A Closed Book (10 page)

‘The plate's very hot.'

‘Well, John, whatever this is, I can already tell it most certainly isn't
à la
dear old Ma Kilbride.'

‘Pheasant at noon, sautéed potatoes at three, French beans at seven.'

‘Mmm. How delicious it all smells. Even though “Pheasant at Noon” sounds like the title of some dreadful well-made play by Rattigan or N. C. Hunter. Is there bread sauce, by any chance?'

‘Yes, indeed. Bread sauce at, let me see, I know you prefer me not to be too finicky about these things, but I'd have to say it's at about ten-past ten.'

‘Ten-past ten, eh? You know what time that is?'

‘Sorry? I'm filling your glass, by the way. Chambolle-Musigny 1990.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘The wine. You were saying?'

‘Was I? What about?'

‘Ten-past ten?'

‘Oh yes. Yes, it's the time you'll always find on advertisements for wrist-watches. Always.'

‘Really?'

‘It has the effect of making the watch-face “smile”, you see. Thereby rendering the watch more attractive to a potential purchaser. So the argument runs.'

‘Really? However did you find that out?'

‘Paul? Is there –'

‘Is your notepad on the table?'

‘Naturally. Why? Have you thought of something?'

‘The watch-face. Ten-past ten. Like a blind man's face, don't you get it? What I told you before? About a
blind man having to turn himself into the salt of the earth? Always smiling – always smiling – his face is always set at ten-past ten, just like a watch-face – making it easier for him to – to – ingratiate himself with those – with those acquaintances whose help he might have to rely on one day. Jot it down, will you.'

‘Done.'

‘Thanks. It's not bad, don't you think? And I fancy I know just where I can put it.'

‘You're smiling, John.'

‘Sorry, it was the way you said, “I fancy I know just where I can put it.” It sounded almost ribald.'

‘Yes, yes, I get that.'

‘You really are amazing, though. You're like Sherlock Holmes. You catch me out every time.'

‘Well, you know, John, I probably ought not to be divulging the tricks of my trade, but I have to tell you there's nothing supernatural about it. When you smile, you crease your lips and you smack your tongue – very faintly, very faintly, but you do – and you release a sort of funny nasal sigh. To a blind man it's all perfectly audible. I really can
hear
you smile.'

‘Rather a scary thought.'

‘That depends on why you're smiling, doesn't it? Now, I'm sorry, but I've been so very absorbed by this
delirious chit-chat of ours you're going to have to tell me again what time it is on my plate.'

‘Pheasant at noon. Potatoes at three. French beans at seven. And bread sauce at ten-past ten.'

‘Thank you. Incidentally, that's quite an opulent aftershave.'

‘
Jazz
. Saint-Laurent. Not too overpowering, I hope.'

‘Not at all. Discreetly pungent is how I'd describe it. It might have overwhelmed one of Mrs Kilbride's insipid concoctions but this – well, my congratulations, John, this pheasant is delicious, yes, really very delicious.'

‘My pleasure. Literally. It's been so long since I've cooked for two.'

‘So you already said. But –'

‘Yes?'

‘Why, John?'

‘Why what?'

‘Why is it so long since you've cooked for two?'

‘You know why. I live alone.'

‘But that's what I mean. Why do you live alone?'

‘You're still young. You appear to be relatively well-off. And you're clearly personable, more than personable. You told me yourself, on our first day together, that you'd admit to being good-looking. Now I don't wish to pry, but I can't deny I'm curious and you after
all have come to know rather a lot about me. So why is it you've never married?'

‘I don't know the answer to that.'

‘Don't you like women?'

‘What?'

‘Don't you like women?'

‘Do you mean, am I queer?'

‘“Gay” I think is the word nowadays.
Is
that what I meant? I imagine it was. You understand, it wouldn't make the slightest difference to our collaboration.'

‘No, I'm not gay.'

‘Then why is it you're alone? Forgive me, John, but you're living in my house and I know next to nothing about the existence you led before you came here and, freak I may be, but I'm no less inquisitive about my fellow creatures than any normally constituted human being.'

‘Why don't we just say I've always been something of a loner.'

‘Come now, John, that's not answering the question, merely prompting me to rephrase it. Why have you always been something of a loner? Tell me about yourself.'

‘If you don't mind, Paul, I won't.'

‘Ah.'

‘After all, part of being a loner is that you don't want to talk about your life, right? I mean, think about it. If I really felt like opening up, then I wouldn't be the loner I am. You see what I'm getting at?'

‘What I see is an ingeniously sophistical attempt to avoid the question altogether. So be it. If you'd prefer not to talk about yourself, then I respect your discretion. But if ever you do feel ready to open up, as you put it, please remember you have a friend here who'll be glad to listen to what you have to tell me.'

‘That's kind of you, Paul.'

‘Yes, John, this meal really is delicious. Or did I say that already? The pheasant is just right. Tender, not too stringy. And the potatoes – the potatoes simply melt in the mouth.'

‘How do you find the bread sauce?'

‘The bread sauce? Yes, it's also extremely nice. It has an odd, subtle sort of flavour. A flavour I can't quite put my finger on. Odd but, no, really, really very nice.'

‘Whoooo

Let me know she's mine?

         Whoooo

Made me feel so fine?

Feel absolutely fabulous,

Feel fabsolutely abulous!

         Whoooo

Da da da da dum?

         Whoooo

Da da dee dee dum

         Toooo?

Yes, you guessed it right!

No one but you.

         ‘Whoooo –'

‘Who
is
that?'

‘Is someone there?'

‘John, is that you?'

‘Say something, for Christ's sake!'

‘John! John! John!'

‘I'm here! What is it? Is something wrong?'

‘Come inside quick!'

‘You mean, inside the –'

‘Yes, yes! Come right in! What does it matter?'

‘What's happened?'

‘Answer me honestly, John. Were you, just a minute ago, were you standing inside this bathroom?'

‘What? Of course I wasn't.'

‘Look, I don't care why – whether you made a mistake – whether you imagined something or – I don't care. I just have to know if you were standing there. At the door.'

‘No, Paul, I wasn't, I assure you.'

‘Where were you?'

‘When you called? I was sitting at the table, doing the jigsaw puzzle. I've almost finished it.'

‘I suppose there's no point in asking you whether you saw anyone? I mean, in the hall or –'

‘No, of course not. There's no one in the house but us. I locked the front door myself.'

‘And the back door?'

‘It hasn't been open all day. What happened? You thought someone was standing over you while you were in the bath, is that it?'

‘I don't know, I just don't know any longer. The light
is
on, isn't it?'

‘Yes, it's on. Paul, there's no one in the house. Take my word for it.'

‘Yes. Yes, you're right of course. I got such a fright, though, you can't believe. My heart's still pounding. I really could have sworn –'

‘Listen, I know you blind people become particularly sensitive to – well, that your other senses become hypertrophied – is that the word?'

‘Yes.'

‘Isn't it possible, then, you've become
too
sensitive? Isn't it possible you're beginning to hear things – things, creaks and the like, that are really nothing more than the ordinary wear-and-tear of an old house – and you end up making too much of them? Isn't that possible?'

‘Yes, I – yes, I'm sure it is. Yes, you may be on to something there. Oh God, I'm in an awful state. How embarrassing for both of us. But, I tell you, John, I could have sworn, I could have
sworn
, there was someone else in the bathroom.'

‘Would you like me to stay?'

‘What? No, no, that's very kind of you, but I – I must be getting out anyway. The water's gone all tepid on me. Thank you, John. And apologies again that you've had to put up with such a silly billy. This can't be very pleasant for you. Above and beyond the call of duty, I'm afraid.'

‘Don't think about it. What you need's a good night's sleep.'

‘Yes, I do. I really do.'

Am I imagining things? Am I? Could I have become over-sensitive, as John suggests? I never heard of that happening to a blind man, but it does make sense, it makes a lot of sense. I hear a faint creak on the bathroom floor and I automatically assume it must have been ‘caused’ – caused by someone, that is. Yet, it’s true, there do existeffects without causes. Things creak by themselves. They move of their own volition. Things happen, and there’s no reason why they happen at one specific moment and not at another, not a minute before or thirty seconds later. Life is not a novel, it has no obligation to justify its every micro-event. Could it be, then, that merely the presence of another person in the house, after so many years of total solitude, has made me hypertrophically alert to the sounds and sensations that those who’ve always lived with others take for granted and end by hardly hearing at all? That would also make sense. I may simply have forgotten what ‘company’ sounds like. Or am I going mad? For madness would make sense too.

‘That you, John?'

‘No, Sir Paul, it's me, it's Missus Kilbride.'

‘Mrs Kilbride? What on earth are you doing here? You've got the week off.'

‘Ah know, ah know. But ah forgot ma sewin in the kitchen – an ma
People's Friend
– an ah wantet to see fer maself everythin was runnin smoothlike. Thought ah'd pop over early, let maself in before eether a you boys got up.'

‘Boys!'

‘You know me. Ah just do it to tease.'

‘Yes, well, don't. What time is it, anyway?'

‘Just gone seven. Didnay ye hear the church clock go?'

‘If I'd heard the clock, do you suppose I'd be asking you?'

‘Ooooh, someone got out a bed the wrong side this mornin. What are you doin up so early anyways? Long as ah've known you, you liked a good long lie-in.'

‘I had another bad night.'

‘
Another
bad night? Not been sleepin properly?'

‘No. Any coffee handy?'

‘Ah only just put the kettle on. You poor dear, you dinnae look well and thassa fact. What you need is vitamins.'

‘Please, Mrs Kilbride. I'm not in the mood.'

‘Just makin conversation.'

‘That's exactly what I complain of. Why do people feel they have to talk all the time? Our mouths are also for eating but we don't eat all the time, do we?'

‘Thass what you say. You'd change yer tune if ye saw ma Joe. Eat? ye'd think –'

‘By the way, how is Joe?'

‘Oh, Sir Paul, ah'm that worriet. Ah never seen him so peelly-wally.'

‘Come, come, Mrs Kilbride, buck up.'

‘Oh but, Sir Paul, if ye could only see him yerself, ye'd realize –'

‘Now now. I'm sure there's absolutely nothing for you to concern yourself about. Just a bad bout of flu, isn't it? Uh, coffee ready?'

‘Gie it time. Water's not boilin yet.'

‘“No … No, the water's boiling …”'

‘Whassat ye say?'

‘Why, it's not boilin at all, Sir Paul. What are ye talkin about? Ye canna see it anyways.'

‘Sorry, Mrs Kilbride, I was miles away.'

‘Obviously. Like somethin hot fer breakfast? Scramblet eggs?'

‘No thanks. Just toast.'

‘No, Mrs Kilbride, I was thinking of a little boy I used to know. A long, long time ago. We were bathing together. The Suffolk coast. I should say, he was bathing. He'd already plunged in while I was still standing on the beach, gingerly dipping my toes in the sea. And when I asked him if the water wasn't freezing, he called out, “No, it's boiling! The water's boiling!” Wasn't that adorable? I called back, “If the water's boiling, why aren't there any bubbles?” But by then he was much too far out to hear me.'

‘You bathin? Thass hard to believe.'

‘I wasn't always the gargoyle you see now.'

‘Wid ye like butter on yer toast?'

‘Please.'

‘Marmalade?'

‘On the second slice, not the first. That is, if you're making two.'

‘Ah am. John not up?'

‘No. John's someone who also likes a long lie-in.'

‘It's just that ah was pokin around next door and ah saw that jigsaw on the table all joint up.'

‘It's finished, is it? Good, that means we can get started on it today.'

‘It's got somethin to do with yer book, then?'

‘Naturally it has. I got John to bring it back specially from London. From the National Gallery. Isn't the coffee ready yet?'

‘Here. Here ye are. And here's yer toast. One on the left's the butteret one.'

‘Thanks.'

‘Whassit suppost to be?'

‘What?'

‘The jigsaw?'

‘You're asking me that question? You've got eyes, haven't you?'

‘Aye, but what ah mean is, whassat funny thing
between them?'

‘Funny thing between your eyes? Venturing a wild guess, I'd say it was your nose.'

‘Oh yes, ha ha ha, ah don't think. Ah mean, in the jigsaw. Funny thing in the jigsaw.'

‘
What
funny thing?'

‘On the floor. Lyin flat between the two a them. Ah triet lookin at it every which way, but ah canna make head or tail a it.'

‘And I can't make head or tail of what it is you're saying. A piece of kitchen roll, please.'

‘Here ye are. The thing – the – thass just it, ah dinnay know what it is. Kine a proppt up between the two men.'

‘For God's sake, what two men?'

‘The two men in the jigsaw.'

‘What did you say?'

‘Aw look, now you've droppt yer piece a toast. An naturally – sod's law – it's fallen marmalade-side down. Let me get a –'

‘Oh, forget the bloody toast. What did you just say?'

‘Well, you dinnay have to shout at me, Sir Paul. Ah know you didnay sleep very well, but ah'm still entitlet to some respect.'

‘Please, please, Mrs Kilbride, this may be very important. What was it you said about the jigsaw?'

‘Just that ah couldna work out what that thing was on the floor.'

‘You said, between the
two
men, didn't you?'

‘Aye, thass where it is.'

‘But what two men? There's only one in the painting.'

‘What paintin?'

‘The jigsaw! It's a jigsaw of a famous painting!'

‘Well, ah can tell ye there's definitely two men. And the thing.'

‘Come into the living room with me.'

‘What? This minute?'

‘Yes, this minute. It's very, very important.'

‘Aw Gawd, what've ah said now? Aw, all right. Hold on.'

‘Please hurry.'

‘Ah'm comin.'

‘All right now. Tell me, is the box around?'

‘The box? What box?'

‘The jigsaw-puzzle box. I mean, the box the puzzle came in.'

‘No … No, ah canna see such a thing. It's no on the table.'

‘Okay, then. Okay. Look – just look at the puzzle itself and describe what you see.'

‘Anythin to humour you. Well, there's these two men.'

‘How are they dressed?'

‘Like in olden times. One a them looks like Henry VIII, cept he's thinner. The other like he could be a minister. A priest more like.'

‘And what's this thing you keep talking about? On the floor?'

‘Well, thass it. Ah tell ye ah dinnay know. It disnay seem to be anythin really. Anythin ye can get a grip on. It looks all squasht and stretcht.'

‘All squashed and stretched?'

‘Tell me, Mrs Kilbride, could it possibly be a drawing of a skull?'

‘A skull? No, never!'

‘Are you positive? Look, put my finger on it!'

‘Yer finger?'

‘Yes! This finger!'

‘Aye, okay. What ye say ye want me to do with it?'

‘I want you to direct it down on to what you call the thing.'

‘It's on it now.'

‘Now look at it sideways. I don't mean my finger, I mean the thing. Look back at it from this direction.'

‘Okay, okay, ye dinnae have to shove me.'

‘Sorry. Just follow my finger back. Are you following it?'

‘Ah am.'

‘Now what do you say? Couldn't that represent a skull?'

‘Well – well, yes, maybe. Ah suppose it could be a skull at that. But if it is, it's not what ah call well-paintet.'

‘Never mind that. Now, just above the thing, is there a table?'

‘Aye.'

‘And on the table is there a lute?'

‘A what?'

‘A sort of mandolin. Like a guitar.'

‘Thass right.'

‘And a globe of the world?'

‘Aye.'

‘All right. One last question. If I'm not mistaken, the two men are standing in front of a curtain. Am I right?'

‘Aye.'

‘What colour is that curtain?'

‘It's green.'

‘Green, yes. Of course it's green. Thank you, Mrs Kilbride, thank you very much. I won't need you any longer. I've got the picture. Hah, yes, I've got the picture.'