A Closed Book (3 page)

‘Well, I –’

‘I won’t pretend I’m an easy man to get along with. But doubtless you’ve already gathered that?’

‘Well? Is it yes or no? Or maybe you’d like time to think it over?’

‘Uh, we haven’t actually spoken about –’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, about money.’

‘You mean remuneration? You’re quite right, we haven’t. Well, John, I’ll tell you, I’m a rich man. Not, as they say nowadays, seriously rich but quite rich enough not to have to worry about mundane money matters. We’ll discuss the question in detail once you’ve actually said yes, but off the top of my head – what’s left of my head, that is – I’d be prepared – yes, I’d be prepared to pay you, say, three thousand a month. If that seems reasonable?’

‘That seems extremely generous.’

‘Then let’s say three thousand pounds a month. Plus of course board and lodging for as long as it’s necessary. A year ought to do it, if we buckle down to the job. Plus, naturally, a modest percentage of all moneys accruing to me from the book itself. I mean, royalties, translation rights, subsidiary rights, serialization
rights, book club sales and all the rest of it. Normally, I do rather well by my writing.’

‘Then – yes. Yes.’

‘Good. I’m very pleased, John. And now you must call me Paul. You eventually will, so why keep up the formalities in the meantime?’

‘Very well – Paul.’

‘There’s one more thing. Minor, but I want you to know exactly what you’re getting into.’

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t expect you, and indeed I wouldn’t want you, to be nursemaid to me. As I say, my housekeeper – she’s a Mrs Kilbride, by the way. Glaswegian, poor dear. Well, Mrs Kilbride cleans and cooks for me, and I make various arrangements about meals when she has her days off. So you needn’t worry about that.’

‘Actually, I enjoy cooking. And I’m not bad. I’d be glad to make the odd supper for the two of us if you’ll let me. Frankly, living alone, I don’t often get the chance.’

‘Well. Well, I must say that would be a delightful bonus. Poor Mrs Kilbride does her very best, I imagine, but I’m afraid her repertoire is woefully limited. But only when you fancy it, you understand. I shall be working you quite hard during the day.’

‘Cooking isn’t work for me.’

‘So much the better. Anyway, what I started to say
was that there are one or two chores, domestic chores, which I’ll have to call on you for. Fear not. Nothing too demanding.’

‘I can’t see that that would be a problem.’

‘For example, I still enjoy my walks in the evening, and since Charles’s death these have had to be frustratingly curtailed – to the point where I’m beginning to feel I’m under house arrest. I hope you wouldn’t mind taking his place?’

‘Absolutely not. I’m sure I’ll feel like a walk myself.’

‘There’s nothing to it. To walking a blind man, I mean. You just gently take my arm and let me know when we reach the edge of the pavement, or when there are steps to go up or down, anything that might trip me up.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘The other chore … Now this is slightly humiliating.’

‘I have a fear of the dark, John. I have a terrific fear of the dark.’

‘A fear of the dark?’

‘I know, I know. It makes no sense for a blind man to be afraid of the dark. But there you are and there it is. I’ve always been claustrophobic.
I feel claustrophobic in the universe
.’

‘Wow. That
is
claustrophobic.’

‘It’s no laughing matter.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean –’

‘Even on a, shall I say, on a non-existential level, my claustrophobia has posed all sorts of problems for me. I was never able to take the Tube, for example, and lifts – well, lifts were always a nightmare. Because sometimes you just have to take them, don’t you? In New York, for example. But, you know, even in New York, I recall once having to walk up twelve flights of stairs in some friend’s apartment block because the lift – the elevator – looked to me just like a coffin that someone had stood upright. I’d always have to insist on being given the lower floors in hotels, I’d always keep the curtains slightly ajar when I was sleeping in a strange bed so there wouldn’t be any risk of my waking up in the night in total darkness.’

‘And nothing has changed since you lost your sight?’

‘If anything, it’s worse. The point is, John, I’ll expect you to behave in this house just as though I
could
see. This is
most
important. The lights should be switched on at exactly the same time as they would be in a normal household. Even if I should be sitting in here by myself, the light
has
to be on. I simply couldn’t bear the thought of sitting alone in the dark. I always put the light on in the evening when I come into a room and you must too, you understand?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Most particularly the bathroom light.’

‘The bathroom?’

‘Yes, the bathroom. I shall have to ask you – it’s another little chore I must mention – but I’ll have to ask you to keep an eye on the bathroom light for me. I hope you won’t mind?’

‘Not at all, but –’

‘The thing is, I have this habit. I sing in the bath. I really do. And I’m going to surprise you here, if I’m not mistaken, because what I sing are popular songs. Not pop songs, you understand, God forbid, but, well, songs from a bygone era, Jerome Kern, Cole Porter, Rodgers and Hammerstein, that sort of thing. I have a vast collection of these songs inside my head. Here, intact, in my memory. And I really couldn’t endure the idea of soaping myself in a bathtub while chortling “You’re the Top” or “Cheek to Cheek” or “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” –
in the dark
. In pitch darkness, you understand. I just couldn’t endure it.’

‘I’ll see the light is on.’

‘And the door ajar? You’ll see that the door is always ajar?’

‘Yes, that too.’

‘You may feel a little squeamish at first about the bathroom door being ajar, but it’s got to be, I’m afraid. There
is
a window in the bathroom, but it’s narrow and very high, anyway quite impossible for me to reach,
and if the door were closed, well, it’s not that there’d be any problem really, the doorknob is a perfectly average type of doorknob. Still, I’d have a moment or two of panic while I groped for it and I know those moments of panic and I’d prefer not to go through that again. It’s pathetic, I know, but it’s the way I am. So you’ll make sure the door is left ajar, won’t you?’

‘I promise you. You’ll never be left alone in the dark.’

‘Good, good. Then let’s change the subject, shall we? It’s time we talked of practicalities. When would you be able to start?’

‘I suppose almost at once.’

‘Monday?’

‘Monday? Let’s see. Today is Saturday. Yes. Yes, I don’t see why not. No, wait. Could we say Tuesday? Or even Wednesday? Wednesday?’

‘Certainly, if you –’

‘It’s the weekend, you see. I’ll need to put some affairs in order first. And I can only do that on a weekday.’

‘Wednesday would be perfectly acceptable.’

‘In fact, if I drove back to London this afternoon and, yeah, I could pack tomorrow, wind up my various affairs on Monday, maybe Tuesday as well, then drive down here again on Tuesday evening. How does that sound?’

‘That sounds fine, John. The delay may actually be a blessing in disguise. It’ll give me time to arrange for the new computer to be ordered. And, maybe, with your expertise in these matters, you might point me in the right direction? I confess I haven’t the foggiest notion where to start.’

‘If you prefer – Paul – why don’t you leave all that to me? With an extra twenty-four hours in London, I could buy a new computer and bring it with me in the car, say, on Wednesday evening. We could settle up later.’

‘Now that
is
a kind suggestion. Not later than Wednesday, though, if you don’t mind. I’m extremely eager to get started. The more so now I’ve found my collaborator.’

‘Wednesday it’ll be. I promise.’

‘Wonderful. Well, John, maybe you’d like that drink now? We might raise a toast to our collaboration.’

‘Yes, let’s.’

‘If you’d be mother.’

‘Sure.’

‘The drinks are on the cabinet behind you. I repeat, there’s nothing but whisky. But it’s good whisky.’

‘Whisky’s fine. How do you take yours?’

‘Neat, please. And don’t ask me to say when.’

‘I must say, Paul, I do admire your capacity to – to laugh at yourself. Well, not to laugh at yourself,
exactly. But to be able to joke about your predicament. You obviously haven’t lost your sense of humour.’

‘
Lost
my sense of humour? That’s a laugh in itself. It was only when I lost my sight that I actually acquired a sense of humour.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘I soon learned, my friend, that a blind man has to be the salt of the earth. He has to be, you understand? I
abominate
being the salt of the earth. As you can imagine, it’s certainly never come naturally to me. But that’s what I have to be if I mean to survive. People, you see, people may be initially intrigued by blindness, they’re curious, they’re even rather fascinated, but they soon weary of its charms. It’s creepy. It’s macabre. Worst of all, it’s atrociously time-consuming. “Please do this for me.” “Please fetch that for me.” “Would you be so kind as to open this door or close that door?” The blind are a frightful burden on those with eyes, and there inevitably comes a moment when we’re made to feel, and with a vengeance, just what a burden we are. By the way, I hope what I’m saying isn’t giving you second thoughts?’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘What the blind discover is that they must never,
never
, whinge. “Whinge” – there’s the new word one starts to hear. To hear and fear. “Excuse me, but I’ve lost my sight.” “Oh, don’t whinge!” “But, you don’t
understand, I have no eyes.” “Oh, stop whingeing, for Christ’s sake!”’

‘Come now, don’t tell me people actually say that to your – to –’

‘To my face, John? If you mean to my face, then say so. It may not be a pretty picture, but I still
have
a face of sorts. And the answer to the question is, no. Not literally. But unless you learn to treat, to
wear
, your blindness lightly –’

‘Here you are.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Your whisky.’

‘Ah. Thank you. But, if I may, John. You must always take my hand first, then place the glass in it. Otherwise, you see, I’ve no way of knowing where it is.’

‘Of course. Sorry.’

‘You’ll learn. As I was saying, though, unless you shrug off your affliction as though it were no more than some mildly inconvenient impediment, the standard of physical and moral support you receive from others goes into dramatically precipitous decline. A sense of humour is as indispensable to a blind man as a white stick.’

‘I see.’

‘But that’s enough of gloom and doom. What I want you to appreciate, John, is that I really am pleased we’re going to be working together, I really am. So. So here’s to
Truth and Consequences
.’

‘To
Truth and Consequences
.’

‘Chin chin.’

‘Chin chin.’

The die is cast. So how do I feel? Uneasy, uneasy. Weren’t I blind, I wouldn’t countenance having a complete stranger living in my house. I never did care for guests ‘sleeping over’. Not even Charles if I could help it. Not my style. But then, blindness has altered so much, my style along with everything else. In any event, I detect more than a hint of deference in his voice that must be a good sign. Somewhat colourless, at least so far, but that’s all right and he’ll probablythaw as we get to know each other. Inevitable if he’s to live here, so deference isn’t a bad point of departure. Not too stupid, either, which is convenient. No, allinall, I think I’ve made a good and suitable choice. God knows, I might have done worse.

‘Ah, John. So you've been unpacking, have you?'

‘Yes, thanks. It's a very nice room. I feel sure I'm going to be comfortable in it.'

‘Well, I hope so. And if there's anything you need, just ask.'

‘Right. Uh, shall I sit here? Opposite you?'

‘As far as I recall, there
is
no other seating place. You managed to settle all your affairs in London?'

‘Uh huh. And tomorrow I'll install the computer. It's a Mac. It's what I use. I hope that's all right?'

‘I told you before I know nothing of these machines. Whatever you feel at ease with.'

‘It's just that there are, well, two schools of thought about current computers, Macs and PCs. The PCs are winning the battle – I should say, they've already won it – but I'm one of a dwindling band of Mac loyalists.'

‘If a Big Mac is what you're used to, then that's the one you've got to have. I wonder what's keeping poor Mrs Kilbride.'

‘When I came downstairs, I heard her pottering about in the kitchen.'

‘Yes, well, she knows I like to be served at seven-thirty on the dot. What time is it now?'

‘Nearly twenty-to.'

‘Tsk. I dare say she's being extra-conscientious because of you. Oh, and John, she serves the plates straight on to the table. Simpler that way. Do you mind?'

‘Course not.'

‘And here, unless my ears deceive me, which would be
all
I need, here she is now. Mrs Kilbride, good Mrs Kilbride, John and I were starting to wonder what had become of you.'

‘Well, sir, an Mister Ryder, ah'm sorry, ah'm so used to doin fur one ah had to rethink ma whole way of thinkin, seein there's two a you.'

‘And what culinary
bonne bouche
have you whipped up for us tonight?'

‘Careful ye dinnay touch the plate, it's hot. Bein as it's a kind a special evenin, ah made yer favourite. Steak and kidney pud.'

‘But, Mrs Kilbride, as you well know, everything you cook is my favourite.'

‘Here ye are, Mister Ryder. An dinnay ye worry. Ah know Sir Paul's pullin ma leg. Ah know how he talks about ma cookin behind ma back. But he knows he's got to like it or lump it.'

‘Sir Paul's said nothing.'

‘Oh yes he has. We go a long way back together, him an me. Don't we, you?'

‘Yes, yes. If you must put it that way. And please don't dig your elbow into my ribs. You know I don't like it. Have we both been served?'

‘It's all on the table.'

‘Good. Well, John'll call you when we're done.'

‘Dinnay ye let him bully ye, Mister Ryder. Else he'll become unbearable.'

‘Shhhst, woman! Off with you!'

‘John, there ought to be a bottle of wine somewhere.
And a corkscrew. If the old biddy hasn't forgotten them.'

‘They're there! They're right there!'

‘I thought you'd gone.'

‘Ah'm goin!'

‘Good!'

‘Now, John, if you wouldn't mind opening the bottle.'

‘Of course.'

‘She
has
gone now, I take it?'

‘Yes.'

‘You know, I've never seen her.'

‘Mrs Kilbride?'

‘She only started doing for me on my return from Sri Lanka, you know. Perhaps you'd care to describe her for me?'

‘But surely your friend Charles must have done that?'

‘Well, naturally he did, though it was some years ago now. The thing is, John, tomorrow we start work, tomorrow I mean to start borrowing your eyes, and it would be useful if you got some practice in this evening. Just casually, you know. Take your time.'

‘Well – by the way, Paul, your glass is filled – well, let me see, she's in her late fifties, quite well preserved, actually surprisingly slim. I say surprisingly, because anyone just hearing her voice would definitely suppose
she was fat. Well, not exactly fat. But she does have a sort of “plump” voice, sort of motherly.'

‘Please, please, John. Don't you think it rather perverse of you under the circumstances to be describing her voice, the one thing about the woman with which I'm thoroughly familiar?'

‘I just meant that, physically, she's not like her voice at all. Anyway, her hair, I suspect, is dyed, but very discreetly, no blue rinse rubbish or anything of that kind. And, really, I don't know what more I can say.'

‘Think, man, think. You can't be racking your brains already?'

‘Well. Well, I don't know whether you're aware of this,
or
whether I should be telling you, but she winks a lot.'

‘She winks? What on earth do you mean?'

‘Please don't let her know I said this. But when she was talking about the meal, and you were pretending to think everything she cooked was wonderful, she'd be winking at me as though to –'

‘Ah yes, I see what you mean. Yes, I've been told that before. Yes, I can live with that. In the tragedy of my life she's bravely chosen to cast herself in the role of comic relief. One of my fool doctors must have advised her to be relentlessly chipper at all times, even to crack the odd joke about my blindness. So I don't subside into maudlin self-pity, I suppose. What was she wearing?'

‘What was she wearing? Let's see. She had on a plastic apron with a recipe for Welsh rarebit stencilled on it – I think it was an advertisement for Lea & Perrins sauce – and, underneath that, a light pink jumper, angora or mohair, I can't be sure. Her skirt I couldn't see at all because of the apron. And, as I told you already, she's not nearly as big-bosomed as you'd think from just listening to her. Or is that reprehensibly sexist of me?'

‘Well, I don't know about sexist, but it's certainly not an appetizing picture to conjure up just as I'm about to start eating. Which reminds me of another little domestic chore I forgot to mention. There won't be too many more of these, I promise you.'

‘I told you, Paul, it's not a problem.'

‘Well, if we're going to be lunching and dining
tête-à-tête
, I've got to teach you the clock method.'

‘The clock method?'

‘Let me explain. I have in front of me, as have you, a plate of steak and kidney pudding accompanied by, if I may hazard a guess, roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts. Or possibly peas?'

‘Sprouts.'

‘Sprouts it is. Good old dependable Mrs Kilbride. So, John, I know
what
is on my plate but I don't know precisely
where
it is. Which is where the clock method comes in. What I'll have to ask you –'

‘Wait. I think I've understood. See if I have. Uh, steak and kidney at three o'clock. Sprouts at six. No, half-past five. Potatoes at nine. Have I got it?'

‘Well done. Except, we're not talking synchronized watches here, so no half-hours or quarter-hours. Just stick to the basics.'

‘Right.'

‘Now tuck in, as Mrs Kilbride would say in her plump and motherly voice.'

‘Can I give you some salt or pepper?'

‘Neither, thank you.'

‘Bread?'

‘No thanks.'

‘Righto.'

‘And no righto either. Sorry. It's just one of those breezy expressions I can't stand.'

‘Sorry, I –'

‘That may have sounded like rudeness, John, but it was really just frankness, the sort of frankness that's absolutely essential between collaborators. Best to iron out all the little wrinkles at once, don't you agree? In fact, when I think of it, maybe there's something I do that
you
already know you're going to dislike. If so, speak up. It'll be easier for both of us in the long run.'

‘As a matter of fact, there is something.'

‘There is? Really? Hah, well, that's one on me. Well, well, well.'

‘Well, what is it?'

‘Poor. The word “poor”.'

‘Poor? Now it's my turn not to follow.'

‘A moment ago you referred to Mrs Kilbride as “poor” Mrs Kilbride.'

‘So?'

‘And the first time I came here I heard you call your friend Charles “poor” Charles.'

‘Yes?'

‘I'm not sure I can explain.'

‘Try nevertheless.'

‘Well, I've never been able to stomach that tic of calling everyone “poor”. It just seems so patronizing.'

‘You did ask.'

‘No, no, no, you were quite right to speak up. It's just that I never – do I really do that?'

‘Actually, if I'm honest, I don't know. After all, I only met you for the first time last, what? Saturday? Maybe you don't. I wouldn't have mentioned it if you hadn't invited me to be frank. I hope I haven't offended you.'

‘No. No, I'm not at all offended. Just a trifle taken aback. I never knew I did that. It comes as something of a mild shock. If I had an eyebrow to raise, I'd be raising it now.'

‘I'm really sorry, I shouldn't have spoken.'

‘Nonsense. I invited you to and you did. I trust, though, I have no other little “hang-ups” you wish to bring to my attention?'

‘No, none.'

‘Did I say something funny, John?'

‘What?'

‘You're smiling. Why are you smiling?'

‘Smiling? You can
hear
me smile?'

‘Be warned, John Ryder. I can hear you think.'

‘So tell me. Why
were
you smiling?'

‘Only because of the gesture you made.'

‘The gesture I made?'

‘Holding your fingers in the air. Inverted commas. When you used the word “hang-ups”. It seemed unlike you somehow.'

‘The gesture or the word?'

‘Both, I guess.'

‘These days there's so much about me that's unlike me.'

‘Mmm. I've refilled your glass, by the way.'

‘What? Oh, thanks. Enjoying your steak and kidney pud?'

‘Yes. It's quite tasty.'

‘It is what it is. Will you be wanting coffee later?'

‘Yes please.'

‘Then I'd advise you to alert Mrs Kilbride now. She tends to take her time. Just give her a shout, will you?'

‘Me?'

‘Why not?'

‘Well, I don't know. It's my very first evening here.'

‘She's going to be doing for you now as well as for me, isn't she?'

‘Well … if you think so. Mrs Kilbride!'

‘Gracious, she'll certainly have no excuse for not hearing that.'

‘Sorry if I startled you. I'm going to need a bit more time to judge these things properly.'

‘You'll have plenty of time. Incidentally, we might take a walk together later, John. If you feel up to it. Let you see something of the countryside. What do you say?'

‘I was going to suggest it myself.'

‘Good. Then it's a date.'