As Far as You Can Go (27 page)

That was really rather a shocking thought, he decided. The affluent society must be getting in his veins.

He finished the drink and went down in the elevator.

He asked the elevator man if his name was Chuck, but it wasn’t, it was George, and Harold said, “Of course, I’m sorry”, at which the elevator man looked surprised.

He drove slowly up to San Domingo Canyon, feeling very happy that he was going to see Diane again, and not thinking
about what Mrs Washburn was likely to say to him.
Gradually
, though, the not-thinking stopped being any good, and by the time he reached the door he was trembling slightly. He tried to attribute this to the fact that he was going to see Diane, not to her grandmother, and succeeded.

“Hallo, honey,” said Diane, and kissed him.

The way the door always opened when he wasn’t expecting it was one of the pleasures of visiting the Washburns. He never knew what might be the other side of it.

“Come in,” she said, after they’d vied with one another to show affection for a minute or two. “Grandma’s doing some shopping.”

“How does she do that?”

“One of the neighbours takes her. She likes to have her hair done once a week, too. I guess she thinks you come up here to see her, not me.”

“Naughty,” said Harold. “I’d hoped we’d got over all that. You’d better tell me what happened, so I can prepare a face to meet her with. I hope you didn’t exaggerate
anything
.”

“I’ll tell you exactly what I did,” she said, settling her head on his lap as he sat on one of the sofas. Her legs, he noticed as he stroked them with one hand, the other being busy with her face and hair, were really very good indeed. Harold was very attracted by slim legs. He felt very strong and manly and even a little protective.

“I told her about Uncle Henry and about how you didn’t know what to do, and how I was all upset. And you know what she did? She laughed out loud. Then she called Uncle Henry and told him to come and see her. I thought there was going to be a hell of a row, Harold. But he came in and she kissed him, like always, and then she said, ‘You listen here, both of you. I don’t care what you do when I’m gone, but till the day comes you won’t have a thing of mine to sell to strange Englishmen, and I don’t want to hear another word
about it.’ And then she was very cheerful, and we all had dinner, and Uncle Henry made lots of jokes and was nicer than I remember. You know what I think, Harold? I think maybe he
is
nice, kind of. I mean, just because he doesn’t like girls, that’s no reason to say he’s a bum. And maybe Pedro is no good, but Uncle Henry’s pretty respectable. I may be wrong, though. He can be mean as hell sometimes. Not that evening, though. We were all happy as larks. Like a real home, you know?”

“Sort of,” said Harold. “What does all that mean?”

“Gee, I don’t know. I guess it means that Uncle Henry is out, as far as you’re concerned. It’s Grandma or nothing.”

“Or you,” said Harold, idly.

“What do you mean?”

“You could steal it for me.”

“Why, Harold Barlow, you must be out of your mind. You know I would never do such a thing.”

“I know, darling,” he said, “I was only joking.”

“Well, that’s a real bad-taste joke, a sick joke. Don’t make any more like that. I don’t like them.”

“All right. What else happened while I was away?”

“Mom called. Nothing else.”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing. I said I might be down to see her, and she said ‘Uh-huh’. That was about it.”

“You miss not having a mother, don’t you? You need someone younger than your grandmother to gossip with and to tell you when you’re behaving badly, and all the rest of it.”

“Maybe. I guess Mom’s too busy with the kids, though. You know what she said? She’s going to have
another
!
You’d think she was Catholic or something. But Tony’s not
anything
. Kind of lapsed, I guess. And she’s
forty-three,
Harold.”

“One of the wonders of modern science.”

“Yeah, you could call it that, I guess.”

He stroked her legs and her hair for a bit, then he said,
“Eddie wants us to go and see something called the Watts Towers tomorrow. Have you ever heard of them? Or it?”

“No. Watts is some slum, miles away from here. I don’t get to that part of town, ever.”

“Well, shall we go? Eddie says it’s an example of one hundred per cent American urban culture. He’s written a poem about it, even. I never thought he was a poet, did you?”

“Kind of. I guess his hair’s a little short. But some of his ideas, they’d be better in a poem than in his head. Fewer people would get to hear them that way.”

“True; I’ve always suspected him of being a beat, but he never seems to wear sandals, and he has no beard.”

“Those are
beatniks,
honey. The real beats live up in San Francisco and see no one.”

“Who told you that?”

“I don’t know. I guess I read it some place.
Life
magazine, I expect. Or
Time.
They’re always writing about the beats.”

“Eddie says you should never wear a watch, it fetters you to Time or something. I wonder if he meant the magazine.”

“I should doubt it. He’s too busy reading Plato.”

“It’s a lovely idea that, isn’t it? About the twins, I mean. It’s not true, but it ought to be, don’t you think?”

“No, I do not. A girl made a pass at me once, and I’ve never felt so awful. I thought I’d die if she touched me.”

“I like a girl that doesn’t like women. That means I only have half the human race to compete with.”

They were involved in some advanced spooning, as Mrs Washburn called it, when she returned. They heard the car stop, and had time to straighten things up before Diane went to open the door.

“Hi, Grandma,” she said. “Guess who’s here?”

“I can see from the look in your eye, child,” said her grandmother. “He didn’t stay long in Denver, did he?”

It was no use, Harold thought, as he greeted her, hoping
that she would ever die. She looked younger than ever, her hair washed and rinsed with some blue and set in an elegant way, and her face plump and happy, in spite of the cavernous wrinkles. He might as well go straight home. The only
possible
way of getting the miniature out of her was to ask her to give it to him as a wedding present when he married Diane. Dangerfield would just have to wait. Probably she would outlast him, too. She might even outlast Harold.

“And how have you been?” said Mrs Washburn, giving him a strong handshake. “I thought you were to Denver?”

“I was. But I’m back. You look fine, Mrs Washburn, like a young girl.”

“There’s no need to try and flatter me, young man. I know what you want, and you won’t get it that way.”

“How can I get it, Mrs Washburn?”

“You can’t,” she said, triumphantly. “It’s mine and I’m keeping it. You can get it from Henry or from Diane or from Diane’s father when I die. I don’t know who I’ll leave it to, now. Henry’s a dirty son of a bitch to try and deceive me. And to try and deceive you, too, son.”

“We don’t seem to be any further forward, then,” said Harold.

“I’d say you were a few steps back,” said Mrs Washburn. “I’m a mean old woman and that’s the way I’m going to stay.” She looked as though she was thoroughly enjoying herself.

Harold mentioned a very large sum quite casually, but she only laughed, and said, “I hope you’ll stay to dinner, young man. I bought a piece of steak large enough for ten. I feel real good today. On top of the world.”

She went back up the stairs to her room. Diane laughed at Harold’s face, and said he looked like a schoolboy told he couldn’t go fishing.

“Diane,” he said. “You and I have some serious thinking to do.” He kept his voice low, with some difficulty. “You do
realize what my position is? I’ve done everything I can for Mr Dangerfield, short of stealing and murder. I’m never going to get your grandmother to sell me the miniature. So my job’s over, I have to go home. Or get a job here.”

She frowned. “Well?”

“Well, it’s up to you, Diane.” He pointed to the terrace. “Let’s go outside a moment, shall we?”

They stood and looked down at Los Angeles.

“Darling,” said Harold, his arm round her waist, “when I left England it was because I felt I was wasting my time. I wasn’t doing anything worthwhile, I was in a mess—my private life was terrible. I was getting somewhere, true. I was getting to respectability and middle-age like every other young man who started with my advantages. Now, how do I stand? My job in America is over.”

“But you can stay, honey, you can stay, can’t you?”

“Not unless it’s worth my while. I’ve always thought of myself as being a little bit better than the next man. It was because I wasn’t
doing
anything better than the next man that I wanted to get away from England and my English life. I can’t sit around doing nothing. I want to
show
the next man that I’m better than he is. And I’ve learnt a lot since I’ve been in America—I told you. I’ve learnt to be tough. I can take defeat from your grandmother. I can admit it, and get on with the next thing. I don’t think I could do that before. Well, the next thing——”

“Yes,” she said. “I follow you.”

“Do you marry me, or not? Because if you don’t, I might as well go home. Or to Australia. Or anywhere. It doesn’t matter. But I’m not going to hang around here waiting for——” He didn’t finish the sentence.

“Waiting for Grandma to die?”

“What are you two doing out there?” said Mrs Washburn, coming out to the terrace. “I’ve got a surprise for you. Come on in and I’ll show you.”

Harold looked at Diane, but she looked away, and he felt her body tense and stiff.

They went in.

“Guess what I have behind my back here?” said Mrs Washburn. She was smiling broadly, triumphantly.

For a moment of wild and joyful anticipation, Harold thought she was going to give Diane a ring and tell her she approved of Harold as a future husband.

But it wasn’t a ring.

“There!” said the old woman, holding out her hand, the miniature flat in her palm. “Since it means so much to you, young man, and since you come to my house whether I ask you or not, I’m going to put this on the wall where you can see it, and look at it to your heart’s delight.” She laughed hugely to herself, monstrously. “Diane, go and get me a hammer and a nail. They’ll be in the drawer in the kitchen.”

Harold turned scarlet. Diane was white.

“This is quite unnecessary, you know,” he said.

“You think I don’t know what I have to do and don’t have to do? I do whatever I please, son.”

Diane came back with a hammer and a nail.

“I suppose you want me to do it,” said Harold, feeling
rebellious
and outraged. “I’m afraid I won’t, Mrs Washburn.”

“Did I ask you to? Give those to me, Diane.”

“You’ll hurt yourself, Grandma.”

“The day I can’t knock a nail into the wall, you can start knocking nails in my coffin, child. Give them here.”

Diane gave them to her, and she began to knock the nail into the wall. Her aim was steady and her shoulders and arms still had a good deal of power. Harold was shocked. Each time she hit the nail he felt she was driving it into his pride. It was the sort of totally unnecessary gesture of which he was always afraid. It marked his complete failure, her complete triumph, it was deliberately offensive, it was an insult and a very pointed one at that.

“That should hold it,” said Mrs Washburn, not in the least out of breath. “Now we’ll hang it.”

The “we” was an added insult. Harold rose. He would not stay any longer in a house where he was mocked.

The miniature swayed a little on its chain, then hung still. Hilliard’s masterpiece dangled from a nail in Beverly Hills. It was a triumph of the new world over the old.

“I’m afraid I can’t stay to dinner,” said Harold, trying not to be rude, for Diane’s sake.

“That’s too bad,” said Mrs Washburn, “after I just hung the picture for you. You can put these away again now, Diane.”

“I must go at once,” said Harold. “I’m sorry you have felt it necessary to make me feel so very unwelcome. Perhaps it would be better if I did not call again.”

“You don’t have to feel like that about it,” said the old woman, smiling at him intolerably. “I was just trying to make you feel at home.”

At home! It was too much.

“Good-bye, Diane. I’ll see you tomorrow about eleven, if that’s all right.”

“I can’t, Harold,” she said, looking him in the eyes. “I have to have my hair done tomorrow morning.”

“I see. Well, good-bye, then.”

“Good-bye, Mr Barlow,” said Mrs Washburn, still smiling.

“Good-bye.”

Diane came with him to the door, and said very softly, “I’ll call you, honey. I’m terribly sorry. Let’s not say
anything
else right now.”

“You must do whatever you think right,” said Harold.

“I shall,” she said.

He looked at her closely, wanting to touch her, to stroke her hair, to let his hand slide gently along her calves. She smiled briefly, impersonally.

“Good-bye, then, honey.”

“Good-bye.”

The day, he thought, should have become overcast, a leaden sky should be mirroring his feelings. It wasn’t. The sun shone brilliantly down, dazzlingly bright. The cicadas were louder, more cheerful than ever.

If this was the end of the affair, and the end of the job and the end of everything, then he had better go home. America had beaten him. He had fallen in love with its landscape, with one of its girls, but its demands were too strong. It wanted him to understand things that he couldn’t
understand
, the mysterious workings of the mind of an old woman, the impossible feelings of a mad family. America was vast, sprawling, beautiful, it had small farms and endless prairies, Grand Canyons and Rocky Mountains, fertility and desert. Its variety was too great. He was born in a mild country with a mild climate, where extremes were unknown. He was too old, too set in his Englishness to be able to stretch his imagination to encompass it all, or even a small part of it. He didn’t belong. The people who belonged were the Eddie Jacksons, who skimmed its surface, took what they wanted and ignored the rest, and the Mrs Washburns, who took it all and became part of it, as irresistible as rocks and desert, moulded by the land to the land’s shape, and hardened to it, representing it against intruders like himself, tourists in search of views over which they could rhapsodize but who never entered the landscape and became part of it, never wrestled with it, never felt it shape and harden them. America was welcoming, but demanded a submission,
demanded
extremes, from those who risked coming to it from a less extravagant continent. Europe and America shared some things: Europe and England shared more. To think, as Europeans and still more Englishmen did, that America was somehow a projection of Europe, was mistaken. Surely, it was Europeans who came and settled here; surely, it was they who established the laws of the land. But the land itself, that
was established and set in its ways before the Indians came, before man, probably. And if Europe and its inhabitants had come together over the thousands of years to produce a harmony, with a mild climate and a rich earth to help them, then in America the process of taming was still young, the roots of man were still shallow. It was a challenge which had to be met: born here, you understood that, probably, from your earliest years: arriving here by plane or ship, you didn’t understand. And you didn’t, therefore, understand the people, the curious unity which held together every race on earth, their special attitude towards things that was not, and could not be, like the attitude of the European to his surroundings, or the African to his, or the Asian to his. Americans were divided in everything but this, their relation to rocks and rivers and deserts and mountains. And it was something of the same indigenous relationship, which must always baffle a visitor, that explained Mrs Washburn’s feeling for the miniature, Diane’s feeling for her grandmother. It was not only the situation and the characters involved in it that were defeating him, it was the country itself, for all its hospitality, its easygoing charm, its friendliness.