The Black Halo (34 page)

I used to be in your class in 1944–5. I heard you were retiring so I came along to offer you my felicitations.’

‘Oh?’ said Mr Bingham turning away from the mirror regretfully.

‘Isn’t that nice of Mr Heine?’ said his wife.

‘Won’t you sit down?’ she said and Mr Heine sat down, carefully pulling up his trouser legs so that he wouldn’t crease them.

‘My landlady of course has seen you about the town,’ he said to Mr Bingham. ‘For a long time she thought you were a farmer. It shows one how frail fame is. I think it is
because of your red healthy face. I told her you had been my English teacher for a year. Now I am in advertising. One of my best rhymes is:

You taught me Tennyson and Pope. I remember both rather well.’

‘The fact,’ said Mr Bingham, ‘that I don’t remember you says nothing against you personally. Thousands of pupils have passed through my hands. Some of them come to speak
to me now and again. Isn’t that right, dear?’

‘Yes,’ said Mrs Bingham, ‘that happens quite regularly.’

‘Perhaps you could make a cup of coffee, dear,’ said Mr Bingham and when his wife rose and went into the kitchen, Mr Heine leaned forward eagerly.

‘I remember that you had a son,’ he said. ‘Where is he now?’

‘He is in educational administration,’ said Mr Bingham proudly. ‘He has done well.’

‘When I was in your class,’ said Mr Heine, ‘I was eleven or twelve years old. There was a group of boys who used to make fun of me. I don’t know whether I have told you
but I am a Jew. One of the boys was called Colin. He was taller than me, and fair-haired.’

‘You are not trying to insinuate that it was my son,’ said Mr Bingham angrily. ‘His name was Colin but he would never do such a thing. He would never use physical violence
against anyone.’

‘Well,’ said Mr Heine affably. ‘It was a long time ago, and in any case

Colin was the ringleader, and he had blue eyes. In those days I had a lisp which sometimes returns in moments of nervousness. Ah, there is Mrs Bingham with the coffee. Thank
you, madam.’

‘Mr Heine says that when he was in school he used to be terrorised by a boy called Colin who was fair-haired,’ said Mr Bingham to his wife.

‘It is true,’ said Mr Heine, ‘but as I have said it was a long time ago and best forgotten about. I was small and defenceless and I wore glasses. I think, Mrs Bingham, that you
yourself taught in the school in those days.’

‘Sugar?’ said Mrs Bingham. ‘Yes. As it was during the war years and most of the men were away I taught Latin. My husband was deferred.’

‘
Amo, amas, amat
,’ said Mr Heine. ‘I remember I was in your class as well.

‘I was not a memorable child,’ he added, stirring his coffee reflectively, ‘so you probably won’t remember me either. But I do remember the strong rhymes of Pope which
have greatly influenced me. And so, Mr Bingham, when I heard you were retiring I came along as quickly as my legs would carry me, without tarrying. I am sure that you chose the right profession. I
myself have chosen the right profession. You, sir, though you did not know it at the time placed me in that profession.’

Mr Bingham glanced proudly at his wife.

‘I remember the particular incident very well,’ said Mr Heine. ‘You must remember that I was a lonely little boy and not good at games.

And then again I was being set upon by older boys and given a drubbing every morning in the boiler room before classes commenced. The boiler room was very hot. I had a little
talent in those days, not much certainly, but a small poetic talent. I wrote verses which in the general course of things I kept secret. Thus it happened one afternoon that I brought them along to
show you, Mr Bingham. I don’t know whether you will remember the little incident, sir.’

‘No,’ said Mr Bingham, ‘I can’t say that I do.’

‘I admired you, sir, as a man who was very enthusiastic about poetry, especially Tennyson. That is why I showed you my poems. I remember that afternoon well. It was raining heavily and the
room was indeed so gloomy that you asked one of the boys to switch on the lights. You said, “Let’s have some light on the subject, Hughes.” I can remember Hughes quite clearly, as
indeed I can remember your quips and jokes. In any case Hughes switched on the lights and it was a grey day, not in May but in December, an ember of the done sun in the sky. You read one of my
poems. As I say, I can’t remember it now but it was not in rhyme. “Now I will show you the difference between good poetry and bad poetry,” you said, comparing my little effort
with Tennyson’s work, which was mostly in rhyme. When I left the room I was surrounded by a pack of boys led by blue-eyed fair-haired Colin. The moral of this story is that I went into
advertising and therefore into rhyme. It was a revelation to me.

So you can see, sir, that you are responsible for the career in which I have flourished.’

‘I don’t believe it, sir,’ said Mr Bingham furiously.

‘Don’t believe what, sir?’

‘That that ever happened. I can’t remember it.’

‘It was Mrs Gross my landlady who saw the relevant passage about you in the paper. I must go immediately, I told her. You thought he was a farmer but I knew differently. That man does not
know the influence he has had on his scholars. That is why I came,’ he said simply.

‘Tell me, sir,’ he added, ‘is your son married now?’

‘Colin?’

‘The same, sir.’

‘Yes, he’s married. Why do you wish to know?’

‘For no reason, sir. Ah, I see a photograph on the mantelpiece. In colour. It is a photograph of the bridegroom and the bride.

What is more calculated to stabilise a man than marriage? Alas I never married myself. I think I never had the confidence for such a beautiful institution. May I ask the name of
the fortunate lady?’

‘Her name is Norah,’ said Mrs Bingham sharply. ‘Norah Mason.’

‘Well, well,’ said Mr Heine enthusiastically. ‘Norah, eh? We all remember Norah, don’t we? She was a lady of free charm and great beauty. But I must not go on. All those
unseemly pranks of childhood which we should consign to the dustbins of the past. Norah Mason, eh?’ and he smiled brightly. ‘I am so happy that your son has married Norah.’

‘Look here,’ said Mr Bingham, raising his voice.

‘I hope that my felicitations, congratulations, will be in order for them too, I sincerely hope so, sir. Tell me, did your son Colin have a scar on his brow which he received as a result
of having been hit on the head by a cricket ball.’

‘And what if he had?’ said Mr Bingham.

‘Merely the sign of recognition, sir, as in the Greek tragedies. My breath in these days came in short pants, sir, and I was nearsighted. I deserved all that I got. And now sir, forgetful
of all that, let me say that my real purpose in coming here was to give you a small monetary gift which would come particularly from myself and not from the generality. My salary is a very
comfortable one. I thought of something in the region of . . . Oh look at the time. It is nearly half-past eleven at night.

I was, as I say, thinking of something in the order of . . . ’

‘Get out, sir,’ said Mr Bingham angrily. ‘Get out, sir, with your insinuations. I do not wish to hear any more.’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Mr Heine in a wounded voice.

‘I said “Get out, sir.” It is nearly midnight. Get out.’

Mr Heine rose to his feet. ‘If that is the way you feel, sir. I only wished to bring my felicitations.’

‘We do not want your felicitations,’ said Mrs Bingham. ‘We have enough of them from others.’

‘Then I wish you both goodnight and you particularly, Mr Bingham as you leave the profession you have adorned for so long.’

‘G
ET OUT
, sir,’ Mr Bingham shouted, the veins standing out on his forehead.

Mr Heine walked slowly to the door, seemed to wish to stop and say something else, but then changed his mind and the two left in the room heard the door being shut.

‘I think we should both go to bed, dear,’ said Mr Bingham, panting heavily.

‘Of course, dear,’ said his wife. She locked the door and said, ‘Will you put the lights out or shall I?’

‘You may put them out, dear,’ said Mr Bingham. When the lights had been switched off they stood for a while in the darkness, listening to the little noises of the night from which Mr
Heine had so abruptly and outrageously come.

‘I can’t remember him. I don’t believe he was in the school at all,’ said Mrs Bingham decisively.

‘You are right, dear,’ said Mr Bingham who could make out the outline of his wife in the half-darkness. ‘You are quite right, dear.’

‘I have a good memory and I should know,’ said Mrs Bingham as they lay side by side in the bed. Mr Bingham heard the cry of the owl, throatily soft, and turned over and was soon fast
asleep. His wife listened to his snoring, staring sightlessly at the objects and furniture of the bedroom which she had gathered with such persistence and passion over the years.

When Helen and Tom had got into the car, Tom suddenly asked, ‘Did we bring a bottle for them?’

‘Yes,’ said Helen proudly. ‘I’ve got it in a bag on the back seat.’

‘That’s fine,’ said Tom clicking the safety belt around him.

Helen never wore a safety belt for it never occurred to her that anything would happen to her in a car. Tom on the other hand took the long-headed business view, for after all he was a
businessman. His imagination however was less powerful than hers and confined itself to premonitions of the collapse of his business, the hotel and the chalets. For this reason he worked very hard,
and insured himself against all eventualities. Helen would have preferred to spend their money immediately but Tom took out more and more insurances. What do we want with money in our old age?
Helen would ask him and he would answer, Well, we might fall ill and we would need the money. His bland face was adamant against her.

Ah well, said Helen, ah well. For she never quarrelled, never even wanted to start a quarrel. She loved her children and was content to be with them. In fact she didn’t really like to
leave the house much: she would have liked to spend Tom’s money on a summerhouse where she could sit all day. Or perhaps even on a swimming pool where she could laze and drowse, face upward,
on the hot days of July and August, staring up at the sun, golden and fierce in the sky, in the hard empty blue sky.

‘Well thank God we brought the bottle,’ said Tom. ‘At least they can’t say we were drinking all their drink.’

‘No,’ said Helen. Tom drove very competently, as he did practically everything except those things that depended on the imagination. For instance he couldn’t tell the children
bedtime stories, but she could and did. She had invented a country called Daffodil Land. In this country everything was yellow, the grass, the buses, the roads. Even the flag, the newspapers, the
books, were all yellow. The children loved the story and its endless possibilities for disguise and mystery.

‘Tell us another story about Daffodil Land,’ they would shout at night while Tom would stand about foolishly. At moments like these she thought that he looked very vulnerable, not to
say foolish, and sometimes she had great difficulty in keeping herself from laughing at him. But there was no question that he was a good provider. He drank sparingly and smoked not at all, though
she did both. However he was always hinting that she should smoke less so that they could save more money for that phantom paradise of their old age when they would live on the fat of the land. She
couldn’t imagine herself as old, nor could she imagine Tom as old. Why was that, she wondered, as she watched the cars passing them, and to her right the cows grazing in a field, a calf
nuzzling its mother furiously. Tom’s gaze was directed straight ahead of him.

She wondered vaguely whether she loved him and could not understand what the word meant. Then she had her attention distracted by a black-faced lamb that seemed to be staring straight at her.
How beautiful and innocent lambs were. Like children who didn’t cry too much.

She didn’t really want to visit Tom’s brother but both of them felt it a duty especially when they were periodically invited as now. Tom slightly despised his brother who
didn’t make as much money as he himself made. If Helen had her way she wouldn’t leave her house. After all what was there to attract one in the outside world? Tom’s head, neat and
polished, stared straight ahead. His cheeks were healthily red, his hair cut short.

‘Was it whisky you got or vodka?’ he asked suddenly.

‘Whisky,’ she said.

‘That’s all right then. Teddy’s on the whisky. He was on the vodka for a while but he’s on the whisky now.

‘I saw Gibbon today,’ he added. ‘He bought quite a lot of sherry.’

‘Oh,’ she said, ‘perhaps he’s having a party.’

‘He was looking a bit sloshed,’ said Tom. He drove very carefully, keeping a steady forty and never going over it. ‘Not like him to buy sherry.’

‘True,’ said Helen. Sherry, she thought. What can one possibly say about it.

‘I can’t understand it,’ she said aloud.

‘Neither can I,’ said Tom. ‘It’s all very odd. If it had been anyone else but Gibbon. But he bought four bottles.’

‘Four bottles,’ Helen echoed.

There was a wasp buzzing about her ear and she wished to kill it, it was making so much noise.