Somewhere Beyond Reproach

by Tim Jeal

  *

  So far I have perhaps given a too self-dramatisingly solitary picture of my daily existence. My business activity took up a lot of time. Often I would not get home till half past seven and then I would be too tired to miss seeing people. On some weekends I would make the journey to the East Sussex village where my mother had lived since my father’s death. I also had an aunt and two first cousins. On the evenings that I didn’t feel too tired I might go out to a concert or the theatre, sometimes alone, but sometimes with one of my cousins, or the woman who had been my personal secretary since my return from Africa. I had a close friend in Tim Gerson, my chief business partner. His wife and he often invited me round to dinner or to their frequent cocktail parties. They had a house near the south coast and a yacht. I very infrequently took up the standing invitation to go sailing with them at the weekend. Nevertheless it was there. Two weeks before Christmas I had decided to give a dinner party on Christmas Day. This was not only so as not to be alone at that sociable time of year, but also to repay some hospitality. The main reason though was that as soon as my projected relationship with Dinah should begin, I would need friends to invite us round. I would like to be able to show that I had not lived the life of a complete hermit since she had left me. A yachting weekend might well be much appreciated. As well as inviting my partner and his wife, I also intended to respect the family aspects of Christmas. My mother would also be there, as would both my cousins. My aunt’s laugh and persistent conversation about village trivia had always irritated me too much to make her a candidate. Besides her annual old people’s Christmas dinner would make it impossible for her to get away. I knew that her son and daughter would readily grasp any opportunity to escape this function. My secretary, Mrs Jameson, would also be invited. She had been separated from her husband for some years and would therefore be at a loose end.

  I engaged a cook for the day and hired a larger dining-room table and some extra chairs from a catering firm. I had given Mrs Jameson the day off a week previously so that she could buy presents. I had made various suggestions but knew that her choice would be excellent anyway. I was not disappointed. I myself had bought a tree, some decorations and several boxes of crackers.

  *

  On the night I lit the entire flat with candles. This did a lot to alleviate the sparseness of the flat’s furnishings. While the female Italian cook busied herself with the meal, I polished the champagne glasses, which were also hired. In addition to the champagne I had bought six bottles of Scotch and two of brandy. I had wrapped the presents during the morning and put them under the tree.

  Tim Gerson and his wife Cathy were the first to arrive. Tim remarked jovially on my absences from work during the last few days. He looked around the flat.

  ‘Anyway you’ve obviously been doing things.’

  I noticed that he looked slightly strained, in spite of his jaunty bow tie and light grey silk suit. I wondered if he had heard the rumours about the Minister of Transport giving the go-ahead for freightliner trains. This would almost certainly be followed by an attempt to restrict the amount of freight travelling by road. Manufacturers would probably object to the delays at the stations and so would their clients. Nevertheless there would be difficulties. I had left the press interviews to Tim after one of our lorries had been stopped in one of the random safety checks and had been found to have loose brakes and a back tyre with inadequate treads. A very nasty business.

  Cathy noticed the presents under the tree.

  ‘Oh goodee, presents for me.’

  ‘Not all of them,’ I replied laughing, I hoped heartily. ‘What will you have? Champagne or Scotch?’

  My mother arrived next. She didn’t like Tim. I saw her eyeing his silk suit with disapproval. Mummy never likes anything excessive. She embraced me and then walked over to Cathy and Tim. I poured her a small Scotch, nothing excessive. I guessed that she had wanted to be first so that she could have a quiet talk to me about why she was not becoming a grandmother.

  Mrs Jameson, Lotte, had dressed herself in a full-length blood-red evening dress. She had had her hair tinted and curled.

  ‘How nice of you to have invited me….’ she murmured.

  ‘No party would be complete without you,’ I quickly assured her.

  My mother turned to Tim:

  ‘Well, doesn’t she look splendid,’ she drew out the last word. Lotte, not knowing my mother, merely looked pleased.

  My cousin Peter was the next to arrive. He had just given up the law to become a market gardener. Tim advanced and wrung his half-extended hand:

  ‘How’s the onion patch?’ he guffawed heartily.

  ‘Tomatoes,’ replied Peter quietly.

  I was getting him a drink when his sister Joan arrived to complete the party. Later in the evening she confessed to having had an affair with Tim several years before. I don’t think anyone heard. She looked so nice that I was glad she was a relation.

  *

  At dinner I didn’t have to talk at all. The party was under way. The constant babble of conversation, occasionally punctuated by a laugh. My mother had been persuaded to drink four glasses of champagne. I heard her say to Cathy:

  ‘It really is time he got married.’

  The conversation died and everyone looked at me. I did not feel embarrassed at their concern. If anything I felt pleased.

  ‘It’s just a matter of the right girl,’ I said sagely.

  ‘They don’t grow on trees, do they?’ my mother chipped in sardonically.

  Tim bellowed at Peter:

  ‘Ask the market gardener.’

  Everybody laughed. I wondered what sort of a Christmas Dinah was having. Had Andrew forgiven her yet? The activity round the table had an anaesthetising effect on me. I did not for the moment feel nervous about the coming weekend. I felt a certain pride in being responsible for everybody’s presence round my table. I hoped the Simpsons were having a spartan meal. I visualised it and experienced a delicious pang of sympathy for Dinah.

  I raised my glass and murmured:

  ‘Absent friends.’

  Joan drunkenly raised hers. I supposed toasting her mother. Had the old people had nothing except Peter’s tomato juice? I giggled fatuously.

  *

  That night I was surprised not to sleep well. I was now absolutely committed. The weekend would decide so much. I had so far been obsessed with details and tactics. But what had these to do with people? It was so easy to be so content with ideas about people that the people themselves disappeared. What would my first words be? What would hers? How far can a conversation be plotted? Is it like a game of chess? How many moves ahead is it possible to see? If it is plotted does it still carry the feeling of sincerity? In literature I have always been certain that sincerity is skill, the skill of the author. One has only to hear letters read out in the divorce courts to realise this. Suicide notes can seem the most contrived and insincere things ever written. Yet how much they must have meant to the desperate people who wrote them. When does conscience become intolerable self-consciousness? When does spontaneity become self-assertiveness and rashness? I did not go to sleep till after five.

  Twelve

  At half past four the next Saturday I was driving along Park Side again. The common looked as murky and desolate as the day on which I had driven past on my way to wait for Andrew. Again I was smoking a cigar to calm my nerves. I repeatedly took deep breaths to counteract the heaving I felt beneath my diaphragm.

  At the top of Mrs Lisle’s road there had been an accident. A large black labrador was lying, flanks heaving, in a pool of blood. A small crowd had collected. I could not help noticing things as I turned the car to approach from the other end of the street. The owner of the dog, a broad-backed woman, was bending over her wounded pet, her skirt was riding high on her bottom. Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of flesh rolling over stocking tops. I cannot bear seeing animals in pain. This incident, however, was useful to me. It diverted some of my attention from
myself. The dog was probably dying. I managed to see the meeting I was going to in some kind of proportion.

  When I parked the car I did not hurry. I made a conscious effort not to. I carefully saw that the handbrake was on. I checked that both the rear doors were locked. On the pavement I dropped my cigar into the gutter and put my heel firmly on it until I knew it would be out. I looked carefully at the front of Mrs Lisle’s house, noting the number of windows, the colour of the window-frames and the drainpipes. I noticed for the first time that the front path was crazy-paved. There were three steps up to the front door. All three had recently been scrubbed. Even with all these efforts to externalise my attention my breathing was still heavy. I found that I wanted to go to the lavatory. I pressed the bell sharply.

  *

  Mrs Lisle led me into the house without a word. I looked around the drawing room; there was nobody there. Mrs Lisle glanced at me with slight reproach as I sat down. I wondered what Dinah had said to her about Andrew’s visit to the cinema. Mrs Lisle remained standing. She said:

  ‘I suppose you know the child isn’t coming. My daughter was coming anyway, so she’ll have to tell you why. I’m fed up with the whole business.’ She sat down on a small chair. ‘I didn’t see why I should do her dirty work for her.’

  So Dinah was going to come after all. Of course the business about her going to be there anyway was obviously nonsense. The room looked drab and cold without the lights on. It was starting to get dark.

  ‘I’m sorry if I caused you any inconvenience.’

  Mrs Lisle appeared to have said all she was going to until Dinah’s arrival. Suddenly she snapped:

  ‘You’re not a bit sorry. Why should you be?’ She got up and went over to the fire where she stood warming her backside. ‘I’d have thought she might have been grateful. The child actually enjoyed himself, which is a lot more …’ She stopped herself before adding what I felt sure would have been ‘… than he does at home.’

  She looked angry with herself for saying as much. I felt that there was nothing I could say that would not exacerbate her mood. After a few moments she left me alone without another word. Another minute or two and I heard her footsteps in the hall. The door slammed. From the window I saw her stumping down the path in a fur-trimmed overcoat and feathered hat. I looked away and studied the landscape over the mantelpiece. Predictably several cows were drinking at a stream by a stone bridge. Some dark-looking oak trees hung their dismal foliage in a neat frame around the cattle. A paper lay on a table by the window. I walked over and picked it up. I should have been grateful even for Mrs Lisle’s stormy company in the empty house. A clock in the hall was ticking audibly. I tried to read without success. There was something about the liner trains. Not even that fastened my attention. I wondered if I would have time to go to the lavatory before Dinah came. I decided not. Instead I started to walk up and down in front of the fire to try and appease my nerves. In the far corner of the room there was a radio. I switched it on. Some classical music. I could not recognise the composer. After a time I turned it off. The silence seemed more noticeable than it had been before. I heard a key in the front door. She must have walked quietly. I wondered why I had not heard her steps on the path. I raised the paper and pretended to read. Then I decided this was too obvious. I would obviously have heard the door opening. I got up and with my back to the window waited for her to come into the room. How many windows did the path have, were the drainpipes crazy-paved? How long was she in that hall? A few seconds. My hand was on the table next to her photograph. I was dropping a Daily Telegraph, running out into the street. No the door had to be opened first. Mrs Lisle said: ‘You have to lift it under the letterbox.’ Africa. Andrew.

  ‘Dinah.’

  ‘Well I did come.’ Her voice, quite the same. Calm, restrained.

  Me wanting to say: I’ve waited so long, I’ve remembered so much. Nothing without you is anything. All these years everything has been nothing. My mind is the room that was yours. I have listed the furniture in my head. I can remember your every word. Dinah is love. I love Dinah. Dinah is me in my brain wanting to be you. I …

  ‘I thought Andrew was coming.’ My voice level, reasonable, real, genuinely surprised. I haven’t looked at her yet. My eyes moved across the carpet. Her feet … Not bare this time, no padded silk dressing gown that almost covers the ankles. I am not sitting in a deep cane-bottomed chair. So neat in her light brown shoes with three darker brown leather bands over the toes. White lace-patterned stockings. Her legs the same. The skirts were longer then. She is sitting down, delicately crossing her knees.

  ‘I should have been more honest in my letter. I wasn’t thinking about Andrew. I didn’t want to have to see you.’ She was looking at me. ‘Very cowardly.’

  I sensed the slight flicker of her self-deprecating smile.

  ‘Why are you here then?’

  ‘Your letter.’

  She was wearing a light grey suit edged with darker grey. Her white shirt was fastened at the neck by a brooch with a large black stone. Her face a pale oval framed by her long black hair. The street lamps came on. The room was almost dark. A car passed. I watched her get up and walk over to the light switch. I was still standing in the same place. The lights were on. I said quietly:

  ‘You’ve come because I forced you to. You’ve come to tell me to leave you alone. To tell me that that is the only way to forgive.’ Madness. I heard the stiltedness of my words. She probably didn’t remember that there was anything to forgive. The jilted normally heal, however deep the wound. A matter of time and off with the plaster. All gone. Nobody would ever know. Or like me they could try the plastic surgery of a different place. The cutting out of the affected area. It was only a dream. You’ll soon forget about the nasty things. Medically an interesting specimen: the only emotional haemophiliac known to be living.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Her voice so soothing and reasonable. My legs did not want to move. My spine seemed made of something soft. Do not touch. I do not exist. Somehow the tall sides of a chair rise on each side of me. I am seated.

  ‘I didn’t come to tell you anything except that Andrew can’t come this evening. He’s got a temperature.’ Her voice so calm as she tells this obvious lie.

  Gradually my limbs harden. My pride lives again slowly. I will not be pitied with lying kindness. She has been seated too long now to get up and leave after a brief cruel-to-be-kind manifesto. Somehow, I do not deserve it, I have survived.

  ‘So you decided to come out with me instead?’ Slight questioning in my voice; too little though for her easily to say no. She notes the humour of the situation.

  ‘Why on earth did you choose a wrestling match?’

  My answer so casual: ‘I haven’t been to one. I was passing the Town Hall. Quite simple.’ As simple as any deliberate choice of event. Wrestling would contain just the right mixture of the bizarre and the obvious. She could hardly be serious or chiding to the accompaniment of the grunts and bumps of struggling wrestlers. My watch is on my wrist to be looked at. ‘It starts at half past six. I’m quite looking forward to it.’ A boyish laugh. Each act of confidence makes refusal harder. Each added lie makes Andrew’s temperature look worse. She could tell me she has people to dinner. Or perhaps: I can’t leave my husband alone. He’s been ill you see. Her eyes are sad. Bravely the patient smiles as the laughing doctor advances with his needle.

  ‘When are we off then?’ she says with resigned gaiety.

  *

  There was a large queue outside the Town Hall. Fortunately being ticket holders we were able to go straight in. The lofty pillars crowned by their Corinthian capitals rose above us. How many couples had passed under that pediment to be married in the local registry office? She walked beside me at a respectable distance. I could see from her set look of amusement that she had decided to make a go of the evening. After all I owe it to him, just this once.

  ‘I’ve bought some raffle-tickets,’ I said heartily. What the hell could
anybody say to that? Jolly good. How exciting. I do hope we win.

  ‘What are the prizes?’ Of course she had found the right answer.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I replied with a fine imitation of schoolboy guilt.

  Dinah put her head on one side, making a show of thinking deeply:

  ‘It’ll be a bottle of sweet sherry, a plastic handbag and a large box of milk chocolates with a red bow and a picture of the Winter Gardens at Blackpool.’

  ‘Which of that lot would you like?’ I said laughing. Again the half-inclined head:

  ‘Andrew might eat the chocolates.’

  We had been momentarily held up by the crowd going into the hall. Our seats were three rows back from the ringside.

  ‘If any of them get thrown out they shouldn’t fall on us.’

  ‘Just a flailing foot in the face at the worst. Thanks a lot, Harry.’

  I stole a sideways glance at her. The curtain of dark hair hid half her profile. Her features were slightly more pronounced. They had always been good. This was gain rather than loss. I longed to be able to lift the hair and touch the soft nape of her neck. Still the same strange fragility, the slender waist and arms. The brooch at her throat moved slightly as she breathed. She recrossed her legs. The slight catching rustle of those lace stockings.