by Angus Wilson
My first reaction, I’m afraid a thoroughly petty one, was a certain annoyance that, however unfortunate the consequences might have been to the status of the Zoo, Sanderson’s folly had not pursued him further. This malicious and frivolous reflection was followed by another hardly less so: I was delighted that Leacock would not be able to claim, or at any rate claim with any reason, that his influence had saved the day.
Then the print swam in front of me, the letters diving and blurring and fading only to shape themselves into the one word—War. The stab of terror was sharp. It was also familiar. It carried memories of similar apprehensions right back into my childhood. Yes, just because I had so often seen these stale feeble phrases in print before, I could never be sure that here at last might not be the genuine herald, the true devil’s emissary come to warn us of God knew what horror and agony that would precede the annihilation of Martha, of the children, and of me. One day, after all, the real wolf would come to give meaning to all the false cries that had lulled us.
For a few seconds the sharp terror tightened my breathing and constricted my scrotum. But it had happened now so often and so pointlessly that it quickly vanished into the sea of anxious doubts in which like everyone else I had learned to swim my life. It was followed by a more selfless yet no less genuine sorrow for the obliteration of human creation— conventional thoughts of human struggle and human hope and human happiness gave me for a moment a no less conventional choke in my throat. Yet this also was too customary a sadness to last for more than a minute or two. To such quickly effaced emotions had years of war alarms brought so many of us. In the end I could only really feel anxious as to how Martha would take this latest scare. As if, from previous experience I did not know! She would hide her fear for the children bravely from me; we would once again delay and then give way to the familiar debate we had so often held about sending them to their American aunt—would it be right? Would it in any case be to any purpose? Could the holocaust be limited? And so on, and so on. And then at last as I considered how impatient Martha would be with any other news, how little the Zoo authorities or anyone else would have time for investigating the causes of Filson’s death, I knew an access of determination to pursue my enquiries, not to let the fear of Armageddon obliterate this smaller wrong. I walked back down the hill to the large late Regency stuccoed house facing the Zoo, with which Martha’s money had so pleasantly provided us. Telling myself that to do so would keep Martha’s mind off her fears, I went in determined to give an account of my day’s events.
I did; but not quite in the way I had intended. Perhaps it was because Jane Falcon was there. I got along very well with Jane. Not as she would have wished me to do, although that, despite the fact that she was ten years older than me, might well have been possible had I met her before I married Martha. In fact I was all the more fond of her because I had managed to vault the tricky hurdle of refusing sex and still land on the other side as a favourite.
Anyway there was Jane, large and smart and radiating plenty of good reasonably well-intentioned spiteful fun. Her first remark set me off on a track I had not intended.
“You are ‘wonderful, Simon,” she said in her elaborate high comedy sophisticated drawl, “You’ve been at that place three years now and you still don’t come home smelling of monkeys or fish or lions’ pee. You’re awfully lucky, Martha.”
Martha said, “I wish he did smell a bit more of animals, Jane. It would mean that his work was a little nearer to what we’d hoped for. As it is I feel that all this changing of trains might just as well have never taken place. It’s not Simon’s fault. We’re terribly grateful to Bobby for getting him in—-but of course, he’s the only practical person they’ve got there and old Leacock uses him. But he went there because he’s a born naturalist and I wish he wouldn’t let them use him as an underpaid civil servant.”
Jane smiled at me. “I don’t believe you’re really as taken in by that ‘little boy lost’ act as you pretend, Martha. Simon’s my favourite ruthless person. I should love to see someone trying to use him. Anyhow Simon would come home clean from the place if he’d spent all day in the skunk’s cage—partly because he’s Simon and partly because he’s young. All the rest of them are old men, even poor darling Bobby. To give him his due, he knows and hates it. But it means they’d probably be beginning to smell wherever they spent their days. That’s what I can’t understand, Simon, how you can bear to work all the time with old things like Englander or Sanderson. Doesn’t it give you a feeling of being surrounded by hardening of the arteries?”
In fact, of course, it was just the sort of flattery I wanted to hear at the end of that day, as Martha’s anxieties were those that I wished to forget. But if Jane had to be there preventing me from making love to Martha which was the restorative I had hoped for, then at least I felt a right to her flattering balm to soothe the day’s lacerations. Also, quite suddenly, her words placed a pattern upon the day’s events that was exactly what I required—ridiculous without detracting from the tragedy or for that matter from the need for redress. I saw the muddle as an old men’s muddle, the obstinacy, shiftiness, laziness and weariness of a lot of old men faced with an emergency of violence and suffering. And so I presented it to Martha and Jane.
Filson’s death called forth protests of horror. Jane cried ‘No, stop it Simon. You’re just being sadistic. I can perfectly well imagine for myself.’ And Martha, American as always when upset, said, ‘Oh, no! Isn’t that the most awful thing?’ But as I really let myself go and gave them, Leacock and Sanderson, Beard and Englander all in full mimicry, but hobbling with sciatica, deaf as posts, peering blindly with the vain, failing eyesight of old age, Jane and Martha began to feel relief in laughter until Martha cried,
“No, for Heaven’s sake, it’s too horrible to laugh at. Something’s got to be done about them, Simon.”
Then Jane, fearing the serious direction into which that remark might have led us, said, “I notice you very carefully avoid giving us Bobby’s part in all this. In fact now I come to think of it I’ve never heard you ‘do’ Bobby. It’s slightly insulting to me, you know, this suggestion that I insist on people keeping up appearances about Bobby and me. I know I’m thought to be tremendously brave but surely it isn’t quite such an act as all that.”
She looked at Martha as she said it, and it is a tribute to Martha’s genuine passion for sincerity that she could not disguise her disgust. To cover up I did give them Bobby, but a little haltingly and feebly because I could see that Martha so much disapproved.
In the end Jane said impatiently, “Yes. Well let’s stop it, shall we? Your Bobby is rather an anti-climax, Simon darling.”
Martha said, “The awful thing is that Simon makes one think that people really are like that. But of course they aren’t. They’re much nicer and much less funny.”
“You mean they’re all bores,” Jane said, “Well, in that case how nice to be Simon.”
The entry of Jacqueline with Reggie and Violet came most opportunely. It sometimes worried Martha that the children so enjoyed the histrionic ritual of goodnight, especially if there were visitors present. But it always seemed to me that childhood was the only time in life when showing off was permitted; and so long as their act did not get out of hand and embarrass both themselves and us I encouraged them to put on a bit of a show.
The children, underlining as always their boredom with Jacqueline and their daily round, made a rush for Jane, the visitor.
Jane said, “The Hippopotamus Family have gone abroad so we shan’t be seeing any more of them.”
Violet said, “I know.”
Jane said, “You couldn’t have done. I’ve only just invented it.”
The children looked nonplussed, but pleased. They were always delighted when grownups paid them the compliment of puncturing illusions.
Reggie remarked casually, “We don’t care very much anyway, because this evening we’re giraffes.”
Martha cried, “Oh, no!”
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The children were immediately alarmed, for they knew that their mother was not friendly to these evening games with visitors. Violet gave her a propitiatory side-glance and Reggie rushed up and hugged her violently. They then turned to Jane and me again.
“If we put our tongues out you can put locust beans on the ends and we’ll roll them in.” Feeding Smokey was one of their favourite pursuits.
Jane, glancing at Martha as though to reassure a hysteric, said,
“I don’t really care for the sight of two tongues. Anyway it’s not very imaginative just both to be giraffes. You ought to be something else from Africa, Reggie.”
Annoyed, Reggie blushed and said fiercely, tfWhat?”
“Oh, I don’t know. An aardvark. What a mercy it is I’m the wife of a mammalogist.”
“What is an aardvark?”
“Oh, God! Ask your father. He’s probably observed them in their natural haunts.”
Violet said, “Daddy can’t go to Africa because it makes him ill.”
I began rapidly to describe aardvarks.
“They have very long tongues,” I said, “to collect ants.”
“Oh, God!” Jane cried again, “more tongues.”
The children put their tongues out at her three or four times.
“Do you hate that?” they asked.
“Yes, I do rather.”
They squealed with delight and did it again.
I said, “Also they have very long claws to tear the termites’ nests to pieces.”
Violet and Reggie immediately began clawing at two cushions. Then Violet bumped her head and began to cry. While Martha was soothing her, Jane said to me,
“Isn’t it awful that children can’t tell that one doesn’t really like them? A little attention and they’re all over one. No wonder they’re so easy to kidnap. Do you feel as ashamed as I do about being good with them, Simon?”
I felt suddenly very angry.
“You may remain detached from my children because you don’t like them. I really don’t know or care. But let me tell you that my detachment is simply because I’m frightened by the depth of my affection for them.”
I don’t know which was the more horrified by my remark, Jane or I. However it couldn’t be unsaid, and I reflected that after the tension of that day I had been bound to burst out against someone; better the unlikely Jane than the likely Martha. I did not try to repair my outburst. I turned to Jacqueline.
“Qu’est-ce-que vous voulez boire?” I asked, “De Dubonnet? Ou même nous avons de la grenadine.”
Later when Jane was leaving I said, “I was terribly rude, Jane, I’m afraid. But I should have thought you would have known how strongly I feel about my children.”
She answered, “You are extraordinary, Simon. You will persist in thinking that people can ‘know’ about each other. Especially that you know about everybody else. Martha was quite right, my dear, you ‘get’ people awfully well but you get them all wrong.”
Later still that evening Martha looked so wonderful that I became impatient to take her to bed.
She said, “Please, Simon, I do want to come. But I must see the late news. I know it is silly to be so frightened but please be patient with me. After all I haven’t said a word about this ghastly news all evening.”
Her restraint in having said nothing the whole evening added such overwhelming tenderness to my desire for her that I had to control a sentimental impulse to cry.
The news, as it turned out, was as familiarly ‘comforting’ as the earlier news had been ‘alarming’. Everybody, it seemed, was saying that they hadn’t quite meant what they said. Our Prime Minister, in particular, went out of his way to give a pacific twist to the earlier remarks of the President of the Board of Trade. The whole pattern was so familiar that it aroused no feeling in me at all. Martha, however, was reassured and that was all that mattered. Later still, as, content and relaxed, we were both drowsing off into sleep, Martha murmured.
“You were terribly funny about all those old things this evening, darling. But you are going to do something about that boy’s death aren’t you?”
I said, “I mean to.”
It was as much as truth would allow me.
II
AN END AND SEVERAL BEGINNINGS
I WOKE the next morning and was almost surprised to find that my resolve was still with me—a resolve strong enough at any rate to determine me to do all I could to strengthen it further. I hated admitting that my most powerful incentive was emotional, but I forced myself to the admission. I decided therefore that in my walk to work I would cross the canal not as usual by the old bridge but by the new Casson bridge. The old bridge led me by the coatis’ cage; their charm and their grace gave me the same sort of pleasure as those of the lemurs. I did not need that pleasure that morning. Going by the Casson bridge I should be brought slap up against the paddock where Filson died. I hoped the sight would reinforce my anger.
But before I reached the Giraffe House I came upon the enclosure where the Brazilian tapirs wallowed in their pool like so many primitive horses. It was a recent spacious construction, but even here Bobby Falcon’s love of the old Zoo had somehow clutteredit up withplanks and chutes and general circus absurdities. A great ladder was perched precariously upon one end of the feeding trough, and across it was stretched an old fashioned carpet bag tool container from which protruded hammers and some sharp looking object. After yesterday’s event, it needed no more than this muddle to set me on the warpath. As I turned the corner the grunting of the wild pigs came to me, each species contributing in a different key. There where the peccaries seemed endlessly and pointlessly to jostle one another for the same narrow corner of their ample run, I saw an upturned feeding trough. I doubt if its Victorian cast iron clawed feet could have harmed a mouse, but my anger exploded. And exploded upon Strawson, whose fat, self-satisfied Billy Bunter form waddled towards me at that moment.
“Get these enclosures cleared of this junk instantly, do you understand, Strawson?”
The semi-literate jargon he had built up for himself in his character of Elephant Joe did not appease me at that moment.
“We shall be kept pretty busy, Mr Carter, if we are to give ourselves the job of reforming the porcine nature. You know the old phrase, Sir, ‘live like pigs’.”
“I don’t want to hear any more talk, Strawson. These houses are a disgrace. Get on with your job.”
“I was under the impression that Sir Robert was responsible for maintenance . . .”
“After yesterday’s accident, Strawson, we’re all of us responsible in common decency to see that negligence doesn’t become a habit. You might take a look at the tapir’s enclosure . . .” He was about to speak but I went straight on. “Attend to it at once, please. I shall be making a thorough inspection later. And if it assists your touchy pride, I mean an inspection of the whole Gardens, not just of the ungulates under your charge.”
I walked on and left him puffing away like an astonished toad.
When I got to my office I realized that my words with Straw-son would mean an almost certain row with Bobby. Nevertheless I was glad that anger had driven me on. At least I had taken measures to prevent further unnecessary accidents. I resolved to make a complete inspection of the Gardens during the luncheon hour. Meanwhile I sketched out a memorandum to send to all curators drawing their attention to the importance of ensuring that all enclosures were free of encumbrances. It was going beyond my office, but at least by generalizing my intrusion I should not seem especially to have selected Bobby’s corns to tread on.
I had hardly begun to sort through the morning post with Mrs Purrett when our President Lord Godmanchester came ambling into my office. I knew him well enough now to be aware that on these days when he appeared to pad aimlessly about the Zoo like some fat, lost old bear, he was in fact easing the nervous tension that periodically possessed him since he had been out of office. Leacock, who claimed to understand Godmanchester fully—’I saw th
at it was a must to know the man completely as soon as I was Director. And I’ve made it my job to do so’—said that the President’s mooching was never without purpose, always preceded some decisive action. Once or twice, it is true, there were repercussions at Society meetings the following afternoons. But more often than not if any action followed it must have done so outside the Zoo, for we knew nothing of it. However it was part of Edwin Leacock’s regard for his own office as Director to invest the President’s every move with significance.
This was not an attitude that Godmanchester found any reason to reciprocate. This morning, he said,
“Leacock’s got some meeting or other in his room, Carter.”
“I think it’s his quarterly meeting with the Fishery Research Bureau.”
“Yes indeed. So he says. I’m surprised he’s kept on all that sort of thing now he’s left the Aquarium. I’ll give you a tip, Carter. Never hold on to what you’ve left behind. I learned that very early when they moved me from Agriculture to Education. I fancied that I’d really made my mark . . . But you don’t want to hear all that. Anyway you know it all. You were at the Treasury. Winchester, New College, and the Treasury are the three places where they know everything,” he said to Mrs Purrett, who smiled delightedly at what was evidently a jocular offering from on high.
