Page 18 of The Girl in a Swing

appeared. She was wearing a very soft, simple dinner dress in

  cream-coloured silk crepe-de-chine. Its over-skirt, falling a

  little below the knee, was split in front and decorated with

  bands of drawn threadwork. The elbow-length sleeves were

  lace-fringed and the bodice buttoned down to a gold-clasped

  belt. Her plain, high-heeled shoes were ivory kid and her

  only jewellery was a pair of pendant earrings in the form of

  tiny, articulated, gold fishes - which I guessed to be Indian and

  her pearl engagement ring. Apart from the ring, I had

  never seen any of this before, and for a few seconds, as she

  walked down the length of the bar, I simply stared at her,

  with no outward sign of recognition, so that Mr Steinberg

  was unprepared as she came up to us, smiling, touched the

  back of my hand with one finger and murmured, 'Wach auf,

  mein Lieber.' Thereupon she closed her eyes and shook her

  head in a little pantomime of sudden awakening, while the

  fishes, dancing, seemed to scatter a scent of jasmine about

  her.

  'Well, well,' said Mr Steinberg, shaking her hand as he was

  introduced. 'Well, well; that's a lovely gown you're wearing.'

  'How nice of you!' answered Kathe. 'It's fancy dress,

  actually. I'm supposed to be a fly in the milk.'

  'Let's settle for a blackbird in the snow,' said Mr Steinberg.

  Over dinner at the Hyde Park Hotel her style, though there

  was nothing in the least false or insincere about it, became

  subtly modified, yet so naturally that no one - least of all I

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  - could have felt it to be in any way assumed. Nor was it.

  Rather, she had simply pulled out another stop; or (one

  might say), appreciating a certain alteration in the light,

  had changed the lens through which she observed her cornpany.

  Gently, and feeling her way, she teased Mr Steinberg

  and led him on to tease her. She drew him into talk about

  Philadelphia, about his visits to Europe and about his ceramic

  collection. Once, in replying to him at some little length,

  she leant forward and, unconsciously as it seemed, laid a

  hand for emphasis on his wrist, withdrawing it a second or

  two later with a tiny hint of embarrassment in her manner,

  like one recollecting herself after being carried away by the

  warmth and sincerity of the moment. In all the circumstances

  no reasonable person could have expected Mr Steinberg

  to live up to his name. Nor was the credit for not overlooking

  his other two guests entirely his. Kathe's skill included

  giving him every chance to remember them.

  'I'm glad to see you don't go in for counting calories,' he

  said, as Kathe finished the very last of her lemon meringue

  pie and helped herself to two mint chocolates from the

  little tray offered her by the waiter. 'I guess you enjoy cooking,

  too? Is she a good cook?' he asked me smiling. 'Did

  you check that out?'

  'Alan hasn't had a chance to find out about that yet,' answered

  Kathe. 'I'm looking forward to showing him. I hope

  I'll be able to show you, too, before very much longer.'

  'I can't wait,' replied Mr Steinberg. 'But tell me, how

  soon are you figuring on getting married? What's the setup?

  I can believe you don't want to delay any more than

  you have to, do you?' he added, turning to me.

  The excellent food and wine, my fellow-feeling and respect

  for Mr S., his kindness to Tony (in whose way dinners like

  this came even more rarely than in mine) and the success of

  the punchbowl (which would beyond doubt have repercussions,

  for Mr Steinberg was very well-connected in the

  American ceramics world) had all had their effect. I was in

  no mood for reticence and at this moment Mr Steinberg,

  who had made it clear enough that in his eyes Kathe and I

  were as nice a couple as he had met in his life, seemed the

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  perfect confidant. Omitting, of course, any mention of my

  mother or of Kathe's enigmatic crise de nerfs, I told him of

  my frustration, ending 'I know most people wouldn't feel

  there was much to be impatient about, but I just wish I knew

  how we could get it done quicker, that's all.'

  'And tell me, had you planned on going away anywhere?'

  asked Mr Steinberg, sipping his Remy Martin and swilling it

  round and round the glass.

  'I doubt I can really take any more time off. There's the

  business to look after, you see.'

  Mr Steinberg paused, looking into the glass and nodding

  reflectively. Then he said, 'Well, Alan, I don't know whether

  this idea's going to appeal to you at all. I understand all

  you've said very well, believe me. I married the first Mrs

  Steinberg in three days flat from the evening we met. Tell

  me, do you and Katy have American visas?'

  'Well, no, but that's not really -'

  'I guess maybe that could be fixed. Here's what I have to

  suggest. You could fly to America and get married the day

  after to-morrow.'

  'Well, it's most kind of you to make such a helpful suggestion,

  Morgan, but I think there'd be practical difficulties -'

  'Wait a minute, now, Alan, wait a minute.' He raised a

  hand, then removed his glasses and polished them with a

  little mauve-coloured, silicone-treated tissue which he drew

  out of a packet in his pocket; an habitual piece of business,

  I suspected, designed to ward off interruptions and command

  full attention. At length he went on,

  'Here's my idea. You needn't spend any time apart at all.

  I've got a little place in Florida. It's nothing special - just a

  frame house I inherited a few years back and never got around

  to selling. But it's furnished, after a fashion, and there's a

  respectable black lady lives there for free and keeps it in

  order. She was my aunt's housekeeper and I just let her stay

  on. It's a good working arrangement. Now I don't want you

  to get any wrong ideas - this is no luxury apartment and it

  isn't even in vacation territory. It's not on the ocean. It's in

  Gainesville - that's well to the north, kind of in the centre;

  no beaches, and all of three hundred and fifty miles from

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  Miami, I guess. But you're very welcome to use it. Look, I've

  got an old college friend, Joe Mettner, at the embassy in

  Grosvenor Square. As a matter of fact I was having lunch

  with him two days ago. Why don't I -' He paused a moment,

  thinking.

  'Are you free to-morrow morning?' he asked.

  'Yes, Morgan, perfectly, only I can't help thinking -'

  But as usual there was no stopping Mr Steinberg. 'Fine,

  fine. Only, you see, this has got to be fixed to-morrow. I have

  to be in Ro-middley on Friday afternoon, and that's important.

  Are you familiar with Ro-middley, Alan?'

  'I've been there - not for some time, though.'

  'Do you know the wall paintings in the house of Livia on

  the Palatine?'

  'Yes, I remember them well.'

  'Aren't those really beautiful?' said Mr Steinberg. 'Gee!

  But getting ba
ck to business, Alan, I was saying why don't I

  take you both round to meet Joe to-morrow morning and I

  guess he'll arrange the visas? They'll have to be limited for

  the duration of your stay, of course, but in the circumstances

  that's no problem.'

  'Well, it's awfully kind of you, Morgan, but -'

  'Wait, Alan. I'm not done. I should very much appreciate

  it if you'd allow me to make a contribution towards the airline

  tickets, by way of a wedding present. I can give you a

  letter to an acquaintance of mine, Don MacMahon, who

  happens to be a Justice of the Peace. If you've both got your

  passports with you and we can get our ducks in a row tomorrow,

  there's no reason why you shouldn't fly to-morrow

  night or Friday, and Don'll marry you Saturday. Now

  wouldn't that be a real American contribution to British

  welfare?'

  The idea fairly took my breath away. Quickly, I thought

  it over for snags, but could see none. Earlier that very day

  I had been longing for a fait accompli. Here it was, on a

  plate. Mr Steinberg had clearly got the bit between his

  teeth and was feeling that this was Pennsylvania's chance to

  show England a thing or two. His offer was most generous

  and, after the discontent I had expressed, to refuse it would

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  look all but pusillanimous. The marriage would be perfectly

  legal, and with regard to local opinion at home would appear

  in a better light than any registry office affair. 'We were married

  abroad - in America, actually, where we happened to

  be at the invitation of a business friend of mine.' We could

  be back in a week. I had a bank account in London and could

  get some traveller's cheques to-morrow. Anyway, my credit

  cards would be valid in America. It put me in mind of Milton.

  'He took a journey into the country; no body about him

  certainly knowing the reason. Home he returns a married

  man that went out a batchelor.'

  'What do you think of my little suggestion, young lady?'

  asked Mr Steinberg.

  Kathe, looking up from her plate, on which she had been

  folding her empty chocolate envelopes into two, four and

  eight with a pretence of unconcern, seemed almost overcome

  with emotion. After a few moments she answered

  quietly,

  'If Alan would like it, I think it would be wonderful. It's so

  very kind of you.'

  'What d'you think, Tony?' I asked, still playing for time.

  'I think you've got a good friend, and if it were me I

  shouldn't hesitate.'

  'I won't. Morgan, thank you very very much indeed.'

  'O.K., then that's settled,' said Mr Steinberg comfortably.

  Til cable Don - wait, maybe I can call him: it's - let's see,

  quarter of ten, that's quarter of five - well, I'll cable Buttercup,

  anyway -'

  'Buttercup?'

  'The black lady. 'Tell her to expect you. She's a real nice

  lady.'

  14

  CENTRAL Florida. A country, like Connemara, half water

  and half land, much of it grassless. An overwhelming humidity

  and a blazing sun, with every building screened against

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  the insects and artificially cooled against the heat outside. A

  profusion of brilliant blooms - hibiscus, poinsettias, canna

  lilies; papery sprays of purple-leaved bougainvillea trailing

  over walls and wistaria flowering wild along the roadside. I

  could recognize the black-and-crimson cardinal finches,

  bigger and burlier than bullfinch, greenfinch or yellowhammer.

  On some of the innumerable swamps and patches

  of open water were flocks of white ibis, wading step by delicate

  step on long, red legs; and black anhingas squatting,

  like cormorants, on stumps a few feet above the surface, their

  wings displayed, like those of fantastic, heraldic creatures, to

  dry in the heat. Below and beside the long, straight roads lay

  ditches of water, wide and steep-banked, and beyond these,

  brown, coarse-grassed fields, with patches of bare earth and

  clumps of trees from whose branches hung long curtains and

  trailing ropes of Spanish moss. No breeze ever seemed to

  stir this grey, mournful vegetation, born of heat and damp,

  and its listless heaviness imparted itself - or so I felt - to

  everything else - to speech, energy, time and will-power. I

  wondered how it had affected Pedro de Aviles. The Spaniards

  had had no air-conditioning or refrigeration. They had just

  had the insects, the Spanish moss and their own consuming

  greed for gain.

  Nevertheless, despite the heat (how it struck! like an intangible,

  resistant screen as we got off the plane at Miami),

  the long journey and the troubled stomachs that usually go

  with sudden changes of climate, it was a happy arrival stimulating

  and exciting, as arrivals in strange countries

  ought to be. The black taxi-driver who took us from the little

  airport at Gainesville was as friendly and communicative as

  taxi-drivers commonly are to newcomers eager for information,

  and seemed flattered that we - for whatever reason had

  chosen to visit what he called 'the other Florida'. He

  knew 'Judge MacMahon' (or said he did) and drove us

  slowly ('Guess you'd like to have a look around') across the

  town, through back-streets of old, wooden dwellings lying

  behind the electric-signed rows of shops and snack-bars

  along the main streets. There appeared to be no tended gardens,

  but the houses were surrounded (and even, in some

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  cases, covered) by such a riot of trees, creepers and huge

  flowers that the idea of deliberate horticulture seemed almost

  out of place. Gainesville is a university town, and I saw

  several white-boarded, ramshackle dwellings, with low

  flights of steps leading up to peeling verandahs, which had

  evidently become students' 'pads'. One bore a notice which

  said, 'You are now approaching Squalor Holler. Slow Down.

  This Means Y'all.'

  Mr MacMahon and his wife, however, did not live in

  Squalor Holler, but in a large, ugly and very luxurious house

  a little way out of town. This, too, had no garden, but was

  surrounded by a fairly large area of trees and shrubs above a

  stream, in a steep-banked gully, which they referred to as

  'the creek'. They had, of course, been told by Mr Steinberg

  to expect us and could not have been more hospitable. They

  mixed iced drinks, put their bathroom and shower at our

  disposal and gave us an excellent meal. No one, however

  weary, could fail to have been moved by their genuine kindness

  and solicitude, especially for Kathe, who was exhausted

  by the long night-flight, the wait at Miami airport and the

  heat. She was glad enough to fall in with Mrs MacMahon's

  insistence that she should go upstairs and 'take a nap'; and

  while she did so, I explained our circumstances more fully

  to 'the Judge' and made what few arrangements were necessary

  for us to be married the next day. In the early evening

  he got out his
car and himself drove us to our 'frame house'.

  Mr Steinberg had been right in describing it as nothing

  special. It consisted of about two-and-a-half rooms up and

  the same down, and was made entirely of wood. To footsteps

  it resounded like a drum, and everything creaked. The

  furniture was sparse and well-worn. But the place was sound

  enough and had a refrigerator, bath, shower and electric

  cooker. The beds were comfortable and the neighbourhood

  quiet.

  The 'respectable black lady', Buttercup (I never heard her

  second name), was also expecting us. I suppose I had unconsciously

  envisaged someone smiling and plump, in a

  check apron, with very white teeth and a red bandana. Buttercup,

  in fact, was gaunt, large-eyed and life-abraded, at

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  one and the same time civil and withdrawn. She gave the

  impression of having suffered a good deal: but not, I think,

  from colour prejudice, segregation or even material hardship;

  more likely from family troubles of one kind or another;

  but I never learned. She corroborated almost everything we

  said to her, so that one could not help wondering how much

  she had understood; and was clearly more concerned to

  avoid doing anything unacceptable than to waste energy on

  the impossible task of discovering what these foreigners

  might actually want her to perform. However, I was not, in

  any case, thinking of her as a servant, and when we had

  asked all the questions we could think of about the whereabouts

  of things both in and out of doors, from fuse-boxes

  to the post office, we were ready enough to fall in with her

  idea that if it was all the same to us, she would sleep out

  during our short visit, but come in daily. I tipped her twenty

  dollars, which her respectability did not prevent her from

  accepting with alacrity, and said we would look after ourselves

  and be happy for her to do as she pleased.

  The truth is that I have very little heart to recall in detail

  those first few days in Gainesville - the form of marriage

  conducted for us by the kindly judge and our exploration of

  the dull town and the spacious and slightly less dull university

  campus. These things are clouded by the recollection of

  a trouble which, despite its outcome, still hurts deeply in

  memory. Nineteen days from that on which I had first met

  Kathe, the time had come to consummate our marriage. I

  failed to do so - not once or twice, but repeatedly, until the

  waters of frustration and misery closed over my head.

  I recall an old man, a friend of our family, once telling me

  that what he remembered most vividly about the 1914-18

  war was the frightening realization, upon reaching the front,

  that here all lifelong assumptions - the safety and predictability

  one had always taken for granted and come to rely

  upon - did not apply. Continuous danger and uncertainty

  altered the very eyes through which one saw the world and

  affected everything one thought and did. A few years later

  I heard a man who had worked down a coal-mine say almost

  exactly the same thing. That great area of life dominated

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  by Aphrodite - the area of sexual passion - is very similar;

  or so it has often seemed to me. What is it like? It is like a

  deep wood at night, through which virtually everyone has

  to pass; everyone, that is, who lives to grow up. There are no

  generally-accepted rules. Certainly there are paths - wellbeaten

  paths - and many are able to keep to them uneventfully,

  or at any rate to look as though they were doing so,

  and to appear, outwardly, to know what they are doing.

  Some - how deliberately and how much in control of themselves

  none can tell - leave them, calling out that they have

  found better; and others fall in behind, while the rest shout

  angrily that they ought to come back and desist from such

  foolish and dangerous goings-on. Some sit down on the

  outskirts of the wood, preferring not to venture at all into so

  frightening a place; and several of these are nevertheless

  attacked and injured by wild beasts. Everywhere is confusion

  and tumult - people calling to one another in encouragement,

  reproach or desperation; would-be leaders

  shouting follow them - they know a sure track; people who

  have decided to break away and are stumbling against

  others, or simply falling down in the dark among nettles and

  brambles. In glades, fires are burning, giving out warmth and