Imaginative Experience (23 page)

Julia muttered, ‘How do you know what her sort is?’ And freed her elbow.

Sylvester said, ‘What?’

‘That is the man who was trying to break into my flat.’ Julia’s voice rose in pain. ‘The man I deafened with Christy’s whistle. The man who calls me a murderer, and pretends to speak in a child’s voice.’

‘Hold on,’ Sylvester said, recapturing her elbow, ‘hold on. I recognize him now. He was in the train when you stopped it. I took agin him, didn’t like his attitude; it was sort of prurient. He wanted to meet you, to speak to you, ask questions. Then he tripped and fell over at Paddington, so I assumed he’d lost you. Here we are,’ he said, fumbling for his key, ‘and just in time, here comes the rain. That will put a stop to the dancing.’

Julia said, ‘Then I can go back,’ but Sylvester shouted, ‘
No
,’ pushing her ahead of him into the hall. ‘Do quit being silly. The dancing may stop, but the binge inside won’t. What an amazing thing,’ he said, slamming the door shut and guiding her to the sofa. ‘If I put all these connections and meetings into my novel, nobody would believe it. Too contrived, they’d say. Things like that do not happen in real life. It’s a rotten, rotten book.’

‘But they do,’ Julia said wearily. She looked drained, worse than when he had first seen her in the morning. ‘You could fit it all into
Wellington’s Valet,
she said.

‘You remember the title!’ He was enchanted. ‘It doesn’t have to be called
Wellington’s Valet,
that’s a title I snatched from the air to annoy Rebecca, stop her prying. I have not even written the first paragraph,’ he confessed.

Julia said, ‘But you will,’ letting her head fall back against the cushions.

‘Will you promise to stay where you are for a few minutes?’ He stood over her.

She said, ‘All right.’ She was still muffled into her overcoat; the dog sat close to her feet. He switched on the fire and drew the curtains, shutting out the rain. The street lamps were on; it was growing dark. He felt a renewal of fatigue and very, very hungry as he went downstairs to his kitchen. Rebecca still exerted her governessy influence, he observed, searching through his cupboards: milk was not the only sustenance she provided; months ago, insinuating herself into the house, she had brought and cooked him a delicious pasta. ‘Aha! Here we are, half the packet of pasta, a jar of delicious sauce, parmesan cheese, olive oil, let’s see what I can do.’ Filling a saucepan with water and setting it to boil, he speculated as to what delicious dish Rebecca would cook to ensnare her latest
trouvaille?
‘I bet she feeds him steak,’ he said out loud. Uncorking a bottle of wine, he wished her luck.

Julia managed a little pasta but left her wine. She sat half listening as Sylvester told her of a strange adventure with the Ku Klux Klan, three dizzying blondes and a book which might or might not be published. Soon she must step out in the rain and battle back to her flat. She stifled a jaw-breaking yawn, overwhelmed by huge fatigue. ‘I’m awfully sorry,’ she interrupted him, ‘but I had better go now. I have to work tomorrow. The pasta was, er, is delicious. I can’t thank you enough but I really should get some sleep. You must be exhausted, too, after your long journey. I have imposed enough.’

But having eaten his pasta and drunk more than his share of wine on top of various whiskies during the day, Sylvester was imbued with a fresh spurt of energy. He knew it would not last for he too was exhausted, but not too exhausted to conquer his natural hesitancy. If Julia was too tired to take in his polite prattle, he hoped and guessed that if he acted fast enough she would be too weary to put up much fight. So here goes, he adjured himself, and said, ‘There is no way you are going back to that orgy. You are going to sleep here.’

Julia said, ‘What? I can’t.’

But Sylvester said, ‘Don’t argue. Come along. When I say sleep, I mean sleep, “sleep perchance to dream”, nothing more. Here we go,’ he said, propelling her up the stairs, pushing and pulling. ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said as they reached the bedroom. ‘I will just rearrange these,’ he said, dividing the pillows from the heap of four which made reading in bed such an indulgence into two lots of two. ‘You can sleep in this, it will come down to your knees, perfectly decent.’ He snatched a shirt from a drawer. ‘Get into that. While you undress I’ll let your dog out for a pee. Would you like a bath? You wouldn’t? Well, get cracking, come on, come on,’ he bullied, taking her sweater and pulling it over her head. ‘Get on with it,’ he said, drawing the curtains and shutting out the night. ‘When I bring your dog back, I want to find you in the bed, got it?’ And, accompanied by Joyful, he left the room.

Five minutes later, for Joyful was not a dog to dally in torrential rain, he was back, locking the front door and taking the telephone off the hook while Joyful scampered back up the stairs.

Seeing him pull off his sweater, kick off his shoes and unzip his fly, Julia in the bed mouthed, ‘Where?’, coiling her body to spring. ‘Whe—’

Sylvester said, ‘Where do you expect me to sleep? I am too long for the sofa and the bath is purgatory.
All right, all right,
I am not going to touch you, wouldn’t dream of it. I am dead to the world, knackered. If you fear rape,’ he said, lifting the duvet and joining her in the bed, ‘Joyful can lie between us like a bolster.’ And, laying his head on the pillows, he rejoiced to feel the bed shake with her laughter.

S
QUASHED AMONG COMMUTERS IN
the tube Sylvester considered the last week, a week spent discussing Bratt’s manuscript. All in his office were agreed that the book was badly written and its content foul. Though one editor was doubtful, two were in favour of buying the manuscript and one, a senior member of the firm, was of the firm opinion that properly presented and cleverly marketed the book, for its content alone, was a potential bestseller. All agreed the book needed a preface and, though interest was expressed in his notes, these were soon forgotten as colleagues tossed ideas back and forth among themselves as to how to market, what jacket to choose, and how to manage the publicity. Haste, according to the senior editor, was of the essence. The book was topical, even more topical than most of its kind. It was essential, he suggested with apparent afterthought, that Narrowlane and Jinks should not get hold of it and someone had better travel to the States as soon as possible to sew up a contract. Pressed against alien backs in the tube Sylvester now remembered that Jinks, of Narrowlane and Jinks, had once had an affair with the senior editor’s daughter and had not, it was said, behaved well.

It had then been proposed that since he had been first to read the manuscript and had already met Bratt, he should visit again as soon as possible and, if all went well, have a part after all in the preface; and, if necessary, rewrite the whole book. Forgetting his original opinion of Bratt’s manuscript, Sylvester had cried off. He had only visited Bratt, he explained, because John could not, it being so near Christmas, a child having a birthday and so on. He too must refuse because he was biased; he disliked the book intensely and its author more. He would find himself incapable of being objective. Someone had said, ‘Fair enough, we will think again,’ but Sylvester had been unable to leave well alone, as he would tell Julia. He had gone on to say that there was too much ingrained racism in society and that this would be fostered by Bratt’s book, however cleverly presented.

‘There will always be readers who will rejoice in the book, agree with Bratt’s views. It might even start a new cult,’ he had said, ‘and in my opinion no respectable publishing house should touch it.’

Nobody had laughed, he would tell Julia when he got home, one or two had pretended to agree; nobody had called him pompous to his face. The prime reason, he must tell her, for his refusal was his annoyance at finding his original impression of Bratt’s
oeuvre
so exactly coincided with that of the oldest editor, whom he had long considered past it and ripe for retirement. This, he hoped, would amuse Julia, she being a girl to whom he could tell everything; he knew, too, that she would instinctively feel about Bratt’s book as he did.

But she would not be there to tell, he remembered with shock; the house when he got back would be empty, as it had been that morning ten days ago when he woke to find no trace other than a dent in the pillow.

‘Christ!’ he exclaimed as the train strained to a stop. ‘I am going mad!’ And, pushing his way to the doors, he got out to walk down Sloane Street to Partridges and buy himself something for a solitary supper.

Halfway along Sloane Street he had a better idea; he would cut through side-streets to Patel’s Corner Shop, renew his order for newspapers and buy his supper there. There might be a clue. He quickened his step.

Patel’s Corner Shop was busy. Arming himself with a wire basket he prowled along the shelves, glancing at his fellow shoppers. Julia’s flat was only a street away; did any of these people know her? Had some of them been at that ghastly party? He recognized no-one. Morosely he chose a steak, changed his mind, took two. One could go in the freezer. The lettuces were crisp, he put one in the basket. He chose fruit, oranges, Cox’s Orange Pippins, bananas, and sighting mangoes found them irresistible and picked out two. On to the cheese section for a fruity little goat cheese and a hunk of Stilton before running his eye over the notice-board.

Siamese kitten for sale, neutered.

Mountain bike.

Acupuncture.

Philosophy student in need of accommodation.

Aromatherapy.

Half-grown goat.

Volvo Estate car
(Yes, I want a car but shall treat myself to a new one and enjoy its smell.)

Reflexology.

Maps of Yugoslavia urgently wanted.

‘Sir?’ He had arrived at the counter. Mr Patel smiled.

‘Oh, ah, yes, thanks.’ Sylvester unloaded his basket while Mr Patel worked the till. ‘Before I forget, I want to renew my order for newspapers.’

‘Mr Wykes, certainly.’

‘You remember my name?’ He was gratified.

‘The
Observer, The Sunday Times,
no smellies,
Independent?’

‘Right, and oh, just a minute, I think I’ll have a couple of tins of dog food.’ He must not lose hope, it was still possible he would entice her for a meal; it would be politic to feed the dog. He liked the dog.

‘Chappie?’ Mr Patel made dog food so friendly, so intimate. ‘On the shelf there, sir.’ He packed the purchases in a strong paper bag with
Patel’s Corner Shop
and
Recycled
printed on its sides. ‘Coffee?’ he suggested. ‘Beans?’

‘Oh yes, thanks for reminding me. A half of Kenyan and half of Colombian, please.’

Mr Patel weighed coffee beans, sealed them into a paper bag.

‘Is it the same goat?’ Sylvester nodded towards the board.

‘Is imaginary.’ Mr Patel lowered his eyes. ‘Your dog like Chappie?’

‘He might as well be imaginary too.’

Mr Patel named the sum of Sylvester’s purchases. The moment had come to ask about Julia, but he had prepared no question, was at a loss how to start. Could he say he had been to the house where she lived, had rung the bell, a woman from another flat had opened the door and said, ‘She’s out. Saw her go. No, don’t know her. Why don’t you telephone or write?’ and practically slammed the door? He cleared his throat. ‘I wanted to ask—’ But behind him, impatient to pay and be on her way, a woman poked him in the back with her loaded basket. He paid, pocketed his change and, cursing his lack of courage, left.

That bloody woman had robbed him of his chance. Mr Patel did know Julia, it was Patel’s notice-board which had found him Julia. It would surely be possible to leave a message; could he do it tomorrow? He could write, but write what, exactly? He could stay home from work, lie in wait, catch her when she came to clean. But did she come? Had she been? Houses could stay clean, couldn’t they? If she
was
coming as usual, she left no trace. If she were going to come, would she have left his bed so secretly and vanished without a sound? Had he been
snoring
when she woke?

‘Oh God!’ Sylvester exclaimed. He had not thought of this before. ‘Snoring! God!’

‘Only me,’ said Hamish Grant as they collided. ‘Your mortal cousin, not the Almighty. I don’t snore.’

Sylvester said, ‘Oh! Hamish! What are you doing here?’ rather aggressively.

‘Just passing. Wondered whether you’d join me for a bite of dinner. Could put you in the picture about my parent’s non-demise and non-funeral.’ Hamish grinned.

‘Put my foot in it there,’ Sylvester admitted. ‘I have some fillet steak in this bag.’ He held up the Patel’s Corner Shop bag. ‘And salad, cheese, fruit, coffee. I’m on my own, come and share.’

Hamish said, ‘Thanks, love to. How was America? Been back long?’ He sounded quite friendly.

‘Ten days, and if you are not careful I will tell you all about it. But first, how is your mother, my favourite aunt?’

‘Worried that you may have lost your marbles.’

‘So she sent you to enquire?’

‘Thought of it myself. No need to be huffy. Finding myself in this area and having heard a rumour that your firm is doing a book on Marvin Bratt; there was that, too.’

‘News travels fast,’ said Sylvester. ‘It’s not
about,
it’s
by.
Who told you?’

‘I know Narrowlane,’ said Hamish evasively.

‘Not Jinks?’

‘Same thing.’

‘So, finding yourself “just passing” in this area, you came to snoop?’

‘Snoop’s a harsh word,’ said Hamish. They reached Sylvester’s door. ‘You might need a long spoon,’ he said gently.

‘The thought had crossed my mind.’ Sylvester unlocked his door. ‘Come along in. Actually,’ he said, leading the way into the house, ‘I have refused to have anything to do with it. The man is a stinker and what’s more he can’t write.’

Hamish said, ‘That’s all right, then. Good Lord! Somebody has been at your garden. Can I look?’ He peered through the french windows at the garden, partly visible by the light from the sitting-room.