The Centre of the Green (6 page)

Penny didn’t really care for Mr. Monney, old sweetie or not. She didn’t care for his teeth. Mr. Monney had given up smoking so as not to get lung cancer. He had
heard that not smoking was easier if one sucked sweets instead. Then he had discovered that he had a sweet tooth. Ordinarily he might have controlled his
sweet-eating
, but now he had an excuse for it. He sucked sweets for much of the day, and always had a tube of mints or gums or fruit candies in his waistcoat pocket. His teeth were rotten. Mr. Monney did not know why this was happening to him. “I’ve always brushed them night and morning,” he told Julian. “I used to have such good teeth. Never needed a plate. And now look. Old age catching up with me, eh? What do you think?”

He would stand there, half up the stairs, half inside some door, half going in, half coming out, always on his way to somewhere else, but always ready to stop for a chat to pass the time of day. He was proud to have the Bakers for tenants. He liked to think that Penny and Julian were professional people, who gave tone to the house, tone to the street. He was not an educated man himself, but he knew the value of it. He liked a good play on the radio, but had taken against the idea of television. He read the
Daily Telegraph,
the
Sunday Times
and the
Reader’s Digest
(the Bakers took the
Daily Express
), and he found the Digest particularly valuable, because it was not only a good read in itself, but gave you something to talk about. He would never have thought of subscribing to the
Digest
for himself, he said, but they had found out about him somehow, and had written to him specially suggesting it. He had always been struck with the thoughtfulness of this, although of course it was in their own interest as well.

This morning, however, Mr. Monney had not come up to pass the time of day. The
Digest
published a lot of articles about sex (the foundation of a sound relationship in marriage), but it did not tell you what to do when your seventeen-year-old daughter was in child by your
tenant; in Mr. Monney’s experience that kind of
situation
occurred only in dirty jokes. The Digest, helpful though it was in many ways, did not tell you how to talk over the situation with your tenant’s wife. It was too difficult for Mr. Monney. He would say nothing until Julian came home. He had been upstairs three times on the previous evening, and now he was late for work because he had waited to see Julian. But Julian had not been home all night.

“You’re sure he’s not here, Mrs. Baker?”

“You don’t imagine I’m hiding him?”

“Well, I don’t know what to do. I stayed away from work specially, you know.”

“You told me.”

“He didn’t phone at all?”

Penny had thought of lying, of keeping up appearances, of pretending that Julian had been called away.
If the old fool wasn’t so bloody selfish
, she thought,
he’d think of my troubles for a change. How does he imagine I feel with Julian staying out all night?
But she only said, “Perhaps if you could give me any idea. I’m staying home myself until he comes in. He’s sure to be back soon.”

“No, it’s private really between Mr. Baker and me.”

“I’m sorry. Still, if you’d like to wait?”

“Oh no! No really!” Mr. Monney was most anxious not to give offence. He had thought and thought, and if there was anything to be done, they’d all have to keep their heads. “It’s just—— Well, if he was going to be in tonight, you could tell him….”

“But of course, Mr. Monney. What shall I tell him?”

“That I want to see him. Urgent.”

“You make it sound quite alarming. I hope you’re not thinking of turning us out.”

Mr. Monney did not reply to this. “If you’ll just tell him,” he said. “As soon as he comes in.”

“I’ll leave a note. Then if I do decide to go out, and he gets back, he can come straight down and see you.”

“I don’t think there’s any occasion for that really. I dare say I’d better be getting on to work. They’ll only be asking questions otherwise. If he could just——”

“I’ll tell him.”

“If you would.”

“Oh, I will.”

“You’ll tell him then?”

“Yes, I certainly will.”

“I’ll be getting along then.”

“Yes, you do that. Good-bye, Mr. Monney. Thank you so much for looking in. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Mrs. Baker.”

As Mr. Monney went downstairs, Penny felt so upset that she had to sit down for a while, and smoke a cigarette. Once again she began to list in her mind all the places where Julian could possibly be. Her
imagination
painted a thousand squalid pictures. (But he had never simply stayed away before. There had always been some excuse.)
I hope he has been run over,
she thought. I
hope he has. Inconsiderate!
and, hearing a bicycle bell in the street outside, started to her feet thinking it was the telephone.

*

Penny had changed into slacks and a woollen jumper, and was sitting at the window seat watching the road when Julian returned. It was eleven o’clock. He looked up, and saw her there as he turned in at the gate. He called up to her, “I didn’t think you’d be home”.

Penny went into the kitchen, and put the kettle on the gas. Julian, as he reached the top of the stairs, took off his jacket, and went into the bathroom to shave. Neither spoke.

After some time, the kettle began to whistle, and
Penny made the tea. When Julian came out of the
bathroom
, she had already poured out a cup for herself. The tea had not been allowed to steep for long enough, and was more grey than brown. Julian said, “Tea!” sat down at the table, and filled his cup.

“Do you want anything to eat?”

“No, thanks.”

A silence. There was a packet of cigarettes on the table. Penny lit one, and she inhaled the smoke deeply. “Well,” she said, “are you going to bother to tell me where you’ve been?”

“I’ve been to a Turkish Bath.”

“Why?”

No reply. Penny said, “Mr. Monney’s been looking for you. He’s been up several times. He said it was urgent.”

“Did he?”

Penny said, “I’d better get to work, I suppose.”

No comment.

“Oughtn’t
you
to be going too?”

“I’m not going to work.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I don’t feel like it,” Julian said.

“What does Mr. Monney want to see you about?”

“Didn’t he say?”

“No.”

“How should I know then?”

Penny swung round in her chair, looking Julian full in the face for the first time. “You bloody do know though, don’t you?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Well then! Stop beating about the bush, and tell me.”

Whenever Julian had (or felt he had) to tell a lie to his wife, resentment against her would build up in his mind, because (he thought) she was
making
him lie by asking
him questions. And when eventually she forced him to tell the truth, this resentment was not dispelled, but
intensified
, because she had caught him out in a lie. He hated her at these times. Now he said flatly, “Betty’s pregnant. She says I’m the father.”

“And are you?”

“I suppose so.”

“What do you mean, ‘You suppose’? Are you or aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Penny left the table, and went into the bedroom. After a while, Julian followed her. She was lying on the bed, quite stiff, her arms stretched out beside her. When Julian approached, she turned over, and hid her face in the pillow.

“Penny!”

“Don’t come near me.”

“Penny, let me explain.”

“Explain!”

It was impossible to explain. How could he explain? He began to try to say to her some of what he had already said to himself in the steam room of the Turkish Bath, but the words came out wrong. “Excuses,” Penny said, “I don’t want your excuses,” and, “What do you mean— ‘compulsion’? Does somebody force you to do these things? Don’t you want to do them?”

“Of course, I don’t want to.”

“Why do you do them then? Don’t talk to me about compulsions. You do them of your own accord, don’t you? You don’t have to. What are you?—a baby?”

To Julian it seemed as if the dialogue took on echoes, as if behind every word he could hear the reverberations of other confessions, other accusations; each tear was heavy with the brine of three years’ tears. “You’ve got to help me,” he said mechanically. (
Help me; help me.
)
“Penny, I’ll change if you help me. We can do it
together
.” (
Together
.) “I’m all right if I know you’re with me.” (
With me—me—me—me
.)

“Why should I help you?”

“You’re my wife.”

“Oh, you’ve remembered that, have you?” Suddenly Penny began to laugh. She sat up in bed, shaking with laughter while the tears rolled freely down her cheeks. “Oh God, it’s so funny,” she said. “It’s funny. Here we are … going on just as usual…. You saying all the things you always say…. Only this time you’ve really done something.”

“But I … I always ….”

“Yes, you’d always done
something
. You’d made a pass at some girl in the tube, or you’d had your two
pennyworth
of fun in the bushes, but we could always pretend that hadn’t happened, couldn’t we? I hated you and despised you for it, but it didn’t really matter. Nobody else knew. We could go on. And now you’ve done something … done something….”

“Penny!”

“And you think I’m going to help you! You must be mad. Nobody can help you, Julian. You’ve got this girl into trouble, and now you’ll have to pay for it. I’m not going to be around while you do it, I can tell you that. I’m going to leave you. You’ll have a divorce on your hands as well as a paternity suit. What a scandal for the agency!”

Julian felt his throat go dry, and he knew that in a moment he too would begin to weep. He longed for the release of tears. He longed for Penny to comfort him, for her to taste her victory in his tears, and to extend the victor’s terms to the defeated. Oh, he would promise—— But even as the tears began to form behind his eyes and the sob gather and rise in his throat, Penny hit him. “You
bastard!” she said. “You rotten, filthy coward!” He stared at her, dry-eyed again, shocked and frightened. “You couldn’t even come home,” she said. “You had to run away and hide, and you crept back here when you thought I’d be out. You’ve been running away as long as I’ve known you, Julian. You know what? Sometimes I ask myself why I ever married you, and the only answer I can find is that I wanted to be married, and you asked me. But why did you ask me?”

“I loved you.”

“No, you didn’t. I tried to love you. I really did. But you weren’t having any. You wouldn’t let me get near you. You weren’t taking anything I had to give. You just wanted to play, and if I looked like being serious, you ran away. Well now, just for a change,
I’m
running away.” She rose, and began to straighten her clothes in front of the mirror. “I do look a mess, I must say,” she said. “You’d better get out of here. I’m going to get packed, and I don’t want you hanging around.”

“I won’t stay. I won’t stay here alone.”

“You haven’t much choice.”

“I’ll go——” Julian felt his throat go dry again— “I’ll go home.”

“Home to mother?” Penny began to laugh again, but now her laugh was no longer hysterical. It was a cruel laugh, a laugh to enjoy. “That’s a good idea,” she said. “Take your little problem home to mother, Julian. She’ll like that.”

CHAPTER TWO

Going Home

H
ouses and the backyards of houses, allotments, hoardings advertising the
News of the World,
glimpses of the Thames, fields of red and blue and a board that said, “Sutton’s Seeds”, then Reading. Tidy countryside, level crossings, cows, housing estates, the railway yard at Swindon, telegraph poles, Bath, Bristol, prefabricated houses, a sudden shower of rain. Julian had finished reading the newspapers, and was half-way through a Penguin book.
Running away; running away
ran the rhythm of the train, and,
What’ll you say? what’ll you say?
Julian put the words out of his mind, and tried to concentrate on his book, but it was no good. Outside in the corridor, a girl in a cotton dress leant on the handrail, gazing through the window. Julian left his Penguin on the seat to keep his place, and went to stand next to her. After a short time, his hand, resting on the rail also, lightly touched hers.

The train passed through Exeter, ran for a while
beside
the estuary, where herons stood stiff and alone on the grey mud, and reached the seaside. The girl told Julian that she was travelling to Penzance to spend a week with her parents. But they were a slow, stupid lot down there, she said. As the train ran through the tunnels between Dawlish and Teignmouth, Julian squeezed her
fingers, and moved his hand up her arm. Soon they reached Newton Abbot. “I get off here,” Julian said, and fetched his suitcase from the compartment. He waved to the girl from the platform as the train pulled away.

If he went home at once, he would have to explain at once, and he still did not know what he was going to say. But if he were to catch the last bus from Newton Abbot, he would be able to delay explanations until next
morning
. Time had to be killed. Julian went to the cinema.

When eventually he caught the bus it was full, and smelled of stale cigarette smoke. By the time it arrived at the village, Julian was feeling a little sick, but he knew that the twenty minutes’ walk to his parents’ cottage would revive him. He walked through the dusk along the lonely road, and the evening scents came up to him from the hedges. When he arrived, he could see a light from the uncurtained window of the living-room, and he walked round on to the lawn to look in. There they sat, his parents. Their backs were to one another, the Colonel reading a detective story from the library by the light of the table lamp, his wife in the grey gloom before the television set.

Dusk thickened into night, and Julian stood there watching. The window was open. He could hear the Colonel clearing his throat every three minutes or so, and he could hear the faraway din of the television
programme
. If only he could stay there for ever, just
watching
, not engaged! Then a thin breeze sprang up, blowing damply off the dew-soaked grass. Julian shivered, and went round to the kitchen door.

*

They didn’t hear him until he was actually standing in the doorway of the living-room, announcing himself. “Hullo, all,” he said.

The Colonel said, “What? What?” and closed his
book with a snap. Mrs. Baker switched off the set at once.

Julian shut the door behind him, went over to his mother, and kissed her on the forehead, pulling back
before
she could return his kiss. “Hullo, Father! Hullo, Mother!” he said. “Is there a bed? I left my bag in the hall.”

“Julian darling, why didn’t you let us know?” Mrs. Baker looked accusingly at her husband. “Unless there’s a mistake—— Surely it’s Charles who’s coming
tomorrow
?”

“Is he? Good old Charles. I never see him. You’ll have a houseful.”

“The bed’s made up for him.”

“Oh, good.”

“Darling, we haven’t even told you how glad we are to see you,” Mrs. Baker said. “Have you had anything to eat? There’s some cold meat in the fridge, and I’ll make some tea. Your father won’t have any, of course; it only means he has to get up in the night. But
we’ll
have a nice cup of tea together while you tell me all your news.”

The Colonel said, “Penny keeping well? You haven’t left
her
in the hall with your suitcase, eh?”

“Penny?”

“Justin, don’t fuss. Penny’s always so wrapped up in that job of hers; I expect she couldn’t get away. Just as well anyway, because we haven’t got a bed for her; the boys’ll have to share the spare room as it is. Do sit down, Julian. Or come into the kitchen, and talk to me. We’ll have our tea in there, and then we shan’t bother your father.”

“Well, I——”

“It’s past his bed time anyway.”

It was obvious that she was in one of her “Chelsea
pensioner” moods, when she behaved as if she were the paid nurse to some infirm old man. This was her usual behaviour when first one of the boys came home. The Colonel was someone to be managed, to be packed off to bed or left in a corner, someone who was, of course, completely dependent on her (poor old thing), but not part of the family. The “pensioner” mood usually lasted until the Colonel gave some sign that he accepted the situation, and would not try to interfere. So that now when he said, “Yes, I was thinking of turning in,” Teresa replied at once, “Of course you were, dear,” and came across and kissed him of her own accord.

“Good night, Julian,” the Colonel said. “You’d like tea in the morning, I expect?”

“Yes please, father. Not too early though.”

“No. No, of course not. Perhaps——”

Mrs. Baker said, “I’ll take it in to him when I’m up, Justin.”

“Good.” The Colonel felt that something else was needed. He rose stiffly to his feet, saying, “Old bones, I’m afraid,” (
Now why did I say that?
) and went out, taking his book with him. He would finish it in bed. Devonshire air is said to be relaxing, but however hard he worked or far he walked, the Colonel did not often fall asleep before one or two in the morning.

She can’t ask me tonight, Julian thought as he followed his mother into the kitchen; she can’t want me to tell her anything tonight. While the tea was boiling and brewing, he kept up a chatter of questions about local matters, but his mother had so little contact with her neighbours and the world of the Women’s Institute that it was difficult. “I’ll cut some bread, shall I?” he said, fetching the
breadboard
and the knife, and making a great show of
busyness
, but all too soon the cups were on the table, the tea poured, a thick meat sandwich on his plate, and his
mother was saying to him gently and gravely, “Now, darling, what’s the matcer?”

“Nothing, Mother.”

Mrs. Baker sipped her tea. Julian bit into his
sandwich
. Would she say something else, or would she agree to silt things over for the night? But she said nothing at all.

They would have to know, of course. Later.

Mrs. Baker said, “You can tell
me
, darling.”

“I’m…. I’m in trouble, Mother.”

He would tell her by degrees. Just a little tonight; the rest tomorrow. “There’s a girl….”

“A girl?”

“Yes.”

“Have you——? Does Penny——?”

“She’s going to divorce me.”

“My poor Julian! Poor boy!” Mrs. Baker gathered up her cup, and took it over to the sink. She was afraid of saying anything more, because she did not know what would come out.
I always knew
—but that was not true—
always hoped
—what a ridiculous thing to say! If only Penny could have been the one, if only Julian could have been wronged—and yet if she were divorcing him, was she not the aggressor, and was not Julian all the more to be defended? A loyal wife would try to understand (as a loyal mother understood), instead of turning on him like that. What girl? Triumph … jealousy … fear … wanting to comfort him … to question him—it was all too much for her to get clear at once. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow, darling,” she said. “You mustn’t worry. Just try and get some rest.”

“I’ll try, Mother.”

“That’s right.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“Now off you go, darling. Leave the cups. Your father will do them in the morning.”
“Good night, Mother.” Julian was in bed, washed and his teeth cleaned, within seven minutes, asleep within ten. But his mother took longer to get to sleep that night. She was not at all clear about her feelings.

*

Charles travelled down on the overnight train which leaves Paddington at five minutes to midnight. The blinds of the compartment were pulled down; the bulb was taken from the socket of the electric light, and laid in the luggage rack; Charles’ fellow passengers adjusted themselves for sleep. Just touching his flank were the feet of a drowsing marine, folded up like a foetus, who filled the rest of the seat. On the seat opposite, a
country-woman
in an old round brown felt hat smoothed down her skirt, and stretched out tranquilly. A faint light from the corridor shone round the edges of the blinds. The marine began to breathe heavily with a touch of catarrh. Charles leaned his head against the upholstery, and decided he would “come to grips” with his problem; he would “think it through”. But you cannot come to grips with thought. It eludes the grasp. You can turn thought into words—as a writer must do if he is to make sense of it—but what you end up with
are
only words; you are not really thinking any longer, but composing.

Charles composed then. He created a sheet of paper in his mind, and wrote question and answer on it in brown ink with a thick-nibbed pen. Question:
Why?
(Why not? —but this was an interruption, and not written down.) Answer:
No point. Lonely
. Old people talking to
themselves
in subway stations. A man, about fifty-five years old, bald-headed, with brown mottled patches on the crown, the purple of burst capillaries in his cheeks and nose; steel-rimmed spectacles; an old stained overcoat— “Oh, I know you intellectuals and public school types,” he had said. “You’ve got some good qualities. You’ve
had an education. You’ve found out a lot in your
research
. But have you found the Lord Jesus?” Nobody had answered him, and the people near him had moved away.
Lonely
. Charles remembered a drunk in Hyde Park. “They don’t talk to me where I live. You might think I don’t exist.” And the diary entry of the woman in the Social Service pamphlet—“Nobody called”, day after day.

Question:
Alternatives?
Answer:
Do something about it
. Question:
What?
There was the advice in the magazine survey—Join a political party or a social club, take art classes, go to church—and the readers’ letters that
followed
it—
Dear Sir, Lonely people have only themselves to blame. These people expect “Mr. Right” or “Miss Bosom Pal” to come leaping after them without making any effort themselves.
Well, that was it, of course. Charles was lonely because Charles wanted to be lonely. Charles never did anything about it himself. He never went out looking for Miss Bosom Pal. Charles was to blame. Charles dropped a glass curtain between himself and his world; Charles on one side, Sybil and her lover, the editorial staff of The
Potters’ Weekly
, even the psychiatrist at the hospital, all of them on the other. Charles—here he made a discovery —just wasn’t interested. He wrote it down on the sheet of paper in his mind: “I am just not interested.”

So there he was, insulated by his lack of interest, and the time passed slowly in the performance of simple and rather monotonous work, in day-dreaming, and
sometimes
even in long blank stretches during which his mind was empty, and he could not have told you
what
he had been thinking about, or if he had been thinking at all. He was not friendless. He sent Christmas cards, and received them. People he had known at Oxford had also come to London to work, and sometimes he would arrange to meet one for lunch, or there would be the
occasional supper. But it was all so much effort. Just to keep the conversation going was an effort, and the silences would grow longer and longer, and really it was easier to eat lunch by oneself with a book.

Charles wrote again on the page, “I am not involved”. So much of that was convention. People spent so much time behaving in the ways they thought they ought to behave, or else in ways they couldn’t help, like Peeping Toms or the drunk in the park. But you couldn’t
feel
all the things you said. It was civilized to say, “Did you have a good Christmas?” and, “I hope your cold’s better,” but you couldn’t really be interested in the answers. And it was the same with the rest of it. Love, friendship, responsibility—mostly acting, being polite, pretending to feel the right emotions. Since pretending was so much effort, it was better not to enter into the sort of relationship that demanded it.

Too much effort. No point.
No point in going on month after month, year after year. He had no mission, no message, would lead nobody into the promised land, make nothing beautiful with his hands—nothing like that. He would just go on passing the time and enduring various discomforts until the day he died; it didn’t seem worth doing. And yet if there were no point in living, what point was there in dying?
I am in the way to study a long silence…. Oh, I am in a mist
. Just a mist. He strained to remember something, anything at all from those hours while he had been unconscious, poisoned, half-way to death. Nothing. Not worth it for nothing. And yet not worth living either. No point.