Henry and Cato

‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I’m in pain.’

  ‘Colette—’

  ‘Oh, Mrs Marshalson—’

  Gerda had driven Lucius to the doctor’s surgery. Now, shopping in the village, she had met Colette.

  Colette was in jeans, her tail of polychrome brown hair tucked down inside her speckled blue sweater, the shorter locks blown into tangles, her cheeks shining and red in the east wind. Gerda was tucked up in furs.

  ‘Cold, isn’t it.’

  ‘These spring days are icy.’

  ‘April’s worse than February.’

  ‘Colette, won’t you come up and see us at the Hall? Henry would be so pleased.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Please come. Come to tea or for a drink. What about tomorrow?’

  ‘I’d love to, only I have to go to London. Perhaps I could ring up—’

  ‘Yes, do. Just invite yourself. We’d all love to see you. How charming you’re looking, my dear. I love your sweater.’

  ‘It’s Norwegian. I love your coat. Is it mink?’

  ‘Oh, nothing so grand. At your age you can wear anything and look lovely.’

  ‘But Mrs Marshalson, you’re lovely—I don’t know if anyone ever told you—but you’re, well, even now—someone must have told you when you were young—’

  ‘Well, that was a long time ago. I must run now. Come and see Henry, he’ll be so delighted.’

  When Gerda reached the car Lucius was already sitting in it.

  ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What did he give you?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Gerda drove in silence for a minute.

  ‘Why, there’s Henry.’ She stopped the car. ‘Want a lift home, Henry?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Was that Merriman you were with? He vanished so quickly. He’s very elusive these days. If you walk back you’ll meet Colette Forbes. She was asking after you.’

  Gerda pulled the car out and drove on towards the Dimmerstone road. Lucius, looking over his shoulder saw that Henry had not turned back towards the village, but was proceeding along the lane, stretching out his hands on either side and executing dancing steps. Gerda, glancing into the driving mirror, could see nothing because her eyes were full of tears. When she was young there had been scores, hundreds, to laud her beauty.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad. I thought perhaps you wouldn’t come.’

  ‘But of course I’ve come. I said I’d come.’

  ‘I’m so relieved.’

  Henry had telephoned Stephanie Whitehouse and invited himself to lunch.

  For the last two days, since his talk with Cato, Henry had been in a state of unholy excitement. He felt that he had been struggling with demons, and the struggle itself, whatever exactly its outcome, had given him a kind of satisfaction. He had been shaken by Cato’s opposition; so much so that he had, without changing his mind, allowed it to haze over a little, to become, in relation to his project, cloudy. He felt instinctively that after a period of comparative vagueness he could return to a greater certainty. And this instinct, this slight warding off movement, had made it easier for him to do what he now more immediately wanted to do, think about Stephanie Whitehouse. In fact the two things hung together. Until he had somehow ‘settled’ Stephanie he could not, would not be worthy to, proceed with any drastic plan concerning his mother.

  Henry had, since his first meeting with Sandy’s mistress, watched himself with interest and with a kind of glee. It was as if for a brief while, he had allowed himself to be ‘taken over’ by his brother. He could scarcely doubt that it was open to him to ‘keep’ Stephanie Whitehouse in exactly the same way and on exactly the same terms. As he had gloatingly thought, lying on his bed soon after that extraordinary first meeting, she was his prisoner. She would not run away. She would, submissively, wait. Yet as those visions, with a remarkable speed, proliferated and developed, he attempted too to resist them. How could he so grossly classify another human being? This girl had loved Sandy. Why should she care for Henry? Because she had once been a prostitute why should he assume that she would welcome him as a lover? They were two strangers who had just met. Why should a myth out of the past determine their dealings? Stephanie was a mystery, a secret, something to be warily studied. And even supposing, because she was his dependent, as it were his serf, she were to take him into her bed, did he want that? The idea of her certainly excited him. But was not this a weird, perhaps bad excitement, something to do with Sandy? Did Henry want a serf, especially now when he was about to defeudalize his life? What an amazing problem. He found himself smiling as he reflected upon it.

  Of course Henry knew that he would have to see her again and that everything in his world was waiting for this meeting. And, Henry knew, this would be no mere business meeting, but a part of the deep drama, the very metaphysics, of his life. Simply to ‘pay her off’ and say good-bye, which would certainly be one solution, was morally and psychologically impossible. He was responsible for Stephanie Whitehouse and he must rise to the level of this responsibility. He must go to her in simplicity and in honesty, respecting her, seeing her as secret and separate, seeing her as free. He must shake off all the seedy obviousness, the banal smirking vulgarity, which could so easily demean his view of the situation. He must purge his excitement. He must become humble.

  So he had felt, and for this reason he had put off his visit; for this reason too, though he had no intention of mentioning her, he had gone to Cato, juxtaposing with his thought of her, his own plan for his salvation. Now, with that plan for the moment postponed, he felt the urgency of testing himself. Yes, it was a test, a trial. And if he could, with Stephanie ‘get it right’, then he would feel, in the matter of his mother, that much more confident. Thus obscurely had he wrestled with himself. But when he at last lifted the telephone, and when, soon after, he made his way to Knightsbridge, entered the lift, and walked on the yellow carpet towards her door, the wildest emotions filled him and all careful thoughts and plans were obscured.

  Stephanie Whitehouse looked different, younger, prettier. Perhaps it was just that she had taken greater care with her appearance. Probably she had had her hair done. It was sleeker, wavier, curving with her head. Her slightly bouncy smallness, the wide tilted nose, the roundness of her head, her face, her eyes, gave the effect of a little horse. She was, in a way which startled Henry, new, a presence. Her face was ostentatiously but carefully made up, the pouting lips scarlet, the eyelids mauve, the line of the eyes discreetly pencilled. There was a pleasant warm smell in the flat.

  Henry, without extending his hand, moved rather awkwardly past her into the sitting-room, as if he were pushing his way in.

  They stood in the room, beside the red leather sofa, looking at each other. Then Henry stretched out his hand and she, not even pretending a handshake, took his hand, his wrist, in both of hers. It was a grab, a clutch. Henry’s fingers gripped her cuff. Then, both breathing deeply, they stood apart. Henry said, ‘What a lovely warm sunny day, isn’t it.’

  ‘Yes, it’s like spring at last.’

  They looked at each other with wild eyes.

  ‘You didn’t mind my just suddenly inviting myself?’

  ‘No, no—But I haven’t had time to cook anything or—’

  ‘But that’s lovely, a picnic—’

  ‘Yes—a picnic—’

  Today she was smarter, wearing a black linen pinafore dress with a flowery blue blouse foaming out at the neck. Henry lowered his gaze, seeing how the linen curved over her rather large bosom, seeing her breathing. He looked down at her glistening black high-heeled shoes. He was reminded of the little elegant hooves of a young donkey.

  ‘Won’t you take your coat off? Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Thank you. Sherry. I see you have some.’

  ‘I got—You gave me so much money—’

  ‘Please don’t speak about money, Miss Whitehouse.’

/>   He dropped his coat on the floor. She picked it up and took it away into the hall. Then she poured out a glass of sherry and gave it to him. Her movements seemed to him gentle and humble, indescribably graceful. Doubtless a geisha would move like that.

  ‘Mr Marshalson, I’m so grateful—’

  ‘I wish you’d call me “Henry”.’

  ‘Oh thank you—but then please—could you please call me “Stephanie”?’

  ‘Stephanie. Thank you. But you haven’t given yourself a drink—won’t you—sorry, I seem to be offering you your own sherry!’

  ‘But it’s your sherry.’

  ‘It isn’t. Look, are you all right? I mean—has everything been all right—since I was here?’

  ‘Oh yes, yes. I’ve been just waiting for you.’

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I’ve been busy down at the Hall. I suppose you never—went there with Sandy—no, well, of course not—’

  ‘Went—?’

  ‘To the Hall, to Laxlinden.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful place. Well, you can see from the picture.’

  ‘The picture?’

  ‘Yes, here, this water colour. Did Sandy never tell you that that was his house?’

  ‘He hardly ever talked about it—perhaps he knew I didn’t want to hear about that other life—of course I couldn’t go there—’

  Henry looked into the picture. Francis Towne, seated probably upon the obelisk hill, had painted an April evening, the southern façade a light brilliant gold in the sun, the big trees in first leaf, casting their huge round shadows upon the green slope, the blue sky scattered with little radiant clouds. He turned back to Stephanie. Her eyes were full of tears.

  ‘He was secretive. I was just a little part of his life. He didn’t tell me things.’

  ‘Oh—Stephanie—I’m so sorry—’

  He extended his hand again and this time she took it in a handshake grip. They looked at each other. The tears, unwiped, overflowed her eyes. One leapt onto her bosom.

  ‘I’ll just go and—see the lunch is ready. It’s in the kitchen. I hope you don’t mind.’

  With a quick embarrassment she withdrew her hand, dashed the tears away and hurried from the room. Left alone Henry circumnavigated the absurd sofa and went to the window, grimacing with excited tenderness, pity, a desire to laugh, a desire to cry. Then he followed her into the kitchen. They sat down to lunch.

  Stephanie’s ‘picnic’ was simple but extensive: ham, salami, a meat pie, olives, tomatoes, a potato salad, a green salad, sliced cucumber in yoghurt, cheese, celery, an apple tart. Also a chilled bottle of rather good white wine. Sandy had evidently taught her something.

  Henry, usually a hungry man, found that he could eat nothing. It was simply impossible. He pretended to fiddle with ham and cucumber. He noticed that Stephanie too was only pretending to eat. Some more tears came, she tried to conceal them. He drank some wine and felt immediately drunk.

  ‘Are your parents alive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Brothers, sisters?’

  ‘No, no one.’

  ‘And you ran away from home?’

  ‘Yes, when I was fourteen.’

  ‘What did your father do?’

  ‘He was a labourer. I never got on with him. He beat my mother. Please let’s not talk about it.’

  ‘I’m very sorry. I do understand.’

  ‘I wish you’d tell me—Sandy never told me anything—I don’t even know—’

  ‘About me, us? My father died a long time ago when I was a small boy. My mother’s still very much alive down at the Hall. There was only Sandy and me of course.’

  ‘Your mother must be so sad. Sandy did mention her sometimes. How much I should like to meet her—but of course that’s impossible—’

  ‘It’s not impossible,’ said Henry. He put his fork down. ‘There’s no earthly reason why you should not meet my mother.’ He looked into the round moist dark blue eyes. Feeling slightly giddy he looked away again.

  ‘Oh no—’

  ‘Look, Stephanie,’ said Henry. ‘By the way, I want to hear you call me “Henry”.’

  ‘I feel I—all right—Henry—’

  ‘Good. Now look. What’s past is past. I mean, I don’t regard you as—I’m not trying to step into Sandy’s shoes—’

  ‘Of course not—’ The tears overbrimmed again and she began to mop her face with a paper napkin, smudging the lipstick about.

  ‘I mean—I want us to be friends, I want to know you as you, for real, I—I won’t ever abandon you, Stephanie—oh my dear, please don’t cry—’ Henry got up and came round the table. Stephanie rose and the next moment, with all the naturalness in the world, he had taken her in his arms. Her hands gripped his sleeve. Her hot wet smudgy face was buried against his jacket, and he felt her wild captive heart pounding against his own.

  Very gently he led her to the bedroom.

  ‘I heard from Gerald Dealman,’ said Brendan.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘He’s running an encounter group in Glasgow.’

  ‘I wonder how long that will last. Any news of Reggie?’

  ‘He says he’s become a Buddhist, but we assume that’s a joke.’

  ‘I hear Father Milsom is still ill.’

  ‘Yes, poor old man.’

  ‘Do you remember Sandy Marshalson? I brought him in to dinner once.’

  ‘That tall red-headed drunk who smashed himself up in his Ferrari, not on that night, thank heavens?’

  ‘Yes. We were all rather sozzled that night.’

  ‘I wonder if he was drunk when he killed himself. He seemed to me a man filled with desperation.’

  ‘Poor Sandy. Well, his brother’s back, I think you never met him, Henry Marshalson, he was in America.’

  ‘I remember you mentioned him. Your childhood friend. I suppose he’s inherited that big place.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s going to sell it and give the money away.’

  ‘Good for him. Who to?’

  ‘He wants to give it to us.’

  ‘Us? Oh us. Grab it quick before he changes his mind.’

  ‘His mother won’t like it.’

  ‘It’ll make a change for the good old lady.’

  Cato was irritated because he felt that Brendan, having virtually summoned him in order to have a ‘serious talk’, ought not to be carrying on the trivial gossip which had now lasted all through supper. Cato, continuing the gossip and bored by it, was determined not to be the first to speak seriously. Of course Brendan, who had been teaching all day, was tired. Or perhaps he thought that Cato was tired and would want to go to bed and not to have to talk late upon grave subjects. But Cato did not want to go to bed, he wanted to talk properly to Brendan, only Brendan would go on and on being flippant.

  Cato had had his lunch at a pub and had arrived at Brendan’s flat in the afternoon, letting himself in with the key which was always left under the mat. Alone in the flat he had given himself the luxury of a hot bath, and had then lain down in the little slit of a room which was Brendan’s spare bedroom. He had at once gone to sleep and had been awakened by Brendan’s arrival home. They had drunk some wine and eaten some of an excellent stew which Brendan, who was quite a good cook, had made on the previous day and heated up. Cato, now drinking whisky, was walking restlessly about the room, stopping to examine Brendan’s books, then pacing again. Brendan, not drinking, had taken his shoes off and was lying flat on the sofa with his feet up on one of the arms. Sometimes his eyes closed. Hang it, thought Cato, I suppose he wants to go to bed.

  Brendan lived in a small flat in Bloomsbury, circled about ceaselessly by traffic whose noise the double-glazed windows muted to a steady murmur which soon ceased to hold the attention. There was, especially now with the lamps on and the thick curtains pulled, an atmosphere of secluded quietness. Brendan came of an old Catholic family, the sort of ‘public school Catholics’ whom Cato’s father regarded with such suspici
on. He had come straight from Downside to train for the priesthood and had studied at Oxford when already a priest. He lived simply, but his narrow room somehow reflected confidence and ease. The silk-fringed lamps cast a subdued golden light and the long central rug, which lay upon other rugs, was a sort of embroidery of brown and golden roses which one hesitated to step upon. An ivory Spanish crucifix, the Christ figure only, very pale and blood bespattered, hung against a black velvet curtain.

  ‘What’s Henry Marshalson doing besides selling his patrimony?’

  ‘He’s writing a book on a painter called Max Beckmann.’

  ‘Oh yes. A rather frenetic German symbolist.’

  ‘I’d never even heard of him.’

  Cato looked down on his reposing friend, was he really falling asleep or was he watching Cato through those rather long eyelashes? Brendan was good-looking and foppish, wearing a well-cut black suit with his dog collar, a black velvet jacket in the evening. He was tall, with glossy straight black hair and brilliant blue eyes. Cato had disapproved of him at first, taking him to be merely a charmer. As often happens it was Brendan’s cleverness which taught Cato to see his virtue.

  Cato thought, if he goes on chatting until I’ve finished my whisky I shall go to bed. It had also occurred to him, as if he had been somehow informed by Brendan’s books, by the golden lamps, by the crucifix, that Brendan, whether in a sense he liked it or not, now represented authority. Cato was sure Brendan had not told anyone else in the order about Cato’s doubts. But Brendan would have to decide after talking to Cato whether to tell or not, and would then do what he thought right and not what Cato wanted. Perhaps it might be better after all to wait until tomorrow.

  ‘So you’re thinking of leaving us,’ said Brendan, his eyes still apparently closed.

  Cato felt relief. There was a change of atmosphere, a change of tempo.

  ‘Can I have some more whisky?’

  ‘Help yourself.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Cato paced a bit in silence. There was no urgency now.

  ‘I don’t know—’

  ‘Not thinking of leaving us?’

  ‘I feel as if—I may have to—’