As Near as I Can Get (19 page)

Quite recently—I had read the bare little report in my morning paper—a negro had gone wild. After working quietly on his street gang all morning, he had then abruptly stepped into the busy pavement with his shovel which, before it was wrested from him, had put two men, badly injured, into hospital and broken the leg of a girl—as it happened a nurse. And he had always seemed, as the rest of the gang, white (creditably) and black alike had
unanimously
testified, a quiet, sober worker and no one could asign any cause to his dreadful outburst. I forget, perhaps
never read, what happened to him in the dock, whether he was ultimately consigned to the gaol or the ‘bin’, but no one suggested, I bet, at that trial, that the force which propelled that murderous shovel might really have been not the inexplicable destructive fury of an unstable mind, but the pent-up reaction to a thousand pursed lips, narrowed eyes, dubious or reserved expressions, the cumulative reply to innumerable refused handshakes, ignored introductions, low whispers, glances, derisive murmurs, all exploding, at last, in a gesture of protest quite beyond the power of the law to assign to its proper cause. ‘The man doesn’t belong’ would have been the general feeling, after this manifestation of the success of the great, tacit conspiracy to eject him from it, ‘in civilized society at all’.

It all happened so quickly. Is that quite true? The cliché undoubtedly expresses correctly the tempo of the ghastly business in general, but, in fact, it was jerky. Parts of it—their approach for example—seemed to happen slowly. It couldn’t have been more than about quarter of an hour after their original departure when, sensing that the door had swung open again and casually glancing round towards it, I was sickened to see them back again. They didn’t look towards us but began moving, with a sort of deliberation, across the room in our general direction. Ostrich-wise I promptly looked away and the period of furious thinking which, in fact, produced not even the token action of nudging Kingsley, seemed to last an incredible length of time. I had, in fact, almost reached the stage of
deriding
my own fears and assuming that all was well, when the icy words sounded from immediately behind me:

‘Niggers ain’t allowed.’

Still without moving, I heard Kingsley say gruffly, ‘Just go away—would you, please?’

Then, as the first voice, quite softly, with rather a reasonable intonation, as if patiently elaborating an
inescapable
truth, spoke again, I turned round to confront
once more that cheerful-seeming, coarsely handsome young face.

‘You can understand—it’s just that niggers ain’t allowed in here.’

In spite of the low voices so far used, people around us were beginning to sense what was going on and I felt a little cheered at the thought that, doubtless, we could count on support when the aggressors couldn’t. I even felt a certain grudging admiration for their boldness. However, glancing behind the bar, I failed to see, close enough to be appealed to, either the manager or any of the barmen.

‘Who says so?’ I asked calmly.

The grin relaxed into an easy, comradely smile.

‘This ain’t your affair, mate.’

‘He’s with me,’ I said promptly, and instantly detested myself. Damned, patronizing, insulting thing to say. I stared at the man but remained occupied by what seemed the enormity of my solecism. But what should I have said? ‘The gentleman is a friend of mine’? Surely just as
offensive
under a veneer of gentility. ‘This negro and I are together’? God! Then, how could I have….

‘That don’t make no difference. Niggers ain’t allowed. This is a white man’s house.’

There was a bellow from somewhere on my right.

‘What’s this?’

And I saw, seeming to loom suddenly up beside me, a great, bearded, majestic face. Tony—Tony Bunt—when had he come back? Then I was aware of activity on the other side of the bar and saw the manager, a large,
bespectacled
man, fumbling at the hinged bar-flap to get out. Piercing the background murmurs and exclamations that, as almost everyone in the room became aware that something extraordinary was taking place, were now breaking out, came another mighty roar from blessed Tony Bunt ‘Get out!’ and then the three hard men, diverted from Kingsley, edged towards and around him. I recall suddenly seeing, in the background, Nadia Grunwald’s face, wearing
a smile of excited interest, and feeling, quite unjustly, that this confirmed the opinion I had always held of her as a shallow, treacherous bitch.

By now a physical exchange of sorts had begun with Tony, his large girth, great shag of beard and considerable height (he was taller than his three opponents), looking like a bear surrounded by three trainers, apparently shoving the ringleader firmly but not hurtfully in the chest. I think, but am not sure, that I heard the breathed words ‘Get him!’, and then a moment later all was confusion. Tony suddenly swung a great fist which struck the youth on his right a glancing blow on the shoulder, hardly enough to make him stagger. There was a cry from somewhere in the crowd and the pitch of background exclamations rose sharply. At the same time, I was knocked slightly out of the way by the manager who had by now fought his way round the bar and reached the scene. Tony’s voice boomed out in a series of denunciations ‘Stop them! Little Fascist swine! Let me—look out! Bloody little—I’ll——’ And then I saw that he was bleeding.

As from a deep, slow spring, a rim of glistening, scarlet blood welled from the slash on his throat and began to roll down his shoulder and side. Watching this, less with horror than numb disbelief, I was barely aware of the distant agitation where the three aggressors struggled towards, reached and then scrambled out of, the door. Tony continued
bellowing
and trying to follow them but by now others, aware, as he apparently was not, of the terrible wound he had received, were trying to calm him.

‘What?’ he roared. ‘Don’t let them—let go!’

Tony finally gathered what was being said to him. I saw him glance down at the sluggish flow, already dripping heavily to the floor, and grimace as he might have done at a fly in his beer. He lifted his hands slightly as if to free himself from the nuisance and then allowed himself to be led through the reluctant crowd to one of the stalls and seated. And then he just sat there looking dejected.

After this, things were done, but nothing that seemed at all appropriate to the situation. An emergency telephone call was made. A barman brought a fresh dish-towel and laid it over Tony’s shoulder. Apparently no one had sufficient training or confidence to attempt any real
dressing
or stanching of the wound. People, still holding their tankards and glasses, stood around, as close to the victim as they could, exchanging accounts of such fragments of the entire proceedings as they had witnessed or imagined. A crowd collected at the door, held at bay by the manager, round whose body curious faces peered. Tony lit a cigarette and just sat, until a solitary policeman shouldered his way in and began taking statements. And the incredible red liquid oozed out, soaking the dish-towel, his jacket and sleeve, collecting in a viscous puddle on the bench and dripping down to the floor to form another little pool. And finally, the ambulance came and took Tony away.

It must have been about a year later, when I was
drinking
with a couple I had just met in the ‘Starling’, that the young man said, ‘That’s a nasty scar that fellow’s got.’

I glanced across and saw that Tony, poising a dart, had his head cocked in such a way that the light baldly illuminated the thick, bluish cicatrix.

‘It’s a razor slash,’ I offered promptly. ‘I was there when he got it.’

And it was only then, as I strove to organize the events of that evening into a coherent narrative, that a genuine appreciation of Tony’s act came to me. As much as my two listeners, I impressed myself with an awareness of the man’s courage and generosity, of something, perhaps, as close to heroism as I have ever encountered. Before
making
an impromptu epic of it, I had, of course, often thought about it and discussed it with others, some of whom, like Kingsley, had been present, but although obviously not denying Tony considerable credit, the stark
reality
of the whole thing had militated against finding heroic values in it. But from then on it became a symbol, in fact the only
one I have ever derived from real life, of the intrinsic nobility of man. And yet the man himself….

I could see no more in Tony after the event than before it. It was impossible to have a serious talk with him
because
he didn’t know anything about anything—all he did was drink beer and play darts. It was just:

‘Hello, Tony.’

‘Hello, friend. Do you happen to run to a pint?’

As it always had been.

The razor had, but only just, missed the jugular.
Nevertheless,
Tony was nearly a month in hospital. They never got the three Teddies. Kingsley visited Tony in hospital but the two didn’t get on particularly well. They had
practically
nothing in common.

When I first came down to London—Louise—Mrs Coates—oh yes, and those galleries—we used to go to the theatre. What did we see in the theatre? I remember one set, in particular, a conservatory with a stuffed tiger. Oh yes, and Shakespeare and things—I begin to remember—‘Sweet, my coz!'

‘Do with me as you will, Alistair.'

‘Nay, he hath but a little beard.'

‘A mystic, I assure you.'

‘Had enough, that's all. Don't blame you, Maggie. Don't blame nobody. Guess it's just you cain't escape from bein' what you are.'

‘Who
are
you, my lord?'

Blue London. How
was
it? Louise and I holding hands in the gallery queue, on a chill, November night, listening to the low, judicious murmurs of our fellow seekers after culture. No, we
liked
the theatre, didn't we, Louise? We fed on it, and the cinema and exhibitions—marvellous
things, clear and urgent, in comparison with which the vastness and ambiguity of real life seemed as indecipherable as Etruscan. For the hour, perhaps more, of our wait, our breath plumed into the sharp air. Opposite, the discreet red neon sign of the opulent restaurant proclaimed ‘Pierre's Sea Food'. Beyond the quiet little side street that held our gallery queue, the main stream of traffic swept past.

‘I thought he was awfully good in——'

‘It comes off next week, I believe.'

‘Yes, that's one explanation—you've met him, haven't you?'

Grave and decorous we were, in the gallery queue.

‘Look, if you're cold, why don't you——'

Young minds, pretending to be wise and mature, but uninsulated by any density of experience from the impact of other men's creations. We discussed critically, praised, rejected, discovered antecedents and then, wrapt and breathless, fell swooning into the arms of the next play or film. I remember sometimes nudging myself and saying ‘How can this be? If “Dead Ducks” is true, then “Wake with the Watchman” can't be. If Cecilia is a real girl, then Melanie can't be. They're all different. They imply
contradictory
realities. The world can't really be like
all
of them.' But such heretical doubts were infrequent. Perhaps the world really was like all of them. I don't think we really believed in the world in those days—only in each other and art.

String of lies I had to tell mother, or rather write to her, from Salisbury Plain. That was where I did the last six months of my two years of training for—what? The war that I missed—bayonets, grenades, machine-guns. I was the only one in the platoon who found anything ludicrous, grimly ludicrous, in lunging at bags of sand with a little skewer while the atom progressively disclosed its profane secrets. So little time—no time—time was something that had happened in the past, might begin again in the future—but years of professional training for the law—law!
In a nuclear nightmare? ‘In pursuance of which we do solemnly enact that such of our subjects—' while the kernel of the world which was—well, plays, films, poems, books (wasn't it? surely….).

‘Dear Mother,

‘There is actually another reason why I don't think it would be best for me to study law. Charley Adams (Lt Charles Adams) has suggested….'

I invented a fictitious reporter for her, a junior officer in the company who had been in Fleet Street and, taking a fancy to me, had promised to help me get a job on a paper.

And that was how, after a trying week at home, with Mary palpably, and mother probably, disbelieving in the existence of Lt Adams, I escaped from the village and came down to London.

I had imagined, almost confidently anticipated, a pleasant place to live, perhaps a charming garret over a tree-filled square, a rapidly expanding circle of gay
companions
, some relatively painless method of earning the indispensable living and my real work rapidly winning for me a secure and growing reputation. But what I got was Mrs Coates and the queues.

Extraordinary amount of time I spent queuing, largely, I suppose, because, in compensation for the disappointment of every single one of the above expectations, I took refuge, after the tedious days of filing Messrs. Perman Glass Products Ltd's letters, increasingly often in the cinema.

That was exciting! I remember the guilty thrill of
standing
outside one of the metropolitan cinemas specializing in French or Italian films on a chilly, October evening, lured by the stills in the glass frames and memories of favourable reviews I had read, and knowing that, while ostensibly debating the matter with myself, I had secretly determined that I would go in, perhaps for the third time that week, spending far more than I could legitimately afford so that dinner the following night would have to be cheese rolls and milk.

One paid the money, received the ticket, walked in past the sweets and cigarettes stand, through swinging doors, over muffling, heavy-pile carpets, had one's ticket torn raggedly in half by the uniformed usherette and finally entered the bleakly-lit hall, with its tiers of occupied seats and was directed to a vacant one. A curtain covered the screen. Music streamed from the loudspeakers behind the screen. The lights were still on and one waited for the
stirring
moment when one suddenly realized that they had begun almost imperceptibly to dim and, a little later,
behind
curtains that had seemed opaque but now proved to be diaphanous, the great screen came to life. Another few moments and one was no longer sitting in a hall just off Oxford Street but winding through the outskirts of Paris in the cab of a lorry in the early hours of the morning, or peering in at the window of a room in a Roman tenement or meeting the almost overwhelmingly human baker of a small French village, whose wife was rather elusive.

Without that—without the cinema—things would have been bleak indeed. The only other thing, strangely enough, that was at all exciting was the queuing. I suppose it was the nearest I came to meeting people, the sort of people I had hoped to meet, indeed anyone at all other than Mrs Coates.

‘Off to the cinema again? I don't know how you stand it, Mr Peebles. On these cold nights! Does your mother know?—you spend all this time—and money—in the cinema?'

And finally, in fact, the queues were productive of more than mere visual acquaintances. It was in one of them that I met Louise.

If it had been one of the French films that then ravished me, she would have been standing in a sort of light-flecked haze at the mouth of a Metro station. I would have materialized from nowhere.

‘Who are you?'

‘No one.'

‘Nor me.'

And, linking arms and gazing, she up and I down, into each other's eyes, we would have melted into the
light-flecked
haze to reappear, I in shirt-sleeves and she hugging a sheet to her bare shoulders (and I lighting a cigarette and gazing at the sad morning stir in the mean, romantic streets of Paris) in a cheap little hotel.

In fact, it was damned awkward and called for a lot of sheer pluck and prosaic self-encouragement. For when I did finally say baldly ‘Hello' to the perceived, female form beside me, not having had the temerity to confirm by a direct glance my impression that she was young and pretty, it was only after having several times found myself in a similar
inviting
position and then, after perhaps half an hour of striving to move numb lips, shuffling alone into the cinema. With Louise, it took about twenty minutes. ‘Go on, say “hello”. What harm can it do? But why “hello”? Well then something else. She can only ignore you.'

‘Hello,' I said grimly, gazing at her with anguished eyes.

‘Hello.'

So little had I anticipated the possibility of any
exchange
beyond the outrageous initial greeting that I fancy I merely stammered foolishly:

‘I mean—I'm sorry—I mean—you don't mind?'

‘Mind what?'

‘Well—I said hello.'

‘I know you said hello.'

‘Shhh!'

She had spoken in a normal conversational tone (quite self-possessed, unlike me) but I had suddenly shrunk in horror at the thought of the people behind us participating in our gauche exchange. I visualized the long tail of the queue, a ripple of merriment running through it, beginning to stir in anticipation of an unexpected diversion. I glanced over my shoulder and was relieved to see only a little, flat-faced man reading a newspaper, and everyone else stonily reserved.

After that, in my recollection, we were always queuing, for the first few months anyway. She was a student at London University. Of what? Geography? English?—no, I think it was Geography. I recall that she went off once for a week to do, was it, regional geology? She lived in a far, western suburb where once I visited her.

Always queuing—always October, mist and moisture and visible exhalation.

‘Where are we going?' she'd ask when I met her at the underground station.

‘Shall we queue up for the gallery of “Dead Ducks”? I wouldn't mind seeing that French film “Au Revoir, Cheri”—revival—if you haven't seen it.'

And so we'd stand for another half, or three-quarters of, an hour in the queue for the cheapest seats, armoured by health and the brisk circulation of youth from the cold, moist evening.

There was, in those days, a small, shabby, red-brick, with an unpleasing grey-brick pattern on its façade, house in a moderately mean street behind Victoria Station which sheltered only two people. I was one of them—and I was there because things had gone all wrong. On my arrival in London, rather tired from the long train journey and
bewildered
by being suddenly confronted with the impersonal Metropolis, which did not present, to my first glance around after issuing from the railway station, any charming squares overhung by attractive, low-priced garrets, I had
compromised
, as I suppose many new arrivals do, by deciding to get a room for a night or two anywhere and then find more desirable living quarters at my leisure. I had then wandered off behind Victoria and been snared by Mrs Coates.

She plonked her great, matter-of-fact personality down on me the very first day of my arrival and kept it there, crushing the romantic images of myself and life in London which I had brought with me, out of existence. Perhaps it was a good thing. (Strange how a disaster, at some subsequent moment whips off its mask and reveals itself to have been
really a ‘good thing'). Anyway—Mrs Coates—great, sturdy white-haired, frowning matron, not even a regular, boarding-house keeper. She ran a canteen for a living and Mr Coates, perhaps shrivelled by some momentary displeasure of hers, had faded away years ago but left her the house.

‘You're looking for a room are you, young man?' she had asked slowly, using the period to rake me with a searching glance.

She had caught me gazing at a ‘Bed and Breakfast' sign in a window—and, doubtless, looking dejected at the thought of having to settle, even for the shortest possible period, in such a dingy and cheerless establishment.
However
, although surprised at being thus accosted in the open street into nodding and uttering a wry ‘yes', doubts as to the potential relationship even then entered my mind.

‘Looking for a room, eh?' and she had continued to prospect me with her eyes. ‘Look, you come with me.'

‘Well——'

‘It's not far—just down the street. You can see the house from here. Come on.'

And, of course, I had accompanied her. A few minutes later:

‘Well?' and on a note of slightly menacing assurance, she clasped her hands in front of her and invited me to survey the chamber into which she had just led me. I had already noted from the hall and staircase that the house, while wearing the identical dismal exterior of the one in front of which she had pounced on me, was genuinely comfortable and attractive inside and there was no doubt that the reasonably spacious, fully-carpeted, simply but not vulgarly-furnished room (marred, it is true, by a rather
narrow
window giving onto the dull and dusty terrace of identical houses opposite) would be quite acceptable for a few days. Nevertheless, a strong cautionary instinct whispered that it would perhaps be better if I did not lay my head, even for a single night, under the same roof as the lady I was soon to know only too forcefully as Mrs Coates.

‘Well, young man? Do you like it?'

‘It's a very nice room.'

‘Of course it is. It's been ready for a year—just like this. Do you like the furnishing?'

And she went on to tell me about the pains she had taken over the furnishing, not only of the room, but of the whole house, of the shops she had toured, the specialist journals and interior decorating columns she had consulted and, perhaps most significantly, of points, some of which seemed to me, although I knew virtually nothing about the matter, eminently sensible ones, in which she had found herself in disagreement with the authorities.

‘It may not be a fashionable street, but that's no reason for just sitting back, is it? You don't have to live in
Kensington
to have a bit of taste, do you?'

‘No—no—of course not.'

‘Do you want the room?'

‘Well—that is—how much——?'

‘How much is it?'

She glared at me through her spectacles for a moment so vehemently that I began to fumble mentally after apologies for my indigence. But then I realized that what I had read as a glare was merely the naturally severe expression produced by her large, angular features and sheath of stern, white hair, that, in fact, somewhere behind this forbidding façade lay a smile.

‘How much have you got? Not much, eh? Are you a student?'

‘No.'

‘Not a student?' and now, perhaps, a flash of genuine reproach came from her eyes. ‘Now then, what are you? You're not a working man—I can see that.'