Lewis Percy (6 page)

So bereft was he in those two days that his eyes never left his cousin’s face, accepting his authority in everything, realizing that at thirty-seven Andrew was a man, likely to know how to pay bills, buy food, and even arrange funerals. He half heard his cousin explain that the house now belonged to him, and that he should get someone in to look at the wiring. Andrew had, after all, known Lewis’s father, John Percy, the quantity surveyor, had been all of nineteen when John Percy had died. They were both orphans. Now Andrew had only horrible Susan for company, with her virtuous full skirts, and her small incurving teeth, and her colourless nail polish. Not even a nice woman to cheer him up, thought Lewis, feeling a pang of sympathy for his cousin who had had to be a man perhaps before he was ready, and who had married the ungenerous Susan because that was what men did. He was probably too decent even to acknowledge his disappointment, and had had to get over his dismay at having no family, no context other than work, and only self-effacing Aunt Grace Percy as a relative, with her absent-minded and all but hidden affections. Only Lewis had had access to those affections; therefore he was able briefly to pity his cousin for being so disadvantaged.

Feeling this pity he was glad to accept instructions from Andrew. He attended the funeral because he was told to;
left to himself he would have stayed hidden in the house. His mind was vague, unfocused. It was as if Andrew had dispensed him from all initiative, even the initiative of thinking appropriate thoughts – his feelings he intended to keep to himself. And he was glad to see Andrew sitting in his chair, as if in so doing he were actively substituting for Lewis. It was only Susan to whom he objected.

‘You might as well stay in the house.’ said Andrew. ‘It is your home. But stop lighting these big fires, Lewis; you’ll burn the place down. Get yourself one of these new electric heaters. You only need it in the evening, after all.’

‘Have you asked Lewis how he’s to earn his living?’ asked Susan, not deigning or not managing to ask Lewis himself. Obliquity was another of her usages; direct engagement was not willingly conferred.

‘Yes, we must think about that,’ said Andrew, lighting his pipe. Again Lewis felt a pang of pity. The pipe went with the obstinately soft moustache, went with the office, went with Susan. ‘You’ve wasted enough time, Lewis. What are your plans?’

‘I haven’t any,’ he had been forced to reply. ‘I’ve got my grant until June. Then I thought I’d try the British Council.’

But when the letter had come from the British Council, on the morning after his mother’s death, he had thrown it on the fire.

‘You should think about the Civil Service,’ his cousin had said. ‘Your French is quite good, isn’t it? There’s a procedure to be gone through, exams and so on. But it’s a good steady career, and that is what you need. I’ve never looked back,’ he said wistfully, or did Lewis imagine it? ‘You’ll have to see the bank manager,’ he went on, ‘and close the account. I can’t do that for you. In fact, you’ll have to manage, Lewis. Call on me for advice. Don’t sell anything,’ he added. ‘Uncle Jack invested wisely. You should have enough to live on, if you’re careful. Of course, you must get a job – that goes without saying. Get that thesis out of the way and set yourself up
properly. Work is the thing, Lewis. A man is lost without proper work.’

Susan stirred, uncharacteristically. ‘Time we were getting back,’ she said. ‘Get my coat, would you, dear?’ She was full of such requests, deeming her presence alone sufficient to dispense her from further activity. Andrew, still trying to explain to Lewis that he must keep all receipted bills, disappeared into the hall and came back with Susan’s coat. ‘Have you understood that, Lewis? What? What’s the matter, dear?’

‘I’m waiting for you to help me on with my coat,’ said Susan patiently. Lewis wondered if Andrew hated her as much as he, Lewis, did. But no, he thought, he is afraid of her. What he would really like would be for her to be more of a mother to him. At the thought of the word ‘mother’ he turned away, faint-hearted, willing them both to be gone.

‘Goodbye, Lewis,’ said Susan with a tiny smile. ‘Cheer up.’

‘If you need anything, get in touch,’ said his cousin, looking worried.

‘But do remember, won’t you, that we live rather a long way away,’ added Susan.

‘I know that,’ said Lewis, tired now, and uncomprehending. ‘I dare say I could get to you in just over an hour.’

‘I mean,’ said Susan, ‘we can’t be dashing up to London every five minutes.’

‘Andrew comes up every day,’ he pointed out. ‘To go to work.’

‘Well,’ she replied meditatively, pulling on her gloves. ‘That’s different, isn’t it?’

Then he was alone, and on the whole glad of it. He kicked the dying fire, perhaps the last he would ever light, for the coal was nearly gone, and he did not know how to order more. He sank down once again onto his footstool. He was alarmed at the abrasive feelings that Susan’s presence had aroused. Such withholding, such resistance as she had manifested signalled a suspicion which he could not begin to comprehend. Yet she was every inch a wife, he mused, every gesture, every inflection proprietorial. How did one avoid
women like this? What skills must he develop in order to see through them? Thoughts such as these cast into further urgency the matter of his future life, for there would, he knew, have to be a female presence to comfort his loneliness. Not to replace his mother – the idea was unthinkable – but perhaps to console him for her absence. And he knew no-one. He dimly saw this as a disastrous fault. He had been too wrapped up in his work, in his unpromising idealism, to learn the way a man should behave with a woman. What was worse, he did not yet fully consider himself a man. The idealism he now saw as hopeless, doomed. He perceived with a kind of pity that his lonely evenings, writing up his notes, in careful ink, had precluded him from every other kind of activity. Yet what he would want to feel, with a woman, was something of the idealism he had felt for his work, a self-forgetful ardour that would cancel out his incompetence, his gracelessness, and bring forth a compensating mercy, and also the satisfaction that he had glimpsed when an argument or an explanation had composed itself while in his care. Something, too, of that transparency that meant doing without the argument altogether. Perfect understanding; all effort unnecessary. With that acquired he would be a citizen of the free world at last. That was how the gap would be closed and the circle made whole once more.

Finally, when it was very late, he went up to bed. He stood for a moment on the landing, then, slowly, quietly, he closed his mother’s door.

The next day, Saturday, was the day on which he was to begin his new life. He gazed at the heap of ash that had been the fire, then left it and went out. The weather was dull, misty, hazy, damp, as it had been on the day of the funeral, lending the whole procedure an air of unreality: this winter was unseasonably mild. Lewis almost wished for a frost, a snowfall, something that would bring people together, inspire comments between strangers. Yet the street stretched before him grey and featureless, and apart from the lorries in the background, there was no animation. Standing
at deserted bus stops he felt a terrible bewilderment, and with it the beginnings of anger. Life should be better than this. It should be splendid, colourful, exciting, not this miserable affair of mortal illness and tinned soup and ashes in the grate. He abandoned the bus stop and began to walk, found himself eventually striding down the King’s Road, welcoming the crowds, the air of licence, the greater profusion in the shops, the promise of excess. He bought bread and milk, and, because he could think of nothing better, more soup. Cheese occurred to him, as something that required no cooking, and then, in a Proustian flash, he saw himself buying the camembert in Paris. But that was the solution: he must go back! He could rent his old room again and finish his thesis there, where he had begun it. The thought momentarily excited him. After all, he knew the routine in Paris, knew how to fill his day, and even looked forward to getting back (he did not quite think ‘home’) in the evenings. Those women, and their indifferent affection or affectionate indifference, would take him into their care, bind his wounds, make him fit once again for this cruel world. He could leave next week, for there was nothing to keep him here. So enabling did this decision seem that he went into a coffee bar and ate the nearest thing to a meal that he had eaten for some days. And now that he was in no hurry he strolled among the Saturday crowds, losing something of his heavy-heartedness, until fatigue came upon him suddenly, and he got on the bus and went home.

Standing at the window, as his mother had done, and feeling grief rising once more to the surface, he was surprised to see Professor Armitage, out of context, approaching him from the corner of the street. Thinking that the man looked diminished without his desk to protect him, and uncharacteristically encumbered as he was with a carrier bag and a bunch of flowers, Lewis realized with alarm that Armitage, knowing nothing of the events of the past week, had come to tea as arranged. This must be prevented at all costs. Lewis rushed to the door and opened it on to Professor Armitage’s modest and appreciative smile.

‘I’m awfully sorry, sir,’ he said precipitately. ‘I’m afraid it’s all off. I mean, my mother died on Monday.’ He found himself in an attitude of defence, almost barring access to the house.

It was Professor Armitage who quailed at this announcement, his smile slowly giving way to an expression of distress.

‘My dear boy, I am so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Are you alone? Perhaps if I could come in for a few minutes?’

Lewis led the way to the drawing-room, momentarily ashamed of the empty grate. He was leaving anyway, he told himself; he would clear up before he went. He watched Professor Armitage lower himself into a chair, placing his flowers tactfully out of sight. Why did everyone have to seem to him so unbearably vulnerable? Armitage, he had heard, was a bachelor, had lived with a widowed sister until she died, and since then had soldiered on alone, grateful for any company. A good scholar, but too modest to have made his mark, an excellent adviser, patient and always interested. There had been a wistfulness there too, thought Lewis, who steeled himself to be ruthless. He saw, regretfully, that he must say goodbye to his earlier innocence if he were ever to make his mark in the world. If he failed in this task, innocence – his mother’s innocence – would overcome him, and then where would he be?

‘You’ll go on with your work, I hope, Lewis?’ Professor Armitage, Lewis saw with despair, was easing himself out of his coat. ‘Of course, I shan’t be at the college after June, but you will have the thing well set up by then. And I dare say Dr McCann will look after you if you want any help. I don’t think I’m being indiscreet in saying that the university press is always interested in new work. You would have to revise and expand, of course, but that would be a matter for the future. You’ll keep in touch, Lewis? I’ve enjoyed your work.’

Fatal humility, thought Lewis. Yes, he would keep in
touch, but not too frequently. Men like Armitage were obsolete, all but saintly, and thus uncomfortable. He too had enjoyed the work, but, being young, had thought it entirely his own. Besides, it was the company of women that he craved. He did not see, in this moment of discomfort and disarray, how Professor Armitage could minister to him. Of the two barren lives he was forced to prefer his own. Yet how did that help him?

‘Have you enough to live on?’ pursued Professor Armitage.

Lewis said that he had no idea.

‘Well, that is certainly very important. And you will want a job. You might find something in the library to tide you over. That friend of yours works there, doesn’t he? If you like the idea I might be able to use a little influence.’

It was to be all libraries, Lewis thought.

‘I wonder if I might ask you for a cup of tea, Lewis? It is rather a long way from Muswell Hill. Several buses, you know, and I am not so young as I was.’

It was seven o’clock before he left, after having persuaded Lewis to light the fire again. Even then he seemed reluctant to go. But Lewis was now impatient to telephone the Avenue Kléber, and paid scant attention to Professor Armitage’s kind assurances. He regarded the library suggestion as something to fall back on in a case of extreme need, something to be avoided for as long as possible. He felt now that only an investment in his own future could obliterate the grief he felt silently gathering in the corners of the room. He stood at the door, watching Professor Armitage beat his slow retreat, seeing him as a blank silhouette outlined against the fuzzy halo of a street lamp. Only when the sound of his heels had faded and the suburban street was quiet again did he go inside.

The return to Paris he now saw as a desperate act, one perhaps that would not repay him. And yet it was the thing he had to do. He craved the sedative of routine, and here, at home, routine had been cancelled and he did not know
how to re-establish it. The untidy grate stared him in the face, ashes scattered over the hearth; the room already had a pall of dust, and in the kitchen the larder was almost empty again. He would go simply because it was impossible for him to stay. He would finish his work – that went without saying – but that was not his primary purpose. What he craved was a return to his earlier self, before sadness had come into his life. Perhaps he would never come home again. He saw himself, an ageing child, living out a bachelor existence in a room in Paris: eventually he would assume the lineaments of a Frenchman, with a trenchcoat and a briefcase and rimless glasses. He would go home in the evenings to Mme Doche and the women. Nothing about this was ideal, he knew, and most of it was illusory, but if he stayed here loneliness would overpower him. He did not like the direction his thoughts were taking. He did not like his situation. And yet he knew that decisions would have to be made, and that now was the time to make them. In so doing he would grow up, grow older, something that he had singularly failed so far to do. He must move immediately if he were not to lose the power of moving altogether.