We had finished our supper (eaten off Mummy’s plates embellished with a white cottage posed against a geometrical beige sunrise) and were (I mean I was) in the rather snappish stage of drunkenness when one realizes that it has all been in vain. Arthur who soon got tipsy (he usually drank beer) was looking dreamy. He was never snappish. He had taken his glasses off and was rather idiotically swinging them to and fro in a pendulum motion. In fact I had drunk the larger part of the two bottles. We had been having a confused conversation about the office, about the pantomime, now about Christopher Cather’s ‘religious’ views.
‘Of course,’ I said, ‘if you think the world is an illusion you don’t care what you do. A very convenient doctrine.’
‘Doesn’t Christianity say — ?’
‘Naturally of course Christopher doesn’t really believe this, no one could. He announces that people don’t really exist! It doesn’t stop him laying about him with his ego like the rest of us.’
‘Well, I don’t think we exist all that much,’ said Arthur.
‘Speak for yourself.’
‘I think we should just be kind to each other. It’s all a pretty good mess-up and if that’s what Christopher means — ’
‘Oh, don’t you start.’
‘I mean one’s mind is just an accidental jumble of stuff. There’s nothing behind ordinary life. There isn’t anything complete. Life isn’t a play. It isn’t even a pantomime.’
‘No Never-Never Land.’
‘Certainly no Never-Never Land,’ said Arthur. ‘That’s the point.’
‘So you don’t see Peter Pan as reality breaking in?’
‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘On the contrary. What is real is the Darlings’ home life. Hook is just a fantasy of Mr Darling.’
‘What is Peter then?’
‘Peter is — Peter is — Oh I don’t know — spirit gone wrong, just turning up as an unnerving visitor who can’t really help and can’t get in either.’
‘That’s rather fanciful.’
‘I mean the spiritual urge is mad unless it’s embodied in some ordinary way of life. It’s destructive, it’s just a crazy sprite.’
‘I think Smee is the real hero. Hook envies Smee. So Hook can be saved.’
‘Only in the novel.’
‘Novels explain. Plays don’t.’
‘It’s better not to explain,’ said Arthur. ‘Poetry is best of all. Who wouldn’t rather be a poet than anything else? Poetry is where words end.’
‘Poetry is where words begin.’
‘I think Nana is the hero.’
‘Nana is the most conventional character in the whole thing. Now Smee — ’
‘You must remember that Smee serves Hook.’
‘You must remember that Nana is only a dog.’
‘Exactly,’ said Arthur. ‘There’s nothing bogus about Nana. Nana doesn’t talk. Even Mr Darling fails, he wants to be Hook.’
‘What about Wendy, does she fail?’
‘Yes. Wendy is the human soul seeking the truth. She ends up with a compromise.’
‘Living half in an unreal world?’
‘Yes, like most of us do. It’s a defeat but a fairly honourable one. That’s the best we can hope for, I suppose. Now Nana. She’s the truth of the Darling home, its best part, its reality. Nana fears Peter, she’s the only one who really recognizes Peter.’
‘I can’t think why you idolize the Darling home life. It seems to me to be pretty dreary.’
‘Oh no — what could be better — a home with — children and — ’
‘I think we’re drunk,’ I said. ‘At any rate I must be. I thought for two minutes that you were saying something interesting.’
At that moment fortunately the telephone rang. It was an old age pensioner whose budgie had just died. I could hear the old fool whining away at the other end of the line. I gathered my things together. I knew from experience that Arthur was incapable of terminating a telephone conversation. He begged me, covering the mouthpiece, to stay, but I had had enough anyway. I did not want to hear any more on the subject of happy homes and children.
Outside the crazy old English weather had done another quick change act. The clouds had rolled away and there was a clear night. In spite of the London glow a few stars were visible in the faintly reddish sky. It was a long time since I had seen the Milky Way. The great wheel of the galaxy, the gleaming fuzz of innumerable stars, the deep absolute darkness that hid other and other and other galaxies. Arthur was right. We did not exist all that much. We could suffer like mad all the same. Something was there, a wounded complex of resentment and anxiety and pain, something half crushed, something swallowed, not yet digested and still screaming. I considered the idea of going on to see Crystal. But it was the sort of thing I never did. I must keep to my routine. Besides she would be asleep by now. Supposing Crystal took me at my word and suddenly accepted Arthur? Had I not better put a stop to the whole thing by lifting my finger? It was no good trying to distract myself by thinking about Biscuit. I did try, but there was no joy in it. Biscuit was just another piece of meaningless teasing on the part of the cosmos, like poking an insect with a straw. I walked very slowly home.
WEDNESDAY
IT WAS now Wednesday, the most important day in the story so far, and one of the most crucial days in my life. It began tediously enough with a row with Christopher Cather. I had risen to find the kitchen occupied by a strange boy whose long hair was thrust through an elastic band. He had presumably spent the night. I went into Christopher’s room to tell him that I would not have in the flat a boy whose hair was done up in an elastic band. Christopher said I was ridiculously narrow-minded. I also told Christopher that I objected to his wearing such a short jersey that every time he moved I could see an expanse of flesh. I desired him to keep his flesh to himself. Christopher said that the jersey had shrunk in the washing machine. I told him that I had told him he was never to use the washing machine. He said I was a stingy bastard. I replied. I left without shaving and banged the door.
The lift was still out of order. The electricity strike was on the posters again, billed to start at any moment. It was raining. I looked around for Biscuit but there was no sign of her. When I got to the office I intended to shave (I kept shaving gear there) but found I had no razor blades. I felt depressed and unclean. I sat and stared at the cobweb-smudged wall, hoping that the desire to tell Crystal to drop Arthur would soon become irresistible. I nudged it along a bit. She would see him tomorrow. Should I not see her tonight?
Mrs Witcher and Reggie came in laughing merrily. They were having a festival season to prolong their triumph. Tommy rang up (a forbidden action) and I put the telephone down. Arthur, whose assistance I needed, had rather surprisingly failed to appear. It was about eleven forty-five when the shattering thing occurred.
Reggie and Mrs Witcher normally chattered throughout the day. I suppose they did some work. I was so used to their vulgar cacophony that I was easily able to switch off from it. Sometimes I listened. I had been writing a fine little minute concerning the position of a messenger who had been seconded to another department and while there had received what was now said to be an ex gratia honorarium for clearing some pigeons’ nests off the roof, and who, after returning to our department, had broken his leg while clearing some more pigeons’ nests, which he now alleged to be part of his normal duties. I had resolved this matter elegantly and was now sitting back before starting on another case, wondering why Arthur had failed to turn up, and idly listening to the ceaseless chatter of the other two. They had been discussing the pantomime. Now evidently they were off on something else.
‘You don’t say Earl Salisbury!’ This was Edith who was an expert on the aristocracy. ‘You say Lord Salisbury, but the Earl of Salisbury.’
‘Is a duke higher than an earl?’
‘Of course he is, silly.’
‘Is an earl the same as a marquis?’
‘A woman keeps her title. She doesn’t become plain Mrs whe
n she changes her surname.’
‘Well I think she ought to! But does that mean her father was an earl?’
‘Let’s ask Mr Know-all. Hilary — Hilaree!’
‘Yes?’
‘When someone is called Lady Somebody Something her father is an earl, isn’t he, and she keeps her title, doesn’t she, when she marries and becomes Somebody Something Else?’
‘I think so,’ I said, ‘but you’re the expert. I think if you’re the daughter of the Earl of Whitebait you are called Lady Joan Chubb and when you marry a Mr Stickleback you become Lady Joan Stickleback.’
‘Isn’t Hilary witty. Is an earl the same thing as a marquis?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I thought you went to Oxford.’
‘I did a secretarial course there.’
‘Hilary’s always romancing. I don’t think he was near Oxford in his life.’
‘Hilary went to the Spastics’ University at Scunthorpe.’
‘Hilary — Hilaree —’
‘Anyway, there it is, she used to be Lady Kitty Mallow and then she married Mr Gunnar Jopling and became Lady Kitty Jopling.’
Skinker came in at that moment. ‘What’s the matter, Mr Burde?’
‘I just dropped my ink.’
He picked up my ink pot.
Some of the ink had come out onto the floorboards. I leaned over the edge of the desk staring down at the little dark pool and breathing hard. Very slowly I laid a piece of blotting paper down on top of the ink.
‘Are you all right, Mr Burde? Feeling funny?’
I gave a jerk with my hand which he understood and obeyed. He left the room and closed the door.
‘It’s rather flashy to be called Lady Kitty though, isn’t it?’ Reggie was saying. ‘I mean, she can’t have been christened Kitty.’
I cleared my throat.
‘Yes, Hilary, dear? Did you make some observation?’
I simulated some coughing to cover the fact that I was finding it hard to breathe normally or to produce my voice. ‘You said something about Jopling?’
‘Yes, a man called Gunnar Jopling.’
‘I’ve heard of him before,’ said Reggie. ‘I thought he was some sort of politician, but he can’t have been.’
‘He was head of that thing on monetary reform. And then he was something at the United Nations. I saw him on television.’
‘What about him?’ I said.
‘Haven’t you heard? He’s the new head of the office. He’s taking Templar-Spence’s place.’
‘Templar-Spence has gone already,’ said Reggie. ‘But Jopling won’t be here for three weeks.’
And it’s his wife that’s Lady Kitty, so I suppose her father was an earl or something.’
‘How many earls are there?’
I leaned over my desk for a while and pretended to write. Then I quietly left the room and went to the cloakroom and put on my overcoat and took my umbrella and went downstairs and out into Whitehall. It was still raining a little. I wanted to see Clifford Larr. He never allowed me to talk to him in the office and frowned on meetings anywhere near it, but this was an emergency. He usually left the office to go to his lunch at St Stephen’s Tavern at about twelve-thirty. It was now twelve-ten. I walked slowly up and down, hiding under my umbrella and keeping the main door under observation. About twenty-five minutes passed. Thirty minutes. Then Clifford emerged, dressed in his smart tweed coat and trilby hat. He was beginning to open his umbrella when he saw me and closed it again. He hesitated, then walked in my direction. We turned towards Trafalgar Square, walking slowly. I put my umbrella down.
‘You’ve heard,’ said Clifford.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, what do you want me to do about it?’
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘There’s nothing to say. I’ve got a meeting at two and I’ve got to read a lot of stuff before it. You know we don’t meet each other here.’
‘I want to talk to you. Come into the park.’
‘Good day. I go this way, you go that.’
‘Come into the park. Do you want me to grasp your arm and make a scene?’
We changed direction. Clifford put up his umbrella, as a disguise no doubt. I put mine down. The rain had almost stopped. We passed in silence through the Horse Guards, crossed the parade ground and entered St James’s Park, walking on the north side of the lake. The rain stopped completely and a little very brilliant pale blue sky was emerging over Buckingham Palace.
‘What am I to do?’ I said to Clifford.
‘I don’t see why you have to do anything,’ said Clifford underneath his umbrella. ‘You won’t be meeting him.’
‘I shall pass him on the stairs.’
‘Do you imagine he’ll attack you, seize you by the throat or something?’
‘I shall have to resign.’
‘Don’t be so idiotic. Well, please yourself. Now I’m going back.’
‘No. Please. Please. I heard it just now. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Put up with it. He’ll ignore you. Or if you hate it, resign. There’s no problem.’
‘It’s such a fantastic chance. Why should he come here of all places? I thought I’d never see him again, I prayed I’d never see him again. I hoped he’d die. I thought of him as dead.’
‘That was rather uncharitable as well as rather unrealistic. He’s a very successful man. And now I must — ’
‘Come as far as the bridge, Clifford, please, come as far as the bridge. I think I’m going mad.’
We walked onto the iron bridge and stood looking back over the water towards Whitehall. The fairy pinnacles of Whitehall Court were visible to the left of the sturdy outline of the New Public Offices, and beyond yellow island willows the gracious palace-like façade of the Foreign Office building gleamed a luminous greenish grey. A little watery sunshine was illuminating the crowded skyline against a backdrop of leaden darkness. South of the river it was still raining, and the glittering lines of the rain could be seen falling in front of the sky’s thick gloom, lighted up by the pursuing sun.
‘Do you think he knows I’m here?
‘I shouldn’t think so. It’ll be a nice surprise for him to see a familiar face.’
‘I can’t endure it,’ I said. ‘If we meet we’ll — faint with — hatred or something.’
‘I don’t see why you shouldn’t say good morning like civilized persons.’
‘Say good morning! Clifford, do you think anyone in the office — apart from you — knows about — me and Gunnar?’
‘No.’
‘You won’t tell, will you?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘I feel ill. I think I’m going to faint now.’
‘Don’t be so spineless. As for hatred, I don’t see why you should feel any.’
‘If you don’t see that you need a lesson in psychology.’
‘Oh I know one is supposed to detest the folk one has injured. But there are limits.’
‘There are no limits to anything here.’
‘Nearly twenty years have passed after all.’
‘Not for me. It’s yesterday.’
‘You know I can’t stand this sort of intensity. I’ve got troubles of my own.’
‘He’s married again.’
‘Why not? He has been getting on with his life while you have been sitting there paralysed with self-pity.’
‘You despise me, don’t you. You are ashamed of being my friend. You feel you’d lose face in the office if you were known to be my friend. All right, clear off then. And don’t expect me next Monday.’