Arms and the Women (59 page)

Odysseus shrugged.

'Not what you see that counts,' he said. 'It's what you know is there.'

'Yes, but such an act of faith ...' He shuddered at the memory of the Greek caressing those foul and ancient feet.

'You'd have done the same, if you'd thought on. For your boy.'

'Yes. But would I have done it for
your
boy . ..?'

'It were my boy I were thinking of,' said Odysseus. 'My boy that I've not seen since he were younger than thine..’

He turned his face away, but not before Aeneas had glimpsed the tears in his eye.

'How long did you have to agree to stay here?' he demanded.

'Oh, a fair bit.'

'Forever, isn't it? She wants you forever. Face it, man. You're never going to get home!'

'Forever's a long time,' said Odysseus. 'Likely she'll get tired of me afore too long. Look, you'd best be off. They're waiting for you and the sun's nearly set.'

Aeneas reached forward and grasped both the Greek's hands in his.

'Goodbye, friend,' he said fervently. 'I'll never forget you.'

'Oh yes, you will,' said Odysseus.

'No, I swear it. . .'

'There you go again. Always waving your sword and swearing. Gets you nowhere. What I mean is, she, the nymph Calypso, has fixed it so you'll forget. You and all your men. Your meeting with me on her island will be forever wiped from your memory and when the bards start singing our stories, no man will ever relate what has happened here.'

'Can she do such things?'

'Oh aye. Very ingenious lady. Only she's not infallible, see? She says that no
man
will ever sing our story. Mebbe, though, in the future, some bint will have a stab at telling it.'

'A female bard?' said Aeneas doubtfully. 'Could such a thing ever be?'

'Anything's possible,' said Odysseus. 'Couple of thousand years from now, only the gods know what the world's going to look like.'

'I have heard,' said Aeneas slowly, 'that some of your Greek thinkers believe that the spirits of some great men may be reborn to walk the earth again in later years. What do you think of that?'

'Like I say, after what I've been through, I'd say owt's possible.'

'Then it may be that after many centuries you and I will meet again, Odysseus.'

'Aye, but how would we recognize each other?'

'Well, that's easy. I would look for a fat man who pays no heed to appearances but acts on what he knows is there.'

'And I'd look for a skinny lad who's always trying to walk in two directions at once and spends more time waving his sword than using it.'

The two men embraced. Then Aeneas broke free and ran down to the waiting boat which pulled off immediately, bearing him out to the ship that bore his princely pennant.

It was almost dark now. Only a pale-pink line between the lowering sky and the choppy sea showed where the sun was sliding beneath the horizon. Odysseus watched the boat come alongside the ship. Even before the men had scaled the waiting ropes and reached the deck, the sails were breaking out and the vessel was under way.

He stood and watched as the sails caught the wind and the Prince's ship began to follow the others which were already heading out to sea.

Rapidly the growing darkness and the spume and swirling rain swallowed them up but his eye still strained to follow them and in his mind he was out there too, not with the Trojan fleet but at the prow of his own ship, his body soaked with sweat and salt water, feeling the timbers creak and strain under the heavy swell, hearing the sails crack and his crew groan as they heaved at their oars, and recognizing in their groans not dismay or fear but simply the honest effort of men who know that every long pull takes them a few yards nearer home.

But he had no ship, and he had no comrades, and no movement he could make in any direction was going to take him an inch nearer home.

Desolate and alone, he turned from the choppy, wind-tossed, dark and longed-for sea, and found himself instantly in another world.

The sky above was clear, dark purple pricked with a million stars and bossed by a full golden moon which lit up the scene like a thousand torches. The gentlest of balmy breezes ruffled his hair like a woman's fingers.

The steep rocky track down which he and Aeneas had run at risk of their lives was now a wide green path gently ascending between sweet-scented shrubs. At the end of it he could see a figure standing, Calypso smiling and beckoning, clad only in her long tressed hair.

Strange, he thought, how at the same time a man's heart could be so heavy and his flesh so light.

He put his hand under his tunic, gave himself an anticipatory scratch and began to move forward.

The path was sown with camomile and as he advanced the bruised herb gave off its sweet fragrance at every heavy tread.

Bit like life, he thought. If you work at it. A bit like life.

So that's that, all done and dusted.

I never thought there'd be a Chapter 4.

I mean, now that I'm a soon-to-be-published novelist - well, OK, not all that soon, but I've been lunched by an editor (who looked about three years older than Rosie!) and I've got a signed contract and soon, very soon, my infant editor assures me I should be getting a cheque! - now that I've got all that, who needs a Comfort Blanket?

Also, the Chapter 4 I had mapped out wasn't anything like this. No, it was going to be pure farce shading into fiasco, with Achaemenides, the Trojan twit, dumped overboard by Aeneas's crew, being washed ashore on the island half-drowned and being nursed to health by Calypso who mishears his delirious answer to her enquiries about his identity and thinks he says he's Achilles. So he gets to be a kind of king like his mother forecast and Aeneas and the rest of them get to leave the island as the nymph reckons they're superfluous to requirements now she's got old Stiffy himself, and Odysseus cons the Trojans into thinking he knows the best route to Italy, only he gets them sailing in the opposite direction and eventually they hit Carthage . . . something like that.

But first of all I found that, while I might not need my Comfort Blanket any more, I couldn't leave it unfinished.

I bet old Penelope got stuck into that tapestry of hers after all the blood had been rinsed off the palace floor and things started to settle down.

And secondly, I sort of lost my way. Or found it.

I'd set out to do a bit of gentle piss-taking, to portray these men, these
heroes,
and their epic pretensions, their crazy notions of duty and courage and honour, their absurd rivalries and their loyalties equally absurd, as essentially laughable.

Instead they've come out sort of. . . noble?

Maybe that was what male nobility is, the flip side of male stupidity.

Or maybe now that I've spent some time in that world of action, and bonding, and physical fear, and surging adrenalin, and moral ambiguities, and blood and death, I've got a different perspective.

At times I found myself (and I observed the others), behaving just like these invented men in my mock epic.

And at times, many times recently, I've seen my real man behaving like ... a woman?

Perhaps that's the message of the millennium.

Bisexuality is the new rock 'n' roll.

Whatever, here I am, journey over. Or at least safely harboured and able to rest before the next stage.

And I've got my ticket to ride, I'm a real novelist now; no, more than that; a real person who happens to be a novelist. And upstairs, though Peter doesn't know it yet, is a boxroom which he is going to turn into a study, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, busts of Dickens and Austen, the odd literary award scattered casually around . . .

I've told Mum all about it, of course. My triumph, I mean. Not my tribulation. Though I have this irrational suspicion that in a few years' time they may seem to have changed significances.

Mum was delighted. She said, 'Wait till I tell your father.' I nearly said, 'What's the point?'  but, thank God, or Sod, I didn't.

Instead I said, 'No, I'll tell him myself next time I see him.' Which was a couple of days later. And I did.

He said, 'Splendid, absolutely splendid,' just as he would have done a few years back. And he smiled. Then he went back to being that puzzled, slightly uneasy stranger I'm growing used to.

I've told Mum I'm dedicating my book to him. And when she cried, I cried too. Sentimental? And why not? But selfish too. I don't know how many years I've got of visiting that stranger, but every time I look at my book I shall hear that old familiar voice saying, 'Splendid, absolutely splendid,' and see his smile.

Perhaps that's the real, the only important meaning of my book.

But I promise myself I'll never even hint at such heresy in my Booker acceptance speech.

I look across the room at Peter asleep on the sofa, Rosie on his knee with her arms twined round his neck, Tig on one side of him also asleep, his head against the girl's trailing leg. (Carla, thank God, is still at Gunnery House, but Rosie has promised she'll take care of her next time Feenie goes on her travels. Sufficient is the evil . . . !)

I observe the little tableau closely but not with a novelist's selective eye. That's not for my family. For other people, yes; strangers. And even, yes, from time to time, some of my friends.

But not my family.

Comfort Blanket was a one-off. Peter would be entertained, no doubt, by Aeneas, but ever after he'd be looking at me and wondering if the tape was running. So it's oblivion via the recycle bin for you, my creatures, then I can cross the room and get into that tableau.

Just two more words to type before I press the
Delete
key. How reluctant I am to type them. How I would love to keep on coming back, and tweaking and twisting and revising and reshaping forever and ever and . . .

But I'm a real writer now and there's a yet-to-be-built shelf in that boxroom-soon-to-become-a-study which will stand empty till it is filled with books bearing my name.

So if I want to see those other two words, Ellie Pascoe, repeated ad infinitum, or at least till the end of the shelf, I've got to get used to typing this awful pair.

The words which ought to give us real writers the greatest pleasure, but somehow manage to give the greatest pain.

The End