A Temporary Life, page 9
‘I’ve been there longer than that,’ she says.
‘So there’s no need to worry. It can’t be long.’
There’s the faint whirring of an electric motor: a white-clad figure descends from the shadows above. There’s the faint tapping of a hammer above our heads.
‘I feel I’ll never be free again.’
‘If you feel as much as that you must be well.’
Her hand squeezes mine with a strange, irregular rhythm.
‘I saw your mother the other day. She sends you all her love,’ I say.
‘It must be hard. For her. To see me as I am,’ she says.
‘She just wants you out, that’s all,’ I tell her.
‘It’s what we all want, but it doesn’t get any nearer, love,’ she says.
She begins to weep.
I rest her head against my arm.
The head in the pew to our right has turned: a face looks up from the outstretched hands.
‘Those people that we met today.’
‘Why should you mind about them?’ I say.
‘I saw the way they looked. I can’t help myself at times,’ she says.
‘I was proud to be with you at that lunch today.’ I stroke her hair.
‘I can’t communicate the things I feel.’
‘I feel them, too.’
‘There seems no point.’
‘There isn’t any point. That’s why we’re here.’
A second figure, a light glistening from his helmet, descends in the lift from the shadows above. There’s the sound, somewhere, of an electric drill.
I feel the dampness of her tears against my hand; her grief’s been with her all her life: it reminds me of her home, her house, the disintegration that goes on against her will: she’s like a plant, harried by its own decay: the bloom itself is a kind of death.
‘You seem so calm.’
‘I always am.’
‘You always were.’
‘With you I’m calm. I don’t think,’ I say, ‘with anyone else.’
‘I don’t like this church.’
‘We can go outside.’
‘It’s time to go back, I suppose,’ she says.
Three figures, their white overalls glowing in the light, ascend slowly to the blackness overhead.
She glances up.
She sees, for the first time perhaps, the scaffolding above our heads.
‘The ceiling’s being repaired.’
‘It stands for nothing, I suppose,’ she says.
She waves her hand.
‘It’s so cold in here.’
The figure from the chapel to our right walks past; at the door, to our left, it kneels, crosses itself, then passes through to the porch outside.
She wipes her eyes.
‘How are you managing on your own?’ she says.
‘I’m a great one for living on my own,’ I say.
‘I suppose you’re seeing lots of girls.’
‘One almost every night,’ I say.
‘Are any like me? I suppose they’re better, on the whole,’ she says.
Yet the inquiry, it seems, is directed at some other person.
‘Could we go back on the bus?’ she says.
‘Don’t you want to walk?’
‘I’m feeling tired. I’ll be glad to get back. I usually sleep in the afternoons,’ she says.
4
Buildings, like tall black rocks, surround the village green. The house itself stands on a kind of knoll: a drive sweeps up across a terraced slope. Trees, at the back of the house, release a shower of leaves: rooks rise up as I approach the gates. The wind has caught the smoke from a garden fire: it sweeps around the house in a bluish wreath.
Half way up the drive a dog has barked: a face shows at one of the lower windows. From the back of the house comes the shouting of a child: on the green below a row of mounted figures moves off towards the heath the other side.
As I reach the porch the door’s drawn back.
A tall, disjointed-looking man appears. He has long fair hair; he smooths it back, looking up, vaguely, towards the sky.
‘Not such a good day.’ He gestures to the heath below. ‘My name’s Pettrie.’ He puts out his hand. ‘Did you have a car?’
‘I came on foot.’
He looks out, beyond the heath, towards the town. ‘That’s quite a walk.’
‘About four miles.’
‘Four miles,’ he says and gives a sigh.
He glances down to the heath again; other figures, mostly on foot, but some on horseback, can be seen moving along its various tracks.
From inside the house, sharply, comes the barking of a dog.
‘Elizabeth isn’t down at present. She told us you’d be arriving, though.’
The hall seems larger than it did before, the bowl of flowers, if anything, stronger in its scent. The door to the lounge is already open: a man with red hair is reclining in a chair: beside him, one arm round him, is sprawled the figure of a blonde.
A man in a corduroy jacket is standing by the fire, his hands behind his back, gazing up at the ‘View of Delft’. A second woman, dark-haired, dressed in a long gown, is standing at the window, gazing out.
‘This is Leyland,’ the tall man says, indicating the red-haired figure who, as we enter, has lifted one foot across his knee and removed his shoe.
‘Look at that,’ he says. ‘Straight through.’
He indicates a hole in the sole of the shoe which the blonde girl beside him examines for a while, pushing her finger through and adding, ‘Fancy, you see. You never said.’
The man by the fireplace, as if disturbed, has wandered over to the long-gowned figure standing at the window.
‘I didn’t catch your name,’ the tall man says.
‘Elsie,’ the girl has said. Unlike the red-haired man she offers me her hand.
‘This is Colin Freestone,’ the tall man says.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ the blonde girl says.
I shake her hand.
‘What do you do for a living?’ the red-haired man has said.
‘Colin teaches at the local art school,’ the tall man says.
‘I teach at the local art school, I’m afraid,’ I tell him.
‘Where’s that?’
‘Next to the technical school,’ I say.
‘Where’s that?’
‘Somewhere in the town,’ I tell him.
‘My name’s Eddie, by the way,’ the tall man says. ‘And Leyland,’ he adds, ‘is referred to, amongst his friends, as Johnny.’
‘I don’t go in for art much,’ Leyland says.
‘I don’t go in for it at all,’ I tell him.
‘Why do you teach it, then?’
‘I don’t.’
His head comes up. He has long, thin features, pale, with light blue eyes: there’s something fish-like about his appearance, brittle, hard.
‘If you don’t teach art, what’re you doing at the place?’ he says.
‘I supervise. Attend to the students’ moral needs; or, to put it another way, the students’ individual spiritual requirements.’
He gazes up for a moment at the other man. His foot, shoeless, is still cocked against his knee.
‘Elizabeth invited Mr Freestone,’ the tall man says.
‘Thank God,’ he says, ‘it wasn’t me.’
I reach down to the shoeless foot: I remove it from the knee; with my other hand, as Leyland’s head comes up, I punch him on the nose.
A stream of blood falls, unattended for a moment, across his lips; it falls, in an irregular fashion, onto the lapels of his coat below. The two figures standing by the window turn.
‘I don’t like rudeness, on the whole,’ I tell him. ‘And invariably, when I encounter it, I hit people on the nose.’
His handkerchief comes out: the girl beside him gives a scream. His eyes, as he tenses to the pain, are closed.
‘Good God,’ the tall man says. He stretches down; another handkerchief appears. ‘Are you all right?’
‘What’s going on in here?’ a voice has said.
A figure attired in white has appeared inside the door. Mrs Newman is wearing, I decide, at that first glimpse, some sort of suit.
‘Johnny’s had a fight,’ one of the figures across the room has said.
‘Oh, my God,’ she says as she sees the blood.
‘With Mr Freestone, I’m afraid,’ the tall man says.
The undersides of her brows are painted blue: grey eyes peer out from beneath mascara-ed lids.
‘You know who Johnny is?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Hasn’t Colin been introduced?’ she says.
‘We were introduced,’ I say, and add, as if this might impress her, ‘He didn’t stand up.’
‘Keep it off the chairs,’ she says. ‘The blood: for God’s sake, keep it off the covers, Ed.’
Leyland now is standing up: initially, he has bowed his head, found no relief, and allowed the girl to tilt it back. Now, one shoe off, he’s standing by the chair.
‘This is one of my husband’s friends, one of his colleagues,’ Mrs Newman says. She adds, ‘I should take him to the bathroom, Ed.’
Leyland, with the tall man and the blonde girl, starts over to the door.
‘I’ll see you when I come down,’ he says, his voice muffled by the handkerchief around his nose.
‘Keep it off the carpet,’ Mrs Newman says. She’s examining the chair and the floor as Leyland goes.
‘My name’s Proctor,’ the man with the corduroy coat has said. He has a dark moustache, large eyes and sallow cheeks. ‘And this,’ he adds, indicating the long-gowned girl, ‘is Jean.’
She too is dark, with a pallid skin.
‘I didn’t see it start, I’m afraid,’ he says.
‘Now the introductions are over,’ Mrs Newman says, ‘let’s have a drink.’
Proctor and the dark-haired Jean move back once more across the room. A moment later I can hear the woman’s voice: ‘I won’t, I won’t, I won’t,’ and then, with her laughter, the laughter of the man.
‘There are usually more people here than this.’
She hands me the glass: she gestures with her own.
‘Here’s to it, then.’
I drink it down.
‘Would you like another?’
‘I wouldn’t say no.’
‘Do you often hit people on the nose?’
She takes the glass.
‘As often as I can.’
She laughs.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says, ‘it began like this.’
‘Isn’t your daughter in?’ I ask.
She gestures to the heath below. ‘Riding. And my husband’s still abroad,’ she says.
‘What sort of work does he do?’ I ask.
‘All sorts,’ she says and gestures to a chair. ‘Sit down. Unless you’ve more fighting still to do,’ she adds.
I take the glass.
We sit across the room.
‘You’d better tell me,’ I say, ‘who Pettrie is.’
‘Eddie’s a sort of owner, I suppose,’ she says.
‘Of what?’
‘Of factories, I suppose,’ she says. ‘He makes all sorts of things. Like belts.’
‘For what?’
‘For coal-mines, I believe,’ she says. She adds, ‘Conveyors, to carry things along.’
‘Does your husband do the same?’
She shakes her head.
‘You’ve drunk that quickly too,’ she says. ‘If you’d like another just help yourself.’
She watches me from across the room; I fill the glass, top it up, look round the room, then, more slowly, move back towards the chair.
‘If you like,’ she says, ‘I’ll show you round.’
‘How many children have you got?’
‘Just one.’
She sips her drink.
A dog barks, briskly, from the back of the house.
‘Did you come by car?’ she says.
‘I walked.’
‘I could have had someone fetch you, if you’d only asked.’
‘Maybe next time,’ I say, and add, ‘I’ll let you know.’
‘What kind of paintings do you do?’
‘I don’t.’
‘That was one of the reasons I asked you here. I intend to buy some pictures over the next few months.’
I begin to smile.
‘Do you find that funny?’
‘I suppose I do.’
‘Why’s that?’ she says. She closes her eyes.
The gesture comes, I see, when she feels unsure.
‘Why not buy something useful, then?’
‘Paintings can be useful. If they’re attractive. And they can appreciate in value, I suppose,’ she says.
‘So could a house.’
‘We’ve got a house.’
‘What about jewellery?’
‘I’ve enough of that.’
‘A yacht, I suppose.’
‘You can hire a yacht.’
‘Apart from people,’ I say, ‘there’s nothing else.’
‘Only paintings, and works of art,’ she says.
The woman across the room has laughed. She slaps one hand against the other. ‘I won’t,’ the man has said. ‘I won’t.’
‘It’s hardly the place for paintings, then.’
‘At least,’ she says, ‘I could make a start. I’ve got one here, as a matter of fact.’
She puts down her glass, gets up, waits for a moment while I finish mine, then leads the way to the hall outside. She opens a door on the opposite side.
A woman with grey, close-cropped hair, is standing at a desk. She’s smoking a cigarette in a yellow holder, talking into a phone which, as we enter, she covers up.
‘Will you be long in here?’ Mrs Newman says.
‘A couple of sees,’ she says, and adds, uncovering the phone, ‘Mrs Newman, I’m afraid, is out, and his majesty, as you’re aware, is overseas.’ She covers the phone again and looks across. ‘The silly old bitch. Put arsenic in her tea when she comes again.’
A painting, its back to the door, is propped against a chair.
Through a window, beyond the desk, I can see the garden at the back of the house: a tennis court with its net removed; an old stone wall, the roofs of several old stone buildings and a clump of trees.
‘We’ll take it out,’ Mrs Newman says.
Books line one of the walls; a filing cabinet on wheels stands behind the door. Behind the desk is a swivel chair.
‘I can’t help it if she’s out,’ the woman says. ‘What message shall I give her, then?’
The cigarette in its yellow holder is rested on the desk. Beside the telephone stands a framed photograph of Mrs Newman, anonymous, smiling: a necklace glitters at her throat; some other kind of jewellery glistens in her hair.
Her finger to her lips she tiptoes out; I take the picture as we reach the door.
‘We won’t go in with those other two,’ she says.
She recrosses the hall, opens a door diagonally opposite, and steps inside.
The walls of the room are lined with shelves; none of them, however, are occupied. A crate, presumably containing books, stands by the door: there are several chairs, a table, and a cabinet with a number of coloured rocks inside. The window, like that of the previous room, looks out to the garden at the back of the house. A child, perhaps seven or eight years old, is playing with a dog on a windswept lawn. ‘That’s Mrs Brennan’s,’ Mrs Newman says. ‘She’s one of the women we have up here.’
There’s a smell of dust; the room is cold.
I lean the picture against the crate.
‘You can see how awful it is,’ she says.
It’s composed almost entirely of coloured triangles; where the triangles overlap the colours coalesce.
‘My husband bought it, as a matter of fact.’
‘Who for?’
‘Himself,’ she says, then adds, ‘And me.’
‘It runs in the family, I suppose.’
‘What’s that?’
I draw the shape.
‘Rebecca? She got the idea I think from this.’
She holds her hand against her cheek.
‘We’re not sure where to hang it, though,’ she says. From outside the door comes the sound of Leyland’s voice.
‘You ought to have it X-rayed,’ the girl has said.
‘You’ve upset Leyland,’ Mrs Newman says. ‘He’s a terrible temper when he’s been aroused.’
She lifts her head.
‘We shouldn’t be disturbed in here,’ she says.
‘No need to hide.’
‘It’s hardly hiding. I want to know what you think of the picture, then.’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘Don’t you have any views on art?’ she says.
‘None I could put into words,’ I say.
‘Do you think I should hang it up?’ she says.
‘Depends how much you paid for it,’ I tell her.
‘Honestly,’ she says. ‘You’re not much help.’
The cries of the child outside have turned to screams. A figure, wearing a white overall, runs out across the lawn.
‘I tell her to leave the dogs alone.’
There are three retrievers, like small ponies, dancing on the grass.
The child, transfixed, is sitting in their midst. The overalled woman picks it up: red-faced, she glances back towards the house.
‘You haven’t been here,’ I say, ‘for long.’
‘Nor likely to be, I suppose,’ she says.
I move the picture away from the case; I prop it up against the shelves.
‘Aren’t abstract pictures like this the thing to buy?’
‘They don’t paint pictures any more,’ I tell her.
‘What do they do?’
‘Hit Leyland on the nose,’ I say.
She laughs.
‘Events of that nature,’ she says, ‘are hard to find.’
‘It’s the art of being a collector, I suppose,’ I say.
She smiles.
‘There are no artefacts of any sort,’ I tell her. ‘They don’t make objects any more, you see.’
There’s a knock on the door. She lifts her head.
On the lawn outside the child has gone: the dogs bound about amongst themselves.
Footsteps go off the other side.
‘You buy the process instead of the product, I suppose,’ she says.
‘Some events are still objects, I suppose,’ I tell her.
