Cocksure (20 page)

“I have never slapped your face, Doug. But if you don’t stop –”

“But Mother says you’ve got a colored bird. I don’t understand, Dad, if you can have a go with a black one, why can’t –”

“Shettup!”

Which was when Ziggy stumbled into the kitchen, scratching his groin. Mortimer’s dressing gown was too big for him.

“Hi,” Mortimer said, “old pal.”

“A guten yor
. How’d you make out with your
Schwartze?”

“I do not wish to discuss such matters before my son.”

“Aw, come on. You’re not pissed off, are you?”

“Oh, no. I’m immensely pleased for the two of you.”

“I always stick up for you with her, you know.”

“Thanks.”

“Aw.”

“Joyce will be more precious to me now that you’ve found her attractive. I always thought she bored you.”

“I told her if we’re going to have a thing, it’s got to be above board. You had to know.”

“And what did my adorable wife say to that?”

“She’s very put out with you, baby. Over Rachel Coleman. And this –”

“I’m not having an affair with Rachel Coleman.”

“– Shalinsky business. Mortimer, tell me something. Do Jews make you feel inferior?”

“Certainly not!”

“No kidding?” Ziggy scratched his head, impressed. “You know there are times when I think she’s using me only to get at you.”

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk so loud. I’d hate to wake her up, the whore.”

“Please don’t be messy, Dad.”

“What would
you
like me to do, Doug?”

“I think you should cut out for a while and let them be. I’ll come and stay with you on weekends, if you like. Maybe you could take me to Paris next weekend?”

“Do either of you mind if I have a word with Joyce?”

“Be dignified, Dad.”

“I don’t mind,” Ziggy said, “but the kid’s right. This isn’t a good time. Not after the way you came on at the party.”

“What?”

“Man, you practically raped that Rachel Coleman chick on the sofa.”

“If it’s no inconvenience,” Mortimer said, grabbing his coat, “I’ll send for my things later today.”

“Ciao.”

“Ciao.”

26

L
ORD WOODCOCK PHONED AGAIN AND AGAIN, A BLACK-SUITED
motorcycle rider from the Star Maker went round twice, but Mortimer, settled in at the Prince Albert Hotel on Cromwell Road, continued to feign illness. Drinking himself to sleep at night, he imagined they did it together on the floor. Or in the bathtub. Bed would be too conventional for Ziggy.

Together, he thought, they’re having a good laugh at me.

“Do you know what,” Joyce tells him, giggling, “Mortimer has insurance.”

“What a square,” Ziggy says, marveling.

“He’s also got money in a building society. Put away against a rainy day,” Joyce says, nudging him.

“Is it, ah, a joint account? Can you make withdrawals too?”

“Yes. Once the income tax made a mistake in his favor and do you know what? He wrote them, enclosing a check.”

“Stop. You’re kidding me.”

“Did you notice the seat belts?”

“In the car? Yeah.”

“Wait, this is the best, Ziggy, he never flies anywhere without making a will and leaving it in a sealed envelope for me.”

“Crazy.”

Crazy. I’
m
crazy, Mortimer thought. I should charge into the bedroom with a knife and cut them both down. The stink, migod, every time she raises her arms, those black maggoty clumps. I should –

But when he visited, he was controlled, subdued, even with Ziggy.

“Life is totally absurd,” Ziggy once said. “Like who ever would have thought you’d be visiting me here? Oh, I left all the bills and stuff on the hall table for you.”

“Thanks.”

“She wants to have my child, a son by Ziggy, but I put my foot down there, Mortimer.”

“Good for you.”

“Like it would be terrible to be my son. The kids born of famous artists are always zeros.”

I should charge him with a knife, Mortimer thought, but there’s my son to consider. My no longer misguided son, he reminded himself, extracting pleasure from this, his one small triumph.

To begin with, Mortimer had feared for Miss Ryerson, for after only two days at Beatrice Webb House, she had looked a wreck. By the end of the week her eyes were red and puffy and she was willing to throw the sponge in. Then, within a fortnight, the metamorphosis took place. On a day when Mortimer happened to be visiting the house, come to collect more clothes, Doug came home from school, his eyes shining, his manner quiescent. “Good afternoon, sir,” he said to Mortimer.

Sir
.

Then, excusing himself, he went to his room to do his prep. “Prep?” Mortimer asked Joyce, astonished. “At Beatrice Webb House?”

Yes, Joyce confessed unhappily, and not only that. Doug had asked the news agent to cancel his subscription to
Playboy
and send him
Knowledge
magazine instead.

Finally Doug emerged from his room, politely asking for a glass of milk and a peanut butter sandwich.

“How are things at school these days?” Mortimer asked.

“Absolutely super! Miss Ryerson makes you feel so good.”

“Really!”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir, I must get back to work.”

“One minute, Doug.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Mustn’t overdo the studies, eh?”

“But Ryerson doesn’t like it if you don’t do well. If you do well she makes you feel good all over.”

“All right. Off you go, then,” Mortimer said, beaming at Joyce. “Mortimer, there’s something I should –”

“William Golding is all wet. Kids, you see, are basically good. Given strong moral leadership –”

“– say to you.”

“About you and Ziggy?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not interested. He’s going to walk out on you, you know. If not this month, next. But I’m not taking you back.”

“Ziggy has made me aware of my womanhood for the first time. It’s like taking
LSD
. A whole new sensual world has been opened to me.”

“Spare me the details, please.”

“After we’ve made love,” she said breathlessly, “he doesn’t wash.” After, before, Mortimer thought.

“Because when he’s alone,” she continued, “creating, well …” Joyce paused to smooth out her skirt. “It inspires him to be able to have me on his fingertips, if you get my meaning.”

“Yes, I do, alas.”

“Now, you’d never think of that.”

“It’s poetry.”

“Yes. I think so.”

“And so natural,” he added snidely.

“Oh, you, you’re so inhibited.” All at once, Joyce’s face filled with concern. “Mortimer, are you any … better?”

Get stuffed, he thought, gulping down his drink.

“Perhaps you should see an analyst?”

“There’s something I want out of the bedroom, if you don’t mind?”

“Go right ahead.”

Mortimer avoided looking at the unmade bed. He dug right into the bottom drawer of the dresser and pulled out the strongbox with the combination lock. His army documents. The medal. At least she and Ziggy would not have this to mock.

Safe in his hotel room again, Mortimer poured himself a brandy, unlocked the strongbox and, for the first time in years, confronted his war trophy, his throat tightening. The phone rang, startling him, the ringing reaching out of the terrifying past, making his hands shake.

Dig Jones again. No, Mortimer said, he appreciated the higher offer, but money wasn’t the issue. He wasn’t interested in appearing on Dig’s new show.

“What did he say?” Ziggy asked.

“He said no.”

“Shit.”

“Not to worry,” Dig said. “He’ll come round.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Once more Dig fingered the photostats Ziggy had brought him.

“Because I haven’t made my best offer yet.”

“Money won’t tempt him. Like he isn’t hip, you know.”

“Not to worry, man.”

27

“I
HAVE ASKED YOU TO BE PRESENT FOR THIS LITTLE
discussion,” Dr. Booker said, “because it was you, after all, who recommended Miss Ryerson to us.”

“Doug tells me,” Mortimer said, hard put to conceal his complacency as he beamed at Miss Ryerson, “that you made him feel good all over.”

“And how is Doug?” Miss Ryerson asked. “Not neglecting his prep, I hope?”

“Hardly.”

“Miss Ryerson’s boys,” Dr. Booker interrupted, “are most devoted to her.”

“That doesn’t astonish me.” Mortimer smiled, graciously, he hoped, for he had not come to gloat.

“They say grace at her table. In the Beatrice Webb dining hall.”

“Well, Dr. Booker,” Mortimer said, with a quick wink for Miss Ryerson, “there are worse offenses, aren’t there?”

“So you don’t know?”

“Know what, Dr. Booker?”

“Fuss and bother,” Miss Ryerson said.

“Miss Ryerson has been
grading
the boys in the second form.”

“Well, marks in themselves –”

“Do you know why?”

“Obviously to separate –”

“The men from the boys? She has been grading them. She has been giving them … exams. Oral exams. Written exams. Each fortnight, Mr. Griffin, she informs the boys of their rank in class.”

“So what?”

“Ranks one, two, three, and four are then separated from the rest of the class. The rest of the class is dismissed and ranks one, two, three and four stay behind. They stay behind for a special treat. Is that correct, Miss Ryerson?”

“So far.”

“Would you come to the point, please?”

“She blows them, Mr. Griffin.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

Mortimer turned to Miss Ryerson. “I don’t believe a word of it,” he said emphatically.

“Blowing?” Miss Ryerson looked baffled. “Is that a slang expression, Mortimer?”

Mortimer nodded, his cheeks flaring red, and he looked at the floor.

“Oh, I understand,” Miss Ryerson said. “Now I know what Dr. Booker means. But of course it’s true.”

“Ranks one, two, three, and four,” Dr. Booker said, glaring at Mortimer.

“Shoot. It’s worked wonders. Why ever are you so upset, Dr. Booker?”

“Do you realize what would happen if this leaked out?”

“Let’s all try to remain calm,” Mortimer said.

“I’ve put years into making this school what it is. Groups come from all over Europe –”

“Mortimer, my first week at Beatrice Webb House was a revelation to me. I swear I never set eyes on such a band of hooligans before.”

“– from all over Europe to study our pioneering techniques. And now this.”

“Not only were the boys totally deficient in Christian manners,” Miss Ryerson said, “but they couldn’t spell or do sums.”

“One minute,” Mortimer pleaded. “Do I understand this right, Miss Ryerson? You mean you actually –”

“Yes,” Dr. Booker said. “And I know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you?”

“Maybe this in itself is not reactionary. After all, the experience, considered in isolation, can be beautiful, don’t you agree?”

Mortimer hesitated.

“Come on, Griffin. Man to man.”

“Okay, okay.”

“But have you any idea where it leads? Inevitably?”

“Well, I –”

“Exactly. One day she rewards ranks one, two, three, and four with blow jobs, the next she starts handing out … 
distinction cards
. Or, God help us,
good conduct badges.”

“Mortimer,” Miss Ryerson interrupted, “when I first came here the boys in the second form hardly knew which end of a book was which. And filthy; I’ve never heard such language.”

“Yes, Miss Ryerson.”

“Don’t you see, Griffin? It looks progressive, but what it amounts to is backsliding. Wham. We’re back in the Middle Ages. We’ve reintroduced the reward system. Soul-destroying, capitalist-style competition.
Rivalry
, Mr. Griffin.”

“You needn’t raise your voice so,” Miss Ryerson said.

“Do you realize what a lad suddenly demoted to number five feels? Let me tell you. When he’s asked to leave early on Friday afternoon with the rest of the losers, he actually experiences physical pain. Griffin, have you ever been inside one of those old-fashioned, establishmentarian schools, where –”

“As a matter of fact, Dr. Booker, he graduated from one. Didn’t you, Mortimer?”

“Yes, Miss Ryerson.”

“– where children are asked to memorize? Reactionary historical dates and multiplication tables. Where they win prizes or cups for conformist-style achievement and sit for … public school entrance exams?”

“One can be for exams,” Mortimer said, “and against the class system, you know.”

“I will not have everything I stand for in education, a lifetime’s work, thrown up in my face at my own school. I will tolerate no counter-revolution at Beatrice Webb House.”

Mortimer turned to Miss Ryerson. He touched her arm tenderly. “Does anybody else know about this?” he asked.

“Why, everybody in the school knows,” Dr. Booker said. “Our nursery school teachers are up in arms. If, they say, Ryerson has been given such license, why can’t they introduce toilet training in the nursery?
Potties
. At Beatrice Webb House.
Compulsory toilet training!
Might as well go the whole hog and bring in black shirts and jackboots for the whole staff.”

“That’s quite enough,” Miss Ryerson said, rising. “Mortimer, would you be good enough to drive me home?”

“Certainly.”

“But I’m not finished,” Dr. Booker said.

“I’ll wait for you outside the main entrance,” Miss Ryerson said, and she left the office.

Dr. Booker brought out a bottle of Scotch and filled two glasses. “There are lads in the first form,” he said, “who tremble with excitement when Miss Ryerson passes. They are killing themselves with self-imposed prep in the hope of being promoted to the second form a term earlier. Skipping grades. Can you imagine anything more distasteful to me?”

“What do you want me to do, exactly?”

“You’ve got to put it to her that if she’s going to blow, it has to be all the boys in the second form or nothing. There will be no special treatment at Beatrice Webb House based on apparent intellectual superiority. You tell her it’s all the boys or none.”