Jackson's Dilemma

  Tuan was at work as usual in the ‘small room’, which he did not call his ‘study’, in his ground floor flat in Chelsea. It was evening. The flat consisted of three bedrooms, the small room, a little dining room, a large drawing room, the hall, the kitchen, the bathroom and a very small garden. Almost all the walls were covered with books. Tuan rarely had visitors. He had some college friends, but many of these had gone away. He had in fact found in London no really close friends until he had met Uncle Tim. Tuan had seen and known Uncle Tim instantly. Their meeting in the train was mutual. It was, for Tuan, a revelation, a meeting with a kindred soul. Not that Tim could help him much in his studies, except that they could converse about Indian mystics. It was a matter of, not exactly a master, but a wise fellow soul or brother. The affection they had for each other was mutual, but while it was often boisterously conveyed by Tim, it was secretly stored away by Tuan - so that the others did not really notice it. Tuan was of course also fond of Benet, to whom he turned more after Tim’s death. That loss had been terrible; Tuan held it quietly to his heart. He was also of course fond of some of Tim‘s, and Benet’s, friends, such as Owen, Edward, Mildred and of course ‘the girls’. Tim and Owen used sometimes to tease him about ‘the girls’, meaning Marian and Rosalind, and also about ‘girls’ in general. Owen especially used to enjoy informing him that he must know by now that ‘girls’ were just ‘not the thing!’. Tuan used to smile silently at this. In fact he had had no intercourse with either sex nor did he wish for any. He was tall and thin, his nose, faintly hooked, was thin, and so was his rather long neck. His smooth skin was of a uniform dark goldenish colour, his dark thick hair hung down very straight. He had large very dark brown eyes, questing and timid like those of an animal. His long thin hands, also brown, were mobile, often he would cross them at his neck, then send them flittering away from him like restless captive birds. It had been suggested by some that his nickname, taken by Uncle Tim from the novel, suggested not only wary timidity but fear of some fate which was bound sooner or later to catch up with him. However there was no clear evidence for this conjecture. The dreadful disappearance of Marian, the destroyed marriage, the lack of news, had distressed him very much as it had the others.

  Thinking of this, he had laid down his pen. He picked it up again, but began to realise that he was tired and losing his concentration. He got up and went into the drawing room and began to walk about. Now he became conscious of sounds in the street. He thought of going down to the river, which was quite close, but decided not to. The bell of his flat rang suddenly, a long ring. He felt annoyance, wondering what it was, almost certainly it was something tiresome. He wondered if he should ignore it. The bell rang again, longer this time. Frowning he went to the front door and opened it. A woman was standing outside. It was Marian.

  Tuan, pulling the door wider, stepped out and caught her as she seemed about to fall into his arms. He pulled her over the threshold and quickly closed the door. She collapsed onto the floor. He knelt, then sat down beside her, gasping. He lifted up her head. Her eyes were staring, her mouth open. For a moment he thought she had fainted or was in some sort of fit. Then she seemed to look at him. He tried to pull her up, supporting her head, but she resisted, then seemed to help him, thrusting her elbows back to lift herself. She fell back again, then he felt her hand somehow finding his hand. He said breathlessly, ‘Marian, oh Marian, dear Marian—’ They were still for a moment, he now lying almost beside her on the floor. When he made another attempt to lift her, she aided him, and they reached a sitting position. He said again, ‘Marian -’ She nodded as if he had only now recognised her. He got up awkwardly, then with a little of her help, hauled her up to her feet. He put his arms around her, feeling her warmth. They moved, as if dancing. He helped her out of the hall and into the drawing room, where she sank down into an armchair. He stood before her. ‘Marian, dear dear Marian, don’t worry, don’t be afraid, I’ll look after you - oh let me get you something—’ He did not know what - food, drink, milk, alcohol - or else - He murmured softly, saying ‘oh dear, oh dear—’

  Marian leaning back in the chair was now breathing deeply, holding one hand up to her throat. Her other hand, lying over the side of the chair, was holding the entangled loop of the handle of some sort of large bag. She was wearing a loose coat. He could now see her face, which he could scarcely recognise, he thought at first because of some ailment, then because of continuous tears. Her hair was tangled, unkempt and darkened as if wet, clinging to her head like seaweed. He said, ‘Dear, dear Marian, don’t be, so - ’ He couldn’t find the word. ‘Don’t grieve, you are safe - ’

  His murmurings seemed to be of help to her. She sat up in the chair and began clumsily to put herself in order, untangling the bag, smoothing her hair, patting her face, adjusting the neck of her dress, visible through her coat. Then she began to take off her coat, revealing a dark red cotton dress with a white collar. He helped her, awkwardly. Standing before her he said, ‘Would you like some tea or coffee, some hot drink, or perhaps wine or something? - Something to eat?’ This clumsy programme seemed to soothe her a little. She seemed to be wondering what she wanted. She spoke in a low husky voice, ‘Yes, could you bring me a little whisky with a lot of water.’

  Tuan ran to the kitchen - even as he ran all sorts of enormous problems were gathering in his head. He concentrated on the whisky, in a glass, what kind of glass, with the water separate or with, hot or cold - He was too anxious to get back to her, so afraid of her suddenly getting up and running away, he hastily made the decision, two glasses, one whisky one water, upon a tray - but he must also feed her - perhaps she was starving - he ran back.

  In the brief interim Marian had opened her big bag, getting out a small mirror from a smaller bag, and found a comb which she was dragging through her hair. She asked him to pour some of the water, yes that much, into the whisky. Tuan, though not a serious drinker, felt he must have some whisky too, but could not move from his position of standing in front of her.

  She said, ‘I am so sorry, Tuan — ’

  He was so glad she used his name. ‘Dear dear Marian, don’t worry. I’ll help you -’

  ‘I don’t want to impose on you.’

  ‘You are not imposing, I just wish I could — ’

  ‘I won’t stay long.’

  ‘Please, please stay - do you want to - is there anyone you’d like to telephone?’

  ‘No, no, don’t ring anybody, please, you mustn’t tell anybody.’

  Tuan hesitated. ‘Not even Rosalind?’

  ‘No, no, not her! Nobody — ’

  ‘You must have something to eat, you must stay here, I have a spare bedroom, I want you to stay here, you must be so terribly tired, and you must eat something now, please — ’

  ‘All right - just give me something - anything - I -’

  He rushed to the kitchen and came back with some hastily buttered bread and some cheese and a slice of cake. She drank some whisky but took only one mouthful of the bread. It seemed she could hardly swallow it.

  ‘Marian, listen, I’ve thought of something. They are all terribly upset, they think you might be dead - ’

  ‘I might be, I nearly was, I ought to be, I will be — ’

  ‘But oughtn’t we just to let them know that you are not - just tell them - I wish you could talk to someone on the telephone, you needn’t say where you are -’

  ‘I have destroyed two men. I am going away - far away — ’

  ‘Look, I am going to ring Rosalind, I must, I can’t do this by myself, she loves you, she will tell no one, she will do anything for you - and I must ring Jackson too.’

  He went to the telephone. He paused. Silence. He lifted the telephone and rang Rosalind’s number. She answered.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Rosalind, it’s Tuan.’

  ‘Oh Tuan - no news I suppose?’

  ‘Listen, I want you to do something - you are alone?’

  ‘Yes -’

  ‘Wi
ll you come round to my place now, at once, and tell nobody?’

  ‘Of course I will, I’ll get a taxi.’

  Quickly he rang Jackson’s number, but with no success. He ran back to Marian. He had expected her to scream. But she was sitting with her eyelids drooping, her head fallen to her breast, her lips parted, covered with froth. He pulled his chair close to her and took hold of one limp hand. Still staring down, she slowly drew it away, her tears now falling as she leaned back, closing her eyes, seeming to fall asleep. He thought it wise not to speak again. She uttered an almost inaudible lamentation.

  After twenty minutes the door bell rang. Tuan got up hastily and went to the door. He let Rosalind in and closed the door. She stood beside him, leaning back against the door. He put his fingers to his lips, then said softly, ‘Marian.’ Rosalind nodded. She murmured, ‘I thought so.’ He pointed towards the drawing room door. Rosalind went towards it, went through it, and it closed behind her. Tuan went out of the front door, shut it softly, and walked down to the river. He saw a telephone box and could not resist trying again to contact Jackson, this time with success.

  ‘I thought I might find you here.’

  The speaker was Jackson, the hearer was Tuan.

  Tuan had reckoned on staying away from the house, though keeping it carefully under observation, for about half an hour. He had just turned back and was leaving the river when he encountered Jackson.

  A curious partly silent friendship between these two had existed from the start, from their first meeting with Tim and Benet. In company their eyes fleetingly met, one the junior guest, the other the servant. They talked too sometimes, but as accidental encounter, not as any mutual invitation. Tuan was shy, and instinctively took Jackson for some sort of wise father figure, but of course this was a silent invention of his own. He didn’t like it when others teased Jackson, or when Benet chided him.

  They stood together in the street looking at each other. It was late evening, the sun was below the buildings on the other side of the Thames. Jackson stretched out a hand which Tuan seized with two hands. They began to walk back together.

  ‘I stopped outside the door,’ said Jackson, ‘I could hear the girls talking inside.’

  ‘Thank heavens you’ve come. No one else knows - I hope.’

  They reached the door and Tuan opened it with his key.

  The sound which had been audible now ceased as the two men came in. The drawing room door was open and Marian was now sitting on the sofa with Rosalind kneeling before her. Both girls were crying. Now they leapt up. Rosalind came forward to greet Jackson. She put out a hand, then embraced him. Marian simply disappeared, taking refuge in one of the bedrooms.

  Jackson, who had had difficulty in finding a taxi and had then decided to dispense with one, had walked through the eerie brief darkness of the city, meeting with other such strange solitary walkers, he knew such creatures, he was one himself, they gazed at each other as they passed. And he found himself remembering his past and thinking about his future - was his future, some entirely new and different future totally unknown to him, about to begin? Had he a future?

  Jackson now recalled the more immanent events of the evening. Marian had locked herself into her bedroom, and had refused to open the door except to Jackson. They sat on the bed together and Marian kissed Jackson’s hands. Jackson, who had in his time performed the duties of a priest, felt his own familiar pain. She promised - she would not kill herself. She shed more tears. After that she said she was so terribly tired that she must now go to sleep, and of course she trusted Jackson ‘not to tell’. She was indeed so exhausted that she then lay down and fell asleep before him. Jackson had then quietly retired. Meanwhile Tuan and Rosalind had been trying to compose an anonymous communication to be sent to Benet to say that Marian was alive and well! However this was discouraged by Jackson as being too dangerous, and they in any case bowed to his wisdom. After this Jackson set off walking and thinking.

  When he reached Tara the dawn had by now become the day, it was indeed nearly nine o’clock. He observed the garage and then went into the house. It was clear that Benet was still away. What a wonderful relief that at last Marian had been found, and was now in such excellent hands, for the present at any rate! He felt very tired, and was about to set off for the Lodge when he suddenly remembered, how could he have forgotten her, Mrs Bell! She who had so kindly given him that address and telephone number, since he was after all that person’s brother! He must see to that too even if it were now just a matter of curiosity.

  Jackson had given the driver the address by memory. He had written it down carefully as Mrs Bell had pronounced it, but had now somehow left the instructions behind. However, recalling what he had so carefully recollected, he was sure he was right. The region was north London, ‘near to Lord’s’ as the driver had remarked. St John’s Wood, Lisson Grove. The taxi stopped near a church. Having paid the taxi he walked along the road upon the other side. The address was a large Victorian house, verging upon the pavement, which had been turned into flats. The flat in question, he remembered, was number three, perhaps a first-floor flat. He looked up at the windows. He thought, what’s the point of all this, now that Marian’s back. She won’t run. They’ll soon persuade her to come back to some sort of ordinary life. Why should I want to dig up some stuff which she evidently regards with fear and horror? He crossed the road and walked up two steps to the door. He surveyed the small number of bells and pressed number three. Silence. With a sense of relief he pressed it again, preparing to depart down the steps. Then a male voice said, ‘Yes?’

  Jackson, taken aback, said ‘Oh - hello -’

  Silence. Then the voice said again, ‘Who are you, who is there?’

  Jackson replied, ‘Your brother.’ He thought what an idiot I am, now he’ll put the phone down!

  But he did not put the phone down. He said after a brief silence, ‘Come up,’ and then put it down.

  Jackson entered, closing the door behind him. He paused in the hall, then heard a door opening on the floor above. He mounted the stairs, saw the open door and went through it, closing it behind him. He saw another open door before him and entered a room.

  Sitting behind a table covered with papers was a young man with thick long dark hair and large wide open staring brown eyes. The young man was looking at Jackson with intense annoyance, but also with curiosity, his full lips pouted. His long legs were stretched out under the table. Jackson thought at once, Spanish, like a sailor, looks Greek too. And tough.

  ‘What is the joke?’ said the young man in a cool smooth voice.

  Jackson thought, Australian? He replied, ‘I do apologise - I just want to talk to you.’ Do I? he then wondered. What have I got to say? I’m feeling terribly tired!

  ‘Why did you say you were my brother? How did you know I had a brother?’

  ‘Someone said I looked like you.’

  ‘Who said that? Who do you know who knows me?’

  Now I come to think of it, thought Jackson, no one really said I looked like him, oh yes, the chap from the stables said so, after I’d suggested it. He said, ‘Someone who had seen you said I looked like you.’

  ‘Who was it who said that?’

  ‘I don’t know, he was just a chap at the door, and when I said I was your brother — ’ I’m going to faint soon with exhaustion, Jackson thought, I ought to have waited, but then -

  ‘So you go round telling people whom you don’t know that you’re my brother? But how the hell have you heard of me?’

  ‘You’re famous,’ said Jackson.

  ‘I’m not as it happens, and as it happens you don’t resemble me. You are a liar. What are you up to? Are you queer?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re drunk, or else you’re out of an asylum. What’s your name?’

  ‘Jackson.’

  ‘Jackson. What Jackson?’

  ‘Just Jackson.’

  ‘I suggest you get out, Jackson. You’re lying. This is just a ga
me you play with people’s bells. You say I’m famous. Do you know my name?’

  ‘Well -’ said Jackson, ‘it is true that I do not know your name -’

  ‘So you are a filthy liar. Will you get out pronto, Mr Jackson, or shall I kick you down the stairs? I know your sort, you’re looking for money, you try to frighten people by saying you know something about them. Well, you won’t frighten me, you’re just a mean pernicious creep, now get out — ’

  The man rose suddenly and came round the table and before Jackson could move he had seized hold of Jackson’s arm, twisted it behind his back, and was frogmarching him towards the door. Jackson had not expected this. Yet why not? He was a damn fool, he had got it all wrong, he should have waited and thought and put things in order, he should have had something sensible to say and said it at once. As it was - he kicked his adversary in the shins and as he felt the grip on his arm relaxing turned using his free hand to seize a handful of his adversary’s shirt and with his other now free hand to deliver a push upon his shoulder making him stagger back. It was all over in a moment. They stood looking at each other - the other man made a savage spitting sound like a cat. He bared his teeth, then adjusted his shirt. Jackson adjusted his. He thought, this is just luck, since I’m so tired - I simply don’t know what to do, I don’t know now what to do or what to say.