A Word Child

  ‘It’s not a stupid hope — ’

  ‘Into a sort of stupid hope of somehow being rewarded at last for having been so unhappy, for having had one’s career ruined and one’s talents wasted — that’s what it came to, I suppose — no one could really help me except him, no one could really help him except me — and I somehow imagined that we could get together and say hey presto and the bad stuff would all fall away and be changed in the twinkling of an eye like in the Jesus Christ story, only life isn’t like that, it’s too deep, it’s too causal, we’re too old. Of course it seems ridiculous now, it seems stupid, to have suffered so much because of something so accidental and sort of frail which didn’t have to happen and so very nearly didn’t, and of course guilt is irrational, that was partly what made me think it would all vanish. But the irrationality is of the essence, it goes all the way through, it isn’t any sort of fulcrum or escape route, it’s the lot — I was destined to suffer stupidly, my mother suffered stupidly, my father suffered stupidly, my sister suffers stupidly, it’s what we were made for — Gunnar was just a mechanical part of my destiny just as I was a mechanical part of his — ’

  ‘Wait, stop, Hilary, stop, you’re saying it all wrong, you’ve been drinking too much, you often do, you went to the pub before you came here — ’

  ‘You make me feel I’m back in the north, back in the old Precious Blood Mission Hall. You’re drunker than I am. Look at that wine bottle.’

  ‘It isn’t like that, you make it as if it’s got to be all one thing or all the other, you’re all muddled — ’

  ‘You sound pretty muddled too if it comes to that. All right, you tell me what to do.’

  ‘Stop seeing Lady Kitty. Write and tell her you won’t come on Thursday. Tell her you feel it isn’t right. That’s one step, and if you take it you may see another. She’ll understand, she’ll respect you for it. She must know herself that — it’s a sort of false thing — it’ll lead to something bad — ’

  ‘As for bad, we’re knee deep in that already. Bad breeds bad. I can’t think why you attach so much importance to this. Of course it’s important to me — ’

  ‘She’s a silly bad frivolous woman.’

  ‘Come, come, Arthur. You don’t know anything about her.’

  ‘I’ve seen her in the office.’

  ‘I see. That’s what’s behind all this moral tirade. You took against her. Or are you in love with her yourself?’

  ‘She’s a coquette, a sort of classy flirt, one can see it, she wears perfume — ’

  ‘And a mink coat. Really, Arthur, I regard myself as a simple unsophisticated boy from the provinces, but you are being perfectly childish. She is a beautiful stylish woman, the sort of woman you and I would never normally come within a hundred miles of, there’s nothing wrong in that, there’s no need to hate her for it!’

  ‘I don’t like that sort of vain upper class woman, she’s spoilt and silly and I wouldn’t trust her — ’

  ‘How much do you know about women, my dear Arthur? Well, I suppose Crystal’s rather blunter simpler charms are more up your street.’

  ‘Please don’t speak like that about Crystal.’

  ‘Well, she is my sister and I wouldn’t at all mind seeing her in mink, some decent clothes might do something for her appearance. I suppose I’m allowed to be realistic enough to see that she dresses like a guy and has a face like the back of a cab. If I realize she’s ugly that doesn’t mean I don’t love her.’

  ‘She isn’t ugly!’

  ‘Your illusion is touching. Now Kitty — ’

  ‘I won’t have you talking here about Kitty this and Kitty that — I won’t have you speaking of that woman in the same sentence as Crystal — ’

  ‘It wasn’t the same sentence, it was a different sentence. As I was saying, now Kitty —’

  ‘Get out, please, get out.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get out.’

  Arthur had risen. He was scarlet, trembling, his mouth jerking convulsively about. I got up slowly and took my cap and put on my coat. I stood for a moment staring at Arthur with curiosity. I had never seen him look like that before. His breath was audible as if at any moment he might begin to sob. It appeared, then, that I was not the only one who was living under strain.

  I went quietly out of the room and down the stairs. The sour-sweet smell of yeast from the bakery greeted me in a warm wave and I went through it and out into the street. Some bright London-pink clouds were illuminating the sky. I put on my cap and turned up my coat collar. Arthur’s uncharacteristic explosion had shaken me thoroughly and I was suffering from shock.

  I felt rather drunk. (Arthur had been right about that.) I also felt uncomfortably that I had said a lot of rather shoddy things which I did not really mean. Perhaps there had been something worth explaining, but I had certainly not explained it.

  Then as I walked along I began to think about Kitty: not to think anything special about her, but rather perhaps simply to think her, as a mystic thinks God with a thought which goes beyond thinking and becomes being.

  WEDNESDAY

  IT WAS Wednesday evening, ten minutes past five, and I was at home at the flat, having left the office early. I had come home for one simple and practical reason, to fetch a pair of gloves. The weather, which had seemed to be as cold as it could be, had suddenly become even colder and the sky had assumed a thick gathered grey congested awfulness which betokened snow. If I was to spend time (how much time?) pacing up and down the road outside Crystal’s house, embarrassing Gunnar and curtailing his visit, I would need a pair of gloves, not usually a part of my equipment. I also picked up a thick woollen scarf. I also, for psychological reasons, shaved. I was now ready to set out again, only it was too early. I had spent a long alcoholic lunch-time and decided that it would be wiser not to wait out this particular interim in a pub. I was becoming too dependent on alcohol. Better to stay here for a little, better anyway not to arrive tipsy. Not that I proposed to speak to Gunnar. I would simply let him see me marching to and fro like a sentinel on the other side of the road.

  Foraging in the pockets of my overcoat I had discovered there the black stone which I had given to Biscuit and which she had returned to me. Why? After what thoughts? Where had she kept it in the interim? The business was full of mysteries. I also found, in another pocket, Biscuit’s little woollen glove which I had drawn off and appropriated on the second occasion when I met her. I put the stone inside the glove and put both these ambiguous trophies away in a drawer. How long the struggle had already lasted, how many phases it had already been through! I felt that, like the Guards War Memorial, I could even now produce quite a respectable list of battles: Leningrad Garden. Office Stairs One. Westminster Bridge. Peter Pan. Office Stairs Two. Cheyne Walk Jetty. Cheyne Walk Drawing Room. Parliament Square … How many more before the war should be finally over?

  I was now lying down on my bed and reflecting about the day. And as I lay back and composed my hands behind my head my heart was beating Kitty tomorrow, Kitty tomorrow. This time tomorrow I would be walking the Chelsea embankment. I tried not to think about it, but it was the heart-beat background to all other thoughts. I turned my attention to Arthur. I had quite forgotten Arthur when walking home last night. I had gone straight to bed and slept well and dreamed of an elephant who turned to pick me up and take me to the dance. The morning had brought a painful recollection. I felt thoroughly shaken by Arthur’s attack on me with its emphatic and violent climax, and the more so because I uncomfortably felt that some of what he had to say made sense. I had chosen to act an unsavoury role and Arthur had taken me seriously. It turned out that I cared, a little at any rate, what Arthur thought about me. I had been guilty of cynicism, coarseness, vulgarity. Cynicism is coarseness, is vulgarity. How could I have said that about Crystal, why did not love strike me across the mouth and stop me? I had stupidly, instantly, resented Arthur’s words about Kitty and I had deliberately tried to hurt him by sneering at Crystal. Of cour
se it was crazy to meet Kitty in secret. And of course, and this was the hardest thing of all, there was a truth somewhere which denied Kitty, only I loved Kitty more than that truth, and that was a truth too. It was impossible not to see Kitty tomorrow, impossible, impossible, impossible. Doubtless I knew, in some still sober part of my mind, that this could not ‘go on’, that my time of meeting Kitty was nearing its end. She was not ‘frivolous’, though she might be ‘spoilt’. Crystal and I could have done with some ‘spoiling’, it could even have helped our characters, it could certainly have helped mine. Kitty was a madcap romantic, but she was not irresponsible, she was not totally daft. She must know that since I would simply go on doing what she told me it was up to her to decide when enough was enough. She would soon see that there was really nothing more to ‘discuss’ and would terminate our conversation with a gay ruthlessness for which much later I would be grateful. I only knew that, for my own peace of mind at that later time, I could not end this thing myself. That at least was absolutely clear. She must end it, and she could well do so tomorrow. I closed my eyes on that pain. But at least tomorrow was still there with its fruit of her presence and there was still a future.

  I had in fact been amazed at Arthur’s nerve, at his sheer courage, in throwing me out. He was evidently amazed at it too. He was in the office before me, waiting for me, waiting to approach me with anxious humility. He begged my pardon. I begged his. He accused himself of having been drunk. I accused myself of having been drunk. With Arthur the reconciliation scene ran on wheels. After that I asked him if he would mind doing my work, and he agreed with alacrity and took away the contents of my in-tray. I played battleships with Reggie. He and Edith now treated me with studied gentleness like someone who has been bereaved.

  I was just looking at my watch and thinking it was not yet quite time to set on for the North End Road and wondering ‘ I should perhaps have a cup of tea, when there was a ring on the door bell. I got up like a jack-in-the-box and ran out. Biscuit with a letter cancelling tomorrow?

  It was Laura Impiatt. She was wild-haired, having pulled off her cap, and wearing a military-style ankle-length belted overcoat and boots. I was not glad to see her. An atmosphere of silly pretence and affectation, more powerful than Kitty’s perfume, came through the door with her. I suppose she was a nice harmless person, but I felt that just then I had no time for her. She pounced on me.

  ‘Hilary, is it really true you’ve resigned from the office? Whatever are you thinking of?’

  ‘I just need a change, that’s all. It’s nothing personal, Laura. With me things rarely are.’

  ‘With me things always are. Everything’s personal. Anyway I don’t believe you. Christopher, did you know that Hilary’s chucking his job?’

  ‘Why, well done, Hilary!’ said Christopher, who had emerged from his room dressed in a long purple robe and wearing a necklace of brown beads and a matching bracelet. ‘I didn’t think you had it in you.’

  ‘Christopher thinks you’ve become a drop-out.’

  ‘I have.’ I went into the kitchen and put on the kettle. Laura followed me pulling off her coat. Through the open door of Christopher’s room I could see Jimbo Davis lying flat upon the floor.

  ‘But seriously, Hilary, whatever will you do?’

  ‘Teach grammar to little children.’

  ‘You are well known never to tell the truth. Well, we shall see, won’t we, Christopher? It will be perfectly fascinating. Don’t you think that Christopher ought to grow a moustache and beard and look exactly like Jesus Christ?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What on earth are you doing with that kettle?’

  ‘Making tea.’

  ‘Tea? Hilary must have gone mad.’

  ‘Have some cake,’ said Christopher. Jimbo had risen and was now in the kitchen too, gazing at me with his sympathetic mournful eyes. Christopher put a Fuller’s walnut cake, already cut into slices, upon the table. I took a slice and munched it while the kettle boiled. Then I made the tea and began to eat a second slice, ignoring the others. I was feeling hungry after a lunch of potato crisps and whisky. Laura was chattering to the boys. A little time passed. Laura was eating some of the cake. Christopher and Jimbo were giggling.

  I was looking at the kettle. I had never really noticed it properly before. It is odd how one lives among things and fails to notice them. Yet each thing is an individual with a deep and wonderful being of its own. The kettle was shiny and blue, glittering like a star in the bright electric light. It was a strange blue, injected somehow with black, reminding me of something. I had never noticed before how black a blue could be and yet remain blue, it was a wonderful achievement of nature. In fact the kettle was both black and blue all over at the same time which I had been told was impossible. Only of course it was possible since the colour was not really in the kettle. Whoever thought colours were in things? Colours surge out of things and stray about in clouds, in waves, yes in waves, is not everything supposed to be made up of waves. I could see the waves. The kettle was glowing and vibrating rhythmically and I was glowing and vibrating with it.

  I swayed a little and put out my hand and caught something. It was Christopher’s shoulder. I turned and looked at Christopher’s face and it had become the face of a beautiful young girl. I lifted my hand and touched the shining blond hair and swayed again. Then I was in Christopher’s room, I had moved thither with a curious ease, and it was as if my feet did not touch the ground. It was quite easy after all to walk upon the air, only no one had ever told me. I was sitting on the ground now with my back to the wall and Laura was sitting nearby and Jimbo was lying on the floor and Christopher was playing his tabla and there was a fragrant ineffable sense of togetherness as if all our minds were lightly glued together, hanging together like a clutch of angels beating their wings in the air just a little above our heads in the centre of the room, only somehow all this was sound, wonderful sound, the huge rhythmic beat of the drum which had become a Tibetan gong, an immense cavern of sound like a great mouth opening and shutting. It was cosmic and beautiful and yet also very funny. The universe was funny, fundamentally funny, and this was fundamentally important, that nothing was deeper than the funniness, nothing. Not evil, not good, not chance, the funny was deepest of all, oh what joy! Now I was turning over and over like something gently unravelling or unrolling. I was a wall of light gently unrolling itself through immense empty areas of space and time. And then I saw Mr Osmand. Somehow Mr Osmand was there too in the cavern which was also the mouth which was also the unrolling light which was also me, and Mr Osmand was like the universe, fundamentally funny. I tried to tell him so but little sugar cakes kept coming out of my mouth instead of words. I wanted to offer him some of the cakes but they danced lightly about and then floated away. Mr Osmand was crawling about on the floor like a beetle, he was a beetle with a huge head and the head came towards me and the huge beetle eyes looked into mine and the eyes had a thousand facets and each facet had a thousand facets. Mr Osmand was very beautiful and very funny and I loved him. Amo amas amat amamus amatis amant amavi amavisti amavit amavimus amavistis amaverunt amavero amaveris amaverit … Everything was love. Everything will be love. Everything has been love. Everything would be love. Everything would have been love. Ah, that was it, the truth at last. Everything would have been love. The huge eye, which had become an immense sphere, was gently breathing, only it was not an eye nor a sphere but a great wonderful animal covered in little waving legs like hairs, waving oh so gently as if they were under water. All shall be well and all shall be well said the ocean. So the place of reconciliation existed after all, not like a little knot hole in a cupboard but flowing everywhere and being everything. I had only to will it and it would be, for spirit is omnipotent only I never knew it, like being able to walk on the air. I could forgive. I could be forgiven. I could forgive. Perhaps that was the whole of it after all. Perhaps being forgiven was just forgiving only no one had ever told me. There was nothing else needful. Just to fo
rgive. Forgiving equals being forgiven, the secret of the universe, do not whatever you do forget it. The past was folded up and in the twinkling of an eye everything had been changed and made beautiful and good.

  THURSDAY

  I SEEMED to have been asleep, only this was not like waking from sleep. Of course I knew what had happened. I knew it quite early on when I was looking at the kettle, only it had already not seemed important, just rather sweet and funny. I looked laboriously at my watch. It said twelve. But what did twelve mean? I looked about me, breathing regularly and deeply and feeling how pleasant simply breathing was. Gradually the world assembled itself into accustomed shapes. I was in Christopher’s room, lying flat with my head on a cushion. Christopher, dressed only in his underpants, was lying on the pile of cushions which he used for a bed. Jimbo Davis was stretched out on the floor face down, one hand flung out above his head. Laura was lying at right angles to Christopher with her head resting upon his bare stomach. Her dress was undone to the waist and she had pulled her arm out of one sleeve revealing a plump shoulder and a straining brassière. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling. I looked at my watch and it said one. Was it day or night?