Incapable…
And then the notion came to me.
Came without any warning or preamble.
Came fully formed.
“Okay,” I said. “Okay! A challenge! Prove yourself. If you really are there, if you really do exist—with your utterly all-seeing gaze and your utterly all-forgiving heart—then cure my aunt! Go on, do it! Take away her illusions about the maid. Don’t allow her to grow senile. Make her happy. Make my mother happy. And give me a sign … please, by the time I leave here, give me a sign! So that I’ll know! And if you do this—if you do this—then I’ll believe. A sacred pact. I promise! I’m aware it’s arrogant to hope to strike a bargain with you, Lord, but in this instance I can’t think of any other way. I can’t. Your sign for my belief.”
I remembered rather shiftily that I had said something similar before—on that fateful day of the telegram—and then conveniently forgotten it when I had thought my aunt to be out of danger. But this time I swore that I honestly would keep to my side of the agreement. I continued watching her until she’d rounded a bend in the road, out of sight behind the tennis courts. Then I repeated, still saddened and aggressive, “All right, heal her. I’m sure you can! Heal her … and I’ll believe.”
I got my answer the following afternoon. The whole Sunday I’d been tense, even nervous, feeling an undercurrent of excitement. After lunch, which had passed uneventfully but under the same strained atmosphere that had permeated the whole weekend—and was strongly reminiscent of the winter of the previous year—Aunt Clara went off to rest, as was her habit. When the washing up was finished my mother sat down with a pile of my mending and said, “Now tell me about Elizabeth.” She bit off a length of cotton. “Sweet heaven, what a weekend it’s been. Elizabeth—your job—Clara. I really don’t feel I could take one more thing.”
“Shall I come down again on Saturday? We’ll all go out to dinner and the theatre—my treat. We’ll forget about this. What are they doing here next week?”
In my suitcase upstairs there were two presents which I’d bought in London on Friday but the right moment for giving them definitely hadn’t arisen. I now thought I would save them until the following weekend, make of it a real occasion.
But my mother, now tying a knot in her thread, totally ignored both suggestion and inquiry. “What happened with Elizabeth?” she asked.
“Simply, we didn’t get on.”
“Yet she seemed such a nice sweet girl. And so very much in love with you.”
“Things went wrong between us, that’s all. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“But is there no chance of your making up?”
“None at all. There’s someone else she’s going to marry. She’s started divorce proceedings.”
“Someone else? Already? Oh, I see. So that’s why she left you. Well, I must say, John, I’m surprised. She didn’t strike me as that type. But I imagine she’s been spoilt … all that money in the family! And these days people seem to take their marriage vows so lightly—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! It wasn’t like that at all. You know nothing about it. She wasn’t a bit spoilt. You go on and on and on and it’s just plain stupid. Stop it!”
After this outburst we sat in silence. At last I said: “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken that way. But it just wasn’t like that at all.”
“What was it like?”
“Do we really have to go into it?”
“I suppose not.” Her voice was expressionless. “But I’d like you to tell me one thing at least. Was it because of another man?”
“No. I think she only met this fellow after she’d left me.”
A few seconds elapsed. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“What, then?”
“Did you have another man?”
“No, I did not! Oh, for fuck’s sake! What do you take me for?”
“I don’t know. I really don’t know. You tell me.”
“Bloody hell! This is a fine weekend. I haven’t enjoyed such a lovely weekend in years!”
I saw the tears well up in her eyes. I remembered my resolutions. After a moment I went and stood beside her. I laid my hand on her shoulder.
“Come on, love. It’s not as bad as all that.”
“Go away,” she said. “Leave me alone.”
She had begun to cry in earnest. She reminded me of Marnie Stark. Good God, I thought—Aunt Clara was right—everywhere I went I left a trail of broken hearts. Practically everyone I touched lived to regret it, was damaged by the contact. I felt like a murderer.
Which, to some degree, I was. A murderer. This wasn’t the first time I’d confronted it.
I stood looking down at my mother.
“Shall I make some tea?”
There was no indication she had heard but I went to put the kettle on. While it heated I stood at the kitchen window and listlessly observed the garden. The contrast between the brightness in the garden and the gloom in the house was pitiable. Once, I’d have been out there building up a light tan; now a light tan could scarcely have mattered less. Dimly I heard some movements overhead, the sound of running water. Then the kettle began to boil and I made the tea. Had I been standing on the bridge right now I felt I’d have experienced little hesitation.
This was patently untrue. But all the same I felt it.
I went back into the living room. My mother had stopped crying now and was staring into the fireplace, a handkerchief crumpled in her hand. I set her tea on the small table beside her chair.
“There you are, lady! Nice and hot. Do you good, that will!”
She said nothing.
I reverted to my normal voice. “Like some sugar in it? Just this once?”
No response. Not a flicker.
“Why don’t you take it upstairs, lie down for a bit?”
I wasn’t sure what to do. I sat down again. It would have seemed heartless merely to leave her.
“Go away!” she said. Slowly and emphatically. “Go away!”
“Is there nothing I can do?”
“Yes,” she answered. “For all I care, you can leave this house immediately and never come back to it.”
I trod wearily upstairs. On reaching the landing I heard the quiet but unmistakable sounds of sobbing. Could all of this be happening? It was surreal; I had the feeling I was caught up in some awful dream. I would open my bedroom door and the room would be filled with all the people I had ever met—or perhaps had yet to meet—weeping before me in helpless accusation.
But this sound was coming from the bathroom and it was not the weeping of all the people I had ever known. It was the weeping of my aunt. Yet the nightmare quality persisted. It intensified. Feeling hugely apprehensive I knocked on the door.
“Who is it?” It was a startled—almost frightened—whimper.
“It’s me. Are you all right in there? May I come in?”
“Oh, John. I don’t know what to do. Is Violet in the house?”
“No, she isn’t. Is something wrong? Maybe I can help?”
After a moment there came a shuffling. I heard the key turn. My aunt was in her dressing gown. Her face was pale and tear-stained. Her hair was straggling in a way I’d never seen it; I realized for the first time how sparse it had become. She clutched me by the wrist and I saw that the sleeves of her dressing gown were wet.
“Oh, John, I’m so glad it’s you. I’ve had an accident.”
“What sort of accident?”
“It could happen to anyone.”
I walked past her and saw the bath half-filled and a candlewick bedspread partially submerged. She had clearly been using the hand soap to wash both the coverlet and some of her underthings.
“I don’t want your mother to know,” she said, coming up beside me and again taking hold of my wrist. “You won’t tell her, will you? I am not, I am not, going to grow incontinent!” She released me in order to seize the back brush out of the scummy water and give a couple of darting prods at the heavy pink
bedspread. “And if you can only help me wring it out and hang it on the line,” she entreated, “it will soon dry in all this sunshine, I know it will.”
Wordlessly I looked at her. She seemed so vulnerable, so very insubstantial. I took her in my arms. The tears ran down my face.
“Please help us,” I thought. “We can’t cope. We’re useless. We truly can’t manage any longer. Oh, God—please help.
39
I decided to spend the week in Folkestone. On Tuesday morning I rang The Copper Kettle to inform Mrs Watson my mother was ill. Mrs Watson was extremely sympathetic. “Well, now,” I said to myself, as I came away from the telephone, “who’d ever have believed that?” Not a profound thought but a salutary one.
Mum stayed in bed for the first part of the week, only coming downstairs for a little in the evenings, to have her supper and a game of cards. Aunt Clara and I shared the shopping, the housework and the cooking….and, in a quiet way, enjoyed ourselves. My mother mainly read, or listened to the radio, or slept. The rest transparently did her good. No one could have said she was the essence of jollity for the remainder of the week but at least she seemed content to be pottering around the town with the pair of us: having coffee and a pastry, browsing through antique shops, strolling down to the beach. On the Thursday we went to the pictures. On the Friday we went into Canterbury.
It was while we were in Canterbury, sitting over lunch, that Aunt Clara—supposed to be studying the menu for a sweet—nervously cleared her throat.
“Norma, dear, I’ve been making up my mind about something. I think I may shortly go to live at The Elms … that is, if it’s all right with you, of course? You know I have a friend there, a Mrs Maxton? She says they sometimes get a vacancy and that it’s really very nice. Besides—living there—I could hardly be closer to home, could I?”
“But Clara. These things cost money.”
“Yes, I know, dear, but I have a little put by … even if at times I have been living just a shade beyond my means. In my day, you see, we were always encouraged to save. So I’m positive I can manage—especially if I share a room. Perhaps Mrs Maxton might be happy to share with me.”
“But that won’t be necessary,” I intervened. “I’ve got some money. I can help you. Five thousand pounds,” I added, quietly.
And as I spoke, I was thinking: This must be right. Please make it right.
“Five thousand pounds?” repeated my mother, staring at me.
“A legacy,” I said. “From Oliver Cambourne. The painter. The fellow I told you about. He died last year.”
My mother touched my hand. The gesture was so quick it might have been an accident. She might almost have been brushing away a crumb.
“He must have been very kind,” she said. “He must have been a good man.”
“Like you, John,” said Aunt Clara. “Just like you!” It was doubtful, though, how much of that last brief exchange she had actually understood—her mind was too full of The Elms and Mrs Maxton. “But did you say you would lend me money? I could never allow you to do that, you know.”
Yet I felt confident that I’d be able to arrange something. With either the matron or the management. My aunt need never find out.
Nor my mother, come to that.
The following day, as I’d suggested, I took them to the local rep. The play was ‘Private Lives’, which we’d all seen before, but that didn’t mean we didn’t enjoy it. Far from it. From time to time I glanced round at my mother’s and aunt’s faces; and what I saw gave me a wealth of satisfaction.
We had our meal at a Chinese restaurant and it was well past twelve when we got home. But I gave them their presents then: a pair of Dresden figures for my mother; a Copeland cup and saucer for my aunt. And the next morning, while my mother stayed behind preparing dinner, Aunt Clara and I went to church. “It’s such a pity Norma couldn’t come,” she said to me after the service. “I believe she’d have enjoyed it.” I waited for the inevitable reference to Violet. “Of course, it was always so much easier in my time, when every household had its parlourmaid and cook. But, these days, who can afford that type of luxury? Talking of luxury—let’s go and have some coffee! Do you think you could manage a doughnut, without letting it spoil your lunch?”
In the train that evening I reread Oliver’s letter. Yet again. The previous night I’d had another vivid dream about him, the first since that sun-splashed idyll with the harsh awakening. But this time its effect wasn’t depressing; the more oddly, since it involved the night of his suicide—in it I actually saw him jump. But the bridge he jumped from was no longer across the Thames. It was the little bridge at Biarritz leading from the beach to the big rock on which the Virgin Mary stood. And in my dream the statue came to life and lovingly bent down to scoop him from the water.
There had been a time when he believed.
Couldn’t a remnant of that belief somehow have survived? A dim, far-off memory of a hypnotic pair of eyes that was utterly all-seeing, utterly all-forgiving…? I remembered his bitterness—his disappointment, almost; his disillusion—when speaking of Derek Bentley. As an adult—as an adult not thinking back to childhood—did you still feel disappointment in Santa?
I put the letter away. I had kept it on me, in one pocket or another, since receiving it.
“Oh, Lord, I believe. Tentatively as yet but—help thou my unbelief—I’m sure it’s going to grow! And let me believe sufficiently for the pair of us: for Oliver even more than for myself. Probably that sounds patronizing. But who cares—I’m sure that Oliver won’t—and don’t they say two wrongs can make a right? It also sounds illogical.”
At first I must have frowned, in the sheer effort of concentration. “Make it all right for Oliver!”
There was another point, though. Suicide. Regarded as the one cardinal sin. The sin said to sever even the best of us from God.
But I couldn’t, wouldn’t, believe in a creator who hadn’t infinite understanding, who wasn’t prepared to make endless allowances for the balance of the mind—what was it now?—being temporarily disturbed. I didn’t mean to set conditions. (Well, yes, in a way I suppose I did.) It was simply that God’s withholding his mercy at such a time would have been indefensible.
“Make it all right for Oliver.”
I imagined I was asked a question.
Even if you find—the thought now took coherent form, although ever since my first reading of the letter I’d done my utmost not to let it—even if you find that you would have to share him with Edmund?
Yes, of course. Even if I found that I would have to share him with Edmund.
Or even if Edmund should have him entirely to himself?
Yes! Yes! Just so long as Oliver is there!
I caught sight of my reflection in the window but immediately turned away.
Then smiled.
The smile broadened.
“You’ve always known that one day I’d be asking you. Begging you … And I shall go on begging you; I shall drive you mad with my persistence. You’ll say in the end, ‘Oh, no—that Wilmot! I never knew how quiet it was until he decided to start on me…’ Make it all right for Oliver!”
I had written to Mrs Cambourne, naturally. But a few days after I got back from Folkestone I decided to pay her another visit. And this time, following a hunch, I again threw some basics into my pigskin suitcase.
On the way into Surrey, halting at a traffic light, I happened to glance at my watch.
Well, how many times in the course of a day does the average person glance at his watch? Possibly a dozen? But now, for some reason, that glance took me right back to my nineteenth birthday. Oddly, not to the moment when the watch had been given, but to one much later, well after midnight. We had been to see ‘West Side Story’. Oliver had booked for it as soon as we returned from France but hadn’t told me until that morning. It was only the fourth night of its London run and I grew wild with astonishment and delight, three times hurrying back to hug him, when rightfully—fright
ened that I’d be late in meeting my mother and aunt at Charing Cross—I should have been back at Gloucester Place by then, with the wine and the salmon and the list of things I meant to pick up from my local grocer. Anyhow, at the theatre, there was a five-minute standing ovation and at least ten curtain calls. As we slowly emerged into the Haymarket, amid a glowingly intoxicated crowd, Oliver touched my elbow with a look of grave concern. “Respectful adaptation, would you say?”
“Oh, yes, very! Shakespeare’s well satisfied.”
“Songs grew spontaneously out of the action?”
“Absolutely! Absolutely! Although I could have done with a lyric saying it’s mean of you to mock.”
He laughed. “Yes, I bet you could! But I’m awfully glad that you can take it.”
We went to Stone’s (me with my carrier bag!), where we had a light but excellent meal; and finally got home shortly after one. The customary nightcap—or two—and then to bed, roughly an hour later.
“Thank you again and again for this,” I said, admiringly holding up my wrist as we undressed.
“Oh, don’t mention it. You’ve already done so a good deal more than enough.”
“And for the message and the pun. Actually I rather like that pun. It’s so awful it’s cute. It’s endearing. For all time,” I teased him. “For all time.”
But he refused to be shamed.
“Yes, for all time,” he answered evenly. “For all time and beyond.”
“And beyond? Then vot can vun do with a man like that? Such a sweet shepsel! So vithout shame!”
“Well, I don’t know what the Chief Rabbi may advise,” he replied, taking a purposeful step towards me, “but at least—in the meanwhile—let me come up with a suggestion.”
For all time … and beyond. Suddenly, whilst I sat waiting at those traffic lights, it seemed—incontestably—a message of corroboration.
And it was still in the forefront of my mind—probably always would be—when an hour or so later I turned into the drive of Merriot Park: a returning prince who, with God’s help, would this time show himself much worthier of trust. I pulled up before the front door, got out of the car and gazed about me. Unhurriedly.
The Man on the Bridge Page 26
