I could feel that my palms were sweating. I had the folder containing the pages of my talk held closely under my left arm. I saw Hugo’s movements duplicated in the mirror behind the bar. He caught my eye and gave me his slightly rabbity smile.
It was twenty past seven. I had again the impression that time had somehow accelerated, gone ahead of me. These thoughts, which had seemed of the briefest, had occupied twenty minutes. Naples, it was Naples that had slowed me down … There were six people in the bar now. Summerfield came over to me and said he was looking forward to my talk, but this was just a prelude and a pretext; he wanted to tell me about a talk that he himself was due to deliver on the subject, inevitably, of Cornwallis.
“The point is, you see,” he said, “and it can’t be repeated often enough, that without Cornwallis, Nelson’s victories would not have been possible. Nelson gets all the credit. No-one ever praises Cornwallis, he is the unsung hero, but if it hadn’t been for the blockade of Brest between 1803 and 1805, Napoleon would have been landing troops in Kent long before Nelson got to grips with Villeneuve at Trafalgar.” Summerfield’s eyes, so pale as to be almost colourless, were wide with sincerity. “In my talk I intend to set the record straight,” he said.
As always, I sprang to Horatio’s defence. “Wars are won by winning battles.”
“Listen, what was the navy trying to do from 1803 onwards? Basically, I mean basically, what were we trying to do?”
“Destroy the French fleet, break French naval power, drive them from the seas.”
Summerfield shook his head. “You are talking in Nelsonian terms. You are conditioned, like everyone else in this club. What we were doing was trying to prevent a French invasion. The true hero of Trafalgar is therefore Cornwallis, who kept them bottled up in Brittany for the best part of two years.”
Even in my growing agitation at the poor turnout, I could not help thinking it strange that a man would join the Nelson Club and spend much of his time on its premises when the main focus of his interest was not Nelson at all but an obscure admiral named Cornwallis, an effective blockader no doubt, but that was about all—no glamour, no hint of the angelic. Not for the first time, it occurred to me that the club numbered too many cranks among its members. “Well,” I said, “the obvious thing to do is go off and found a Cornwallis club.”
The club president, Pratt-Smithers, now came in, accompanied by a man with a short white beard and an abstracted way of looking about him, as if he were not quite sure of being in the right place. This was the guest for the evening. Members were allowed to bring guests, but quite often someone was invited in the name of the club as a whole; and Pratt-Smithers, who knew nothing much about Horatio but liked running things, tried to bring in people who might be good for some publicity or might help to increase the membership. This one, it seemed, was a writer who had just published a long novel about the eighteenth-century African slave trade. I hadn’t read it. Until that moment I hadn’t heard of it, or him. I am not a man for fiction.
“Absolutely monumental,” Pratt-Smithers said now, apparently referring to this novel.
The novelist had a slightly crooked smile and large grey eyes behind thin-rimmed glasses. The eyes were mournful in spite of the smile, and the glasses were very old—the metal of the frame was tarnished green here and there. I didn’t much take to this man; he didn’t look the sort who would take pride in our country’s great past, and that’s a fundamental division of categories with me, those capable of patriotism and those not.
“Scotch, please, no ice, no nothing,” he said to Hugo in a voice that contained traces of northeast England. Waiting for it, he squinted vaguely round the bar. “This all the audience?” Not tremendously tactful. I had a feeling it wasn’t his first drink of the evening.
“Oh, there’ll be others,” Pratt-Smithers said. “Not everyone comes to the bar, you know, some people wait in the auditorium.” He smiled at me, and I knew what the smile was saying: This is the most miserable turnout for any talk in the history of the club. “It’s a rainy night,” he said. “Puts people off, some people.”
“Auditorium?” Summerfield looked bewildered. “We were just talking about Cornwallis.”
“Friend of yours?” the novelist said.
Summerfield is a solitary character, easily thrown out. First there had been the unusual word, then this dreadful ignorance. Looking if possible paler than ever, he made a rather abrupt movement of the head, jerking it sideways, then back to the front again. The novelist followed this jerking motion with his eyes. Summerfield had seemed to indicate the area behind the bar.
“That’s him, is it?” The novelist was looking at the Abbot painting. “Naval man, I see, yes.”
“Good God, man,” I said, “that’s Nelson.” It was all I could do to keep my voice steady. I couldn’t yet quite believe, not altogether, that the membership as a whole could have boycotted my talk. I knew it, yes, but I resisted the knowledge. Perhaps I had slipped out of parallel again, gone too far ahead somehow … The sounds in the bar seemed to die away, and a sort of ringing hush came to my ears. I was still clutching my file, pressing it close against my side, under my left arm. I felt some pain at this pressure now from the hard edges of the folder.
“Time we were going in, I think,” Pratt-Smithers said. “Ah, you’re having another.”
This was said to the novelist, who it seemed had asked for another whisky, which Hugo was now passing to him. He disposed of it with a fair turn of speed, but it was twenty minutes to eight by the time we got into the lecture room.
Not until I was there at the table, facing my audience of seven scattered persons in a room with seating for seventy, with the carafe of water and the clean glass before me and Pratt-Smithers’s introductory remarks sounding in my ears, not until then did I finally accept it: they had deliberately stayed away. The rain was not the reason, though of course it was the reason they would give.
In that moment, while I was still arranging my papers before me, everything came together, everything made sense. I knew this was a plan that had been concerted against me. They had been waiting several weeks, for this occasion of my talk, to deal the blow. A faint feeling of sickness accompanied this realization, but there was no surprise in it. Ever since joining the club, I had known that my better understanding of Horatio was resented by the common run of the members. Brilliance of any kind infuriates the mediocre. It was the same with Horatio. When he broke the line at Cape St. Vincent and so secured the victory, there were those who urged Jervis to reprimand him for disobeying orders.
If this was a plot against me—and I now felt certain it was—then the people who had actually come were obviously suspect too; among them there must be spies whose sole purpose it was to observe my reactions and report back. Otherwise, where would be the satisfaction? There and then I made my resolution, and it was one worthy of him: I would show no sign of disappointment, I would give my talk, I would deliver it with clarity and force, I would speak to this small, spy-riddled group as I would have done if the room had been packed to overflowing. I owed it to him, I owed it to myself. Never show what you feel. My father’s lesson.
And I kept to it. I redeemed the occasion for us both, I made it my own and his. I relaxed my shoulders, I lightened my glance. I heard my voice in that almost empty room, reading the sentences I had put together with such careful toil. The two essential elements, vision and conversion. The lonely boy at the dockside, his vision of divinity in the person of his metamorphosed uncle, in that light and spacious cabin of his first warship; then the conversion, the radiant orb, the culminating phrase: Why then, I will be a hero.
As I spoke I glanced at the faces, wondering who were the spies. No-one could be excluded, not the president or the guest, not Hugo, who had left the bar and come to sit at the back of the room, not even Summerfield or Kismet Walters. Any or all of them might be in the enemy camp. But I did not falter. I was defending him as well as myself, I was saving his dignity with my own. T
he hero carries human dignity for all those who cannot. Horatio’s role and mine—I felt closer to him that evening than perhaps I had ever felt before.
Of course, such exertions take their toll. When I sat down again at the table and reached for the water glass, I saw that my hand was shaking and realized that this would be obvious to anyone who saw me try to drink. I retracted the hand with studied slowness, as if I had thought again.
Pratt-Smithers was now on his feet, inviting questions. There was a short interval of silence, and then the visiting novelist raised his hand. “It would be interesting to know,” he said, “whether Nelson ever had a black woman?”
This was the question, this was the level of interest my talk had aroused. Contempt for question and questioner steadied me now; the trembling ceased. I poured out water and drank, without a clink or a spill. I allowed myself a slight smile. “You are suggesting that that would be a third stage in the making of a hero?”
“No, no.” He sounded on the defensive—I had scored a hit with this counter-question. “No, but he spent a lot of time in the West Indies in his younger days, didn’t he? I mean, I know he was a hero and all that, but youth will have its fling—he was only about twenty. The climate favoured it. There was an abundance of woman slaves, a hundred thousand or so in Jamaica alone—no shortage of choice …”
I remembered it now, his novel was about the slave trade. Clearly an obsessive type. “There is no evidence for anything of the sort,” I said. “One can always speculate, if that is what one likes doing.” In the midst of saying this, it came into my mind, with the force of a decision already made, that I would resign from the club.
There were no more questions. Pratt-Smithers uttered some thanks, and I was released. I made at once for the door but not in any abrupt or unceremonious manner. Appearances had to be kept up. Pratt-Smithers suggested a drink with himself and guest, who it seemed wanted to pursue the question of Horatio’s sexual activities in Jamaica. This was more than I could stomach, and I declined, though politely enough, as I hope and think. Naturally I said nothing about my decision to resign, otherwise it might have seemed I was acting out of pique rather than responding to a mortal insult. I was eager to get away. Kismet Walters was bearing down, doubtless intent on telling me about his latest researches into Horatio’s secret links with the world of Islam.
“I thought your talk was really good, first-rate,” Hugo said to me as I was passing through into the corridor that led to the stairs. He came close to me in the manoeuverings at the door. He moved his narrow shoulders as if uneasy in the confined space. I saw his eyes, moist blue and full of seeming sympathy, quite close to my own. “I am ever so sorry at the poor attendance,” he said. “Shame it is such a rainy night.”
I could not be sure whether this was meant sincerely, so I said nothing, merely nodded. Next moment I was out and down the stairs, into the street. Once I was on the pavement, however, under cover of night and anonymity, my composure began to crack. It was something like the experience of having drunk too much and been constrained to conceal it, show no sign; then the release into solitude, the cooler air—one begins to stagger and lurch.
This I did now in spirit, so much so that I went the wrong way, turning left into Doughty Street. Without quite knowing how, I found myself in the unfamiliar region south of St. Pancras. The rain had stopped, but the pavements were still wet, they gleamed in the reflected lights of cars and streetlamps. I must have lost the best part of an hour wandering here, but I was not much aware of time passing. Then, quite by chance, I found myself back in Mecklenburgh Square, which was quite deserted.
I knew the way now, but I did not want to turn towards home. Nothing awaited me there but the evening’s end, the final acknowledgement of failure and fiasco. I walked round the small square several times, past the locked gates and the spiked railings. From the darkness on my left, beyond the railing, came the smell of wet leaves and mould and some vague fragrance of flowers. But the trees and bushes inside were indeterminate, massed together in the dark. I had the sense, frequent in nighttime London in these regions of quiet squares, of walking at the limits of the light, as if I were on the bright rim of a dark bowl and the light merely served the essential darkness, made it denser, less accessible, created a territory separate enough, extensive enough—or so it seems at night—for rapine or oblivion.
An impulse came to me to climb the railings, get through somehow into the darkness beyond, enter that darkness and stay in it forever, absorbed, annihilated, unseen and unseeing in the thickest part of the bushes. All my persecutors I could escape in that way, all my problems with Horatio in that nightmare city. In fact, even Horatio would be extinguished, in that darkness beyond the railings he would die with me. For some terrible moments I wanted this, wanted to climb in there and put an end to us both. Then a car went round the square, making a soft hiss on the wet road, a small sound but it startled me, like a reminder or a warning. I turned and began to walk back towards Guilford Street. With calmer feelings came a renewed sense of my isolation. It was impossible to pretend to myself that I was unhurt. From time to time as I walked, the smart of tears came to my eyes.
I heard my name called, and when I stopped and turned I saw, but not immediately, that it was Hugo, unfamiliar in a macintosh. I had only ever seen him in the rather skimpy clothes he wore when behind the bar—tight waistcoats, shirts with narrow collars, that sort of thing. We had passed each other, it seemed, and he had recognized me at the last moment and called after me.
“You don’t usually go this way,” he said.
“Well, no. I felt like a bit of exercise, so I decided to take a turn or two round the square before making for home.”
We stood there a moment or two without saying anything more, and I was about to resume my way before the silence grew too protracted, and in fact may even have taken a step or two, preliminary to bidding Hugo a cheery good-night, when he said, “I live quite near, just round the corner. Would you like to come for a coffee or something?”
I had actually started to refuse this offer, I think, when something—perhaps no more than a renewed wish to postpone my lonely and defeated homecoming—made me change my words in midcareer, shape them to a stumbling acceptance. And so we went together back to the square again and along the western side of it.
“Very handy, living so near the club,” Hugo said as we went along. “Ten minutes after leaving home I can be behind the bar.”
He had a basement flat just off Great Ormond Street, not far from the hospital. He took my coat and umbrella and hung them up in the narrow hallway. I sat on a sofa with pink and white stripes while Hugo made the coffee, a process I could watch from moment to moment as the tiny kitchen was built on an open plan with only a counter separating it from the room where I was sitting. The lower part of Hugo was cut off by the counter; his head and shoulders were sometimes visible, sometimes not, depending on whether he was standing straight or reaching down for something.
A sense of wonder possessed me as I sat there, conversing intermittently, glimpsing Hugo in sections, his glinting earring, his furry-looking hair—he wore his hair very close-cropped—his rust-coloured pullover, narrow-fitting and short, as all Hugo’s clothes seemed to be.
“I think it is a real shame so few people came to your talk,” he said through the hatchway as he put the coffee things on the counter. “They missed something, they missed an experience.”
It irked me, this further reference to the fiasco of my talk; it brought back my earlier doubts as to where Hugo stood in the matter. Was he probing the wound to elicit winces and whimpers so he could then carry tales back? It was important to give nothing away.
“Well, it was a rainy evening,” I said. “Besides, the talk is what it is. I mean, it is as good or bad as it was before I gave it, irrespective of the audience.”
I wasn’t quite sure what I meant by this, but Hugo widened his eyes at me and nodded seriously. He was sitting opposite in an armchair uphol
stered in some velvety red material—there was a lot of red in this room. A faint, sweetish smell like incense hung in the air, and on the wall behind him there was a poster, a picture of a man with fine-drawn features, rather androgynous-looking. His hair was matted with some silvery dust, and his suit glittered with tiny spangles like coarse sugar. In the background, a dark sky thickly scattered with stars.
“Well, my word,” Hugo said, “I call that a really mature attitude.”
Away from the softer lighting of the bar, Hugo looked older, nearer my own age, rather than in his middle twenties as I had thought. The earring and the short bristle of the hair and the clothes like those of an adolescent growing too fast had all contributed to this impression, as did his habit of twitching his shoulders from time to time, as if in some impatience with his own body.
“Take your jacket off if you feel too hot,” he said now. “I keep the heating full on, it’s my only extravagance.”
“I’m all right like this,” I said. It was indeed very hot in the room, and the predominance of red made it seem hotter still. I felt a wave of nostalgia for that cold breath that had reached me through the railing of the square and the promise of oblivion that had come with it.
“I love the heat,” Hugo said. “I should have been born in the tropics. I like to go round, you know, just light clothes. Sometimes in the summer I don’t bother with clothes at all. It is very private here, no-one can see in.”