Imaginative Experience

  ‘No,’ said Julia. ‘Tell me.’

  Sylvester thought, I don’t want to talk about Celia, that is over. I want more about her mother; what an appalling unimaginable situation that must have been. I want to know what she could not tell the priest.

  Holding his empty glass near his face, he leaned towards Julia on the sofa. She met his eye; there was no way she was going to answer questions. She had become wary; her moment of weakness was past. She had composed herself. She looked less blotchy, she was very nearly smiling. She said, ‘Your new kettle? Your wife?’

  Frustrated, he sighed into his empty glass, which responded with a whisper like summer sea rustling up the beach. He said, ‘We were married about five years; when we met Celia had just discovered her husband was having an affair. We met at a party. I was at a loose end; had not, come to think of it, been tied. There was that instant rapport that one mistakes for love which actually is no more than animal sex—I should know, I have just had a dose in the States, but that’s another story. She moved in here. Everyone warned me it would not work, which naturally egged me on. We married as soon as she divorced. She was very, very pretty, blonde, well-dressed but not, I was to discover, at all sexy, not spontaneously so. I do think, don’t you, that it’s important to get along in bed?’ (I should not say that, should I? Will she tell me how it was with that bastard Giles?)

  Sylvester waited for Julia to do more than give a slight nod, whose meaning was impossible to construe.

  He went on, ‘She wanted rich people for friends, travel to fashionable places, smart clothes, all the tinsel. She could not stand me wanting to write. I am lazy and easily discouraged, she soon choked that. She filled the house with expensive china ornaments, with white televisions. Oh!’ Sylvester cried. ‘Why am I boring you with all this?’

  ‘You loved her.’ Julia looked out at the garden.

  ‘No, I did not!’ Sylvester shouted and then, as she did not respond, ‘Of course I loved her but I do-not-love-her-now.’ (Now, perhaps, we can get back to the Giles/Clodagh complex?)

  But apparently sensing his train of thought, Julia said, ‘And the kettle?’ and he, caught in the snare of half-forgotten pain, told how he had watched, hidden by the pillar-box, as Celia piled the last of her loot into a taxi, elaborating, listing the items, the parcels, the carrier bags, the televisions, even the new kettle, while he waited like a timid fool until she drove away before venturing back to his house, hoping she would laugh for the situation had been absurd. ‘Even then,’ he said, ‘she left traces.’

  Julia said, ‘Oh?’, not laughing as he had hoped she would.

  ‘She used a scent called “Emotion”. I had grown to hate it. The house reeked of it after her raid—’

  Julia smiled and he thought, she is loosening up, perhaps now I can lead back, but ready for him she said, ‘You mentioned another story?’ so that he gave in.

  ‘That was humiliating, too,’ and as wittily as possible he told of his visit to the Bratts and the debacle with the blonde who, too, smelled of ‘Emotion’. But although she smiled, she failed to laugh even at the loss of the new Brooks Brothers’ underpants.

  ‘You do not seem to find my adventure comical,’ he said.

  ‘I think Celia hurt you more than you let on.’

  ‘God, no! I am delighted. Ask Rebecca, ask anyone who knows me. I am well rid of her. I—what makes you think I am hurt?’ he said indignantly.

  ‘Takes one to know one,’ said Julia coolly. ‘You are close to tears.’

  ‘It’s the alcohol!’ Sylvester raised his voice. ‘Damn you,’ he exclaimed, ‘you’ve set me off.’ And through his tears he cried, ‘Of course I loved her, of course she hurt me.’ He snatched the roll of lavatory paper Julia no longer needed, tore off a handful and blew his nose. ‘But I am all right now,’ he said, chucking the used paper towards the waste-paper basket. ‘My pain is nothing compared to yours! I wish that shit Giles were alive so that I could kill him. I am appalled by what he did to you, and as for your mother—’ Then, observing Julia wince, he stopped. He had gone too far.

  ‘It seems to me,’ Julia steered him away, ‘that she emasculated you.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Celia.’

  ‘Not permanently,’ Sylvester cried, alarmed. ‘And although I shed a tear for her, it is retrospective, I assure you, in a sense painless.’ Observing Julia relax, he thought, if I tread warily we can get back to her story. But Julia was standing up, running her hand through her hair, looking round for the dog.

  ‘I should be on my way,’ she said. ‘I have to work tomorrow. Thank you so much for letting me shelter, the party should be over now,’ pulling her sweater down over her hips, distancing herself.

  Sylvester said, ‘Must you go?’

  She said, ‘I must.’

  He said, ‘I will walk you home.’

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  SHE HAS LOVELY LONG legs, Sylvester thought, matching his stride to Julia’s. Celia had stepped fast but unevenly, heels clacking on the pavement. Passing the pillar-box from behind which he had watched his ex-wife’s depredations, Julia shortened her stride as Joyful lifted a leg.

  ‘I found Celia’s thoroughness somehow admirable,’ he said. ‘I could have stopped her taking so much but it would have been dog in the mangerish. In a way,’ he said, ‘she did me a good turn.’

  Julia did not answer but stepped off the pavement and crossed the street, the dog pacing close to her knee. Was she listening to what he said? Could she possibly be interested in what Celia had taken? All the things they had bought together? Things which, had she left them, would have reminded him of times past, happy and sad. How could she be? I did love Celia, he thought, and I was jealous. I was hurt and very, very angry.

  ‘But not any more,’ he said out loud and Julia nodded as though she understood, squeezing sideways between tightly parked cars onto the opposite pavement.

  ‘One thing I must replace is a car. I am presently carless. Have you got a car?’ he asked. ‘Celia took it,’ he said. Julia did not answer.

  Fool, he thought. Car smash. Child and ex-husband killed. Idiot! But I will get a car and take her to the country. She likes the country, I know that much. The car must be roomy for those legs, and there is the dog to consider. There must be room for him.

  ‘Rebecca will want to advise me,’ he said, ‘she’s a know-all.’ Julia laughed. So she had been listening. ‘She has a golden heart and not enough to do,’ he said. ‘When she worked in our office, we devoted much time to finding people whose lives needed reorganizing. Lately she has been under the misapprehension that mine is in need.’

  Julia said, ‘Yes.’ They had reached the alleyway leading out of his cul-de-sac and walked through it in Indian file, Julia leading. ‘It is difficult to keep Rebecca at arm’s length without hurting her feelings,’ Sylvester said.

  Julia said, ‘I imagine.’

  What rubbish I am talking. I wish I could tell her something of interest, tell her about Bratt for instance, and the Ku Klux Klan, he thought, drawing abreast as they emerged from the alleyway. I wonder how she would react if I told her Celia has even taken the mattress off my bed and that I am glad the new one is pristine, impersonal, only slept on by me! ‘Rebecca does not know about that,’ he said out loud.

  Julia said, ‘What?’

  He told her about the mattress. She said, ‘Of course that would help.’

  ‘When I bought it the shop said it only needs turning occasionally,’ Sylvester said. ‘So when you come tomorrow—’

  ‘I shan’t come tomorrow.’

  ‘What?’ He stood still. ‘Not coming?’ Had she thought he was propositioning her?

  ‘It’s not my day,’ she said.

  ‘Your day?’

  ‘I shall come Tuesdays and Fridays now the garden is in order.’

  ‘But you will come?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But the other days? Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays?’ Could he perhaps invite her t
o lunch?

  ‘I have other jobs,’ she said.

  ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Must you?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Doing what?’ he pried.

  ‘Cleaning people’s flats.’

  ‘But—’ he said. ‘Why?’

  ‘Mrs Patel at the corner-shop cared for Christy with her little boy while I worked—I still work.’

  ‘But is that—’

  ‘It’s not all I can do,’ she said, ‘but the hours suit. I don’t like offices or having to be with people, having to talk.’

  Half-understanding, Sylvester said, ‘I see,’ and they walked on for a bit not talking. But then curiosity bubbled again and he asked, ‘Did you have any happy times with your ex, your Giles? I ask, because I did with Celia. It would not be fair to pretend I had not.’

  She said, ‘Not enough,’ and, ‘He was not mine.’ They were turning a street corner. She exclaimed, ‘Oh, God! The party is still raging,’ dismayed.

  They stood looking along the street. Sylvester said, ‘Is this where you live?’

  ‘Yes, number seven.’ She stood, irresolute.

  The door of number seven was open. Music flowed from upstairs windows, two people danced on the pavement, another pair swayed in the road to the strains of Non, je ne regrette rien. Several more sat on the doorstep, glass in hand, singing. Inside the house a hubbub of voices was punctuated by shrieks of laughter and occasional recrimination.

  Sylvester said, ‘You’d think they’d be cold,’ feeling cold himself. ‘You can’t go back into that, that lot are high on drink and probably drugs, come back with me,’ but Julia said, ‘I must. Joyful is starving and his food is in my flat.’

  Crossly Sylvester said, ‘Surely we can find him something to eat in my house?’

  She said, ‘Your cupboard is bare. Oh my!’ as a man, propelled violently from behind, was precipitated down the steps watched by Peter Eddison. That’s my neighbour in the flat below,’ she said. ‘His wife’s been known to send for the police.’

  ‘That party’s growing rough.’ Sylvester was worried.

  ‘The dancers in the road are not disturbed,’ she said. ‘Last year they had bagpipes and danced reels; that was noisy.’

  Sylvester said, ‘I’ve an idea. Let’s find a taxi and take Joyful to a restaurant,’ hoping to lure her, but she said, ‘No, I will not be daunted. I live here. There are tins of his food in my flat. I must get to them. I refuse to be pusillanimous,’ she said as a window on the second floor flew open and someone with a shout of ‘Fuck the washing-up!’ hurled a trayful of crockery to crash into the area.

  Sylvester said, ‘Gosh!’, impressed. ‘Wow!’

  ‘I must say goodbye,’ Julia said, ‘and thank you very much for being so kind. I hope you will get some rest and sleep off your jet lag. I really am sorry,’ she said, ‘to have been such an inconvenient surprise.’ She spoke hurriedly and shivered in the frosty air.

  Sylvester raised his voice. ‘Oh, do shut up! If you insist on going in there, I will come with you, at least see you get to your flat safely. There is no way,’ he said loudly, ‘that I will let you go alone.’

  Julia said, ‘It’s only a party, I’ve survived others. I should not have made a fuss. No need,’ she said, her voice rising, ‘to be gallant.’

  Offended, Sylvester cried, ‘Ho! Really! If I had not arrived back in the middle of the night you would have gone on sheltering in my house, dog food or not, I bet. You would have waited there until tomorrow.’

  Julia said, ‘Well, I’m not waiting now,’ and set off at a run towards the steps of number seven.

  Sylvester and Joyful ran after her, side-stepping the dancing couples just as someone switched the music from Piaf to Rock.

  Bounding up the steps, Julia elbowed swiftly through a group of people ebbing in and out of the ground-floor flat. Sylvester, following, glanced from the doorstep into the area where a bulky couple clutching each other tightly were beginning to rock, and hurried after Julia through a din of talk and smell of food, alcohol and tobacco. Joyful pressed close to Julia’s heels, but Sylvester could not keep up. There were people sitting and standing all the way up the stairs and dancing on the landings. Some of them were friendly and offered him drinks or cigarettes as his legs became entangled with theirs, so that he paused to apologize. They said, ‘What’s the hurry?’ He said, ‘What indeed?’ Julia could not escape; he would meet up with her at the top, no need to rush. Panting, he paused to look out of a landing window, get a gasp of fresh air.

  Under his feet he felt the house vibrate and wondered how anyone could bear to stay in it. Why had the police not put a stop to the noise? Julia and the dog would go mad, he thought, as he watched a man in a long brown overcoat and black felt hat dancing with two skinny girls in tight black leggings, admiring their high spirits and cheerful abandon. Were it not for Julia, he would be tempted to join them, their dancing was infectious. He was tempted but he turned from the window to continue up the stairs, squeezing past people gathered thick and sprawling on the last flight. ‘What’s the hurry, you hasty man?’ A girl circled his ankle with strong long fingers, digging in her nails. ‘Excuse me, I have to get past. Could you move your legs?’ He jerked his leg free and, inserting his feet between unknown thighs, clutching the banister, feeling his way, he moved on up. ‘Why,’ he shouted as he trod on a hand and its owner yelped, ‘is there no light?’

  ‘Bulb’s gone,’ said a voice. ‘Careful where you put your feet.’

  Sylvester said, ‘Sorry,’ and moved on to reach the top landing where in almost total darkness he nearly lost his balance as a man thrust past him, making his way down amid squeals of protest. There was a fuggy smell of marijuana; he could discern two or three people lolling against the wall, relaxed and peaceful. Finding what he supposed was Julia’s door, he knocked and knocked again. From inside the dog barked. ‘Won’t let you in,’ said a girl leaning against the wall. ‘Wouldn’t open up to her other friend. She don’t seem sociable, no party spirit,’ she remarked amiably.

  Sylvester felt for the keyhole and shouted, ‘It’s me. Let me in.’ The dog barked frantically. He listened, then shouted again, ‘Let me in.’

  ‘No.’ Julia’s voice was hoarse. ‘Go away.’

  ‘I guess she means go away means go away,’ said the girl sitting against the wall. ‘As I say, she wouldn’t let the other man in, so why you? I mean, what makes you different?’

  Sylvester knelt and felt along the bottom of the door; there was, as he hoped, a gap. ‘Joyful,’ he called. ‘You there, Joyful? It’s me,’ and he blew through the gap between door and floor. From inside the dog snuffled in recognition. ‘Tell her to let me in,’ Sylvester shouted, ‘there’s a good dog.’

  When the door opened suddenly Sylvester was on all fours. Julia said, ‘You do look peculiar.’ She had an empty tin in her hand, its jagged lid threatening his face. ‘Come in quickly,’ she said, ‘I thought you were—’ and stopped, her voice unsteady.

  ‘Who?’ Sylvester scrambled to his feet. ‘That’s a nasty weapon. Were you going to use it?’

  ‘Yes.’ She stepped back as he closed the door.

  ‘Why? What have I done?’

  ‘Not you, him. He tried to get in, he’s—I—’

  ‘What? Did he attack you?’ He could see she was shaken. ‘Who was it?’

  ‘I recognized—I thought I recognized him. Is he out there?’

  ‘Only some people lolling about. There’s a girl, I don’t think—’

  ‘Large? Broad? Bulky? Is he there?’ Her voice rose.

  ‘Nobody like that,’ Sylvester said quietly, ‘and give me that.’ He took the tin from her and, remembering the person who had pushed past him on the stairs, he said, ‘Whoever it was isn’t here now.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was, I am almost sure it was the man who has been telephoning me. I know the voice.’

  Below them someone upped the volume of music. Sylvester
raised his voice. ‘You can’t possibly stay here,’ he shouted.

  ‘I must.’

  ‘Don’t argue,’ he yelled, ‘you are coming back with me. Now come on, get the bloody dog food and let’s get out of here.’

  But Julia demurred, not wishing to be bossed about, thinking that she had had enough of Sylvester, that she had not expected to meet him. That now she had met him he was not the nice old homosexual she had visualized who would wear a Panama hat and sit in the garden she had recreated, but a stranger who was taking something from her, had taken something from her, and that she was not prepared to give more. And what’s more, she noted, he was raiding her kitchen, stuffing tins of Joyful’s food into a carrier bag and preparing to leave, even shouting above the sound of rock, ‘Got your key?’ Shutting the window, bundling her into her coat and propelling her out of the flat, locking the door, her door, behind them, and fighting their way down the stairs and out into the street.

  ‘Whew!’ he exclaimed as they crossed the pavement. ‘Whew, that’s better! Good God! What are you doing here?’ he said to Rebecca who, tall and stately, was dancing free and easy, swinging her hips, stamping her high heels in unison with an unknown man. ‘God Almighty, what are you doing here?’ Sylvester repeated.