A Word Child (37 page)

‘Let's go to Australia.'

‘Well, why not? I'd go anywhere with you — and I could work anywhere — '

‘Crystal, you don't know what you're saying. It's just as well I didn't turn up last night. I might have killed him. I think I intended to.'

‘But why — oh why — when he was so kind — '

‘Don't use that word again or I shall scream.'

‘It has done good — it has done me good — seeing him — '

‘You certainly seem very calm and pleased with yourself.'

‘I'm not calm,' said Crystal, ‘I'm not calm at all.' Huge tears came out of her eyes and spread all over her broad cheeks and continued to well up. ‘Do see him again,' she said. ‘Do see him just once more and be kind to him, please do, just to make it perfect.'

‘It can never be perfect. He can never forgive me.'

‘That's not the point,' said Crystal. ‘What you must do is forgive him. That's what will make it perfect. If you forgive him then there'll be — a kind of open space — and he'll be able — '

At that moment I recalled what the equation had been which had teemed to me last night to be so important, the secret of the universe. Forgiving equals being forgiven. Now in sober daylight it seemed just a piece of verbal nonsense.

I drank my tea. Crystal went on crying.

Once more I was on the Chelsea embankment at five o'clock for six. A little snow was falling in tiny pinpoint flakes which hovered about in the still air uncertain whether to go up or down.

All day in the office I had felt fit to scream with joy and pain. I reclaimed some of my work from Arthur but could make nothing of it. Already it seemed incomprehensible rubbish. Had I ever understood and enjoyed all these intricate trivialities? Arthur and I rather avoided each other by mutual consent, and I was relieved when one of his junkies rang up and he went apologetically away. It looked as if after all I could not really pardon him for daring to chuck me out, and he could not really pardon me for insulting the woman he loved. Of course I was more to blame than he was but that was highly irrelevant. It appeared that this business of forgiving and being forgiven could be pretty tricky even in the best of cases.

The office day was now interminable, but I managed to struggle through it without losing my mind. I was invited into the Registry by Jenny Searle to play desk-top football. Now that I was known to be going I had suddenly become quite a popular figure, in demand everywhere. Two men, whom I did not know at all, from distant divisions, even turned up to question me about Australia. I attempted to reflect on my future, but the object in question was a blank. It was kind of Gunnar to suggest that I might join the university at Exeter or at Glasgow, but even if I wanted to do this I knew that my chances of getting an academic post, at my age and with my record, were nil. Who would write me a testimonial? Gunnar? As Stitchworthy had observed long ago, I was not really a scholar. I had nothing but my little versatile grammatical talent, my kinship with words, and of that I had, in all these years, made precisely nothing.

The only constructive thing which I did during the day was to write a letter to Mr Osmand, care of the school. I also wrote to the Headmaster, saying I was trying to trace Mr Osmand. I knew that he had left years ago, but I trusted that they would have an address. My letter to Mr Osmand said that I was very sorry to have been in such a deplorable condition when he came, that the drug had been given to me as a joke, that I hoped soon to have an opportunity of seeing him again and talking about the old days. I assured him of my continuing gratitude to him for all that he had done for me, and expressed the hope that he was well and happily situated. The letter was stiff, a letter to an old schoolmaster. I was thoroughly distressed by the incident, but I could not really concentrate on what I was writing. As for my final ‘hope', it seemed on reflection a vain one. How could things possibly be well with Mr Osmand? He must be well over sixty, doubtless alone. ‘Educational Consultant': what did that mean? Something tragic no doubt. He was evidently no longer a schoolmaster and what else in the world could it give him pleasure to be? Had he retired, or had he at last been sacked for patting one boy too many on the head and stroking his arm after prep? I had probably been his best pupil and look what had become of me. Of course I had never explained to him why I gave up Oxford. I wonder what he thought?

I left the office at half past four and went straight to Chelsea. I had suffered no ill effects from the drug. I had forced myself to eat some lunch. I felt weirdly clear-headed and vibrating with power. I felt as if I could have cleared the Thames in a leap. I tried hard not to think beyond my encounter with Kitty, and on the whole I succeeded. It was very possible that it would be our last meeting. Even if I were to see Gunnar again, tonight might be the last I saw of her. Or would she want a further conference after I had seen Gunnar, if I saw Gunnar? Should I even suggest this? These reflections did not get very far, burnt up as the day went on in the annihilating sense of her approach.

At fifteen minutes to six, after I had passed the house about eight times, looking up at the line of golden light in the drawing-room windows, I could bear it no longer and went and rang the door bell. I noticed at the same moment that the door was ajar. I put one foot inside and listened.

‘Come on upstairs, you know the way.' Kitty's voice.

I went on up, treading softly on the thick carpet, past a lot of glimmering things on brackets and an immense number of little pictures like glittering eyes, through the warm haze of new furnishing smells and Kitty's perfume, and entered the room where I had talked with Gunnar. An exotic sight met my eyes.

Kitty, with a towel round her shoulders, was sitting on a low satin chair near to the fireplace. A small fire was glowing in the grate. The innumerable discreet lamps were shedding their accumulation of diffused discreet light upon various trinkets on various tables. The yellow medallion on the carpet was glowing like a jewel. Kitty, wearing a long peacock-blue woollen evening dress with a pendant hood, was gazing at me. Standing behind her and holding a brush, with which she had evidently been brushing Kitty's hair, was Biscuit. Biscuit was wearing a magnificent sari, a dark brown shot silk with golden borders. Biscuit's black shining hair was unplaited and falling in a single straight torrent far down her back. As I stood there at the door, and after looking at me with expressionless attention, she began to pluck some hairs from the brush, twirl them into a little ball with her long thin fingers, and project them into the fire. Then she stood there, seemingly patient as an animal, gazing down towards the hem of Kitty's dress. She touched the back of Kitty's head very lightly with the brush, and stood there immobile waiting presumably, with lowered eyes, for Kitty's order to depart or to continue brushing.

Kitty with the dark tumble of hair brushed right back from her brow, and in the clear light of a lamp which was perched above her on the mantelpiece, presented me her most exposed face so far. Her brave audacious rash beautiful face. I could see the colour of her eyes, big, very dark slaty-blue, the large nose seemed more dominating, the mouth fuller, pouting with vitality and purpose and radiant animal self-satisfaction. I stared at that face, and the universe seemed to circle round quietly like a great bird and come to rest.

‘You're early,' said Kitty, not a bit discomposed. She lifted a hand behind her and thrust Biscuit's poised brush away. With the same movement she pushed the towel off onto the floor. Biscuit picked it up and put it over her arm.

‘Sorry.'

‘Biscuit — '

‘No need to send Biscuit away,' I said, ‘I'm not staying.'

‘Not staying?'

‘This is the place where I talk to your husband. The place where I talk to you is outside on the jetty.'

‘Biscuit, please — '

Biscuit, bearing brush and towel, moved to the door. I noticed that, beneath her sari, she was barefoot. I stood aside. A glittering strand of inky-black hair had fallen forward over her shoulder and as she twitched it back I saw the swing of long jewelled ear-rings. She passed me without a glance, with a faint frou-frou of silk, and I heard her almost inaudibly pad away, mounting the stairs behind me.

‘It's very cold out there,' said Kitty. ‘Has it started to snow?' She had bundled her hair forward and was combing it with her fingers and vigorously massaging her scalp. The unselfconscious confidence of the gesture disconcerted me.

‘Yes.'

‘Then wouldn't it be more sensible to stay in here?'

‘Please yourself,' I said. ‘I'm going outside.' I left the room and went downstairs and out of the house closing the front door quietly behind me. I crossed the road and made my way towards the jetty.

The place was deserted. The embankment traffic sizzled quietly along over a roadway slightly dusted with snow. The little flakes were falling sparsely but steadily. I was very cold and I was glad of my scarf and gloves. I had put my cap in my pocket. The tide was half in, a line of stone-strewn mud visible and gleaming in the dim light from the jetty. A darkened launch plopped gently, nuzzling the wood. I began to feel that I had been a perfect fool. The little scene with Biscuit had distressed me and I had been stupidly aggressive. Now if she did not come I would have to go tamely back to the house. But supposing she were offended, supposing she would not see me? I spent five minutes of knuckle-biting anguish. Then she came.

She was wearing a black woollen cap, and a huge overcoat which, I realized with renewed chagrin, must belong to Gunnar. The long dress swirled beneath it. She came towards me, to where I had stationed myself at the end of the jetty, and I waited for her to come.

‘I say, it
is
cold, isn't it?'

‘I'm sorry. I do hope you don't mind coming out? You see, I really don't want to be in your house without — without his knowing.'

‘I quite understand.'

‘He doesn't know — anything — does he?'

‘Of course not.'

‘And he's not likely to — '

‘No, no, he went off to Brussels this morning.'

I was ready to bet Gunnar had not said anything to Kitty about Crystal. It seemed a moment to find out.

‘Where was he last night? I thought I saw him in Whitehall about eight.'

‘You might have done. He was dining with a friend at the House.'

There was no doubting the sincerity of her tone. So Gunnar lied to his wife. So much the worse for Gunnar. I felt a sense of power which I knew to be pointless, useless, but it pleased me.

‘I'm glad you didn't speak to him,' she said. ‘I wanted to see you first.'

‘Am I to see him again then?'

‘Yes. Once more. You know, it's odd, but this morning he seemed so much better, so much calmer.'

Crystal's doing. Who had been lecturing me about ‘simplicity'? Crystal had it. Gunnar had benefited.

‘Shall I write to him and suggest a meeting?'

‘No. He will write to you.'

A silence. Was this all? We had walked to the end of the jetty where in a total privacy of cold the few tiny snowflakes were coming down out of a very dark darkness. The snow had blanketed the stars, even the great glow of London; all was covered and we were alone. The white flakes diamonded Kitty's black cap and her face glowed in the dim light, in the frosty air. I sought for words to detain her, another two minutes, another minute.

‘What should I do when I see him again? I mean, have you any special advice?'

‘I think you will know what to do. Tell me what was wrong with the last time.'

‘With my last meeting with him? But you heard it all.'

‘Yes, but I want you to tell me what was wrong.'

‘Everything was wrong. He was too cold, I was too defensive. He assumed it was a kind of technical problem. I let this idea shut my mouth. We never met as human beings.'

‘Exactly. And you must meet as human beings, mustn't you?'

‘I'll try. It's not so easy to find the words — '

‘If you will only
begin,
set him off as it were, the words will come rushing, like they rush when he talks to me. I promise I won't listen this time.'

‘Good. I'd rather you didn't. I meant to tell him I was sorry or something like that, only in the face of his huge sort of intellectual grasp of the whole business there seemed no place for anything so stupidly simple.'

‘Yes, yes, exactly, you are so right, but it's just that intellectual grasp that you must somehow break. He's thought about it so much, he's discussed it so much with those psychologists, he's made it into a sort of vast inflexible
thing.
'

‘I know. But if he's willing to see me again that's a good sign, isn't it? And you said he seemed “better”. Of course I'll try — I'll try, if necessary, again and again.' Spend my life trying, if only you want it, if only I can see you again.

‘That won't be necessary,' said Kitty. ‘I think one more meeting should be enough.'

‘Of course I was not envisaging anything in the nature of friendship between us, naturally that would be impossible.'

Silence again. Snow. A kind of awkwardness which I felt in her, as if she were waiting for me to help her to terminate the interview. I desperately did not want to terminate it, but out of sheer mechanical nervousness I found myself saying, ‘Well, is that all?'

‘Yes, I think so. Gunnar will write to you. I'm so grateful.'

‘Not at all. I'm grateful.'

We both stood still, motionless. I waited for her to move, to begin to go away. I felt it was my last chance in the world. I said, ‘Shall I see you again?' It was impossible not to make the question sound desperate.

She said nothing. As the silence lengthened and as she continued to stand there some divine ferocious thrilling power out of the centre of the earth began to reach me, to rise through me. For a moment I was intensely giddy, as if I might fall. Then I put a hand on her arm. I felt the rough cold snow-dusted surface of the coat sleeve and can feel its texture this moment as I write. We stood absolutely still, arresting, arrested.