The Good Apprentice

  ‘Don’t forget — ’ he was going to say: that I love you. He said ‘ — me.’

  Ilona said, ‘You’re going away, that proves you don’t care.’

  ‘I do care! I’m only going to find him in London!’

  ‘You won’t come back.’

  ‘Of course I will. I’ll come to see Jesse. I’ll come to see you.’

  ‘I may not be here.’

  Oh hell, thought Edward. He stood up and said, ‘Don’t be so silly! Of course we’ll meet again. Damn it, you’re my sister!’ He tried to take her hand, grabbed her wrist instead, and then turned to hurry off. As he moved away something fell over his arm, clinging to him when he tried to brush it away. It was the pendant branch of one of the potted plants, the one into whose pot he had poured Ilona’s love potion. Pulling himself free he called out, ‘I’ll write to you.’ The door of Transition banged behind him.

  In his imaginings of his escape Edward had always pictured himself creeping away on tiptoe at night, or in the mist, at any rate spying out the land first so as to meet no one. Now he didn’t care a hang. He picked up his gear and ran down the stairs and out of the Selden door, crossed the terrace without looking round, and started walking down the track. He saw no one, no one called to him. As he came clear of the trees he saw that the sky was filled with flight after flight of wavering formations of migrating geese.

  Just after he reached the tarmac a lorry appeared, and Edward thumbed a lift. Soon, sitting up high beside the driver, he was talking about football.

  PART THREE

  Life After Death

  ‘I’m not going to tell anyone,’ said Stuart to Midge.

  Stuart was back at his old digs, down near the river, off the Fulham Palace Road. Midge had suddenly turned up.

  The drive back to London had been a silent nightmare. As soon as the tow rope had tightened and the car was back on the road, Midge had jumped into the front passenger seat. Harry had undone the rope and thrown it into the boot. Neither he nor Midge said a word to Bettina. Stuart thanked her and climbed quickly into the back of the car; he thought his father, who was revving the engine, was quite capable of leaving without him. Of course they got lost on the way to the motorway. Harry, grinding the gears, stopped the car, turned on the inside light and surveyed the map in silence. Stuart, sitting behind Harry, saw Midge’s cold impassive profile as she stared steadily ahead. They jolted on, Midge and Harry sitting as far apart from each other as possible. Once on the motorway Harry drove at a steady eighty miles an hour. In London, he drove to Thomas’s house where Midge got out and struggled to find her suitcase in the boot. Stuart jumped out to help her. As Harry drove away Midge was still searching for her latch key. Back in Bloomsbury Stuart followed his father into the hall. Not a single word had been uttered on the journey. Harry went up to the drawing room and turned all the lights on and found the bottle of whisky. He said to Stuart without looking round, ‘You’d better find somewhere else to live.’ Stuart left home on the next day.

  Midge, who had not asked Stuart whether he was going to tell anyone, looked about his little room.

  ‘So this is your monk’s cell? Do you pray here?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Are you happy?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘So you don’t feel it your duty to tell Thomas about us?’

  ‘No, but — ’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I think you should.’

  ‘You think I should stop seeing your father?’

  ‘I don’t know about that. It’s just the lies.’

  ‘Oh — the lies — ’

  ‘And it affects other people.’

  ‘Who for instance?’

  ‘Meredith.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He told me you were having a love affair, he didn’t say who with, and that you had told him not to tell Thomas.’

  ‘I didn’t tell him.’ After a pause she added, ‘Well, I suppose I did. I put my finger to my lips, like that.’ She lifted her finger.

  ‘It’s bad for Meredith. A child can suffer terrible hurt and damage. You’ve involved him.’

  ‘You think I’m corrupting him.’

  ‘That’s one reason why you ought to tell Thomas and not tell lies and conceal things. Whatever else you may decide to do about my father.’

  ‘You hate this, don’t you, you hate me for involving your father in this mess.’

  ‘Well, I don’t like it.’

  ‘You’re envious of people who can lead an ordinary life and have love and pleasure.’

  ‘I don’t think so. I just hate to see my father playing this sort of part.’

  ‘Have you told him so?’

  ‘No. We have not spoken about the matter at all.’

  ‘But he asked you to go. So you don’t fancy me as a stepmother.’

  ‘I have never considered the idea,’ said Stuart. ‘I mean I’m not thinking about you in that way.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to marry your father? Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘If you do, I shall see you in that light. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to comment on all that. It’s just the deception.’

  ‘You assume Thomas doesn’t know.’

  ‘He evidently didn’t know. Does he know now?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you’ll tell him.’

  ‘Only if you force us to.’

  ‘I’m not forcing you.’

  ‘Oh yes you are, you’re putting on all your pressure, and your power, like rays.’

  ‘Why did you come to see me?’

  ‘I had to.’

  ‘My father asked you to?’

  ‘No. He doesn’t know. Another deception.’

  ‘Did he tell you where I was?’

  ‘No. I got this address from your college.’

  ‘But why did you come?’

  ‘Because you were there. Because you saw us. Because you were in the car. Because you know. I’m having nightmares about you.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come in the car. I just wanted to get away.’

  ‘You were frightened of Jesse. He pointed his stick at you and called you a corpse. You ran away.’

  ‘I felt I was doing no good there, perhaps harm.’

  ‘I see what he meant. You sat in that back seat staring at us and it wasn’t like having a human being there at all. You got into the car to punish us, to be a witness of our wrong-doing.’

  ‘I don’t think I did that.’

  ‘Don’t you know? I think you have a cruel streak. You negate everything, like death does. What did you say to Meredith?’

  ‘When he told me? I said it was impossible.’

  ‘Why impossible?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d behave like that, or that you’d involve that innocent child.’

  ‘You think I’m corrupting Meredith — I think you are. You want to have an emotional relation with him, you want him to be in your power, and you dress it up as morality, as if you were a kind of moral teacher or example. But you know nothing about children and nothing about yourself. You don’t know how complicated and mysterious people are, you’re a blunt instrument, you’re hard, you’re hardened by pride. Your relation with Meredith will end in a horrible hurtful mess. I advise you to stop seeing him — or are you too much love?’

  ‘I’m not in love,’ said Stuart.

  ‘Suppose I ask you to stop seeing him at once?’

  ‘I hope you won’t.’

  ‘Suppose I — Oh never mind — You set yourself up so. I think you should return to the real world.’

  ‘I think you should. I believe your romance with my father is some sort of dream. You can make it a reality by telling your husband. Then perhaps you can all see what to do next.’

  ‘You know nothing, you feel nothing. Falling in love is a renewal of life. You seem to have chosen death.’

  ‘I think you should renew your life by realising how much you
love Thomas and Meredith.’

  ‘Why were you at Seegard, was it some sort of plot? Oh how you’ve spoilt everything just by existing, by being there, by being you. What are you worth? What do you do all the time, lie on the bed? You pretend to be going to do something great, but you do nothing, you’re a frightened ignorant boy who’s afraid of real life. Why don’t you go to a monastery and shut yourself up!’ Midge who had been sitting on Stuart’s bed got up to go. She had not taken off her coat. She even had a hat on which she now remembered, took off and put on again.

  Stuart had been standing throughout the conversation. He moved now and put his back to the door. ‘Wait a moment. Tell me really why you came. You didn’t have to tell me all those things or to — expose yourself to my criticism — in this way.’

  ‘What wonderful words you use. I wonder if you know how much you offend people all the time? I came because — oh — you hurt me and Harry so much. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive you.’

  ‘You mean by going in the car?’

  ‘By being at Seegard at that moment and seeing us playing that part.’

  ‘You mean pretending to be Mr and Mrs Bentley — ’

  ‘Oh you took it all in, you won’t spare any detail!’

  ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. I had to come because I thought I might, by seeing you and telling you how much damage you’ve done — how much you’ve hurt us — sort of brush it off, get rid of it, get rid of the nightmares. I can see you don’t understand. You’ve become a nightmare figure, a horrible ghost. I wanted to see you as you really are, an idle stupid clumsy fool — ’

  Stuart stood aside and opened the door. He murmured, ‘I’m sorry, I’m very sorry, I do understand. Please don’t have any more nightmares.’

  Midge passed him and clattered away down the stairs.

  Stuart sat down on his bed. He did understand and he was sorry. He hated the idea that he could be, for anyone, a nightmarish ghost. He had been very upset by what Midge had said about Meredith. From his father’s problem and from Midge as his possible stepmother he averted his thoughts. He rubbed his face and decided he needed a shave.

  It was now several days since he had left home and he had become aware of how protected he had been by living in a pleasant house, the house of his childhood, with his father. As a student Stuart had lived in various digs, including the very room he was in now, but it had been different then, when he had had simple ordinary purposes. Then, it had been agreed to be a ‘good idea’ that he should live independently on his student grant, away, yet close. Now, although he did not imagine he was to be permanently banished, he was troubled by the circumstances of his enforced flight. He felt peculiarly alone — perhaps this was part of the process of ‘growing up’ which various people seemed to think he had yet to experience. Thomas had warned him that he would be ‘misunderstood’. He was also, now, able to judge how enlivened and upheld he had been by his ‘decision’; and how vastly much remained to be decided. He recalled Giles Brightwalton’s letter and Giles’s clever humorous face. Would he ever be able to explain to Giles?

  He wondered whether he would now have to face Edward’s reproaches too. Had he let Edward down, had he, as Midge suggested, just been afraid and run away? Ought he to have stayed with Edward, with those women? He had left Seegard because something about its atmosphere appalled him. He felt as if he were breathing in falsity and would soon be made of it, as they were, as Edward even was coming to be. He had felt, as he said, that he could ‘do no good’ there. Yet was not all this just an intuitive impression, based partly on Edward’s confused and exclamatory reactions? As for Midge, had he said too much, too little, the wrong things? He concluded that there was nothing he could do for Midge, ‘a heart to heart talk’ would have been unthinkable.

  Stuart sat upright on a chair setting his feet slightly apart and folding his hands. He had still not made up his mind about training for a job. He had made an appointment with a ‘careers’ adviser. It was important to start, if possible, in the right place. His savings from his student grant would last a while. He must be patient; there would be signposts, vistas. Well, he was full of patience, that wasn’t hard, and he felt no guilt about waiting. Midge had asked him what he did all day. He sat and thought. He sat and did not think. He walked. He slept well at night. He now began to think about Meredith. He dissolved Meredith. His face relaxed and his mind became gradually empty and was filled with a quiet indubitable darkness.

  Midge, now holding her hat in her hand, was hurrying along, looking over her shoulder for a taxi, then down at the paving stones. She was afraid she would fall again, she felt sure she would. Her knee was still painful. She had come in a taxi, but now, in these shabby back streets, there was no sign of one. She could not even find a bus stop. She did not want to ask the way, she had been crying. It was soon going to rain.

  Midge had not seen Harry since that silent return from Seegard, and this fact tormented her. She had telephoned him from her house as soon as she judged he would have reached his, but when he answered he already sounded rather drunk, said Stuart was there, told her to go to bed. Then next morning she rang, and there was no answer. Then Thomas arrived back unexpectedly early, said he had decided to arrange some holiday, wanted to go to Quitterne. Midge wrote to Harry from Quitterne. It was a difficult letter. Midge was not a good letter writer, and could not, perhaps dared not, see what made this letter so hard. She was vague and incoherent, though she knew how much Harry hated this. He always complained that she never wrote real love letters. She was just beginning to imagine the effect upon Harry of Stuart’s discovery, Stuart’s awful presence. She thought, Harry will press me now, he’ll pull everything down, and I’m not ready. He may even, without warning me, tell Thomas. He may come to see Thomas. These reflections almost made Midge want to stay on at Quitterne. The letter, once written, was also not easy to post. At last she managed to ‘go for a walk’ in the wood, and then run to a distant pillar-box. Meredith, who saw her writing the letter, had offered to post it.

  Now, back in London since the previous night, she had, as soon as Thomas left for the clinic, telephoned Harry’s house and got Edward, who had instantly asked her the surprising question, ‘Is Jesse with you?’ Edward said Harry was away all the morning, ‘seeing a publisher or a lawyer or something’. Edward also said that Stuart had gone away, whereabouts unknown. The idea of going to see Stuart, vaguely in her mind for some. time, had crystallised when she learnt that she was to have an empty London morning. The need, now, to ‘do something about it all’, was intense. She felt she couldn’t just sit at home. Her exclamation to Stuart of why she had felt bound to see him was the true one. Of course she had wanted to be sure that he had not ‘talked’. A sentence came into her head: a word from him could destroy us. But more than that she had needed to get rid of an obsessive image. Stuart, in his detestable role of witness and judge, had ‘got into her’. She had to be able to dismiss him, to defeat him, and by voicing her contempt for his opinions to make it efficacious and real.

  Midge was indeed having dreams, nightmares, in which Stuart’s white face stared at her accusingly, as she had seen it staring when she was sitting on that chair by the door in that awful room, exposed, ridiculous, vanquished. In some dreams, when the pale horseman passed her by, he turned towards her and was Stuart.

  But Midge also dreamed about Jesse. Jesse as a sea beast, covered in prickles and fur, like a sea lion, like a walrus, like a whale. Jesse coming to her, young again, and saying, I love you, marry me. And Midge in the dream would think, and I can, I am young and free, I am not married to anybody. Edward’s question had stirred Midge and agitated her deeply. She felt now as she walked along Jesse’s hot wet kisses upon her lips. She thought: he is here, and I shall see him again.

  ‘Excuse me, I wonder if by any chance you know where Jesse Baltram is? Someone told me he’s in London, and I thought he might have come here to the Royal College.’

/>   ‘Jesse Baltram’s in town?’

  ‘I’m not sure, I think so.’

  ‘He hasn’t been here. You haven’t seen Jesse Baltram have you?’

  ‘Jesse, that old rogue, is he around again?’

  ‘I just wondered if any of you had seen him.’

  ‘No, but tell him to drop in if you find him. He’ll find a lot of his old friends still here.’

  ‘And enemies!’

  ‘Are you a painter?’

  ‘No, just a — ’

  ‘I thought you might be one of his pupils.’

  ‘He’s too young to be Jesse’s pupil, I was in Jesse’s last class, this young fellow is a mere child!’

  ‘Would you like a drink?’

  ‘No thanks. I wonder if you could suggest anyone else I could ask?’

  ‘Are you writing a book about him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s about time there was a decent book.’

  ‘But you like his painting? There are a couple of Jesses here.’

  ‘Or were! They’re in store now!’

  ‘Anyone who has a few Jesses is sitting on a gold mine.’

  ‘You might try his gallery.’

  ‘Yes, try that place in Cork Street.’

  ‘No, the lease ran out, the chap moved out to Ealing, name of Barnswell, try the telephone book.’

  ‘Jesse wouldn’t go near that poor sod now.’

  ‘Still, he might know.’

  ‘Well, well, I thought Jesse would never come back to London.’

  ‘Can’t you find out from his country place?’

  ‘They aren’t on the telephone — ’

  ‘Wait a minute. You look awfully like him. Are you his son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know Jesse had a son.’

  ‘Just look!’

  ‘You can’t go away now, have a drink!’

  ‘So you’re not a painter? You must be!’

  ‘No, I can’t paint — ’

  ‘Have you tried?’

  ‘No, but — ’

  ‘I’ll teach you to paint.’

  ‘Thanks, but I must go now.’