stop ’erself, she was so sure she’d been saved.’

  ‘It don’ arf sound like the Salvation Army.’

  ‘Salvation Army plus sex, if you ask me. You seen this Billy Graham? ’Andsome ain’t the word. Soon as I saw ’is picture I knew what ’ad “saved” Else. Now Sidney, ’er ’usband, ’e’s a decent bloke, but ’e’s no oil paintin’.’

  ‘’Ow’s ’e takin’ it—Sidney?’

  ‘Badly. Well, it ain’t surprisin’, with ’is own wife callin’ ’im a sinner, and tellin’ ’im ’e ought to wash more … I ask you.’

  ‘What’s washin’ got to do with it?’

  ‘Well Else read out this bit from a book by Billy Graham, The Secret of ’Appinness it’s called, where ’e says that a man told ’im ’e only took a bath once a week, and Billy Graham told ’im there was something wrong with ’is purity of heart.’

  ‘Once a week! Why, I don’t think Stan ’as a bath once a year, unless ’e goes into ’ospital.’

  ‘Well, y’know, Else always was one for washing, she gets it from me, but Sidney, ’e don’t go in for baths much, well men don’t, do they? So when Else read this out ’e said that some of the ’oly men in the olden days never washed at all, and were crawling with lice. Else told ’im not to be disgustin’, and now every night there’s a terrible row before they go to bed—our bedroom’s right underneath theirs—and Else says she won’t sleep in the same bed with ’im until ’e washes ’imself.’

  ‘Poor Sidney.’

  ‘That ain’t all. The other night …’ Gertrude lowered her voice as she yielded up the spiciest morsel of her story.

  As for Mr Berkley, the conversation seemed to him like the macabre chorus of some drama in which he was eventually to appear, by some unexpected twist of the plot, as the despicable villain. Images of sin, of unwashed bodies locked together in obscene attitudes, apocalyptic denunciations of lust, visions of Else scrubbing herself fiercely in a tin bath, disconnected Bible phrases from his chapel-going youth, coursed through his distracted mind. With a tremendous effort of will, he straightened up and stood against the wall. Adjusting his tie and smoothing down his hair, he tottered into the auditorium, greeted Dolly and Gertrude, and proceeded slowly towards his office.

  * * *

  It was a strange pilgrimage she was making this Sunday afternoon. Hilda’s home was near the convent, and the tube train seemed to be boring a hole into the past, bearing her inexorably back to the source of her purest happiness and pain. Weary of staring at the advertisements opposite her, Clare took Mrs Syms’s letter from her handbag, and read it once more.

  Dear Miss Mallory,

  I hope that is your surname, if I have made a mistake, you will probably understand why I’m sure. It is probably a surprise to you to receive a letter from me. At the convent a year ago I think I probably said many things which I wish now I had kept silent. But you will understand that I was very upset.

  Now I am writing to you to ask for your help, and I can’t blame you if you don’t come. At the time it seemed to us that Hilda was not the happy, carefree girl her father and I wished her to be. But since we took her away from the convent she has worried us both to death. She’s not like other girls of her age, I just don’t understand her. In fact, looking back, I can’t think of anyone who ever understood her, except you, and I wish you would come and see her and take her out of herself. She hasn’t any friends, except one who is bad for her, and she won’t mix with other young people. The doctor says there is nothing he can do. Mr Syms and I would be most grateful if you could come and visit us, perhaps on a Sunday.

  Yours sincerely,

  Margaret Syms

  By a coincidence the letter had been waiting for her on her dressing-table when she had got in from the pictures the previous night, just after she had been thinking and talking of Hilda. The reticence which had surrounded the subject for so long had suddenly collapsed on all sides. It was undeniably a relief. A few weeks before it would have seemed inconceivable that she should ever see Hilda again, but now she almost looked forward to the meeting. She had to admit, however, that the main reason that she had phoned the Symses and answered their appeal so promptly was that it took her out of the house, and away from the strain of being with Mark in public while the incident of the night before still divided them.

  Now the rattle and roar of the tube faded abruptly as it surfaced into bright sunlight. They passed some sidings full of tube trains, looking lost and blind above ground, like worms. The train pulled into Woodburn, and Clare stepped up out of the carriage. Before leaving the station she went to the Ladies’ to check up on her appearance. She wanted to make an impression, to show Hilda quite clearly from the start how much she herself had changed, what their relationship must be now. Looking in the long mirror, she was satisfied with the tailored, dark-grey worsted suit and simple white blouse, the black suède courts, white gloves, and sleek, long black umbrella. After some reflection she removed the brooch, but retained the small, black stud ear-rings.

  She walked out of the station into the spotless, tree-lined, Sunday-afternoon streets of Woodburn. But somehow it was always Sunday afternoon in Woodburn, as she remembered it. The people on the pavements were always sprucely dressed, they pushed their prams or followed their dogs at a leisurely, unhurried pace; the cars purred quietly on the smooth roads; there was always somebody playing at the Tennis Club. It would be nice to live here, to leave smoky, dirty Brickley, and come and live here, with Mark, in one of these elegant, attractive houses.

  Her heart thumped a little as she approached Hilda’s house. But she pushed open the low, wrought-iron gate without hesitating, and walked carefully up the narrow path to the door. She pushe
d the bell-button, and two chimes politely intimated her arrival.

  Mrs Syms’s astonishment at her appearance was almost comical. She could see the older woman’s eyes darting incredulously over her, swiftly assessing style, quality, cost, as she stumbled through vague expressions of welcome and gratitude.

  ‘Would you like to wash your hands? No? Well, I’ll take you straight up to Hilda’s room, and then I’ll make you a nice cup of tea. Did you have a reasonable journey?’

  Before Clare had finished her reply, Mrs Syms had continued in an undertone: ‘I told Hilda to change into something nice for your visit, but she wouldn’t. She won’t wear any of her pretty clothes nowadays.’

  She led her upstairs, and opened the door of Hilda’s room; the sound of music from a gramophone flooded the landing.

  ‘Get up, Hilda. Here’s someone to see you,’ said Mrs Syms brightly. Hilda was lying on the floor. She opened her eyes and said, ‘Wait till the record’s finished.’

  Her mother’s patience was brittle.

  ‘Get up at once, Hilda! and don’t be so rude.’

  Hilda closed her eyes.

  ‘It’s all rights, Mrs Syms,’ said Clare, sitting down.

  ‘I’ll get you some tea,’ said Mrs Syms, as she withdrew, angry and impotent.

  The record seemed to be of some unremarkable string music. While it spun away, Clare had time to take in the appearance of the room. Cheerfully and expensively furnished, it was littered with photographs of men—no, of one man. They were large and glossy. On one she deciphered the signature ‘James Dreme’, and recognized it as the name of a film star. Finned to one wall was a large poster advertising one of his films: The Young Can Suffer.

  The record came to an end; but Hilda stayed prone with her eyes closed for two long minutes. Then she opened her eyes, and rose to her feet. She was wearing a black shirt outside black jeans, with black ballet shoes. Her hair was scraped back into a bun. She wore no make-up.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said. “What should I call you?’

  ‘Hallo, Hilda,’ replied Clare, smiling. ‘It’s nice to see you again. Clare.’

  ‘Clare. Sounds funny after “Sister Agnes”.’

  ‘Yes. What was that music you were playing?’

  ‘Theme from This Side of Paradise. Didn’t you see it?’

  ‘What was it—a film? No, I don’t think I’ve seen that.’

  ‘Of course, you wouldn’t have …’

  ‘Oh, I often go to the cinema now. But I must have missed that film. Was it good?’

  Hilda leaned against the window frame, and stared out.

  ‘It was the greatest movie ever made.’

  ‘Oh? I must try and see it then,’ said Clare politely. But Hilda seemed scarcely to hear her.

  ‘Yet in a way I still prefer The Young Can Suffer. Because it was the first I saw, I suppose. Mammoth’s not half so good as either.’

  She turned, and Clare looked into the eyes of a fanatic.

  ‘I know it’s a terrible thing to say, but I wish sometimes Jimmie had died before he made Mammoth. It would have been more poetic. Just the two masterpieces.’

  Clare felt her grip on the situation slipping.

  ‘Er, I’m sorry, but who is it that has died? Not someone …?’

  Hilda stared.

  ‘You mean you don’t know. Surely even you must have read about it somewhere? About James Dreme. The greatest actor in the history of the cinema. Killed last year in an automobile accident. He loved driving fast automobiles. It was a white Porsch …’

  ‘You liked him very much?’

  Hilda’s reply was flat and quiet.

  ‘I love him.’

  The door opened, and Mrs Syms steered a tray into the room.

  ‘How about a nice cup of tea?’

  ‘How lovely,’ said Clare, rising from her chair. ‘Can I help you with the tray?’

  ‘Thank you, dear, I can manage, if you’d just clear that table. Hilda, will you take your books off the table?’

  Her daughter, who had turned back to the window on her mother’s entry, sulkily moved a pile of film magazines and dropped them on the floor. When she had spread out the tea-things, Mrs Syms said:

  ‘Well, I won’t interrupt your chat any longer. I expect you’ve got a lot to talk about.’

  Hilda maintained a sullen silence. Clare decided that normal, polite behaviour would get her nowhere.

  ‘Why are you so rude to your mother?’ she asked bluntly, as Mrs Sym’s footsteps receded down the stairs. For the first time the girl seemd to lose her self-possession.

  ‘I don’t see that it’s any of your business. You’re not my teacher now, you know.’

  ‘Nor your friend apparently,’ said Clare, rising. ‘So I might as well leave.’

  ‘No, don’t go,’ said Hilda anxiously. ‘It’s because she doesn’t understand me. She won’t let me lead my own life.’

  Clare sat down.

  ‘Well, after all she is your mother. She’s entitled to some say in what you do. And she’s very kind to you. This lovely room …’

  Hilda shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘You don’t understand. Go and see The Young Can Suffer. Then you might understand that nice rooms aren’t enough.’

  Clare thought of telling her what it would have meant to her as a young girl to have a nicely furnished room to herself—what it would mean to her now for that matter—but sensed that such remarks would serve no useful purpose.

  ‘You seem to think of nothing but this James Dreme.’

  ‘I told you—I love him.’

  ‘You mean you loved him when he was alive.’

  ‘I didn’t know anything about him when he was alive. I didn’t see The Young Can Suffer until three weeks after he was killed.’

  ‘I just don’t understand, Hilda. If he was alive, yes. But it’s so hopeless, pointless!’

  ‘If he was alive it would be just as hopeless. More, probably, as some flashy film-star would have grabbed him before long. As it is there are thousands of girls like me, and at least we have the comfort of knowing that he belonged to no one, and can belong to no one. It’s enough for us to be able to mourn him.’

  The significance of Hilda’s black clothes struck Clare suddenly with a little spasm of horror.

  ‘But this is terrible! You mean to say that you sit in this room all day, brooding on the memory of a dead film-star? It’s not natural.’

  Hilda’s eyes flashed.

  ‘Nuns aren’t natural then. They sit in their cells, brooding over Jesus, don’t they? He’s dead, isn’t he? And they love Him, don’t they?’

  ‘Hilda! How can you say such things?’

  Hilda collapsed slackly on to the divan bed.

  ‘Anyway, I don’t stay here all day. I have to go to secretarial school, worse luck. But there’s another girl the same there. We go to see Jimmie’s pictures together. I’ve seen The Young Can Suffer forty-one times and This Side of Paradise thirty. Sometimes we travel miles to see them. Then we play the theme music of his films here, and meditate. We don’t talk for hours.’

  ‘D’you still practise your religion, Hilda?’

  ‘No.’

  Clare passed a hand over her face. She had a bad headache. Realizing that her tea was getting cold, she gulped down half of it.

  ‘Why, Hilda?’

  ‘I don’t believe in it.’

  ‘You did once.’

  ‘I thought I did. It’s easy enough to make a little girl believe in religion when she’s in a convent. When you grow up you realize that it’s like the icing on a cake. Religion is a kids’ party for adults.’

  ‘You didn’t think that up for yourself.’

  ‘I did, so there! Well, what if I didn’t? It’s true.’

  ‘Do you call this James Dreme business adult?’

  ‘Oh, you wouldn’t understand. Why won’t people understand? We just want to be left alone.’

  Clare was silent. Then she asked hesitantly:

&nb
sp; ‘Hilda, was it anything to do with me—with us?’

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘This cult of James Dreme … I’d hate to think it was because of what happened at the convent. I know you suffered a lot. So did I. I’m sorry, because it was mainly my fault for letting things go that far. But if that was unhealthy, this is … diseased. You must see that it isn’t natural. Your parents are desperately worried, and no wonder. You’ve got to shake yourself out of this dream.’

  ‘Dream? You seem to think that it’s all a game, a make-believe. D’you know that I cry myself to sleep every night? Veronica and I don’t have much fun, you know. We don’t dress up and go out dancing. We’ve vowed never to get married. But it’s our life, to do what we like with it, what we feel is right. We have a duty to Jimmie’s memory which comes before everything else.’

  Clare shook her head dumbly. Hilda seemed to be getting more animated as her own bafflement and distress increased.

  ‘You must do what you feel must be done. That’s Jimmie’s great message. No matter how people misunderstand you—and they usually do, you’ve got to act as you feel is right.’

  There was a flush of excitement discernible in the pale, slightly puffy face.

  ‘I’ll show you something,’ she said, ‘if you’ll promise not to tell Mummy.’

  From a drawer she took out a cardboard box, and laid it on the table. She began to untie the string around it.

  ‘I got it from America. You can’t get them in England.’

  She opened the box, and reverently extracted a white plastic object.

  ‘His death-mask,’ she explained, and kissed it.

  PART THREE

  IT WAS HOT in the park. Almost too hot. Mark was carrying his jacket, and Clare regretted that she had not taken off her stockings and belt before coming out. But there was no question of turning back. Both of them, she felt, had simultaneously decided that they must be alone to talk—something that was impossible at home without arousing unwelcome curiosity. For some reason people did not seem to be able to accept the possibility of two people who were ‘going steady’ being in a state of temporary misunderstanding—the common condition of love; it had to be make or break, ‘very fond of each other’ or ‘broken it off’. So you had studiously to act out a charade of affection and natural ease until, like politicians, you had settled the issue in private, one way or the other. But the elaborate public pretence could cripple private honesty. Nearly two months had passed since the last crisis in their relationship—the night they had seen Bicycle Thieves—and still neither of them had had the courage to face its implications. Now they would have to.