Authors: Graham Greene

England Made Me (31 page)

BOOK: England Made Me

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Kate and Krogh stood together in the first row; behind was old Bergsten and Hall and Gullie; the Minister had sent a wreath. One or two clerks, a woman from the hotel, stood near the door; outside a crowd had collected to see Krogh come out. A child had been taken to its first funeral, it didn't understand the standing still, the long wait, the silence, the nothing to look at; its thin bored wail troubled Minty. He felt like a dumb man for whom another acts as interpreter and falsifies his meaning.

For Minty suffered, noting the wreaths he suffered, noting names, vexed by the crying, wanting a cigarette he suffered. He thought: I'll borrow a crown from Nils: and suffered. This was the fourth friend. There wouldn't be many more.

Sparrow, outcast Sparrow because he never washed behind the ears: they went for walks together every Sunday, trudging stolidly along the high road, avoiding the favourite field paths, seldom talking. They had no interests in common: Sparrow in the holidays blew birds' eggs without success, smashing the shell, spattering his mouth; Minty collected butterflies. During term, collecting only dust from cars along the high road, they were friends because they had no other friends; they were ashamed of each other, were grateful to each other, sometimes escaping together from the wet towels in the changing-room, loved each other.

Connell died in a week. Was popular for a week, put a drawing-pin on a master's chair, gave Minty a bar of chocolate, said he'd ask him to tea, went home early during the French hour and died of scarlet fever.

A voice behind him said: âSo sad. Poor young man. A week too in the water.' It was Hammarsten, late as usual, slipping in with his note-book. He whispered beneath his hand: âThe rehearsals are going well. All except Gower. I need another Gower.' He said: âAny relatives?'

âNo, no relatives,' Minty said. He thought of his mother, of old Aunt Ella; he thought, we don't run to much in the way of relatives.

And there was Baxter who let him down when it came to the point, who would have nothing to do with the package of assorted goods from the Charing Cross chemist.

âTo think,' the blonde whispered at Hammarsten's elbow, âthat only last week he held me in his arms.'

Minty winced. He wanted incense to take out the odour of Chanel. He wanted candles to light before the saints. He wanted every possible aid for his fantastic belief that his fourth friend perfected had joined Connell in some place of no pain, no failure, no sex.

He said: âYou aren't the only one.'

âHe had such a way with him.'

âHe had a girl. He introduced me.' He made his proudest claim. âNo one else knew about her but me â and his sister.'

âPoor, poor young thing,' Hammersten said. âWhere is she?' peering into the bright hard glittering church through his steel-rimmed, black-ribboned eye-glasses.

âIn England. She doesn't know. Nobody knows her address.' But all the time he knew, Minty knew, remembered Coventry. It was the one secret he would preserve from this friendship (the morning in his room he tried to forget, tried to forget the lack of milk, the lack of a cup, the starveling hospitality). The secret of friendship he kept as carefully as he would have kept the relic of saints, the Saxon thigh-bone, the holy bandied splinter itself: the bar of chocolate which he never ate, preserved for years, until at last it was lost in one of his innumerable moves through no carelessness of his own: the Brownie snap of himself with a butterfly-net taken by Sparrow: a copy of
The Bushman's Vade-Mecum
Baxter gave him: now to be added, the name Coventry.

Hammarsten said: âYou slipped up badly over the marriage announcement. Lucky not to lose your job.'

Minty laughed: lucky! he couldn't help himself: lucky still to be here to count the wreaths, tot up the names, write out his paragraph, and then up the stairs, the fifty-six stairs, fourteen to the Ekman's home, twenty-eight to the empty flat, the single umbrella, the engraving of Gustavus, and at last the brown dressing-gown, the cocoa in the cupboard, the Madonna on the mantel. But yes, on second thoughts, lucky: things might have been so much worse.

âAnd today,' Hammarsten said, âthe great new American issue was subscribed. Life and death, life and death,' he began to cough, throwing up a little old phlegm on to his grey stubble, his frock-coat, and up in the air behind him, wheeling over the lake, zooming down towards the City Hall, rising and falling like a flight of swallows, the sun catching their aluminium wings as they turned, came the aeroplanes, a dozen at least, making the air noisy with their engines as the sound of the organ died away.

The child stopped crying. âLook,' she cried, âlook.' Something was happening at last.

The woman from the hotel slipped out, looking here and there at everybody with her narrowed gleaming commercial eyes; the clerks hurried out (they had to be back at work). Old Bergsten was supported by his chauffeur down the steps into the street; he wasn't certain why he was there (you could tell it by the cross way he looked about him; he was prepared at any moment to be put upon). Gullie stayed a moment, said something appropriate to Kate, waited until he was outside to put in his monocle. When he saw Minty he tried to avoid him, but Minty caught his sleeve. âYou'll be at the Harrow dinner?'

âOf course. Of course.'

âI had an idea,' Minty said. âOne gets so tired of the old toasts, the school, the headmaster, all the rest. I thought if the Minister replied for Literature and you for Art â'

âWell,' Gullie said, âwell. It's worth consideration, my dear fellow.'

âOf course, you're so many-sided. You could reply for Music, for Drama â not to speak of the Services.'

âJust let me know,' Gullie said, pulling away, âsend a card.'

âYou were there, weren't you, that last night?' Minty said.

âWhat do you mean? Where?'

âPlaying cards with them.'

âOh yes. Yes.'

âYou've heard what people have been saying, that he couldn't, even in the fog, have just walked into the water.'

âPeople will always talk.'

âWas he drunk?'

âHe'd had a few. My dear fellow, you can't imagine how foggy it was. It took me an hour to get to the Legation.'

âI know how foggy it was,' Minty said. âI was out in it.' He coughed. âIt's in my throat still. Standing around all the evening.' He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a silver match-box. âI wanted to give him this.' He twisted it to show the engraved arms. âI was really at Harrow, so it's no good to me. He'd have liked it.'

âWell then, you know how foggy it was.'

âHe came out with Hall. I couldn't speak to him then. I thought I'd follow them, but I lost them at once. It was about ten minutes later I heard him shout.'

âPoor devil.'

âYes, but it was after the shout that Hall came back. He must have been nearer to it than I was, but he'd heard nothing.'

âYou're imagining things, Minty.' Minty turned to watch Hall come down the church, and Gullie pulled himself free. âSend me a card about the dinner like a good chap.'

âYes,' Minty said, âyes. The dinner,' and watched Hall coming to the door; took in with extravagant and useless hatred the wasp waist, the brown velvet lapels; if I could do anything: he stood, a small yellow avenging fury between Hall and the street, the cold clear sun, the crowd, the arabesque of aeroplanes across the sky.

âExcuse me, Mr Hall.' He barred the way, scraping his sore tobacco-bitten tongue along his teeth, aware of revenge wilting in the common everyday air until it became no more than the will to vex, to tease. âHave you a statement to make?'

Hall said: âWhat do you mean? A statement?'

âSurely,' Minty said, blowing his fumy breath in Hall's face as he blew his coffee to cool it, âsurely you must be one of the new directors? With all your experience you'll be managing the New York end?'

âNo,' Hall said, âLaurin is going there.'

âBut Mr Krogh owes you so much.'

âListen,' Hall said. âGet this straight. He owes me nothing. It's me who does the owing.' He slipped on his tight brown gloves. âAnd if we don't see eye to eye about the way I manage things, that's my funeral.' He said: âYou'd better not worry Mr Krogh while I'm round.'

âYou didn't send a wreath,' Minty said. âDidn't you and he get on together?'

âNo.' Hall said.

He waited in the entrance for Krogh to appear, and the two men went off together to the car, side by side, with several feet between, saying nothing. The crowd was silent because it was a funeral. The brain and the hand: the heavy peasant body uneasy in the morning coat, cramped by the collar; and the hand, destruction with a wasp waist and jewelled cuff-links flashing like ice. They had nothing to say to each other; what lay between them, held them apart, left them lonely as they drove away together, was nothing so simple as a death, it was as complicated as the love between a man and a woman.

When they had gone the crowd began to leave. There was nothing to wait for. There was nothing further to see. âLook,' the child said, âlook,' dragged along the pavement, tripping on the edge of the paving, watching the aeroplanes.

âWell,' Minty said, âI'll have to go to the office, get this in.' He didn't know how to talk to her; she was a woman; and just because she was a woman she woke his malice. âHe let me down badly over your wedding.'

âWe were going to be married.'

âWell,' Minty said, âI must be pushing along. See you some time, I suppose. If you'd like to come to an arrangement â' He wanted to escape; he despised scent, silk stockings, powder, salve; like a small smoky Savonarola his nostrils shrank with distaste; he would not feel clean again until he was drinking his cocoa by the meter, under his house photographs. He jumped when she spoke to him; he was not used to be held in conversation: he was ready to suspect the worst of any woman who troubled to talk to him.

Kate said: âYou heard him shout. I didn't hear a thing. I didn't
feel
a thing.'

âYes, but I didn't know.' He said: âI couldn't see. And when Hall came back I thought it must be all right.'

âThey've had a quarrel,' Kate said. âErik and Hall.'

âYou think â' Minty said, âHall â'

âThink,' Kate said, âI know it.' He flinched from her certainty, for if one was sure, one ought to do something, and what, he thought, with sour self-pity, can Minty do?

âSo Laurin's going to New York,' Kate said.

âYou'll stay, of course?' he asked, with contempt.

âNo,' Kate said, âI'm leaving.'

âOh fine,' Minty said, âfine. How it'll hurt them. Couldn't you think up anything better than that? After all, he was your brother; he was only my â' he sheared away from the word âfriend'. Standing there she awed him with her quiet, her moneyed mourning; he couldn't claim more than acquaintanceship; she robbed him a little of Anthony with every sight of her gloves, her shoes, her model dress. âOh,' she said, âa few days ago I could have ruined them. A word to Battersons. But what would have been the use? There's honour among thieves. We're all in the same boat.'

âHe wasn't a thief,' Minty said, defending Sparrow, Connell, Baxter. Â .Â .Â .

âWe're all thieves,' Kate said. âStealing a livelihood here and there and everywhere, giving nothing back.'

Minty sneered: âSocialism.'

âOh no,' Kate said. âThat's not for us. No brotherhood in our boat. Only who can cut the biggest dash and who can swim.'

The aeroplanes drove back above the lake, leaving a plumy trail: âKrogh's. Krogh's,' over Stockholm, a thin trellis-work of smoke; the âK' fading as the âS' was drawn.

âSo you're going back to England?' Minty said, remembering the fifty-six stairs, the empty flat, the Italian woman on the third floor.

âNo,' Kate said, âI'm simply moving on. Like Anthony.'

the incense cones, the condensed milk, the cup (I've forgotten the cup).

âA job in Copenhagen.'

the missal in the cupboard, the Madonna, the spider withering under the glass, a home from home.

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