Dead Romantic (15 page)

All he felt was the rueful sense of another failure. He had got it wrong. His approach had been wrong. Indulgently, he ticked himself off for lack of self-knowledge.

Why on earth should he have imagined it would work with a nameless whore? He was too sensitive for that. What he needed was someone gentle, someone loving, who would not rush him, who would understand his inexperience.

It would be different, he knew, with Madeleine.

Paul now carried the black-handled sheath-knife with him wherever he went. He felt challenged in every aspect of his life, and the knife gave him a kind of security.

His mind was more tangled than ever. There seemed to be so many new things to worry about that the space inside was crammed to bursting. There was the public shame of what Tony Ashton and Sharon were doing, and of what they must be saying about him. In the background was a dark cloud of anxiety about his mother, whom the hospital still wished to keep in for observation. And other, darker images fought their way through from time to time to the surface of his fears.

Increasingly, the only thought which gave him any peace was that of Madeleine. He kept reliving the moment when she had held his hand, when he had been so close to her, and it seemed that that was the only occasion in the past weeks when he had felt complete, when he had felt human, not swamped with threats from everything he saw around him. He ached for the moment of their next tutorial. In her presence he felt sure he would once again be whole, healed at least for the duration of their proximity.

It was Shelley this time. Paul had battled for some days against his vagrant concentration to read some of the poet's work, but he had found it hard going. Most of the lines blurred as he read them, sense slipping by in a cascade of words, and the bits he could understand he didn't much care for. With Keats, though he had found the language difficult, he had at least gotten some feeling of the opulence of the poet's imagination. Byron, though again obscured by archaic usage, did retain a kind of romantic appeal, arising more from what he had found out of the poet's life-style than from his writings. ‘Childe Harold' in particular, when Paul thought about it, offered grim parallels for his own alienation. But Shelley . . . It all just seemed to be words. There was passion there, obviously, but not a kind of passion which he could identify with any of the many he had experienced himself.

It was clear from the start that Madeleine did not share his view. ‘But, Paul, can't you
see?
Shelley is the most modern of poets. I mean, I would have thought, of all the Romantics, he has most to say to young people today.'

‘He doesn't say a lot to me,' Paul ventured a grin as he made this admission. He felt at peace, relaxed. He was with Madeleine, her perfume surrounded him. There were a lot of things still to be sorted out, but it would all be all right in the end. She would be his and his life would be transformed by her love.

‘Oh, come
on.
Shelley talks the language of idealism, of peace and love.'

‘I don't understand what you mean.'

‘Well, those are the values of the young, aren't they? They always have been.'

Paul projected his lower lip dubiously. ‘I'm not sure. I don't think many people I know are very idealistic. Most of them are just out for what they can get.' The image of Tony Ashton and Sharon flashed uncomfortably across his mind.

‘But no, Paul, the young
are
idealists. They must be. For example, I'm sure all of your friends are anti-war.'

‘Wouldn't say so. Most of them got really excited when the Falklands thing was on. Couldn't wait to get out there and bash a few Argies.'

‘Well, maybe, but nuclear war . . . I mean most of them must want the bomb banned.'

Again he didn't seem convinced. ‘No, I think most of them reckon there's not a lot you can do about it. It's going to happen. We're all going to be blown to blazes in a few years, so you may as well get what you can out of life while you're still around.'

Madeleine began to feel that maybe she wasn't getting her message across. ‘But what about Human Rights? I mean democracy. You mentioned the Falklands. Well, I didn't actually approve of what went on then, but it could be seen as a blow for freedom against a repressive regime. Exactly the sort of thing Shelley was recommending in his ‘Ode to Liberty'. I mean, when he writes. . .' She dropped into her recitation voice.

‘
Oh, that the free would stamp the impious name

Of KING into the dust! or write it there,

So that this blot upon the page of fame

Were as a serpent's path, which the light air

Erases, and the flat sands close behind!'

She paused impressively, but Paul still didn't look impressed, so she changed tack. ‘What about Shelley's atheism then? Surely that's something that strikes a chord with your generation?'

‘Not really,' said Paul. ‘Not particularly. I mean, nobody I know believes in God anyway, so it's not really a very big deal.' He did not feel that he was being rude to Madeleine; he thought he was showing his character, fencing with her as an intellectual equal.

‘His belief in Free Love then? Now that really did put him ahead of his time. He had all the ideas of Open Marriage and what-have-you long before they were fashionable. Love was the dominant force for him. You get it stated in ‘Prometheus Unbound'. He writes “and yet I feel most vain all hopes but love.” Surely that must have some appeal to the young. I mean, the young are the love generation.'

Paul looked at her in puzzlement, and even to Madeleine came an inkling that what she was saying might perhaps be out of date, that she was transferring her own youth on to his. ‘Well, maybe not,' she conceded briskly, retreating.

‘I don't think many of the people I know of my age are that hooked on love,' Paul began slowly. Then, summoning courage, he said, ‘
I
think love's very important. It's important to me. In fact, it's probably
the
most important thing in the world for me.'

Madeleine smiled, unaware of the direction in which his remarks were leading. It was nice, she thought, to hear such a charming sentiment from him. His reactions to Shelley had sounded a bit negative and it was encouraging to know that he didn't really share the depressing nihilism which seemed to have taken over young people in the years since she had been one of them.

‘What I really mean', Paul picked his way gingerly onwards, ‘is that being with someone I love is the only thing that keeps me going. I really think I'd crack up if I didn't go on seeing the person I love.'

He hesitated, and, as had happened once before, his declaration was averted by the door's opening.

This time it was not Bernard who came in, but Julian Garrett's secretary, Stella Franklin.

‘Oh, Madeleine, sorry to interrupt.' She condescended a little smile to Paul and held out a letter. ‘It's just that I wasn't sure whether or not you'd be dropping into the office this morning and this was left for you. Didn't want you to miss it.'

Madeleine took the envelope and said in a politely dismissive tone, ‘Oh, thank you, Stella.'

But Mrs Franklin lingered. ‘It's from Bernard. He was hoping to hand it over, but Julian had to send him out to a group of Italians who were booked into one of the other schools and had their class cancelled.'

‘Ah.' Madeleine managed to put the minimum of interest into the monosyllable, but still it didn't seem enough to dismiss Mrs Franklin.

‘Always happy to be the messenger,' the older woman said, with a hint of coquetry which didn't suit her.

‘It's a booklist on Tennyson that Bernard promised to look out for me,' said Madeleine frostily.

This had the desired effect. It even made Mrs Franklin look slightly discomfited, which was a rare sight. She also appeared to believe what Madeleine said and her face showed the dismantling of the cosy fantasy she had been building up.

‘Ah, yes. Yes, of course,' she said, and left the room.

‘Now, where were we?' asked Madeleine, her concentration broken.

‘We were talking about love,' said Paul. Then, losing his nerve, ‘Shelley and love.'

‘Oh, yes,' she said, and then repeated the word more firmly. ‘Yes.' But the distraction of the letter was too great. ‘Excuse me a moment,' she said, as she ran her finger along the inside of the envelope.

She half-pulled the contents out, then, seeing their nature, pushed them back into the envelope, which she shoved into her handbag, quickly. But not quickly enough. Paul had had time to see the colours of a reproduction of a painting. The envelope contained a greetings card. It seemed an unlikely way of presenting a booklist.

‘As I thought,' Madeleine said, with a businesslike exhalation of air. ‘Now, Shelley . . . Shelley and love, that's where we were, isn't it?'

Paul couldn't answer. Depression had descended on him like a dark hood. He knew he had been fooling himself. He had entertained the pleasing fantasy of Madeleine and himself and had managed to shut out the fact of Bernard's existence. But the card had removed that illusion. Madeleine's reaction, her sudden decision not to read it left him in no doubt that it was a love-letter. Bernard Hopkins possessed Madeleine just as completely as Tony Ashton possessed Sharon. Once again Paul was the butt, aced out, a laughing stock. Thank God he hadn't got further in his declaration, hadn't made a complete fool of himself by exposing his love.

Madeleine looked at him, and his face must have reflected the shift of his mood, because she asked, ‘What's the matter?'

He shook his head. He couldn't tell her the truth. ‘I don't know. Everything.'

Her voice was gentle and, as he half-hoped, half-feared she might, she leant towards him. ‘Is it still girl trouble, Paul?'

He gave his head a little shake and found, to his shame and despair, that he was crying. He looked away, but she had seen the tears.

‘Oh, Paul, Paul, you mustn't take things so to heart.' Once again Madeleine felt strong, filled with maternal power. She could help this boy. ‘What's wrong? What has Sharon done to get you like this? Has she given you the brush-off?'

‘No, it's not Sharon. It's nothing to do with her.' And yet it was, partly. Sharon's going off with Tony, Sharon's going to bed with Tony, was part of the confusion. But it was more than that, it was all the diverse moods and personalities inside him, the different people he could be at different times, the impossibility of reconciling them into one person, that seemed to be destroying him.

‘Then is there something wrong at home?' asked Madeleine.

That at least gave him a safe, acceptable answer. ‘It's my mother,' he said brokenly, although he knew it wasn't really. ‘She's in hospital. They're doing tests. She's been in for a week now.'

‘You poor boy.' Once again, as he had feared she might, Madeleine took his hand. He turned slightly away. ‘She'll be all right, Paul. I'm sure she'll be all right. Do you know what the tests are for?'

He shook his head, feeling hypocritical. She was giving him sympathy for his mother's illness and it seemed to him that he hardly thought about his mother.

‘You mustn't let yourself get depressed about it, Paul.'

He snorted a bitter laugh. ‘Easy to say.'

‘Do you get very depressed?'

Still not looking at her, not trusting himself so close, he mumbled, ‘I suppose that's a good word to describe it.' But the word didn't seem adequate for the violent seesawing moods that possessed him.

‘And what do you think when you're depressed?' Madeleine persisted.

‘I don't know. Just that it all seems hopeless. That I don't have any future. That there's no point in going on.'

‘You mustn't think that.' Madeleine's second hand came to enclose his. He turned even further away and, as he did so, his pullover rode up to show the end of the sheath-knife on his belt.

‘What's that?' asked Madeleine in alarm.

He turned to look. ‘That? Oh. Just a knife.'

‘Why do you carry a knife?'

‘I don't know.'

‘You must know.'

‘Well, yes, perhaps. I suppose I just carry it in case I need it.'

‘Why should you need it?'

He shrugged and looked away again. Madeleine let go of his hands and sat upright in her seat. ‘Give it to me, Paul.'

‘What?'

‘Give me the knife.'

‘Why?'

‘You're in a disturbed state. I don't think you should be carrying a knife. Besides,' she continued, improvising, ‘it's a rule in this school that none of the students should carry offensive weapons. Come on, give it to me.'

Wordlessly, in a numb, almost hypnotic state, Paul unbuckled his belt, slipped the sheath-knife off it, and passed the weapon over to Madeleine.

‘Thank you.' She rose to her feet. ‘I'm afraid I'm going to have to hand this over to Mr Garrett.'

She left the room.

‘Just give it back to him,' said Julian Garrett.

‘I can't do that.'

‘Why not? It's his.'

‘But, Julian, you can't have students walking into the school with weapons like this.'

‘Who can be hurt? There are hardly any other students around at the moment.'

‘But it's the principle.'

‘This isn't a comprehensive. The boy's eighteen. If he wants to carry a knife, and so long as he doesn't stab anyone with it, I don't see why we should bother to object.'

‘I'm not so worried about him stabbing someone else. I'm worried about him doing himself an injury.'

‘Why should he?'

‘He's a very confused young man. Very depressed. He was virtually talking about suicide a few moments ago.' Julian Garrett sighed, shook his head, and picked a hair off his elegantly pin-striped sleeve. ‘Madeleine, I don't usually have to say this to you. Garrettway is not a full residential school. All we have to do is teach the students what they pay for. We're not responsible for their personal problems. There's no need for us to get involved.'