The Centre of the Green (7 page)

Decided:
Nothing
. All the questions and answers came to that. But, although it had nothing to do with the questions and answers, one thing had been decided. He would not tell his parents what had happened. Indeed, if the psychiatrist had not suggested it, he would not have
considered doing so. The train drew in to Bristol (Temple Meads). There were twenty minutes to wait, and from every compartment grey-faced passengers appeared to queue for tea in cardboard cups. Charles ate an
Individual
Fruit Pie, and prepared for sleep. He would evade inquiries, and keep his secret.

A few hours later he arrived by the early bus from Newton Abbot to find Julian asleep in his bed. At no time during the rest of the day were there any inquiries for him to evade.

*

“Charles?”

“Yes, Father.”

“This business—what do you think, eh?”

I am not involved
, Charles thought.
It’s nothing to do with me.
He was still experiencing a sort of elation from his discovery, as if it were a weapon against despair. When the depressive fit began again, it would turn out, he knew, to be only a cardboard shield, but for the moment he felt free, unattached, not needing to pretend even to himself. “I don’t know what to think, Father,” he said. They were picking beans for supper, working down two sides of the same row. “Is this too small?”

“No, no. Pick the lot. They grow again fast enough. I don’t know, Charles. Don’t know what I ought to do. I’m not used to dealing with you boys. I feel out of touch.”

“I expect mother will think of something.”

“Got the girl into trouble. Can’t just run out like that.”

“Mother was talking to him this morning.”

“Yes. Of course, your mother’s always … I’ve never interfered at all. It only upsets her.”

“I shouldn’t think there’s anything we
can
do, Father. It’s up to Julian really.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. Don’t like feeling useless though.”

*

“We don’t want to bother your father about this.”

“But he is bothered, Mother.”

“Well, he doesn’t need to be. It’s nothing to do with him, and there’s nothing he can do.”

Charles made no comment. His mother put the basket of beans on the kitchen table near an empty colander, and began to slice them. Her knife was sharp, and took the seams off neatly. “We must all be sensible,” she said. “It’s not the first time this kind of thing has happened.”

“To Julian?”

“Don’t be stupid, Charles. Of course it’s the first time it’s happened to Julian. But plenty of other people have——”

“Got girls into trouble. Yes, it’s always happening to regular soldiers. Father was telling me.”

Mrs. Baker tightened her lips, and continued to slice the beans for supper.

Charles said, “Mother, isn’t this girl under age? Julian could go to prison.”

“Age? What’s age got to do with it? A girl like that!”

“I don’t care what sort of girl she is. It wouldn’t matter if she’d locked Julian in the pantry and pulled his clothes off with her own hands. As long as she’s under age, he’s still responsible. That’s the law.”

“How old——?”

“Eighteen, I think. Or is it sixteen? I suppose we’d better find out. It’s serious, Mother.”

“What’s serious?” said Julian, bringing an empty teacup into the kitchen. “Am I too late for breakfast?”

Charles looked at him without replying, and Julian said, “Oh!” Then he said, “Let me help you with those
beans, Mother.” Mrs. Baker, her voice carefully under control, said, “Charles thinks you can go to prison”.

“Why?”

“Under age,” Charles said.

“I never thought of that. She’s seventeen.”

“Then you’re either all right by a year, or all wrong by a year. You might have taken the trouble to check up.”

“Charles, how can you, when your brother——” Mrs. Baker put down her knife, and turned away from the table. “When he needs us so.”

Charles, still seeing himself and all of them at one remove, examined Charles’ heart, and found nothing there but mischief. “Doesn’t he need Father too?” he said.

“Christ!” Julian said. “Could they really send me to prison?” Even as he spoke the words, even as he began to feel the now familiar symptoms of fear and fog and nausea, another part of him was thinking that if only it weren’t for the publicity and embarrassment of the trial, prison wouldn’t be so bad. Who could get at him there? Who would know him there? It wasn’t prison itself that he dreaded, but the going in and eventually coming out again. “Could I really go to prison?” he said.

“Unless you do something pretty quickly.”

“What can I do? She’s already … I mean, you can’t undo—— An abortion, do you mean?”

“Maybe. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Monney.”

“No!”

“It’s the only thing.”

“I can’t.” Why did they think he had come home? It was up to
them
to do these things. Wasn’t it embarrassing enough for him, just talking about it? “I can’t go back to all that,” he said. “I’m not well. I only came home for help, and now you want to send me back. It isn’t fair.”

“Julian, dear——”

“I’m not well.”

A voice at the door said, “Milkman!” and Mrs. Baker got her bag from the dresser, and went to pay him. “Two extra today, please,” she said, and the milkman said cheerfully, “Ah, got the family home for a bit, have you, me dear? It’s nice when they’re all down together.”

Mrs. Baker said, “Yes, isn’t it?” and Charles said, “Hullo, Cyril. How are you keeping?” The milkman said, “Not so bad. How’s yourself?” and Julian said nothing.

When the milkman had gone, Mrs. Baker said, “You can
see
he isn’t well, Charles.”

The Colonel opened the back door, and stood in the doorway, uncertain whether to come in or go away. “Hope I’m not barging in on anything,” he said.

“We were discussing Julian’s trouble, Father.”

“Oh…. Well, I’ll be buzzing off then.”

“Come in, Justin, for goodness sake. After all, he’s your son, isn’t he?”

“Thank you, my dear.” Balancing on one foot, the Colonel began to remove a gumboot. “Round-table
conference
, eh? Talk it all out. Much better.” He pulled off the second boot, and looked around for his slippers. Not finding them, he padded into the kitchen on stockinged feet, and sat down at the table, resting his elbows on it. Nobody spoke.

The silence grew. The Colonel took his elbows off the table, and cleared his throat. Mrs. Baker grew red in the face. The Colonel cleared his throat again, “Hrrrm! Hrrrm!” a persistent irritating sound, which was so much a habit of his when nervous that neither he nor his wife any longer noticed it. Charles looked up and saw above him a triple rail on which odd bits of hand-washing were hanging; it could be lowered by a cord secured to a
double hook on the wall. The bits of washing looked like fresh scenery, waiting in the flies above the stage of a theatre. Julian would be happy if the scenery were changed, and a new play were to begin. But one was never off-stage in life until one died. It should have been Julian in that hospital, if that was what he wanted; Julian should have taken the pills. But Julian had never even thought of that. He had come home instead. Was it, Charles wondered, the same thing?

Julian’s feeling was simple resentment. If something had to be done, why expect him to do it? Let them arrange things as they wanted. It was easy enough for them; they weren’t concerned. Let them do whatever had to be done, but
with him
let them have the decency to pretend that nothing had happened, not be forever talking about it, not drag him into their discussions. He left his seat, and began to fiddle with the cord of the rail, jerking the washing a little up and down above their heads. Then he said, “I’m going down to the village. You’ll be better without me,” and went into the hall. They heard the front door slam behind him.

Mrs. Baker said, “He needs a rest. He’s been thinking about it too much. No wonder he’s nervy.”

“But, Teresa——”

“He’s quite right. If we’re going to discuss his affairs, it would only embarrass him to be here. He’s already told me all about it when I took the tea in this morning.”

Charles had a sudden vision of his mother sitting there on the bed, and Julian in pyjamas, fascinated and evasive; the gentle questions following one another, prodding and tasting as she experienced it all at second hand. But not all. Not from Julian, who never told all, and to whom truth and half-truth were the same, and who had been playing this game with Mrs. Baker for a long time. (“Oh, Ju,” Charles had once said, “why are you such a liar?”
and Julian had answered, “But you can’t tell the truth to mother. She likes getting at things her own way.”)

“It seems she’s quite a common girl,” Mrs. Baker said, “and one night Julian was a bit tight—it was when Penny had that trouble with her eyes, and naturally he was upset, and probably drank too much—you know how weak he is….”
How weak we all are, Mothe
r, Charles thought:
you have always protected us
: and suddenly,
shatteringly
, out of nowhere remembered a New Year’s Eve at the end of the war, and he, at fifteen, had been allowed to stay up for it. There had been a paratroop officer,
red-faced
and silly-serious with drinking. He had seized Charles by the shoulder, pointed across the room at Mrs. Baker, and said, “That woman—she’s an angel. Don’t you ever forget it. She’s an angel, your mother.”
She
loves us; she really does
, Charles thought. How they took advantage of that, all three of them, using it quite
unscrupulously
to get away from her when the time came. “It was so easy with Penny in hospital,” Mrs. Baker said. “The girl even led Julian upstairs. He said himself that if he’d been sober he’d have been more careful. I don’t mean he wouldn’t have had anything to do with her then, of course, but at least he’d have been more careful.”

“What a mess!” the Colonel said unhappily, “what a mess!”

“Justin, is Charles right about the police? Will they follow him? Will they come here?”

“I don’t know. They might. I mean, they could send a message.”

“It would be all round the village.”

Charles said, “At the moment I should think it depends on the girl’s father.”

“Mr. Monney, or whatever his name is.”

“Yes. You don’t think that might be the answer?”

“Money, you mean?” the Colonel said. “Pay him?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t like doing that.”

“Of course it’s the answer,” Mrs. Baker said. “That’s all these people want. What good would it do him to go to the police?”

“He may have been already.”

“Well, don’t just sit there when you could be doing something,” Mrs. Baker said. “I’ve never asked you to do anything for the boys before. And now when there is something——”

There was a sudden ring at the bell. All three of them jumped. Mrs. Baker said, “Don’t answer it”.

“Don’t be silly, Mother. I’ll go.”

“Don’t let them in. He’s not here, remember.”

Colonel Baker said, “My dear, we can’t——”

“He’s not here.”

Charles said, “Really, Mother!” and went to answer the door. Colonel Baker tried to avoid looking at his wife. He said, “There’s no need to get alarmed, Teresa. I’m sure it isn’t anything important.” Mrs. Baker began to weep silently and helplessly, not attempting to wipe away the tears. “I should have known you wouldn’t be any use,” she said. “I should never have asked you. Now it’s too late.” The kitchen door reopened, and she got up to face it, but it was only Charles who entered. He said, “Father, it’s someone for you”.

“Not——?”

“It’s Mr. Albert Monney, Father. He says he’d like to have a word with Julian, if he can spare the time.”

*

Mr. Monney had determined to say nothing to Penny; it wouldn’t be fair, not without talking to Julian first, and in any case how could he talk to a woman about such a thing, particularly the wife? There were so many
confusing
things, and perhaps Julian, who was a better educated
man, would be able to see them more clearly. There were medical things to be settled. Was Betty right in saying she was pregnant? Sometimes women were mistaken, and it turned out to be only mental. How, in any case, could Betty be sure at her age? (But she said she was sure.) Ought he to go with her to some clinic, or would that cause talk? What were her feelings towards Julian, and his to her? (She wouldn’t talk about that.) If they wished to marry, was she not too young, and wouldn’t it get into the papers? Wouldn’t it get in the papers anyway over the divorce which Mrs. Baker
certainly
had the right to demand? Would Betty have to go to court and give evidence in public, so that everyone would know, all the neighbours and the people at work, knowing all about it, and talking behind his back?

Certainly in all his confusion Mr. Monney had not thought of compensation. He was not a vindictive man. It was a solution to his problems that he needed, not the consolations of punishment. All he knew was that Betty was in trouble and needed help, and that he himself needed help to help her. Julian was the other person chiefly concerned, and, if they were to get things straight, they could only do it together. He did not understand why Julian had gone away.

“Well, of course I can give you the address,” Penny said. “It’s rather a long way to go. Hadn’t you better talk to me?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Baker. It’s personal really—nothing to do with the flat.”

Stupid little man
, Penny thought;
you’ll find out soon enough
. What good did he think he was doing? Was he “sparing her”? She felt like saying, “But my dear Mr. Monney, I know exactly what the matter is, and I’m completely on your side. I’ll be delighted to help you
get as much out of my husband as you can,” but she decided to let him find out for himself. Anyway, the country air might do him good; he looked like death warmed up at the moment. When he came back would be soon enough, and meanwhile she would have more time to make her own decisions. So she only said, “Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do.”