Lewis Percy (15 page)

He was also beguiled by her fastidiousness. She was as
neat and as silent as a cat. After a day spent putting his house to rights she would devote much time to her own upkeep, spending what seemed like hours in the bathroom while he lay wistfully in bed waiting for her. He sometimes had the feeling that she was the cleanest person in the world, and felt coarse and gross in comparison. He teased her, but she was so absorbed in the problems of her hygiene and her appearance that his teasing had little effect. He supposed that she was used to thinking of herself as frail, yet he could see that this was not entirely the case. Bottles of lotion began to accumulate on her dressing-table, and when she finally entered his bed various tonic scents came with her, as if the whole human organism had been swept and garnished. He was proud of her and amused by her in equal measure; he was even impressed by her, although he was forced to wonder what went on in her heart, or even to wonder whether that heart had not atrophied during the long years of her claustration. He still waited for her to come to life, and was forced to regard the many ways in which she performed her marital role as a long and brilliant form of delay. He had acquired, simultaneously, an excellent wife, whose competence he could only value and admire, and a sort of artefact, which, like the automata in
The Tales of Hoffmann
, came to life when he was not there. For it seemed impossible to believe that he knew all there was to know of her, and that what he did know was enough to last him for the rest of his life.

He was not unhappy, far from it. But sometimes he felt a sense of relief in leaving for work, for that library in which the rules were so clear, so reassuring, and so manifestly without guile. He had of course accepted Professor Armitage’s offer as soon as he had contemplated marriage; once he had received his doctorate he could no longer postpone a sort of career, the only kind for which he was fitted. Just as his glasses precluded anything of an athletic nature, he thought his scholarly pursuits ruled out higher ambition, or indeed ambition of any sort, as if he had taken a vow of mental
chastity. He sank into the routines of the library gratefully rather than otherwise, glad to be in familiar surroundings, glad to see Pen’s head and shoulders at a distant desk, glad to be so virtuously employed. If he was also a little disappointed (here too) he had no grounds for complaint: the job was modest but intellectually respectable, and after all doctorates were two a penny these days. He was allowed one free afternoon a week for research, and this time he devoted to the labour of turning his thesis into a book, for he had been encouraged to submit his material to the university press. The rest of his time he spent cataloguing articles in the many publications that were allotted to him. This subject index kept him in touch with work in his field and even with work outside it. It was not uninteresting; it had a certain dignity. He was aware that he needed a dignity of his own, and was glad to find it in his work. As time went on he became thankful for the humble tasks that fell within his competence, grateful for the rite of passage that had turned him from a student into a wage-earner, grateful for the very books in the stacks. But he was still surprised to find himself on the bus every morning, with his briefcase, and again at lunchtime, drinking a half of lager with Pen; he was surprised to be taken seriously as an adult when he felt so much in need of care and concern. Sometimes he thought back to his time in Paris as if it were half a lifetime ago. He still unconsciously sought that glow of protection which had enabled him to sustain his indeterminate status and thus, in an entirely mysterious way, get on with his work. Now he felt falsely grown up, masquerading as an adult, a working man, in fact, part of the labour force. He worried that his brain might suffer. And yet, as far as he could see, his brain had not registered the change and continued on its course, indifferent to the circumstances that hedged it about.

The one irritant in this atmosphere of false serenity – for he was aware of, even bemused by its artificiality – was Arnold Goldsborough, the chief librarian and his nominal boss. Florid, large, shapeless, with rosy curls blossoming
above his collar, Goldsborough’s welcoming appearance was undermined by his cautious eye, which was oblique, like that of a halibut. He bore, like an oriflamme, his elaborate name – ‘Goldsborough!’ he would announce, holding out a comradely hand when meeting a new acquaintance: no one escaped. He was something of a true scholar, but, like many a scholar he needed the plaudits of the crowd, was shrewd, an entertainer, not good on his own. It gave him pleasure to hear his witticisms – of which the most famous was ‘Only deconstruct’ – quoted by students. Officially, in his capacity as practitioner of the new criticism, he was a marauder, a manhandler, busy taking the text away from the author and turning it into something else. In Goldsborough’s hands no writing was safe. He trembled on the verge of intoxicating double meanings, inadvertences, involuntary confessions. Most of his time in the library was spent corresponding with colleagues in France, sacking the temple of language and redistributing the spoils. Feet of clay were discovered everywhere. Yet he was essentially a simple man, genuine, naïf, even timid, one who advanced his cautious sideways eye with suspicion, ready to resist any infraction of his code. Code was another of his favourite words. He was currently applying his technique to an anthology of artists’ letters, a bold move which combined colonizing ingenuity with, he thought, valid enquiry. The delicate and seductive language employed for this task took up his entire attention, and it seemed unfair to ask him to settle more mundane matters; indeed, Lewis owed his position to Goldsborough’s preoccupation. Yet he was adept at reinforcing his seniority, while at the same time dismissing it as an obstacle to the higher thought. A show of exaggerated patience would be combined with a suspicious look from his small glaucous eye. Since requests for his authorization were never more than formal, the intrusion into his private thought process was not serious. Nevertheless, petitioners came to expect the moment when his pencil was flung down and the phrase ‘I cannot take the responsibility’ was uttered.

‘Why does he say he can’t take the responsibility, when I am merely asking him an entirely reasonable question that affects nobody but myself?’ Lewis asked Pen one lunchtime.

‘I suppose he thinks you’re showing too much initiative.
Point de zèle
, Lewis. Unbecoming in a newcomer. Just remember that although you could do this job with both hands tied behind your back, your official apprenticeship will last for several years. To Goldsborough you will always be a tongue-tied juvenile.’

‘But I merely wanted to start giving the index to Hilary to type.’

‘You don’t mean to say you’ve brought it up to date?’ said Pen, scandalized. ‘Don’t you understand? You’re supposed to be doing that for the rest of your life.’

‘Don’t joke; this is too serious. Of course I haven’t brought it up to date. You were joking, weren’t you? I only thought it would be easier to read if it were typed and on larger cards. There’s nothing to stop me adding to it. In fact it would be easier if the cards were larger. But he said he couldn’t take the responsibility. I rather thought it would be mine. Responsibility, I mean.’

‘Maybe that’s what he didn’t like,’ said Pen. ‘He’s the anal type. Don’t take it personally. He really only wants to be left alone to get on with his work. I can’t blame him; neither should you. You want to get on with yours, don’t you?’

Lewis brooded. ‘Of course I don’t object to his work, far from it. It seems eminently respectable. But does he have to dress up for it? I thought Bohemian life went out with the nineteenth century. Long before, in fact.’

‘Oh, come on, it’s all quite harmless. Why shouldn’t he strike a pose if he wants to? He’s quite a sound man, I believe, or so I hear from people I more or less respect. Not my field, of course.’

‘But the clothes!’ said Lewis. ‘The Aristide Bruand hat. The long red scarf. The way he’s always explaining his theories to nubile girls over a drink.’

‘Ah, well, that’s a common weakness. The thing to remember
about Goldsborough is that he’s entirely harmless. At the same time, and probably for that reason, he likes to think of himself as a seriously Rabelaisian character. Actually, he works quite hard. Many’s the time I’ve come past late at night and seen his light still on.’

Lewis still looked worried; in truth he was shaken to find that he had doubted another’s innocence. It was, he thought, the first time he had done this, and he did not like the idea.

Pen ordered another round. ‘The trouble with you, Lewis, is that you’re a prig. Cheer up, old son. It can be our secret.’

‘Yes,’ said Lewis sadly. ‘I daresay you’re right. But in the meantime I’ve got to do the whole index by hand because he can’t take the enormous responsibility for the consequences if Hilary starts typing it. Oh, come on, Pen. Is this serious?’

‘Only if you let it annoy you. It’s not bad work, you know. We’re not making munitions or anything. It’s a decent place, decent people. And he’s probably right about those cards, as you’ll very soon agree. I thought you’d be less restless by now. Everything’s all right, isn’t it?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Lewis. ‘Everything’s fine.’

He spent the afternoon going through the papers of a learned symposium and took an article on Delacroix to Goldsborough in a spirit of penitence. He was greeted by the flung-down pencil. ‘If it’s about changing the cards, Lewis …’

‘I thought you might like to see this,’ said Lewis. ‘I thought it might be in your field.’

‘Oh, my dear fellow, I was there. I heard that paper. I thought it was quite inadequate. Still, I’ll glance at it again, just leave it there, will you? Good of you to notice it. Off, are you?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, I suppose it is six o’clock. I’ll have to stay on for a bit. No time off for me, you know.’ ‘Come!’ he sang out to a timid knock on the door. ‘Yes, well, if that’s all, Lewis, I’ll see you tomorrow.’ Lewis left, nodding to a girl in a very short skirt, with an official-looking notebook in her hand. ‘Pippa, my dear, where were we?’ he heard as he closed the door behind him.

Leaving the building he hesitated, unwilling to sacrifice the beautiful evening so soon. The idea of the bus was distasteful to him and he decided to walk home. What was wrong with him, he reasoned, was that he did not take enough exercise. As he thought this he became aware of a very slight residual sadness which he decided to put down to the effect of a day spent in the drugged atmosphere of the library, to the silence, and the fiendish radiators. Whatever the reason, he was not anxious to get home without some kind of an interval for rumination, some time to call his own. The idea of covering a long distance appealed to him. Gentlemen in Trollope, to whom he was devoted, even more than to his early heroes, covered vast distances and were thus able to sustain their noble thoughts. Mr Wharton, in
The Prime Minister
, was said to do his round of the parks every Sunday, whereas he, Lewis, merely trudged from his house to the bus-stop every morning, and from the bus-stop to his house every evening. He resolved to walk home regularly, and to tell Tissy to expect him an hour later than his usual time.

He walked through the clamorous Strand to Trafalgar Square, down the Mall to Victoria, and then into Pimlico Road and Sloane Square. Then it was merely a matter of following the King’s Road until he got to the Common. He found himself energized, even excited by the movement of his feet, and began to formulate thoughts as to how he could recast his introduction. Unwittingly, and even unwillingly, he made a connection between the freedom of his thoughts and the freedom of his temporary respite. Free! But he had never wanted to be free, or had not thought he did. He took off his glasses (now horn-rimmed and more professional) and registered a blur of lights. So doing, he managed to recapture some of the rhythm of earlier evenings, when nothing much awaited him except the little ceremony in the salon, during which he could give himself over to attentiveness and his own thoughts. But that was nothing, surely, to what he had now. He put on his glasses again, and the queue outside the cinema sprang into relief. Now he had everything that was
appropriate to a man of his age. Only he was not quite at ease, and this he did not understand. I should have waited, he thought, and suppressed the thought. His life with Tissy, with Goldsborough, was a reasonable life, even an enviable life. And yet he was lonely. The sight of an almond tree just coming into blossom moved him beyond measure, making him aware of a zone of vulnerability round his heart. It is only the season, he thought, this fag-end of winter that makes me yearn. It happens every year. But again came that desire for gratification, for more blossom than this modest tree could afford him, acres of blossom, nature in abundance. He wondered if he might take Tissy to Provence for Easter, so that they both could witness such things. But she remained reluctant to go away. Her agoraphobia, now minimal in London, tended to return when he suggested going further afield. He saw that he might have to defer to her on this, for at least as long as she still lacked confidence, and that he would have to put in more patient work before she would be free enough to take her strength from his.

And his strength? He was still not a hero, never less. Just a man walking home from work, guiltily aware that he had not telephoned his wife to tell her that he would be late. This life, this moderate life of his, seemed to close in on him, as did the lights in the windows, glowing prudently behind drawn curtains. He felt circumscribed by the decency of his surroundings. Once, not so long ago, he would have wished to be safe inside one of those houses, behind those drawn curtains. Now he felt a dull ache of longing for something else, something that he could not identify. Speak to me, he thought; tell me who you are. But he did not know to whom this plea was addressed.

He passed the awful post-war flats, the Texaco station, the fly-blown newsagent’s, above whose premises he imagined Mrs Joliffe to be sitting glumly with Barry. Nearing home, his steps imperceptibly slowed down. The rest of the evening stretched before him: dinner, a little conversation, of the kind he could easily anticipate, then his book, until it was time to
go to bed. Tissy read less now that she had left the library. She seemed quite happy to sit with him, or to watch television, but he was aware of her silence, and felt obliged to look up on occasion to ask her if she wanted anything. It was time they invited some people round, had a dinner party. Her cooking was up to it, though it was not exciting; the liquor in her stews and casseroles was always a little too thin. He had more feeling for food than she did. He always enjoyed the shopping expeditions, urging her to buy more. Every fruit, every vegetable seemed to have within it a promise of earthly delights. But she usually demurred. ‘Someone has to watch the money,’ she said.